Chapter Five

This wasn't how it was supposed to go. This was supposed to have worked, to have been the way forward, the way up. The way to prove everyone wrong and prove him right. This wasn't how it was supposed to end. Sam could feel the shame creeping up over him like tiny crawling insects, finding their way under his shirt, behind his ears and on the backs of his hands. An abhorrent feeling that made him begin to squirm and twist as he stood at the table, hands splayed on the eviction notice in front of him. The letters on the page looked huge and inescapable. It was like being sentenced for some sort of crime, the punishment laid out before him in damning clarity. How had this happened?

He knew, of course. Too many screw ups at work. Too many months missed rent. Too much time spent trying to prove he was fit enough for something that now seemed as out of reach as the fucking moon. He glowered at the page again, feeling the anger wash up over the shame now, a hot fire in his body that brought his teeth together and the air hissing out between them. The fire surged hotter as he tossed the notice onto the pile of other equally unpleasant letters. The ones from the banks, the credit loan companies and, almost the worst, the sincere and heartfelt letters from his family.

The letters from them were like some final twist of the knife. Or in some way, seeing the familiar paper his dad always used, with the little water mark of the families ranch logo, it was like the promise of the noose, beckoning him back to where he'd come from. From where he'd escaped. If only he'd gotten that scholarship. If only he'd got a lot of things, instead of the empty sack that seemed to have a big fucking hole in the bottom, each one of his potential futures tumbling through to land in the mud.

He let out a low growl, feeling his anger simmer and settle into a bubbling stew in the bottom of his stomach. He stood upright, shifting his weight off the table and hissing again as that weight got a warning shot from his bad knee. The lance of pain up his thigh made him growl again. It always came back to this. Back to that one moment. That stupid damn tackle that had cost him everything. He could still feel the impact, could still hear the crunch as his body collided with that other players. Just like that, it was all gone. All taken from him. His anger flared again as he pictured that guys face, beneath his helmet, teeth bared during the game. A face from years ago that was still as fresh in his mind as yesterday.

Sam swiped the pile of papers off the table, snarling. The sheets fluttered into the air in a twirling and pirouetting arc, one of them coming to land on the nearby counter alongside the CCFD application form he'd half filled out. The form that he hadn't had the nerve to complete and send because he'd not been fast enough on his runs. Maybe if he'd just taken a chance weeks or months ago with it he would have been successful anyway and all this wouldn't have happened. A different future. A better one. He scoffed, knowing his mind was promising him things it really shouldn't be.

Like how it always told him if only his knee was stronger. If only he'd had better luck at work. If only he had several suitcases full of cash in the cupboard that he could kick up Sheila O'Neils ass and tell her the rent was paid until the end of time. All of these things would have just been the answer, wouldn't it?

He hung his head, sighing deeply. It was just all so unfair. He'd known it would be hard, trying to make it on his own like this. He just wished he'd known how hard. Might have tempered the expectation a little, but still. There was his mind again. If only. If fucking only. His eyes flicked to that eviction letter, seeing Sheila's signature at the bottom, and he groaned, feeling the weight of the world bearing down on him.

He swept passed the scattered letters and grabbed his keys, needing to get out. To walk. To just put distance between himself and those horrible words. Just for a little while. Maybe a walk would help clear his head. Help get rid of the anger. He scoffed again, as if that had ever happened.

He stepped out into the hallway, closing the door behind him with a heavy thump, feeling slightly better he wasn't in the same room as those condemning bits of paper. He'd figure out how to go back in later. A shaft of sunlight spilt in through the window at the end of the hall, and he nodded to himself, already looking forward to stepping out into the street and taking a breath of air that didn't stink of someone's urine.

Noise up ahead caught his attention and he looked up, frowning, as the door to number 59 opened suddenly and raised voices tumbled out of the apartment interior. A man backed out of the doorway, pushed by another. Sam recognised the one doing the pushing. A big guy, always quiet and always looking like he hated everyone, he was the kind of neighbour you wanted to avoid. The first one Sam didn't know. A small wiry guy, with a jacket too big for him and a head of hair that looked like he'd stolen it from a dirty mop. The guy from 59 gave Mop Head a final shove.

"…don't care. I said no." His voice was gravelly, his face pinched and eyes serious.

"You agreed though!" hissed Mop Head. "You can't back out now!"

"I fucking can and I fucking will,'' spat 59. "I've changed my mind. I'm not going back there! Not now!"

Sam found he'd carried on walking towards them, lost in the sudden heat of their exchange. He was almost level with them when Mop Head took a step towards 59.

"Look, people were depending on you! This is one hell of a goo…" The words squeaked to a halt in Mop Heads mouth as 59 grabbed a handful of his shirt, dragging him close.

"Are you fucking deaf? I said…"

Sam was suddenly aware of the silence as the eyes of both men swivelled round to him. He'd come to a stop right next to them, maybe hoping to get round them without being noticed, or maybe he'd been hoping to hear more. Seemed somewhat intense, whatever was happening. That intensity was suddenly turned on Sam as 59 glared at him.

"And what the fuck are you looking at? Huh? Go on. Beat it, asshole."

Any other day, Sam would have ignored a comment like that, not letting any itching hackles rise, and been on his way. Today though, those hackles went right up. Right up and taking a healthy dose of that simmering anger with them. Sam found he'd squared up to 59, setting his shoulder and cocking his head to one side.

"I guess I'm looking at a loud-mouth piece of shit disturbing the neighbourhood,'' said Sam without breaking eye contact.

"Oh you little fucking…" 59 let go of Mop Head and rounded on Sam, big grasping hands coming for Sam's own shirt now. Sam's hand's had moved quicker. Swift as a snake, Sam grabbed 59's arm and turned him sideways, using his momentum and slamming him against the wall. The big man gasped as his own door frame cracked against his chin. He spat and turned again, but Sam was still on him, grabbing 59's own shirt now and giving him a rough shove back through his open doorway.

