Man out of time
Chapter Ten
Sorry about the delay in posting but a lack of time and a total absence of inspiration are a lethal combination. I hope that this makes sense to those of you who take the time to read it and I hope some of you will be kind enough to leave a review to let me know if you think it's worth carrying on.
Sitting back in his seat, his suitcase carefully stowed in the luggage rack above his head it felt good to be doing something positive; to be acting not reacting as he'd been doing for the past few days. Ever since the death of the woman he'd thought of as his mother in fact. He was no longer bitter about her deception ; oh he was still angry, very angry but he thought that now he knew that he owed her his life and he supposed albeit it grudgingly that he should feel gratitude towards her because of that. Well maybe one day he would be able to feel some sense of gratitude towards her but not now. For now he was focused on the next step of his journey of discovery. A journey he both relished and feared in equal measure.
He'd woken that morning with the sure and certain knowledge that he had to keep moving; had to leave Frankfurt and make his way to Bern; to the bank with it's safety deposit box and it's enticing and terrifying contents. He was as sure as he could be in the circumstances that the box would hold the answers to at least some of his questions and answers were what he craved weren't they?
Or did he crave the anonymity that had been dangled before him in the shape of the false identities and enough cash to last him for a considerable time whilst he forged a new anonymous life for himself. Hadn't he enjoyed the simple life he'd led in the quiet solitude of his forest home? Or did he crave the excitement and thrills that recent events had thrust upon him? He didn't know why but he thought that the man who had lived in the forest was a far better man than the one he'd been before; the one he was rapidly becoming again?
Maybe, hopefully he would find answers in the box; answers that would allow him to make a decision, would allow him to either move on or try to step back into his old life.
He'd thought long and hard about the best way to travel to Bern. He could have hired a car and driven but that would have meant producing documents that could be checked; the offices of the hire firms were bound to have security cameras and then he'd have to pay cash for the hire and nobody paid in cash these days did they. And accidents on the autobahn were all to easy to stage. So no driving then. Next he thought about flying but the process of flying seemed to be long and complicated with no direct flights and even more important than that he doubted that he'd be able to get his gun through the airport security. So no flying then.
Which left the train. There was a direct route which took just under four hours; so he'd purchased a first class ticket from the automatic ticket machine at Frankfurt railway station making sure that he'd been surrounded by an excitable group of school children whilst he did so. He'd even managed to get one of the bolder children to make the purchase for him so there would be no record of him buying any ticket. After he'd disentangled himself from the school group he looked about for a way to board the train unseen and his eyes had lighted upon a young woman struggling with a baby in a pram, a toddler and two large suitcases. She looked near to tears as she tried to catch the eye of passing porters who seemed to be intent on ignoring her. Stepping forward he asked "Having trouble?" And slinging his bag on top of hers he added "Here let me help you" And so he went from being a single male traveller to being part of a family group in the blink of an eye. It had all been so easy and he recognised once more that subterfuge and slight of hand were second nature to the man he was going to look for in Switzerland. A man that he was curious about but who he also feared because by now he was more than certain that his other self was a man who he didn't think he wanted to meet. A man who had made many enemies. A man who had done some terrible things.
After he had helped the woman get settled in her seat he bade her goodbye and moved down the train until he found his reserved seat thankful that he seemed to be the only person in the block of four seats that were grouped together. He was just starting to think that he'd made a big mistake and that going to Switzerland was the wrong thing to do when fate took hold and the train began to pull away from the platform.
He could have caused a fuss and jumped from the train but he decided to let the cards fall where they would and accept that what he had decided was the correct course of action. And so he settled back in his seat and relaxed as much as he was able in the circumstances allowing himself to be swept along on the tide of fate.
Malcolm Wynn-Jones closed the door of his study firmly behind him and after he'd placed his mug of tea carefully on the coaster he kept on the polished surface he sat down gratefully and opening the top draw of his desk he pulled out a packet of digestive biscuits. Taking one from the open packet he dunked it carefully into his tea and then judging just the right moment to pull the biscuit from the hot liquid he placed it hastily in his mouth. As he allowed the mushy substance to slide down his throat he murmured a sigh of pleasure. There was something strangely satisfying about a perfectly dunked digestive biscuit; something that put the world to rights somehow
He'd had a trying morning; James had been unusually truculent, refusing point blank to put his school shoes on, insisting instead that he'd wear his trainers because as he'd said with not a little conviction "They make my feet feel safe". At first he'd smiled at the boys words but as the time went on and the possibility of them being late for school loomed he'd felt himself becoming more and more short with the boy. In the end he'd won the argument and James had trudged out of the house in the despised shoes his bottom lip jutting out in a manner that spoke volumes. There had been none of the usual cheerful exchanges on the drive to school and as he'd said goodbye to James at the school gates the boy had turned to him and the look on his face had almost taken Malcolm's breath away because he'd seen that look so many times before. The thought that others might see what he saw in the boy's face and the worry that thought caused had played on a loop inside his head as he drove home. Surely if he saw it someone else would? And not for the first time he found himself wishing that he could put his hands round the throat of a certain Head of Section.
Everyone within the service and as far as he was aware everyone who knew him or of him was convinced that Harry Peace was dead; that his past had finally caught up with him and he was laying somewhere undiscovered and unmourned; most were convinced that they would never know the true story of what his ultimate fate was and even more didn't give a damn. They were just pleased that someone who knew too much and asked too many questions was no longer on the scene causing problems.
