VOAT 14 (Image) - Vote here!

"I'm telling you brother I saw something. I think it was someone's hand." I stare past the window into the darkness.
"It is nothing, just your imagination." he snaps. I am worried, I have never seen my brother like this. He has been pacing the cabin non stop since we arrived. Normally he is the strong one, the leader. And what about me? I'm not much more than a child, I only turned seventeen last week, and I am terrified.

The rain continues to beat against the cabin . In the past hour it has increased in intensity and threatens to turn to hail. I can hear the wind whistling down the chimney and into the room we now occupy. We are inside, hidden from the storm, but I feel anything but safe. It is noisy - the rain drumming off the windows coupled with the low whimpering of the group of children that are with us. We had no choice, we could not leave them behind. I think back to the bus, wrapped around that monster of a tree. I had never seen a dead body before, or at least not one one that wasn't in a casket. Even now the thought of the scene turns my stomach. I can still remember the iron tang of blood on my tongue, the smell of the driver's brains splattered across the dashboard. There was no possibility of waiting for help. Were being hunted. We had to take the children with us. We had no choice.

I couldn't see them but I could feel our pursuers' eyes on us, watching as we fled into the woodlands, just out of reach in the shadows, waiting to pounce. I don't know how long we spent in flight, tripping and stumbling in the mud until we happened upon the cabin. Not long abandoned, it probably served as someone's summer house or a hunting lodge. I minded the children while my brother battered the front door down.

The cabin was a small wooden affair, a single story bungalow. We came into what I suppose was the living room. There was still a faint smell of ash from the fireplace. Two doors lead off from the opposite wall, one to the kitchen, the other to a small bedroom. Three rooms all with windows to watch and only two of us to keep guard.

Now we wait, trapped in the cabin. I want to run but I know it is futile, although is it any less futile than waiting here. I know now that this place will be our tomb. I think my brother has come to the same conclusion. He is not one to face death quietly with a whimper. He is afraid yes but it is the fear of a cornered rat. It is the waiting, the anticipation of things to come that makes him pace so.
"Come out and face us", I hear him muttering over the creaking of the floorboards under his feet. "I will show you what it means to be afraid.".

I look out the window again. I am almost certain I saw a hand pressing against it? No there is nothing there. Only the rain and the crash of thunder. It must be my mind playing tricks. Perhaps they did not see us as we fled into the treeline, there are no lights on in the cabin, they could have passed us by.

I am startled by a shrill ringing noise. My brother and I both stare at the telephone that sits innocently on a stand by the entrance. I had no idea it was there. Our eyes lock for a moment. I want to let it ring out, to pretend that none of this is happening. I can see the decision in my brother's eye. He picks up the handset. "Hello? Hello?" he asks. I lean close to the handset. I can make out the words but I do not understand the language they speak but the voice sounds authoritive, firm and even. They know that they are in control. I feel like little more than a plaything to them. My brother gets frustrated and slams the phone.

"They know we are here" he says to me.
The children continue to whimper. Some of the older ones are doing their best to comfort the other. I want to tell them that it will all be ok, that everything will be alright but I know it is a lie. This will be our last night on earth.

The telephone rings again. Neither of us move. The cabin is still. We let it ring for another minute before it dies. My brother looks at me and shrugs as if to say - what more can we do - a look of resignation on his face.

Was that a noise against the window again? No, now it is on the roof. I alert my brother.
"It's just the storm, calm down and keep your eyes on that window!" he says pointing towards the front of the house. I begin to move in that direction.

Suddenly the world explodes around me in a shower of broken glass. I am thrown onto my back by the force of the explosion. I have barely begun to recover when I see something flying through where the window once was. The object arcs gracefully through the air in slow motion hitting the wooden fall with a dull thud followed by a sharp crack and a blinding light. In an instant I am deaf and blind.
Is this the afterlife? Am I dead? I am trapped in a world without sensation. No my hand! I can feel something rough at my fingertips. Wood! It is the floor of the cabin. I am still alive! The fog begins to clear. I can hear people shouting and the children screaming but it is barely audible over the ringing in my ears. I roll my head to the side. My vision is clouded by flashing spots caused no doubt by the afterimage of the explosion. There are black-clad men in the room - I cannot tell how many, herding the children out through the cabin's front door. Their footsteps crash around my head.

