Mary

Thursday 16th

Blood. Andrea tongued the roof of her mouth but the wound wasn’t there. Was there a wound? There was definitely blood; she could taste... what could she taste? It was similar to sucking an old coin, combined with a bitter fruit... no, there was something else too. Andrea had a dry mouth with an unpleasant bad perfume taste that made her want to gag. Blood has a distinct taste, and there was definitely blood there, but there was also an overpowering taste of something nasty. Dry, with fumes that were weak to smell but strong to taste. It was gas. She had a mouthful of gas. Or was it petrol? Blood and something else, something foul, and something that she couldn’t find as she worked her tongue around her teeth and gums.

“Can you hear me, Andrea?” a familiar voice. That accent... French?

Andrea opened her eyes. Leaning over her was a dark-skinned woman with the most captivating and magnificently bright green eyes. Her face was wrinkled and worn with age, but her eyes sparkled with intrigue. The face moved back, away, and smiled a thin red smile.

“How are you feeling?” the green-eyed woman’s tone seemed more curious and less caring.

How was she feeling? Andrea rolled her leathery tongue over paper lips. “Can I get some water?” Andrea’s voice had a hint of a whistle in its rasp.

“I’ll go,” came another familiar voice from somewhere nearby. A man’s voice.

Andrea lifted her hand to her face and felt for the injury that was creating the taste. Everything felt fine, and her fingers produced nothing red. No blood, just regular fingers; cold and wet and pale.

Andrea took in her surroundings. A living room. She was either in a country cottage or a farmhouse, that much was obvious. Dark brown wood beams across the ceiling, a cloth sofa worn with age, unattractive paintings of geese and gun dogs on the uneven and poorly painted walls, and thin rugs where a sensibly fitted carpet should be. An open log fire snapped and spat lightly with a fresh log recently placed over dying embers. The room looked warm but felt cold.

Andrea looked across the room at the only window. A peeling white wood window frame with open mud green curtains, showing the darkness from outside. Rain tapped against the glass of the lonely window and a thin twig from a small tree scraped, trying to get inside, out of the chill and into the warmth. But it was cold inside. A different kind of cold.

“Cold,” Andrea said.

The green-eyed woman turned to face a man. He stood proper and with authority, smartly dressed in tailored trousers, shirt and waistcoat. An intense, almost stern, look to his face, but handsome. The man was instantly commanded by the green-eyed woman, “Put some more logs on. We need to warm this place up.”

The man nodded his agreement and went to work refuelling the fire.

“Can you remember me? Or where you are, child?” the green-eyed woman nodded at Andrea for her to give it a try.

Andrea looked around the room for inspiration. There was the smartly dressed man, adding logs to the fire. She couldn’t place his name. The green-eyed woman facing her was familiar, but Andrea was confused, muddled; she looked as though she was supposed to be a friend, but Andrea felt in danger from her... “Grace?” Andrea said.

The green-eyed woman smiled, “Good. Yes, my name is Grace.”

Two more figures stepped into a doorway of what was undoubtedly the living room of a farmhouse. The first was a fair-haired woman in her late twenties, pretty face, slim figure and clothes that didn’t match her potential glamour. She was all in black, and not a black evening dress or similar, but jeans and jacket. Practical. Just behind the beauty stood a man in his mid twenties, scruffy brown hair and equally scruffy jeans and jumper. Likely he scrubbed up well as there was a pleasant jawline and attractive quality to the shape of his face. He just needed a shave and a comb. Yes, he was also handsome in his way; nervous looking, but handsome.

The nervous man walked past the beauty and held out a glass of water. Andrea took it and drank. Cool. Refreshing. Her throat felt like sharp wood being desplintered and cleansed of all poisons and toxins. Eric! That was the good looking, scruffy man’s name. Andrea was remembering.

“Maybe she should lie down,” the smartly dressed log man brushed the dirt and wood dust from the palms of his hands.

“No, she’s fine right here,” Grace said, continuing to face Andrea, an attempted warm smile hiding something. Something unknown or forgotten.

“What happened to me?” Andrea had finished her water and her voice was more her own.

“You can’t remember?” Grace asked and looked to face the smartly dressed log man. “Maybe we should introduce ourselves and help her memory along.”

