THE WATCHER

THE WATCHER

Eric J Drysdale

They came into the small, bare hotel room, furtive in their fear and they were not alone. With the blinds drawn both Horace and Lila in their rumpled old clothes fitted into the dull, claustrophobic drabness of the room like the worn down lino and fly-specked walls. In direct contrast with their slovenly appearance Horace was carrying a stylish new suitcase, the quality and weight of which went with first class air travel. He placed it carefully, almost reverently on the bed then said with a rush of jubilation that had years of disappointment as its spring:

“We made it, Lila! We finally made it.”

But she was over near the window, standing well back surreptitiously watching the street three floors below.

“Are you sure we weren’t followed, Horace?”

“Of course we weren’t bloody followed” he said irritably, “You were there when the Minister for Defense gave us the $200,000 and we counted it, you were there when I leaned against the car and frisked him and you were when I took his car keys and left them a mile away so he couldn’t follow us. Did you see any car following us?”

She sighed and managed a strained smile

“Sorry, Horace, after all the years and everything that’s happened when it looks like we’ve finally got a winner I’m just afraid something’s going to go wrong.”

He crossed the room and put his arm around her reassuringly.

“And don’t worry about the car, all he saw was a white Holden and we changed the plates after we left him. Don’t worry Lila, we organized the whole thing and planned it out and the plan worked.”

She laughed sharply, a little derisively:

“Let’s not take all the credit, Horace, we have never had a plan that worked 100%. If it hadn’t been for the fact that you met a guy who was blackmailing the Minister For Defense who was boasting about it then died while he was with you, so you were able to get the documentation showing how he had bought land in a company name and then approved decentralization deals for a company manufacturing arms on condition that they bought the land from him at a high price, we would’ve had nothing.”

“Yes, but this part of the plan worked,” he said defensively “and we do have $200,000. Anyway, this is time for celebration not for arguing. You go and have a shower and then we can make love to celebrate as we always do after a job.”

She smiled and he leaned over preparing to kiss her waiting lips, however, before their lips could touch a fly flicked between the two of them making them draw back suddenly.

“Bloody flies, I hate them!” she exclaimed swiping at it as it flew away.

He pulled her to him again, kissing her more successfully this time. She responded for a long moment then slipped away from his arms and moved towards the bathroom.

When Lila came out of the bathroom Horace was starting to undress, he had his shoulder hostler in his left hand and was holding the .38 pointing downwards in his right. He looked down at the gun for a moment and Lila crossed quickly to the bed where her purse lay. In a smooth swift movement she had her purse opened and a .32 in her hand. She looked somewhat comical standing there naked with a gun in one hand and a purse in the other, but there was nothing comical or humorous about her tone.

“What are you thinking Horace? that $200,000 divided by one is twice as much as when it’s divided by two?”

He shook his head, but his denial was hardly more than a whisper. Both guns were pointing at the floor but Lila’s posture was far more decisive.

“Make up your mind Horace, I’m getting damn cold.”

“Don’t be silly Lila, we’ve been through to much together to start getting suspicious of each other now.”

He holstered the .38, placed it on the dressing table and continued undressing.

‘You hop into bed. I won’t be long, and then you won’t have a problem with being cold.”

She stood without moving, pensive in her silence.

After a moment he picked up the gun irritably and threw it to her.

“Here, if you’re still worried unload the damn thing and keep the bullets.”

She shook her head as if trying to brush away the anger.

“No Horace, let’s both unload the guns and then you go have a shower.”

When Horace reappeared he too was naked. But Lila wasn’t laying waiting for him she was sitting on the bed looking at the suitcase.

“That’s a good idea,” he said misinterpreting her motive “let’s have a look at the money first.”

“I’m just wondering if we haven’t got too smart, Horace” she said, shaking her head. “He is the Minister for Defense. He’s very powerful, he might have the money marked or even a bomb in the suitcase.”

“How could there be a bomb in the suitcase? We got him to open it just in case, besides he knows that if we got killed this all comes out.”

“But he might be able to blackmail the Leader of the Opposition and stop him from bringing it out.”

“Sometimes I wish I never met you Horace,” she said forlornly.

“You wish you hadn’t had that night where you picked up my car keys from the table? You always said I was the best surprise you’d ever had.”

“Well, I wish we’d just kept is sexual.”

