 
Assorted Nuggets

A Collection of Short Stories

By Jon Swift

Copyright Jon Swift 2014

Smashwords Edition

License Notes

Thank you for downloading this ebook. Feel free to share it with anyone and everyone, but only for non-commercial purposes and providing it stays in its original form. If you enjoy this book, please return to your favourite ebook retailer to discover other works by this author. Thank you for your support.
Table of Contents

The Good Soldier

Even a Rose Has Thorns

The Birth

Stone

Could Be Luck

The Wise Vladimir

Arisen In the Fall

Give the Devil His Due

My Little Brown Friend

The Shroud of Darkness

What Happened to Dominic Preview

About the Author

Connect with Jon Swift
The Good Soldier

'Relax will you, for fuck's sake,' Matthew Moore told Colonel Adjid, as they sat across from each other in his penthouse apartment overlooking a pleasant suburb baked in bright sunlight.

'I can't,' he said, wiping sweat from his brow. 'What if someone sees through me?'

'They won't. Just be yourself. No one is dying. Its just intelligence gathering. Nothing but walking in so we can listen and find out what they're planning.'

'I'm just so sweaty.'

'You came to me with this,' Moore said, pointing an authoritative finger at Adjid's balding head. 'It's bigger than you. If innocent lives are at stake, then we need to verify it so we can do something, understand?' The Colonel nodded anxiously.

'It's just... if they find out... my family.'

'The only way they find out is if you tell them.' Adjid scratched his beard and wiped his forehead again. 'You're doing the right thing here Colonel,' Moore told him, his tone easier. 'A good soldier doesn't just to fight enemies; he protects the people he represents.'

'I know,' he said nodding, his face becoming determined. 'But who do you represent in this?'

'I fight for whoever needs me,' he said sternly.

'But you are a killer, yes? An assassin?'

'Yeah, but I kill in the knowledge that what I've done prevents further death.' Adjid looked over Moore. He was short, in a t-shirt and cargo shorts, sunglasses pushed up on to the top of his head, hair was wet and back into a ponytail. The Brit didn't look like much, but the Colonel knew looks could be deceiving. 'People should be free to do what the fuck they want without worrying about someone marching on them from over the horizon.'

'Liberty,' Adjid scoffed. 'It is an American concept.'

'It is, but I don't try to provide it because they say so,' Moore snapped. 'I've held them to account for it at times. No one gets out of jail free, you get me?' Adjid nodded, alarmed by Moore's sudden change. 'Good. Hold your tongue next time you want to say something stupid.'

'I apologize,' the Colonel said. 'I did not think it would take it so personally.' Moore's demeanour changed again and he leaned back in the armchair.

'So in meetings, do you sit or stand?'

'Sit.'

'Slouch or lean forward?'

'I rest my arms on the table.'

'Take notes?'

'Sometimes. If they're relevant or there are a lot of names to remember.'

'You sound like a proper little swot,' Moore sniggered. 'And that's good. With things like this, it's all about the details and getting them right. There's being yourself and portraying yourself.' Adjid looked confused. 'A colleague of mine had an asset similar to you who chewed gum all of the time, so the colleague made sure he had some and sent him on his way, but he paid no attention to the details. Essentially, it gave him away.'

'How?'

'The asset was so nervous, he tried too hard to be himself arousing suspicion. He also chewed harder and louder. It was noticed and eventually they saw the gum, which was a British brand, put two and two together and cut his head off.'

'Good to know,' Adjid muttered.

'We heard it all from the bug and learned from it. You don't have to do anything but go to a meeting, which you've done hundred of times before. You go, do your normal thing and leave. We'll get what we need and you'll never see me again. It's simple, easy. No one is telepathic. You won't have to lie. There'll be nothing to give you away. The device is in your medals, so there'll be no suspicion. You'll walk through the detector, it will go off like always, they'll pat you down, go over you with the wand and send you on your way. They'll scan the room to make sure there are no bugs or outgoing communications, which isn't a problem, why?'

'Because it won't activate until the General speaks.'

'Good. Just making sure you're paying attention. But it's easy, isn't it?'

'Simple yes, but not easy.'

'Ok easy for me,' Moore said, with a reassuring smile. 'You're going to be a hero, Colonel Adjid.'

'What happens after?'

'We'll interfere directly or bring in the military depending on how much time we have.'

'But not today?' Moore laughed.

'Do you see an SAS team or Commando unit? It's just me and I'm too smart to go in there alone when you're there.'

'I'm pleased to hear it.'

'It's important that we see this through and walking in with two pistols and no Kevlar won't get it done.'

'Agreed,' Adjid said. He seemed to relax more, pouring himself a coffee from the pot on the table. 'Why do you do this?'

'It's the right thing to do.'

'No, I mean all of it. Why do you do what you do?'

'We don't have the time for that conversation Colonel,' Moore said. 'If we cross paths again, I'll tell you over a beer or two, but you need to get that meeting now.' Adjid downed the rest of his coffee, adjusted his uniform in the mirror, picked up his briefcase and left.

It was a horribly dry outside, as though moisture had never existed. A breath felt like sand in the throat. Adjid got into the back seat of the waiting Mercedes, relieved by its air-conditioned interior.

'Are we on time?' he asked the driver in his native tongue.

'As always, sir.' The Colonel smiled and leaned back, cueing the driver to take him away it to the constantly heavy traffic. Everyone had somewhere to be. There were cab drivers and foreign diplomats all caught in the furore.

'Nothing to read today sir?' the driver asked.

'No,' Adjid said, cursing himself for the lack of attention to detail. He always had a file, report or newspaper to read on his way to headquarters. 'Nothing has been committed to paper for this.'

'Top secret?'

'Very super top secret stuff,' he said with a laugh. They weaved on in silence, eventually climbing on to the semi-clear expressway. The Colonel watched the traffic over his shoulder.

'Are we being followed sir?'

'Have you noticed one?' The driver shook his head. 'Good. Doesn't hurt to be too careful, does it?' Adjid was pleased. He had been looking for signs of Moore and was glad to see he was as good as his word.

'Not at all, sir. Will you be in the bunker today?' The Colonel grunted.

'I hate it down there. Its all secrets and politics in a coal oven. The General must enjoy sharing body odour while he discusses plans.'

'I'm glad I don't have to go down there.'

'Stay a driver if you can,' Adjid told him. 'There is no glory in warfare; only debts and regret.'

They pulled into the courtyard of Army HQ, showed their credentials and parked. After checking his driver had money to get himself breakfast, Colonel Adjid went inside and through the first checkpoint. He was greeted amiably while being stringently searched by man and machine. He worried a little when they started pointing at the x-rays of his briefcase. Had Moore snuck something into it?

'Forget your pen today?' they asked. Adjid smiled to conceal his relief and pulled it from his pocket. It was taken from him, dismantled, reassembled and returned before he was moved along. The halls of the building were quieter than ever. It was as if he had come in on a holiday weekend.. He made his way to the rear of the building, where his ID was checked before he took the long descent via stairs into the stifling bunker. Below ground was the second checkpoint. Adjid knew he would be looked at more closely here. He was marched through the metal detector in an unpleasant manner. These guards eyed everyone but the General with suspicion. They discussed a cavity search, but decided against it and sent him on his way with little regard for his rank. Heading into the meeting room, Adjid found he was one of the first to arrive. He sat at the table, took out his notepad and waited, making small talk with the other officers. The General came in next. It was like a solid shot to the stomach. Adjid felt ill but could do nothing but sweat. If he spoke...

'Morning men,' he boomed in greeting. That was it. The device was active. Adjid stood and saluted the General for the last time. He always came in last, after the scan. Always! Why today? What made it worse was that Moore wouldn't get his proof and the people that were to be victimized to make way for factories wouldn't be helped. Adjid wouldn't even be a martyr. He would die and fail. It was a horrid thought. His whole legacy would be that of a traitor and no one would ever know why. His wife and children would be imprisoned not knowing the truth. He would have to get his cause on the record and hope it wouldn't be censored to at least try to let people know that he attempted to do the right thing.

'Morning General,' he stammered. It was treated with disdain. He sat down and tried to look unwell, but up to persisting with the meeting. The General paid him no more attention and went to his seat at the head of the table. Word must have spread quickly because the rest soon flooded in, not wanting to keep the General waiting. The guards closed the door behind them and started sweeping the room, muttering amongst themselves with concern as they neared Adjid. He toyed with killing the General with his bare hands, but he could never succeed before being shot. The scanner came closer, beeping louder. Should he dump the medals? Pointless. They would be found and linked to him. They were going over the man next to him. Think! There must be something. Blank. It cam over his chest and blared wildly. There were gasps of shock. Adjid rose to his feet.

'A good soldier doesn't just fight his enemies,' he said proudly, defiantly as they plucked the medals from his chest and stripped them apart. 'He protects the people he represents.'

'Did your American handler tell you that?' the General spat.

'He did,' Adjid replied. 'Right after I told him that you planned to slaughter thousands of your own people for profit.'

'I'm not American though.' They all turned to the doorway. Matthew Moore stood nonchalantly as though invited, same outfit as earlier only now he wore a Kevlar vest and a holster for two Sauers under his armpits. He was flanked by two of the General's personal guard. Tension spewed into the room like thick smoke. 'Keep your weapons holstered,' he told the men standing over Adjid. His men repeated the order in the native language while staring down the barrels of their AK-47s. 'I'm here to resolve this peacefully.' With that translated, everyone eased. Moore's hands snapped to his weapons and pulled them from their holsters. With no hesitation, he gunned down the officers seated at either side of the table one by one with single shots to the forehead. The General was last. He got one through the heart. The guards were untouched and confused. Adjid was too terrified to move.

'Come on Colonel,' Moore said. 'I know I didn't shoot you.'

'I wish you had,' he gasped, but his senses suddenly came to him. 'You lied,' he snarled.

'I know,' Moore shrugged. 'I did have Kevlar. My bad.'

'You said you wouldn't come in, that it wouldn't be today while I was here.'

'I said I wouldn't come in alone.' Adjid realized he had been played and used as a distraction. Moore had reassured him because it was what he needed. He was just relieved that he had survived.

'How did you flip them?'

'Their families live on the land he wanted. It wasn't hard.'

'I don't like this,' Adjid admitted.

'Want me to complete the clean sweep?' Moore asked, aiming. Adjid shook his head. 'Explain what we've done and why,' he said, lowering the weapon. Adjid explained quickly and the two loyal guards renounced their allegiances before Moore dismissed them.

'You're the commanding officer now, Colonel.'

'How do I explain this? There'll be questions.'

'Tell the truth.' From the small of his back, Moore pulled out a file and threw it to Adjid. 'This was your plan, your action with these brave men to snuff out corruption.'

'This is all lies,' Adjid said, leafing through the document.

'Not the important bit.' Adjid said nothing. It was pointless. 'Tell the politicians the truth and give them that. They'll be satisfied and promote you, then you'll run the council and we can stop all the bullshit, ok? Think you can handle that?'

'Yes.'

'Say it.'

'I can handle it, but I'm not happy about being put in this position.'

'I'm confident you can sort things out here. It's not an accident that you're here. When you came to me, I saw a compassionate man who knows warfare but doesn't court it. You'll protect your people and stop your army fighting for useless causes. You're a good soldier, Adjid. Stick to your principles and you'll be a hero.'

'What if I'm not the man you think?'

'Then I'll bury you with the General and try again with someone else.' Moore shook hands with his followers and stalked out of the bunker. Adjid sat at the table and felt nothing but regret.
Even a Rose Has Thorns

'I can't believe he's gone,' Alice sobbed, trying to stem the flow of tears with a napkin she had taken from the hospital cafeteria. Her brother Eddie sat motionless, staring at the lino floor of the endless corridors. Less than five minutes earlier, their father had suffered a massive stroke and died. Both Alice and Eddie Tohemen had watch on as doctors and nurses performed procedures to save his life. It was in vain as it turned out the doctor had told them in less harsh words.

They say people react to shock in different ways. Some lash out, venting their frustration out in a tornado of violence towards the nearest object. Others become hysterical and inconsolable. There are those that get knocked off their feet, like shock was a speeding truck that had mounted the pavement and enter an emotionless state. After the initial impact of the event, this is what Eddie and Alice fell into. For one hour and twenty-six minutes, the siblings sat in silence, immersed in their own thoughts of their father.

'When should we have the funeral?' Eddie finally said. Alice shook her head. She didn't know. Her face was heavily etched into an expression of sorrow like a sculpture, seemingly never to change. The silence returned. Eddie willed it to go, thinking of anything to say to break it. Nothing came to mind. With the silence came another cycle of grief. It is never broken. It just oscillates wider, making the time between moments of sorrow longer and making the loss more bearable.

'Mr Tohemen?' The doctor had somehow snuck up on them in the silent empty corridor. 'Would you like to see your father?' Eddie and Alice glanced at each other and nodded. 'He's been taken to the morgue. It's just down the hall. Come on, I'll take you.' He led them down the corridor, following the blue border on the wall. Their feet slapped on the linoleum and echoed through the hospital. Alice broke down and almost collapsed, before Eddie managed to catch and prop her up. Tears streaked down both their faces. The doctor went ahead, held the door open and ushered them through, before following them in. The mortician beckoned them over to a gurney stood next to him. A white sheet was draped over the bulge laying on it. The mortician uncovered it and there he was. Dad. Only it wasn't. He was pale and cold. She flinched and withdrew her hand from his shoulder as if she had been scalded and began to sob again. Eddie grasped her shoulders in an effort to comfort her while he wondered if they reused the sheet or if they had a constant flow of them. Surely they would reuse them. It wouldn't be cost effective to have a new one for every body. He felt strange, thinking about that instead of his father. It was almost as if his mind was distracting itself.

'I'm so sorry,' the doctor muttered. 'He was such a lovely man. So funny!' Eddie was a little surprised. Dad, funny? That was something he hadn't heard before. Alice just stared at the body on the gurney and cried. 'If there's anything I can do...' he fumbled in his pocket and produced a card. '...please call me.' Eddie outstretched a hand and gave very strained thanks. The doctor grimaced, showing he felt their pain and then instantly, the mortician took their attention. 'Here are his things,' he held up a clipboard in front of Eddie so he could scrawl his signature on the paper. 'And one more over leaf.' Eddie complied. 'Thanks. I'm sorry for your loss and please, take as much time with him as you need.' The mortician had it down to a fine art. Distract them as long as possible and then tell them to stay as long as they want. They usually stayed twenty minutes at the most. The mortician understood. Who wanted to hang around a hospital? Never mind a morgue! His tactics were more difficult when there were two. His distraction could only work on one. In this case, the son. The daughter had continued to grieve. Nobody can win all the time.

Eddie was busy studying the contents of the sealed plastic bag. Air-tight, as if oxygen would somehow spoil them. Inside was roughly seventeen pounds in notes and change, a set of keys, a mobile phone, an out of date lottery ticket and a losing betting slip. Eddie smirked. His father had been insistent that Germany would win the World Cup on home soil and he had put twenty-five pounds on them. He had been disappointed when they had exited in the semi-finals. 'Fucking shite!' he had yelled, flinging his slipper at the television after Fabio Grosso had scored the winner and wheeled away, shaking his head disbelievingly. That had been a month earlier and the slip was still in his pocket.

'Probably forgot,' Eddie murmured.

'What?' Alice asked, sniffling.

'Nothing. He just still had that bet on him.'

'The Germany one?'

'Yeah,' he gave a weak laugh. Alice grimaced, trying to stop herself from sobbing.

'Even a rose has thorns,' she said. It was their mother's motto. She was long gone.

'Come on,' Eddie said, taking his sister by the arm. 'Let's go home.'

In the kitchen of their old home, the two prepared supper. 'Or is it breakfast?' Eddie mused, realising the clock's hands indicated it was almost six-thirty in the morning. They both sat and ate the sandwiches they made. They were tasteless, but filled the void in their stomachs. The bag of their father's belongings sat in the centre of the table as a centrepiece of the banquet. Alice reached and opened it, spreading its contents out on to the polished surface. She picked up the mobile phone and turned it on. She waited a few moments while it loaded, before siphoning through the stored text messages.

'Jesus!' she gasped.

'What?' Eddie asked, concerned.

'Dad was a bit of a ladies man. Look.' Alice passed the hand held device to her brother.

'Ugh!' he exclaimed, after he had read the message. 'Dirty old bastards!' Alice laughed. The sound bounced off of the walls and rattled around the house. 'How many did he have on the go?' he said, as he continued to scroll through the contents.

'At least three,' Alice chuckled.

'Ugh!' Eddie repeated. 'Listen to this; 'Karl had great time last night. Same again tonight? Bring that leather thing again. Gladys kiss, kiss, kiss.'

The siblings looked at each other in silent disgust. Gladys was as old as a woman could look. Eddie put the phone on the table and pushed it away, as if distancing himself from it would cleanse his mind of the images of wrinkled, sweating, leather-clad, flesh. Alice sniggered as he performed the useless attempt. Eddie couldn't resist a smile.

'Dad lived to the max, didn't he?' he said.

Alice nodded as tears streamed down her face again, only now they were only partially filled with sorrow and picked up her father's keys. They jangled as they clattered into one another, sending a chirpy song through the kitchen. She flicked through them, looking at the photographs of the three of them when the children were young, of their mother, all of them sealed in plastic time-capsules, preserving the memories and keeping them fresh for whenever they were needed to be released.

There were four actual keys on the bunch. Two to the house, one for the car and the other was.... Alice strained her mind, but couldn't remember. She gripped the nuisance key between her finger and thumb.

'What's this one for?'

'The garage,' Eddie said, unchallenged like his sister had been.

'Oh yeah,' Alice muttered. It was painfully obvious now. That was the power of hindsight.

'Why don't you go and get some sleep? I'll wait up and call the funeral home at nine and then turn in myself.' Alice nodded at the idea and rose from the chair. She kissed her younger brother on the forehead and went to her old room, another time-capsule that had sealed her childhood intact. She flopped on to the bed and fell into an uncomfortable sleep. Eddie did as he had promised and then returned to his own nostalgia, but failed to sleep. He couldn't get his father out of his thoughts.

Three days passed. They were filled with condolences and reassurances from people they barely knew. The repeatedly regurgitated phrase 'He was a good man,' particularly annoyed Eddie. Although it was true, it became boring and insulting. Is that all they could think to say? He undid the black tie from around his neck. Could they not be more imaginative than overused cliché? They could have said something else like 'he'll be sorely missed,' or 'he was an incredible lover.' Eddie smiled at himself in the mirror, amused by the last idea. Gladys had been at the funeral, but she had said nothing to either of the bereaved children, perhaps for fear of possible scorn at the soiling of their mother's memory. Of course neither felt that way. Their mother had died a long time ago and their father needed company. That was that. They understood but could have done without the graphic imagery. Needing to escape the wake, Eddie had sidled upstairs. He wished it to be over. He couldn't take anymore condolences or handshakes with old, papery hands. The fact was, he was jealous of them. They had seen a side of his father that he or Alice would now never see. Karl Frederick Tohemen, the funny guy, the joker. Eddie would give anything to know his Dad more.

'Hey.' Eddie looked up, startled. It was Alice. He had never been able to hide from her. 'What are you doing?'

'Hiding,' Eddie confessed. 'I'm fed up of these people.' Alice gave him an understanding look.

'I know. They don't have much to say about Dad, do they? Only 'he was a good man',' Eddie sniggered at their shared cynicism. 'Just be thankful it will be over soon,' she told him.

'Yeah, surely the home's curfew should kick-in in an hour,' he replied. Alice laughed, but insisted. 'Come down.' They both left the room and returned downstairs. They continued to talk to their father's friends, like they were celebrities and it was a meet and greet for their fans. Hours passed like a cheese grater on skin and Eddie needed to retreat again. This time he went into the front garden and lit a cigarette. Alice hunted him down again.

'I admit,' she said. 'It is getting a bit much now. Can't they say more about him?' Eddie gave a sad smile and jangled his father's keys in his jacket pocket. He had carried them with him all day as a comforting token. He removed them so Alice could share the warmth they radiated. The garage key flared out at them. It had been years since they had been in there. They looked at each and silently agreed.

Putting the key in the lock and turning it, Eddie flipped the door upwards and went inside, fumbling for a light switch. Alice followed and closed the door behind them so no one could follow.

A click. Light filled the room. So did horror.

Adorning the back wall was a huge banner that brandished the swastika symbol of the Nazi party unashamedly. There were cabinets with German weaponry. They both recognised them from their history classes.

'Dad was a collector?' Eddie said, confused.

'No,' Alice said, pointing. Eddie followed her indication and saw a small picture in a gold frame. In it was the unmistakable image of Adolf Hitler, but standing next to him was a younger, stern-faced Karl Tohemen. The photo was autographed. Alice collapsed before Eddie could catch her. She was hyperventilating and making animalistic noises as she cried. Her skin turned instantly pale. Eddie sank down next to her, mouth gaping, trying to console her as he thought of their mother's motto. No one knew it better than her. Even a rose has thorns.
The Birth

Karen lay on the table, her body upright legs widespread, a handsome doctor with his head between them. This would normally be an enjoyable moment for her, except her body was enduring excruciating, flesh-splitting pain. She was in her eighth hour of labour and her vagina felt like someone was trying to dive a train through it. It was the dingiest room, in the dingiest hospital and while she was being split in two, she knew it would be a beautiful moment. Her husband was next to her, letting her squeeze his hands while he stood looking both worried and amazingly excited at the same time.

'Push, Karen! Push!' the doctor cried. Karen followed the instruction, praying this would be the end.

'I've got it,' he exclaimed. 'Congratulations it's a...' The baby leapt into the air, revealing it was red, had wings, horns and hooves. '...FUCKING DEMON!' He managed to shout before the child ate his face. It then bit through the umbilical cord and began to circle the room, swooping every so often to attack the nurses with its claws.

'You've been shagging Satan behind my back again, haven't you?' Her husband said, horrified, adding 'You whore!' before storming away, out of the door. Karen sighed. She knew what was coming. There was a sudden explosion and her husband came back through the door and landed on his backside, followed by the Devil himself, almost filling the doorway.

'How's it going Karen?' he said in his booming voice, smoking a cigar. His bright red skin made her squint.

'Your baby is here,' she muttered.

'So I see,' he said. 'Come here girl.' The demon baby recognized her father and flew to his arms, looking instantly comfortable.

'What the hell, Karen?' her husband asked, tears streaming down his face. 'How could you do this to me again?'

'Because she had no choice,' the Devil told him. 'It was either give me an heir or I take your life.' His face fell. 'So be grateful.'

'Ok,' her husband said. 'But I am not going on Jeremy Kyle again!'

'Fair enough,' Satan said. 'I've done it now. It wasn't as fun as I thought it would be. Right I'm out of here. Take it easy Karen, Mr. Karen.'

A nurse rose from under the bed and saw the stop watch that she had clicked when the doctor announced the birth. It read seven hours and six minutes. The demon baby had been born after six hours and sixty-six minutes of labour.
Stone

Its not like you can change it, is it? Once something is done, it's done. There's no wormhole to jump through to an alternate universe, no Delorean to take you back and put it right, no magic you can use to change it. It is done forever. I know that now. It beats loud within my head, a slowly, dreary drum.

'You know you're supposed to share your thoughts with me, right Stone?' she asks.

'Are you my wife or my therapist?' I say.

'You know which,' she sighs. 'I need to know what's going on in your head. Only then can we get to the root of the problem.'

'I don't have a problem.' She shuffles in her seat. I've made her uncomfortable. I regret it. Always a sucker for a pretty blonde. Shame we're being watched closely from the next room. I would definitely try it on with her if I knew the room beyond the two-way glass wasn't full of black clad, faceless guards, tensely grinding their palms against their automatic weapons. 'I was thinking about how what's done is done. You can't change the past.'

'And why do you think you are pondering this?' Just like that, she's back in the game; confident, commanding. They've profiled me well.

'Isn't it one of life's ultimate questions? Doesn't everyone want to alter something they've done? Isn't it a part of the human condition?'

'What do you want to alter?'

Questions. Constant questions. I am above this.

'Well maybe I shouldn't have hit that kid with a golf club when I was six or set the Christmas tree...' She frantically jots down notes, as if I'm a play she has to review for a newspaper. '...on fire. Should I have accepted our Lord and Saviour Jesus Christ into my life and embraced his love?' I say this with contempt, noticing the crucifix hanging on a necklace against her bare chest. A little lower is the briefest glimpse of cleavage, before grey, suit jacket takes over. She gives me a cold look, eyes screaming 'how dare you!' 'Should I have followed his illustrious example?'

'Which example is that? Christ left so many for us.' Now who is the sucker? I give a little smirk.

'The hypocritical one, where he preached forgiveness one minute and took it away the next.' She looks bemused. 'Oh that's right. That wasn't him. That was man. My bad. All the religions do it though, so I suppose its not just your man, Jesus.'

'They all do what, Stone?'

'Use religion as justification for war, for murder. Difference with the West is, their religion is Capitalism and anyone who gets in the fat-cats' way gets blown aside.' The room falls silent except for the scribbling of her pencil.

'Did you get all that?' I mock. She glares and then gives a recuperative smile.

'I'd like to talk to you about your time in the military, is that ok?' I shrug. Like I've got a choice. 'You served for eight years, is that correct?'

'Yep,' I say, trying to be jovial. We're getting to the heart of the matter now. This is what she wants to talk about. 'From June 2109 to February 2117. I joined when I was twenty.'

'And where did you serve?'

'Where didn't I serve?' I shrug. 'If there was a fight during that period, I was there.' She reviews her pre-session notes.

'South America. You were there?' I nod. 'Under Major King, correct?' Another nod. 'What are your thoughts towards her?'

'She was a great field commander. Led by example, from the front. Always composed and a sound tactician. She never took risks or spilled blood unnecessarily. Without doubt, a soldier's soldier. It was an honour to serve under her.'

'Have you worked with her since?' I shake my head.

'I was promoted again and moved to another outfit. Bitter-sweet really.'

'So no contact since?' I hesitate. It's a mistake. I'm trying to lie, but I can't. It's not in my nature. I'm a soldier. I tell my superiors the truth. Especially when they're blonde. I manage to shake my head, but it's obviously false. She scratches her nose. Is it the signal for them to come in? They always have a signal. This woman wasn't just an expert in psychiatry and behavioural analysis. She was a judge and jury. The executioners were in the next room. I knew, because I had been a man in the other room. Back when Major Orchid King had done the interrogations. Make your decision quick, no regrets. The splatter wouldn't stand out on a wall already painted in blood. It was an efficient system, when it wasn't working against you. It wasn't the signal. She was thinking, forming her next question, looking a little uncertain. Was I her first?

'How well did you know Major King?

'Only in passing.' Another blatant lie. I feel my leg twitch as I'm saying it. There's probably a thousand other signals I'm giving off to her. For the first time since I joined the warring world, I wish I'd been a spook. I could be lying my arse off and getting away with it now. I wasn't trained for this. I was trained to resist, not pleasantries. Her eyes flare. She's going to call me it.

'Not according to her recommendation for your promotion. It seems you knew her very well.' Finding the relevant printout, she quoted from it. "Stone is an excellent soldier; one of the finest I have worked with. Having spent countless hours, both on and off duty with him, I believe him to be an intelligent, compassionate and insightful man. He will be an incredible asset to your outfit, one which I know we will have a hard time replacing." A contemptuous glare.

'I spent a lot of time with her, yeah, but I never 'knew her' well. She was very private.'

