muttered croakily. The cheap hotel room, with its broken thermostat, was swelteringly hot and he could feel a trickle of sweat running down his chest.
“This is Ace. Change of plans,” said the voice.
~~~~~
Barfold
Steve’s beaten up hatchback appears at the end of the street and splutters toward me. I’m waiting in front of the house. I’ve been here for a while. Steve is late – as usual – but he isn’t entirely responsible for my lengthy loitering.
The days are proving even harder than the nights. At night, I have drugs which help to carry me into a parallel existence, where my family are still alive and where my existence is a blissfully normal cycle of too much work and too little quality-time. Then daytime comes round, at some unearthly hour, and I’m awake again, aware, and reality floods back.
The silence.
The emptiness.
I’m developing a routine, to help me get through each day. The doctors and psychologists have recommended that I structure my time. Steve kindly volunteered to help, and I was pleased when the hospital allowed him to participate in my physiotherapy. But Steve’s slot in my schedule doesn’t arrive till midmorning, and that’s a lot of long minutes away from the moment I stir. That’s a whole lot of push-ups, a whole lot of sit-ups, and a whole lot of time on the, previously dust-gathering, exercise bike and weights machine in our little garage. That’s a whole lot of time for me and Vengeance to walk out to the woods, which are a mile or so away, and for me to let loose my anger at distant drinks cans, and any other litter the local lovers choose to leave behind after their evenings of clandestine passion.
There’re also a lot less pigeons around the woods...
My anger is surprising me. I’ve never really been one for anger, or violence, or shooting pigeons. I’ve always preferred to find compromise, to seek happy solutions, to talk down antagonists, but now I find myself embracing fury and enjoying its bitter, destructive, pointlessness. The doctors say it’s only natural. “Part of the process,” they mumble sagely.
I’m not so sure.
In the kitchen, piles of hair are scattered over the floor. The result of an hour, this morning, with an electric razor and a Number Two comb. I might even try a Number One later. I’ll tidy up, when I get back later.
Steve pulls up in front of me in a thin cloud of oily smoke, and leans across to wind down the passenger window. The window gets stuck, as usual, so he shouts through the tiny gap that’s opened, “Crikey! That’s a mean haircut! You ready?”
I shake my head in mock disbelief. Steve’s one person I just can’t be angry with. He goes through this routine, every day, with the same cheeky grin plastered over his face, and with the same endless enthusiasm and happiness about him.
I pull open the door, throw my kitbag into the back and climb in. “You’re early,” I grunt sarcastically, and we drive off to the sound of his rattling engine and infectious laughter.
~~~~~
Gdansk, Poland
It was raining in Gdansk when Jack stepped out of the airport building. It was also bitterly cold. He frowned and pulled his thin jacket tighter to him as he scanned the busy roadway. He’d need to get himself a decent coat, he decided.
A nondescript grey car with German plates was making its way toward him amongst a line of taxis and other vehicles. At the wheel, he could make out Deuce’s shock of white hair. The car pulled to the kerbside and Jack nonchalantly pulled open the passenger door and climbed inside.
Deuce nodded once at him and they drove off in silence.
The car wound its way around the airport’s perimeter and then onto the main road toward the nearby city. “Where’s your stuff?” Deuce eventually asked, bluntly as usual.
“Madrid. Station locker.” Jack felt completely exposed without his backpack but the instructions from Ace had been clear. He especially didn’t like not having his
“This is Ace. Change of plans,” said the voice.
~~~~~
Barfold
Steve’s beaten up hatchback appears at the end of the street and splutters toward me. I’m waiting in front of the house. I’ve been here for a while. Steve is late – as usual – but he isn’t entirely responsible for my lengthy loitering.
The days are proving even harder than the nights. At night, I have drugs which help to carry me into a parallel existence, where my family are still alive and where my existence is a blissfully normal cycle of too much work and too little quality-time. Then daytime comes round, at some unearthly hour, and I’m awake again, aware, and reality floods back.
The silence.
The emptiness.
I’m developing a routine, to help me get through each day. The doctors and psychologists have recommended that I structure my time. Steve kindly volunteered to help, and I was pleased when the hospital allowed him to participate in my physiotherapy. But Steve’s slot in my schedule doesn’t arrive till midmorning, and that’s a lot of long minutes away from the moment I stir. That’s a whole lot of push-ups, a whole lot of sit-ups, and a whole lot of time on the, previously dust-gathering, exercise bike and weights machine in our little garage. That’s a whole lot of time for me and Vengeance to walk out to the woods, which are a mile or so away, and for me to let loose my anger at distant drinks cans, and any other litter the local lovers choose to leave behind after their evenings of clandestine passion.
There’re also a lot less pigeons around the woods...
My anger is surprising me. I’ve never really been one for anger, or violence, or shooting pigeons. I’ve always preferred to find compromise, to seek happy solutions, to talk down antagonists, but now I find myself embracing fury and enjoying its bitter, destructive, pointlessness. The doctors say it’s only natural. “Part of the process,” they mumble sagely.
I’m not so sure.
In the kitchen, piles of hair are scattered over the floor. The result of an hour, this morning, with an electric razor and a Number Two comb. I might even try a Number One later. I’ll tidy up, when I get back later.
Steve pulls up in front of me in a thin cloud of oily smoke, and leans across to wind down the passenger window. The window gets stuck, as usual, so he shouts through the tiny gap that’s opened, “Crikey! That’s a mean haircut! You ready?”
I shake my head in mock disbelief. Steve’s one person I just can’t be angry with. He goes through this routine, every day, with the same cheeky grin plastered over his face, and with the same endless enthusiasm and happiness about him.
I pull open the door, throw my kitbag into the back and climb in. “You’re early,” I grunt sarcastically, and we drive off to the sound of his rattling engine and infectious laughter.
~~~~~
Gdansk, Poland
It was raining in Gdansk when Jack stepped out of the airport building. It was also bitterly cold. He frowned and pulled his thin jacket tighter to him as he scanned the busy roadway. He’d need to get himself a decent coat, he decided.
A nondescript grey car with German plates was making its way toward him amongst a line of taxis and other vehicles. At the wheel, he could make out Deuce’s shock of white hair. The car pulled to the kerbside and Jack nonchalantly pulled open the passenger door and climbed inside.
Deuce nodded once at him and they drove off in silence.
The car wound its way around the airport’s perimeter and then onto the main road toward the nearby city. “Where’s your stuff?” Deuce eventually asked, bluntly as usual.
“Madrid. Station locker.” Jack felt completely exposed without his backpack but the instructions from Ace had been clear. He especially didn’t like not having his
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