Chain of Vengeance: Chapter Three - Part Six

6

Jack found himself suddenly reluctant to climb out of the van when it pulled up at the front of his home in Hounslow, an outer suburb of London.

He lived in an upstairs flat that was part of a Victorian house with a raised front door at the top of a short flight of steps. It was remarkable luck to have hitched a ride with a driver more than willing to drop him at home, but Crazy Geoff had enjoyed the company enough to stretch it out with a pretty major detour. Most of the journey had been a spiral retelling of Crazy Geoff’s glory days on the open road in the seventies and eighties. Jack listened to it with grateful good humour, saying thanks but no thanks to the occasional offered spliff when Crazy Geoff stopped to stretch his legs.

The journey in that heap, surrounded by such pleasantly nostalgic clutter and conversation had let Jack temporarily forget his situation. Now he was back it thumped to the centre of his conscious thoughts once more.

There were no police cars parked by the steps of his building, strobe lights flickering alternately. At first glance there didn’t even seem to be a suspicious stakeout vehicle containing a pair of heavily armed plain-clothed policeman. Having said that, the street was lined with cars as it was at any time of day or night and he couldn’t be sure.

Crazy Geoff was still talking, rounding up the latest story but rude as he knew it was, Jack had tuned out. He couldn’t focus on that now because here at last he had returned to a place where he could be found. If the police were after him – and surely they had to be by now – then this house was an open trap, either seconds or hours away from snapping shut around him, but certainly no more than days.

Should he tell Geoff to drive on; become that fugitive he had imagined? On the other hand, he was a fugitive already. These were fugitive thoughts he was thinking; the reasoning of a murderer.

He should go straight to Dominic’s; find out who was after him; but he was weary. He needed a respite, even for a little while, and more practically, he couldn’t rely on Geoff to be his chauffeur anymore; crazy or not. Before he could muster up enough doubt to stop himself, Jack thanked Crazy Geoff for the lift and opened the door.

“You have a happy life,” said Geoff, showing a smile that was missing its two front teeth.  Jack climbed out and shut the door, sending back a nod through the open window. “Thanks. You too.”

Crazy Geoff revved the engine of his hippy-mobile and flashed his eyebrows then pulled off down the street surprisingly fast. Jack stood where he was for several moments, waiting for the trap to close – for a couple of chubby men in navy blue suits and creased shirts to approach him and ask if he was Jack Catholic and would he mind accompanying them to the station.

They didn’t appear. The street was empty.

But what did that mean? That he was in the clear? Not at all. This house was still only pretending to be a refuge. Behind the bricks and windows were jagged metal teeth and a steel spring, just waiting for the moment when they would snap shut. He hadn’t tripped the trigger mechanism yet, that was all.

Again he had the compulsion to walk away; but he didn’t. He walked up the steps to the front door and flicked the key in the lock. The shadowy blackness inside swallowed him up as he went in and slammed the door.