“But the jobs have all been part of it: when the security guy fell asleep siting outside the door and we made love for three hours waiting for him to go…”

“Huh! And then we were in such a hurry to go we left the contents of the safe in the scrubbing bucket. That may have been our biggest job but we never found out.”

“But at least it started us thinking what way and we’ve made love on the job or soon after ever since.’

“Yes” she laughed, relaxing a little, “not that there was much to celebrate often; like the jewellery from Smyth-Powell’s mansion when we used his giant bed and then found the jewels were paste.”

Horace unlocked the case and lifted the lid. “Whatever might have gone wrong in the past this one worked Lila, and we got away with it. Look at all this money, $200,000 and it’s all ours.”

“Yes, your right love, I’m just nervous” she ran her hands through the notes and then patted him on the thigh. As she spoke the fly came in again landing on the paper dreams in the case momentarily, then flew off.

“There’s that damn fly again, I hope that’s not some sort of omen.’

He laughed. “A fly’s a fly. I’ve heard of a cat or a ladder being an omen, but not a fly. Let’s close the case and make love.”

But omen of not the fly stayed and as Horace moved slowly, rhythmically above Lila it landed on his rump. At first he thought it was sweat trickling down his body from the exuberance of their coupling, then he vaguely realized it was the fly, nut the realization was supplanted by the sweetness of Lila’s body as he thrust with increasing vigour.

As they lay on the bed quietly smoking, the drab hotel room transformed into a non-entity by the joy of their success and their passion and the fly returned. He winged in low a couple of times hen landed on Lila’s left nipple. She shuddered involuntarily and the ripple of the movement drove him off even before her sweeping right hand started its descent.

“Dirty damn things”, she shuddered again and rolled closer to Horace, ‘what are we going to do now love?” she asked softly. It wasn’t really a question.

Before he could respond Horace saw the curtains move gently as if a light breeze had crept in through the window to fan their sweaty bodies, but the window was locked. For a moment his eyes remained fixed on the curtains, willing then to hang still, then he gradually turned his head to the door. Two men stood just inside, lecherous looks on their faces and heavy automatic pistols in their right hands. Fear paralyzed his mind and body and somewhere on the paralysis an inner voice was sobbing in frustration. After all these years they’d made it, but now would not even see their first golden sunset.

Suddenly Lila sensed the change in him, sensed the new presence in the room and jerked her head towards the door. She sucked her breath in at the sight of the man, automatically dragging the sheet up over their nakedness.

“Don’t bother lady we’ve seen it all’ one of the mean said with a leer.

Horace sat up, “ Who the hell are you?” he demanded, trying to sound aggressive to stop his voice from trembling.

‘We ask the questions Sanderson, not you.” The speaker was the bigger of the two men and as he advanced into the room his size seemed to be magnified.

“Firstly, where’s the money? You might as well tell me, I’ll get it out of you in the end an’ you’re not goin’ to need it anyway”, he laughed and waved the gun.

Horace saw a glimmer through the darkness; “did you call me Sanderson? There must be some mix up, my name isn’t Sanderson.”

The big man grimaced, “let’s not foul this up with questions on what your name is or isn’t. You knocked the money off, the boss knows, I know and you know, why don’t you save us all a lot of pain by just telling me where it is”.

Horace came off the bed with a rush right hand reaching for his clothes piled on the floor beside the bed.

“Stop! One more move and we find the money without you.”

The gun was steady on his head.

“I was just going to show you my drivers license to prove I’m not this Sanderson guy.”

“Doesn’t mean a damn thing, I’ve got a couple myself, just sit down on the bed and tell me where the money is.” He paused, “it’s no damn good anyway, it’s counterfeit so there’s no point in holding back.”

“What do you mean it’s counterfeit?” Horace demanded, then added quickly, trying to cover his slip: “I don’t know anything about real or counterfeit.”

“You don’t know anything about any money you say.” He crossed to the suitcase, released the catches and raised the lid, “what’s this. You been playing monopoly?”

Horace just shook his head. “I’m not Sanderson, I don’t know anything about any counterfeit money, this is real,” he paused for a long moment shaking his head again, then he whispered: “this is real, it’s gotta be real.”

“The only thing that’s real here Sanderson are these guns”, he waved the Browning to illustrate his point. ‘Even the plates of these counterfeit notes have been destroyed because things were getting too hot. The Boss wants us to burn the money and tidy up your end so everything is left nice an’ clean.’ He laughed but the room was chill and devoid of humor.

