A Choice of Evils Read online

  ‘Have you brought mine too?’ I asked.

  ‘But of course. Let us examine them before the last light denies us the pleasure. Here is what belongs to you,’ he said. Then, from the shingle he picked up a holdall and invited me to look inside. I did. Bundles of £50 notes were neatly stacked together.

  ‘The £50,000 is all there.’ he continued. ‘Do you wish to count it?’

  ‘I am sure that isn’t necessary.’ I answered. Having seen the stash I then gave him the briefcase. ‘The formula is in there. Check it out!’ I invited him.

  With firm and fast movements, he took out the red XP42 bound file. I saw his eyes give way to a twisted pleasure as he stroked the cover. A casual flip through the pages spread his face into a smile. A feeling of relief expelled the tension through my breath. I knew it was now too dark for him read it. He was convinced it was the real McCoy.

  Breezes from the sea wafted by as I stood watching him close the briefcase. The chill brought with it a keen sense of smell and just for a second, my nose twitched at the presence of something familiar in the air. Perfume? It was that distinct smell worn by Inspector Marsh. Then it was gone. I could see no sign of her or any of the others.

  The brown eyes of Ahmed returned to his normal clinical gaze. ‘It will soon be cold standing here, Jack. Let’s walk a few minutes before departing.’ He looked to me for approval.

  ‘Not more than five minutes.’ I answered. ‘I am still on holiday with friends nearby. They will wonder where I have been.’

  ‘Of course, it is just that I want to thank you again. I will have a return journey to London tonight. There is a need to stretch my legs.’

  We both walked out towards the sea breathing in the salty air. Ahmed spoke patronisingly. He suggested a dinner meeting back in London would be nice to celebrate our success. Then in an ark, we walked back towards the beach as the pacing of our steps got muffled by the sand. It was clear neither of us had much more to say. It was purely a business meeting. On return to our near starting point we stopped to exchange goodbyes with a handshake, and then went our separate ways.

  Darkness had dropped upon the beach as I headed towards the lights of the pub.

  I had not gone 50 yards when I heard an almighty bang! An explosion, like a clap of thunder penetrated the dark quietness. It was loud! As I spun around I felt something wet, warm, sticky and clammy hit me in the side of my face. It was a jelly like substance. Then I saw traces of a fire in the direction from where I had come from. Gripping the holdall tightly I ran towards it. Flames danced in broken patches on the ground. At first, I thought it was burning paper. Or was it? Suddenly, my eyes felt larger than my head. There in front of me was an arm with flames eating into the sleeve. Just five paces away, a blackened face stared up at the sky with two scorched eyes. It was on fire too! An assembly of scattered human remains was burning all around me. The acrid smell of burning flesh mixed with a peculiar taste of cordite. I knew it was Ahmed.

  I stood transfixed, unable to move, watching the cremation of his burning parts. A hundred thoughts crashed through my head. How? Who? Why? The whole scene of it evoked a fear that sent my heart palpitating. My hand reached up to scrape away the wetness on my face. I stared at it from the light of the flames. Blood! Pieces of flesh stuck to my fingers. An urge to clean myself gave way to even greater panic. I plunged my fingers into the sand, wiping and digging to remove the traces. Somehow, I walked away in a trance, walking, stumbling, and vomiting out the turbulence inside. I could not look back. My legs protested as each step became more urgent than the last to get away from it all. I needed distance behind me.

  The beach road came to me through oblivion of time. As I passed the lifeguards tower, I could hear my shoes crunch upon the shingle onto the road. The friendly lights of the pub averred like a beacon ahead of me. Silence, but for the whistle of the wind, was my only companion to share the darkness.

  At last I could make out the car park. My head was light and my breathing heavy as my ears tuned in to my own footsteps. I needed to get away at least a hundred miles away. Finally I arrived. The car park was almost full. Through the windows I could see the faces of people drinking. It seemed as if no one had heard the explosion. My arm invisibly stretched out to take a drink from their hands. Yet I knew it could not be so.