'What would you talk about?'

'Sport, family, the future, politics.' Stepped on my own landmine. Lying is hard.

'Politics? Such as what?'

'Such as "why are we here and not there? Why aren't we securing every building and not just these ones? Why can't we talk to the local population?" Stuff like that.' I go to continue, think better of it. Orchid would tell us why. We were there securing politician's interests and that was all. The civil unrest was a threat to their profits and at the same time an excuse to go in as "aid". We were nothing more than over-qualified security guards. At the same time, several African nations were tearing each other apart. Rape, robbery, genocide, with no actual conflict between troops at all. They just took out their frustrations on the unarmed population of their enemy. Orchid wanted to go in and sort it all out. She had a plan to steer them all into one another to make them fight. It could have been executed on a shoe-string budget. MI6 approved. Only problem was, it wasn't in Parliament's interests. The plan was rejected.

'How is that political Stone?' She's clawing at me, trying to scratch deeper into my thoughts.

'The brass,' I say brashly. 'They're always playing games, trying to get promotions. Most of them took the wrong jobs. They should have been spies.' I think that shrugged her off well. She's frowning uncertainly, reviewing her notes again. I catch a glimpse of the handwriting. It is beautiful.

'So what about why you are here?'

'I did what I thought was right. I'm a soldier. I'm trained to fight for people who can't.'

'You killed five members of the National Police.'

'I didn't say I was perfect. I tried to intervene. They were being too aggressive. How's the kid?'

'Dead.' She said it emotionlessly, robotically. 'Died from his wounds.'

'Fuck,' I mutter. 'If only id gotten there sooner. This would have been for something.'

'Do you feel remorse?'

'Only for the kid.' Concern flashes across her face and she subtly shakes her head at the glass. They want to come in. I can feel their hate, their anger seeping into the room through the ventilation system. They want to tear me apart for killing their friends. Of course, they don't know I killed them to keep information. The kid was a messenger for Orchid. He had met me to pass it on. The NP had listened in and thought he was an easier target, moving in when I had gone. Somehow, I smelled it and went back. The resistance would have been in trouble if I hadn't. 'I should be commended for it,' I find myself saying. It's a stupid card to play.

'Why is that?'

'They're too hard on people. Punishments don't fit crimes. It's obvious this resistance has got them on edge. But not everyone is an enemy of the state. A lot of people just want to find something to eat.'

'What do you know of the resistance?' She asks, leaning forward. I feel as if the whole world is watching.

'Not much. They're not happy with things and they're kicking up a fuss. To be honest, it was inevitable.'

'What's inevitable?' she asks, a thoughtful, interested look on her face and she sits on the edge of her seat, like my opinion counts for something, like it could change the world. It's clear how she got the job. A radiant woman who sits you on a throne at the centre of the world, in order to milk you for the faceless National Police. Are you resistance or just a normal criminal? She finds out and they act accordingly.

'Empires end,' I say.

'The British Empire is long dead,' she says, confused.

'You keep believing that,' I laugh. It's another mistake. I just can't help myself. 'I know the truth. I was in Brazil, remember?' A bit of logic to back up my point. 'We weren't there for the unrest; we were there to protect British interests. People were being slaughtered yards away from us and we could do nothing because of our orders. That's fucked.'

'I agree, but what has that got to do with an empire ending?' Check. I always hated chess. Orchid is brilliant at it.

'The resistance knows the population are being trampled on. They think its time to change it.'

'And you know this how?'

'An educated guess.'

'Britain does what is best for the people because without them she cannot survive.'

'So why does it alienate them? Treat them like prisoners?'

'You don't like how the people suffer do you?'

'No I don't. I didn't join the Army to see my country become this.'

'You want to help them, don't you?'

'Yes.'

'You're a member of the resistance aren't you?' I nod dejectedly. Checkmate. She presses on. 'You're a prominent member, are you not?'

'I am. And proud of it.' She stands triumphantly, nods to the glass and leaves the room. In the open doorway, members of the National Police leer. I can feel their anger and pleasure. They grab me, cuff me, march me outside and end me in a lengthy ceremony of brutalisation in the central courtyard where all of the other prisoners can see. Another point for them.

It's why I haven't said a word since they took me. I'm still sweaty, with the gunpowder on the back of my hand. I can smell it. It's the only way I can see it playing out and I'd imagined I was being smart and she was stupid.

'You do realize you're supposed to share your thoughts and feelings with me?'I remain silent. Give them nothing. I'm just another paranoid, crackpot former soldier suffering from PTSD. I can't change what I did, but I can make sure it means something. I can get out. Bide your time, Stone. There'll be an opening. There always is.
Could Be Luck

The rhythmic tinkling stopped and left only stony silence. The cottage had been raided to perfection. Targets were down, no casualties were taken and the objective was staring down the silence barrel of Moore's MP5. The problem was that they needed to take him alive.

'On your feet,' he muttered. The objective laughed. 'Come on. I won't ask again.' He sat smirking, as though Moore was making a drunken fool of himself at a cocktail party. Moore sighed, let his ponytail loose and ruffled the hair. 'Come on Piotyr,' he muttered.

'My name is Muhammed Abdil Aziz,' he hissed, but rediscovered his smile.

'Sound. I'm Kenny Dalglish. On your fucking feet.' The objective eyed him smugly and followed the instruction. Moore searched him roughly, found nothing and shoved him back into the chair.

'I know you're not Kenny Dalglish.'

'I know you do. You're Piotyr Trochowski. You're a Polish Catholic.'

'Not anymore.'

'In your file, you are and that's what counts.'

'What does it say on your file?'

'Cap?' Moore said into his throat mike, ignoring the quip.

'We're clear, sir,' the voice in his earpiece said.

'Good. Bring in the transport.'

'Understood.'

'SAS?' the objective asked.

'They are.'

'And you? What does it say on your file?' It was Moore's turn to smirk.

'I don't have a file,' he said with a cocky snigger.

'I think you do,' Moore took two steps closer, fired burst over his head and held the hot barrel to his ear. He winced and yelped and bit his lip. Stepping away, Moore swung the MP5 around to his back and let him catch his breath.

'You're trying to provoke me so you can kill me,' he said, nursing his ear.

'I could just kill you if I wanted, but you're small fish. I want your boss.'

'You were lucky to get me,' he muttered, still amused despite his left ear flaring from the burn.

'I'm never lucky. I'm just good.'

'That's good to know.'

'Why? Because they'll come for you?' The objective nodded. 'We'll be gone in a minute,' Moore said, shrugging. 'Few hours, we'll be in China.' His face fell.

'China?'

'Yep. This is their call. I'm only doing it to see if I can learn something before I hand you over.'

'Take me to Britain and I'll tell you anything you want to know.' He was panicked.

'China want you bad for the Xiamen bombings. If I went back on the deal, they'd want me instead. Your head or mine? Easy decision now. Pity we didn't meet before.' He sat quietly for a moment.

'They'll come for me,' the objective said confidently. Moore considered cutting the other ear off when he was alerted the jeep had arrived.

'Ride's here,' he grunted, grabbing the ear he had contemplated removing and pulling him out the door by it. The four man SAS team were vigilant outside; Cap, Hawk, Badger around the door, Dex behind the wheel. 'All in,' Moore commanded. They moved quickly, shoving the objective on the back seat and sitting on him, while Moore got in the front passenger's seat.

'Comfortable Piotyr?' Cap asked, cracking off a loud fart.

'I will kill you soon,' the objective snarled.

'Eyes open lads,' Moore warned. 'He thinks he's getting rescued.' Despite the laughter, all weapons were in position to be fired. With no cue, Dex set off at a good speed to rendezvous with the Chinook. 'Any contact?' Moore asked.

'No sir,' Dex replied. It meant nothing had changed. Moore patted him on the shoulder and left him to concentrate on the rough, narrow road. The trees and hills around them were still and serene, but it didn't fool any of them; it could quickly become their graves.

'Time frame, sir?' Cap asked from behind.

'Ahead.' Moore said, checking his watch. There was an uneasy silence as they continued to clock up the miles.

'Four to go,' Dex said, steering around a curve. A tree blocked the road, forcing him to slam on.

'Ambush!' Moore bellowed, bailing out before the bullets started coming their way from the hills to their one 'o' clock. The team scrambled out and took cover behind the jeep. No one was hit. They dragged the objective from the jeep and zip-tied his hands and feet. 'Right! Patience is key,' Moore said. 'Pair off and only one at a time fires. I'm guessing we're facing about twenty.'

'Can we not just blow the tree and run?' Badger asked.

'Too exposed. We need to thin them out first.' They all frowned but said nothing. 'Trust me. I've done this before. 'We're gonna draw fire away from the jeep because we need it in tact and set up over there. Move.' They left the objective and scrambled to two different rock formations separated by a huge tree with bushes at its feet. Moore hung back and once the fire was drawn away, he pulled a briefcase from the rear of the jeep and followed, drawing little fire. They seemed happy to stall them, confident in their numbers. Moore had other ideas.

'Keep them back,' he told Cap, as he opened the briefcase and started assembling the high-powered rifle.

'Boy scout,' Cap laughed. Hawk smirked from behind his rifle. They kept the attack suppressed and Moore soon had the rifle assembled. The objective was worming his way toward escape but without help, he wouldn't get far, so Moore concentrated on the fight. He left Cap and shuffled to the bushes beneath the tree, putting him central of the two partnerships. As cover went, it was close to perfect. Resting the muzzle on a root, Moore got comfortable and peered down the scope. He had ten shots in the clip. Each one had to count.

Crack. Through the forehead of a machine gunner. Ki-click.

Crack. Into the .50 Cal itself, disabling it. Ki-click. Shift sight. Wait. Watch. What do you see? Uncertainty. Make it official.

Crack. Another skull exploding unnaturally. Ki-click. Assess. They're in cover, no longer advancing. Tactical switch. Job done. Not quite. Sniper. Searching. Clear shot at Dex but doesn't take it.

'Sniper!' Precaution. Why did he not take that shot? He shuffled back to Cap and Hawk pondering the question. 'Cap. Cover me with the rifle.' He started disarming, leaving all of his weapons except his throwing knives. 'Dex, set charges on the tree but don't blow it yet.'

'Where the fuck are you going?' Cap asked.

'I think I can get us out of this.' With no more discussion, Moore left cover and walked to the objective, cutting his leg restraint with a knife from his harness. 'Come on,' he ordered, lifting him to his feet. The objective laughed.

'Giving up so easily?'

'I'm good. I know when I can't win,' Moore said, marching him through the woods, up the hill and stopping at the edge of a clearing. 'Wait here,' he said, forcing him up against a tree and driving the knife through both of his hands into the bark. 'Stay,' he said over his screams and promises of murder as he left him kneeling and went to the clearing. He waited for a minute, listening, hearing the opposition surround their half of the clearing, hands behind his back, posing no threat. No one fired. The clearing went still, quiet. Not even the animals dared to make a sound.

A sole figure emerged from the trees in the woodland military fatigues. He had a long, groomed, greying beard. Moore recognized him. Piotyr had been the objective in a mission where this man was the main target. There was nothing that had suggested that they would be so close together. For once, Moore had been lucky instead of good.

'American?' the mission asked.

'No,' Moore said bluntly.

'Where is Muhammed?'

'Take five steps to your right and you should be able to see him.' The mission did so, craned his neck.

'Good,' he said, nodding. 'Take me closer.' Moore did so, staying on his right. 'Now. I will draw my pistol and shoot him. Do not be alarmed. You will be free to go.'

'Sound.'

'You don't seem surprised.'

'You know we won't let you take him alive and I know you don't care if he's dead.'

'His history...' The mission trailed off, unsure of how to word what he wanted to say.

'You don't want the Chinese getting involved in this region.' He nodded. 'I go back, tell them he was killed, they're satisfied, it goes away.'

'Fair yes?'

'Absolutely.'

'Terms?'

'Terms.'

'Take me to him.' He raised his hands to signal that everything was ok; terms had been agreed. Moore took him to the right tree and now, objective and mission were together. They said nothing. The mission sighed, took out his pistol. The objective struggled against the knife. 'It saves a lot of bloodshed, Piotyr. We can't make an enemy of China or afford to let you go with these men alive.' He lined up the shot carefully. There was a low, sticky thud and the mission collapsed forwards, another knife protruding from the back of his neck.

'He was the mission,' Moore said to the stunned objective as he searched the body, removing documents and pocketing them. With a cell phone, he took pictures of both the dead mission and living objective.

'I'm no use to you now, am I?' Moore shook his head.

'I wasn't working for the Chinese.' The objective sighed with relief. 'The plan was to take you back for interrogation, but that's pointless now.'

'So you're letting me go?'

'You're not worth one of my bullets,' Piotyr laughed joyfully.

'Charges are set,' Cap whispered into his ear via the radio. Moore stooped to pick up the dropped pistol. Choking on his laughter as he suddenly stopped, Piotyr was wide-eyed.

'But these aren't mine so...' Moore shrugged, fired once, point blank into the forehead. The sound echoed loudly. Moore photographed the corpse and sprinted back to the team who were waiting close to the jeep.

'Rendezvous now. We miss it we're fucked.'

'What did you do?' Cap asked.

'Completed that three month mission we were tasked with.' They piled into the jeep and blew the road block, instantly speeding off.

'Time frame?'

'Behind, but not by much.'

'We can make it,' Dex said. They swept along, counting down the miles, hearing the hum of rotors as they neared. The Chinook was settled in a clearing as planned while two Apaches circled overhead like hungry vultures. Dex drove the jeep up the ramp into the hold and two airmen closed it off as they lifted away. Moore told the crew to leave them for debriefing.

'We got lucky,' Moore said when they were alone. 'I worked out he was running the attack when they went from reclaiming him with ease to taking casualties. Then they just wanted him dead. His ties to China made him bad currency. The cottage must have been bugged. That's the only way they could have found out.'

'So you lured him out?' Cap said.

'Yep. Put a knife in his head and a bullet through Piotyr's face.' He showed them the photos.

'So what now?' Badger asked.

'That's up to you lads,' Moore said. 'We can say 'mission accomplished' and get moved to other ops or-.' He glared at them enticingly.

'Or what?' Hawk asked. Cap laughed.

'Or we pretend to be on mission and do whatever we want,' he said.

'Exactly,' Moore added. 'We've all got families. Fortune has given us some down time here.'

'How?'

'You've been assigned to me for this job. We spin a story about this, tell them we've got another lead, and then in a few months we say 'look, we did it'.'

'I'm in,' Cap said. They all shared his opinion.

'Good, because you didn't have a choice.' They laughed quietly.

'What are we going to say?' Dex asked, worried.

'I'll think of something,' Moore said, waving away his concern. 'You were all brilliant today.' He left the jeep and headed toward the cockpit. Cap was with him.

'Are you always this lucky?' he asked.

'Mostly, I'm just good,' Moore said with a smile. 'But it could be luck.'
The Wise Vladimir

They hadn't asked for this. When they volunteered to fight for the Motherland, they expected to be treated like soldiers, not cattle. They jockeyed for space and air in the overloaded carriage. Body odour and urine slithered throughout, stinging nostrils, triggering gag reflexes. Rail clanged rhythmically against wheel, hammering on ear drums, percolating their weary minds. Through the slats in the thin walls, barren soil swept by. Vladimir was squashed into the rear corner, feeling both stiflingly hot and bitterly cold. He watched the destroyed land of Russia and cursed the Officer who had forced them all on to the train at gunpoint and padlocked the door behind them. Now he and his younger brother Valeri were en route to the frontline, along with Aleksei and Nikolai, two younger men they had met at the station. They were all chugging to the gallows. The train struggled uphill and through a small station that was embedded into rock for shelter, before swooping down into a devastated valley. A village smouldered, the smoke billowing into the sky like a giant tombstone. The land around was frosted. Cries erupted from the men; they believed they had entered Hell. Vladimir glanced at his brother and could see his anxiety. He nudged him with his shoulder for reassurance.

'We'll be fine,' he muttered. 'Trust me.' Even though he truly believed in his words, Vladimir knew they would sound hollow to Valeri. Superstition was a plague amongst the illiterate. The unease spread quickly. The men grew restless. It was as if they had lit a flare to attract attention. Artillery fire shattered the air around them. Everyone held their breath. Time froze. Heads turned to look, to listen. An arch of shrapnel cut into the carriage, driving through wood and into arms and legs. Vladimir felt it in his bicep and inched away, peering down. The wood was weakened. With the right push... Another barrage of erupted and made his decision for him. He made room and forced the wood apart with his foot, then again and again. The opening was enough.

'Valeri, come on!' he told his brother, before diving out of the gap. The shells seemed to hit the instant he hit the ground, throwing the train from its rails, its wheels grinding against the stones beneath the track, before it capsized down an embankment. Iron screeched as it was twisted and ripped apart. It seemed to bounce down the hill forever before resting in a field. A third bombardment. They hit faster this time, slaughtering the carriage and locomotive, leaving scraps of metal and charred flesh scattered in the field below him. He heard his brother groan behind him and turned. Alexsei and Nikolai were with him. Alexsei looked like he could be in shock. Nikolai was first to his feet.

'What do we do?' he asked Vladimir. The others looked to him as well. With what Vladimir had heard, he knew the Germans would come to survey the damage and that they would be heavily armed. There wasn't much time.

'We must find weapons and ammunition quickly.' He ran down the embankment, closely followed by the rest. They filtered through the wreckage, soon finding what they needed, prying the items from dead hands if they had to.

'They're here,' Valeri whispered, pointing to the grey figures emerging from the tree line at the peak of the valley. Vladimir thought for a moment.

'The station we passed. We could hold there.'

'That's suicide! We could be waiting for days!' Nikolai pleaded.

'It's our best option,' he declared, jogging alongside the track. 'Someone will come looking for that train.'

'We should run,' Nikolai said.

'To where?' Valeri asked. 'Do you know where we are?' Nikolai went to speak but decided against it.

'We could be walking into another ambush Nikolai,' Vladimir said over his shoulder. 'Trust me.'

'Trust him,' Valeri added. 'Back home, they call him 'The Wise Vladimir'.' They all trusted the older soldier's judgment and followed, running at a comfortable pace. The wind whipped through the valley, disturbing the silence. Until there was a whistle. Then a snap.

'Don't stop!' Vladimir ordered over his shoulder. 'We'll be trapped.' The quartet increased their speed, with bullets whizzing beyond their bodies, splintering the bark of tress around them, getting closer with each passing second until Valeri fell. Hearing his yelp, Nikolai turned back and pulled him to his feet. Seeing them, Vladimir kept going. He hadn't noticed the blood gushing from the wound on his brother's shoulder, trickling down his green uniform as they ran. They covered the last few yards without further incident, entering the deserted station gasping for air.

'Make for the other platform,' Vladimir said. 'We can make barriers with the benches and tables.'

'This is foolish,' Nikolai said. 'We should run.'

'You are lucky I don't shoot you for cowardice. Now do as I say.'

'Why? If I know it will get me killed?' Vladimir didn't give a response. He had spotted the wound on Valeri's back.

'Are you ok?'

'I'll be able to shoot,' Valeri stated firmly.

'Typical Valeri,' Vladimir thought, going to work on the barrier. His brother had always been tough. Within minutes, their barricade was ready and they took cover behind it, resting their rifles on the top of the makeshift shield. Aleksei lay on the ground and peered from the left, covering their flank. They seemed to wait for hours. It was as if the Germans knew they had them where they wanted them. Snow began to fall softly, making the station a scene from a Christmas card. The temperature plunged like a stone into an abyss. And then Vladimir understood.

'They're waiting us out,' he whispered. 'Do what you can to keep warm.' They started lightly contracting muscles in their arms and legs, wiggling bare fingers before resting them back on triggers. When it stopped working, they huddled closer. Dusk was approaching. It was now or never for them. They came like a plague of grey locusts, efficiently overrunning the far end of the opposite platform, taking wild shots at the shivering Russians.

'Hold fire,' Vladimir told them. 'Wait until you have a good target to hit.' They obliged. The Germans advanced cautiously, testing the waters, pushing the boundaries. Aleksei was the first to fire, ripping an accurate shot through the chest of a Nazi trying to reach the cover of a pillar. With their compatriot dead, the Germans came on stronger, tossing grenades and using an overlapping pattern with lots of covering fire.

'Our plan remains!' Vladimir bellowed over the noise. 'Patience and calm are the keys!' He popped above cover and fired at a German trying to get down on to the track. Nikolai followed suit. Another three were down.

Silence. The Russians wiped their clammy hands and adjusted their stances.

The Germans advanced again several minutes later, this time much more organized, looking for strategic advantages rather than a quick, forcible victory. This allowed them to move almost all the way up the opposite platform, suffering only two casualties and put them close to pinning the Russians down. Vladimir and Nikolai had been forced to take cover behind the barricade, with only Valeri maintaining his crouched position to the right. His injury was throwing his aim off. Aleksei was keeping their exposed left flank clear.

'We are trapped like the Romanovs because of you Vladimir!' Nikolai said in a near sob. 'I hope you are happy you have got us killed.'

'Keep calm and patient,' Vladimir stated. 'Valeri will see a good shot and take it eventually.'

'Fantastic!' Nikolai said sarcastically. 'Our lives depend upon the aim of a wounded man. Genius. Who said you were wise?'

Neither side gave up their positions and the track divided them like a border between nations. Few shots were wasted as both sides looked to conserve ammunition. It had become a game of chess, with both sides looking to subtly outmanoeuvre their enemy and capture the stronghold. Quiet fell upon the station and the sound of a battle taking place miles away could be heard by them all. Minds began to wander to hometowns and villages, to family and friends they had not laid eyes on for many months, to previous battles, where they had seen barbarism that would haunt them long after the war had ended. The snow continued to fall. Vladimir was mesmerized by the contrast of it all. Behind them was a picturesque scene that an artist would be privileged to capture, with undisturbed snow, frost tinted trees, the rails coated in white, darkening sky above while in front was a battered train station, lined with bullet casings, embedded shrapnel and the bodies of the dead. It was as if it was the divide between Heaven and Hell.

'What do you think they're doing?' Aleksei asked.

'There's a lot of movement over there,' Nikolai observed.

'Be ready,' Vladimir said. 'They're coming.' Valeri gave a slight nod.

'Two coming up the platform,' Alexsei whispered.

'I see them,' Valeri muttered back. 'Two more coming along the track.'

They allowed them to advance a few more feet before firing. The two on the platform were killed by three of Alexsei's shots. They cried out in pain as metal tore through flesh and bone. With a bit of luck going their way, he was also able to eliminate two more who had secured the nearest section of the platform. Unfortunately, Valeri struggled. He could only wound one of his targets. The second was able to help him retreat despite heavy fire.

'I'm sorry,' he said.

'Don't worry,' Vladimir told him. 'We can change around now they're weaker up here.' They spent a few seconds shuffling. Alexsei took Valeri's position on the right and Nikolai lay in the vacated spot covering the left. The two brothers took the centre.

The unwanted familiarity of stalemate returned, with the same patterns repeated themselves over and over. Vladimir could almost predict attempted attacks down to the second. He wondered if they were new to the war.

'They will try again soon,' he told the others. 'And it will be harder. They need the station for shelter tonight.'

'So do we,' Nikolai said firmly.

A bullet clattered against the barricade, sending splinters of wood flying.

'That came from the left!' Vladimir roared.

'I can't see anyone!' Nikolai said, before there was a snap inches above their heads. Aleksei dropped behind the barricade and slammed his back against it.

'That was too close,' he told Valeri. Something long and hard fell into his lap. The German stick grenade sat there for what seemed like an hour as they all watched their lives counting down on a random fuse before Valeri shook free of the hypnotic power and threw it on to the opposite platform. All of their hearts pounded rapidly again after it detonated.

'Nikolai, roll on to the track! That's where it came from.' He took the advice instantly and tumbled from view, landing hard on the track face to face with a German carrying a bag of grenades. Nikolai shot him before he could grasp another.

'Cover our left!' Vladimir screamed, but Nikolai ignored him. He crawled the length of the platform unnoticed. The Germans had concentrated on pinning them down and had not anticipated a counter attack. Steadying himself, he lobbed the grenades one by one on to the German platform. There were cries of panic and heavy boots clapped against stone as they fled. The grenades went off in a chain reaction right along the platform, killing the majority and forcing the rest to retreat. When Nikolai appeared on the German platform, Vladimir was enraged.

'You abandoned us!' Nikolai just gave him a smug smile. 'You could have gotten us all killed, you idiot!' Valeri and Alexsei could do nothing but watch as Vladimir fired at Nikolai. His chest ripped open and he crumpled to the blood-soaked platform like a bag of potatoes and lay still, dead. Alexsei cried out and knocked Vladimir to the ground with the butt of his rifle, aiming it at his forehead.

The shot rang out through the station and carried into the valley. Vladimir lay helpless as Aleksei went limp and fell. Valeri stood with his rifle still aimed, a wisp of smoke hanging from the end. Before Vladimir could thank his brother, he was staring down the barrel of the same rifle.

'Why?' Valeri asked. 'Are you that stubborn that you killed Nikolai for helping us survive? Are you so stupid that you do it and keep your back turned to his ally? I always thought people said you were wise in irony. Now I know it's true.'

'Nikolai's petulance could have killed us all.'

'But it didn't!' Valeri blared, his face blazing with anger and confusion.

'I had a thought,' Vladimir said. 'If I shot Nikolai and you covered Aleksei, we would be the only survivors. We would be heroes. Just picture it! We will be presented with medals for our bravery. Stalin himself will proclaim us great heroes of the Soviet Union. Our fellow soldiers will give us gifts, women will throw themselves at our feet, bread and wine will be in our grasp for as long as we live. No officer would dare point a gun at us or ram us on to a train again.'

Valeri lowered his rifle, his eyes wide, cleared.

'You are wise, Vladimir.'
Arisen In The Fall

White. It burnt through his eyelids and scalded his retinas as he lay on his back on tough grass that jabbed into his back. Dazed and confused, he sat bolt upright, his eyes wincing at the pain of total exposure to the light. He was sat in the centre of a small, unfamiliar town, underneath a flourishing young oak tree. A well stood alone a few yards in front of him. There were several shops dotted around a school in the corner to his right. A town hall was a few buildings down. Although, everything was black and white white. It was as if the substance had faded away, leaving only outlines to distinguish one thing from another, like a cartoon yet to be given colour.

Facing him from across the square was the only road in or out. Obeying his instinct, but not understanding it, he got to his feet and walked across to the road and followed the parallel lines away from the square and into white nothing. The wind began to whip up a frenzy, becoming more and more severe the further along he went. Rain crashed down from the sky in deterring torrents of cold. He walked for what seemed like hours, until he reached a point where the road split in two. He stood for a moment, contemplating which way to go, as the rain and wind pummeled him with abusive chill. Completely unsure, he turned back. He didn't want to take the wrong road. The town came into view a lot sooner than he expected. The bemused, chilled man passed under a wooden sign that was a gateway to the square. It read:

WELCOME TO THE FALL

Population 71

He took a seat on a nearby step. His head hurt from the cold and the confusion.

"What's your trouble, mister?" The voice came from nowhere, and startled him.

"Who...?"

"I did, mister."

The lost soul turned to see a man with a finely groomed goatee beard, sat in a rocking chair, wearing the uniform of a confederate general of the American civil war. He was convinced that neither the General nor the chair had been on the porch when he had sat down.

"So..." the General continued. "What's your trouble?"