With that he picked up the suitcase, walked into the bathroom and emptied the money into the bath. Taking a cigarette lighter from his pocket, he clicked it a couple of times then touched the flame to some of the notes.

Watching through the bathroom doorway Horace and Lila could see the orange tongues flicking up, consuming their dreams and turning the paper to ash.

It was as if they were watching from a great distance with a curious, emotionless detachment as if none of this was really happening, but he knew it was.

The second gunman who had been moving about the room now came and watched as his partner stirred the noted with a curtain rod. Horace knew this would be his chance and slowly, carefully he eased open the drawer. The .38 fitted snugly into his right hand, the action shielded by his body; it was unloaded but they wouldn’t know that. Lila was standing near the bathroom door, caught and fascinated by the sight of the burning money.

The men were till beside the bath, still paying little attention to him. The flames leaped and danced as the curtain rod exposed the remaining notes to the air. While they were still preoccupied Horace crossed to the door and leveling the .38 at the big man he snapped out: “drop your guns! stand up slowly and drop the guns!”. The big man jerked his head around, but his partner turned slowly and started walking towards Horace, his automatic still in his hand. Horace moved the gun to him, stepping back into the room. “Stop! Stop or I’ll shoot.” As the gun came around, resting on the new target, the fly returned like a new persistent omen and landed on the barrel of the gun, preening itself, watching proceedings with bulbous eyes.

“Stop!” he said again, but the man took another couple of steps. Horace stopped with his legs against a low table. A lamp stood on the table its glow illuminating the room with a subdued light. Casually the man slipped his right hand into his jacket pocket and dug out four bullets, they lay still and paralytic in their implication in the palm of his hand.

“Not without these you won’t. We came to the door about the time you were unloading your guns, then had to leave when someone came to the room next door.” He reached out to take Horace’s gun, his own still by his side. Suddenly the fear was replaced by resolve. After all the years of frustration and disappointment Horace was not going to die mute and complacent like a steer beneath he slaughterman’s hammer. Extending the gun he snatched up the lamp and thrust it in a fluid motion into the smirking face. The man jerked back and Horace brought the .38 up in the arc, slamming it into the side of his head above the left ear. The force of the blow opened the scalp with a 2inch gash and sent him staggering back into his companion, his own gun slipping form the limp fingers.

The bulb had smashed on impact, but the light still came from the bathroom, and a s Horace lunged for the gun he yelled to Lila to shut the door.

The big man was coming to his feet again and Horace pointed the gun, squeezing the trigger as the door blocked out the light, nothing happened and for agonized seconds frantic fingers and memory searched for a safety catch. They never found it.

There was a movement near the door, then the main ceiling light came on and two carefully aimed, silenced .45 calibre bullets rested in the life from a body abused by time and circumstances. Slowly, almost casually the big man turned to Lila and with hardly more than a glance shot her once in the left breast. She hung on the wall for a long moment as if the impact of the bullet had nailed her in place then slipped to the floor and lay still next to Horace.

It was as if they had been caught in the midst of some erotic act and their naked bodies frozen either for examination or penance. Quickly, efficiently the big man moved about the rooms wiping anything they may have touched. Theirs would not be the fingerprints found near the bodies. By the time he had finished, his partner was on his feet and with one last look around the room at their handiwork, they walked to the door.

The fly left the room as well, and as the smaller man closed the door, it landed on the number.

“Hey, look at that” he said pointing at the number.

The big man looked puzzled, “wadda you mean, the fly?”

“No, the bloody number. Didn’t the boss say that Sanderson was in 306?”

He nodded then his head jerked back, his eyes fixing on the number again. The fly sat preening itself on the plaque on number 206 as if this was a hideous comic moment that only it fully comprehended.

“Shit!” he said, “that means that that was real money we burnt an’ that we’ve still gotta go knock off Sanderson on 306 an’ get rid of the counterfeit stuff.”

The big man turned towards the stairs with a sigh, “well, let’s get it done” and as he mounted the stairs the fly buzzed around his head as if leading the way.