The man nodded, “I’m Julian. This is my house. My farm.”

Andrea was right. It was a farmhouse.

“Eric,” said the somewhat scruffy and nervous looking man as he leaned in and took Andrea’s empty glass from her.

The beauty in the doorway seemed uninterested, but muttered her answer under the watchful instruction of Grace. “Celine.”

“Good,” said Grace, and looked back around at Andrea. “And I am Grace, as you have already said. Madam Grace to be exact. It’s what I prefer and it’s what everyone calls me.”

Andrea sat up and tried to make herself more comfortable. She was slumped in a wing armchair that was the height of fashion in the seventies and probably hadn’t seen any love or attention since the day it was bought.

“How long will it take?” Julian looked at Madam Grace.

Madam Grace nodded at Andrea, her smile still fixed, “As long as it takes.”

“Maybe we should go and talk somewhere,” Eric said, quickly looking at the others.

“Yes, give Andrea some time to rest,” Celine added.

Eric nodded his agreement, “I mean, this hasn’t gone as expected, right?”

“Shut up, Eric!” Julian snapped and flashed Eric a cutthroat glance. Eric looked to his feet.

“Maybe Eric’s right. Maybe Andrea could use some quiet time,” Madam Grace leaned in close to Julian and whispered something in his ear. Julian listened, forever staring at Andrea as he did.

“Fine. Let’s reassess this fuckup,” Julian turned and stormed out the room. Celine and Eric parted as he pushed past them.

Celine nodded for Eric to follow and he did as he was told.

Madam Grace was the last to leave, stopping in the doorway and looking back at Andrea. “Rest. And try to remember. We won’t be gone for long.”

Madam Grace turned and walked out of the room, following the others.

Alone at last; just Andrea, the scraping twig, tapping rain and snapping fire. Andrea felt safer now. Less threatened. The people were familiar in an unknown way, but friends... no, these weren’t her friends.

***

The farmhouse kitchen was a typical display of wood and tiles. A stone slab floor, cold yet strong and easy to clean, wall tiles that had patterns of fruit here and there and were no doubt bought at a country craft fair; almost expected of anyone wishing to give their country kitchen the ‘right look’. A large and sturdy wooden table was surrounded by old and worn in fiddle back chairs and low bar stools, all handmade, oak, pine, ash, beech... expertly crafted. A display of England’s finest. A solid ceramic double sink against a window that faced a dark and forgotten garden, herbs growing in windowsill pots, and all manner of country style dishes and pans littered the workspace beside the sink. Whoever’s turn it was to wash up was a few days behind schedule. Some overhead beams and ceiling racks displayed several dented pots and brass things that hadn’t been used or considered in years, and the cupboards that lined the remaining wall space over the kitchen worktops were faded, dirty and in need of updating. A mishmash of ideas formed many years ago by someone who started out with grand plans and gave up very early on. Rustic and full of character had become tired, unloved and forgotten.

A light clicked on and Julian walked into the room. He stepped over a broken vase and collection of withered brown flowers, and walked to the sink. He turned and leaned back against it, facing into the room and those that followed.

Eric followed seconds later, glancing at the floor as he stepped over the vase and dead flowers.

“You can clear that up for starters,” Julian nodded at the broken vase.

Celine entered the kitchen as Eric crouched down looking for a dustpan and brush. She walked past him, pulled out a stool with her foot, and sat down.

Madam Grace stood in the doorway, looking down at Eric.

Eric had quickly given up his search for a dustpan and brush but had found a discarded shoebox under the table which he began carefully placing the broken remains into.

“We need to keep our comments out of her earshot,” Madam Grace said. Eric looked up, gave a nod, and continued with his cleanup.

“Maybe we were too late. You said twenty-four hours and it was damn close to that,” Celine said looking at Madam Grace and then to Julian.

“We were in time,” Madam Grace replied.

“Then what now? How long do we wait?” Julian looked on edge, holding in a certain build-up of anger. His fuse hadn’t been lit, but the match was close to hand.

“You need to be patient and you need to be calm,” Madam Grace said and walked into the kitchen, past Eric and to a seat by the table. She slid it back and lowered herself, facing Julian.

