I rifled through the loose sheets inside like a man possessed, fingers trembling, spilling useless documents and paper clipped photographs. It all seemed like it was happening to someone else.
I found the name I was looking for near the back.
Vital statistics. Origins. Code numbers. Re-assignment location.
There was a photo pinned to its rear.
I stared at it for twenty minutes.
The sun edged higher.
And then abruptly I was ready to leave, and stuffing the papers into my pockets, and staggering upright, fighting the shivers, and casting my eyes across the photos I'd dropped, stopping to retrieve my rifle, and Oh shit.
And there he was. Staring at me. Pictured in black and white, a decade or two younger, smart in dress- uniform and sergeant's stripes, smiling with officious intensity at the camera.
JOHN P. MILLER.
Lacking only for a vast white mitre, a snowy robe, and an exaltation to the Lord on his lips.
John-Paul Rohare Baptiste.
Why the fuck was he in the file? What the hell was he doing th Snkt.
This is a sound I have heard many times. This is a sound I am acquainted with intimately, and have been responsible for creating in the vast majority of cases.
This is the sound of a semi-automatic pistol being armed, in close proximity to someone's head.
The head was mine. The pistol was Cardinal Cy's.
'Fuck.' I said.
'Yeah,' he said.
Nobody moved.
'How did you find me?'
'On the way up. Heard a shot. Took it nice and slow.'
Opening the filing cabinet. Bugger.
Still the same, strange voice. Little stammered bursts of thought, tones just a touch too high for comfort.
'Given us a chase. Haven't you? Troublemaker. Caused all sorts.'
'What's on the roof?' I said. Stalling. It didn't matter. He had no reason to keep me alive now. Just showboating. Just being curious. Just playing with me.
'No concern.' He said. 'What you looking for? Up here, huh? What's got you into this?'
'None of your business,' I deadpanned.
He punched me in the kidneys, giggling horribly and as I went down I made it look good, cried out, and staggered, and threw up my hand to ward him off, letting the photo of John-Paul flap about, and – and in the confusion sneaked my other hand onto the Uzi in my pocket, and – and the gun was back on my scalp, only this time I was kneeling.
'Fuck.'
'Hands. Lemee see. On head.'
He giggled again. Not right in the head.
I did what he said. The Uzi clattered to the ground beside the photo of John-Paul, and somewhere behind those impenetrable red specs I guess he snatched a glance.
'That who I think?'
'Yeah.'
'Looks young.'
'Yeah.'
'What you doing here?'
'Looking for something.'
'What?'
'Information.'
'What information?'
'You really want to know?'
'What information? Fuck! What information?' The muzzle jabbed against my temple.
I sighed.
Tensed.
'I'm after the location of a secret UN funded research-team sent to find a…'
And I struck. Always mid-sentence. Always unexpected.
Turned. Arms swiping across the pistol muzzle. Knocking it to one side.
He got off a shot – angry and loud and shocking in the silence – and the muzzleflash vanished in the wrong direction, and I was standing and snarling, and then wrestling with the gun between us, and oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck…
He was laughing.
He was stronger than me.
The gun came up slowly like the sunrise outside, like a perfect black 'O' opening to swallow me, and I pushed and fought and put everything into it, and Don't you fucking give up soldier!
Sir, no sir! Etc etc.
– and it still wasn't enough.
Hooked a leg behind his knee. Tipped us up. Rolling on the floor. Grunting, dribbling, spitting, sweating. The cords in his neck stood out like ropes, and still he wasn't going to stop laughing, the bastard, still he was giggling like his sides had bust.
He took a hand off the pistol, and for a second I thought I'd won. Redoubled my efforts. Forced everything I had into snapping his wrist.
But it made no difference, and he was still laughing, and he was still stronger than me.
With all the time in the world, he picked up my own rifle in his spare hand – fat fist wrapped round the muzzle – and hit me so hard on the head that my teeth rattled, my lips went cold, my eyes burned with a sudden whiteness then faded back to an awful half-gloom, and the sound that reached my ears shivered around inside my empty skull like an endless echo.
Still laughing. Standing over me, gun in hand.
Still laughing in between telling me he's going to shoot off my kneecaps and let the Abbot have his fun. Spitting on my forehead. Warm rain.
Still laughing when he aimed the pistol and took a breath.
Still laughing when the blurred shape that had been creeping up behind him for the past thirty seconds – tall and dark, dappled with stripes and patches in blue and red – swatted his wrist to one side, ignored the spastic misfire of the pistol, and jabbed a hunting knife so hard into his skull that it slid inside with a crack and stayed there.
And then he stopped laughing, the shit.
Which is about when I lost consciousness, and went skidding off into my own head.
From somewhere, the sounds of engines. Big engines. A lot of engines.
People were shouting ('They're going! They're getting out! Stop them!'), guns were chattering like woodpeckers in a distant forest, and two voices were arguing.
'Fuck were you doing?'
'You mind your business, man! The hell are you, anyways?'
'What's in the pack? Hey! Hey, I'm talking to you!'
'You back off, Tonto!'
'What did you call m…'
And so on.
Oh, and an ugly throb of motorised something, slinking off into silence.
…thrpthrpthrpthrp…
I didn't even bother opening my eyes. It was all too much trouble.