  In the car, I flopped into the driver’s seat. Then I caught sight of a piece of paper on the passenger side. I flicked on the interior light and stared at it. ‘Don’t phone us – we will phone you.’ It was clear the Intelligence mob had tagged my every move. They were almost invisible but I knew they were here somewhere. Are they watching me now? I wondered. Did I detect the faint smell of perfume again? Or was it my imagination?

  I sat there trying to make sense of how the explosion could have occurred. Was it meant to be that way? I had done as they asked, handed the briefcase and the formula over, even though it was a fake. Then in a flash I suspected the answer. Were there explosives fitted into the briefcase and in the spine of the red folder? Yes. That’s why they exchanged the red bound folder I had taken from the bank and asked me to give him that one. Jesus Christ! The dirty bastards! They had used me to deliver a bomb! To think it had been in my house all over the weekend. That I had driven to Cornwall with the damn thing. Was I now part of a murder? Of course I was. My head was beginning to throb. I was going mad. For fucks sake! All I had ever been in my life was a thief, not a bloody assassin or a spy.

  The wind was whistling through my car’s window. Of course, they had got in via the window to put the note in. The car fired into life. Almost in a trance I left the car park watching the headlights span the beach as I turned the vehicle around. Like a searchlight, the car lights cut through the darkness and blended with the mist coming off the sea. It had an eerie appearance. I put my foot down to hasten my departure.

  On the road, I manoeuvred the tightly curved bends and sped along haplessly to an unknown destination. For right now I had no clear idea where I would stop over the night. All I knew was that I needed a few large scotches to medicate my mind and make sense of the madness. At least I had the £50,000 in the holdall. Oddly, it was the only thing I had to prove Ahmed existed, apart from the photos back home. What is life, if not but a magician’s trick?

  At last I was onto a main road, passing other cars like ghosts in the night. Signposts held no meaning for me as unfamiliar names pointed out places that could have led anywhere to a great beyond. After about 20 miles, I noticed I was biting my lips as I drove along. My hands gripped the steering wheel as if I needed to assure myself that this was a real happening. A look in the mirror brought a reaction from my stomach. I felt like spewing up again. There was some congealed splattering of Ahmed’s blood on my face. In my hair were other deposits, some of it was flesh. Christ! I had to clean myself up. In desperation, I stopped the car at the side of the road and used my emergency water bottle to pour over my head and rub away the remains of blood. I checked in the mirror until it was all gone.

  Back on the road, I headed for a pub off licence and bought a large bottle of malt scotch whiskey. Then I drove to find a quiet spot off the beaten track and nursed my way through the night. I felt a little more composed by the time I had demolished nearly three quarters of it. Sometime later, I must have blacked out. The next thing I heard was a bird chirping from a tree in a country lane. Night had passed into the morning. It was 8am. I missed my mouse alarm’s laugh. It was time to get my act together and return home.

  It was a brisk morning. The need to stretch my legs and water the grass was priority. My neck ached. The wind whistled about my ears while I relieved myself, it was cold standing there in the middle of nowhere.

  My mind began to awaken as the horrors of the night before returned to me. It seemed so unreal. Yet, I knew it was not a dream. All that remained of Ahmed were his embers. I looked for reassurance at the holdall in the car and examined the contents. They were real enough. The bundles of £50 notes were neatly stacked together. The
deal had been done and the £100,000 had been paid in full. Now I had an uneasy feeling that the real problems were just about to start. I knew that Ahmed’s paymasters would be looking for me to account for his demise. And the money? What did they get for that? Only a dead body!

  My head was in a mess. I knew that MI5 had got me by the balls. They would get in touch with me again for sure. It would be only a matter of time before Ahmed’s accomplices made a move too. Right now, all I wanted to do was to get away from this desolate place. Back in the car, I fired the engine and let it run for a few minutes as I threw out the empty scotch bottle. My mouth felt like I had been chewing cardboard.

