Sam checked his gun again. He didn’t
know what he was planning to do. This close and he didn’t know. He checked his
gun, then he threw open the front door.
The huge bear trap of the house
tingled, waiting, sinister.
Narrow stairs to the right; mouldering
carpet; wood veneer; damp-stained walls; corridor leading back to a kitchen and
a further doorway beyond.
Sam crossed the threshold.
The jaws of the trap started to move,
but they didn’t snap shut as Jack had imagined they would, they crept closed insidiously,
taking their time, until finally grinding shut with a brittle scraping whine as
Sam closed the door behind him.
He glanced up the stairs then down
the hall toward the back of the building. Someone near the rear of the house
was calling a name. Sam sprinted up the stairs.
He reached the landing. There were
three doors, the one with the number of Jack’s room was central. There was a
tabby cat on the brown carpet at the foot of the door frame, snarling, raising
its fur. Sam looked back to the door and lifted his foot. The lock splintered
out of the door frame as it smashed open on the first kick.
A man inside cried out; corridor
through to a living room; bedroom and kitchen through doors off the corridor.
The man was in the lounge. He stood up from the sofa. Sam pulled out his gun.
The throbbing in his head was intense.
“Who the hell are you?” cried the man:
blond hair; muscular.
Sam smashed him across the face with
the back of his hand. He staggered, and Sam grabbed his hair, mashing his face down
against the carpet. “You killed my sister!”
“What are you talking about?” Thick
Scottish accent.
“I’m talking about—”
Sam froze exactly where he was.
This wasn’t Jack. Jack was English.
He cranked the man’s back up,
tightening the grip in his hair.
“Where is he you little bastard?”
13
“What do you want dipshit?” said
Jameson.
Jack smiled. “I just came to say
goodbye. My taxi’s here.”
Jameson was sitting at the table in
his kitchen, his feet up on an old tiny grey school chair. “Goodbye.”
“I’m sorry about the rent Mr Jameson.
I really am.”
“Yeah; well. Go on then, get out.”
Jack laughed. “Okay, sure. God, it’s
going to be boring for you around here with a rent-paying tenant moving in.”
“Okay, okay. That’s enough humour. Go
on.”
He turned to go.
“Hey Jack?”
He paused at the door. “Yep?”
Jameson got up and walked over to the
sink. “Doesn’t matter. I’ll see you later.”
Jack smiled and walked out into the
hall. One last feel of the place around him with its damp air – even that
smelled nostalgic now – then he opened the front door and ambled down the
steps.
14
Sam came round the corner at the top
of the stairs, sprinted down and hit the hall floor, then he ran toward the
back of the house.
15
The taxi driver said, “We’re going to
have to be quick if you want to catch your plane.”
“Yeah, sorry about that,” replied
Jack. “How fast can you get me there?”
The driver grinned and ran a hairy
hand back through his greasy hair. “Bloody fast.”
16
Ugly big ogre of a man with a pot
belly in the back kitchen.
No sign of Jack.
No sign at all.
17
“Hit it,” said Jack.
The taxi pulled away from the curb
and quickly got up to speed. The driver turned up the radio. Jack leaned back
in his seat and smiled to himself, relieved. There had been no avenging angel
to catch him and that meant that he was right; he was meant to get away from
there. Wherever fate was taking him, his path was being kept clear.
18
Sam got to the front of the house and
outside. The gun was still in his hand. The taxi was gone.
He cursed, knowing he should have
just waited on the pavement instead of going inside.
He looked left, scanning down the
street, eyes trained for movement. But there was nothing.
19
Up the road to the right, the taxi
slowed and turned off, heading down toward the main junction.
“Where’s your plane to anyway?” asked
the driver, raising his voice over the sound of the music.
Jack looked at him and smiled,
raising his eyebrows. “San Francisco.”
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