Red Station

THIRTY-SIX

Harry stepped into the shadow of the building and waited. He could see no obvious watchers at street level, and only one ancient Renault with a flat tyre thirty yards away. Even the local burglars weren’t that desperate.

He retraced his steps, circling the block to approach the building from the rear. It meant making his way along a narrow back-alley with no lights and littered with rubbish, but it was safer than going through the front door. When he reached the rear entrance leading to his block, he stood and surveyed the area for a few minutes, waiting to see if anyone showed themselves.

Nobody did. He walked up the back path and eased open the door into the rear corridor.

The air here was heavy with the smell of dust and damp, and the sharper tang of cat’s urine. The tinny sound of a radio seeped through the thin walls from the block next door. He closed the door softly behind him, wary of a lookout on the stairs.

He counted to thirty, then moved forward. Winced as his foot crunched on a piece of grit. He stopped, but nobody responded, then moved on, stepping carefully past a jumble of shadows which he knew from an earlier inspection was a collection of household goods abandoned by former tenants. Nothing useful as a weapon, though — not unless he decided to threaten the intruder with a broken tumble dryer.

He took the stairs two at a time, moving slowly. The muscles in his calves and thighs protested at the effort, and he pushed down with his hands on his knees to give himself a boost. His shoes encountered more grit, but it was too late to stop now. Thirty seconds later, he was outside the door to his flat. He turned his head to listen, placing his ear against the grainy wood.

He counted to twenty. Not a sound. The intruder had either bugged out already or was very good at keeping quiet.

He reached out and tested the door. It wasn’t locked. He nudged it further and it swung open to reveal a faint glow of a flashlight coming from the bathroom.

He stepped inside, flexing his hands. It had been too long since he’d engaged in any form of unarmed combat, and he hoped it didn’t come to that. Being knocked on his arse by a local crackhead looking for a quick score would be too humiliating. But something told him this was no crackhead. As he moved away from the door, his foot nudged something solid. It was too late to remember a small footstool-cum-table standing against one wall.

It made a hollow clunking noise.

The flashlight snapped off.

Harry hit the wall switch. Sod what the training manual told you about using the dark; whatever was heading his way, he preferred to see it coming.

A blur of movement was all the warning he got as a tall figure burst out of the bathroom. The man was solidly built, dressed in dark clothing and holding a black torch in one hand. He wore a black ski cap on his head.

There was no time for finesse. Harry lashed out instinctively, turning his body to deliver a kick to the side of the advancing man’s knee. His foot connected, drawing a grunt of pain from the intruder. But it wasn’t enough to stop him. The man’s momentum carried him forward, forcing Harry back. He threw up his arms to block the attack, but the man was too quick, slamming a fist into the side of his head. Harry felt the wall behind him and bunched his shoulders, launching a low, straight jab at the intruder’s mid-section. It drew a satisfying whoosh of expelled breath, but the man kept coming, using his elbows and fists to jab at Harry’s head in a series of rapid strikes and following up with a painful knee to the ribs.

Harry felt dizzy and breathless. The other man was younger, fitter and stronger, and if he kept this up, Harry would end the night in a hospital ward — or worse.

He slid sideways and felt his leg connecting with something which creaked and moved.

A basket of dried logs for the wood-burner.

Harry allowed himself to drop, scrambling for one of the logs. Each one was as thick as his arm and about a foot long. Grasping the first one he touched, he brought it up in a scything uppercut, smashing through the other man’s defence. Before his attacker could react, Harry gripped the log with his other hand and swung it wildly straight at the man’s head. There was a satisfying tingle as the wood connected and the man fell back, legs wobbling. Another swing and he crashed to the floor.

Harry dropped the makeshift weapon and leaned against the wall, trying not to throw up. The burst of exercise had taken more out of him than he’d thought. But there was no time to lose. Dragging the man into the bathroom, he went through to the kitchen and came back with a length of plastic-covered clothesline from one of the drawers. Tying the man’s wrists together, he lashed him to the ornate cast-iron sink-support and finished by knotting his ankles where no amount of struggling would allow him to reach them.

The man was snuffling, his nose partially blocked by blood, and a large bruise was already forming across his chin, weeping blood where the skin had been scraped off by the log’s rough bark. Harry wet a cloth and wiped the blood away from his nostrils. He didn’t much care about the man’s health, but having him choke to death before he could talk wasn’t going to be much help.

He went through the man’s pockets. Not surprisingly, he had no identification; no wallet, no papers, no scraps of information to reveal who he was. No clothing tags, either. That alone was unusual.

But he did have a mobile phone. Harry checked the directory. Three numbers in all. The man had called each of them, all within the past twelve hours, on or close to the hour.

Reporting in, thought Harry. With this one here making four, there were no prizes for guessing who they belonged to.

The other Clones.

He dropped the mobile in his pocket and slid to the floor, feeling the cold of the tiles seeping into his buttocks. He needed a rest. And he had time; after all, where was he going?

Eventually, the man stopped snuffling and stirred. His eyes flickered and rolled open, and he instantly shook his head and tried to stand. When he found that didn’t work, he groaned and tugged at his bonds, head lolling forward to see what was holding him.

Operating by instinct, thought Harry, observing the bunching of muscle in his shoulders. This bloke has been trained; he knows he has to get free, no matter what.

He leaned forward and slapped the man across the face. It wasn’t a brutal blow, but carried enough frustration and anger to rock his head back. His eyes opened and slowly focussed, finally settling on Harry with a start. He blinked twice and winced as pain began to register.

And at that moment, Harry saw something familiar in the man’s face.

He felt a jolt of surprise. How could he know him? He’d only caught a glimpse of the Clones out on the street — hardly ideal conditions. Yet the feeling was overwhelming. Maybe he’d been on the plane in. Or at the airport. No. Christ, it was further back than that.

Then it began to filter through. The man was in his late thirties, with strong hands and an athletic build. He had short-cropped hair and the remains of a tan, faded to a dirty hue on the forehead and cheeks. He had the hard look of someone accustomed to regular exercise, and knew how to fight; the use of elbows and knee had proved that. Street thugs don’t normally use their elbows.

Harry was well-acquainted with the kind of men who did.

‘We’ve met before,’ he said softly. The face was swimming up through a murky haze, from deep in his memory.

The man said nothing, struggling with his bonds.

‘Give it up,’ Harry told him. ‘I learned from a master mariner.’

‘Fuck you, bastard!’

The final piece of the puzzle fell into place. The oath was fluid, the accent familiar.

It came from somewhere in the Midlands.

The intruder was English.