Tom Callaghan - An Autumn Hunting

As we reached there, Achura reappeared, calm and poised as ever, hands washed clean of the red chalk. Come to gloat over my defeat, no doubt. I patted the driver’s hand to release me, and walked towards Achura, arm outstretched to shake hands. Quang watched, amusement on his face, like someone watching ants scurrying at his feet.

‘No hard feelings?’ I asked, smiling as I took Achura’s hand. It felt surprisingly smooth, feminine, but with a core of steel along the fingers and the edge of the palm. Then I pulled her towards me even as I moved forward, smashed my forehead into the bridge of her nose, saw the surprise and shock blossom in her eyes, even as the blood blossomed across her cheekbones. My face was warm and wet, and I knew it wasn’t from my tears. Flecks of blood stung my eyes, spattered a scarlet pattern across my shirt; I knew it was time to go, and fast, before Achura recovered and decided to retaliate. I held up my hands, as if to apologise for an unfortunate stumble, an accident. I didn’t look across to see Quang’s reaction. From what I’d learnt of his persona, he probably didn’t move a muscle.

‘Next time,’ I whispered, the smile never leaving my face as I stared at Achura, ‘next time, I’ll fucking kill you.’

As we drove back to the city, the driver looked at me in the mirror and shook his head. Obviously, nutting Achura was a bad idea. A better idea would have been to head to the airport straight away, but I needed to see Saltanat, even if it meant encountering Achura once more. As Quang had said, there are dozens of ways to die in Bangkok.

The bombshell of Saltanat’s pregnancy still sent echoes through my mind, tremors of fear, elation, terror. Did she want our child or would she simply head for an abortion clinic, a scrape, a day in bed, then back to work?

Did I want a child, and how could I look after it, on the run and most likely dead before it was even born?

I shut my eyes, tried to find some peace, but my life nagged at me like a broken tooth, persistent, insistent. I hadn’t lied to Quang; I used the phone to send coded messages. But they were to Saltanat, not Aliyev. And the message I intended to send said ‘Visiting the floating market’. Which meant ‘Run’. Even if I couldn’t escape the shit I was in, there was no reason why she should die. Or, now I thought of it, our unborn child. If Saltanat decided to terminate her pregnancy, there was still Otabek back in Uzbekistan to consider. He’d been traumatised enough by his ordeal at the hands of Morton Graves. Saltanat had helped him come out of his self-imposed silence, but without her presence, he would surely sink back into a fear and despair from which there would be no escape.

I barely noticed the buildings on either side, until I realised we weren’t taking the normal route back to the hotel. I tapped on the glass partition, caught the driver’s attention.

‘Where are you taking me?’ I said, but he ignored me and carried on driving. I began to get seriously worried: I remembered the gun under his jacket, wondered if this was a trip to somewhere quiet followed by a sudden execution. If so, I’d walked into it like a halfwit. Out of my depth, out of my skills, and if I was right, soon to be out of breath.

We turned off the motorway onto a slip road leading into an area full of decaying warehouses. Rusting signs in Thai hung lopsided from shutters and roofs, doors and walls had graffiti sprayed upon them like neon-bright worms squashed by a giant fist. If I’d had a god to believe in, this would have been the time to start praying.

I was surprised at how calm, perhaps even resigned to dying I was. After all, between Tynaliev, Aliyev and Quang, no one in their right minds would bet on me reaching old age.

Finally, the car pulled up surrounded by derelict buildings, the kind of place where businesses die a lingering death. Mine would be a lot quicker. The ground was littered with twisted pieces of steel rebar, broken bricks and bottles and rotting cardboard boxes. Weeds struggled through cracks in the concrete, puddles of water lay in hollows, staring up at the sky like black eyes. The air was foul with the smell of smoke, rotting timber, decay.

The driver clambered out of his seat, beckoned for me to do the same. He held up the phone and the SIM card, placed them on the roof of the car, then stepped back, motioning for me to install the card. I held the mobile up, stabbed at it with one finger. He nodded, watched as I sent Saltanat the code to get out of Bangkok as quickly as possible.

The driver nodded approval, reached under his jacket for his gun. It was then we heard the motorcycle, powerful, aggressive, approaching at speed. Both of us remained frozen as a Royal Thai Police motorcycle raced into view, the wheels bucking and twisting on the uneven surface.

Killing me would be an everyday occurrence; the mysterious death of a farang wouldn’t make the TV news. But murdering a police officer would bring down nine levels of hell and trouble. So the driver paused, fingers millimetres away from his gun, waiting for the motorcycle to stop.

The policeman stopped the bike, straddling it with his feet on the ground. His face was unreadable behind mirror sunglasses and a full face helmet with the visor raised. I didn’t know if he’d followed us, whether he had spotted something wrong or was just following a cop hunch. But it was my only opportunity.

Picking up the brick at my feet was easy; throwing it so it hit the driver’s head took a little skill, a lot of luck. The brick bounced off his skull with a dry thud and splintered, like dropping a sack of rice on the floor. I watched as he staggered, half-fell, then pulled himself up, shaking his head the way a dog shakes off water. He felt for his gun, pulled it out of the shoulder holster, finger already dancing towards the trigger.

The cop’s gun was aimed halfway between us, and I had no doubt he’d shoot at the slightest sign of trouble. So we both stood absolutely still, statues captured in mid-motion.

Then the driver made a decision. He pulled out his gun and fell backwards as the cop’s bullets took him in the throat and jaw, arterial blood a jetting fountain that splashed through the air and onto the ground. As his body fell, I saw the man’s tongue, newly exposed in the gap where most of his teeth had been, splayed out like a slice of raw liver. His gun clattered to the ground but I knew it would be suicide to reach for it. At that moment, death by cop seemed as sensible an option as any.

‘Pick up the gun, hurry.’

Saltanat’s voice, as usual calm and assured.

I stared as she took off the cycle helmet, shook her hair free, gave me one of those smiles that speared my heart.

‘We need to get out of here,’ she said, dismounting from the bike and heading towards the car. She paused only to wipe the side of my face nearest the driver’s body and give me a peck on the cheek. I checked the driver’s gun; fully loaded, though I’d expected nothing less.

‘A little blood on your face, don’t worry, it’s not yours,’ she said.

‘Where did you steal the bike?’ I asked.

‘There’s an unlucky cop who thought he was going to get a blow job down an alleyway; he should be waking up about now with a bruised neck and a very sore head,’ Saltanat said, giving a ravishing smile.

No question who was going to drive. Saltanat slid behind the wheel, began to reverse and turn around. The rear of the car rose and I heard a horrible crunch and squelch.

‘Relax, he didn’t feel a thing. Or if he did, he doesn’t now.’

As we headed back towards the motorway, I wondered how it was possible to love a woman who could take a life without a second thought. The times I’ve had to kill, the moment returns to me, mainly in dreams, but also when I see a face, a walk, a look, that reminds me of the dead. The difference between being an amateur and a professional, I suppose; I hope I never go from being one to the other.