Impact Page 3

I finished my breakfast before the couple and headed outside. Clouds hung low in the sky. Rain was on its way. I searched the streets for what I wanted. A newsagents. I scanned the newspaper headlines, finding nothing relating to trains or cars or suicidal women. Nothing to do with me either. I didn’t buy one. A story like the one the couple had suggested would surely be frontline, and I had to be smart with the rest of my funds.

  As I turned back out into the street, I saw them. Mournful faces. A group of four women turned down a street to my right, each holding onto the others for support. They weren’t dressed in black. Not dressed for a funeral, but from the looks on their faces, they were bereft.

  I followed at a distance. The group didn’t walk fast. Their movement had a vacancy to it that came from immediate bereavement, like each step took them further into the terrifying unknown. I had felt that myself. I knew the price it paid.

  A couple of stragglers joined the group, offering little in the way of content as they drifted into the mournful parade. And as the group turned a corner, I saw their destination.

  Bouquets of flowers lined the low iron fence of a quiet semi-detached bungalow. The house looked out of place amongst its neighbours. Even from afar, I could tell the cream painted walls were beginning to crack. As too were the windows, the frames of which had bulged and warped from years of neglect. An overgrown garden only furthered the look of neglect which, in a calm, quaint neighbourhood made the property look like a malignant growth fixing to mess up the equilibrium.

  A crowd of people stood around the mural, arms interlinked for moral support. The group I had followed joined the mass, bringing their number up to thirty, and as they came to a stop, it was as though the sorrow finally caught up to them.

  A woman at the front of the crowd dropped to her knees and wept. Her coat, the colour of French roses spooled out around her knees like spilled paint. Those closest crowded around, desperate to instil their love. But there was nothing that would redeem her. A heart cannot be unbroken.

  From the back of the group, two young men broke away. Puffy, red eyes glanced over at the distraught woman on her knees before they strode side by side towards me. The shorter of the two glanced up at me. He looked defeated. Eyes sunken as though held down by ghosts.

  ‘What happened?’ I asked in French as he drew closer.

  The pair slowed, unsure as to what could be said. Their minds were fractured by a terrible upheaval.

  ‘Amie,’ said the shorter guy. His voice was distant and crackled like radio static. ‘She… she…’

  ‘Took her own life last night,’ finished the taller man. He looked like he was coping better. His eyes weren’t as red. ‘Up by the…’ he paused to regain his composure, ‘the tracks. Pulled her car onto the line and… and…’

  He shook his head. Couldn’t finish the sentence. Didn’t have the strength.

  ‘I’m sorry for your loss,’ I said softly. Both men nodded in appreciation.

  ‘Poor Marie,’ said the shorter man, glancing back to the woman on the floor. ‘After everything she has been through. This is too much…’

  But that was all he could manage. With fresh tears cascading down his face, he hustled away, his friend a step behind him. I watched them go, then looked back to the woman on the floor. Mourning Amie. Mourning an unsaved soul.

  And all I could think about was the American.

  Five

  Surely it couldn’t be a coincidence. Three suspicious men walking through the woods at night in the close vicinity of a suicide. Life wasn’t that random. I recalled the way they walked. The two French men hanging back, chatting and laughing like the world was their playground. The older, sullen American, plagued by something. Murder, perhaps? That was a heavy toll to burden. I remembered how he spoke, how he demanded silence from his companions, how he warned them of being caught.

  But who were they, and why had they gone to the effort of making it look like suicide by train? Were they even involved, or was my mind playing tricks? It wouldn’t be the first time I joined dots that didn’t exist. But this felt too connected. Too definite to be happenstance.

  I looked at the woman on the ground. Her friends had gathered around her. Marie. Mourning Amie. What was their connection? Sisters? Cousins? Best friends? Lovers? Whatever it was, Marie was living a nightmare brought about by a speeding train and a misguided belief. She had to know.

