Gerald Seymour - Battle Sight Zero

The noise was louder. A big bike. There had been a time in his life, before the legend of Andy was cobbled together, and before Norm had shown up, and before Phil had been created, when he’d have gone on bent knee for a chance to ride that sort of machine. Maybe take it out on the Welsh mountains, around the National Park, do a loop that would take in Mallwyd and almost to Dolgellau and down to Corris Uchaf and with the summit of Waen-oer on one side and that of Cader Idris on the other, then to Machynlleth where his parents, the real ones, had had a caravan on a site, might still have, go east towards Cwm-Llinau and finish the circle… Because he had failed, it was possible for him to consider the old life, which otherwise was denied. Brilliant to be on that sort of bike, which had been an ambition all through the Marines days, and the uniformed police slog before his transfer into the new existence of living the lie. A Ducati came past him, hovering left and right of the white line in the middle of the road. Seemed to ooze power. He recognised the rider, the leather jacket. The Ducati, the 811 model, was cleaned and the metal parts shone and the paintwork was without blemish. He knew it as the Ducati Monster. It would be a symbol of power where the rider came from. It came level with the Peugeot scooter that was chugging up the long hill.

An arm came off the Ducati controls. Snaked out, reached across, the fist clenched. First there was a punch on the kid’s shoulder. The scooter rocked but the kid held firm and he might have heard the pillion scream and bury her head lower on the kid’s back and hold ever tighter, and the scooter skidded but the kid held it upright. One punch on the shoulder and one cuff on the back of the head. The scooter held its speed. The hand went lower, was at the package, tried to rip it clear. He saw Zed’s foot. It came out, paused, took a bearing, then kicked sharply at the back of the leg of the Ducati man. Where the muscle was. The guy needed both hands for control. Might have had the briefest hold of the package. The two riders screamed abuse at each other. Then the Ducati accelerated past. A siren sounded a long way back. Zed was tearing at her parcel’s packaging, bubble-wrap and tape, must have lifted a knife off the kid carrying her, and dropping the wrapping, ditching it as a toy for the wind to play with.

Andy saw the barrel of a rifle as the packaging was stripped off.

Zeinab slashed with the blade. More of the bubble-wrap came loose.

The boy, she knew him now as Karym, had needed both hands on the scooter’s steering. In his hesitant English, he’d told her which pocket on his coat he’d find the knife, and she’d opened the blade. If the fist that had punched Karym had groped into her lap and tried to seize the package, had come again, she’d have stabbed it.

The packaging flew away behind her. The bike in front had slowed. She had the rifle, and a magazine slotted into its guts, and another was under her T-shirt, and into the waist of her jeans. The motorbike made one more dart after them, and she saw the anger on the face of the rider; he was revving the engine and cutting his speed, and the hand snatched for the rifle. She stabbed, made a poor job of using the blade, managed only a nick on the hand but enough to draw blood. The bike swung away; one-handed control was hard, and the pain would have been big and blood ran from a small but deep wound. Words yelled between the brothers, him furious and Karym defiant, and the bike – two hands in place – sloped away, went in front, left them for dead.

Karym shouted at her, ‘It is yours, it is what you bought… I thought it would be skunk of Moroccan black. I thought it was that, not a Kalash… why go to such trouble for a Kalash? Why involve my brother and Tooth in this deal? Is that all you wanted, a Kalash? You make my brother angry, I saw his blood. He has a Ducati 821 Monster, and I have a little Peugeot, which says what he thinks of me. You have anywhere to go?’

‘If my friend is a policeman, I have nowhere to go.’

‘I can hide you.’

‘Is it possible there is a mistake?’

‘That your boy is not a policeman? The one I saw you with this morning, not a policeman? A mistake? I do not think so… the one who identified him is an old legend of Marseille, a big man with a reputation. He would know a cop… it is the face, the look in the eye, it is the style of the body, the posture. Old people, they know… old gang leaders know better than anyone. Possibly a mistake, but…’

‘What should we do?’

Karym did not know, could not answer.

The rifle was hidden between them, and the magazine gouged into his back. She had closed the knife, had dropped it back in his pocket. He could hide her, a possibility. Hide her until darkness then take her out of La Castellane, and bring her to… where? Could take her to the ferry port and put her on a boat to – to anywhere. Could take her to Saint Charles railway station and buy a ticket for her to – to anywhere. Or go to the airport, or one of the little fishing harbours along the coast and towards the Spanish frontier and see if there were people who would take her to – to anywhere. The siren came closer, screaming. If they were followed, then it was clear to him, that police had been at the plaza, had watched the exchange – confirmed what old Tooth had claimed, that her boy, her driver, was a cop.

What to do? He did not know.

Who to ask? Karym knew no one who could make a decision fast other than his brother, who would now feel the pain of the cut in his hand, and have to get the wound bandaged, and would feel vicious anger towards her. Did not know what to do, did not know who to ask. He felt the tremors in her body, and the weapon seemed to shiver in her grip which made the pain where it trapped his flesh more acute. They went on up the hill. He understood that the previous buried tensions with his brother were now in the open air and clear to view, and rejoiced in it – like he had crawled from the cover of deep shadow. He could not twist sufficiently to see behind him, gauge how far away the source of the siren was. He would not have admitted his fear, certainly not to her, but imagined himself as one of the myriad of small puppy dogs that roamed the project, and when a stone was thrown at them, they’d slink away, look for the safety of a home – under a bush or behind a building, or the corner of a stairwell. In the distance was the large flat landscape of buildings that formed the commercial shopping centre. On the far side of the road was La Castellane. If he could get there before the sirens caught up with him, he would feel a certain safety.

‘I will protect you, Zeinab.’

‘Thank you.’

‘I admire you and I respect you.’ Her arms were around his waist. She was different from every other young woman in the project, and so brave – so innocent. No woman of her age in La Castellane retained even a pinch of innocence.

‘Thank you again.’

‘I will hide you.’

‘Yes, I thank you.’

‘If you are seen, Zeinab, with the rifle, they will kill you. Samson will.’

‘I do not need to know, Karym, what will happen to me.’

‘They shoot to kill, Zeinab, it does not matter to them if they kill us.’

‘What the fuck do we do?’ she shouted in his ear.

‘Did you think it would be easy?’ he yelled back. ‘Here, for us, it is never easy.’

‘Who is Samson…?’

‘Hope, Zeinab, that you do not learn who is Samson.’

The Major drove. Samson, beside him, used a monocular with a steady hand. The English pair were sitting behind them in the vehicle with four uniforms.

Samson said, ‘She has a rifle, I can see it. She has a Kalashnikov. It was in the wrapping. We should block them before they get into the rat-house.’