This story is from a novel that I was writing called Unholy Trinity. Who knows. It may be revisited at a later time and date. Enjoy.
Chapter One
My earliest memory is a very brutal one, of having the barrel of a .45 Magnum pressed to my forehead and feeling the bullet pierce my skull. At that moment the only thought I could remember having was not the typical ones of my past flashing before me. Instead it was a very simple one, what had I done to deserve this? Immediately after, I fell into a black and silent nothingness.
That was nearly fifty years ago. You would think I should have been dead. Yet, here I sit today, young, vital and alive nursing a tequila sunrise in a quaint bar in Seattle called The Bitter Rose. In my mind I keep turning over the thoughts and musings of what may have happened before that fateful night. The shot that should have proven fatal, the shot that brought me into the only life that I know.
I look around the semi vacant club, searching, forever searching for a face, a smell, a word, a phrase, anything that will bring back memories that may lead to what brought about my execution. Anything that will allow the moment before to come flooding back into my hollow mind. There is still nothing. Nothing but stark emptiness, and a feeling of despair that overwhelms my soul and mind. There are no clues I can find. Nothing familiar or even remotely close to triggering the memories I seek. I look around the vacant void again; I scan the entire length of the bar and see the blank faces stare back at me, mocking me, disturbing me, smothering me in their anonymity. They make me feel incomplete, as if I am less than nothing.
Maybe that is why I chose to become a loner, an outsider akin to the Renegades of the Second World War. Shunned by the "Society” that created me, and hunted by a past that I cannot remember or even fathom. I have learned complete independence as a form of self-defence and for the safety of others. I do not wish to have the need to rely on another, nor to have another being have to rely on me for their well being or safety, for fear that something from my past may find me and destroy all which I have strived for and taken so very long to create. The fear of never finding the truth of what happened or who I was drives me on almost as hard, as the fear of discovery hinders me. I can only hope what I find is good and meaningful and not just a second chance to repent for my unknown crimes and sins perpetrated by the strange owner of a forgotten life.
This is my life, always thinking about my lost past, wondering if I am strong enough to endure this path I have undertaken and to survive the outcome I may have to face, whatever it may be. Always wanting to regain all I have lost, while harbouring a deep-seeded fear of what my discovery may bring. However, I am determined to recapture that absence, that missing part of my life and make myself whole again.
As I sit contemplating the sad state of affairs that is and may have always been my life; I feel a gentle tap on my left shoulder. Memories of another time, another place race into my mind’s eye. A memory of another such gesture plays itself before my eyes as I start to react to this unwanted contact.
Chapter Two
It was 1949; I woke up in the alleyway in war torn London. As I stood up, I felt a tap left shoulder. I slowly pivoted to find a tall attractive man looking down at my tattered pale form. As I gazed into his hard brown eyes, his worry and concern struck me. He reached down and picked me up from the ground with a fluid motion that would rival any hero in a movie.
He said to me, in a tone full of compassion and relief, “Bella, I have finally found you. Are you all right? What on earth has happened to you? How did you get here and in such a horrid state?”
I could not reply. All I could manage to do was bury my face in his trench coat and cry. He told me, “do not worry Bella, I have you now, you will be safe. Come with me.” I knew at that moment I would never be safe again.
He took me to a flat, which I was to find out later was mine. He proceeded to grill me for details of which I had none. After a while, he helped me understand who I was and what I did for a living. He explained he was Jack Mansfield, the curator of the Royal Museum of Art. It seemed I was an employee of his and I worked with him on new acquisitions for the museum. For the past three years I had been instrumental to the construction of, and the acquisitions pieces of an exhibit that we had jointly named The Fallen Angels. Apparently I vanished over a year ago, on what some thought to be an excursion to obtain more pieces for the exhibit. It appeared this exhibit had been my obsession; I was always looking for more new and interesting pieces to add to it in order to create the most complete and definitive compilation of angels and their visits to Earth.
I asked him if I might see this exhibit that had captured so much of my life. That is when Jack proceeded to tell me of the exhibit’s fate. It seems that my work had gone and toured the majority of Europe and that it finally came to rest in the United States where it was abandoned by the museum’s Board of Directors due to the enormous expense that it had afforded them. Evidentially the Board decided to auction the pieces off to private collectors to help recover some of the elaborate expenses incurred due to its overly extended tour. He went on to explain that since this had occurred six months ago in the States, there was no real method of tracking down the pieces or the buyers. Jack felt there was something amiss when I sent no word and failed to show for the auction. He knew that if I even had a slight inkling of the board’s intentions, I would have found a way of preventing it entirely.
I sat drinking in every word of his tale and to my surprise I was not only overcome by a desire for more information about my life, but an acute and overwhelming sense of physical hunger overwhelmed me. Before I knew what I was doing I reacted to this need, the need to touch Jack. I reached across to him and gently laid my hand upon his, as I did, I felt a feeling of euphoria, a sense of union and somehow of consumption. My mind flooded with a sensation of him, his thoughts and memories filled me with a sense of exhilaration, and a burning sensation flooded my entire body. Suddenly I realized that I was standing over a man, a frail and old looking man, crumpled and writhing on the floor. The realization slowly dawned that this frail old man was Jack. Then I felt it, the sickeningly sweet taste of blood on my lips, the acrid sent wafting lightly in the air of the flat, the horror of what must have happened staggered me. What had I done? It looked as if his essence, his beauty, his thoughts and memories had somehow entered into me through my deed. The next feeling that overcame me is one I will never forget; it was one of fulfilment, as if I had shared something more intimate than sex with this dying man, like my very thirst for knowledge and life had been sated by him. This man, whose only fault was his concern for me. This was the man that had dragged me in from the cold, helped me learn an inkling of myself, and now I was watching him die by a deed I performed.
