The Red Hand: Stories, Reflections and the Last Appearance of Jack Irish by Peter Temple
Author:Peter Temple
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: The Text Publishing Company
Published: 2019-10-02T00:00:00+00:00
FLIGHT
THE VILLAGE was a long way from the coast, the last thirty kilometres steep, the road narrow, twisting, potholed, not maintained since the fall of Salazar. It was a nothing placeâno shrine, ugly, cold. No tourists came.
Sturt and Celik spent two days in the rooms looking onto the quadrado, a square designed for a big town, some long-ago dream of prosperity. They listened to Sturtâs shortwave radio, played chess. They were of even ability, not very good.
Celik was a Turk from Dogubayazit who spoke many languages badly. They spoke English, Celikâs choice.
On the third day, they were playing chess, it was 3pm. Celikâs phone made a sound. He spoke to his man on the road.
They carried on playing for ten minutes, then they went to the slit window.
A Mercedes, blue under yellow dust, came into view, parked in the square.
Two men got out, stretched, looked around like health inspectors. Gazzard was the passenger, driven by the thin Hungarian Sturt had once given a package in Vilnius.
âIâll point at you,â said Sturt.
He put the Python into the clamp, went down the back stairs to the alley, walked half a block and turned into the slim passage.
The Hungarian saw him at the last minute, shouted to Gazzard.
Gazzard walked towards Sturt, smiling, right hand out. He had 1950s male-model looks, three days of beard stubble, oiled.
âHey, man,â he said. âFucking shithole, what is this?â
âIn the crosshairs,â Sturt said.
He pointed without looking.
Gazzard looked.
âTotally uncalled for,â he said.
âSit down over there,â said Sturt. To the Hungarian: âDonât move.â
They sat at a tin table outside the bar, Sturt facing the square. The owner came.
âBeer?â said Sturt.
Gazzard nodded.
âTuborg. Three.â
Gazzard combed his thin hair with fingers. He had long nails, well kept. âListen,â he said. âSomething shorted, I donât fucking know.â
âWho killed Khalid?â
âWhat?â
âYou die right here.â
âI didnât know that, I swear. When?â
âFive, six hours after. The girl too.â
âJesus.â
Gazzard put fingers to his lips, breathed loudly. âWell, shit, they must know.â
âDonât be a cunt, Barry,â said Sturt. âThey knew, Iâm blown away long ago. Me and the girl. The fact that it fucking happened means they donât know.â
The chainsaw sound. Sturt looked at Celik, who raised a thumb. They waited. The trailbike came into the square, two youths up, did a casual lap, revved away.
Celikâs people.
âSo,â said Gazzard. âYou can imagine the chaos. Jeez, I need a fucken smoke.â
He went into the bar, came back opening a packet, offered. Sturt took. Gazzardâs old Zippo took many scrapes to fire. He lit the cigarettes, hand unsteady.
âFour days,â said Sturt. âFour fucking days. Whoâd you tell? The woman on the switch? The fucking intern?â
âWell, I donât get through to the President,â said Gazzard. âIâm a nothing.â
The bar ownerâs idiot son-in-law arrived. Sturt told him to give a beer to the Hungarian.
They watched him deliver it.
A whistle.
Sturt looked. Celik made the signs: something coming.
âWhatâs Katzen say?â said Sturt.
âNumberâs dead.â
âYouâve got one number?â
Gazzard put up his hands. âIâve left messages.â
Sturt felt the breeze. It came up in mid-afternoon, disturbed the squareâs poplars, blew sadly till dawn.
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