The Book Group 45
run, rabbit, run
Terrence ran. He just ran. Seconds earlier he’d said he needed to visit the toilet, had went into the bathroom, flushed the toilet, the noise intended to cover the sound of him climbing out of the window. What he didn’t plan on was a neighbour seeing a kid climbing out of someone’s bathroom window and shouting, ‘Thief!’ He was only twenty-five, thirty yards away when he saw Treats peer out of the window, his face dark red with fury. So he ran. Flat out. He turned onto Flood Street running hard, glanced over his shoulder and his legs nearly gave way in fright as he saw Treats now chasing him, only fifty yards back, the poker in his hand. He turned right onto Redesdale, wishing that Mr. Carter was here or Mr. Bickers, they’d know what to do. But they weren’t, so he ran.
Penny threaded a path between the twin rows of columns, and seeing a smartly-dressed man of thirty-something years standing there holding a brown paper bag she approached him. ‘You’re looking swish, Mr. Bickers,’ she said, taking the bag without stopping, feeling the weight, which wasn’t from the two long loaves that poked out the top. She slowed a little to check her watch, two minutes to four, and as she broke through onto the other side of the columns she glanced over her shoulder, saw the salmon-coloured walls of Il Collonato, an open window on the first floor, net curtains slightly parted. She paused, knelt over, put down the bag and fastened her shoelace.
Paul, looking through his telescopic sight, saw a young woman, dressed mostly in black, stop right in his line of fire and kneel. ‘Get out of the way,’ he said quietly. He took a peep outside, just a couple of people at the cafe. The loud blonde and the priest had disappeared, presumably going their separate ways. The spy was there, which was fine, the death of the priest had to be verified otherwise none of this would matter. Paul ignored him, checked his watch.
In a side room off the seminary building, young polish priest Karol Wojtila closed his prayer book, set his desk straight and then stood. He’d been requested to attend a meeting at five past four, which seemed an unusual time but he was getting used to the quirks of the Vatican. As his mentor had said, The Church of Rome was a nation of politicians with a religion attached, and if he expected simplicity or truth or mere common sense he would be disappointed. He stood, checked the red and white badge on his collar, he’d been advised to not wear the sash, too showy, he’d been told, and this in a world of men dressed in gold and crimson. But he was pragmatic, change would come slowly, but it would come. He hadn’t survived six years of war to travel here and surrender to weak men of weak faith dressed in gaudy costumes. He went to the door, stepped into the corridor, then through another door and out onto St. Peter’s Square. They were putting out chairs in rows, for a service this evening. He hoped that whatever politicking nonsense they had lined up for him now would not stop him from being here at eight tonight. The square was already crowded. If he didn’t hurry, he’d be late.
The spy glanced up at the open window then turned to look towards St. Peter’s Square, seeing only a slice of it between colonnades. A young woman, possibly a novice, had stopped to fasten a shoelace. Even at this distance he could see she was pretty; fair-skinned, probably from the north of Italy. A waste of a young woman, he thought, as all nuns were, though not so much as they grew older.
The crowds were picking up and the priest, hearing the peel of the Vatican’s smallest bell, hurried on. A girl, just ahead, stood up from fastening her shoelace, picked up a paper shopping bag, her face pale, worried, and seeing him said, ‘Father!’ English, he thought, a people he could admire, if not for their infernal King Henry, but he slowed, ever willing to give aid.
‘Yes?’ he said, in accented English.
‘I need to speak to you,’ she said, and she glanced over her shoulder, then stepped closer.
Odd, he thought. Then his world went fuzzy and he hit the ground with a thud.
The spy heard a pop, not loud against the background noise of cars and Vespas and the crowds heading to the square, but loud enough. The priest fell, as if he’d been shot, which, the Spy thought with a smile, he just had been. He watched as the novice stood back, and then a man approached and bent over the priest and the novice screamed. Looking up at the window, he saw the merest wisp of smoke. He stood then, and ran toward to the hotel where he’d made his call earlier, pausing when he saw a cop standing by a Fiat 100, approaching him and talking fast, gesticulating, pointing at where the priest had fallen and then up at the hotel window. The cop absorbed the information in an instant and with cool-headed efficiency, as though what had just occurred was a commonplace occurrence. He made a short radio call then sprinted across the road, through the pillars and into the square. The spy watched him go, then ran onwards to the hotel to make a call to the same number he’d called earlier.
Treats ran with a steady, pulsing stride. He may have downed a few glasses of rum but as a soldier, running was something he’d done two or three times a week for years, and he knew he’d catch the little bastard soon. The poker in his right hand was warm, but the other end, though not now glowing red, was hot enough to melt flesh. If he’d stopped to think, or if he’d been sober, then maybe the madness of what he had in mind would have slowed him up and made him reconsider, but he was drunk and he was in a fury, and somehow, he understood that everything that had gone wrong in his life was down to the little bastard thirty yards in front of him. The kid was tiring, he could tell, and when he caught him he was going to get that poker laid on him good and proper. He was going to scar him.
