Border Run by Simon Lewis

Author:Simon Lewis [Simon Lewis]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781908745118
Publisher: Sort Of Books
Published: 2012-11-15T00:00:00+00:00

22

“All right,” said Howard. “We’ll take him back. It’s only about a ten-minute drive. Load him into the Jeep. We’ll put him on the back seat.” But nobody moved.

“Close his eyes,” said Jake.

“You do it.”

“I don’t want to touch him. I mean, I’ll help you pick him up, sure, but I don’t want to touch his skin.”

“Pretty squeamish for a killer.”

Howard closed the man’s eyes, then took the legs, and Jake and Will grabbed an arm each. He was not so heavy, but he was disconcertingly warm. Will kept noticing details that marked him as individual and particular – cracked skin on his elbows, a patch of what might be eczema on his wrist – and each was a rebuke. There was even something uncomfortably specific about his uniform – a badly repaired seam to his trousers, laces tied with a double knot. All this, this accumulation of detail that was a person, it was all pointless, would all be wasted. Will grew aware of alleys of thought that could be gone down that would make him unable to continue, and he realised the truth of Howard’s words. The man had to be treated as a problem of a particular weight and size; anything more, and clarity of thought and action was impossible.

They got him through the back door of the Jeep and slid him along the seat. It was so easy, it felt like he was cooperating. Will wanted the man to get up and tell them that what they were doing was the only thing that made sense in the situation. Perhaps he could give them some pointers on this strange territory they had blundered into. But Howard slung the crossbow in and shut the door on him.

“I’ll ride the bike,” said Jake, and Will followed Howard into the Jeep.

“Stay focused,” said Howard as they set off, “and we are going to win.”

“There’s no winner. This is not a game.”

“Of course it’s a game. It’s just a serious one.”

“It’s murder.”

“You think I’m a robot? I’m all heart. I cry when a puppy hurts its paw. But given the choice between nursing an uneasy conscience in a hammock on a beach or in a cell, getting my arse creamed to butter, I pick the leisure option.”

Jake followed a couple of metres behind, revving the bike hard, his jaw set in a grimace. Will wondered if he, too, was replaying the incident in his head and this time getting it right. It was merely a shameful list of errors that had led them to this sorrowful position; there had been nothing ordained or inevitable about any of it. What a vast array of ifs Jake would have to consider – if he hadn’t driven away, if the crossbow’s trigger had been stiffer, if he had never met Howard or never left home.

Will grew aware of what seemed a great variety of cuts and bruises and sore points on his body, few of which he could trace to a source. His

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