"I have no idea where I am or..." He paused a second to rub his throat, which was raw. "...how I got here. I don't even know my name or where I'm from, plus my throat is killing me." To his own surprise, the bemused man found himself confiding in the General.

"We can remedy that, Martin."

"How-?" Again, the General answered before he could finish.

"It's on the tag on your breast." He peered down. The general was right. Pinned to his shirt was a tag that read 'Martin Fisher'. Positive the name tag had just appeared from nowhere, the man felt a sense of warmth regardless. His name was Martin Fisher. He could remember that now.

"Follow me, son, we'll get you a drink to soothe your throat". The General stood bolt upright in an instant, and marched down the steps of the porch and across the square towards the well. The feathers in his tall hat billowed.

"Did anyone ever tell you that your hat looks stupid?" Martin asked.

"All the time, son, all the time, but it keeps my head warm!" The General gave a sharp, shrill laugh and slapped Martin on the back, causing him to grunt. "I'm sorry," he said, remorsefully. "Guess you're more fragile than you appear."

Reaching the well, the General instantly began turning the lever, pulling the bucket back up into the lightened world. Martin took the container into his grasp and began chugging away at its contents.

"Easy fella," the General said. "You'll make yourself vomit!" Martin took the General's advice and placed the bucket down on the rim of the well. A loud clang of metal upon metal rang throughout the square and echoed on into the emptiness. Startled, Martin knocked the bucket and it fell back into the darkness before he could catch it.

"Don't fret, son," The General told him. "It's attached to the rope for more than one reason."

"What the-?" Once more, the General answered Martin's unfinished question.

"Looks like them knights are at it again." He pointed toward the tree that Martin had awoken underneath. "Yeah," the General went on. "Those two fight constantly, like cat an' dog."

"You mean they never stop?" Martin was astonished that he had finally completed a sentence.

"Well, they do, until they forget what the last dispute was over and they play chess or cards or poker until one loses and they fight again."

"Seems they're not happy unless they're in competition."

"Well, ain't you the clever bastard?" The general chuckled. "You're right too, I 'spose."

While it seemed ludicrous to Martin that these two knights constantly fought without killing each other, it became apparent that it was true. The two were really putting all their might behind each swing of their sword.

"What are you two fuckers fightin' 'bout now?" the General cried out to them.

"He moved his bishop incorrectly, in an attempt to cheat me!" the one on the left shouted back

"That wasn't it!" the other chimed in, lowering his sword and lifting the visor on his helmet. "Were we not playing poker?"

"I can't remember, now," the first admitted. They both stood motionless and in silence.

"Backgammon?" the second suggested.

"That is a splendid idea," the first replied. Both sheathed their swords and headed away from the General and Martin to the other side of the square. The General gave an amused snort.

"Works every time." Martin sniggered, but a terrible thought ripped through his head.

"This place isn't real, is it?" The General turned sharply in the square, and looked enquiringly at Martin. Then, in one swift motion, he slapped him across the face and his arm went back to his side as though it had never moved.

"Did that hurt?" the General asked. Martin nodded. "Then its real. Now come on, you must be famished, son. Care for some food?" Martin's stomach grumbled. "Christ, I guess that's a yes!" the General said, letting his sharp laugh ring through the square again. "Over here. Best breakfast you'll ever eat. Well, when he gets it right, that is."

"It's morning?" Martin quizzed. "How can you tell?"

"I woke ten minutes ago son, an' I always wake early." Martin took the General's word. He seemed to know his way around the place. They walked across the grass in silence, heading toward the building adjacent to the town hall. On its porch were several tables. All were vacant.

"Take a seat," the General ordered. "I'll arrange the food." He said as he headed inside. Despite his urges to explore, Martin obeyed, and sat so he could face the colourless square. He got the feeling the General wasn't accustomed to being ignored.

"Probably why he's a general," Martin mused, watching the square. There began to be some hustle and bustle around. Shops opened for business, posting special offers on blackboards in the street. Stalls were being set up along the roadside, while carts were being unloaded of the days goods. The blacksmiths hammer now chimed throughout, like an alarm clock for the town. If people were not already awake, they certainly were now.

"Grub's comin'," the General had returned and planted himself across the table from Martin. "So, what do you think of the town?"

"It's strange," Martin confessed. "It's like I know all about this place, but have never actually been here." He paused, taking a sip of water from the cup he had failed to notice the General placing in front of him. "It seems quite peaceful." The General nodded in understanding.

"It is a nice place to live, I s'pose. As far as how you feel about it, maybe you're from here. I mean, it would explain the familiarity." Martin remained silent. He didn't think that at all, but he didn't want to disagree with the General. He knew the opposite; he wasn't from here at all. He remembered colour, smells, fashion, architecture, technology. This was all familiar yet alien, as if he had read it in a book but never experienced it first hand. The silence was interrupted by the arrival of their food.

"Here you go, gentlemen," a small man with a wild unkempt beard said while he placed two plates on the table. His shirt was covered in various stains, as was the apron around his waist. He stood up straight and cleared his throat, as if preparing to give a speech before a mass audience. "Welcome to the Fall Valley Hotel, Mr. Fisher. I am the owner." The Hotelier's voice was irritably high, like a whining bird's. So much so, that Martin wished he would leave. The Hotelier was not telepathic and didn't get the message. "The General informed me of your unfortunate situation, and if there is anything I can do to aid you sir, don't hesitate to ask."

"Thank you," Martin said, he added 'Please go now,' in his head.

"Will you require a room?" the Hotelier inquired.

"I don't think I will be staying that long." The General looked up from his breakfast at Martin.

"Oh," the Hotelier said, unable to hide his disappointment. "Well, you let me know if you change your mind." He returned to his hotel.

"He's a nice guy," the General said when the Hotelier was out of earshot, "But his voice. It's like his balls are in a bear trap!" Martin smirked and began to eat the breakfast of bacon, egg, and bread that the General had provided. "Yeah," the General continued. "He wouldn't normally talk so much, its just that business has been real slow." Martin remained silent as he chewed his food. "What you said, you ain't stayin' long?"

"Not if I don't have to," Martin had to admit.

"But where do you go, son? I mean you don't know anythin' 'cept your name. You don't know where to go and, even if you did, you ain't got the means to get there." Martin's face went blank. The General was right. "Face it son, you ain't goin' anywhere 'til you got some legs to stand on. I hate to be the bearer of bad news but that's just the way it is." Nodding in agreement, Martin continued to pick at his breakfast. There was no possible alternative. For the time being, he was stuck in The Fall. Silence grated on the table between them. "I'm sorry, son.," the General said. "I'm an honest fella and, although what I said is the truth, I did say it harshly and I apologize." Martin looked up.

"Hearing it out loud just made it real." Again, the General gave his knowing nod.

"Don't worry son. It'll all work out," his lips turned upwards, in a reassuring smile, which Martin returned, but it unnerved him. There was something behind the smile, but before he could decipher what it was, the General's attention was pulled away from the conversation and the smile vanished, ten times quicker than it had appeared. "Hold up," the General said, tidying his appearance. "Here comes the Mayor."

"Morning gentlemen," the Mayor said in perfectly annunciated English. "How is the breakfast today?" He was very tall, had a well trimmed mustache and wore a light blue suit.

"Terrible!" the General replied. "He can definitely do better," he added, referring to the Hotelier.

"It's not that bad," Martin cut in. "I mean, I've had a lot worse." Charred bacon and sausage flooded Martin's mind from his childhood, although they felt a world away.

"I don't believe I've met your acquaintance," the Mayor said.

"Martin Fisher,"

"How do you do?" the Mayor tipped his hat to Martin, but cast a, brief, worrying glance at the General. Martin wasn't surprised. In a small town like The Fall, strangers would be treated with suspicion. He ignored the glance and went back to his breakfast.

"Do you plan on staying here long?"

"Just passing through," Martin muttered after swallowing.

"Well that's a shame,' The Mayor said. "Always room for new folk here. Most tend to move on to the next place though." Before Martin could ask about the next place, The General interceded.

"Did you have a chance to review my proposal, Mr. Mayor?" the General asked.

"I have not had a chance yet, but it is the first thing on my list after breakfast, so I will get back to you this afternoon." The Mayor paused and overlooked the square. "I believe I will avoid the hotel's cuisine this morning," He said. "Good day gentlemen." He left the porch and headed off across the square. They went back to their breakfasts, eating in silence, until another man, dressed in a military uniform that Martin didn't recognize, came and sat at a table at the far end of the porch.

"Who's he?" Martin inquired.

"No one talks to him," the General paused to swallow and continued. He knew Martin would want the whole story. "We think he murdered a family. Well, all the evidence suggests it was him or this other fella. Only him," the General pointed an accusing finger at the man. "Or this other guy could be capable of such..." he stopped, his emotions were getting the better of him. "I don't want to say anymore about it son. I said it all in my proposal to the Mayor." Martin's expression showed he was clueless. The General sighed. "I proposed we get more law in town, in the hope we could catch either red handed."

"Who's the other guy?" Martin asked, thinking the General would welcome the partial change of subject, but he only tightened up more.

"He's a crazy son-bitch who'd draw his iron on a fella as soon as look at him."

"Y'know, my ears burn whenever you speak of me General." The General stiffened.

From no where there was now a man sat on the table next to them. On his head was a

white top hat, with a large black feather tucked into it. A matching linen suit adorned his body, while his chest remained bare. Around his waist was a holster belt, carrying a six shooter.

"I'm sorry, Baron." the General said, his eyes down, staring at the table.

"Now if what you said about me was true..." the Baron's voice was soft and well-mannered, but his eyes were hollow. Martin could see madness within them. "...I would draw this pistol and shoot you where you sit." The Baron sat in silence, allowing the bartering for goods and the clanging of the blacksmith's hammer to fill the hardened air. "But, I'm not going to do that in order to disprove your statement." The weight lifted from the atmosphere as the Baron stood up to leave. Before he did, he lent down to Martin and said "I'll be back for you shortly." He walked away, his boots providing a bass line for the chiming of his spurs.

"What? Why is he coming for me?" Martin was so distressed that his headache returned.

"I don't know," the General muttered, but his face told a different story.

"Tell me why, General!" Martin said angrily, but the General vanished like ashes in the wind. As had the uniformed man at the other end of the porch. A foul stench sailed on the raging winds. Peering down at the plate in front of him, Martin saw that the food had rotted in an instant. He stood and wandered into the square. It was deserted. Stalls had been abandoned. Shops had closed. As had the school. Black clouds filled the white sky, casting darkness over The Fall, as Martin reached the centre of the square.

The wind rampaged around in a tornado that left Martin in the eye, cutting him off from the rest of the town and whispering incoherent threats, over which there was a voice coming from the well. Martin ran toward it. He found a priest on his knees, leaning upon its stone rim. His hands were clasped together in prayer.

"Our Father," the priest was shouting, in order to be heard over the dry storm. "Who art in heaven, Hallowed be thy name." As Martin reached to grab him, he too vanished and the storm stopped. A rattle of metal made Martin jump. He looked to the origin of the sound and discovered he was now shackled to the well. As the storm cleared, things became visible again, only they were not as they had been. Every single building in The Fall was now on fire. Colourless flames licked up the sides of walls, charring the bricks and smashing windows. The wooden sign from the town's entrance had fallen and its message had changed. The seven had vanished and it now stated that the population was one. The oak tree was dead and decomposed like it hadn't lived for years. Sat underneath it, top hat pulled down over his eyes, arms behind his head in support was the Baron. He sat motionless for a few minutes and then rose to his feet without using his hands for leverage. His weight just floated until he placed it onto his feet. He strolled over to Martin as black smoke billowed up into the sky and the crackle of fire gave a hideous tune to the scene of the burning town. Ash fell from the sky like black snow. Glancing to his left, Martin saw gallows that had been crafted from fresh timber. The noose swayed in the hot breeze that drifted through the square.

"Now comes the decision, Fisher," the Baron said as he approached. "Do you live here for the rest of your days, or do you die?"

"Of course I want to-"

"HEY!" the Baron shouted. He collected himself before he spoke again. "You do not make this decision. I do."

"What gives you the-" Again, the Baron didn't allow Martin to finish his sentence.

"I," the Baron pointed at himself with his thumbs proudly, "give myself the right to do whatever I want." He gave a wry grin. "See how I decided the fate of this town," He gestured with his hands while performing a twirl and laughing.

"Why?"

"Are you shitting me? They sold you out. They all knew that I was coming for you and yet they did nothing. No warning. Nothing. The General even led me right to you. You think it was a coincidence? I know better."

"But why do it? They helped you,"

"Just because they were aiding me doesn't mean they were beyond judgment."

"What did that family do to deserve your judgment?" This caught the Baron completely by surprise. His expression changed from pride to anger in an instant.

"How dare you accuse me of such an atrocity!" He told Martin. "I would not harm an innocent family!"

"Your lies are not very convincing," Martin hissed with malice. The Baron lunged at Martin, which he anticipated. He kicked the Baron in the crotch and threw him down the well. Several seconds expired before the sound of breaking bones echoed up from the depths.

"Well done," a voice from across the well said admiringly. "I was wondering if I would have to interfere." Martin looked up, startled by the sudden appearance of a cloaked figure sat on the rim of the well, with their legs dangled over the side. The black cloak covered every part of the body, while a scythe rested upon the well next to him.

"From bad to worse!" Martin exclaimed.

"Don't worry," the figure shook his head. "It's not your time." Martin looked at him disbelievingly. "I should know," he gave a little chuckle. Martin continued to stare. "Stop glaring at me like that," he said. "I am very self conscious."

The Reaper swiveled and placed his feet on the dead grass, not forgetting to grab his scythe. He walked slowly round, stopping a few feet away from Martin. "Hold still," he muttered, while raising the scythe above his head. It glistened as he brought it down, shattering the shackle around Martin's ankle. "Now, where the road splits outside town; go right and don't stop." Martin felt easier.

"What's to the left?"

"You don't want to know. Now go." Martin thanked the Reaper and sprinted down the only road in or out, following the parallel lines through white nothing, until he where the road split. He continued to run, following the Reaper's advice, down the right road. White turned to black, then back to white. His retinas burned. His eyelids flickered and then opened to the familiar coloured world.

"Martin?" A woman said excitedly.

"Where am I?" he replied in a confused tone.

"You're safe," she told him. "I'll be back in a second." She got up from the wooden chair with red cushioning that was at his bedside, walked on the turquoise floor towards the blue doorway. The sight of her green eyes and auburn hair made him feel warm, but he couldn't track her anymore. His neck was restricted by a brace. "Nurse," he heard her say. "He's awake."
Give the Devil His Due

Eight am. The downward spiral of suburban obscurity should have been well into it's continuation, but it wasn't. The carer had found the pale, skinny body of James Fairclough lying still on his bed, cold to the touch. There was no surprise, no shock. The carer had seen people kill themselves over much less. In James' case, he had merely put himself out of his own misery. He had had nothing but a hard time, suffering so much loss in the space of nine months. First, his parents had contracted the AIDs virus after he was born and died shortly before his fifteenth birthday. With no immediate family to take him in, he was taken into care with the hope someone would foster him but no one was interested in taking a bitter, pessimistic teenager into their homes and lives. Then, a few days earlier, his girlfriend Sally had died in a car accident, leaving James completely alone. The carer closed the young man's eyes and covered him with a blanket, closed the door to the room and went to the office to call the coroner. Another carer saw him and knew the look.

'Who?' he asked.

'Fairclough,' he said sadly. The other nodded knowingly.

'Not surprised. It was like the Devil himself was conspiring against the poor bastard.'

'I know. Never seen a kid so down trodden.'

'How did he do it?'

'Pills. It's all very tidy in there.'

'Well at least that's something, bless him.'

James had been elsewhere for hours. He had journeyed through countless moments of his life; his third birthday, Christmases, scoring in an under-11s cup final, meeting Sally, kissing her for the first time, his parents death. He fought off the rest. He couldn't relive losing Sally again. The images faded to black. He fumbled in the darkness and found a door. Turning the knob, he pushed through and into a waiting room. The walls were brilliant white, while the floor was carpeted thickly in dark green. There should have been a corporate logo on the wall, James thought. In the far corner was a reception point with Sally behind the desk. James started to run to her, but his feet failed him when he realised it wasn't how she was. Her blonde hair was in tatters; her face bloodied and bruised, her usually pretty features were disfigured and broken. James couldn't help but sob. He rounded the desk and flung his arms around her, but grabbed nothing but a cloud of smoke.

'They'll see you now, Mr. Fairclough.' He turned to find her standing lop-sided, propped up on a crutch as she was missing a leg and gesturing to the large double doors. He wiped his face, contemplated trying to hold her again but decided to just comply. Behind the door was a ball room, decorated in navy blue. There were three floor to ceiling windows to the left with blinding bright light shining through them. Situated in front of the windows was a long table crafted from oak. Three familiar faces sat behind the table. They were all James; two looked the same only the one seated in the centre looked like he hadn't slept for months, while the one on the right looked much older, with slicked back hair and an expensive looking suit.

'What happens now?' James asked, breaking the silence. His voice reverberated around the hall, asking the question over and over.

'This is your evaluation,' the James on the left said. 'We'll assess your life and death and decide whether you go up or...' He pointed downwards.

'What gives you the right to evaluate me?'

'We are you,' the future James snorted. 'Past, present and future. Now let's get on with it.' The past cleared his throat.

'You were a happy young man James. You had the world at your feet. Now yes, I understand you suffered some terrible pain and incredible loss, but you could have pulled through. I was strong. It would have taken years but it would have been worth it in the end. Your life would have moved on. Everyone loses their parents eventually and you would have met someone else.' The past finished and cued the present.

'I don't believe you ever would have recovered. This wasn't a flat tire or a broken exhaust; we were totalled. Sometimes life is just too hard and if you're not up to the fight, its best to retreat. I'm amazed we didn't do something sooner. We've wanted out of our life since they sent us to that shit hole orphanage.'

'Wouldn't have recovered?' the future cut in. 'I would have become prime minister. I pulled myself out of that hole and lived a great life. People would have loved me. I was to be voted in five consecutive times; the only person to ever do that.'

'Did you have any children?' The present asked with a sneer.

'No,' the future said bitterly.

'And why is that?'

'I never met anyone who could live up to Sally.'

'So, you never recovered fully, did you?'

'This is all pointless,' the past interrupted. 'He's going down anyway.'

'What?' James said. 'All I have done is suffer and I'm being punished for making it stop. What's that all about?'

'Life is a gift,' the past said.

'You don't decide your fate,' the future added.

'Suicide is a mortal sin,' the present said sorrowfully.

'So this was predetermined? What a waste of time!'

'Time is something you have a lot of now, boy.' James felt a clawed hand on his shoulder and hot breath on his neck. From the corner of his eye, he could see the demon was huge, easily nine feet tall. The windows were shuttered and the room went dark once again. The demon breathed loudly with an occasional snarl. James felt strangely at ease. On the other side of the room, an elevator was illuminated and the demon marched James to it, threw him into the iron interior through the sliding doors and crammed in behind him, bending at an awkward angle to fit. Examining it for the first time, James noticed the huge black tunic, wrapped with a black leather belt over thick leathery red skin. On his face were huge, ivory tusks sharpened to a deadly point. He should just sit down, James thought.

'You'd like that wouldn't you boy?' it growled. 'You'd like the chance to punch me and try and escape.'

'Punching you would be kind of stupid,' James told him as the lift began to descend. 'Can I even hurt you?'

'No,' it told him.

'See? What's the point? And even if I could hurt you, where would I go? There's no buttons to take me back up. This is a one way trip. Then I'd have punched a massive demon and I'd be stuck with him for all eternity. That wouldn't be clever on my part.' The demon smiled, its eyes flaring orange, as though James had disturbed a fire within its head.

'I like you, kid.'

'Thanks,' James said, unsure if that was a good thing. 'So what happens now?'

'You get to meet 'him'.'

'Oh. What should I expect?'

'Not much sympathy. Keep quiet and listen, but if you get an opportunity to make him laugh, do it.'

'Seriously?'

'He likes to laugh.'

Intense heat encircled them and the lift came to an abrupt stop, knocking James off balance, before the doors slid apart. The room beyond was black all over and bare, besides a door in the opposite wall and a huge fireplace to the right. Stood leaning over the fire, prodding it with a poker was a man dressed in a grey polo neck shirt, grey trousers and shoes. He had black hair that came down level with his chin and hid his face from James.

'Your Majesty?' the demon said, sounding unconvinced. The man turned. He had smooth, olive skin, high cheek bones and black dots surrounded by white for eyes. He was about six feet tall, slim and had an aura of untouchable confidence. He smiled at James, unnerving him and took out a silver cigarette case from his pocket and removed a long, slim cigar.

'Leave us, Jolfi,' he said, in a thick New York accent.. Jolfi didn't move. James could sense something irregular was going on. The man raised a questioning eyebrow to Jolfi, who followed the initial order, exiting through the door and closing it behind him. 'Take a seat,' he told James between his clenched teeth, the cigar clamped between them as he patted his body for a lighter.

'In what?' James asked. The man looked at James, the cigar hanging limp between hips lips and then he glanced back at the centre of the room, where two black leather sofas were now facing each other. James sat in the nearest one. The man sat opposite but gave a frustrated gasp and stood again, walking to the fire to light his cigar before returning to his seat. He took a long pull on the cigar.

'I like to smoke when I talk,' he said, plumes coming out of his mouth in sync to the words.

'Why would you want to talk to me?'

'Because you were once a friend.'

'A friend?'

'Yep. You were once Karule, one of the most powerful demons in my command. You kept the worst layer of Hell for me for a long time. With that service, I made a deal with G-O-D to give you a vacation.' James raised an eyebrow. 'Yes. Demons get vacations but they have to earn them. I mean REALLY earn them. You're talking hundreds of years of service with no penalties. Few have ever received one. You had always wanted to learn to surf, so I pulled some strings to make it happen. G-O-D agreed and we sent you to Hawaii for a month, all expenses paid.'

'What happened?'

'You died and we lost you in the system. The soul we gave you to use on your trip was inadvertently purified erasing your memory.' He paused, taking a long pull on his cigar, allowing James to process the information. 'We lost track of you for a long time, but we found you eventually. By then, I'd replaced you. There was no need to bring you back, so I let you be.'

'So I'm a demon?'

'Right now? No. You're the spirit of James Fairclough, but you were a demon and could be one again.' James held his head and said nothing.

'Souls are constantly reused, recycled if you will. That's partly why humanity was created. They act as a storage facility. When someone dies, the soul comes in for purification and sent to a new body.'

'So what am I if I'm not my soul.'

'Like I said, you're the spirit of James Fairclough. Spirits live forever in heaven and hell, but not souls. It's pretty complicated.' James groaned, annoyed at his inability to understand. 'Souls give G-O-D life. They go to Earth to charge and then they bring it back, we extract it and send it back again. Without it, existence would be extinguished. That's as simple as it gets.' He let James pull himself together and waited for him to speak.

'What's the other reason for the creation of humanity?'

'I'm not the guy to ask. I just work here,' he said, shrugging. 'Now, like I said, we've known where you were at all times but have left you, but now you're needed again. That's why we brought you back.'

'You did all this to me?' James said, standing up but not moving another inch. The Devil didn't move.

'G-O-D gave the go ahead. He wanted it all official, a definitive end to your time on earth and that meant death. He wouldn't have it another way. There could be no room for error this time.' James sighed and tears dropped from his eyes. 'I'm sorry man, I really am but consider you've been in the system for five hundred years and you'll understand that this is an emergency. Me and G-O-D have been talking constantly for the past year. Before that, the last time I spoke to him directly was for your vacation. That's how big this is.'

'Why didn't you just take me?' James sniffed.

'You had to come here and you were a good kid. G-O-D wanted it official. You had to be made to send yourself to Hell. We broke ties with your extended family, took your parents earlier, orchestrated the crash. Everything. It's an emergency.'

There was a loud bang as the door flung open and crashed against the wall. A familiar man charged at the Devil, wielding a knife. His eyes were wide with insanity, a large 'NO' was branded on his forehead and his khaki uniform was torn to shreds. The Devil disarmed him with one hand and grabbed his attacker by the throat with the other, lifting him clean off the ground.

'Jolfi!' he shouted. Jolfi returned to the room and the Devil threw the attacker to his feet. 'Do something very unpleasant to him.'

'Yes, Your Majesty,' Jolfi said with a sinister smile, grabbing the attacker by the leg and dragging him away, ignoring his threatening shouts.

'Fucking Hitler,' the Devil mumbled. 'That's the eighth time this week.'

'What's with the 'NO' on his forehead?'

'No release.'

'People get released?'

'Yeah. When they have suffered equally to the life they lived. Like a prison on Earth.'

'Only more fun,' James muttered. The Devil laughed loudly.

'You always were funny, Karule.'

'What's the emergency?'

'Hell is in a bad way. Many circles have been taken over by the inmates and they're aim is to open the gates and get back to Earth. Can you imagine what G-O-D would do if they were successful? He'd have my ass on a platter!' He took another pull on his cigar nervously. 'Now a few of my best guys have joined the rebellion, but we've been able to keep them at bay, but every hour they grow stronger as more spirits join their cause. No matter what we offer, they'd rather return to Earth than go to heaven.'

'People are stupid,' James said.

'Not really. If I had a choice, I'd want to go to Earth too, but I'm bound to this place. My own fault I admit, but it would be nice to get out for a while.'

'What would I have to do?'

'Release Karule from inside your spirit and help us get this under control. Otherwise, we're looking at Hell on Earth and eventually, the end of existence.'

'Jesus,' James muttered.

'Sadly he or G-O-D can't help. Their side can't enter Hell. It's a failsafe in the system, so they could never be trapped down here. Personally, I just think they didn't want to have to get their hands dirty.'

'I don't want to get my hands dirty,' James admitted. The Devil looked up, sighed then looked back down to speak, but before he could, he froze and James was blinded by light. He covered his eyes with his hands to shield them, while his surroundings felt cool and breezy.

'You must do this, James.' A voice told him. It was feminine but firm and echoed loudly.

'Why? I've done nothing but suffer my entire life and now you expect me to just be obedient in the afterlife?'

'It's all of existence. You can save it from destruction.'

'I don't think I want to. The world is a horrible place as it is and now I learn it's just there to help you exist. Did you ever think that it might be better to just let it all go?'

'I ponder it all the time,' she said thoughtfully. 'But if I ceased to exist, something else would replace me.'

'Would that be so bad?'

'Why find out? I pour love into Earth and it creates beauty.'

'What are you talking about? Millions suffer on a daily basis.'

'Lucifer was right when he said it was complicated,' she murmured. 'Without Earth, without Lucifer, without me, the universe would be unbalanced.'

'But it wouldn't exist!'

'It would. There are other worlds out there, other beings. Yes, Earth sustains me, but to help me keep balance. There are other beings that are powerful like me, but thrive on darkness.'

'So basically, you want me to do it for aliens?'

'Yes and yourself.' James tried to look but was still locked in a strong ray of light. 'I can send you back.' He nodded.

'G-O-D spoke to you, didn't she?' James uncovered his eyes and found he was back in Hell with the Devil.

'I'll do it,' he said.

'Excellent,' he said, getting up from the couch and tossing the cigar into the fire. 'Call me Luke.'

'Call me James,' he replied shaking the hand firmly. Luke nodded and squeezed tightly, causing pain. Before James could protest, he had been spun round to face away and strongly gripped on the shoulders.