Eric stood up and placed the shoebox of broken bits onto the kitchen table.

“You want me to clean the blood off?” Eric looked at the kitchen table. There was a smear of fresh blood across one end that continued onto the floor below.

“In time, yes,” said Julian. “But let’s deal with this mess before that one.”

“Can’t we just tell her what happened? Surely that will help her remember the rest,” Eric said, positioning himself between the others and leaning back against a worktop.

“He’s right. Just basic stuff, like Thomas Kendall, BMW, emeralds; that kind of thing,” Celine said.

Everyone looked to Madam Grace. She mulled it over for a few seconds before giving her reply, “Tomorrow. If she hasn’t given us anything by tomorrow, we’ll plant some seeds and see what grows.”

“And we’ll need to take shifts tonight. Keep an eye on her in case she tries to wander,” said Julian, nodding a confirmation to his own decision.

“Of course, we’re overlooking one very important thing,” Celine said, a slow smile spreading across her face.

“And what’s that?” Julian replied.

Celine stood up and reached her hand out to touch the fresh blood on the kitchen table. She wiped the tip of a finger through it and rubbed it with her thumb, “What if she remembers everything?”

***

Andrea stood beside the living room window, a dark shape in the half light made from the fire and a dim corner lamp. She, like Celine, was dressed in black; black jeans, black sports top, black knee-length jacket and black tied back hair to match. Her pale skin glistened in the moonlight. A porcelain doll clothed in shadow. She gazed out of the window, past the drops of rain and into the dark grounds beyond. A sizable lawn in need of mowing was surrounded by a six foot hedge, with one single feature in the centre of the garden; a grey stone bird bath. Four feet tall and nearly as wide, the impressive ornament was similar to Atlas in design, yet instead of a man of muscle holding up a globe there was a stone bowl held upon the shoulders of a long-tongued stone gargoyle. The gargoyle stared at Andrea through slanted and menacing eyes, and Andrea stared back.

And the gargoyle wasn’t the only thing staring at Andrea. Stood within the partial illumination of the moonlight was a figure. A man. One moment there, and as the smoke grey clouds rolled past the moon, he disappeared but for an instant; emerging once again as the clouds continued their journey and the moonlight interrupted the darkness. This individual felt out of place and alien to Andrea. Concealed in the partial shadow of the hedge, but there and in sight for any who were truly looking. Andrea was looking. He was far more interesting to her than the gargoyle, and the gargoyle was impressive enough.

The man was well over six feet tall, and of slender frame. His black hair was evenly flecked with grey and his face sported an impressive moustache befitting a lord from Victorian days, although his suit was tailored and clearly of recent years. Smart, tall, captivating, and somehow he had pushed out everything else around him. Andrea was wearing blinkers.

The man moved away from the hedge, looked up at Andrea and smiled, a genuine smile, followed by a slight bow to acknowledge her formally. A strange thing indeed, yet it felt more welcome and sincere than the smiles and words Madam Grace and the others had given recently. This was someone new; someone Andrea had no memory of, but someone who felt more connected and warm. Even if he was standing in the cold night.

“Who is that man?” Andrea broke the silence.

There was a creak behind her and she turned to face Eric, who was stood in the doorway. She knew he was there. Even though the man had caught her and reeled her in, she was still aware of Eric, softly and quietly placing a stool in the living room doorway.

Eric looked even more nervous than before. He stood beside his stool holding a cream coloured thermos flask close to his chest, his eyes working overtime, darting from one shadow to another.

“The man in the garden. Who is he?” Andrea repeated.

Eric reacted slowly and vacantly, “Err, sorry. What?” Eric tried to relax and placed his thermos flask on the stool.

“There’s a man in the garden. Well dressed. I’d say late fifties,” Andrea said and nodded to the window.

Eric repeated her nod, knowing what was expected of him, and as uncomfortable as he was, he crossed the room and stood beside Andrea. He looked through the window at the quiet and sleepy garden. Nothing.

“I can’t see anyone. Sorry,” Eric whispered. He didn’t know why, but it felt like a moment for hushed tones. He knew he was acting uneasy and that any attempt to calm himself might also be obvious. And so continued his inner turmoil.

