It was not yet quite dawn, and Kejan lay in the darkness, as he had for the preceding five hours, his eyes staring, ears attuned to his wife’s light breathing. Three of their children slept in the room with them. Hama, the youngest, coughed and turned, made a slight moan before relaxing again. Kejan didn’t know if he’d ever relax again in his life, ever sleep again on this earth. Would the soldiers fulfil their promise and return to torch the shacks by the side of what had once been fields full of crops? Those fields had been Kejan’s future. Not that he’d owned them: the owner was a brutal man, a slave-driver. But Kejan had mouths to feed, and what other work was there? Now, with the fields reduced to cinders, he could only wait and wonder: would the soldiers drive the families away? Or would the Bossman chase them off his land, now that there was no work for them?
It was a matter of time. It was for the future.
He tried to envisage a future for his wife, his three children. He had more than once caught the Bossman staring at his wife, running his tongue over his bottom lip. And talking to her once, too, though she would not even admit it, kept her eyes on the ground as she denied and denied.
Kejan had slapped her then, the bruise a lasting smudge against her cheekbone. It didn’t seem to want to go away.
There were so many things Kejan didn’t understand.
The soldiers passed around lighted torches. Their commander, arguing with the Bossman. The Bossman saying that he always paid, that he always kept everyone sweet. The commander not listening, the Bossman persistent. Soldiers fingering their weapons, noting that the Bossman’s men were better armed with newer, gleaming automatics.
‘Orders,’ the commander kept saying. And: ‘Just let us get on with it for now.’
‘For now’: meaning things might be okay later, that this had some deeper meaning which the commander felt unable to share.
But later… later there would be other workers, willing workers. New people could always be found later. Now was what mattered to Kejan. He lived from moment to moment in this dark, overcrowded room. He waited for the moment he knew was coming, when the future would become the present and he would be consigned to the road with his family.
Or perhaps – please, no – without them. He had hit his wife. The Bossman had smiled at her. The Bossman would take her, and Kejan couldn’t be sure she wouldn’t go. Would she take his children? Would the Bossman want them? Would he treat them right?
His wife’s breathing, so shallow. The room a little lighter now, so he could see the outline of her neck, the way it was angled against the stem-filled sack she used as a pillow.
Slender neck. Brittle neck. Kejan touched it with the tips of his fingers, heard a child cough and pulled his fingers away like they’d been too close to a torch.
He sat up then, looked down on the dark, curved shape. Twisted his own body around so that it was easier to reach down with both hands.
And heard the sound of lorries on the rough track outside, coming closer.
An aggrieved Hell’s Angel sat in Franz’s study, and it was all Franz could do not to reach into his desk drawer for the pistol and blow the man’s brains all over the walls. Defilement: that was what it felt like. Engine oil and cigarette smoke had invaded his most private space, and even when the man had gone, those taints would remain.
The rest of the gang was outside. One on one: Franz had demanded it, and the leader had agreed. A dozen of them. They’d scaled the perimeter wall. A dozen of them armed, and Franz with only three guards on duty. But now more were on their way: calls had been made. And meantime the three guards faced off the leather-clad bandits, while their leader and Franz sat with only the antique rosewood desk between them.
‘Nice place,’ the Angel said. His name was Lars. Well over six feet tall, hair stretched back into a thin ponytail. Denim waistcoat – all-important ‘colours’ – worn over leather jacket. And his jackboots up on Franz’s desk.
He’d grinned when Franz had stopped short of telling him to take his feet off the desk. But Franz was biding his time, waiting for his other men to arrive, and wanting to rise above all this, to be the diplomat. So he’d offered Lars a drink, and Lars now rested a bottle of beer against his crotch, and looked relaxed.
‘You’re financing our rivals,’ the gang leader said, getting down to business.
‘In what way?’
‘We’re in a war, no room for neutrals. And you’re funding their side of things.’
‘I pay them to act as my couriers, that’s all. I’m not financing any conflict.’
‘But it’s your money they’re using when they buy guns and ammo.’
Franz shrugged. ‘And whose money are you using, my friend? Are your mortal enemies at this very moment confronting your employer?’ He smiled. ‘Do you see the absurdity of the situation? I’m not happy, because here you are invading my privacy, and I don’t suppose your employer will be feeling any different. I’m a businessman. I am neutraclass="underline" business always is. What you’re doing, right this second, is fucking with my business. My instinct naturally is to get out, which is what you want, yes?’
He had lost the biker, who nodded slowly.
‘Exactly. But what if the same thought is going through your employer’s mind? Where does that leave you? With no money, no prospects.’ Franz shook his head. ‘My friend, the best thing you can do for all our sakes is to begin discussions with your rivals, settle this thing, then we can all get back to what we want to be doing: making money.’
Franz reached into a drawer, held one hand up to let Lars know nothing tricky was coming. He produced a fat bundle of Deutschmarks and tossed it to the gang-leader.
‘See?’ he said. ‘Now I’m funding both of you. Does that make me neutral?’
Lars studied the notes, stuffed them into a zippered pocket.
‘Let me set up a meeting,’ Franz went on blandly, ‘get all sides together, anyone who has an interest. That’s the way business works.’
‘You’re full of bullshit,’ the biker said, but he was grinning.
‘Should your employer ever wish to dispense with your services,’ Franz continued, ‘you may wish to contact me.’ He wrote a number on a sheet of paper, ripped it from the pad. ‘This is my private line. Maybe next time you’re thinking of coming to see me, we could arrange an appointment?’
A nice big smile. Lars slid his feet from the corner of the desk. His heels had left marks on the woodwork. As he reached for the paper, Franz snatched it back.
‘One thing, my friend. Try something like this again without an appointment, and I’ll destroy you. Is that clear between us?’
Lars laughed and took the number, stuck it in the same pocket as the money.
Franz’s mobile phone rang. It was in the desk drawer, and he opened the drawer again, shrugging, telling Lars there was no rest for the wicked.
‘Hello?’
A hushed voice, one he knew. ‘We’ve got every one of those dirty fuckers in our sights.’
‘Fine,’ Franz said, making to replace the phone in its drawer, bringing out the pistol in its place. Lars was already reaching across the desk. He’d pulled a combat knife from one boot. Franz was leaning back to take aim when the gunfire started outside.
Caldwell was in the library. He’d locked the door, and when his wife had come knocking, saying the judge and his wife were thinking of leaving, he’d hissed at her to fuck off.
He sat in a burgundy leather chair, hands on his knees, while his visitor stood four feet away, the gun steady in his left hand.
‘My bodyguard?’ Caldwell asked.
‘Tied up outside. Let’s hope someone releases him before hypothermia sets in. It’s a bitter night. We wouldn’t want any unnecessary deaths.’
‘You’ve come from Franz?’
The man nodded. His accent was English. He had a heavy body, thick at the neck, and cropped hair. Ex-forces, Caldwell presumed.