'This'll hurt,' Luke told him before starting to pull him apart. James screamed loudly as Luke struggled against his flesh. His screaming brought Jolfi into the room. 'Help me,' Luke snarled. They each grabbed a shoulder and ripped James in two. He watched as they discarded the two parts of his body and led him through the door quickly. He understood why. He started to grow, bigger and bigger, taller and taller. They had emerged from the foot of a large black tower and James was quickly sprouting up alongside it. He guessed he must have been four stories tall. Around him the sky was filled with red clouds, while the ground below was burned to charcoal and ash.

'You're bigger than I remember!' Luke shouted up to him. James looked down and saw his body. He wore the same black tunic as Jolfi. His skin was red and reptilian, while there were huge black iron gauntlets on his arms. He felt his face and was relieved to find he had no tusks.

'Karule?' Jolfi said, confused.

'The very same,' Luke said smugly as more of his followers came to his side. They numbered around thirty.

'What now?' James said. His voice boomed and rattled the tower and the ground it stood on.

'Follow me,' Luke called. 'Big heavy step and spit out fire. I want them all to see you.' Luke led them to the edge of a vast pit. The bottom was several miles away. From inside, there were loud shouts and cries. Some were of pain but others were of defiance. James stomped his way right to the edge. A vast silence broke out and the pit came to a standstill. James felt powerful as the spirit of Karule coursed through his new body.

'Remember me?' he boomed. Luke turned away, stifling a laugh. James paid no heed and leapt into the centre of the pit where there was a large crowd of dissenters. A section tried to rush him, but he blew them back with flames and brought them all to heel. 'Who leads the rebellion?' he asked. They all jostled and pointed to a mixed group of people and demons that now stood alone. James stomped on the ground. 'This better be all of them!!!' They pleaded and screamed that it was. Satisfied, James scooped them up in his enormous hand and crushed them effortlessly, mashing them into his palm with his fingers. The sound of their cries and snapping bone were audible to everyone. 'Hear this; this plot to reach Earth ends now. If I have to return into this cesspool, you will all suffer beyond anything you have ever imagined in your miserable lives. You'll be begging for Heaven to take you.' He sprayed more flame at their feet and covered the entire line of people with it to hammer home his point before clawing his way up and out of the pit in a matter of seconds. Luke had a big smile on his face as James scraped the leaders off of his hand on to the ground and wiped his hand on his tunic.

'What now?' Jolfi asked.

'I'm not finished,' James growled. He tore a small section of iron from the tower, put the dissenters on top of it and then bent it between his hands, pinning them between it.

'Nice,' Luke said.

'Thanks,' James said, tossing the handmade prison over his shoulder, back into the pit.

'And a permanent reminder for them too! Are you after my job?'

'Nope.' When the words had left his body, there was a flash of light and Hell was behind him. James found himself on the steps of the orphanage with his bags. He wasn't alone. Sally had her arms around him.

'We'll be okay,' she told him. 'I swear. You'll see.' He remembered the moment.

'I hope so,' he repeated himself. She kissed him on the cheek, said she'd see him later and went. She had somewhere to be but he couldn't remember where. He sat on the steps a few minutes longer.

'So you made a deal with G-O-D behind my back?' James looked up and Luke was standing there, smoking a cigar, dressed in all black.

'I didn't want to stay.'

'Don't blame you. Don't blame you at all.' He sat down on the step next to him. 'Get to spend another few months with your girlfriend, then go on to become prime minister.'

'Oh no! The car crash.'

'Tough break, kid. But, I'm still owed. I'm short one kick-ass demon.'

'What if I tell God?' Luke winced at the name, as if it scalded.

'We both know G-O-D doesn't listen. But me? I can stop it. I'm the one that did it the first time.'

'You want me to go back, don't you?'

' Well I would like you to come back but I'm reasonable. We can sort something out. No car crash and Sally lives out her life with you in exchange for you being on call in the event of an emergency.' James was stunned and couldn't say anything. 'See? Not so bad. If things get rough down there, I bring you in, you help me out, maybe we have a coffee and then you come back. No harm done.

'What's the catch?' Luke laughed.

'Don't worry about it.' James pounced and had him by the throat. Luke was dumbfounded.

'What the hell man?'

'What's the catch?'

'People just can't wait for surprises these days. Back in the day, they'd be happy to just get what they want. Now they're all reading the fine print.'

'Tell me,' he snarled, squeezing harder.

'When you're time on Earth is done, you'll come back to Hell forever.' James let go.

'As me or Karule?'

'As what you were when you were last in Hell.'

'Deal,' he said, extending his hand.

'Just like that?

'Yep.'

'I don't like it,' Luke said unsure. 'That was far too easy. Why?'

'I get a life with Sally or I don't. It's an easy choice.'

'Fair enough,' he shrugged. They shook on it. 'Wait. You're planning on bringing her to Hell aren't you?'

'Yep.'

'Jesus.'

'He can't help you.'

'You can't bring her,' he said after a chuckle.

'I'll have satisfied our agreement. I'll be able to do what I want.' There was quiet for a while. Luke stood up, began to walk away but turned back. James shrugged at him with a cheeky smirk. Luke threw his head back and roared with laughter for a whole minute.

'You're lucky you make me laugh,' he said, wiping tears from his eyes.
My Little Brown Friend

It is amazing how something small can have a massive effect on everything around it. When people see an engagement ring on a finger or a newborn child in a stroller, it changes their mood. That same ring being handed back or the child in an incubation unit conveys a different message and triggers opposing emotions. Even something as insignificant as a conker can knock the switch, changing the tracks ahead. If allowed into the soil, it will grow into a huge tree, just like the ones I walk by every day without a thought. Today was different. Today they grabbed my attention. A conker fell and narrowly missed my head, clonking on the pavement, rolling a few feet before coming to a stop in front of me. I stopped with it. Stared. Up at the tree. Down at the conker. I thought about the height of the tree and the pain that I had just narrowly avoided by nothing other than a stroke of luck. If I was taller or a quicker walker, it would have hit me or I wouldn't have noticed it all. I didn't dodge it. I didn't see it until it hit the ground. It could easily have hit me, used me to cushion its fall but it didn't. It chose to miss me.

I stood for several minutes, contemplating the conker's decision. Glancing up at the tree, then back down to the fallen seed. I finally managed to shake away the thought and continued my journey home, leaning down to pocket the conker in case I wish to continue the philosophical debate with myself later.

I made it home and opened the door. Off went the coat, on went the kettle. Same routine, only today I had a guest. I placed the conker on the kitchen sideboard and stare again, as if I anticipate it to sprout eyes and a mouth to explain to me why it missed or even if it intended to. Then if it liked music or football or television or movies. Is he a political conker? Does he lean to the left or the right? The kettle clicks and hisses that the water is burning its insides and I should empty it quickly. I oblige. I need the water anyway. I make a coffee and move to the living room, taking my new little friend with me and settle down on the couch and switch on the TV with the remote. I flicked channels for thirty minutes. It's all terrible; cooking shows, talk shows, news, cricket, soap operas, bad movies. I switch it off and slam the remote down on the arm of the chair.

The conker stared up at me from the table. I wonder why. I ask. It says nothing. Does it really want to watch Richard and Judy talk nonsense? My small brown comrade said nothing but I began to understand. It has never been this close to a television. It was curious. It wanted to learn. I switched it back on. I didn't want to upset it. I turned my attention to the morning's newspaper, even though I've already been through it twice. I try to find something I haven't read, but all I can find are the celebrity gossip pages. I put the paper down and sigh. I'm uncomfortable so I lie down on the couch, resting my head on the arm. I watched the conker. It didn't move. Just stared at the screen, listening intently. Fortunately, I didn't find it as riveting and I fell asleep.

A knock at the door awoke me a few hours later, the clock tells me. I brushed away sleep, stood unsteadily and went to answer it. It was two policemen. They looked at me, then a piece of paper. They nod at each other. They want me to go with them. They say they can arrest me if necessary. I chose the easier option after watching their faces for a few seconds. They looked incredibly serious. I put on my shoes and grabbed my coat, leaving the conker to watch the television and lock the door behind me, before following them to the patrol car. I look around. There are curtains twitching in the neighbouring houses. I shake my head, making sure to keep my chin high to deter whatever rumours of guilt. I doubted it would work. They'd be chirruping like early morning birds within minutes.

We left and reached the local police station a few minutes later, where I was put into an interview room, with nothing but blank walls and a mirror to entertain me. I wished I had brought the conker. He would know exactly what to do. He would know my rights, what questions I should and shouldn't answer, how long they can hold me and all that legal stuff. He would tell them to go to Hell, his client was innocent and unless they could produce some solid evidence, then they should release me immediately. But then, he had only seen a TV for the first time today. I have been stupid. I should have told him where I was going at least. He could have helped me out if I was here to long. Hopefully someone will come find me eventually.

A detective finally entered, interrupting my thoughts. He quizzed me. Do I know this person? Do I go here or there? What do I do? Where do I work?

Then came the million dollar question; Why was I loitering on Childwall Valley Road this evening?

I told him everything, weary of leaving anything out in case he thought I was lying. The conker, the contemplation, taking it home, coffee, TV, falling asleep. Everything. My heart is racing. I'm petrified. What do they think I've done? He looks at me with cold eyes and asked me if I'm telling the truth. I swore down that I was. He told me to sit tight and left me to stew, coming back at the exact moment I was ready to snap and start crying. He asked me all the same questions again. I answered them all the same. I'd been to work, walked home, nearly got hit by a conker and picked it up. Then he barked an accusation at me. I broke down and asked for a solicitor. He snarled and left. I told myself if I got home that I would put the conker in the bin. The little bastard had made me a murder suspect.
The Shroud of Darkness

In the light, Hyde Park is a green blanket stretching for miles, nothing hidden. Children engage in whatever captures their imaginations. Climbing a tree to get to the crow's nest, running through bushes to escape the clutches of an evil king, scoring the winning goal in a cup final. It serves as an open plateau for creativity, with no borders or boundaries; just infinite freedom for those who wish to harness it. Others use it for more simple things. Exercise for man and dog, sun-bathing when the weather permits, a quick route to work. Many uses for many people. Filled with relaxed sights and joyful sounds.

But when that coin flips and turns up the night, the blanket is replaced with mass uncertainty. The darkness constricts a person in a bubble of black, where only a few feet around them are visible. Distant lights reflect off of the leathery tarmac; a reminder of the outside world. Concealment for anything or anyone is everything and everywhere. Only the rustle of dry leaves brushing against themselves is audible. The wind or movement? Is it time to bargain with God to allow them safe passage or not?

Matthew Moore smirked. Lesser men are always on edge in places like this; their heads heavy as though a large slug was attached to the back of it, seeping its gunge into the brain, causing the panic, making inanimate objects appear threatening and remote sounds creep up to explode down their ear suddenly, sending their hearts sinking to the bottom of their chests to rest upon the cushion of their stomach to hide in case something did emerge, teeth and claws bared. But Moore knew the truth. He was the most dangerous thing there tonight. There were few others to contend with. A young couple sat on a bench, muttering in opposing tones, the female angry, the male apologetic. They fall silent as he gets into earshot and maintain it as they monitor him closely, offended by the interruption, by his presence. The male's eyes scream 'friend or foe?' The female concentrates, keeping what she was saying on her mind. Once he is out of range again, they continue with slightly less intensity. Couldn't be that serious if they could compose themselves so a stranger wouldn't learn of their intimate secrets. Moore found it strange that people handle private issues in public places, where anyone could eavesdrop. Even in his line of work, requests to meet in crowded locations were common. A good spy could sit in a plaza in a big city and hear all sorts of intel if they had the patience. He sighed. He had joined MI6 as a teenager fresh from completing his A-Levels; the youngest recruit in a group of thirty. He had believed he was joining a well-established intelligence organisation that was second to none. Yeah right. His feelings couldn't have been further than the truth. Many of the operatives still played by Cold War rules, despite it being over for almost twenty years and them not playing a part in at all. They carried an array of disguised gadgets at all times, spoke in code and riddles and looked well, like spies; suits, ties, mirror-shined shoes, straight-cut hairstyles. It was clear he didn't fit in with his hoodies, cargo shorts, Air Jordans, shoulder-length dark hair and Scouse accent. He was an outcast from the start. He couldn't quote Shakespeare or Plato, he didn't have an encyclopaedic knowledge of current affairs or politics, opera, theatre and classical music weren't his scene. Unlike every one of his colleagues, he had joined before he attended University and still hadn't been. He liked football, rock music and reading fast-paced thrillers. Parkes told him that was the point. He wasn't recruited to fit in, but to be an anti-operative. MI6 were the old guard. Moore was part of a new breed with a fresh outlook. The Blackbox Directive was Britain getting its teeth back. Gone was the red-tape of politics, both foreign and domestic, replaced by a ruthless extermination of threats, no questions. This is the objective they gave an 18 year old Matthew Moore and by 21, he was the best Britain had by the few who knew his true name. Some thought he was a myth, a bogeyman for terrorists, spies and traitors. Those who had crossed paths with him and lived, whispered it to their most trusted friends, for fear it could test their luck if they said it out loud. But it spread the word. The FSB and Mossad respected him for doing what needed to be done, MI6 regarded him with disgust, unaware that he secretly represented them, the CIA hated him. Moore thought this was hilarious. They were the worst of them all. Shoot, blow up, ask questions later was their motto, know of this 'And ye shall know the truth...' crap. Moore did his homework. He was never unsure when he pulled the trigger, flung a knife, tightened a noose. Blackbox was all that mattered; Parkes, Masterson, Survenir. They were good people. If things did blow back, they wanted no black spots. Parkes wanted it all to be completely justified and then, if all else failed, he could show them the charter he had received from the Prime Minister. They all needed to cover their arses. It was good work. There was a minority he would like to kill but that's same with any job. Or so he was told. He wondered if it was true or just an explanation to dissuade him from cutting throats. They all knew he would. Moore had no conscience, well as far as anyone could tell. He'd cheated on tests, shot men in the back, shagged women in their marital beds before watching the life drain from their eyes as he choked them. Although, somehow he had a definitive sense of right and wrong. It was why he was ideal for the job; killing people who killed people was just logical to him. While he was a family man now with a wife and daughter and he was extremely loyal and faithful to them, Moore didn't bat an eyelid when he put people down. Gratuitous research had been done (against his will. Parkes made him). It was something to do with his grandfather fighting in the Second World War was the conclusion. It had made Matthew remorseless over righteous killing. Something like that anyway. Moore didn't care. His work challenged him, he was paid well, he was happy. Everything else was irrelevant.

He walked on. No one was in sight. Only the murmurs of the couples' argument disturbed the peace. There was a lot to do. Moore had been 'promoted'. Transferred more like. He was being moved away from the main game because he had ruffled a few feathers by refusing to help the CIA on a mission which went on to fail. Langley blamed his alias. Brockett, a stuck up snob who ran operations agreed. Parkes had argued and fought. The Prime Minister had become involved. He sided with Parkes. Blackbox didn't exist for CIA assistance. It was at the operative's discretion. But, Parkes reasoned it might be worth moving Moore away for a while and made him head of station Thessilonika, at the far reaches of Blackbox territory. Moore had grumbled and groaned but Parkes was a strong-willed man; one of a very small number that Matthew actually respected. So he complied. The day to move was tomorrow. He hadn't packed a thing. He would arrive when he was good and ready. The list of subordinates he had received had accidentally fallen into a fire. Moore never read personnel files. They were always tainted by the observer's biases. He liked to make up his own mind about people. Masterson was Parkes' deputy and had recommended two men for his equivalent in Moore's office. He had chosen neither. Couldn't even remember their names. He would decide when he got there. Business, business, business. All these changes and decisions. It was easy if it only affected himself, but now other people would be in play. He was glad there was nothing on the horizon. Just the thing in Madrid, he reminded himself. What would he have to do? Discuss it with Joanne, obviously. She'd opt to stay in London and he didn't blame her. It was ok. He didn't plan on staying long. Pack too. What was the weather like in Greece at this time of year? Did he have accommodation? He had forgotten to ask. His head started to throb.

The sound echoed through the park, a giant bird flying overhead then away, into the distance. Moore turned. The female on the ground, holding her cheek; the male standing over her, dominant, aggressive.

'For fuck's sake,' Moore muttered, heading back. 'Oi, bell end. What are you doing?'

'Nothing to do with you. Piss off.'

'Back away,' Moore ordered as he neared. When he stood his ground, he added 'Now.' The woman stayed down, the man shuffled away tentatively. Moore helped her back to her feet.

'You ok?' She nodded, too shocked to speak as tears streamed down her flared up cheek.

'I said piss off, lad.' He was asserting his dominance through age. He was in his forties. Had at least twenty years on Matthew. When Moore ignored him, he came closer. One.

'Here's what's happening,' Moore declared to the woman. She was about Moore's age. 'You're going home without him. You'll call him tomorrow and tell him yes or no. I'll make sure he behaves, either way.'

'Who the fuck do you think you are you are, you Scouse prick?' Closer again. Two. There was never a third.

Moore whipped around and struck him with a vicious forearm. His nose exploded and he fell back on to the ground. The cartilage had snapped, blood poured. While he bordered on unconsciousness, Moore turned back to the girl.

'I think you can do better by the way.'

'I think you're right,' she muttered sadly.

'Off you pop,' Moore said, waving her away. 'Remember, think about it and call him. Yes or no. You understand?' She nodded and went towards the Marble Arch. He was still on the ground, trying to focus. 'Let me help you there,' Matthew said, seizing his ear and dragging him to his feet. Yelping he complied and didn't pass out. 'Walk with me.' The man took a feeble swing, which Moore ducked easily. 'Haven't got time for this, shithead. Come on.' He followed groggily, looking drunk, doped up or both.

Ahead, a man of about fifty moved closer. Moore watched his outline grow, shadow on shadow. Time slowed. Behind him, the man swung again and again Moore dodged, countering with a weak punch. He wanted him alert. The conjunction with the jogger neared. His footsteps echoed. He tripped his concussed companion face down on to the path and laughed. The jogger came within seeing distance.

Their eyes met.

In a split second, he diverged and accelerated, chancing the plunge into obscurity, hoping it would conceal him. Hopeless. Moore's eyes were well adjusted and with a snap of his arm, he had a silenced Sauer in his hand. Two quiet spits caught him in the back, one through the lung, the other in the lower spine. Moore fired a third time, hitting the target square in the back of the head as he fell to the moist grass. Producing a USB stick from his pocket, he tossed it on to the body. It was the evidence of his treachery; of accepting a payment to give up his CIA colleagues, causing a mission's failure, bringing a bag of shit for Matthew to hold. The man with the broken nose and concussion lay on the ground, stunned. His face was horrified. Not by the gun, but the body.

'On your feet chicken shit.' He did as he was instructed. Moore holstered the Sauer and searched him, finding a wallet. With his phone, he photographed the ID inside and dropped it on the floor. 'Now, I know who you are and where to find you. I'll be watching. Whatever that girl decides, you'll behave or I'll make sure you end up like him over there.' He gestured with his head while maintaining his hard stare. 'I'm not someone to disobey. I'm not a copper, you realize that don't you?' He nodded, gasping for air after holding his breath. 'My name is Matthew Moore. I'm an assassin. You understand that?' Another nod. 'Good. You mention this to anyone, I'll fucking kill you with this.' In a flash, he unsheathed a knife from his left sleeve and put the cold metal on his exposed neck. 'Next time it touches you, it won't be the flat edge. D'you get me?'

'Yeah,' he whimpered.

'Good. I enjoyed our talk. Now, piss off.' He bowed his head and staggered away, blood still dripping on to the ground. Moore looked to the sky, guessed it would rain soon. They couldn't trace the blood if it wasn't there. Satisfied, he left to catch the tube home. The shroud of darkness that lay over Hyde Park would keep his secret until daylight could drag it from the landscape and then, it wouldn't be his problem.

###

Hey! You made it all the way to the end! Thank you! I hope you enjoyed it and decide to leave a review at your ebook retailer of choice. Now, as a reward for your enthusiasm, here's a sample of my novel, _What Happened to Dominic?_ for your wonderful eyes to consume!

Thanks again!

Jon Swift
What Happened to Dominic? Preview

1

They strolled. As if they did not have a care in the world. No looks over shoulders, no apprehensive clenching of fists. They strolled. The heavily shaded street was quiet, tranquil. There was not a blemish on the clear, fresh sky, but an early heat on the air, waiting to expand. Only bakers and milkmen were up at this hour, their day beginning. For the two apparent executives, strolling along in their well-tailored suits however, their work was concluded for the day. Madrid would soon be behind them.

'How did I do?' the bigger man asked his smaller counterpart. His bulging, muscular neck flexed in tense excitement and he took a deep breath to calm himself. The smaller man contemplated the question as they neared their car, slotted amongst a row of others outside a deserted limestone building. He thought of the simplicity of the plan, the brilliance of its execution, the retrieval of what they wanted and the close proximity of completion.

'Considering it's your first time,' he said, his English accent was thick and unmistakably from Merseyside. His long hair was slicked back into a neat ponytail. 'So far, so good.' A broad smile exploded on the big man's thick features. 'We just need to get back now.' An understanding nod. The smaller man was the expert.

'Do you think they're on to us?' A pause as the smaller man went over the details in his head. They had been in, he had distracted the security guard with questions and frustration in fluent Spanish, while the big man had slinked off like a cat, picked a few locks, found the file and returned with it in his briefcase. The absence was less than a minute. The guard had not noticed. Then they had left. Two minutes had passed.

'No. They haven't noticed its missing,' he said, thumbing the unlock button on the car key. The big man let out a relieved sigh through smirking lips.

'That's-' A spurt of blood erupted from the big man's forehead and he fell backwards, a limp tree felled by an axe. Sniper. The smaller man grabbed the briefcase and darted to his left, the pre-planned route of escape. He could see the red pinpoint emanating from a tall building about a mile away, closing in on his body and he heard the high-pitched chirrup of the suppressed rifle as it fired. A searing hot pain chewed on his right shoulder as the bullet cut his flesh like a high-powered drill through a sponge cake, spitting out into the tarmac with a splash of blood behind him. He felt faint as he dashed toward a flight of concrete steps, causing him to lose his bearings and tumble down them, with each bump striking with sickening impact. His shoulder was a shambled state, feeling as if it were about to fall off, at least one rib was broken, as were a few fingers on his left hand and a potentially sprained ankle. However, he still had the briefcase. He needed to continue with the mission. Up. He staggered to his feet with the aid of a fence, still feeling woozy from his wounds. Focus. Move. He stumbled out into a glimmer of sunshine that acted like a blast of cold water. Turning right, his balance returned, he limped along quickly toward the apartment he had rented for the eventuality of a quick escape. A moment of shock as the numbness brought on by adrenaline faded and he felt the blood dripping from his fingers. A trail. A way to track him. He ducked down a small alley, removed his jacket and stripped the shirt from his torso to wrap around the wounds, wiping any excess blood on his pants. Onward. He left the alley and worked on periods. How long since he was shot? How long had it taken him to get up from his fall down the stairs? Fuck, fuck, fuck! Could he have passed out? The smaller man plodded on, but with each passing step he expected to be executed at point blank by a second gunman and in his current state, there was little he could do to prevent it. Even with all of his training.

'Just keep going,' he muttered to himself. Only, it came out as 'ju... kee... goie,' making him feel worse rather than encouraged as intended.

'Ju... kee... goie,' he said again with more stomach, bringing his chin up. He was here. Fumbling, he found the key and let himself in. An old landlady was sweeping outside the entrance to her apartment. Fucking hell! Why did the elderly always get up so early?

'¿Estás bien?' What did she say? Hang on, where am I? He suffered in a black abyss of vulnerability and pain, until his mind managed to churn out: Madrid, Spain, Spanish.

'Estoy bien. Alguien intent aspartame ayer por la noche.' Was that the right phrase for 'someone tried to mug me last night?' He hoped so. He really did not want to have to kill her.

'Eso es terrible! Ir a descansar. Y luego venir a verme más tarde y voy a hacer algo de comer. Soy el mejor cocinero en todo Madrid!'

'Graçias,' he said, thanking her for her offer to cook him some food later while flashing her a smile of gratitude before hobbling up the stairs to the third floor. He unlocked the thick door, went in and bolted it behind him, engaging a countermeasure that used compressed air to fire darts at any intruder. The small man activated the air conditioning and went round setting up all of the traps on the windows before drawing the curtains. Now the hard part. He went to the bathroom, where a huge plastic sheet covered the floor and bath and stripped to his bare skin. In the mirror, he could see the wound was a clean one. Straight through the collarbone and out the other side. Not too serious. He undid his ponytail and lay on the floor, bringing a box the size of a computer keyboard closer, flipping it open to allow access to the field medic kit inside. He had never used one on himself before, but had been instructed how to do so. First, the sachet of cleansing powder, which STUNG LIKE FUCK!

He let out a controlled whimper as he felt the pain trickle down the wound, but not through to the other side. Grimacing, he turned over and opened another sachet, dumping the contents as close as he could before bracing himself and sweeping it in with his fingers. Done, he turned on to his back. Now for the fun. He took out a long plastic gun that reminded him of the caulking gun his father had used when decorating the bathroom. Another brace and he stuck the nib of the barrel inside, deeper and deeper, inflicting more agony on himself until it was near the exit wound. Then he pulled the trigger and slowly removed the barrel as the foam was secreted, torturing him as it expanded. It lasted forever, the injection, the retreating, the expansion, the gnawing of his bottom lip, until he could not withstand anymore and the tool fell from his grip. He touched the wound and felt the foam protruding from it. It was done. Resting on the floor, feeling good to finally be still, he did not think about the narrow escape, how easily it could have been him with the hollowed out skull instead of his counter part or how the big man's poor family would miss him and his sense of humour. Instead, he felt relief at not having to kill the old woman downstairs. There was already enough blood on his hands. Not that that was a problem for him. It was only a concern when it was innocent blood, and thankfully, it was minimal. He pictured asking her to cook her best dish, then sitting down to eat it with her and explaining his impending return to London by telling her he was going home to his parents in Fuenlabrada for a few months to recover. He would lie about going to school with Fernando Torres, knowing enough about the Spanish striker from being a Liverpool fan all of his life to cover it. They would discuss Atletíco or Real's fortunes, depending on whom she supported, then their respective families until the food was gone and he felt tired. He would try to leave her a wad of notes, which she would refuse, but he would insist, before returning to his room to pack.

He smiled at the scene. It always felt good to have a moment of normality away from the chaos and bloodshed his work involved and he looked forward to it immensely. Rising from the floor, he went dizzy, but steadied himself using the sink and took a cold shower, washing away the blood from his body, condemning it all to the past. Wrapping bandages around the wound, he returned to the bedroom, his mind with the old lady downstairs again.

'Ahora se cuida, Juan Suarez,' she will say. He felt a little twitch as he pulled a pair of Sauers from a drawer and lay them on bedside cabinets on both sides of the double bed, wishing that she was telling the real him, Matthew Moore, to be careful. Knowing that wasn't possible, he fell on the bed, decided it would be months before he could start getting back at the people who did this and allowed the long awaited black out to take hold.
2

Dawn. Distant voices down a long, grimy hallway. Cheap curtains swaying in the light, morning breeze, pouring in through the open window. On a bed, a sleeping body lay contorted as it had rushed to the solace of slumber only a few hours earlier, unwrapping itself from its sweated, smoke-ridden clothing and collapsing face down above the covers rather than beneath them. Goosebumps were bubbling on the olive skin as a result, only the messages of cold were not registered by a mind that was too numb to care. However, the sudden cry of the attention seeking telephone on the adjacent, flimsy cabinet did make a mark, forcing the reluctant bulk to reach, pick up and manoeuvre to listen.

