Author: maleghast (Page 12 of 35)

The table was littered with half empty wine bottles, and the air above the table was hazy with curls of cigar smoke. Hector was starting to despair of Paulo and David, who were apparently unable to come to any kind of conclusion to their conversation. Neither of them were exactly wrong, but neither of them were exactly right either.

Hector could see that they were both operating from a place of emotional investment; they were no longer listening to the caveats of each other’s discourse, but simply hammering away at each other’s position as if it had gone to a place where each of them needed to win more than they needed to hear each other.

He contemplated stepping in, reminding them that despite everything they were friends, that neither of them had started out wanting to hurt or attack the other; they had just wanted to have a conversation. He realised, of course, that if he did he would sound preachy at best and patronising at worst and then both of them would resent his interference to some degree or another.

As the cloud burned off Paul was left with a spectacular, if typical, Alpine vista before him. Even though he would not be taking to the slopes, due to work commitments, there was an undefinable joy in his heart to know that somehow he was actually living the dream that had begun two years before.

It had all started on a cold February evening in Stourbridge in a pub called The Bag of Spanners. As he cast his mind back he remembered that it was a conversation with Daryl about how much he was missing the Alps, despite having only returned three days before, when Daryl made one of his characteristic observations;

“Why the fuck are you not making plans to go and live there you plonker?”

That had really been all of the spur that he needed, and now he was indeed there, and there was no doubt that it had been the right decision. Daryl had, of course, been the most suprised of all. When Paul told him that he had found a job in Les Menuires, Daryl’s entirely appropriate response had been:

“I didn’t mean it yer twat!”

The dew on the bracken was, while attractive, leaving Gethin’s leggings damper than he would like. He had left the others sleeping and headed out to find breakfast, while the wood was still asleep. He had already found enough mushrooms, now he was looking for a small boar if he could find one. He was pretty certain that he was not going to scramble about in the morning half-light to make breakfast every day, but some of the young ones on this trip were still getting used to the idea that they had only walked about one twentieth of the trek to the white tower, and they had over a fortnight more of sleeping on the cold, hard floor.

About twenty yards off he saw the ferns moving in such a way as to suggest a small woodland animal, and he hoped earnestly that his searching was over; he did not want to leave the young ones for too long. He crouched down and waited, listening. The telltale snuffling confirmed his hopes. He nocked an arrow, drew the string back into the valley and waited to see enough snout to loose.

“Why is it that you always want to meet somewhere for a hotdog? I mean, normal people meet for a drink, or maybe a coffee. What’s with the hotdogs?”

Yuri cracked a smile;

“You see it’s like this, my friend. All of my childhood I saw American movies on pirate video tapes; the whole of the party was doing it, so my father was no different, and I always saw that among the many things that really meant America, the hotdog was one of them. When I finally was posted here with the diplomatic corps the first thing I did was go out and get a ‘dog with sauerkraut, mustard and relish and I discovered that I was right; they are fantastic!”

Ted laughed;

“Sell it somewhere else Yuri, I’m not buying that ‘I always loved America’ crap. You were a loyal soldier back then. Anyway, if you’re not going to tell me the real reason about the hotdogs then at least tell me why I’m out here in the freezing cold at eight in the morning, when I could be enjoying coffee and a danish at my desk.”

“Sure. You remember Kiev in eighty-seven, Ted?”

The snow felt cold under his head as his consciousness came swimming back. He felt around the back to see if there was any blood, but found no unwanted stickiness back there and breathed a sigh of relief. He opened his eyes more and slowly he could make out the tops of the tall spire-like trees that were everywhere around the resort, blowing gently in the breeze.

He mentally checked all of his other limbs, starting with fingers and toes and then working his way back up to his own trunk, but he could find nothing untoward. He sat up, half expecting the world to swim out of focus and his head to spin, but all was well. It was still light and he could even tell where he was, although he was not sure how he had come to be there on his back in the snow.

Tentatively he eased himself up onto his knees and then his feet; his balance was good and he felt surprisingly steady. He reached into his jacket pockets and came out holding two surprises. One was a matchbook from Dee Dee’s in town, and the other, a small revolver.