My head rolls to the left and I see my brother rising up. He is lifting his hand when one of the men shouts. There are two sharp cracks and my brother falls backwards dead. I remember my vest. I am still armed. They do not seem aware that I am alive.With my right hand I reach down slowly, silently towards the small, simple cylinder stowed in my pocket. It has a single button on top and a pair of wires coming out the bottom. Slowly I extend my thumb. I will show these dogs that they cannot hurt my family without facing punishment.

Crack! My wrist shatters. I scream with a mix of agony and rage. There is a boot crushing my wrist and a pair of hands wrenching the detonator from my grip. Another one of them must have come over to help their friend because I find myself hauled to my feet and the vest yanked off in a single smooth motion by a second pair of hands. I swear at them, I curse their gods as I am slammed back to the ground, now rendered impotent, powerless. My arms are pulled behind me and bound. They pull me again to my feet and lead me into the rain where darkness and prison awaits. I am afraid.

Angela

Angela was smuggled in. I did the smuggling.

Oscar Wilde’s Captain was steadying her into dock when a snaking line of travellers wound its descending way into the ship’s hold. White jacketed crew with well practised smiles had pocketed themselves in doorways that led to the car decks.

His eyes scanned me up and down. The man who blocked our car deck door was almost two metres tall; he stood like an All-Black before the Hakka. His muscular torso caused rolling hills and valleys to appear across his shirt. I was impressed with his neck muscles: ‘If I have to hit this guy, it will have to be with one of those fire extinguishers.’

A ships officer leaned over the railing above to inspect our section of the crowd. Her golden braided cap carrying the insignia of the Master at Arms caused me some alarm. The MAA is the only crew member of a civilian ship authorised to carry a weapon. I decided it was best practice to assume she had a holster attached to that beautifully woven rope lanyard that hung from her shoulder and across her body.

Walking to the van I ran through how they would wait. They would wait until I unlocked the doors. They would wait until I sat down. Only when I turn the ignition key will the doors open and a voice would calmly ask: ‘Is this your vehicle, Sir?’

The engine coughed. ‘Damn!’ I tried again. ‘Phew.’ Checking the mirrors I nudged into the line of exiting vehicles. Following the directions of the crew, I waved thankfully at them, afraid to smile - just yet. The exit was getting closer, we’re through the barriers, we’re through the gates and we’re on the road heading for Limerick.

I checked for vehicles tailing us and for ones prepared to intercept. I circled Waterford’s river bank twice. In Carrick-on-Suir I left the town four times in three different directions. Finally, in a wooded lay-by in the Glen of Aherlow between Bansha and Tipperary town, I parked up the van.

Stepping into the summer night I sniffed the air and Ireland. I had missed it. ‘It was only two weeks’, I reminded myself. The midges arrived and I cursed them. ‘Bloody typical, there’s always something to niggle at you in this country. If it’s not the rain, it’s the wind, if it’s neither, it’s those blasted midges.’

I haven’t told you this, but I had fallen in love with her. I had it all, the butterflies and even visions of us as old people walking on the beach in Kilkee. ‘You’re kidding yourself man.’

No sound could be heard when I unlocked the back door. I found the gear bag placed all the items in a neat row. Baby wipes, deodorant, clean clothes and shoes, a flask of soup, a packet of dried apricots and the cheapest coffee biscuits – she loved them.

‘Tap, tap, pause, tap, tap.’ I knocked out on the floor. My heart leaped. ‘Damn, I’m in love and I’m getting soft.’

I unbolted the hatch to a cavity built into the floor of the van, one slender arm with gloriously soft saffron coloured skin emerged. Gently I placed her fingers in mine and helped pulled her out. Our wedding rings touched. ‘Thanks for waking me, are we here?’

‘We have just over two hours; enough to prepare with some time left over to say goodbye.’

‘Always the master-planner aren’t you?’ she smiled and hopped out of the box and into my arms.

Later, I would drive off, leave my wife on the side of the road and our marriage will be over. It was what we wanted. It was what had to be done. A tear will probably slide down my cheek. I’ll resist the urge to wipe it. I’ll more than likely leave the salty residue encrust on my cheek as a reminder.