“Never mind,” said Andrea. “He’s gone now.”

But he hadn’t. Andrea could see him clearly; so clearly in fact, she knew there was no way that Eric couldn’t see him. He was as plain to see as the gargoyle in the centre of the lawn. Either Eric was hiding something or this encounter was strangely hers and hers alone. Andrea was certain that both possibilities were likely. This unfamiliar man was there for Andrea. Reasons unknown. She didn’t know how or why she knew this, or felt this, but she did.

“You should rest. We’re taking it in turns to stay with you in case you need something,” Eric said, clearing his throat through the whisper and into a normal tone.

“Or in case I remember anything,” Andrea said, looking straight into Eric’s eyes.

Eric didn’t deal with this very well and gave a quick hum of acknowledgement before retreating back to the doorway and the safety of his thermos flask.

“And you pulled the short straw I see.” Andrea walked away from the window and returned to her wing armchair facing the burning log fire.

“No, well yes I suppose so. But I’m happy to be here,” Eric lied. “Would you like some coffee?” he sat on the stool, freed the cup from the top of the thermos flask and unscrewed the cap.

“No. I think I’ll take your advice and try for some rest.” Andrea made herself comfortable and closed her eyes.

Eric poured himself a coffee and placed his thermos flask by his feet. He cradled the cup in his hands and gazed at the dancing flames of the open fire. Keep your cool, Eric, your shift ends in a couple of hours.

***

Julian stood beside the kitchen worktop, knife in hand, and absentmindedly testing the tip with his forefinger. He was deep in thought. Madam Grace watched him. Waiting. Sat in the concealment of shadow, her brilliant green eyes shining through the semidarkness.

Julian broke the silence. “There are other ways to jog a memory you know?”

“No,” Madam Grace muttered casually. “Pull the thread too violently and the whole thing unravels.”

Julian put the knife back on the worktop.

“We stick to the plan,” Madam Grace added.

“The plan.” Julian smiled. “None of this has gone as planned. Even you didn’t expect this.”

“True. But things will become clear,” Madam Grace’s tone was certain. “What we did...”

“What you did!” Julian interrupted.

Madam Grace laughed a soft and slow chuckle to herself. “Please. Don’t pretend you weren’t involved,” she said.

“I have my methods.” Julian nodded at the knife. “And you have yours. But don’t worry, I wouldn’t keep you around if your methods weren’t appreciated.”

“And necessary,” Madam Grace added.

“And sometimes necessary,” Julian agreed.

Madam Grace sighed and rubbed a hand over her chin. She looked at the kitchen doorway and leaned forward to make sure nobody was listening. All was quiet. Eric was watching Andrea, and Celine was outside somewhere.

“What is it?” Julian asked.

Madam Grace looked at Julian, frowning. “There’s more,” she said, lowering her voice. “There’s someone else here.”

Julian walked close to Madam Grace, waiting for the rest of the information.

“Your father.” Madam Grace stared at Julian.

Julian smiled. “Really. What can he do?”

“I don’t know yet,” Madam Grace said, and relaxed back in her chair. “But he won’t have come here just to watch.”

***

Andrea could hear the crackle of the warm fire and the muffled voice of Madam Grace. She leaned against the comfortable wing of her armchair; her face nestled into the cloth covering and her eyes closed, and as much as she was dreaming, Andrea knew where she was and was aware of both instances at the same time. Her overriding concentration was within the dream, but she was in no way fixed there and felt she could pull out of it at any time. But this was no ordinary dream, and Andrea was aware of its importance. This was a memory.

She crouched beside a tree, leaning her shoulder against the wet bark. Waiting. Waiting for something important, but she couldn’t remember what or who. Yes, it was definitely a ‘who’.

Andrea was concealed within a line of trees against a ditch and facing a road. It was night-time, quiet, and the air was crisp... October crisp. This was recent. It had been dry for days, but there had been rain an hour ago, and the plants and soil were giving off an earthy sweet fresh smell. This was pleasant, but the forthcoming actions were not, and Andrea knew it. This was a dark act, planned, and even though she couldn’t remember the finer details, Andrea had a sickness welling within her stomach as it unfolded.