  But it wasn’t my place to jump in there and blurt it out. “Hey random stranger, I think your sister/cousin/friend/lover was murdered by three men. I don’t have proof, but good luck finding them.” No, that would be torturous, living a life with unprovable doubt plaguing the mind. She would go insane.

  I had to do something.

  I turned around and followed the two grieving men back up the street. I didn’t know which way I was going, but I had a destination in mind. I had something no one else had. I had a lead, and while I may have burned the evidence, it didn’t stop me from getting what I needed.

  Someone might laugh and say it was all coincidence, that poor Amie drove herself up to the train tracks and got hit by a train just as a group of shady guys wandered through the dark forest nearby, who just so happened to have parked at the exact spot someone else had thrown out their fast-food wrappers. Conceivable, maybe. But I didn’t believe it wasn’t connected. After all, I’d jumped off that train mere moments before it had hit that woman. I was connected too.

  I formed a plan in my head. A simple to do list. First, I needed a library.

  I found what I needed around the same time I learned the name of the town I was wandering around. Prisches. And the Prisches Réseau de lecture publique sat opposite la pharmacie and a row of terraced houses. It was a fancy building. Modern architecture had decided that the exterior of the ground floor consisted mostly of red brick and large windows, while the first floor adopted neat wooden panels and thin windowed slits. It looked nice enough. The vibe was welcoming. Through the large ground-floor windows, I could see rows of computer terminals up against the glass. Just what I needed.

  I popped inside and waved politely to the woman at the counter and sat down behind the computer at the far side of the library. The place had a steady trickle of people coming in and out. No one paid the guy in the corner any mind. Perfect conditions for me. I navigated the desktop, found the web browser, and skipped over to my friendly neighbourhood search engine. Then I typed my own name into the search bar and hit enter.

  The page loaded with a dozen articles about yours truly. I skimmed the brief synopsis of each. The first was the online version of the article I’d spotted on sandwich lady’s newspaper, stating that I had been seen at a dreadful nightclub in Bruges. It had nothing to offer regarding what I did immediately thereafter, which suited me fine. The second article down was from an English website that I stopped looking at after I noticed the phrase Armistice Day Terrorist. It sickened me beyond belief to know they had pinned the blame on me. No matter what happened, that would be my legacy. I couldn’t read on.

  I moved the mouse over to the images tab and clicked on that. A second later, a series of still images of me from different times and locations filled the screen. Most were paparazzi shots, taken during the interluding months between my return and my life falling apart. I could remember a few of them, but some were a complete surprise. The people taking the shots could have been ninjas in a former life, such was their finesse in illusiveness.

  I scrolled down, stopping only briefly to admire one particular photograph. A shot from my wedding day which had - like so many other private aspects of my life - found its way online. Before Peter was born, or I went to Afghanistan. Before any of this mayhem started. A simpler time. A time I would kill to return to. I stared longingly into Sophie’s eyes, wishing to see them in person.

  I broke away before the pain grew too real and continued my search. I found what I needed soon enough. The picture was a portrait photograph, taken weeks before I shipped off to Afghanistan. It had been used on the report
ers badge issued to me by my former employers. It had served a purpose back then, and it would serve one now. If I knew then what it would come to be used for, I wouldn’t believe it.

  The next bit was a little trickier. Searching through the computer’s menus, I located a word document, and pasted the picture of myself onto the page. I cropped the image down so it was small enough for what I needed and returned to the search engines.

  Finding the proper logos took a little longer. I needed images that weren’t blurred or distorted in any way, which ruled out nine tenths of those I spotted. When I had what I needed, I returned to the word document and pasted them in, then typed the rest out manually. The finished product was pretty convincing. I was impressed. I hit the print button and got up to wait beside the community printer while my document evolved from digital to physical. I checked it over and made sure there weren’t any mistakes, then I deleted all evidence of my work from the computer, and tucked the document into my pocket.

  One part down, one to go.