'Dominic!?!?' The voice rattled from the earpiece and down the eardrum, its heavily Italian accented pronunciations ricocheting around the orifice. A bullet let loose from a gun.

'DOMINIC!?!?' Another deafening shot fired directly into the clouded brain.

'Yeah?' Dominic managed to respond in a mutter, as the ringing in his ears grew louder. Church bells on Sunday. 'Who is it?'

'Huh?' Uncertainty apparent in the old voice. 'You'll have to speak louder; I ain't got my hearing aid. That you Dommy?'

'Yeah. WHO... IS... IT?' Dominic spread out the words, as he did when he spoke to tourists who needed help finding the Empire State Building or Broadway, but could notunderstand what he had told them the first time. So he treated them like morons, because they were. Who needs help finding the fucking Empire State? It stands out like a nun in a brothel.

'It's Benito, Dominic!' Great. The shouting trick. I am deaf so I will make everyone in the world share my fate by shouting all the time. 'Now, listen!'

'Thank fuck I don't have to listen to you!' Dominic thought, but kept it to himself, remaining silent, waiting for his uncle to continue.

'It's your Pop, kid,'

'What about him? Is he okay?' Dominic just could not resist. His curiosity had the better of him in his newly awakened state. As had concern. It jolted his brain to wag the tongue to sound the words. Every part of his being wanted to know.

'Will you shut the fuck up?' Benito ordered. 'Jesus! What's wrong with you?' The outburst showed his distaste for the task. The news would not be good. 'Your Pop. He died in his sleep. You need to come home.' Benito said robotically, as if he had rehearsed it repeatedly. Bad news always needs vigorous preparation. It was never easy telling a person that someone they loved had gone.

'Okay,' Dominic simply replied, slamming the phone back into its cradle and turning over to return to sleep. His moronic family back in New York had never understood the time difference, to his perpetual frustration.

'If its ten a.m. there, then its seven a.m. here, dickweeds,' he had told them, upon answering the phone at stupid 'o' clock for the seventieth time.

'Don't call your mother a dickweed,' had been the calm, almost amused response he had received from his father, after she had passed the mouthpiece to him and repeated what Dominic had said.

He flipped the pillow to feel the cool release upon his cheek. The modest movement stirred his hangover into life. The beast thumped and thrashed around his head, like a newly caged silverback gorilla, demanding water, Alka Seltzer and a sausage and egg McMuffin. Dominic ignored the pulsating creature's demands, opting instead to roll over and try to rediscover the comfort spot he had lost answering the phone, while trying to process the information he had received from Benito. The computer in his head was running terribly slow, having only just been booted and its circuits being riddled with the fallout from alcohol. What had he said again?

Your.

Pop.

Died. A chill.

'Pop is dead?' The phrase repeated over and over in Dominic's mind, a plane circling, waiting for clearance to land in the cyclone of change; the whirlwind of regret.

The California sunshine crept in under the swaying curtains, an unwanted guest in Dominic's room, mockingly dancing around his head, purposefully stinging his closed eyes. They opened and stared at the white ceiling, stained in places by only God knows what. Lying still, he thought of home. His Mama in hysterics, his sisters trying to console her as she threw ornaments and vases at his brother, chasing him around the house, ranting and cursing in flawless Italian, before caving in to sob in a chair to the point where she could not catch her breath. In the background, uncles and cousins conspicuously search for documents. A title, a bank statement, hopefully something important and lucrative, whether it legitimately states ownership or it can be forged to say so. They were capable of that.

'Fucking scavengers,' Dominic garbled, rolling out of bed. The chilly morning air grated at his skin, ruining its usually smooth texture. He ignored the sensation, the tingling feel of hairs standing on end, as if to locate the culprit who created the bitter surroundings or simply to get a better view of the world. A cold world. A selfish world. Where people will step over a still warm corpse to acquire riches or fame, while the deceased's partner cries uncontrollably like a hungry newborn. A world where you are born alone and die alone, with a life of insignificance, struggle and strife in between, while dreams conjured from visions slowly wither away into dust and blow beyond reach by the cyclone of change and the whirlwind of regret.

Your.

Pop.

Is.

Dead.

It was as if the cosmos was taunting Dominic through his own mind. Bullying him like it was the school playground, with pantomime crying and mocking wails. Then, it all hit.

Dominic was alone. His father was not around to guide him anymore. He was the man of the family now. The thought made him ill. He would have to deal with the scavengers. The business associates who would be scrambling to gain a foothold. The uncles who have pissed away their money on booze, clothes and jewellery to impress women who would not normally look at them otherwise. The cousins after a quick fix, as they too, have spent cash they did not have, on objects they did not need. In addition, Dominic would have to protect his mother from herself and her good-natured ways. 'Mother-fucking Teresa,' his father had yelled at her once. Pop was not one for charity. At least not anymore. He had worked his fingers to the bone to get where he was and had consistently aided his family with their financial troubles. He was, after all, a multi-billionaire and was in a position to do so. However, after years and years of the same people coming back for handouts again and again, he had adopted a policy of 'why should anyone get off the hook from my hard work?' It was a matter of principle. Man work hard, man get reward. That is the way of things. Mostly. It was tough love, designed to get them off of their asses to stand on their own two feet. Dominic sailed in exactly the same boat. He did not feel entitled to his father's wealth. Nor did he want to abuse it. He just wanted to use it to get an education and amass his own fortune... Or something like that. Only now, that policy boat they cruised in, Dominic had to steer, his father a ghost, floating above the deck over his shoulder as he held the wheel. There to observe. Nothing more.

'Didn't you learn anything?' Francesco Panatelli asked, his deep-set eyes glaring as he shook his head jokingly from side to side.

Dominic smirked at his reflection in the bathroom mirror, amused by his father's antics. As always. It vanished quickly. His eyes were bloodshot. Eyelashes entangled into spiked clusters, glued together by a dried fluid, tiny, erect dreadlocks. A memory surfaced from the static fog of the night before. In his drunken state, he had stared at the same mirror, tears streaming down his cheeks in rivers of sorrow. Why? Why had he done that? He ran a search in his mind, like using Google to search the World Wide Web and narrow its infinite abyss of information down to exactly what he wanted.

'Why was I crying last night?' It was an odd occurrence, so a record would have been stored.

'File not found. However, there are two close matches. You cried when you fell from that tree and broke your arm when you were thirteen. Also when you were seventeen and your Grandmamma died.'

Fuck!' Dominic gasped in frustration, thudding his hand against his forehead in an attempt to jog his memory, causing his brain to bulge and throb, as it threatened to break from his skull and start a new life in Acapulco as a hatter.

'Try again later,' it vibrated back, straining under the burden of the hangover.

'I'm not a fucking magic eight ball!' he whined, palming his forehead again. His mind coughed and spluttered.

'One match found: Angela.'

'Shit!' He remembered now, quite vividly for someone who was so wasted when it happened. It all spread before him on a giant canvas as his brain started the projector. She had left him.

'I can't deal with you Dominic! You're just too clingy!' she had said in the forecourt of their dormitories on their way home from an early start-very late finish party.

'Well, forgive me for enjoying being with you.' She had ignored the complement.

'I mean, you punched that guy I was talking to!'

'He grabbed your ass!' Dominic had exclaimed, almost losing his balance. 'What the fuck was I suppose to do, huh? Say 'Yeah, grab my girlfriend's ass. Isn't it fine? Squeeze some tit too. Aren't they nice and pert? In fact, whip those bad boys out and we'll both have a suckle!' I stood up for you! What's so fucking wrong with that?'

'You made a mountain out of a molehill!'

'Come on Angie, your tits aren't that small,' he had said, giving her a drunken smile. He couldn't help but make the joke. Angela had given an agitated sigh.

'You never take anything seriously! Everything's a joke to you!' There had been a pause. Each side processing what had been said, prosecution and defence reviewing the case so far, while they watched a dark chasm grow between them.

'What's really bothering you?' Dominic had asked, the smile long gone, after it became apparent that it was something a lot deeper than what she was saying. Angela did not answer for quite some time, staring at a grass embankment, her mind working frantically behind her emerald eyes, long blond hair shimmering in the light breeze, exposing the hard frown on her forehead.

'I'm a bit bored,' she had said, a lot colder than she had meant to and met Dominic's gaze, but quickly turned away when she had seen the intensity displayed.

'Thanks for your honesty,' Dominic had spat back. 'But why nag at me, huh? Why not just fucking come out and say 'Dom, I'm bored. Can we try and mix things up a little. Have sex in the afternoon or try some role-play' instead of making excuses to split up?' Angela had remained silent, looking at the tarmac as it reflected the streetlights that guided students to their beds with rainfall from the afternoon. 'I know exactly what it is,' he had continued, pointing at her, seeing the chance to go on the offensive. 'You don't think you've played the field enough. You wonder if there isn't better out there, but really you're just-'

A handle had turned, a window on the second floor shot open.

'Do you mind?' a weary voice erupted around the forecourt. 'Some of us have an exam tomorrow!' Dominic simply continued his offensive, only toward the window. He knew exactly who it was, that whiny prick. Couldn't he see that this was an important discussion?

'You won't be able to do the fucking exam if I glue your hand to your balls while you sleep Troy, you cocksucker!' The window had been promptly closed and sealed, allowing Dominic to return his attack upon Angela, who diverted her eyes quickly back to the tarmac. He had frozen, his brain performing a scramble, trying to recall what he was saying, like a stand-up comedian, having dealt with a heckler by throwing a witty insult their way, but then struggling to remember their point. So they rush through the material in their head because they are on the spot, creating the need for a stall and throw out the only resolution it has.

'Pancakes!' Dominic had hissed. Angela had looked up bemused, concerned he had blown a gasket, but seeing her face, Dominic remembered what he had been saying. Seeing the recollection on Dominic's face, Angela had returned her focus to the ground, awaiting the barrage of verbal degradation, a child who has broken an expensive family heirloom and can see the realisation brewing in their mother's eyes and would run to the sanctuary of their imaginary base or castle if they weren't caught in the tractor beam of their parent's authority. Noticing Angela's foresight of the resurrected storm, Dominic tried to conjure more harsh words from his vocabulary, but could not be bothered, so just stuck to the original, hoping they would be enough to leave a lasting sting.

'You're scared that I'm not 'The One' and that Prince fucking Charming is out there, somewhere, polishing his dick and looking at his watch thinking 'Angela is taking her sweet time. Maybe I should consider someone else to be Princess Charming?' Really, if you think so little of me, stop wasting my fucking time and just move on.' Without waiting for a response, Dominic had opened and slammed the door to his block, leaving Angela standing in a daze. He had trotted up the stairs to his room and dashed straight to the bathroom where he had vomited in the toilet after a brief spill into the sink. The clock on the wall had read twelve-thirty-something, as he had tilted his head towards his room, gasping for breath. He never could tell the exact time on the thing and often failed to remind himself to get a new one. That had been when the tears started to trickle from his cornea. Soon after, they would pour. Then he had passed out.

Dominic swilled his face with cold water and looked at his reflection again, feeling both better and worse for knowing.

Twelve-thirty-something. Had Pop been dying at that exact moment, or had he been alive, taking in his last breaths while he slept, the Reaper watching on, impatiently looking at his watch? A wave of nausea stifled him and he vomited in the sink again, the bitterness smothering his senses. Dominic grunted as he took oxygen into his panting lungs and redid his washing ritual, brushing his teeth even more thoroughly this time to extinguish the vile taste from his mouth and dressed on complete autopilot, his mind in New York, watching the vultures called family circling, despite being three thousand miles away. Their eyes shifting back and forth throughout the house as a doctor pronounced his father. Little attention was paid to the fact that the socks he put on were odd and the buttons on his red shirt were uncoordinated. He redid them, shaking his head the whole time, but left the socks, collecting his things and leaving the room. Dominic returned a moment later after he realised he had forgotten to put on any shoes. Snatching the nearest pair, dark green Airwalk, he crammed his feet into them without undoing the laces.

'Fuck it!' he muttered and left again, allowing the door to bang home behind him. Everyone else did it, so why shouldn't he in his time of distress? The noise startled Troy down the hall, who had just silently closed his own door. He was surprised to see Dominic, who was not renowned for an 'early bird' policy, but was then horrified when he remembered the confrontation of the night before. Dominic scared him, simple as. He'd seen mafia movies and did not want to be sent for a long walk on a short pier in concrete shoes.

'Sorry about last night,' Dominic croaked to him, embarrassed at his animalistic behaviour. 'Me and Angela split and I was tense and drunk.' Troy gave an understanding nod. 'Good luck in your exam.'

'Thanks,' was all he could muster. His mind too busy thinking about Angela as a free agent. She was hot.

Dominic patted his shoulder, trying to ease the fear he could smell, but Troy only tensed up more. Leaving him to it, he went upstairs, where he knocked on two doors. The first was Charlie Fuldrick's or 'Choochy' as he was affectionately known. No one knew why, but thought it had something to do with his incredible powers of seducing the opposite sex. He was a notorious man-whore about the campus. Nevertheless, this didn't stop him and Dominic becoming close friends during their time at the university, sharing a lot in common while both studying software engineering. There was no answer at his door, however, which usually meant he had another victim to notch on his bedpost. This left Dominic to knock on Pamela's opposite. Somehow, she had managed to infiltrate Dominic's inner circle. Still, he liked her all the same.

'Fuck off Chooch! I don't want another quick one!' was the tired but venomous response.

'Its Dominic,' he replied, holding back a snigger. They had kept that quiet.

Silence. Pamela hesitated as she recognized she had let the dirty little cat out of the bag. To Dominic of all people! She would never hear the last of it! She slipped open the door after covering her almost naked curves with a dressing gown.

'What's up Dom? You're up early today. Have you pissed the bed? Must have squirted some on your shoes too, because they don't match!' she mocked, trying to deflect the impact of the information she had just leaked. Dominic wore an unusually stern expression. It wasn't the time. Her face transformed instantly to concern. 'What's happened, babe?'

'My Pop died last night.' Even when he said it aloud, it still wasn't real. It felt like he was reciting lines from a play.'

'Fuck, I'm sorry.'

'I gotta go home. Will you tell my tutor for me?'

'Sure. You ok?'

'It hasn't sunk in. Only known for ten minutes.'

'Shit,' Pam said, thinking of how she could be of assistance to the bereaved and make up for her harsh greeting. 'Do you need a ride to the airport?'

'I wouldn't want to infringe on Chooch's privileges.' Dominic hadn't meant to sound so acrimonious. Pam gave him a multi-emotive look that had shame, hurt and anger all radiating from her face. 'You insulted me, I insulted you.' Dominic defended. 'We're square.' The look vanished as quickly as it had formed, replaced by one of inquisition.

'Do you want the ride or not?' she asked without saying a word

'A ride would be great. Thanks,' he told her, pleased she had taken the ribbing so well.

'Just give me a minute,' she closed the door and fifty-eight seconds later emerged fully dressed, her short chestnut brown hair tied back, keys jangling against each other as they dangled from her hand, leaving them to ponder whether they would drop to the thin carpet or not. They had heard of this gravity as a constant force, but it only worked on them every now and then.

'You left early last night. What happened?'

'Fucking Angela,' Dominic groaned. 'We had an argument and split up. I think'

'Oh,' Pamela didn't need to hide her glee. Dominic knew she despised her. 'Sucks to be you.'

They reached the car, a small, dirty, silver Hyundai as the dew deposited by the night was slowly being lifted by the increasing heat and the birds gossiped about what they knew, chirruping about the humans and their defiance of nature's will to keep them grounded.

Pam pushed the key into the ignition and turned.

Papa Don't Preach blared from the speakers and she immediately ejected the CD, after reacting like a cat to the bark of a nearby dog, and glanced apologetically at Dominic. The engine snickered at the irony, almost as if it knew it would happen and perhaps, even, had set it up. He gave her a grim smile and inserted a Counting Crows CD that he found in the glove compartment. Pamela returned her attention to the despicable car, making a mental note to punish it somehow in the near future, placing her black thick-rimmed glasses on the bridge of her nose as she did. She shifted into drive and rolled the car away from a tightly packed parking lot, devoid of human life.

*****

LAX, by stark contrast, was a madhouse, filled with frantic, overcharged people rushing around to get checked-in, despite only doing so to sit in a waiting lounge for several hours before getting anywhere near any aircraft. Dominic said his goodbyes to Pam, giving her a gracious cuddle for her services and began to shuffle through the sea of humanity, looking, it seemed, to either check-in or obstruct those looking to check-in. He dodged Arabs in business suits, yodelling into their cell phones, sidestepped bewildered, crying children and their parents who rooted through their bags to locate passports or tickets and hurdled sleeping hippies, to reach the first empty, active counter he had seen. One of the benefits of living in New York is that every airline has flights going there, so it did not matter which desk he approached. A young, very well groomed man sat behind it, studying his computer screen.

'I'm closed, honey,' he said in a high-pitched, even tone, not bothering to look up as tapped casually at the keyboard.

'Look, I need to-'

'What part of 'closed' don't you understand?'

'That was quite rude, but I'll let it go if-'

'I don't care what you need. I'm busy so buzz off!'

Dominic snapped and grabbed him by the collar, dragging his small, underfed body up, so that he met his eye level. The pressure had risen too high and needed to vent.

'Now that sign above you says you're open and all you're doing is fucking around on MSN messenger, so tippety-tap on your little fucking keyboard and give me a ticket to JFK.' A strong hand clamped on to Dominic's shoulder.

'Put him down and come with me, sir.' The voice was deep and firm. Standing over Dominic was the biggest, broadest man he had ever seen. He wore a navy blue uniform, leading the young Italian to the conclusion that he should do as he said. The large airport police officer led him away, keeping his hand wrapped tightly on Dominic's collarbone.

'Yeah! Fucking Fashion Police bitch!' the man behind the counter yelled after him, pointing a condemning finger. 'That's what you get for wearing those shoes with that shirt, you Guinea catwalk disaster!'

Dominic was taken to a small room with a two-way mirror, a bland table and two pathetic chairs that were needlessly bolted to the floor. It would have been pointless for anyone to use them as a weapon. The cop sat Dominic down in one and took the other, leaning his large frame on the table. It creaked in agony with the strain; the only sound for several seconds, as the officer sized Dominic up with his bulging eyes. He saw a young, exhausted Italian-American in an obvious state of distress, because clearly he had not slept well, and just wanted to get home. He took sympathy, but could not show it.

'I'm Officer Whislan,' the huge man said finally. "What you have just done is common assault, so I got you on that. Plus, you look wired, so I'm betting if I take a peek, I'll find something funky in them pockets.' He paused a second, as if allowing things to sum up. 'What family are you with?'

'I'm not carrying anything for anyone. I'm not on anything.' Dominic informed him flatly, coherently, pronouncing every word perfectly as proof of his statement. Although, it did not help that his eyes were wincing at the florescent light that flared on the ceiling. 'I'm tired, hungover, was dumped by my girlfriend last night and was told an hour ago that my father has died. Then, I get that faggot at the counter telling me he's closed, when all he was doing was talking to his boyfriend on MSN and all I wanted, all I needed, was a ticket to New York to see my Pop buried.'

'Shit kid!' Dominic was sure the booming cry had rattled the glass in the wall. 'That takes the fuckin' biscuit!' Whislan said, expressing great empathy.

'So what was with the inquisition?' Had he fallen through a portal into another dimension when he sat in the chair?

'Most people get stressed and freak out, so they just need a moment to cool down. I bring them in here, have a talk and then let them go. Have to back them into a corner first though, let them know whose in charge and put them on the defensive.'

'Oh,' said a relieved Dominic. He had expected to be on the next flight to Guantanamo. 'You missed that I stink of booze,' he added light-heartedly.

'I had detected the odour,' the Officer noted with a snigger. 'But you, kid,' He continued, seriously. 'I'm going to do you one better than the usual. Come with me.' Whislan sprang from his chair and left the room, striding down the corridor to the check-in area, with Dominic practically jogging in his wake to keep up. He marched right up to the counter where he had found Dominic, people parting like he was Moses. The same man was still behind the desk.

'Yes, I do wish to press charges,' he told Whislan without glancing up from the screen.

'That's not why I'm here, you little fudge pusher!" The young man was shocked and preparing to say something, but froze, a rabbit caught in the headlights of a juggernaut. The Guinea was with him. "You give him a fuckin' ticket to New York right now or I'm gonna bust your head up so bad that your boyfriend will be able to fuck you in it!" Whislan was only speaking strongly, but it sounded like he was talking through a megaphone. "Take his details, give him an aisle seat on the next flight to JFK and give him a bereavement discount, his Poppa just died. Now you got all that or do I have to stick this nightstick up your skinny ass to get your full attention before I repeat it?" The glare that accompanied the barrage would intimidate a charging rhinoceros.

'No, sir,' he whimpered, manoeuvring into an upright position near the computer.

'Now, do it!' He banged on the counter, rattling the monitor on its bracket. Dominic sidled up next to Whislan.

'Thanks, Officer.'

'No problem kid. That's how I roll. Bump.' He held up his fist and Dominic touched it with his own. It was tiny by comparison. 'Everyone needs a break. Figured you deserved one.' Turning his head to the left, Whislan observed a nearby newsstand. 'I've got to go. That guy looks like he's gonna steal candy.' He patted Dominic's shoulder and marched away.

'Thanks again,' Dominic called after him.

'Name?' the young man behind the counter enquired, trying to disguise the fact he had urinated slightly in his pants. He barely managed.

'Dominic Panatelli,' the keyboard rattled in response to the taps as Dominic surveyed his surroundings. Everyone was staring at him, but not with contempt or curiosity. There was something else lingering on the air that he couldn't quite ascertain. It felt that everyone was united by the moment for some reason. As he wondered what it could exactly be, one of the suited Arabs he had dodged earlier approached him.

'Here. Take this,' he said, his heavy Arabian accent adding extra flavour to the copy of the day's New York Times that he handed to Dominic. 'I remember when my father died, how lost and adrift I felt. I was high on crack at the time,' he evoked, shamefully. 'But, the point is, strangers helped me. I hope, now, that this helps you, my friend.'

'Thank you,' Dominic said, tucking the newspaper under his arm so he could shake the Arab's hand.

'Here, young man. Have this,' an old British man, who had appeared from nowhere, said, thrusting a cup of coffee into his hand. Dominic thanked him, despite the scalding sensation.

'Have you eaten?' A woman asked. 'Here.' she balanced a Danish pastry on the rim of the cup.

'Thank you all so much,' Dominic said, overwhelmed. Placing the gifts down on the counter, Dominic sobbed. Everything had caught up with him. Angela, Pop and the acts of kindness from four complete strangers. His brain had brought all the events together into one formula and gave the only resolution to release it all in one moment of hysteria. The woman embraced him as if he was her own child when she saw his face change from a stunned pale to flushed anguish. The Arab placed a warm hand on his shoulder. After a minute, the exhaust closed and Dominic was done. He felt better for it. The woman gave him a smile and a napkin and left to catch her flight. The Arab soon followed, after saying a quick prayer to Dominic in Arabic.

'Allah will now look out for you, as will your own God.'

'Can't hurt,' Dominic said, a little more cheerful.

'That's what I was thinking,' the Arab chuckled. Dominic also gave a small laugh and shook his hand again, only more firmly, before allowing him to go. He took his ticket from the counter, the young man apologising profusely before offering a blowjob.

'We'll just go in the restroom and I'll get you off real quick.' Dominic refused, but thanked him for the offer and went to the waiting lounge. It wasn't the comfort he was looking for. At least, not from a dude anyway. He sat in an empty row of seats with a screen giving flight information directly in front and wolfed down the Danish. Sipping his coffee afterward, he went over and over what had just occurred. The wave of humanity that had burst in and almost drowned him was dumbfounding. After New York, Los Angeles was one of the coldest, most selfish cities in America and yet, three people had given up things to a total stranger, while one performed a favour and another person offered. Dominic felt, oddly, blessed. It was all strange, but in the greatest way possible. It had lightened his spirits, if only minor. He picked up the newspaper from the adjacent seat and let it unfurl, revealing the headline:

FRANCESCO PANATELLI DEAD AT 59

Dominic's spirit sank, knocked down by the cyclone of change and suppressed by the whirlwind of regret. He naïvely hadn't considered that his father's death would be big news. The financial world would especially have been interested and had probably known for hours, with a few investors and stockbrokers making a bundle from the information, as Panatelli Enterprises stock would certainly have fallen. Dominic sat and sulked, making a mental note to see if what he imagined was actually true and if it was, to make those who profited, pay. Flipping the offensive paper to the sports section, he read every word at least five times before his flight was called. Failing to notice the large, suited man watching him closely, he made a brief phone call home and drifted to the gate, where he was guided to his seat by an attractive hostess. Flopping into 7C, Dominic allowed his skull to bang against the headrest. The large man followed, taking his seat five rows behind Dominic. He observed everything nonchalantly, as he sent a text with his phone.

'Would you like a drink before take-off sir?'

'Could you get me a brandy, please?' Dominic said, putting his head in his hands. Despite the early hour, she didn't protest or ask him for ID. The poor guy looked like he really needed it.
3

No matter how desperately Dominic had wanted it, sleep had been difficult to come by on the flight. It was an extravagant commodity that the hostess could not just hand out, duty-free. Not to those flying in coach anyway. They had to pay extra. The alcoholic route to slumber was obscured, by not only his age, but also the brandy, which had made him feel ill. Fallout from the mass consumption of the night before. The easy path, that the majority of the world took every time night blossomed, was resolutely blockaded. The cries of teething children had rattled inside the plush but condensed tube. Why weren't parents of young children taught sleeper holds after the birth for moments like this? The airtight cabin had amplified the sound to such a degree that it drilled at Dominic's temples, causing his head to ache uncontrollably, with no hope of relief until he was inside JFK, which was something of a contradiction in itself.

As he stalked through the terminal, the noise was overwhelming and Dominic had to contest the urge to break into a run to escape the ocean of clamour that was drowning him. It was then that he noticed the large man watching his every move. Dominic frowned in thought. He staggered past the baggage claim carousel, at one point having to step over a bawling child that had fallen to the hard floor, as if fate had thrown the boy in the Buzz Lightyear suit into Dominic's path to test him, tempting him to punt the child into the exposed rafters to claim a high tension field goal for his dwindling statistics. He resisted, to fate's disappointment, and continued to move through the crowds towards the exit, where the blessed car would be waiting to shelter him away from the overpopulated hell. The large man tailed him, closer than before. Usually, Dominic would despise being picked up by one of his father's chauffeurs and he had often rejected their services and taken a cab instead. However, it seemed like a good idea on this occasion and besides, he did not have the energy to argue, or even raise his arm to hail a taxi. Spotting a very sombre looking Rufus, Pop's favourite driver, waiting on a bench, Dominic approached and lightly kicked the old man's leg to attract his attention from the newspaper he was reading and nodded his head toward the door to indicate the driver should lead the way. Rufus had to suppress his pleasure at not having to conflict with Dominic. The boy was as stubborn as his father was. However, the circumstance led him to continue looking miserable, mostly because he was anyway, and place a hand on the young man's shoulder.