  I manoeuvred the car out of the narrow track and back on to the road. I made a guess to drive away from the direction I had come from yesterday evening. It was a long winding singular road and seemed to go on forever. At last the civilisation of a farm and a field of sheep indicated a main road was somewhere nearby. Further on, some cows grazed peacefully unperturbed as a farm worker drove a tractor alongside them. A few crows fluttered over the tree tops as a bleak watery sun bore promise of a better day.

  At last I came to an intersection. A signpost for the M4 motorway pointed to the route I was looking for as I swung the car into the turn and put my foot down. There were few cars to be seen as I booted along eating up the miles. The further I drove, the more settled I became with a growing distance behind me. A car passed, then a convoy of Lorries ahead, obviously heading for the motorway. My turn came to join them. With a sense of relief I followed the build up onto the M4. Then like a bat out of hell, I went into overdrive and became just another car heading for London.

  I felt rotten, dirty and in need of a good shower. I could still smell the cordite upon my clothes. There was a deep need to scrape myself clean, to almost peel off my skin and exonerate myself from all blame. I badly wanted to get home but not dared to push up the speed in case I was stopped. What explanation would I have for the £50,000 if the car was searched? Would I pass the breath test? I knew it was still over the top, even if I felt sober enough to drive.

  Almost in trance, I continued to drive, past caring of the distance behind me.

  Some three hours had passed; I was over half way there. To break the monotony I tuned in to Jazz FM. It was therapeutic. Another hour later, some more miles were behind me, then more and more, until finally, after six hours I had arrived.

  A great urgency to get home occupied my mind. Through the maze of Earls Court area, I needled my way towards the Thames embankment and over the Battersea Bridge. Now I was in familiar territory, a stone throw from the dog’s home. Slowly I drove through Prince of Wales drive and past the dog’s home. A thought for the dogs in the Research Lab crossed my mind. And all the planning that had gone into the business with Doc, the locksmith, came back too.

  The traffic was no problem as I drove through Vauxhall and into Elephant & Castle, then up the Old Kent Road. It was a ten minutes journey to Brunswick Place from there. I was glad to see my house again. A few minutes later, I had the car parked and with a firm grip on the holdall I let myself in the front door.

  The scotch bottle and I shared a large one. The green answerphone’s light was blinking wearily, but I paused before hearing the messages. Nothing was more important than a good slug of the amber nectar and a shower. I felt it hit my stomach as a great spasm of relief unfolded within me.

  For half an hour I sat numbed and slightly disorientated trying to come to terms with recent events. A knot of hunger cramped my stomach. It dawned that I had not eaten for two days. I had been living on alcohol. No wonder I was like a bear with a sore head. The carriage clock chimed for 2.30pm. I had to make an effort and get my head together. Perhaps a shower, some food and self-kindness would help with some mellow music which would be good therapy.

  Having made up my mind, I made for the shower and did it all but scrubbed my skin with soap. I saw wildness in my eyes as I looked in the mirror. The clothes I had worn went into a black bag for burning, and then I brushed my teeth until they hurt. Now I was cleaner than clean and only felt right after I had put on some fresh clothes.

  It was almost four o’clock by the time I was satisfied that every morsel of grime, grit and blood was washed and combed out of my hair. The smell of body deodorant reawakened my senses a little and repatriated my appetite. I decided that an evening walk to the Indian Tandoori would rehabilitate my normality.

  My attention focussed on the answerphone. The flicking green light reminded me to collect the messages. There were two. One was from Sharon asking me to phone her. God! It was some weeks since I last had dinner with her. I would have to get in touch soon. The second one was a brisk hello followed by an audible breathing and silence. Whoever it was, preferred to speak to me in person. So I could expect the caller to try again sometime. I knew if it was MI5 they would have left a message.

  In a mellow but determined mood I set off for the Tandoori. I needed a walk and some air, even though it was different from the coast. I needed to feel the March winds breeze on my face. It would help sharpen my appetite for a much needed meal. The carriage clock was just chiming six bells as I left.