  I didn’t want to spend too long searching for what I needed. Any guy would do. I scanned the library and found a subject that would do the trick perfectly. He had got up from his seat, leaving a rather large hardback book upturned on the table in front of him, and was heading for the bathroom.

  I waited a beat and followed him inside. The bathroom smelt of disinfectant and piss. The latter overriding the former just through sheer force of will. The guy I’d followed was at the urinals, whistling quietly to himself as he did what needed to be done. I walked over to the sink and pretended to check my face while he finished off. Then I turned and headed for the urinals like I hadn’t realised he was in there.

  I bumped into him with enough force that he didn’t realise what I was doing and uttered a loud apology as my hand slipped in and out of his trouser pocket. I’d practiced picking pockets enough as a teenager to know how to do it properly, and as I slid the wallet into my back pocket, the guy looked none the wiser. I made a last minute correction and lumbered into one of the cubicles before he reached the sink and locked the door behind me.

  I sat on the toilet and waited until he left before I checked out my prize. I didn’t like robbing from a stranger, but needs must, and if the guy was going to get robbed by someone, it was better for him that it was me doing the dirty deed. I didn’t want money, after all.

  I flicked open the wallet and checked the contents. Two bank cards and a photo ID took up the bulk of his wallet, with seventy euros in notes. It hurt me to leave it, but not as much to take it. I rolled the cards up in the money and put them in my back pocket, then took out my printed forgery back out.

  I’d seen my fair share of police identification over the past year. Every time a copper came to barrage me with further questions, they came at the end of an extended hand with a smart ID card tucked in a leather case. I’d seen more than I could count, and not once had I paid any real attention to them.

  Hopefully, no one else did.

  Detective Inspector James Callahan, at your service. I was impressed with my work. Not every day you get the chance to mock up a fake police ID on a computer, so my first attempt had come out well. I stuck with my first name because, quite frankly, I didn’t need the added problem of forgetting my pseudonym mid conversation. I chose the surname Callahan from an old school teacher. Oh if he could see me now…

  I tucked the forgery into the wallet with my handiwork facing out through the clear sleeve. I was impressed. I sure as hell would have fallen for it. And in a foreign country, I would be amazed if anyone could tell the difference. I closed the wallet and put it back in my pocket and left the bathroom. Before I left, I headed over to a small stationary counter by the reception and bought an envelope. Then I jotted down the guy’s address from his photo ID and put the contents of his wallet inside. The library had its own postbox tucked into the wall beside the front door. I posted the envelope and looked back at the guy. He was deep into his book. He didn’t have a clue.

  Six

  The first pitter patter of rain painted the streets a somber shade of grey. Drops as big as gumballs soaked my clothes. Even as I picked up the pace in search of the fast-food restaurant, I could feel the heat being sapped away.

  I had no idea how big the town was. From up on the higher streets, it looked to be fairly substantial. The fast-food place could be anywhere. It might not even be in the town, but on one of the roads out, maybe by the motorway where it could cast a wider net for all those hungry fish speeding by. Walking around without any idea wouldn’t do me any favours.

  I found a small charity shop and popped inside. Charity shops were always a good bet for a quick change of clothes and some friendly advice, and I got both. I netted a long navy anorak, and a dark red umbrella for less than ten euros, and got the location of the restaurant’s nearest branch from the woman at the counter. Back outside and better prepared for the weather, I put one foot in front of the next and followed the directions I’d been given.

  Half an hour later, I found the place at the corner of a street that contained a bank, school and funeral directors. The whole place felt like a metaphor for life. Eat your food, pay your bills, follow the rules, then die like a good little sheep.

  Inside, Billie Jean played over the speakers, making my rather soggy entrance way cooler than it had any right to be. The guy at the counter wore a uniform a stretch too big for him and looked at me like he’d rather be out swimming with hungry crocodiles than serving customers for a living. He welcomed me to the store with a tone behoving of the living dead and asked for my order.

  The fake police ID got his heart rate going.