'Sorry about your Pop, kid,' he told him, and he meant it. Francesco Panatelli had provided Rufus with a very comfortable life, all through driving him around. He was deeply saddened to hear of his death. It emptied his heart whenever he thought of it. Dominic gave a grim nod that expressed grief, fatigue and anxiety all at once. Rufus tried to ease it. 'You could've at least worn shoes that matched your outfit if you knew you were getting in the back of my car! I've got a reputation to keep!' he joked as he took Dominic to the ride. It was all black, all elegant, all Bentley and not at all Dominic.

'At least I haven't been wearing the same outfit for the last million years,' he retorted bitterly.

'Ouch!' Rufus said, acting as if he had taken a club to the ribs as he leaned to open the door. Dominic waved him away.

'You know I don't like this waited-on shit,' he mumbled, barely audible over the sound of the screaming jets of airborne aircraft. 'I'm not a snob. I can open the door.'

'I do, but like you said, I been doing this a million years.'

'Just get me the fuck out of here,' Dominic grunted as he got in the car. Rufus did the same and started the engine. It purred its approval before it arrogantly strutted away from the curb, taking the glances of everyone on the sidewalk with it as they tried to decipher who the passenger had been. Was it Jack Osbourne? (Although would anyone really give a shit if it was?) Could it have been Rod Stewart? The gossip spread through the airport as if gasoline had been spilled throughout and someone had dropped a smouldering cigarette as the car pulled away. Sinking low into the seat, Dominic hoped no one could see him. Partially because he was embarrassed at being in a family Bentley, but also because he had caught his reflection in the overly clean glass and imagined, he looked like he had flown in from a rehab clinic, before completing his full stay. The gaze of the large man followed. When the Bentley was out of sight, he sent another text.

The car sped along toward Manhattan Island, where concrete and steel shot upward to suck energy from the sun to feed the little creatures that toiled away inside their structures. Home was perched atop the summit of Panatelli Tower, which sat in the middle of Panatelli Plaza; an eagle's nest on a mountain, overlooking the rich hunting grounds. Dominic groaned and forgot all about being followed. He was just a rich kid again. Something he had wanted to leave behind when he left for Los Angeles. Even in the cyclone of change, some things were still the same. No one escapes the vacuum.

The journey was a blur, smoke screened by memories of his father. His upset at moving to Manhattan and Pop's reassurances that it would not make a difference to anything. The first Yankees game they attended together, all be it in a private booth reserved for them. Those high school basketball games he managed to make and was the loudest parent in the bleachers, not only cheering encouragement to Dominic, but the entire team. Even when, afterward, he would complain that they all sucked. His eighteenth birthday, when Pop insisted on Dominic giving the speech to the hundreds of guests rather than himself.

'You're a man now son,' he had told him. 'You need to be getting used to this sort of thing for when you're making me more proud.' Dominic blubbered openly into his hands. Rufus continued driving, placing more weight on the accelerator. Drivers honked their condemnation, but were soon dazed by the effortless style of the car and minds drifted to a universe where it was they who were driving a Bentley recklessly towards Manhattan. What it would be to be rich and free. No limitations on the life you lead. No problems like paying bills or mortgages that make all the ordinary people suffer. Everything simple, in order. By the time they recovered their senses, the car had weaved away through the moving columns of traffic and the daydream faded, ghosting back into the warehouse of their minds.

It was not long before Rufus pulled into a heavily lit parking garage filled to the brim with rows and rows of exotic cars. Ferraris, Lamborghinis, Porches, Rolls Royces, Bentleys, Range Rovers. Dominic grunted. Only a person with more money than sense could consider a Range Rover, a car that evolved from the Land Rover used by British farmers and military due to its rugged power, as flamboyant. Slap some twenty-four inch rims and a little bit of chrome on something and it becomes a must have. It is what Dominic despised most about the wealthy. All that money and it is wasted on sweet nothing. He refrained from dragging his keys along the grey metallic paint and followed Rufus to the elevator, its mirrored doors already parted in readiness for their entry, yet another victim of servitude to the whim of a Panatelli. Rufus tapped the button, causing the doors to close instantly and the gears above to tick and churn to start the long haul of the little people box upward. Dominic studied their reflections in the doors.

Is Rufus really your name?' it was something Dominic had always wanted to ask.

'No,' he confessed, with a wry smile. 'Your Pop said Paul wasn't a very good name for a chauffer and christened me Rufus.'

'Pop and his fucking nicknames,' Dominic shook his head. Many of the Panatelli workers were called something other than their given names. There was Juande the gardener, despite him having blond hair and blue eyes, because, apparently, Mexicans are the best in that profession. Bebington, who was another driver, Ruby the maid, although that could be her real name and Dominic's favourite, Silver Sal the butler. Of course, Pop only used these names when he had company and only if they agreed to take part in the elaborate joke.

'But,' Rufus went on. 'After a while, I came to like it, so I changed it by deed pole.'

'So, your name really is Rufus?'

'It is now.'

'Fuck me.' Dominic was astonished by the revelation as the mechanics of the elevator continued to whirr repetitive complaints about the absurdity of their occupation.

'Why not take the fucking stairs?'

'Did you hear something?' Dominic twitched. Rufus shook his head, leaving Dominic to rub his tired eyes. Fatigue was causing audio hallucinations. At least that was what he told himself, as they continued to ascend to the Panatelli household.

'How did Mama take it?' he asked with concern. It was a good to diversion for his senses from his own self-pity. Rufus hesitated, as if he could see the answers to the question and was deciding which the best to go with was. 'Not too well,' was the most obvious response, but was almost a cliché, while 'she went ballistic and threw a lamp at the doc, the crazy bitch', did not exactly give the best view.

'Not too well,' Rufus said lamely, when he realised he had run short on time to give an unquestionable response. 'She was crying before Felicia asked me to come get you.' Dominic nodded slowly.

'At least she didn't throw anything.' Rufus remained silent. Dominic turned toward him. 'Did she?' The doors split apart, taking a short break from one another's company.

'You better get in there,' was all Rufus said, squeezing Dominic's shoulder as he had when they first came together in the airport. 'I'm always around if you need me.' He went left down the corridor, happy to be avoiding any more questions about Mama Panatelli. Dominic could come to his own conclusions about her state of mind. The elevator doors closed behind him, as each had missed the embrace of the other, isolating Dominic, stirring a slow, steady progression toward the kitchen at the back of the house. Ruby, the young maid and Juande with a group of his peers grimaced consolingly as Dominic wandered down the richly decorated hall, his feet letting off muffled thuds as they trudged along the marble floor. Antique statues and paintings watched him walk with envy, despite his heavy loss, past the fountain, its spray discontinued in mourning, and through the double doorway underneath the twin-curving staircase.

'Dominic!' was the bawled shriek as he went inside.

'Hey Mama,' he managed to mumble as she almost ran across the kitchen in her own waddling way to hold him. She clasped her arms as if she was trying to make him submit. He would have if it would cheer her up. Over her shoulder, Dominic gave a small, hollow smile to his three siblings who were sat around a table. Eventually, Mama put her son down and looked intently at his face, studying him.

'You look terrible my boy,' she said, her heavy Italian accent making it seem that she had learned English only forty minutes ago rather than forty years. Then followed the hurricane of concern that all mothers rain on their children after an extended period of absence. 'You should try to rest. Why don't your shoes match? You look like a tramp! Have you eaten? You look starved! They not have food in California? You sit. I cook something, and then you rest eh?' She rubbed her palm affectionately on his pale cheek.

'Thanks Mama.' It was her nature to cluck over her children as if they were newly hatched chicks, but Dominic knew that she could do with the distraction, was possibly even looking for one. Usually, he would not let her wait on him. She and his father had already done so much that it made him feel guilty if he let them do anymore, as if he hadn't appreciated their love and support before. Mama Panatelli smiled and went to the pantry to collect the necessary ingredients. Dominic scraped the legs of a chair on the tiled floor as he dragged it to create space to sit. He crossed his arms on the table when he had and leaned over them. The stench of resentment filled the air.

'Mama never made me nothing to eat!' Christian, the youngest, snorted while lounging pompously in his chair. He was tall as well as fat. Everything was wide on his body: his pointed nose, dark brown eyes, cheeks, thick-lipped mouth, ass. He had clammy, chubby fingers attached to huge workman's hands, which he often pointed threateningly.

'Yeah. Why does the deserter get treated like a fucking king?' Francesca, the elder of the four, added, arms folded across her huge chest. She was a like a mini-Mama, only with her father's deep-set, blue eyes and a much smaller bosom. Her sneering face appeared to hide a mind that was always at work.

Sofia remained silent, staring blankly at the varnished surface of the table.

'Well, maybe, call me on this if I'm wrong, but it could have something to do with me actually giving a shit that my old man is dead and I'm not fantasizing about how much I'm gonna fucking inherit when the will is read out.' Having anticipated the conflict, but hoping it would be avoided, Sofia stormed from the room. When Dominic had reacted, it was official that they would argue, even with the dreadful circumstances. Francesca closed her mouth, stunned by Dominic's abrupt but accurate response.

'Yeah?' Christian said, his chunky features expressionless. 'Well I'm glad the old man is dead. Now I won't have to listen to him go on about how the sun rises from the crack of your ass every fucking day.'

'He did that to motivate you, you fucking retard. If you hadn't sat on your bulbous ass, sucking Benjamins from his wallet for X-Box and Playstation games and actually done something useful with yourself, you wouldn't have heard my fucking name uttered from his lips, you ungrateful sack of shit!' Dominic was furious at his brother's insolence and threw the peppershaker from the table at his head, catching him above his right eye. Christian squealed with pain and leapt up from his seat. Dominic's face was as hard as stone. 'Now, I'm going upstairs,' he said, leisurely rising from his chair. When he continued, he spoke in an alarmingly calm tone. 'Don't think it's because I'm scared of your fat ass. No. I'm afraid that if I stay in the same room with you, I won't be able to resist the urge to smash your fucking face until there are two Panatellis in the morgue.' The kitchen was filled with a chill that shook both Francesca and Christian to their bones. Dominic had laced the words with so much venom that they could not doubt that he had spoken the truth and would carry out the act with no remorse. 'Now, sit,' he pointed Christian into the chair like he was a dog and waited until it creaked to confirm it had hold of him before he left through the door he had come, permitting it to slam as an exclamation point. Francesca and Christian both jumped at the sudden sound.

'What happened to Dominic?' Mama asked a second later, placing a basket of ingredients on the counter near the stove.

'Said he was tired,' Christian mumbled, running his fingers across his burning brow. Mama took two steps toward him and smacked the side of his head.

'Don't you lie to me!' she hissed like a viper, her eyes widened with anger. 'I heard you, disrespecting your own father, after all he did for you!' She cracked Christian again. 'I didn't cook anything for you, because I knew Dominic wouldn't be long and I wanted us to eat together, like a family, you disgusting pig!' Mama struck him a third time. 'And you had better be more respectful tomorrow!'

'Why the fuck should I?' he complained, but shrinking his head into his shoulders after he realised the mistake. Mama smashed her hand around his head twice more.

'Don't you speak to me like that!' She paused to calm herself, remembering that her children had been more intimidated by Francesco's controlled demeanour than her explosive anger 'You should be more respectful, because Dominic and your father are very close and from what I heard, it would be better to stay on your brother's good side.' Christian dropped his ringing head and stared at the table in defeat. 'I need some air,' panted Mama. 'Francesca, start the Bolognese.'

'Ok Mama,' Francesca replied, raising her eyes from the floor.

'Don't think you are off the hook either,' she added over her shoulder before heading through the side door into the garden.

'That,' Francesca said gleefully when she was certain her mother was out of earshot. 'Was the funniest thing ever!' She laughed to prove its validity.

'Oh fuck off. She's just pissy 'cause Pop died. That's all. Same with Dominic.'

'Maybe you're right,' she said, rising and moving to the counter. 'I've never seen her that worked up. Not even after Granmama died.' She didn't want to discuss the fear that Dominic had strangled her with. Neither did Christian. It reminded them of their father and how he used to paralyse them when they were kids.

'Fuck it all anyway,' Christian snorted, dismissing it with a wave of his hand. 'I'm outta here as soon as I can.'

'I don't blame you,' Francesca sighed as she began to chop vegetables poorly, despite her Mama demonstrating to her a thousand times. Christian fondled his brow and winced, drawing Francesca's attention. 'It's swollen,' she observed.

'Shit! Will you get me some ice?'

'No way! I'm not aiding and abetting the enemy of the state!' He rolled his eyes and resumed his arrogant lounge in the chair, taking out his mobile phone to text his friends an untruthful version of events.

*****

Mama leant on the balcony and looked out upon New York as night was in the process of claiming the sky as its own. Her heart ached at the loss of her beloved Francesco and the disrespect of her children. She began to weep.

'Oh Mama, don't cry,' Sofia said softly, but still managing to startle her the same as a sudden explosion would. She sat on the stone balcony, her thigh almost touching the kitchen wall, legs hanging over the side, swaying, as if caught in the breeze, the people looking like insects between her feet as they scurried along. Quickly, Sofia swung them back over and down, to save her Mama any anguish and trotted to her side, wrapping an arm around and tightly clutching her shoulder. 'We've all lost him.' A sad smile spread across Mama Panatelli's weary features. Typical little Sofia, trying to share someone's burden. Mama pulled her even closer, as if they were sharing secrets that they wanted no one else to hear.

'With your father gone... and those two in there... I really need him. I don't know what we did wrong.'

'Come on,' Sofia said positively. 'One out of four isn't bad.' The one she referred to was herself.

'It's really two out of four,' Mama corrected, but before Sofia could counter, she continued. 'I know you have your issue with Dominic, but he is a good boy and he have good reasons. One day I'm sure he will tell you.' Sofia nodded slowly in understanding despite strongly disagreeing. She did not want to argue. It seemed obsolete now. A pointless exercise, which would only divide the family even more. The last thing they needed. Or wanted. They stood close, their arms clinging the other to their bodies. New York continued its descent into darkness.

'I better go back in before your sister fucks up the food,' Mama complained. Sofia giggled. Francesca was a hopeless cook, and, Mama rarely swore, so it was always a tickle on the stomach when she did. She admired the gloomy skyline as Mama reluctantly prised herself away.

'I'll help you,' said Sofia, following. They all needed distractions.

*****

By the time Dominic reached his room, the rage had subsided, burying itself somewhere in his lower intestine. He took off his jacket and threw it to the floor, making a mental note to pick it up so one of the maids did not have to. The shoes went next, kicked off so that they bounced under the double bed, which he flopped on to in exhaustion. Tension lifted from his muscles like steam.

'Why are they such parasitic fucks?' he asked himself, rolling on to his back, staring at the ceiling. 'How could they hate him?' Dominic shook his head in disgusted disbelief that they were his siblings before resting his eyes, lying in silence. The only sound was the rushing of air in and out of his nostrils. He saw Sicily and its raw rural beauty, with his father as a young boy, kicking a soccer ball against a sun-weathered wall, his long shadow mimicking him in the late afternoon light.

'Dominic?' Disconcerted, he sat up on the bed. He had fallen asleep. Mama stood beside the bed, a tray carrying a plate of steaming Bolognese and some cutlery clamped between her hands.

'Thanks Mama,' he yawned, rocking so his feet sank into the carpet and taking the tray. The scent caused Dominic's stomach to growl urgently with hunger and he obeyed its demand, shovelling fork-fulls into his mouth, pausing only briefly to complement his Mama for preparing such a delectable meal.

'I wish you had stayed at the table,' she said grimly, sitting next to him on the bed.

'I'm sorry,' Dominic responded between mouthfuls. 'I just can't stand them two ungrateful fu...' he stopped to rephrase. Mama did not approve of bad language. 'Gold diggers. If I'd stayed, I would've done something I regretted.' Mama nodded knowingly.

'He is pain in my ass!' Dominic nearly choked at his mother's frankness. He was fortunate she had served him Bolognese and not something dry that would have stuck.

'I don't know what to do,' perpetuated Mama, staring blankly at the floor in thought.

'Why not make him get a place of his own? Better yet, throw him out on the street on his ass with five dollars and a moustache comb.' Mama did not smile.

'Me and your father had been meaning to discuss what we would do. How we would get him to fly the nest, but we kept putting off. Now, I don't know what to do.' Mama began to whimper. 'He's left me with it!' Dominic set the tray to one side and comforted his mother.

'He didn't leave Mama, he was taken. Pop would never leave us.' He deliberately said 'us' to remind her that Christian was as much his problem as he was hers and that she wasn't alone in the matter. 'A solution will come. Now isn't the time to be worrying about it.' His words did little to help.

'I'm a terrible mother!' Mama cried, her snivelling making her sound hysterical when it had only distorted her breathing. 'I imagine getting someone to rob him or beat him so he will grow. I hate his manners. I hate his attitude. I-' She took the knife from the tray and flung it at the wall. By mere coincidence or bloodthirsty instinct, its sharp point became embedded in the plaster. Dominic pretended it hadn't happened.

'Haven't we all, Mama?' he asked her soothingly. 'Haven't we all?' Mama inhaled deeply and regained her composure. Dominic's opinion had made her feel better, although, she wasn't sure whether he had been serious or not.

'Eat your food. It's getting cold.' Dominic did as he was told, replacing the tray on his lap and continuing his meal. 'You're a good boy,' she ran her fingers through his hair, watching him finish; taking the tray the second he put the fork down. 'Now you rest. I'll see you tomorrow."

'But Mama, what about you?'

'Oh Mama be fine. She's going to drink bourbon in her room until she can pass out.' She spoke as if it was another Mama who would be suffering; a fictional character in a film or play. Dominic nodded his approval at the strategy and wished he had the stomach for it. Even if he had not, she would not have listened anyway. 'Its good to have you home.' She kissed him on the forehead and left, flicking the light off as she had when he was a boy. He sat in the dark for a while before stretching out on the bed.

The light came on again after... was it minutes or hours that had gone by? Dominic was not sure. Next to him, the bed was disturbed. It was Sofia.

'Why did you leave?' she asked bluntly. No beating around the bush. Sofia was someone who liked to get to the point.

'What?' Dominic was confused, drowsy. 'Where has this come from?'

'Mama said you had your reasons. I wanna know.' He dwelled in thought for a second, watching her pretty, olive face looking intently at him. She was almost picture perfect, like a good-looking Mona Lisa. All of her features were small and dainty and appeared vulnerable, as if they were petals on a rose. Her long black hair was all straightened beside a singular curl that flicked out to her left at the tip. Her eyes were hazel, much like her Mama's. Dominic broke her gaze as he considered if there was a way for this to end well. There was no way around it.

'I needed to get away from this family.'

'From Mama Pop and me?' she gasped.

'No. No.' he shook his head from side to side in a slow rhythm. 'Not Mama, not Pop, not you. Never you.'

'Then why? Why did you go?' Her face was etched in sad frustration.

'You're as dependant on Mama and Pop as they are.' Dominic winced, knowing the words would sting, but rather than igniting anger in his sister, Sofia's shoulders slumped in resignation.

'I know,' she admitted with a sigh.

'I had to get away but knew I wouldn't be able to get you to go with me. I hoped that you would eventually assert yourself and leave on your own terms.' Dominic was surprised. Sofia was taking this very well. He had anticipated conflict the second the first words rolled from her tongue.

'I never got to it. I was stuck.'

'I know and I couldn't let that keep me here,' Dominic took a breath before adding, 'I would have seriously hurt Christian.' Sofia nodded her understanding and lay next to Dominic on the bed. He slid an arm around her.

'I missed you,' she said, hugging his midriff. 'I'm glad you're home.'

'I missed you too,' he told her, placing a kiss on her forehead. They lay in silence. 'You know,' he said a few moments later. 'Mama told me she has thought of hiring someone to beat the shit out of the fat prick so he'll learn.'

'Haven't we all?'

'That's what I said!' Dominic laughed.

'Great minds...' Sofia started.

'Think alike,' Dominic finished. They both exhaled contentedly.

'Goodnight Dominic.'

'Goodnight Sofia.' He turned off the light and they both tried to sleep.

*****

Dominic woke the next day to find Sofia gone and the sorrow of his father's death in no way diminished. Time was not the great healer when applied in small doses. He rose from the bed and cracked his rested bones with a long, slow stretch, switching on the computer afterwards by force of habit, but then realising he could check his emails. Should keep his mind occupied for a few minutes, he thought, taking a shower as it booted to erase the stale stench of aeroplane cabin from his skin, replacing it with the much more bearable aroma of deodorant. While flicking through his wardrobe, a towel knotted around his waist in case an overly keen maid burst in, Dominic saw his black Armani suit. It had been dry-cleaned the day before; the yellow receipt was still punctured by the hangar, for the occasion of the impending funeral. The thought overwhelmed him with grief and he slammed the door shut and fell to his knees. He sobbed his heart out on the bedroom floor, sending him into a coughing fit that almost caused him to vomit on the rich, red carpet. He took in small, quivering breaths and clambered back to his feet, picking some clothes from a different door of the wardrobe to avoid the sight of the saddening suit, before quickly washing his face again. It was not that it was for the funeral. His father had bought it for Dominic to wear to Francesca's wedding. On top of that, he could not look at one without associating it with his Pop. Ninety per cent of the time, Francesco Panatelli had worn a suit. It was the image he had. The successful businessman clad in Armani. Never anything else. Conceding defeat to his trauma, Dominic consented to a few more tears creeping down his cheeks as he threw on the t-shirt and cargo pants he had snatched from the closet, mopping them up with the towel when they had subsided. They would have to be the last for a few hours. He had to appear strong for the vultures and their wicked glaring eyes, as if he had been well prepared for this eventuality and was ready to take the mantle as head of the family, even if, by law, it was Mama. Everyone would view Dominic as the successor. The new Caesar of the Panatelli business empire. They would be circling soon, Dominic knew. If they had not started already. He was anticipating a knock or a phone call to request his presence downstairs to see the relatives who were 'asking' about his welfare, when really they just wanted to survey his state. Whether he was easy pickings or a powerful lion unleashed from its shackles to protect the throne, a pristine new king of the jungle. The decision to wait for the summons was rapidly reached and Dominic sat in his high-backed leather office chair, accessing his MSN Hotmail account to browse through them. There was one from his tutor Professor Halkins or 'The Monk.' The nickname came from his unusual taste for constantly wearing brown and a strangely developing bald patch that seemed as though it was shaved in to the crown of his head, like an imminent victim of the electric chair. The message confirmed that Pamela had conveyed the news of his father's death, expressed concern for Dominic and promised to grant any extension that the student would require. Dominic gave a very brief response of gratitude and moved on. Next, was one from Pamela herself, assuring Dominic she had told 'Monk' and adding a point that she was always available to talk if he needed to. She was a good girl. He gave her quick thanks and told her he would be in touch when he got back to LA. Scanning down the 'From' column, Dominic observed that the rest was junk mail, trying to sell him Viagra. All because he had bought one batch to spike Choochy, (it still had not stopped the bastard getting laid). Others were to advertise other websites, such as Amazon, eBay and singles sites. Single. Dominic sighed, ticking the boxes for deletion, until he saw one from SunUp Software. The subject was 'Hi Mr. Panatelli.' He scrutinized it, clueless, running a search in his mind to locate the reason why they would email him.

'File Not Found,' the mind spat out promptly. He had not bought anything from them or made contact. So why? A click of the mouse ticked the box, then another on the 'delete' button and it was gone. They were probably only trying to sell him something and he was in no mood. Being realistic, when was anyone in the mood for intruders in your life trying to sell products, either at the door, on the phone or the internet, no one says 'yes.' When will they learn? The screen refreshed and more unread emails appeared which Dominic immediately started marking for deletion. He reached halfway down the list, the subject being '6 New Matches For You!' when there were three firm raps on the door.

'Come in,' Dominic knew who it was. The thick wooden door barely opened and a tall well-built man slipped in without making a sound like a large plume of smoke. Everything he wore was black. His suit, his shirt, his tie, shoes, socks, even the wristwatch were all black. Only the cream of his skin and small patches of grey at the temples contrasted with the uniformity. However, this was not to mark the death. The man was always dressed this way, although his usual stern expression had been removed, replaced by one of sadness and affection. The eyes were sombre in their darkest shade of blue, but still maintaining a constant survey, continually assessing. There were no smile or worry lines, nor were there crow's feet. In fact, the only signs of his ageing were his greying temples and the slightly gaunt deep dimples on his cheeks. Dominic could never decide if they were scarred or not.

'Dominic, it is good to see you. I only wish it was under better circumstances and that your father was serving us a glass of his wine each as we spoke.' He warmly shook Dominic's hand with a firm dry grip. The words were heartfelt, yet even. There was no trace of an accent. 'If there is anything I can do, don't hesitate to ask.'

'Thanks...' Dominic fumbled for his first name but realised he did not know it. He never had. '... Mr. Gerdler.' Short, to the point. Dominic could think of little else to say. Except... 'Did you have me followed yesterday?'

'What?'

'Through JFK. A big guy in a suit followed me. Was he one of yours?'

'No.' Gerdler almost whispered. 'I didn't tell anyone about your return.' Dominic went quiet as Gerdler's mind churned behind his narrowed eyes.

'It was probably a journalist,' he surmised, seeming certain. 'They'll be crawling out from under every rock for this.'

'You're probably right,' Dominic agreed. But wouldn't a journalist just introduce themselves and start asking questions? Although it made no sense, Dominic did not have the energy to discuss it at the present time. It could wait.

'Here is my number,' Mr. Gerdler sharply took a business card from his top pocket and handed it to Dominic. It did not even bear his initial. It simply said 'Gerdler Security, Chairman & CEO.' Underneath was a cell phone number.

'I suppose we all got this treatment,' judged Dominic.

'Absolutely not!' He only raised his voice slightly to emphasise his point, then returned to his flat tone. 'Just you and Mama. Your father was adamant about that, especially that my services were available to you.' A questioning, hurt look bloomed on Dominic's face, an innocent flower, chilled by the surrounding weather. Mr. Gerdler read it.

'Of course, the offer would still have been presented on the table, regardless of your father's wishes, just perhaps less formally. Apologies.' He was not the best at dealing with people and their emotions. He had amputated his own, what seemed, a lifetime ago.

'Don't worry about it,' a relieved Dominic told him. He had hoped as much. Mr. Gerdler was certainly someone you wanted on your side.

'Consider me at your disposal,' Mr. Gerdler paused before he finished, perhaps accentuating what he said, or debating whether he should say it at all. 'Mr. Panatelli.' He hoped it would go down well. A country's worth of responsibility went with the title and Francesco's wish was clear: Dominic must succeed. He must take the torch and carry it. Dominic did not bat an eyelid. Gerdler was not telling him anything he did not already know, but he did appreciate the respect. He had thought he would have to earn it. 'In charge or not, I'll always be Dominic.'

'I thought as much,' Mr. Gerdler allowed himself a grin, before making the point that had brought him upstairs. 'Mama has requested you. You family has already gathered for the funeral.'

'Funeral! Today?' Mr. Gerdler confirmed it with a stern bow of his head. 'Shit!' They were not waiting on ceremony. They wanted the old man in the ground. 'Ok,' Dominic shut the computer down before trailing Gerdler, who held the door open as he left and closed it behind them. 'Don't wait on me like a king,' Dominic muttered over his shoulder.

'I was not. It's called courtesy.' Gerdler received another inquisitive look. 'Ok, you caught me, but you have to understand it sends a message to your enemies.' He had thought it was just a power that Francesco held over him, but it was not. He could not lie to a Panatelli. At least, not a true Panatelli.

