In the Evil Day

84

…WALES…

The farm gate was open and they drove up the steep drive and turned left, stopped in front of the low stone farmhouse. In the lights, they could see the front door-open, not fully open, ajar.

‘Well,’ said Caroline. ‘It’s the place. Here’s hoping.’

‘Yes. There’s a light on.’ They sat for a moment.

‘Cold to have the front door open,’ said Anselm.

‘Yes.’ She shivered. Her clothes made a sound, her chin against the fabric of her coat.

‘Well,’ he said. ‘Since we’re here.’

He got out. Black night, cold wind whining in trees somewhere nearby. They were high here, clean air, it felt like the Balkans.

He went to the front door, reached across the threshold, held the doorknob and knocked.

Nothing. Not a sound.

‘Mr Niemand,’ he said loudly.

Nothing.

‘Jessica.’ Louder.

Nothing. Just the wind, the keening wind.

He felt the hair on his neck. He looked around. He could see Caroline in the car, her outline. His chest hurt.

She saw him looking at her and got out, came across the gravel, a tall woman, not unhandsome.

He tried again.

‘Mr Niemand. Constantine.’

Nothing.

He pushed open the door and went in. A small hallway, coats and hats. The light was coming from a door to the left.

A smell of something. No quite of burning, something more acrid. He looked around. Caroline was biting her lower lip.

‘I don’t know about this,’ she said quietly.

Anselm thought he would like to turn and leave, drive down the hill, along the winding road, through the cluster of buildings, get back to the highway.

Too late for that. It occurred to him that he had no panic symptoms. He was uneasy, he was close to fearful, but he was not showing the symptoms.

Caused by fear and violence, cured by the same.

Hair of the dog.

He went through the door, saw the legs first.

A figure in black, absolutely dull black, no head. No, a hood on his head, face down, his black hands around a black weapon, a machine-pistol. In the middle of the room, a shotgun tied to a chair was pointing at him. Anselm was too shocked to move.

Caroline made a noise, a deep, sobbing intake of breath.

On the other side of the room lay another figure in dark clothing, a man lying on his side, blood run from him over the stone floor to the edge of the carpet, soaked up by the carpet, blotted, blackish blood.

The man made a sound like a hiccup. Again.

Anselm did not think, he went to the man, pulled his poloneck down, put an index finger against his throat, in the collarbone cavity. The faintest pulse.

‘He’s alive,’ he said. ‘We’d better do something.’

For want of anything better to do, he took off the man’s rolled up balaclava.

‘It’s him,’ said Caroline in a voice without timbre. ‘It’s Mackie. Niemand.’

‘And a terrible fucking nuisance the man is too,’ said O’Malley from the doorway.