  ‘Is the manager about?’ I asked. ‘This is a police matter.’

  He nodded like a lunatic, and hurried away, returning a minute later with a slightly overweight man who looked like he’d dipped his face in the chip frier to scavenge the stragglers.

  ‘Officer?’ he muttered inwardly. ‘How can I help?’

  I showed him the badge.

  ‘DI James Callahan,’ I said. ‘I’m from Scotland Yard, and I need to speak to you about a group of men who might have visited your store yesterday afternoon. Were you on duty?’

  I spoke in English. DI Callahan was the kind of guy who didn’t have time for language barriers.

  The manager shook his head, but pointed to the guy who’d tried to serve me. It was pretty clear the guy was trying to overhear our conversation.

  ‘Louis was, weren’t you?’

  Louis nodded. The manager waved him to rejoin our group.

  ‘Louis,’ I said, directing my attention to the employee. ‘My name is DI James Callahan, and I’m here from Scotland Yard regarding three men who you may have served yesterday.’

  The guy looked half there. Up close, he smelt faintly of weed. I gave him a description of the three guys and waited for the cobwebs to drift from his brain. Slowly, he nodded his head. The mop of hair on his head shook down over his face.

  ‘I think I remember,’ said Louis. ‘The older man took a seat over there,’ he pointed at the table in the corner currently taken by a group of teenage girls, ‘and the others ordered their food. They didn’t eat inside.’

  ‘What time was this?’ I asked.

  Louis shrugged.

  ‘My shift was two till seven,’ he said. ‘And it was somewhere in the middle I guess. It was dark outside.’

  ‘So closer to seven than two?’

  ‘I guess. I don’t remember.’

  I turned back to the manager. He was checking out the teenage girls.

  ‘Do you have CCTV outside?’ I asked him.

  ‘We’re supposed to, but they haven’t worked for weeks,’ he said. ‘We’ve got someone coming next week.’

  ‘And does that help me with my situation?’ I said, channeling my impatience like I had a case to solve.

  ‘Well, no,’ grunted the manager.

  I sighed and looked back to Louis.

  ‘Did you see what they did next
, once they’d bought their food?’

  Louis shrugged again. The brightest spark, he was not. Then something changed in his face.

  ‘They parked up outside then went that way,’ he said, pointing down the road. ‘Down past the school. I didn’t see where else after that.’

  ‘You’re sure about that?’ I probed.

  ‘Oh, definitely. They pulled out without looking and nearly hit a truck. I remember hearing the horn. I went to go see, you know, in case someone was hurt.’

  He said it like he’d hoped for a bloody crash. Maybe he needed the thrill to keep him going.

  ‘Right. Well, thank you for your time. You’ve both been enormously helpful.’

  I don’t think they got the sarcasm. The language gap didn’t help. But the manager took the hint and offered me a free meal for my troubles, which I took gladly. Eat when you can. That’s rule number one in the outlaw’s handbook.

  I chowed down on a rubbery cheeseburger and washed it down with a milkshake while I walked back outside. At least the rain had given up for a spell. I looked around the carpark and tried to imagine what the guy at the counter could have realistically seen. I turned around, looked inside and caught both Louis and the manager watching me cautiously. They turned away when they saw me looking.

  From behind the counter, Louis might have been able to see the make and model of the car they drove, but he hadn’t been looking. I bet even if an actual police officer went inside now, Louis wouldn’t be able to give them an accurate description of me. So his testimony might not be airtight. The time between the trio ordering their food and the near crash could have been completely separate. Maybe they were separate days.

  So the restaurant might have been a bust, but the school had higher standards to achieve. If they had a camera pointed out into the road, I could at least identify the type of vehicle the trio used.

  The school reminded me of a pancake. Flat and wide without any real shape to it. Whatever architectural reasons there were for developing such an underwhelming building for a place to mould the minds of future generations, I couldn’t discern them, but I could see more than one conveniently-placed camera protruding from the walls.