'I'm not my father,' Dominic scoffed; unaware of the irony bell he was ringing in Gerdler's head. 'I have no enemies.'

'Not yet,' Gerdler corrected. A thought squirted across Dominic's face.

'Will it help with the rabble downstairs?'

'Absolutely,'

'Keep doing it then.' The first orders. It made Dominic feel a little unclean, but not as wretched as he thought it would. It was different with Gerdler. Almost like he was asking a favour of an old friend rather than giving an order to one of his father's captains. He hoped Gerdler got that impression too.

They walked down the elaborately decorated hall to the dual staircase, with Mr. Gerdler one-step behind and to Dominic's right. It was as if he had turned back the clock. Only, Francesco had never worn cargo pants. Each side was obstructed by one of Gerdler's men, identifiable through being dressed almost identically to their boss. The differences being they wore gleaming white shirts and their suits were around $9,000 cheaper. They scampered down the set to their left, the guard standing to one side to permit them past with a single swivelled step, then returning to his position with the same disciplined motion. The guard on the opposite staircase grimaced slightly in confusion, as he speculated what he had done to offend Mr. Gerdler so much, that he would not use his set. Dominic continued to the kitchen, noting the look. He had never understood the competitive spirit of his father's security team and he never would. Gerdler held open one of the double doors and Dominic crept inside. Beyond was chaos. Uncles, aunts, cousins, nieces, nephews were all chattering away to each other or busy-bodying over something. They were all dressed for the funeral, with black splattered everywhere throughout, like they had cracked one of the tiles and a fountain of oil had spurted up. Benito came over, resting his hand on Dominic's shoulder. Why did everyone do that?

The kitchen fell silent. All attention was on him. Dominic could smell their greed intoxicating the air and hear their poisonous caws of claim on a slice of the huge Panatelli pie that his father had been unable to take with him to the other side. Would they all have to be firmly slapped down by him? He thought not, particularly if Benito and, to a lesser extent, his younger brother Gianluca were not caught in the race for gains. They were very different from the rest of the family.

Francesco Panatelli had been the black sheep of the litter, opting to pursue an alternative form of earning a living than that of his father. One away from the traditional family business. Francesco Senior had been the head of another family beside his own, which would not shy away from breaking a few laws to get what they wanted. Junior's far fall from the tree did not anger nor upset his father. It had filled him with pride to see his son stand on his own feet without any assistance. He warded everyone away. Told them to leave Junior be, to avoid contaminating his business. It did not matter that he had gone off on his own path anyway. Senior had two other sons to pass the reins on to when he passed away. Benito, in particular, was almost as intelligent as his older brother, while he possessed the added bonuses of shrewdness and a ruthless streak. Gianluca had an unrivalled determination to be counted and the aggression of a bear. Together, they were more suited to that 'line of work' than Junior was and he believed they would be a formidable alliance that would keep a stranglehold on the business, which he was in the process of relocating from Palermo to New York. When the time came, Francesco the younger was left behind to continue exporting his wine, with no grudge from his father. Nor was there any from his brothers. They had gone to New York and made a healthy profit, doing whatever it was they exactly did, while Francesco earned chicken feed. Until he started exporting olive oil. Then importing a variety of goods. Business boomed. Shipping proved very profitable and a few years later, Francesco Junior followed his family to New York. Their enterprises remained separate and prosperous. It was only in the past decade that they had struggled after being lavish with their cash, coming to their wealthy brother, who now owned anything and everything from building contractors to docks for his own fleet of ships. He had been happy to oblige. What was all that money good for? After a couple of years, however, it got tedious, and Francesco turned them down. That was all gone now. The curtain had fallen and risen on another stage with Dominic standing, shielding his eyes from the intense spotlight. It was open season on the Panatelli estate. If all the claims were to be quickly rebuffed without any hitches, Dominic knew he would need Benito on the sidelines sitting out of the game, if not on his team on the field of play. Gianluca would be a bonus, but he was not essential. Benito was the brains, the more dominant. Dominic was almost certain he would see eye to eye with his eldest uncle. There was just a little nagging doubt, a goblin skulking at the back of his mind, that insatiability could and would overcome him, flooding through Benito's veins, infecting his head, dollar signs tattooed on his pupils.

'Sorry about your Pop, Dommy,' the voice was deep, anchored by the New York accent that had developed over the last forty years. Benito squeezed his shoulder tightly, stopping just prior to crossing the barrier of inflicting pain. Dominic mentally noted the alpha male display, wondering what it was for and looked his uncle in the face. He had not worn as well as his elder brother. His skin was leathery, like an old baseball glove that had seen years of use and abuse, while his hair was beginning to thin out. It had already completely greyed. The cheeks were distinctly rounded and Dominic was convinced that an extra chin had sprouted since the last time he had seen him. Needless to say, his stomach bulged beneath his shirt, the buttons on standby, ready to go off like party poppers at any moment. Blue-black crescents nestled beneath Benito's eyes, partially concealed by large, silver-framed glasses. Times were sleepless, troubled.

'Thanks,' Dominic was tense, but taking everything in. He had realised Mr. Gerdler had not followed him into the kitchen.

'Can me, you and Luca have a talk later?' inquired Benito. Dominic gave silent approval. If we have to. He moved to greet Luca. Tall and very lean, Gianluca looked young for his age. Only a brushy grey moustache gave him up as being in his mid-fifties.

'Real sorry kid,' his voice grated along his throat as the words climbed to his lips. 'We're all going to miss him.' It sounded far from sincere, but Dominic thought he could be imagining it and carried on through the family, shaking hands with males, receiving kisses and cuddles from the females. Benito's son, and clone, Alessandro, or Alex as he preferred to be called, tried his best to be comforting, offering his advice, using the loss of his mother as a case study.

'I just tried to keep busy and...' Dominic tuned out. He concentrated on the conference Benito had requested. What would it be about? He could not even take a guess but it gave him a very bad feeling. Had his father associated with them after all and, now, they were letting him in on the secret? Or would they be trying something on him already? They surely would not ask for money, at least not today. Dominic rubbed his nose to cure an itch. The whole thing did not sit well with him and there was no way of knowing until it was actually happening, when they actually opened their mouths and wagged their nicotine-tarnished tongues. Snapping out of it, Dominic found he was now shaking hands with Luca's eldest, Antonio, with Marco and the youngest, Luca Junior, waiting for their turn nearby. All four sons worked for their fathers in some capacity, chips off their respective blocks. Dominic moved through as rapidly as possible. He had only ever associated with Alex when they were kids, which had stopped years before. Dominic did not think that it should change. Christian was always with them of course, but for some reason, he was nowhere to be seen, cut away from his pack.

The greetings and commiserations continued as Dominic advanced through the house. While the family was excessively large, there were also members of Mama's kin, who were a lot more pleasant. They had been given financial aid, but only once, to set up a business, terminating the need for constant begging to the in-law. Pop had even had to refuse repayment. He called it a gift. Plenty of business associates were also about, constantly enquiring if anything would change. The respective companies were strong and safe, always turning a profit. There was no need for outsourcing or sale.

'I'm not in the loop yet,' he would tell them quietly, looking over his shoulder. 'Talk to Mr. Gerdler or one of the board members. They'll know exactly what's going on, but, as far as I'm aware, nothing will change.' The last part was added to ease their concerns. Further on the tour, by the fountain, Keith Shannon, the CEO of Panatelli Investments, made it abundantly clear that the family's assets were all secure and Dominic need not worry.

'Why would I?' he asked him, jokingly. 'It's not me you need to reassure. I know that everyone employed by my father is very capable of keeping things running smoothly for us in his absence.' Dominic had become weary of the greetings by this point. Everyone had been the same, in tone, expression, words. It was as if they had all picked up the same script on the way in. The whole scenario would offend the senses of even a priest after a certain amount of exposure. He also had the meeting with his uncles on his mind. Another goblin, stamping its feet alongside the other. There was, however one concern Dominic had for Shannon.

'What about all the businesses? Will they be sold on or outsourced?'

'No way!' he replied, definitively. 'They all make far too much profit!' Dominic thanked Shannon for his assurances before excusing himself so he could sit and relax for a while. At least now, he could relay that message if anyone asked. As he walked to enter the main living area, he noticed that the door to the fire escape leading down was open. A certain security risk. He went to it and checked the stairwell, poking his head through. Something hard and metallic was thrust into his temple. On the floor, Gerdler's security man was unconscious. No, dead. The pool of blood was enormous.

'Keep your eyes on that corpse.' Dominic obliged, but he could see three pairs of feet.

'You picked the wrong place to steal from, dickweed.'

'Shut the fuck up.' The gun was pushed harder against is skull.

'Seriously. The place is full of gangsters.'

'Yeah?'

'Yeah. Don't you know whose house this is? It's the Panatelli's.'

'We know. Dominic.' While it should have completely unnerved Dominic, he remained composed.

'Oh and see the guy you've killed. He's former Special Forces and inside are ten of his buddies who would just love to make your acquaintance.' The gunman hesitated before giving a response. It was all Dominic needed. He flicked his arm up and on to the gun, knocking it from the hand that had wrapped around it. Then he planted a stern elbow into the assailants gut, following it with a swift uppercut that caused the jaw to crack satisfyingly. The other two fled down the stairs, so Dominic sent the third clattering down after them. They all fell to the concrete, looking up at Dominic. They were all very young, about Dominic's age. It was all he noticed before they disappeared from sight. Then he was alone. With a dead body. He ran back inside to the hallway and called one of the stairway guards to his position.

'What's wrong sir?' Dominic showed him the body. 'Shit! Who...?'

'Three kids, about my age. They're running down the stairs as we speak.'

'Right.' He got on the radio that was hidden in his cufflink. First, he notified the men that were positioned on the first floor and parking garage, and then he called for someone to tell Gerdler to come to his position. Dominic checked the wounded man.

'Call an ambulance. He's still alive.'

'What's going on?' It was Gerdler. He had not been far away. The guard briefed him. Gerdler was silent in thought before he spoke with urgency, but no panic.

'Get on the radio. Send three men to the basement and get them to sweep the building with the others who are there. Go down with them and wait for the ambulance to arrive. When it does, lead them here. I'll wait with him. Dominic, go back inside.' It was an order. Gerdler was declaring authority for the time being. Dominic complied and went to the living area, where he had been going before it all happened. He wandered into the vast room and slumped into the couch, taking the remote and flicking to the sports channels, feeling strangely detached from what had happened.

'Hey,' Francesca said. 'I was watching that.' It sounded hollow. Perhaps the loss had sunk in and actually made an impression on his sister.

'Sorry,' Dominic muttered. 'I just wanna know what score the game was last night. Do you know?' Francesca stared blankly and shrugged. She didn't know anything. Dominic returned it to her channel, a shopping one, trying to sell jewellery that looked like a whale had coughed it up on to a beach after years of digestion. He had just been looking for something to take his focus away from everything, a positive Yankees result to ease the burden of woe. Families were such a drag. Everywhere through the house, his ears had detected the never-ending verbal pollution of family politics. It was even right there on the very same couch. While half-watching television as the woman described the value of the hideous gemstones that made up a bracelet, Francesca was joining in on the bitching of Christian to Sofia about their cousin Luciana. Meanwhile, Luciana had been in the kitchen, complaining abut her father, Benito's deafening ramblings about Alessandro, which he was now regurgitating to Luca in their recurrent 'who has the best son' contest. Luca himself was being ridiculed by his grandson, Antonio Junior, who was stood sulking in the hall. In a rant, only a seven year old could produce, he declared his grandfather a 'stinky doo-doo face,' after he had received a severe reprimand for playing with the telephone. Through the widespread, all-seeing, all-knowing grapevine, Dominic had heard that Mama was upstairs, so distraught (and probably drunk) that she was complaining to her sister Felicia that Francesco was selfish for leaving her all alone. Aunt Felicia, to her credit, was doing her best to deflect her attention by explaining how useless her son Fredo, is, while poor Fredo was AWOL. He was based in Sicily these days, doing... something or other. Dominic could never remember what he was there for, but he was a lucky fucker for getting away from this sticky, black blotted catastrophe. The constant mutterings of complaint, disgust and contempt. Even at such a horrific time as this, they couldn't lay their pathetically minor differences aside. Normal families were surely not like this. The vultures were too busy trying to discredit each other to care. She gained weight, she should be starved. He coughs too much, he should quit smoking. He cheated on her, it should be cut off. Each gathering was a new opportunity to extract information that could be used to discredit one another, strengthening their claim on any rewards, while weakening someone else's. It was like the Cold War all over again. It didn't matter that it did not work like that. Dominic should have known that their game never ended, that not even death would put it on hold. There was no off-season for their sport of greed.

Pop had obviously seen it coming. Scattered throughout the house, Dominic had noticed Mr. Gerdler's security, there to prevent any snooping for valuables. The two on the stairs confining them to play their game downstairs, rather than suspending it to ransack the house. Gerdler had probably carried out the wise old fox's instructions to a tee. Dominic was again comforted to know he had him on his side. As if summoned by thought, Mr. Gerdler appeared by his side.

'Ok?' he asked. Dominic nodded.

'How did things go? Your guy ok?' He spoke quietly so as to not alert anyone who might be listening.

'They've just taken him. He has lost a lot of blood, but he is young and the bullet went straight through, missing his vitals. I think he will make it. However, the shooters got away. They must have taken the stairs to a certain floor, than used an elevator in another part of the building to escape. We're still sweeping, but I doubt we'll turn them out now.' Dominic grunted in frustration. 'What could they have wanted?'

'I have no idea.' Dominic replied, shaking his head. 'They did know who I was.'

'They did?'

'The one I beat the shit out of called me Dominic.'

'Keep this to yourself. Act no different. Give no one a reason to even think that this has happened.' At first, Dominic did not understand. Surely Benito and Luca would be pissed and want to catch the fuckers who did this on their brother's day of memorial. Then it became clear. Gerdler suspected them. Gerdler suspected everyone. It was an insider, a traitor. Someone had tried to sell Dominic down the river. But who?

'I wanna confront them,' Dominic said, looking to Gerdler for his opinion. 'I don't think they would do it. They're too afraid of you.'

'Don't. Not until we have something substantial.' Dominic declared he would not with a miniscule nod. 'Now, what about this meeting?' Dominic did not question how he knew.

'Tell the brothers grim that I'll see them in Pop's office. Then come in yourself,' he said after a thoughtful pause. Mr. Gerdler gave a bow to show his endorsement of the strategy to summon them rather than vice versa. Doing it in his father's study was another masterstroke. The only alternation from previous meetings would be Dominic sat behind the desk. When he had overheard the request from Benito, Gerdler had been disturbed by whether Dominic could withstand them. His opinion had been entirely flipped after a few seconds. He had brains and balls. Just like his Pop. When Dominic turned to question Gerdler about the meeting, he was gone, leaving him to groan and go to his father's study.

Situated in the far corner, away from the living area with all the anarchy and occupying two floors, Francesco Panatelli's office was more like a small town library. Its immense walls were filled from floor to ceiling with books that concerned everything from the latest trading laws to foreign languages. Dominic's father had liked to have as much knowledge as possible readily available, with no concern for the amount of space it consumed. Letting out a groan, Dominic fell into the large chair behind the vacant desk that seemed fit for a giant. Only a lifeless computer monitor sat upon its elaborately polished surface, facing Dominic, watching his features and trying to understand why Francesco looked so young today. Dominic was ignoring its curiosity when Mr. Gerdler ghosted into the room.

'They'll be here in a minute,' he informed Dominic, gliding to the desk. 'I told them 'Mr. Panatelli will see you now.'

'Ok. Sit there for me,' Dominic said, pointing to a chair in the corner to his left.

'Ah, my usual spot,' the humour was lost on Dominic. He was not in the mood. Mr. Gerdler spotted his unease. 'Don't worry,' he said, sitting down. 'You will be fine.'

'I know, I know, but if I look like I'm losing it, feel free to step in.' Gerdler silently agreed that he would and was about to add something, but was interrupted by the door swinging open and the Panatelli brothers strutting in. They each pulled up a chair and sat down, with Luca slightly behind Benito to display their hierarchy. There was a moment of cold silence as each sized the other up. Benito noted that Dominic did not look out of place behind the desk. He felt like he had travelled back in time and was sat across from a Francesco of yesteryear. The innards of a washing machine had replaced Dominic's intestines; although he remained stony faced, almost unconcerned, as if this was a usual event.

'Thanks for seeing us Dommy. We'll be as brief as possible, so you don't have to worry.' Dominic did not answer, but gestured for Benito to continue. 'What it is,' Benito went on, his voice adjusted to, what he hoped, was just the right sales pitch. 'We're trying to open a new club in Manhattan. We've got sixty per cent of the funds, but we're struggling to come up with the other forty.'

'I see,' Dominic patronised. Benito read it.

'It would be a loan. We would pay back every cent, with interest if required.'

'Why not go to a bank?'

'You practically are the bank!' Benito laughed. 'Just without the paperwork!' There was a small break as he cleared his throat of the joke. 'I usually see your father before I go the bank,' he added seriously, possibly even with a hint of sadness. The whirlwind of regret had blasted through. Benito had never told his brother how much he respected him for achieving so much, with so little. He prayed that Francesco knew now.

'So why didn't you take this to him?'

'We were. We had a meeting today.' Dominic made a mental note to check and posted it on his head.

'How much?'

'Three million."

'Well, I have to say no,' he shrugged.

'But it'll be a high class joint!' Luca squawked. 'It'll be as good as a money factory! We'll even give you a percentage!' He sounded desperate.

'I don't doubt that,' Dominic kept cool, despite his stomach being on fire. 'But finances are tight right now. The company's stock has fallen. What also concerns me is that my father's investment would be used to build a front.' He purposefully invoked his father to remind them they were not dealing with a punk off the street. This was Dominic Andrea Panatelli, dammit! It struck a chord. Maybe even too loudly.

'Who do you think you are you little shit?' exclaimed Luca, snapping from his seat. Neither Dominic nor Gerdler flinched.

'Luca, wait outside,' Benito ordered. Luca gave Dominic a heated glare before leaving the room. 'Forgive your Uncle Luca, Dominic. This is his Project and he's passionate about getting it off the ground.'

'I understand,' Dominic muttered, his stomach tightened into a fist. Benito chuckled.

'You're as smart as your Pop. I'll give you that.'

'Come on, Benito. I wasn't born yesterday. I know what goes on around here.'

'I know, Dommy, I know. We're just really struggling. Wouldn't ask to see your Pop otherwise.' Dominic just nodded in response. 'Ok kid. No hard feelings. I completely understand. Just pretend we never asked.'

'Asked what?' Benito gave another bellowing chuckle as he struggled to his feet.

'I'll see you outside,'

'Ok Benito.' He gave a courteous smile and left the office. Dominic let out a huge breath that took the tension from his midriff with it.

'Admirable Dominic,' Mr. Gerdler said with a hint of glee. 'Very admirable.'

'Thanks.' Something rapped at his mind. 'Did they ask to meet Pop today?'

'Your father had requested my presence here, so I assume so.' Benito had spoken the truth. The inquisition answered, they both left the room to rejoin the gathering.

*****

'You did it?' Christian said quietly into his phone. 'How did it go?' There was a long pause. 'That wasn't supposed to happen. Why did you shoot him?' Another break for explanation. 'Do you think it scared him?' Christian gripped his forehead with his free hand. 'Please tell me he didn't recognise you!' A beat. 'Great, just fucking great! Now I'm going to have him all over me. He isn't afraid or spooked and you shot one of fucking Gerdler's men. This is all fucked!' The hand gripped tighter. 'Lay low for a while and pray that he didn't recognise you, because if he did, it'll be the last mistake you ever make.' Christian ended the call. Those idiots. They were supposed to wound Dominic, either psychologically or physically, not let him beat the shit out of them. Now his confidence will be sky high. He prayed it wouldn't come back to haunt him. He could not relive that beating he had taken the last time he crossed Dominic. In front of everyone, Dominic had literally kicked Christian all around the garden when he had learned about the robbery he'd planned over two years ago. Dominic had known that Christian was trying to make his bones to get in with Luca Junior and reacted violently. It would have disgraced their father, drawn the wrong kind of attention and that's what it was all about. Appearances. Christian didn't fit, but they tried to make him do so all the same. He was tired of it. Maybe he should just make his bones, and then Benito and Luca would have to give him the time of day. The thought appealed. He put it to one side for the time being and left his room. Today was the first day of the rest of his life. The idiotic old man would go in the ground. Then, it would be open season. Christian could do what he liked.

*****

'Can you believe the balls on that little fucker?' Luca said as he and Benito looked over sweltering Manhattan, all lit up like a giant crime scene, from the balcony in the rear garden.

'Yeah, I can,' Benito snorted at his brother. 'I was the one who saw it coming, remember?'

'What the fuck are we going to do?' Luca pleaded his voice laden with panic. 'With the crackdown on us from the Police and the Costini's getting in our business all the time, we need that new place to operate or we're screwed.'

'It'll be fine. Calm yourself little brother. We'll go to war with the Costini's if we have to and we'll get the money, just not as easy as we expected.'

'What you got in mind?' asked Luca, the dread replaced with intrigue.

'We'll just find an investor. Shouldn't be too hard. Like you said, it'll be a money factory.'

'Oh,' Luca said, unable to hide his disappointment. 'We could just make him give us what we need. Save a lot of hassle.'

'It would, but we can't do it your way. Not this time.'

'Come on, it would be easy.' his voice was dark and toxic.

'No,' Benito stood firm. 'I'm not having any part of it and neither are you. The rich kid is killed. Who do they suspect? The fat brother or the mafia uncles? It would generate heat that we don't need. We're already up to our eyes in cops.'

'You're losing your fucking nerve!' Luca hissed, a cat backed into a corner.

'Fuck you!' Benito retorted, his voice eerily calm. 'This is why were in so much shit. You need to learn to control yourself. Just because you can, don't mean you should. We offered him a good deal, he declined, we move on. It's called business. He isn't an idiot and I did warn you it was a long shot.' He reiterated the bottom line. 'We'll find another investor.'

'We got a right to that money, Benito.'

'No, we don't. Now let it the fuck go Luca. We got a brother to bury. We'll discuss our options later.' Benito left him to return inside the house. Luca dragged his teeth up his bottom lip as he watched the city gleam and then followed.

*****

Dominic had gone around the house once again to check on everyone as well as show his face. People practically ignored him, continuing their conversations as if they were in a bar somewhere, only giving small acknowledgements of his presence. They had already paid gratuitous respect and must have felt they didn't need to again. Only Pop's associates got him in on their discussions, but they were made up of business bullshit and Dominic soon moved away, not having the energy, opting to return upstairs to prepare himself for the funeral. He fished the Armani suit from the closet, holding it at arms length like it would corrode his skin if it came any nearer, putting up an inadequate struggle against the will to cry. Heat contracted around his body as he dressed, an anaconda squeezing, despite the open vestibule doors. Nature was providing a glorious send-off for Francesco Panatelli with a beautiful summer's day, objecting to comply with the bleak mood of his loved ones. Swilling cold water on his face, Dominic washed away the telltale evidence of his sorrow, taking care not to get soap on his collar that would label him to everyone who noticed, and left to catch a ride to the church.

The journey transpired without a single word being uttered by any member of his immediate family. The car interior was a whirlpool of despondency in what seemed to be an ocean of deprivation with no shoreline visible in any direction. Spoken words could not change it. Not yet. They watched pictures of New York they had witnessed thousands of times flicker by outside, wishing they could melt from the car and merge with them, until the destination filled their screens. The Church of St. Thomas was typically flamboyant. Stained glass, gargoyles with penetrative stares, over elaborate tombstones that raised from the ground like monuments to fallen armies rather a single person's burial ground. Dominic couldn't help but notice that there was an audience gathered in the street, held back by barriers and uniformed cops as he climbed from the car. They were all dressed in black, paying their respects. He helped Mama get her bulky frame on to her feet.

'Don't go far,' she told him, as Christian emerged and headed for the church. Mama grabbed his arm. 'You too. Stay close. Mama's not feeling well.' Both her sons silently agreed and flanked their mother as they went into the graveyard.

A large number of people had surrounded what was to become Francesco Panatelli's final resting place, most of them having come from the family home. They crowded around the open grave and seats reserved for the family.

'Excuse us,' Dominic said, moving a small man aside with his free right arm. He turned, recognised and moved. The rest also parted and the Panatellis solemnly walked through, Mama, with Christian and Dominic on either side in front, Sofia, Francesca and her husband Sam with both their children clinging to them, behind. Dominic saw them all seated, then went to leave.

'Where are you going?' Mama queried.

'To carry him,' he told her, shooting a look at Christian that said 'Don't you fucking move.' Mama smiled.

'He will like that.' Dominic took it as his leave. Sam hurried up behind him when he had prised his son from his hand.

'Would it be ok if I carried him too?' He received a questioning look from his brother-in-law. 'Your Pop was very good to me. He gave me an invaluable opportunity when he didn't have to and I'll be eternally grateful. I wanna show him the proper respect.' Not the most remarkable man to look at, Sam was as average in appearance as a man could be, but his father-in-law had seen beyond that and his non-Italian heritage to perceive a young man full of potential. Sam Thomson had gone on to realise that potential and risen up the company ladder, becoming head of North American shipping. Other than that, Dominic knew very little about him and assumed that he would be as bitter and arrogant as Francesca was.

'He'll like that,' Dominic assured him, internally slapping his wrist for being so judgemental. Pop had always been a man of respect. It was doubtful the afterlife would change him. They stood on the steps, leading to the church's innards, which exhaled a cool breeze through its mouth of a doorway, and awaited the arrival of the hearse. The poor funeral home had been really stretched, given less than a day to prepare the body and everything that went with it. They managed, barely, eliminating the need for small talk between Sam and Dominic. After a brief word with one of the directors, Dominic and Sam were the leading pallbearers, slowly sidling along under the heavy casket, as they rolled it to its last destination, placing it at the head of the pavilion, ready for the descent into the earth. Dominic had managed to remain firm faced throughout, keeping the expression to portray a strong front for any observers who were keeping score, even though inside he was weeping hysterically. He sat down next to Mama and squeezed her hand. She did the same back.

The father gave a eulogy. Something about God takes away what we treasure most to test our faith and strengthen it. Dominic couldn't be certain. He wasn't listening. Instead, he drifted his attention over the graveyard, at the weathered tombstones and their wreaths of flowers that died long ago, forgotten relics, abandoned to rot. His eyes snapped back when Christian rose from his chair and ambled toward the pavilion, a set of cue cards in his hand. Dominic saw red. Leaping from his seat, he snatched the cards from Christian's grasp and gave him a light shove to indicate he should sit the fuck down, before moving to the head of the casket himself. Turning, he watched Christian begrudgingly comply as his mother pulled him into his seat and looked down at the first card, then deciding to crumple them into a ball and toss them over his shoulder. No one had told him there would be personal speeches and he was a fucking retard if he let Christian go first, if at all, particularly as his speech would have been overly emotional in order to compensate for him not really giving a shit. Dominic would not have been able to sit and listen to it without transforming into 'Rageman' who liked to wrap his hands around the fat prick's throat. Why he wanted to say anything puzzled Dominic. He already had what he wanted, why did he have to gloat? Couldn't he just be quiet and let people mourn? A chill stunned Dominic into confronting the present. Hundreds of confused faces watched on. Waiting.