Taes took the call, listened, nodding, feeling a deep satisfaction as he checked the time. Four oh five. He’d sit until four-fifteen, then he’d set in motion his escape plan. Not escape, he corrected himself, more a necessary migration. He’d done as asked, he’d set his attack dog on the people he’d been told to, and if it was a shame that Paul Carter had been arrested, bundled out of the hotel by six armed Carabinieri, and in a day or so he would be found to have committed suicide in his cell, then so be it. Lives had to be sacrificed for the greater good of the toiling masses. Or some such nonsense, he thought with a smile.
Terrence was flagging. He was a good middle-distance runner for his age, but his age was eleven and he’d been running at least a mile now: his legs were wobbly, his heart couldn’t beat any faster than it already was, and his lungs were burning. He glanced back and saw Treats still pursuing him with a dogged determination, with that poker still in his hand and an expression of focused hate that terrified Terrence into a final, lung-bursting effort. If he could get as far as King’s Road, maybe he could lose Treats amongst the crowds. ‘Please. Be. Crowds.’ He panted as he ran, ‘Please. Be. Crowds.’ Or I’m going to die, he added silently, not having the energy for any more speech.
The priest lay still on the floor, a red stain spreading across the front of his shirt. The novice was screaming, so the cop did the manly thing and slapped her, which shut her up, then he turned back to the priest.
‘Is he breathing?’ someone asked.
‘Stand back!’ he shouted at the crowds. Then, to two men who were standing watching he said, ‘He’s still alive, help me carry him inside.’ He wasn’t sure if he’d get a promotion for bravery or the sack for standing by while someone shot a priest in St. Peter’s Square. If the priest was going to die, he’d die somewhere indoors.
‘Is he dead?’ someone asked.
‘He’s alive!’ the cop snarled, then to the two men, ‘’Grab his legs.’
Terrence made Kings Road and his heart sank. The street was virtually empty of passers-by and shoppers. He jogged across to the other side and stopped, bent almost double, hands on his thighs, gasping for breath, almost weeping in fear and exhaustion. He looked up as Treats arrived at the corner, looking around until he saw Terrence, obviously winded, on the other side of the road. ‘Gotcha,’ Treats snarled, starting towards him, only to leap into the air, dropping the poker as a passing truck nearly hit him. He swore, loud, then went to the poker, staring at Terrence as he picked it up…
Terrence took a right on Carlyle Square, walking slowly now, his breath coming back in big gulps, trying to process what had happened. Treats had picked up the poker by the wrong end and immediately dropped it again, it must have hurt a lot because he yelled out some choice swear words and he was dancing around in pain. Then the bus. That bloody bloody wonderful bus. He glanced up at the sky, he had a wartime view of God and Angels, they pretty much didn’t exist as far as he was concerned, but maybe, just maybe.
By the time he got to Carter’s Bookshop he’d almost recovered from the run, and somehow the extreme exertion had cured his terror too, or maybe it was the fact that a bus had run over the source of it. He grinned. He shouldn’t laugh, mum had taught him not to take pleasure in other people’s suffering, but seriously? He laughed, hard, as much in relief as in pleasure. And, he realised, no-one could connect him with what happened. The road was nearly empty. No witnesses. The people on the bus were more concerned with the soldier crushed beneath the wheels than some kid watching from the other side of the road. He glanced up again. ‘Thankyou,’ he said, meaning it. He’d never been more grateful for fate or good luck or divine intervention, or whatever it was called. All that mattered was he was safe. Mum was safe. Their future was safe . He pushed open the door and Mary Bickers was at the counter. ‘Busy?’ he asked.
‘Fairly quiet,’ she said, adding, ‘The papers are in the bag.’
He looked behind the door and saw the large canvas delivery bag all packed and ready for him.
‘Thankyou,’ he said. She’d packed his entire round for him. She was very kind, Mrs. Bickers.
‘Looks heavy,’ she said.
‘I don’t mind,’ he said. ‘Where’s mum?’
‘Having her break, want to go see her?’
He shook his head. ‘It’s ok.’
Mary ruffled his hair. ‘You had a busy day, Terrence?’
‘Fairly quiet,’ he said.
He picked top his bag, feeling the weight of normality, of responsibility, on his shoulder. He was never going to tell anyone about what just happened, he thought, as he stepped out onto the street. No-one. He’d keep it to himself and he’d get on with his life.
That’s what Mr, Carter would do.
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Well done ... juggling three timelines. Wonderful.