The night was warm, close even; the humidity had left him covered in a sheen of sweat, even though he was clothed only in a pair of boxer shorts. The gun was heavy in his hand now, where before he had felt almost as though it was holding itself up, or at least that it had given him strength. He looked down at it hanging by his side; just to look at it there seemed to be nothing different about it. There was no curling smoke coming from the muzzle, nor was the slide locked out as one often saw guns in the movies.

He turned slowly and looked down at the bodies behind him, one of them was still alive, but the neck wound had left them with nothing to do but to silently open and close their mouth, like a fish gasping to breathe in air.

He lifted the muzzle of the gun and cradled it in his other hand, then looked deep into the eyes of his gasping victim;

“You want me to end it?”

The look of terror on their bloodied face intensified, and they started to shake their head violently.

“I should leave you alive?”

Nodding.

“No.”

When people say that everything slows down just as you have an accident I am often left with a certain level of disbelief. My experience is one of everything speeding up as circumstances accelerate away, and all that is left is to sit back and watch as body and soul fall on the mercy of fate.

That was what happened the day I skied for the last time. I was not doing anything particularly dangerous or difficult, particularly considering my experience, skill and level of fitness. I was descending, off-piste, between the Platières lift and the run coming down from Mont Vallon, knee deep in fresh powder and running on instinct. I had skied this section of the mountain many, many times, and usually in the same conditions – clear skies the day after a snowfall. I had no reason to be afraid for my safety, and then it happened. I would be able to piece it together later on, but at the time there was just a piercing pain in my knee, a wrenching and then I was neck deep in powder, on my back, looking up.

“What do you mean, you think that the answer is Carly Simon?”

Jacob hesitated, unsure whether or not Gavin was taking the piss or not.

“Well, Gav, the question is ‘Which recording artist who has recorded a Bond Theme has also had a romantic affair with Warren Beatty?”, and the only one I can think of is Carly Simon, unless you think that Beatty has been shagging Shirley Bassey!”

Gavin smiled;

“Ok, yeah, you’re right. I just love winding you up on Bond questions.”

Jacob smiled and yet inwardly he was asking himself the same question that he asked every week; ‘Why am I doing this?’

The quiz master announced the next question;

“Which actor played Captain John Sheridan on the TV Sci-Fi show Babylon 5?”

Jacob knew the answer well enough; anyone who had even watched the show whilst awake would know that it was Bruce Boxleitner. Still he wanted to see how badly the team needed him, for all their sport and history knowledge, none of them could touch him anywhere in entertainment. None of them even looked up; they needed him.

“So, we are agreed? Twenty-eight hundred per kilo and any load over five hundred kilos will carry a ten thousand bonus.”

Piers nodded; it was not the best deal he’d ever made, but there was not a lot of choice. DeVere was pushing for his money, and much as Piers hated bailing his brother out he knew what DeVere would do to Mark if his debts were not covered. They were going to be having a conversation and more to the point, Mark would be doing his part on this deal.

They shook on it and then he was out in the cold air, suddenly filled with apprehension; Santos had negotiated the price down, but not as much as he had expected. He reasoned that all he had to do was make sure the crew were ready for the potential double cross and then get on with the job in hand.

He lit up a cigarette, nodded to the guy watching the door and then headed across the street to where he’d left his car. As he stepped into the darkened alley, just out of sight from Santos’ place, he saw a cigarette lighter flash into life;

“Hello Piers.”

“What do you mean, you’ve decided that you want to learn to paraglide?”

David just smiled and nodded, employing his stock, enigmatic refusal to actually answer the question. Then after a pause he stood and cleared the plates.

Jennie had started to get used to David’s madcap ideas and fads; well fads was a little unfair as he generally did follow through with his ideas, but still. He was clearly not going to enter into a dialogue about it then and there, and yet unlike his desire to learn a computer programming language when they first met, or the French lessons that came shortly after they moved in together, learning to paraglide added a real dimension of risk to his hobby life. She tried not to see his cavalier attitude as selfish, but she could not help but be hurt by the fact that he did not want to even discuss this with her. He seemed to pay little or no heed to the fact that she would worry about him. What if he killed himself chasing the dream of unpowered flight?

“I need us to talk about this, David.”