Malcolm Wynn- Jones had never, ever been convinced that the man was dead and gone. Harry Peace had more lives than a bloody tom cat and unlike others he wouldn't be convinced until he was shown proof of the man's demise and by proof he meant a body. And so although he was no longer in the service he's used all his experience and expertise to set up his own untraceable listening serving dedicated to finding and analysing anything that could point to Harry Pearce and his death or not as the case may be.
For in truth he needed to know what had been the ultimate fate of Harry Pearce. Malcolm Wynn-Jones had never been a man of need; he was in many ways self sufficient when it came to his life and the way he lived it.
He was a reticent man; had been a reticent and solitary child .And as the only child of the minister he'd been set apart from his peers by the simple fact that he was "different"; his father was the minister and that meant that he was put on something of a pedestal and by association so was Malcolm and his mother. Even if that had not been the case he doubted very much that he would have fitted in with his peers. His Welsh speaking Grandmother had called him "hen enaid"an old soul And as he grew he seemed to prove her point time and time again; indeed he appeared to relish his apartness never envying or understanding local children as they played their silly games and laughed at some inane joke or or other.
When he was sent away to boarding school that distance naturally widened. Boarding school had been a nightmare as far as he was concerned. Being thrown into the cauldron of adolescent boys all fighting to make a point; all fighting to prove who was top dog was an anathema to him and all his memories of that time were upsetting. He shuddered when he thought of his miserable school years; best not to think about them; best to put them back in their box and firmly close the lid once more.
He'd cared for his mother well into middle age, not because he had to but because he wanted to. And because of that he'd never formed any kind of close intimate bond with another human being. He'd flirted with intimacy whilst he was at uni but the girls always seemed to sense he was holding back; that he would always hold back part of himself so the fledgling romances never amounted to anything. The closest he'd ever come to another human being was with dear Colin; his relationship with Colin had been the closest he'd ever felt to another human being. Colin was his friend. A friend who shared his passion for tec, who understood his dry sense of humour, who in short "got him" but fate and the bloody service had intervened and Colin's name had joined all the others etched into that damned wall; a wall that served as both a tribute to those who had died in the service of their country and as a warning to those still serving that one false move, one quirk of fate could mean they would be, could be next.
Harry's name wasn't on the wall: it couldn't be, no one knew what fate had befallen the great man. The master of intrigue and double dealing; of slight of hand and mis-direction but Malcolm had always been determined to find out and now even more so. Now he had too much at stake to let anything stand in the way of what he wanted. And what he wanted was Ruth and James.
When Harry had gone missing "somewhere on the continent" Ruth had been devastated and finding it difficult to function both on and off the grid. Everyone had been worried about her and had tried to reassure her, tried to convince her that life would go on but nobody seemed able to get through to her and so in desperation they had all turned to him because as Adam had said "You know them both better than any of us Malcolm. Please try to get through to her or there's a bloody good chance we'll lose her as well". He could remember assuring Adam that Ruth wouldn't do anything stupid but he was spurred into action by Adam's words and that night he found himself knocking on Ruth's front door armed only with a bottle of wine, indecision and doubt.
At first she'd been loath to let him in but he's dug his heels in determination making him bold and in the end she'd given into him albeit with extremely bad grace. As he walked into her cosy living room he was shocked by how ill she looked. She'd always been slim but now she looked gaunt and there was a haunted look in her eyes and he knew there and then that Adam had been correct and that it was up to him to change things. Just how he was going to do that he hadn't a clue but change things he must.
She'd almost snatched the bottle of wine from his hands before she bolted into the kitchen returning with the bottle opened and a glass for him: she already had a glass on the coffee table and there was an empty bottle of wine pushed underneath it. He watched as she poured them both a generous glass before he summoned the courage to say "Do you think this is wise Ruth. You seem to have been drinking already tonight; can't we just talk without lubrication?"
In reply she'd first of all drained her glass and poured herself another one before she turned all her pain and torment on him and he'd sat there and allowed her to do it. He'd listened as she raged and wept until he could stand it no more and he moved around the table to take her in his arms.
At first she'd gone as stiff as a board and he knew that he'd surprised her with his actions, in truth he'd surprised himself; after all he was not the most tactile of men, emotions and the displaying of emotions were foreign ground to him but it just seemed to be the right most natural thing to do at that moment. So they stood in front of Ruth's sofa both in a position they never thought they be in both of them coming to terms with this new thing when suddenly Ruth relaxed and curled herself into him; and all the while she cried and cried. He'd manoeuvred them towards the sofa and they'd fallen rather than sat down with a bump. And still she'd cried; cried until she exhausted herself; cried until she slept in his arms. He'd waited patiently not daring to move in case he woke her and just when he thought he could bear the cramp in his arm no more she'd woken her face blotchy and her breath ragged.
She'd stuttered an apology for her behaviour but made no move to get out of his embrace. He knew her well; he knew she had something to tell him so he waited... they waited wrapped together as they both thought about the man whose disappearance had brought them to this point in time.
"I'm pregnant." Just two words uttered into the quiet comforting blanket of silence that enfolded them. And then she repeated it in case he hadn't heard the words.
"And?" he asked "Yes" she had spoken more confidently as if she were happy she had shared her secret with someone "Yes, it's Harry's baby. What am I going to do Malcolm? I can hardly take care of myself and a cat never mind another human being."
And in that moment, with that confession the course of Malcolm Wynn-Jones life had been altered forever.