In the Evil Day

81

…WALES…

When the old Morris Countryman was out of sight, Niemand reversed the Audi out and parked it in plain sight. He had to assume that there was time, that they were not already there, watching the farmhouse, waiting for dark.

He went back into the barn and took a reel of nylon fishing line off its peg under the rods. He closed the barn doors and went inside the house, put on his own clothes. There was a dark-blue jersey in the dressing table drawer and he put that on. He went to the fireplace and reached in for soot, rubbed it on his face, his throat, his neck, his ears, on his eyelids, into his hair.

He left his hands clean. That would be the last thing.

The gun cupboard Jess had shown him was in the smallest bedroom. He unlocked it and took out the shotgun, a double-barrelled Brno, and the old.303, a Lee Enfield bolt-action with a ten-round magazine. It would have been better to have the machine-pistol he had taken from the man on the roof but Jess needed a weapon in case they were lying in wait along the narrow road. There was an unopened box of shotgun cartridges and five clips of.303 rounds. He filled the magazine, pressing in the cold brass-jacketed shells with a thumb. The other clips he put in his jacket pockets.

The sitting-room furniture had to be rearranged, curtains drawn.

After that, he rubbed soap on the barrel of the.303. He found the small sewing-machine screwdriver in the kitchen drawer. He sat at the kitchen table and worked on the shotgun, testing until both triggers were as he wanted them to be.

The light was going fast. He pumped a lamp and lit it, took it into the sitting room, tried several resting places for it until the shadows were right. Then he did the delicate work, not hurrying.

It was dark when he finished. He went to the bedroom and put on the bulletproof apron, adjusted it until it was comfortable. Second-last thing: pocket the packet of nuts and raisins Jess had bought.

Last thing: he went to the fireplace again and blackened his hands, blackened his wrists and forearms. He rubbed soot into the soap on the.303 barrel

Then he put on the black rolled-up balaclava, took the old.303 and went out the back door.

He went around the barn and up the cold slope into the dark, dark conifer wood. At the place he had chosen earlier, he sat, leant against the tree, listened to the sounds of the night.

It was a pity it had to end here, like this. But you couldn’t keep running away. He thought fleetingly about running away from the boys’ home to the railway yards, about the blood, dried black and crusted, that was still on his filthy legs and buttocks and back when the police took him home.

No more running. He had told Jess to wait until morning, then take the film and Shawn’s documents to a television station. He should have done that after he was shot.

No point in regret.

He tried not to think about Jess, not to think about anything but to go into the empty trance of waiting and listening.