Matt Hilton: Blood and Ashes

‘He’s very hungry,’ I said. ‘Feed him. I’ll try to find out who those two guys were.’

‘And if they were sent by Hicks?’

‘Then we get ready for the next ones to come.’

Daybreak came late to Bedford Well. The wooded slopes that surrounded the town blocked the sun’s march over the horizon, throwing jagged shadows across the green and over the rooftops of the houses on the western side. Those on the eastern side remained in darkness and people inside had to turn on lamps so they could see to eat their breakfasts. The wind had picked up exponentially, casting detritus and litter across the otherwise deserted street, adding to the grim outlook of the day.

Looking out of a window on the ground floor, I had my thumbs tucked into the waistband of my jeans. I was wearing a denim shirt, the sleeves rolled up to my elbows and the tail out to cover the SIG SAUER P226 tucked in the small of my back. Earlier I’d stuffed my leather jacket into the furnace to get rid of any trace evidence from the two men I’d killed. I was pretty sure that I was clean, even if the same couldn’t be said for my conscience.

Millie came into the room behind me. She’d dressed in navy trousers and a lilac blouse nipped in at the waist with a belt. Her dark hair had been pulled tight into a ponytail and she only wore the slightest dab of make-up — strategically placed to conceal the dark rings beneath her eyes. She looked exactly like someone who’d cried herself to sleep.

‘Here.’ She held up a large steaming mug of coffee.

Accepting it gratefully I inhaled the aroma and took a deep gulp. It hit the spot and I sighed. ‘Thanks, Millie, I need this. It’s about the only thing that keeps me going these days.’

She nodded at my words, but there was more to her gesture. ‘I was surprised to find you here when I woke up. When you left last night, I thought that was it.’

She thought they’d been abandoned to their fate.

‘I reconsidered.’ Neither Don nor I had told her about the two men I’d killed.

‘You don’t look particularly happy with your decision.’

I sipped the coffee. Watched her over the top of the cup. ‘I’ve a lot on my mind, that’s all.’

‘Want to tell me?’ There was little conviction in her offer. ‘A problem shared…’

Isn’t always a problem halved. In fact, if I told her what was on my mind it would only cause more concern for the young woman. It was enough that she was grieving the loss of her sister, without worrying about what my actions might bring.

‘It’s nothing I can’t deal with,’ I said with equal lack of conviction.

When I’d been demobilised from the Special Forces I’d been recalled to the secret base on the north-western Scottish coastline: Arrowsake — a code name derived from a mispronunciation of Arisaig, the fabled home of the Special Operations Executive, the forerunner of the modern MI5. There I’d undergone debriefing and what I’d come to understand as debugging. It was necessary that the military shrinks did their best to reintegrate me into society without any of the baggage associated with killing men for over fourteen years. The last thing the military wanted was to let me loose unhinged and with the capacity for ongoing slaughter. I suspected that they’d only partially succeeded.

Proof of that theory was my overreaction to the threat posed by the two men in the Seven-Eleven parking lot. I possessed the skills to disarm both and to put them to sleep for a short spell while making myself scarce. But the old reactions had kicked in unchecked and I’d dealt with the men in the same way as when hunting terrorists and enemy soldiers.

Now in the cold afterwash of battle there was no excuse for my actions. I could lie; argue that I was merely defending my life; that if I hadn’t acted that way then it would have been me who was dumped out in the forest for the wildlife to feed upon.

The truth of the matter was that I hadn’t been fearful of the men. In fact it was the exact opposite: I’d relished the confrontation. For three months now I’d been healing from my previous encounter with a genuine challenge. Luke Rickard — a professional contract killer — had almost ended my life. He’d shot me, stabbed me in the leg, pulled me off the roof of a building in his last moments. I’d been broken and bleeding to death; the medics had fought to save my life. Surgical intervention had saved my physical being, but what of my mental state?

Doubt had set in. I was lame and my hand wasn’t in full working order. What good was I to anyone in that frail condition?

Thinking on it now, it wasn’t disbelief of Don’s story, or even the old enmity that the two of us shared, that urged me turn the car round and flee back to Florida. It was the self-doubt; that I’d be unable to do anything to help. Subconsciously I’d killed those two mugs to prove something to myself. But at what price? Had it made a murderer of me? A bully? The very thing that I’d always despised?

I studied Millie, and decided. No. At the back of my mind I’d seen the men as a threat to her, and to her sister’s children.

‘Do you want more coffee?’

Millie reached out for the mug that I’d drained. I hadn’t been conscious of finishing it, or that I now held the empty mug to my lips. I handed it over. ‘I’d appreciate it.’

‘Breakfast? I could cook something for you.’

‘Coffee will be fine.’

‘You should eat.’

I should, I might need the strength. But I wasn’t sure that I could hold anything down for long. ‘Just coffee… please.’

Millie swung round, heading out the room.

‘Millie.’

She turned back. Her mouth was pinched and there were two red spots on her cheeks. I said, ‘I’m sorry I didn’t come when your father first asked. I truly am.’

‘I’ll get your coffee.’

Following her to the kitchen would serve no purpose. Millie’s offer to cook breakfast was her way of breaking down the barrier her sister’s death had placed between us. By my refusal I’d done nothing to help the matter. Going in there would only make things more awkward. When she came back with the second coffee there would be an opportunity to try again.

Turning back to the window, I peered across the green towards the main road into town. There was movement now, people finally bracing themselves against the elements to get on with their lives. Kids were hanging out by the green, waiting to be picked up for school. On my walk through town last night I’d noticed a school house, but it must cater only for the younger children. These older ones were probably bussed to a high school in the larger neighbouring town of Hertford. The college-age kids maybe only returned to town during holidays, if they returned at all. There didn’t seem much here to hold them; other than the family businesses and occasional chain store I hadn’t noted much else in the way of industry.

Kids were pretty much the same wherever I travelled. Fashions in clothing and hairstyles, the colour of their skin, might be different, but the group fooling around as they waited for the school bus could have been standing on any street corner in the western world. Pennsylvanian kids weren’t so different from those I’d been familiar with back home in the UK.

The two standing by the wishing well were different though.

Not only in appearance but by the intensity with which they stared back at me through the window.

It was a boy who, when I studied his smooth features and gangly frame, didn’t look like he’d made twenty years old yet. He was wearing jeans and boots and a black leather jacket emblazoned with patches and flags. He’d an archaic quiff hairstyle, greased and coiffed to Elvis perfection. The girl with him looked older. She had a retro look about her too. But she was more punk rocker than greaser. She had on a tartan mini that was strategically frayed around the hem, over bright yellow stockings and pink shoes. A white T-shirt daubed with splashes of colour was only partially hidden by the leather jacket she’d decorated with studs and chains. Another thin chain looped from her right nostril to her right earlobe, and her platinum hair was spiked high and then tipped with pink.