Besides she had business to take care of in Dublin. Her exit was planned and paid for; a short inter-city tour taking in Belfast, Glasgow, Newcastle and Amsterdam but without the sights.

She washed with the wipes, I helped. She changed clothes and shoved anything she touched into the floor cavity. I would deal with that later.

In this business there are no attachments. No pets, no partners and no children. To be successful at this game you must be unremarkably ordinary. You are the guy that people never notice. You must have impeccable manners, be soft spoken and rarely interact with anybody. You must possess incredible patience. Be extremely fit, strong and healthy. Above all, you must be ruthless.

The first job was simple. He was never to be found.

€2,000 to the skipper of a Bosnian fishing trawler sorted that out. I first met Angela, my wife for the next week and a half in a petrol station outside Sarajevo. We were to partner up for the next two jobs and we would travel across Europe under the guise of a pair of newlyweds.

The Lump, he liked Asian women. Angela was a former Flying Tiger, the nickname given to the members of the elite paramilitary force officially known as Hong Kong’s Special Duties Unit.

She flirted with him in the Coliseum Club in Sarajevo; he fell for her sparkling eyes and suggestive comments. She got him pissed. I was waiting, posing as a taxi driver in a rubbish strewn lane at the side of the club’s faux Romanesque facade.

Angela struggled under his weight while she coaxed him towards the fire escape where my taxi was waiting. The metre was running should someone enquire.

Two security guards stood in front of the door: ‘Excuse me madam. You cannot leave that way.’ In forlorn fashion she pleaded with them: ‘I have a taxi waiting outside to get this drunken lout of a man home, I’m not strong enough to carry him all the way around.’

One of the guards clicked his radio: ‘Control room, Mešić here on the ground floor, opening door 107.’

‘Okay Mešić, we have you on camera.’

Mešić smiled at Angela and the galoot, his colleague took one of the Lumps arms and they all helped to put him in the back seat of the taxi. Refusing an offer of a tip from her they explained: ‘Part of the service, Madam.’

I drove without instruction while Angela allowed his one advance on her. He leaned towards her lips with his own protruded but he was so drunk his head just slumped and rested on her shoulders. Experience in these situations motivated Angela to open his zip and be ready to complain about the lack of activity should he wake up.

We wouldn’t drug him until we changed vehicles in Hadžići about twenty kilometres outside of Sarajevo. We couldn’t take our eyes off each other.

The Lump was dead to the world – pardon the pun – when we moved him to the next vehicle, a Toyota Landcruiser. We injected a mixture of Flunitrazepam – the active ingredient in strong tranquilisers such as rohypnol – and good quality street heroin into his groin. This was in case anything went wrong with the disposal and the body was discovered. Should he be found? A hint of heroin in the blood and the police couldn’t care less about what happened to this guy. The case file would sit in a drawer for twenty years until the investigating officer retired.

We had three hours to cover the journey from Hadžići to Nuem. Neum is Bosnia and Herzegovina’s only coastal town, a picturesque harbour containing a village, some hotels, pleasure craft and a fishing trawler from which the Lump would be cast into the Adriatic Sea.

The honeymooning newly-weds crossed the Croatian border at 6.30am. We consummated our fictitious marriage before heading up the Adriatic coast.

Driving through Croatia and Slovenia we discussed previous jobs. I doubled over with laughter as she recounted the first time she threw someone down a stairs: ‘I pushed him too strongly and he went down too quickly. I had to drag him half-way back up the stairs and dig his nails into the plaster to make it look like he tried to grab onto something. It wouldn’t have been so bad but his neck broke in the fall and his head was waving around like a bobble head toy.’

‘Have you ever gotten a bonus for providing a scene from the bible?’ I asked her.

‘No.’

‘This religious Mafia chief wanted his wife crucified; she was cheating on him he claimed. On the morning of the job he ordered his staff to take the day off. When I arrived the wife was in the throes of passion with two men. I crucified all three of them with her in the middle, just like I found them. He paid me a €50,000 bonus for providing him with such a biblical scene.’

‘Sweet.’ She smiled.

It’s not often that people in our business can chat about our work. We needed this release and we laughed all the way to Salzburg. Angela said we didn’t have time to visit Mozart’s house so we continued on through Munich, past Frankfurt and into Wiesbaden.

The warning was to be violent.