Just over a hundred feet up the road, and using the cover of trees in a similar fashion, was Celine. She waited past the bend in the road with something in her hands at the ready. The ‘something’ was an important part of the plan, but Andrea couldn’t see it clearly enough or remember what it was. That was Celine’s job, and Andrea had a job of her own.

Andrea was now aware of the object in her own hands; a hunting crossbow, drawn back, with bolt loaded and the safety forward ready to shoot.

Eric’s voice crackled and mumbled from a walkie-talkie in Andrea’s belt, “Target just passed me. It’s on!”

Andrea looked up the road again as Celine moved out of her position and unleashed ‘the something’ she was holding. A stinger. A line of spikes covered the road in a second and Celine stepped back and crouched down in the ditch, picking up a similar crossbow to Andrea’s. A few seconds passed quietly, Andrea’s heart racing, beating in her ears – this was her bit.

Lights interrupted the darkness, cutting through the gloom of Andrea’s dream, and a second later a black BMW came into view, slowing its speed to 40mph as it turned the bend in the road... and then it hit the stinger. The tyres blew and control was lost. The man behind the wheel did an outstanding job of manoeuvring the car, but even with brakes applied and quick reactions, the back end hit the ditch and it kicked out dirt and leaves before coming to a very sudden stop.

The BMW was forty feet from Andrea, its rear left wheel was in the ditch, and the three men inside were understandably shaken. The moments between shock, realisation and composure can seem to last minutes. In reality, normal instincts kick back into actions within seconds. Seconds were all that Andrea and Celine needed.

Andrea moved from her position with haste and advanced on the car. The first out was a disorientated bodyguard, dressed in a plain suit, and unclipping a semi-automatic pistol from his shoulder holster – Glock G19, 9mm, with a 15 shot clip. The bodyguard would have probably fared well under different circumstances as he was very much built for the job; however, everyone who is on the business end of a crossbow from under twenty-feet instantly becomes the same. A casualty.

Andrea’s shot hit the bodyguard centrally in the chest with such force the head tore through him, emerging from his lower shoulder blade, puncturing and destroying several vital organs and sending the man into the ditch before he had pulled his firearm.

The primary target was Thomas Kendall. He was mid-sixties and had made a very successful career in buying gemstones, having them cut and made into custom pieces of jewellery for the rich and famous. And with a price tag that was meant for conversation. When you’re bored with wearing the same fifty thousand pound necklace as someone else you see Thomas Kendall to get something unique made. Something to brag about, show-off, and ideally have photographed for a magazine. The attention and publicity were worth every penny.

Thomas Kendall came out the same door as his bodyguard, keeping low, and barely found his footing before Celine’s crossbow bolt found its mark... through the costal cartilage of the lower right ribcage – through the liver, spleen and clipping the bottom of the lower left lung. Thomas Kendall buckled and slumped face first into wet leaves and dirt, six feet from the road’s edge.

Celine moved to the ditch where the bodyguard had landed as Andrea stepped over Thomas Kendall and turned his lifeless body as best she could. Enough to reach into his inner jacket pocket and pull out a velvet case the size of a large wallet. Kendall slumped forward again as Andrea let him go and turned her attention to the case. Opening it, the reward was as expected but still a delight to behold. Thirty neatly set brilliant green Emeralds, eye clean and flawless. Each stone was twenty times more valuable than any high grade emerald that might be found through regular trade means. These were the finest of the fine and with exceptional tone and clarity. Ten thousand pounds per carat, and each of the thirty stones averaged at five to seven carats. This was Julian’s sale price estimate through his contacts, and likely worth more than double the amount to anyone moving them on further.

Andrea closed the £1.8 million prize and put it in her coat pocket as the driver’s door opened and a somewhat dazed man began to climb out. The silence was interrupted as Celine fired three shots from her recently acquired pistol. The driver never left the car.

Andrea looked around at Celine, who still had her pistol aimed at the driver’s dead body. Celine lowered her aim and looked around at Andrea, “You got them?”

Andrea nodded. “Let’s go before another car comes along.”

Without hesitation both women left the murder scene, heading for the tree line on the other side of the road, merely fifty seconds after the stinger had slid into position. The stinger that Celine had not removed and was still lined up and primed ready to collect more unsuspecting victims.