Ashes
Chapter 2
That was yesterday morning.
He woke before the alarm
clock . He got up washed, dressed and went downstairs. In the kitchen he was
greeted by his overweight black labrador with a soft whine.
“Sch! be out in a minute old
boy.” But he was up and the dog was excited, it roamed up and down in front of
the back door eager to be out. He filled the kettle, found his cigarettes. He
caught a glimpse of his red faced coughing fit reflected in the mirror and
turned away. He knew he smoked too much. He also drank too much and put on weight.
Village life was comfortable, the local
pub was too close, it had good beer acceptable food. He could forget his past
and lose himself by the fireside. There were worse things in life than teaching
in a rural Secondary school. His present life had made him soft. He made tea, checked
the time and smoked for a while. When he finished he took an old waxed jacket
and cap from the back of the door and put them on. From the kitchen drawer he
took the gun which was wrapped in a duster and an old pair of thin leather
gloves. He put the gloves into a side pocket and the gun into a large poachers pocket behind him in
the bottom of the coat.
It was warm in the sun, it
was a beautiful Cotswold morning.
He was sweating when he came
back into the house. He found the shoe cleaning box and put it on newspapers
spread out on the table. It was full of old half used polish tins, cotton rags.
He found a pair of lint gloves. He poured himself a large single malt put the gloves on and fetched the gun. It was
another thing he had let go, it had not been cleaned in years. He smoked while
he worked methodically stripping and cleaning the gun. Reassembled, he tested
its weight, it had been a long time since he had held it. He wiped each high
pressure cartridge shell clean and loaded them into the magazine, they made the
gun more accurate and reliable. He would miss the Luger it had been a good
friend. The dead Russian that he had taken it from probably thought the same.
He walked the dog every morning
before school, down the lane towards the village into the wood, up the hill, along the top
field and back round to the house. Fifteen minutes all round. It was on the
walk yesterday that he had seen him. Older, but it was him and in good shape. He looked like he could still beat a man to
death with his bare hands – no matter how long it took. He was a violent man and he had taken care of his
primary asset, his body. He looked hard and lean in the blue tracksuit. Running
steadily he was hardly out of breath. He literally looked twenty years younger
than he was. The Nazi’s believed a man had to be as swift as a greyhound and as
tough as Krupp Steel. He still looked like the Silesian thug he was. Born in a
small Slavic village he had grown up watching his tribe being beaten, starved
and raped by whichever country had invaded them at the time. History had made him grow up to be hard and
have no particular loyalty. The Poles came and took what they wanted, then the Russians
would come and took what they wanted. The Germans came back and took what they
said had always been theirs. He was whatever it was in his interest to be Pole,
Russian, German. His real name was William Bielschowsky, but in the war he was Hans
Bermann, there were advantages to being German. After the war he worked for the
Russians because he was good at what he did. Working for Russian intelligence
was the same as working for the Nazis. In life there were always problems to be
cleared up, people who had to disappear, people who had to be found, people who
had to talk, people who had to be quiet, permanently.
Inside the wood he let the dog
off the lead and quickened his pace. If Bielschowsky ran at the same time as yesterday morning he
would be deeper into the wood, where the footpath took a turn left and back
down to the village, but where he turned right on his own unofficial path up through the trees to the top field. He
slowed, put on the gloves and reached round for the gun. From his other pocket
he took the suppressor and attached it
to the barrel, while keeping a steady pace. He glanced behind him, nothing. To
his right there was a thicket which would
give him good cover. He slowed and turned again. Creatures of habit. Bielschowsky
was coming, relaxed, comfortable. He let
himself be seen and made a show of calling the dog before disappearing behind
the thicket. He wanted it to look normal, someone taking their dog for an early
morning walk. Bielschowsky liked woods, he had lived, fought and killed in them
most of his life.
He stepped into the path
with the gun levelled. Bielschowsky
stopped, opened his mouth as if to speak. There was a sharp snap and a
red dot appeared on his forehead, another snap ripped into his chest . He fell
dead.
He bent down and grabbed
Bielschowsky’s collar and dragged him up into the trees well away from the
path. The shallow trench he had dug the night before was waiting. He dropped
the gun in and rolled Bielschowsky on top.
He worked quickly covering the body
first with lime to speed decomposition and deter the foxes and badgers.
Then he covered it with earth and leaves.
When he had finished he
examined the area, it all looked normal.
Someone would have to be looking very hard to notice any disturbance. It
was now a matter of luck. Would anyone bother to come and look for him. Would
anyone care. He stood there and looked
down at the ground, it was an old wound that had stayed with him all down the
years, he couldn’t say he felt better. He turned, called the dog and walked
home.