One floor up the events in room 206 were more or less repeated. There were some minor changes: Shaderson didn’t deny that he was Sanderson, it was acknowledged that the money was counterfeit and he begged for another chance. They didn’t give it to him. The money had been burnt and Sanderson lay dead on the floor near the bed. The two gunmen were in the bathroom ensuring that every last note had been burnt and the ashes washed down the drain. They did not hear the door open; only the fly saw the two men slip quietly into the room; only the fly saw their impeccable dress and that this did go with the suitcase in Room 206 and with the first class air travel; and only the fly saw the gun that each one held in his right hand. The big man came out of the bathroom and took in the scene in an instant: there was no hope, his own gun was holstered.

“Who the hell are you!” he started to say, then looked again, “You’re the Minister for Def…”

“That’s right, I’m the Minister For Defence and I’m defending myself.”

He looked at the other man and then exclaimed, “Hell, and your…”

“Don’t worry about who I am”, he rapped out, “You’ve got other problems.”

“What we wanta know,” interrupted the Minister For Defence, “is where the hell is the suitcase you took when you killed the two downstairs?”

“What suitcase? what two downstairs?” the big man asked.

The Minister For Defence smashed him across the face with the back of his hand And rammed the muzzle of his gun into his throat, “Don’t play smart with me, we know the damn case is in this room, there’s a bug concealed in it an’ it’s here.”

He touched a hand to his lips and inspected the blood on his fingers, “it’s in the bathroom,” he said sullenly.

The second man crossed to the bathroom and came out with the case. “Feels pretty bloody light to me,” he said, throwing it on the bed and opening the lid.

The Minister For Defence forced his head back with the muzzle of the gun, “don’t say a word until you think very carefully. Do you know what a 9mm gun would do to the top of your head if I were to pull the trigger? They wouldn’t even find your pea brain on the ceiling. You’ve only got one chance, where is the money that was in that suitcase?”

The gunman had gone a Grey colour and he swallowed a couple of times before he could get the words out: “we burnt it downstairs.”

“You what?”

“We burnt it, we had a job to do, we thought it was counterfeit and we had to burn it.”

The Minister For Defence drove his fist into the face before him. “You stupid bastard, do you realize that there was $200,000 in that case?”

“We didn’t know,” he whispered.

He glanced at the other gunman who was striving to look inconspicuous, “and who the hell’s the dead guy?”

“That’s Sanderson, he stole the counterfeit money.”

The Minister For Defence shook his head. “So you killed three people and burnt $200,000 over some counterfeit notes. You guys have caused me some real problems.”

Seeing a possible solution, the big gunman suggested: “Maybe we could get 200 grand for you.”

“I don’t only mean the money, do you know what’s going to happen now that you’ve killed those two downstairs?”

“Yeah, we heard them talking, we didn’t hear much, but whatever it was that they had on you was going to be sent to the Leader of the Opposition.”

The Minister For Defence was silent for a moment, then expelled air through his nostrils in a short chuckle. The two gunmen were standing near the wall about a metre apart and the fly was flitting backwards and forwards between them as if it was deliberately trying to be annoying.

He glanced at his companion. “Well, that’s about it, we should be going.”

The big gunman brushed irritably at the fly and when he spoke the anxiety acted like a coagulant to the words: “We won’t say anything to anyone.”

“Unfortunately, that is quite correct, I’m just glad you’re not in my electorate, but then you probably wouldn’t vote for me anyway, so this could be a bonus.” He nodded to his companion, and they raised their guns in unison and shot the two gunmen between the eyes.

He looked critically at the two bodies twitching on the floor, then holstered his gun. “It’s unfortunate about the $200,000 but that’s peanuts and it’s worth that for the peace of mind. Fancy them sending incriminating evidence to you.” The Leader of the Opposition chuckled as they crossed to the door. “They made the error of assuming that we would be enemies.” The Minister For Defence paused to take a handkerchief from his pocket to open the door. “Which just goes to prove that even political barriers can be broken down by greed and the love of money.” He ushered the Leader of the Opposition into the hall with an elaborate bow, then closed the door behind them.

And the fly that had seen it all, who had witnessed the complexities and convolutions of man played out in rooms 206 and 306 saw the door close through a red haze. The 9mm bullet that had killed the larger of the two gunmen had passed right through his head, carrying with it a spray of blood that had imprisoned and trapped the fly against the wall. He, too, became a victim of circumstances, dying with his wings trapped against his body by the viscous red globule as it coagulated and dried.

THE END