  It was a crisp evening as I strolled along towards the restaurant. Two cats, with curious eyes, stared at me as they sat on top of a car. I glanced towards mine, still somehow feeling uncertain about its security. There was no purpose in MI5 putting any more bugs in it and just how long this saga would go on was anyone’s guess. I rathered it was someone else than me, but I couldn’t change the way things were.

  The curry house seemed a warm inviting retreat as I arrived inside. A pint of Foster’s lager magically appeared at the table anticipating my order. The waiter gave me his familiar welcome smile as I selected my favourite dishes of Lamb Madras curry with Palau rice and mushroom bhaji. Some Indian music in the background crackled like well-worn shoes as other customers ate obliviously enjoying the delights of Indian Cuisine.

  The corner niche where I sat by the window gave me the advantage of seeing who was around me. In the subdued lighting it was easy to hide my fears that other people were in control of my feelings. I was eating more from need than enjoyment. As always, I finished with two Irish coffees and left my customary tip. It was the expected routine they were used to with me, but my thoughts were elsewhere as I left to walk myself home.

  Outside as I passed the newspaper shop, my feet nearly tripped over each other. The headline on a paper board for the Evening Standard screamed out the latest news: MAN BLOWN UP ON DESOLATE BEACH BY W.W.2 BOMB. My mind went blank for a moment. Did they want the public to believe it was an old WW2 bomb? What the hell was this? Automatically, I went to the shop and bought a copy of the paper. A photograph of the exact spot where the explosion took place stared back at me. Scattered pieces of burnt clothing littered the sand with patches of Ahmed’s charred remains. The article said, the man was having a picnic when he got up to chase a seagull and stood on the mine. The find was discovered by a man walking his dog.

  It all came back vividly to me as I read through the story. I could smell the cordite and unconsciously put my hand up to my face to wipe away his blood. It all seemed so unreal. Here I was walking along the high street and I was the very man who witnessed it all and delivered the bomb, courtesy of MI5/6.

  I stepped into a brisk pace wanting to get off the street and reach home. A chill in the evening air stung my cheeks as the memories of yesterday were as fresh as if it all had happened a few minutes ago.

  It was like walking in a trance, but somehow I arrived home and poured me a large scotch. Now I could read through the gory details in full. The local Cornwall Police were keeping quiet. But the reporter said ‘Mr Ahmed was the second person to have lost his life from unexploded bombs.’ The write up then went on to give an account of the location being a favourite spot for walking and picnics. A brief summary of a previous accidental death by a W.W.2 unexploded land mine followed. Then a call for an enquiry ended the article. What a load
of bollocks, I thought. This is just a bloody cover up. I would ask the Intelligence mob just what was going on. The story was too precise to be just guesswork. No doubt it was designed forpublic consumption.

  Just then the telephone rang. ‘Hello?’ I answered.

  ‘Is that Jack?’ The voice asked. It sounded cultivated with muted Arabic tones. Without thinking I answered. ‘Yes speaking.’ The voice went on. ‘Have you read the papers? My brother is dead. Have you got an explanation for me?’ A pause of silence followed. I knew it was one of Ahmed’s friends, but who? I must not sound flustered, I told myself. Obviously they knew I was the last person Ahmed had set off to meet. I thought quickly. ‘Can I ring you back? I have company.’ There was a brief silence. The voice answered, ‘Leave details for a meeting on the answerphone number you have. I expect to hear from you within 24 hours.

  The conversation ended. On replacing the phone I told myself to relax and take it easy. It was easier said than done. After all, I only had to account for £100,000 and a dead body! Who the fuck was I kidding? Take it easy? I poured myself another drink and flopped into an armchair.

  There was no longer a beginning or an end to the tangled mess I was in and all of this from a simple ‘steal to order’ job. I sipped at the scotch contemplating my situation. I needed to empty my head for a while and switch off. The stack of blank pages by my typewriter gave me an idea. Perhaps I should empty myself into the novel I was writing. It would help settle my thoughts and catch up with the thread of the story. Besides, the publishers were waiting to hear from me by the end of the month. With all the anger I felt inside I could let it pour out on the pages.