Fiction - Thriller - Ashes

Ashes

Chapter 2

 

As soon as he saw him he knew he would kill him.

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.

 

 The night before he prepared everything.

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.