'My father...' Dominic began, stalling in the hope that something of significance to say would come to him. '...was a great man.' So far, so good. 'The best of the best. You'll mostly have known him for being a successful business man who looked after his staff and gave them strange nicknames for his own amusement.' Those in the know sniggered, the rest were oblivious. What nicknames? 'Others might remember him as the hard working family man, or the Yankees fanatic. Personally, I'll always remember him being there for me when he could and for always being ready to have fun or make a fool of himself to generate laughter. One night when we were kids he took us to a drive-thru and he was confidently shouting the order out, showing off his fast food skills to us. We all laughed at him and he had no idea why until he looked out of the window and saw he had been talking to a trash can the entire time.' The crowd chortled as one. 'Or, when he brought a bounce house to our old home and set it up in the garden. We had recently see some wrestling on the TV, so, monkey see, monkey do, Pop thinks it would be cool to get the ladder out and jump off of it like Shawn Michaels. Only, he didn't think it was quite high enough, so he put a foot on the garage roof and tried to push off to jump, but his foot went right through.' The crowd laughed again. 'Worse yet,' Dominic said, cackling at the memory as he told it, reliving it, like it was only a few days previous. 'He got stuck, so we got the hose and made him pay.'

'One of his favourite hobbies was to tell people what he did for a living. He'd tell us tales of how he'd told people he was a stuntman or an astronaut or a spy. It was always something spectacular, but people believed him. One time, he told me he had a guy on his stuntman hook for twenty minutes, explaining all the stunts he had performed and in what films, like he was the guy who jumped through the window in Gone With The Wind.' Smiles spread throughout the audience. 'I guess that's why I miss him so much. I've been away for two years now and its strange to come home and for him to just not be here, or anywhere, making people laugh. But, I think it's the case for everyone here today. We'll all miss him for different reasons because there was so much he did for us all, whether it was give us a chance at a secure job or make us piss our pants, it was never a chore. He did it because he enjoyed it. I suppose, when you think about it, he has earned this rest he's getting. Pop worked so hard for so long, unselfishly, with nothing but respect for his fellow man. He had to rest sometime. He'll be sitting on the board of directors of Heaven, that's for sure. Sweet dreams Pop.' Dominic rubbed his forehead and returned to his seat. Mama grabbed his hand, as the people contemplated whether it was appropriate to applaud or not. They didn't.

'Beautiful,' Mama whispered into his ear.

No one paid heed to the remainder of the service. Everyone drifted off to the fond memories of Francesco Panatelli that his son had referred to, until the casket slowly sank into the ground and the people could say their personal goodbyes with a single red rose. The Panatellis sat and observed, awaiting their turn. One man threw his rose then came to Dominic.

'My condolences, Dominic,' he offered his hand. 'I'm Jonathan Korman. I am...'

'Pop's lawyer. I know,' Dominic interrupted with a mumble, grasping the presented palm and firmly shaking it.

'I need to discuss some things with you and your family within the next few days. If that's possible.'

'Come by the house later. We'll see you then.'

'Ok,' Korman seemed surprised at how soon he would be meeting with the Panatellis. It quickly evaporated. 'Thanks and again, really sorry about you Pop. Like you said, we're all going to miss him.' Dominic smiled. At least one person had listened. They shook hands again and Korman exited stage right.

The line to pay respect to the deceased shrivelled like a salted slug, before it completely vanished. This cued Mama, Francesca, Sofia, Dominic and Christian to throw a handful of soil each after Francesco. A right of passage to see him over to the other side, where he would cheat Elvis, John Lennon and Jesus himself at poker for his own amusement. George Harrison would point out the fact to John, who would wave him away and explain that he and The King were in on it. They all loved to rib Jesus.

The family sat for a while in silence, as the earthmover dropped its load of soil, burying the casket with its mountain of roses, the full stop on the service, before taking the car back to the house.

*****

People were gathered, as they were earlier. Talking bullshit amongst themselves, only now sipping alcohol between sentences, either complaining profusely about their problems or ignoring them altogether. Dominic chose to mingle with the people who worked for the family, Rufus in particular, and they shared stories about his father and drank coffee stiffened with rum.

'Your Pop loved his rum,' Rufus declared, taking a large sip from his mug. 'Probably because it sent him loopy,' he rotated his eyes around their sockets for emphasis. 'One time, I had to chase him down...' Rufus paused to rack his brain. 'I forget the street, but it was in Washington. I had to chase after him when he had decided to go streaking.' He took another sip. 'And that happened quite a few times.' Dominic was almost choking on his coffee, he was laughing so hard. A large slap on the back came to dislodge the blockage. It was Jonathan Korman.

'Hey,' Dominic coughed, his eyes watering. 'We can use Pop's office.'

'I'll have to fetch Mama and your brother and sisters first.'

'That's ok,' Rufus interjected. 'I'll get them.' He rose from his seat and staggered toward the door. 'You two go ahead.' Dominic led Korman to the study, a place where he had been many times before to conduct business with Francesco, his most profitable client. It seemed surreal to enter and not see him behind the desk. Possible excuses for his absence crossed Korman's mind. Maybe he'd gone the bathroom or was running late from his previous engagement. No. He pulled himself from the tangent. Francesco was not late. The man was dead. Period. Korman would have to deal with his Prodigal son. The joy of it. Or was it the other one who was hopeless? Korman always got them mixed up. He didn't deal with the kids at all. Hardly ever saw them in fact. Dominic had been the one whom Francesco had always spoken fondly of, but with parents, you can never tell if they're being truthful or not. No one speaks badly of his or her own children. 'Please let Dominic be the smart one!' he silently prayed. It was then that they were joined by Mama and company. The other son, Chris was his name, was fat and looked greasy. Surely, he wasn't the clever one. Italians and their descendant hierarchy. Two faces Korman did recognise were Benito and Luca who had managed to tag along.

'I'm sorry gentleman, but this does not concern you.'

'Read the fucking will already!' Christian snapped. Dominic swore he could see saliva drooling from his brother's lips. Mama gave him a manner-adjusting slap about the head.

'Very well,' Korman said, unimpressed by Christian's display of greed but thankful. Dominic was the good one! 'I Francesco Vito Panatelli-'

'Get to the point,' Francesca interceded. She too, received a piece of Mama's hand dispatched wrath. It's all in the wrist. Korman lost patience with the zoo. He knew the contents and wanted to put the two hecklers in their place for their impertinence. He rolled the will into a scroll.

'Mama gets control of the estate and all assets. Francesca gets $30,000, on account of her husband, Sam having well-paid employment with the company and college funds have been set up for both of her children. Sofia gets a college fund and $100,000 when she turns twenty-one. Dominic, you receive the contents of this envelope,' he took it from inside his jacket and dropped it on to the desk, instantly feeling regret at dispensing information of such importance to a bereaved son in such an informal manner. 'Christian, you get your fat ass to college and you'll get $100,000 when you're twenty-one.'

'Hey!' Christian objected. 'Who you calling 'fat ass'?'

'It says it right here. See?' Korman unfurled the document and showed him the relevant page, pointing to the sentence with his index finger.

'Oh,' Christian's face fell, devastated that his father had taken the time to insult him from beyond the grave. Ignoring his ruin, Korman handed the large padded envelope to Dominic. His name was scrawled across the front in his father's hand. Everyone's attention was drawn to him, magnetised by curiosity, as he pulled open the sealed flap and emptied the contents on to the desk. There was a letter, a card for a bank account, a sheet that detailed the same account and a Gerdler Security pass that bore his name and image. Dominic ignored it all, mesmerised by the letter: a final message from his father. He didn't want to unfold it. The hope of reading words from Pop was enough satisfaction to last the rest of his life. If he read it, that would be it. No more contact, until... well, that was a long way off. Eventually, he conceded and read the letter. No one spoke a word or made a sound as he did.

Dearest Dominic,

If you're reading this, then I'm gone, so sorry about that. I always wanted to see you succeed and watch you take the world for your own, but things don't always work out the way we plan. Remember that. It is an important lesson.

Anyway, your inheritance is a lot more complicated than everyone else's. It's a long story. 2 years ago, when you started your degree, I took a dabble into software. Nothing serious, just a small investment here and there, which led to me buying a tiny business. If I'm honest, I didn't have an inkling what my intentions were, it was more for my own amusement than anything, but it spiralled out of control. Call it luck of the non-Irish or whatever you want, but they invented something that sent the stock sky-high, paving the way for expansion and now that little business is an international company. Crazy, huh? Well, it's your's now. Jeff Green will be able to explain it all better. You know technology and me don't mix. We're like pasta and horseshit. He should have been in touch already. Reporting for duty, as it were.

This decision was made in March 2008 to give it to you as a gift and few people know about it, only Mr. Gerdler and Jon Korman. Not even your Mama. I just wanted your hard work to have a guaranteed reward when you graduated, partially to get Christian off of his lazy ass to go do something with himself (He tittered) but mostly to give you a starting point that would allow you to get out from under my wing. I obviously wanted to present it to you in person, but if shit happens, I expire and I'm unable to see you succeed in the flesh, I will be watching and I know you'll make me proud. No matter what.

Forever and Always,

Pop

P.S. Jeff will be happy to run it until you're ready.

P.P.S. If you don't want it, just sell it!

Wiping a tear from his eye, Dominic peeped up at Korman, who gave him a reassuring nod. He could see it now. Why was he so like his father? Being able to speak to people without saying a word? The resemblance was uncanny, frightening even. If Mama were not there to testify, you would stake a large sum of money on Francesco developing a system of cloning twenty years ago, with Dominic being the result.

'What does it say, Dominic?' Mama wanted to know, along with everyone else. Dominic read it aloud to them.

'Come on!' Christian blurted out when he had finished, banging his fist on the desk. They all turned toward him, their eyes seeking explanation. 'Dominic gets a whole company and we get buttons!' Mama slapped him.

'He has worked hard, looked to make something of himself, while you do nothing but stuff your face. Dominic deserves it.'

'He does,' Sofia added. Francesca remained silent. Now that she thought about it, her inheritance had been Sam's unquestioned acceptance and placement into the company. She thanked her father through the communicative tool of prayer and wondered how she could put the money to good use. A college fund for her kids perhaps.

Meanwhile, Korman had received a phone call and excused himself to take it. He returned a moment later to find Mama still lecturing Christian, that fat turd, accompanied by a young blond man in a suit, poorly fitted to his beanpole frame. He wore horn-rimmed glasses, which he constantly fidgeted with, and a hollow smile. Korman gestured toward Dominic.

'So this is Dominic. Wow, it's a pleasure to meet you, shame the circumstances suck. I'm Jeff Green.'

'Nice to meet you,' Dominic didn't sound as enthusiastic as Jeff did.

'Right, so,' he hesitated. Jeff had never really done this sort of thing before. 'SunUp Software, you're the chairman now, yeah.' Every observer in the room took a shocked gasp. Except Mama. She was clueless when it came to these things.

'We've got over two thousand employees in New York alone,' Jeff continued. 'And, we also have offices in Lyon, Frankfurt, Athens and Liverpool, which is the biggest, with seven thousand square feet of floor space and more than five thousand workers. Altogether, SunUp is worth an estimated $4.23 billion, with its stock still soaring.'

Dominic was speechless. He had turned pale, choked by the enormity of the information Green had just divulged. He felt ill. All those people, all that money was in his control, depending on his judgement. Dominic's organs were playing musical chairs.

'Excuse me,' he said, stumbling from the room.

'Congratulations Dommy,' Benito said, shaking his hand as he walked by. 'He don't look to good,' he concluded with concern when the door closed. Dominic went to the nearest bathroom, the corridor spinning wildly. He splashed water on to his now flustered features. It calmed him and the urge to vomit packed its bags, vacating his stomach to migrate south to the intestine, instead of taking the journey north. Comforted, Dominic dried himself and returned to the study.

'You ok?' Jeff asked. Dominic nodded drowsily. 'Cool. You got the gist or do you need me to continue?'

'I get it all too well.'

'Ok,' Jeff sniggered. 'I assume you want me to stay in control. I mean, in the time being.' Dominic did not know what it was, but he could smell something. Could have been a rat or a fish, but something was not right. Instinct told him to act upon his suspicion.

'I think before I make that decision,' he said calmly, watching Jeff's face. 'I'll want to review everything. Check the facilities and the products. Maybe even have someone crunch the numbers. You know? To get a feel for it. See if it's what I really want to do.'

There was a confused air, Dominic could see. But nothing more.

'Fine, just let me know,' Jeff said, waving it away.

'I'll be in touch,' Dominic said, extending a hand.

'Well, that's all then,' Korman announced, dropping the curtain on proceedings like it was an awards show. He shook Dominic's hand for the fourth time in a few hours, while passing him his card.

'Just in case.'

'Thanks.' Korman vanished, taking Jeff Green with him. They closed the door behind them. A frosty silence was trapped in the room, before Christian stormed out. Francesca soon followed, excusing herself to see to her children, while Benito and Luca sidled away.

'I can't do this,' Dominic confided in Mama and Sofia. 'It's just too much.'

'You'll be fine,' Mama said, giving him a comforting smile. 'You got a long time before you take over and all that money! All benefits, none of the problems!' she gurgled. "Have some fun. Take that lovely girl somewhere nice.'

'Angela?' The horror of forty-eight hours earlier flooded back into his head. 'We broke up.'

'Good,' Mama said. 'She was far too thin.' Dominic and Sofia were both smiling at their mother's sudden change of opinion to make him feel better.

'Thanks Mama.'

'Don't worry about anything. It isn't your problem. Finish up in California, have some fun, then, you will be ready, my boy.' Dominic leaned back in his chair, contemplating, a grand piano strapped to his back.

'I need to get away,' he decided.

'You can't run away from trouble,' Sofia said jokingly, pointing a tutorial finger. 'There ain't no place that far.'

'Uncle Remus can kiss my ass!' he shot back with a snarl.

'Don't you bad-mouth Uncle Remus,' Mama warned him.

'Sorry Mama. I just feel like I can't stay. I need to clear my head.' Mama stood and kissed him on the forehead.

'You go do what you need to do,' she told him.

'Where are you going to go?' quizzed Sofia.

'I don't know,' he confessed. 'But do you want to come with?'

'Maybe some other time,' she sounded rueful. They talked for a while longer as Dominic went to his room and packed a bag.

'You sure you won't come?' Sofia slowly, silently declined. They embraced warmly and Dominic snuck from the house, hoping he hadn't been spotted by the masses of eyes, and then called Rufus from the garage on his cell phone to take him to the airport.

*****

In the kitchen, Luca pulled Antonio to one side.

'Little shit said no this morning.' Antonio didn't answer. He knew when it was time to listen, having learned the hard way. 'I want you to keep an eye on our newly created billionaire and make sure no harm comes to him. It would be a shame if some terrible accident were to befall him prior to getting a chance to take advantage of that mighty windfall.' Antonio understood the message. Loud and clear. He checked his father's eyes to confirm it and left, having witnessed Dominic skip into the elevator a few moments earlier.

*****

Benito left the lounge and went out into the garden to stand on the balcony, taking in the skyline. Alex was waiting.

'He said no, as expected. We'll just have to get the money elsewhere.'

'We will Pop,' Alex replied confidently. 'Like Luca says, the place will piss money.' Benito agreed wearily, but something stirred by the mention of his brother's name.

'I know. Listen, I got a job for you. Keep an eye on Dominic. While he looks like a rock, I can tell he's broken inside. He'll probably do something rash and he might not know it but he just inherited a lot of enemies on top of all that cash.'

'Ok Pop.'

'Try to keep your distance, but chances are good that he'll see you. If he does, don't hide, just tell him the truth. You two got along when you were younger, so he might even welcome the company.'

'Sure Pop.'

'Hey fellas,' Christian wandered up, a large glass of wine his hand. 'Can you believe that shit in there?' he slurred. "I got fucking nothing!'

'Your father was right Christian. You should get yourself an education while you have the opportunity. Does you the world of good. Opens all the doors.' Benito knew Christian wanted into the family and it was a thought he couldn't bear. He didn't have the 'credentials' required. Besides, he had a feeling that Francesco would never forgive him if he took his youngest son on.

'Fucking Dominic getting all that and now Mama says he's left. Probably going off to the Caribbean or somewhere. That cocksucker!' Benito gave a worried glance to Alex, but he had already walked away towards the house. He was a good kid.

'Anyone go with him?' Christian shrugged and took another swig of his drink. 'You know,' Benito went on. 'If you went to college like your brother, you'd get it all too.'

'I know,' Christian moaned. It wasn't just that his uncle was right. Dominic was leaving. How the fuck could Christian get the fucker now? Benito slapped his face.

'So fucking do something about it!'

*****

A ringing phone squawking, a monitor displaying 42 unread messages, paperwork so dense and dull it could turn a man suicidal; all were vying for his attention. For Matthew Moore, this was torture. Slouching back in his chair to gather his thoughts, a slight pain rippled through his shoulder. He jostled the arm in its sling. It was still uncomfortable, regardless. The phone continued to ring. The monitor continued to blare and hum. The white of the paper was beginning to give him a headache. Moore closed the folder and sighed. Reduced to the role of Case Officer while his medical clearance was revoked, he had been bound to his desk for less than an hour and he was already going insane. The Sauer pistol in the draw seemed like an excellent choice for a release. What halted him was the picture of his wife, Joanna and their daughter that sat next to the phone. The bastard phone!

'Bonjour. Gratte-papier,' Moore said into the mouthpiece. 'Comment puis-je vais aider?'

'Moore? Is that you?'

'Je regrette monsieur. Je ne parle pas Anglais.'

'Stop arsing about! Have you-' Moore cut off the caller by hanging up. It was Colin Porter, the analytical supervisor and it was the fifteenth time he had called. Each time, he had asked if Moore had done some different, inane task, like review a file, check a memo, send an email, blah blah etc. He must have thought Moore was some sort of office wallower, accustomed to such farcical actions but far from it. Moore had not been taught how to push paper; he had been trained to remain unseen, to conceal, to infiltrate, to assassinate. He sighed deeply and brushed his shoulder length hair out of his face. All the big-wigs in London had hated it when he joined MI6 or SIS as it was now known, but he could care less. The more he pissed people off, the more amused he became. It infuriated them that the best Britain had was a punk from a working class family from Liverpool, with a below average education. They did not understand. To them, it was about who knew the most, played the best politics, who won cleanly but Moore recognized the truth. Success came to those who played dirty and the basis for a good operative was simply, knowing how to load a gun and having the instincts and balls to use it. The facts went right over their heads.

The phone rang again. Moore grunted in frustration. It rang for thirty seconds before there was a knock at the door. It was an analyst named Shaheeda. Her jet black hair was pulled into a tight bun, Moore saw, as she slipped her tall, very lean frame into the room. Her chocolate face looked both irritated and concerned.

'You going to get that?' she asked, her clear eyes glaring at the phone on the desk through her thick rimmed spectacles. Her Scouse accent was allowed to fly freely from her lips. It was the reason Shaheeda had been assigned to work with Moore.

'Wasn't planning on it,' Moore said, scratching his ear.

'Ok,' she said, an uncomfortable smirk on her full lips. She spun the phone around to face her and pressed several buttons. 'There.' Moore sat up straight. The ringing had stopped.

'What did you do?'

'Diverted all your calls to Porter. When he calls, it will be engaged.'

'Clever,' Moore said, nodding approvingly.

'I thought so,' she said, giving him a cheerful, yet mischievous grin.

'Thanks. I really cannot be dealing with this shit.'

'Who can?'

'No seriously. I'm not supposed to be here. Its just this stupid thing!' Moore plucked the strap on his sling.

'Chill. Its only for a couple of weeks.'

'Fuck that. I won't last that long.' He stood and snapped the sling from his shoulder, flinging it on to the computer keyboard on the desk. He flexed his arm out and back, up then down.

'Not a good idea,' Shaheeda said.

'Its fine. Not as bad as I expected.' Shaheeda looked unconvinced. 'Tell Parkes I'm back on and that Madrid is mine.'

'Okay,' she sounded unsure. 'Just be careful.' She patted his bad shoulder with a smooth hand. There was no reaction. 'Wow. You weren't lying.' Moore took her hand and gave it a reassuring squeeze.

'I'll be fine.' Shaheeda gave him a stern, knowing nod and smiled.

'In that case you'll be needing this.' She pushed him out of the way and started tapping away at his computer. 'We pulled texts from off of a server in Madrid from the time it all happened and we found a name. Grisham.'

'Anything else?'

'That's it,' she shrugged. 'It was a dead end for us.' Moore had a thoughtful look on his face.

'Email me everything you found. I'll need it'

'Where you off to?'

'To see a source.'

'Ok. Don't be a stranger kidda,' Shaheeda said, heading to the door.

'I won't la,' he told her, as she left. It felt good to be out of the sling. He glowered at it contemptuously as he took his shoulder holster out of the cupboard and strapped it on. It felt natural, like a part of his body had been missing. The restoration of his being was complete after he stowed his twin Sauers under each armpit. He stretched as if he had just awoken from a month long sleep. There was some pain, but that couldn't be helped. He would take pain of the body over pain of the mind every time. He let out a contented breath as he shoved a box of throwing knives and a bundle of passports into a rucksack. Deciding he would need nothing else, other than clothes from home, he left everything and closed the door, striding quickly, underneath the revolving camera, to the elevators before...

'Moore?'

Too late.

'Matthew Moore?'

'What?'

'I'm Colin Porter. I was just coming to see if you ever get off of your phone.'

'Evidently, I do,' Moore grunted, pressing the button to call the elevator. He turned to face Porter, watching the camera rotate toward them in its 270° arc.

'Where do you think you're going?' he asked. 'We have work to do!'

'Coffee break.'

'But it's not even ten 'o' clock!'

'So?'

'This is disgraceful behaviour.'

'Tell it to someone who gives a shit.' Moore told him, pressing the button rapidly. He could feel a tidal wave of rage building within.

'You little wretch! Get back to you desk right now!' Moore ceased pushing the button and turned to face Porter.

'Make me,'

'Threatening behaviour? I'm reporting you upstairs.'

'To who?' Moore scoffed.

'Jasper Brockett of course,' Porter snorted. 'Who else is there?'

'You do that,' Moore chuckled, for the benefit of the camera that was beginning its return to the main room. Porter scoffed and went to walk away.

'Oh Porter,' Moore said. When Colin Porter turned around, Moore was on him in a flash. He grabbed his ear and forced him against the wall, pushing the point of a throwing knife to his neck. 'You ever speak to me like that again, I'll cut your throat,' he snarled while leering close. 'And I'll fucking smile while I'm doing it.' Porter's face went pale and his jaw trembled. The elevator tinged and announced its arrival. Moore tapped him on the forehead with the flat edge of the knife, then backed away and stepped inside. 'How's that for threatening behaviour?' he taunted with a smile as the doors closed.

*****

Cell phones are magnificent inventions. These days, they allow a person to contact anyone, anywhere in the world, just by accessing the device's memory and clicking a button. Dominic did exactly that en route to the airport using the new device Gerdler had presented him with before he left. After ciphering through his long list of contacts to keep his mind occupied during the journey and familiarise himself with its workings, he saw the perfect name that was in the perfect place for him to retreat to.

The departure terminal was vastly different compared to its arrival counterpart. It appeared that everyone was coming to New York, but no one was leaving. Dominic strolled to the first desk.

'I would like to go to Palermo please,' he told the girl behind the counter.

'Palermo?' It was clear the town did not compute with her. 'We haven't got nothing going there.' Her voice was a wail.

'What about a connecting flight?'

'Excuse me?'

'Can't you send me somewhere that does fly to Palermo?'

'Err...' her eyes darted around the desk, searching for help. Or some pepper spray.

'You're new here, aren't you?' Dominic said soothingly, hiding his frustration well. 'Go get someone who can help us out.' He waved her towards a 'staff only' door, as if she was a pet he was trying to put out for the night. 'Go-go-go.' She went and returned seconds later with a spectacled man.

'You're after Palermo?' he asked.

'That's right.'

'Ok, you'll need to go to Amsterdam and catch a connecting flight.'

'Cool. Can you make that happen please?'

'Sure. Just need your passport.' Dominic tossed it on to the counter. The man took it and tapped away at the computer. 'That'll be $684,' he said after a few minutes. Dominic smugly handed him the company account card, then realised he did not know the pin. He rummaged through his brain, frantically flinging cushions, papers, and clothes all over the place. What the fuck could it be?

'Enter your pin please, sir.'

'Just... let me think.'

'One of those idiots who can't remember his own pin,' the spectacled man thought. There were too many of them in the world.

Meanwhile, Dominic struggled. He thought of his own pins, but his father had not known them. Then birthdays, anniversaries, Yankees statistics sprang out, although none of them made any sense. A four-digit number? His initials maybe? Dominic Andrea Panatelli punched in 4-1-1-6.

'Ok that's fine. Here are your boarding cards for here and Amsterdam.'

'Thanks,' Dominic went to the departure lounge, putting his belongings into his pocket. He failed to notice Antonio come through the sliding entrance doors.

'Where'd he just go?' he asked the girl who had returned to her post, as a man walked away.

'Palermo, sir,' she informed him. The name was etched on to her brain.

'How much?' Antonio enquired, pulling out his thick wallet. 'I want to go too.'

'Deacon!' she called after a brief hesitation. 'This guy wants Palermo.' The man gave a defeated grunt and came back.

'I just need your passport and...'

'Shit!' Antonio stomped away. Deacon just sighed. Why did all the idiots always come out on his late shift?

Forty minutes later, a much better prepared Alex strolled to the desk and asked the girl about Dominic and where he was going.

'Should've known,' he muttered after she had given her reply. 'Can I get on that flight?' She went through the door and returned with a sulking Deacon, who made the arrangements.

'That other guy was a Panatelli too,' Deacon pointed out, trying to catch a scent of guilt.

'Yeah, he's my cousin. We're playing a gag on him.' Deacon's shoulders sank, a little lower. No one ever did anything like that for him. Alex paid in cash and went to the departure lounge, eyes alert for any sign of Dominic.

Ten minutes expired and Antonio returned.

'You're the other Palermo guy.'

'Yeah, yeah, you need him?' he pointed to the door.

'No, I can do it now,' she updated him, having seen Deacon do it enough times. She tapped the keyboard, sorted everything, not making a fuss he was another Panatelli. He was probably just in on it too. A wad of bills was handed over as payment.

'Thank you, sir. Here are your boarding cards. Have a pleasant flight.'

Antonio left her without saying a word.

About the Author

Born in Liverpool in 1985, Jon Swift has been writing since the age of 17 and not wanted to do anything else since. He attended Childwall Comprehensive School and Liverpool Hope University, earning what he would find out to be a completely irrelevant education. He has been with his partner, Steffanie since 2007. He works a dead end job, but hopefully only until he can pay the bills with his writing skills. He does not own a flamethrower or water skis. When he isn't writing, Jon plays video games, reads, watches movies and TV shows. Sometimes, he can be found playing soccer, but you must look carefully. Influences include Ian Fleming, Robert Ludlum and the Joker. Jon is allergic to turnips and stupidity. In September 2012, he released his debut novel, _What Happened to Dominic?_ Currently, Jon is working on his second novel, _Gravatia_ with the hope that _Part One_ will be ready for people's eyeballs in 2016. He aims to alphabetize his shoes, break through the glass ceiling of publication and be on a first name basis with Mark Coker.

Connect with Jon Swift

If you're really bored, with nothing better to do, Jon can be found at his website, on Twitter, Facebook and Wordpress or reached at jonswiftauthor@gmail.com. Contact me to be added to the mail list