I dropped to his side, searching my soul, wracking my brain for anything I could do to aid him. I felt the desire well up in me again to reach to him and feel his flesh beneath mine again. I am still unsure if that impulse was some form of sadistic glee that I harboured or one of mercy in the hope of ending his pain. Not sure of any other action, I let my urge consume me again. However, when I placed my hand upon his this time, I said a silent prayer. My prayer was for him, willing him to live. I prayed he would just suddenly recover and turn back into the man that had sat across from me previously. I pictured his visage in my mind and wished everything could return to the way it was before.
This time I felt a different sensation. Numbness passed through me, as if my body had fallen asleep all at once. Then, to my astonishment, when I opened my eyes I saw him sit up, just as handsome as before with his beautifully hard eyes peering into mine.
“What happened?” His quivering voice asked full of concern and confusion.
“I am not sure,” I lied. “You just suddenly fainted.” I hated myself for the lie, but it was as close to the truth as I dared tell. I just could not force myself to reveal I had been the cause of his malady.
The vision of my past flickered away faster than it had come. This time as I turned I saw the countenance of a familiar face, that of Warren McCloud. A face I have looked at often these days and one that belongs to the head of security of this fine establishment.
Chapter Three
“I need a favour,” McCloud says in his usual minimalistic tone of voice, revealing nothing in his inflection or word choice.
“Will it involve a group of people?” I reply, not really caring if it does or not. I focus my thoughts towards trying to get a little more information from him if I can. McCloud has proven his use and his friendship to me time and again, with his ever-vigilant eye and his knack for keeping me out of harm.
“It might,” McCloud replies nonchalantly.
“Okay.” I hope he fails to notice my doubt. “I will help you this time. However, in the future, I will expect the same from you. No questions needed or given.” I figure that I might as well play my hand out to its fullest possible score. In some circles, having McCloud owing a favour is the best possible run of luck. Most consider having him indebted to you is more of a fortune that having an amount of gold equal to his weight. Not to mention that if I did not ask him for his services in return then he would have a little more insight to me than I would like. The gift of insight would be a great one to him, since I know less of him that I know of my true self. He likes to gather his little clues on people and then ply his knowledge against them at the most opportune times. And this way, if did happen to have need of his services, he would be there for me. “And the favour that is so important is?”
With an almost imperceptible gesture, McCloud motions to a seedy figure at the end of the bar wrapped in the shadows. “Do you see that man?”
“Yes,” the word slips out of my mouth before I have a chance to think about what he was doing.
“His name is Win, as in he doesn’t lose.”
“And he is important why?”
“I owe him for something that he helped me with in the past. He has come to collect.”
“And what exactly did you do for him?” I ask as my left eyebrow rises of its own accord. It is not often that McCloud introduces someone, let alone someone he owes a favour to.
“No questions…that was the agreement wasn’t it?” An enigmatic grin lightly touches his chiselled features.
I struggle to keep my disappointment from showing, to no avail. The look in McCloud’s penetrating gaze tells me he can feel my frustration and disappointment. “What did you tell him of me?” I pick my words carefully so as not to loose any more ground to him.”
“I answered him is all.”
“And exactly what does that mean?” I can see his mental stumble. Hopefully he will slip just enough for me to find out more about him.
His face hardened as his reply returned softly with a slightly hollow quality to his voice. “He asked me to find someone that could help him. From what the situation he gave me was, you fit his needs perfectly.” His eyes slowly lost the far away look that had momentarily swept across them.
“Alright,” I eyed McCloud warily. There was something happening I could not quite place. “Have him meet me in Rotary Park by the big oak at two o’clock.”
With another subtle nod, McCloud turned. Already his composure was restored completely. The reverie drained from his face slowly as he left. Leaving me with more questions about him that the meagre answers that this interaction may have given me.
Before McCloud can cross over to the gentleman in question and I take in everything about him. The manner in which he nurses his drink, trying to seem as if he is nothing but a lush, the subtle flick of his wrist as he knocks the ashes from his ebony cigarette. I study him as if he were a subject at the University. I immerse myself into his gestures and mannerisms, taking in all of his traits and quirks. All of this occurs in the same amount of time it takes him to inhale a puff from his clove cigarette.
Watching him between moments, from the shadows, more enwrapped in the darkness than he can ever dream to be. This is going to be fun. I go to the dance floor. Constantly watching him out of the corner of my eye. I shift forms, shift personas, as easily as the light shifts to darkness in the strobes. This is the part I love about doing surveillance in a club. He has no idea, the poor man. After I have shifted into at least four different personas, I decide to watch him more closely. I move over and find a seat behind him.
Again I look at his habits. He wears paten leather shoes that are scuffed in just the right areas to look as if they are not well cared for. His hair is well groomed and the stubble protruding from his jaw looks to be no more than a day or two old. His slightly stained overcoat smells more of coffee than of beer or ale. His mannerisms may be good, but his research is not. Either he is with the local authorities undercover, or he is with the United States authorities. Either way, I think I have just made a Devil’s Bargain. One of these days I will learn not to help those in need, even if they have a pretty face.
With this information committed to memory, I rise to go. I need to get to the oak tree before Win does. Since he seems to have the presence of someone working for the government, I want to ensure that the meeting is one of solitude. Fortunately, I might be able to get a quick snack this way. As I depart, I allow myself a moment of anticipation as my smile creeps over my lips. This might be more fun than I thought.
Author: John Harrison
