Don Winslow - A Cool Breeze on the Underground

He looked back to make sure Allie was still asleep, and then walked up to the cottage. It was a two-story affair, gray stone built around thick wooden beams. He found the old skeleton key under a rock, right where Simon had said it would be, and let himself in. The first floor was low-ceilinged, and he stooped even though he really didn’t have to. A large fireplace dominated the front room, which had a stone floor, an old wooden table, and two old overstuffed chairs. A small bedroom ran off to the left. It was filled with books, no surprise there, and a small bed covered with old quilts and a thick army blanket. A kitchen of sorts ran off to the back. It had creaky wooden counters and a few shelves and cupboards, and a wood-burning stove. There was a basin but no tap. A narrow wooden door opened onto the slope of the hill and a stone retaining wall. Someone had made a weak attempt at gardening out back, and a sad rose trellis marked the effort. A narrow staircase led from the kitchen up to the second floor, which contained three bedrooms. Each was furnished with quilted beds and cane chairs.

The whole place had that comfortable discomfort of the beloved getaway. Old framed photos of Simon and family and friends decorated the walls and bedside tables. Cheap paperbacks and slightly moldy hardcovers lay scattered about. Neal went back downstairs and out front. He found the generator shack, read the carefully printed directions thumbtacked to the wall, and started it up. He might as well, he thought, have such comforts as electricity. An outhouse stood near the generator shack, and a cottage. He solved the mystery of water when he noticed the well about thirty yards in front of the cottage. He cranked the handle and, sure enough, a bucket of water came up, just like in the old movies when the city slicker goes to the country and learns real values. He took a sip of the water: It was clean and cold and tasted great. He hoped he wouldn’t die from it. A true New Yorker, he believed that water should come out of faucets.

Hmm, well water, outhouses, a bathtub set in the open air. He could get used to this, he thought. And the quiet. He noticed it just then. The complete and utter absence of mechanical or human sound. He listened. Way off in the distance, perhaps over the hill, he could hear the faint sounds of what might have been sheep. He could hear the soft gurgling of the brook below him. That was all. That was it. He could hear his heartbeat. This was all new stuff to Neal Carey, who thought he had seen it all.

Remembering why he was up here, he walked back to the car and opened the passenger door. Allie was curled up, her head resting on the top of the seat. She was sticky with dried sweat and her face was puffy and pale. The next few hours would be bad, Neal thought. But he had to get it started. No more candy for baby Allie.

“Hey, wake up,” he said, shaking her. She mumbled a few dark threats and cuddled up into a ball.

“Alice, c’mon, up.”

“Donwanna.”

“I don’t give a shit what you wanna,” said Neal, who was damned if he was going to carry her anymore. He still hurt from last night.

He pulled her out of the seat and let go. She tumbled out onto the ground.

“Hey!” she said, with more indignation than wit. She sat on the ground looking up at him, and then looking around. It took her only a minute to realize they weren’t in downtown London.

“Where the fuck are we?”

Which reminded Neal of an old joke about pygmies that he didn’t bother relating.

“We’re ’on the lam,’” he said. He watched her search her memory. He watched real carefully. How much did Allie remember?

“Where’s Colin?”

“I don’t know.”

She got up from the ground and brushed herself off. “I want to go back to London.”

“No.”

“Right now.”

“Forget it.”

She brushed past him and headed for the driver’s door.

I didn’t want to do this, Neal thought. He grabbed her by the elbow, stuck his foot behind hers, and threw her down. She got over her surprise in about half a second and started to get up, but he lifted her up by the shoulders and tossed her down on her back. She landed hard but got up and headed back toward the car. He stood in her way and she took a swing at him, a clumsy, looping swing that he caught easily, turning her wrist and bending her arm in back of her. He grabbed her hair with his other hand and forced her to her knees. He bent her over until her face grazed the ground.

It shocked him that he wasn’t sorry, that this felt good, and he wondered whom he was so goddamned angry at, and he wondered where his mother was and whether she was even alive, and he wondered whether Allie was the only fucked-up person on this barren, beautiful hill, and why he had taken this job in the first place.

He lifted her up and turned her around so that they were face-to-face. It didn’t help. He wanted to hit her. Hard. In the face. He wanted to tell himself that he would do it to settle her down, to get her in the house, part of the job and all, but he knew it wasn’t true. He wanted to hit her because she was a woman and a junkie and a whore, just like the girl who hadn’t married dear old Dad. That knowledge sickened him, tired him out more than everything he’d been through. He let go of her shoulders.

She knew, though. He saw in her eyes that she had seen it in his: the rage, the violence. She had flinched and braced herself for the slap she knew was coming. He saw that to her he was just another man who beat up women.

The slap didn’t come. They stood on the windy hill staring at each other. Neal could hear his heartbeat all right; it pounded along with his lungs reaching for breath. Finally, he said, “I ripped Colin off. He thinks you helped me. I let him think that-”

“Jesus… you asshole… who told you to-”

“Because I don’t want you to be with him anymore. I don’t want you shooting smack anymore.” The words came out between gulps of air, and it was as close to telling the truth as he could go right then. He walked past her into the cottage.

Allie caught her breath for a moment and then walked to the car.

Neal was trying to build a fire when she came back in. The afternoon had turned suddenly cold. He wasn’t having much luck and thought that maybe he should have joined the Boy Scouts instead of Friends of the fucking Family, when she came through the door.

“Where are my drugs?” she demanded.

“Somewhere on the M-11.”

“You sleazy cocksucker!”

“‘People who live in glass houses…” He touched the match to the old newspaper and it caught flame. He blew gently on it, as he’d seen in the movies, and had a modest success. “Don’t you think it’s cold in here?”

“It’s fucking freezing!”

“That’s because you’re starting into withdrawal. It’ll get worse. There are some wool sweaters upstairs in a wardrobe. I suggest you get a couple.”

“I suggest you get me some dope, or I’m driving right back to London.”

“Good idea. Call Colin when you get in. I’m sure he’d love to see you.”

He let her draw her own conclusions.

“Thanks for fucking up my life!”

“You’re welcome.”

“You at least owe me some dope!”

Neal added a small piece of wood to the fire and almost smothered it. He shifted things around with the poker and the fire came to life. He was concentrating hard on making the fire. It settled him down.

Then he took his shot. Carefully, because he knew that she wouldn’t be lucid much longer.

“What I owe you,” he said, “is ten thousand pounds. I figure that’s more than fair, seeing as you didn’t do a goddamn thing to earn it. But that’s not your fault. What I owe you is a chance to get off the junk and stay off, because that was also part of our deal. No more junk, no more dates.”