Angela entered Lanky’s bar and sat beside him. I sat outside and ordered a coffee. He was reconciling beer orders.

Lanky paid cash for the bar over two years ago. The problem for Lanky was the cash happened to belong to an old friend of his. Lanky became lackadaisical about his repayments, probably due to his monumental cocaine habit. Our client wanted it known that he was one creditor that would not tolerate defaulting debtors.

Resting one breast on the bar and smiling at Lanky, Angela hinted that she liked to party, but sadly she had nothing to party with. Angela is well aware that there’s nothing better than a hint of easiness to get a man do things for you. Lanky was obliging in that regard.

He eyed over her; he did his best to not lick his lips: ‘Perhaps we should go somewhere more private, to borrow an old cliché.’

‘Perhaps I could change into something more comfortable.’ She giggled.

Lanky took Angela by the hand and led her towards the stairs leading to his office. I heard the door close, checked for anyone watching and snuck up to wait outside the door.

Angela was the ultimate professional. She had no morals, scruples or any hint of decency within her. Through the door, I could hear the temptress tease Lanky. He was busy preparing a couple of lines for them both. I was waiting for her cough.

‘Sorry it’s my hay fever; just give me a minute, you go first please. I insist’

My right hand held the door handle, the Stanley knife with the fully extended blade in my left. He leaned forward to snort.

She coughed, I dashed in. My right thumb and forefinger blocked his nose, my palm cupping his mouth. My left hand dug the blade deep into his neck and pulled it slowly across his throat. This was a new blade and cut with ease. I could have taken his head off. I was tempted to, but we weren’t prepared for such a mess. It would have been a big job.

Angela rushed behind me and bolted the door. I glided over to her, she inspected me for spatters. She pecked me on the cheek and whispered: ‘I’ve never seen such a precise job.’ I was good at this particular method.

Angela drove from Wiesbaden to Metz in France where we strengthened our matrimonial bond and again in Le Chesnay, a small town near Versailles on the outskirts of Paris. We collected the van and Angela scrambled into her hiding spot. There are far too many cameras watching the roads on the way to the ports in Normandy.

I hit Limerick at about 2am. I headed for Castleconnell on the old Lisnagry Road. I parked the van in a gateway and doused the inside with petrol before setting it ablaze. I watched the flames engulf the van from the safety of a hedgerow on the far side of the field. I knew if it burned until the tyres popped there would be no evidence left inside. I trekked across the fields towards Limerick crossing into Plassey over the bottomless bridge and continued along the river bank towards the university. The lights on the Living Bridge looked well, I had forgotten they changed colour.

I passed Rhebogue, over the Guinness Bridge towards the railway track. It was a beautiful night for walking and remembering the good times with Angela. ‘She’s perfect in every way; I’d retire right now to be with her.’ I crossed the Metal Bridge on the train tracks and headed for home.

The mission phone was ringing – I hadn’t dumped it – I was awaiting news of Angela’s safe return.

‘My mark is in New York. I need to get there ASAP.’ It was Angela.

‘I’ll need a few hours to organise the paperwork. What time is the flight?’

‘There’s one from Shannon at 4pm. Can you meet me now? I need to see you.’

‘Are you in Limerick?’

‘Yes.’

‘The slip at St Michael’s rowing club at 5am. It’s across the river from my office; I start at work at 6am.’ I shouldn’t have told her that. ‘Damn. I am getting soft.’

We hugged at the slipway beside the river whose tide was half-in and half-out. If we stood there for five minutes the water would lap at our feet. I nuzzled her neck and brought my lips towards hers. She stared into my eyes. I felt the cold blade slide into my back and push through to my lung. I gasped. Stunned with shock, I was transfixed.

‘This is from Paco Hernandez.’ She sobbed. Those were tears in her eyes. She did love me.

She guided me backwards to the ground. My head was in the water and she kneeled on me. I forced myself to keep my eyes open. I wanted her to be my last sight.

Her hand, still with our wedding ring on, was covering my mouth keeping me under the water. The sun highlighted the tinge of red in her hair. I noticed that she was looking away from me. I could feel her body heaving as she cried. It wasn’t my life that flashed; it was my memories of her that trickled into a flood in front of me.

Just before I blacked out I heard someone shout out: ‘It’s Superintendent Rankin of Henry Street Garda Station – Get help!’