59 took a few shocked steps backwards, eyes wide and mouth slack with surprise. The look of someone not used to being pushed about. The look of a bully that had someone stand up to them. They stared at each other for a few seconds, the blood pounding in Sam's ears. He could feel his face getting hot and his stomach doing somersaults. The anger wanting to do more, and the uncertainty of what the other man might do keeping him from doing it. 59 wiped a line of blood from his lip and sniffed, his lip curling. Slowly, his eyes slid from Sam to Mop Head. The physical energy seemed to leak out of 59, his aggression waning.

"You tell them I said no. I'm not interested." The door slammed shut, the brass nine of the doors number spinning round in a lopsided circle. Sam stood there, feeling his chest rise and fall, the feeling of relief replacing any urge to brawl in the hallway. This was definitely not how it was supposed to go. He was meant to be out walking. Not getting into fights. He let out a long breath, turning towards Mop Head.

The wiry man just watched Sam suspiciously, a slight curl to his lip, before turning on his heel and stalking off towards the elevator with a huff, plunging his hands in his jacket pockets. Sam wasn't sure that was how that was supposed to go either. Usually you said thanks when someone helped you out, didn't you? Sam shook his head, blowing out a breath and sticking his hands in his own pockets.

Sam made his way towards the elevator, wrinkling his nose and wondering if it had maybe been a bad idea to antagonise an aggressive neighbour. Still, bit late to be regretting that now. It's not like they'd be neighbours for long anyway.

Sam drew level with Mop Head as he waited for the elevator, the man tapping a foot and chewing his lip. Looked like a man who'd had his day's plans ruined as well with bad news. Maybe it wasn't just Sam that things went wrong for. Silence hung between them as they waited, Sam's shoes dragging at the crumbs of plaster on the floor idly. Mop Heads silence was beginning to annoy Sam.

"Everything ok back there?" asked Sam. One of Mop Head's eyebrows twitched.

"Fine."

"Didn't look fine to me,'' said Sam.

"Then maybe you should look to your own business, friend,'' said Mop Head, not sounding friendly in the slightest. Sam felt his anger prickle again. He didn't need this on a Saturday morning, but then he supposed he could have avoided it altogether. The elevator dinged and the doors slid open with a familiar whine of old metal. Sam followed Mop Head in and wedged himself in an opposite corner, crossing his feet and taking a few calming breaths before leaning over and pushing the ground floor button. The elevator doors groaned closed and he felt that lurching movement as they began to descend. Mop Head glanced up.

"Sorry pal,'' he muttered. "Been a bit of a bad day so far." Sam grunted out some strange sound of amusement.

"Must be that kind of day then. You and me both."

"Doubt yours is as bad as mine,'' said Mop Head, rummaging in his pockets. He produced a pack of cigarettes and an old lighter, the faded image of a topless woman on the side. He offered the pack to Sam, grunting and shrugging when Sam shook his head.

"Well I think getting evicted and being on your last chance at work puts me in the running,'' said Sam, watching Mop Head blow out a cloud of grey smoke. Mop Heads eyebrows rose up his forehead.

"Huh. Guess it might do. That's a shitty day."

"One of the shittiest,'' agreed Sam.

"Hey, by the way, thanks for back there." Mop Head flicked his head upwards. "Didn't think that was going to go as south as it did. You came along just at the right time."

"I guess so,'' said Sam, not quite sure if it was the right time after all. He fully expected his front door to be kicked in when he got back. "Don't mention it though." He put out his hand. "Sam Summers." Mop Head nodded sharply and gave Sam's hand a surprisingly firm shake.

"Scott Archer. So, what do you do for work Sam Summers?" Scott blew out another cloud of grey smoke. It seemed to settle above him, his thin face looking a bit gaunter in the hue of the smoke. Bright feverish eyes peered out though. Very bright.

"I, uh, work security." Sam didn't quite have it in him to say where. "Training up to be a firefighter though. Just working the watchman until I can get a place with a firehouse."

"Firefighter huh? You got a flare for the dangerous then?" Scott seemed to smirk behind his cigarette. Sam felt the vaguest impression he was being assessed in some way.

"Guess it's just what I got my heart set on,'' said Sam, frowning to himself. Seemed stupid now to talk about what he wanted when it was all slipping away anyway. The elevator dinged and they bumped down onto the ground floor, Scott letting Sam exit first.

"Well, you certainly got the build of one." Scott gave Sam a look up and down as they walked across the lobby towards the buildings doors. "I'm sure you'll land that place soon." Sam smiled sadly.

"Maybe. But probably not. The way things have gone, probably going to have to move back home to my folks ranch." He grimaced, just saying it out loud was difficult enough. God knows how he'd actually do it. "Today wasn't the first shitty day I've had."

Sam held the door and Scott ambled out onto the sidewalk, cigarette hanging from his lips. Sam sniffed, trying to get some fresh air instead of the acrid stink of Scott's smoke. The noise of the passing traffic and yells and calls of pedestrians and cab drivers dominated the street, a sea of faces moving up and down the avenue.

"Well, I'm headed this way,'' said Sam. "Good to meet you Scott. Take it easy, eh?" Scott just gave Sam a slow nod, flicking his spent cigarette butt away, that curious look still on his face.

"I'm headed the other way. You take care there Sam Summers." Scott gave him another nod and stuck his hands in his pockets, increasing the effect of how oversized his jacket was. Sam turned on his heel, making his way down the street, threading his way through the other pedestrians and finding clearing his head wasn't so easy after all. The encounter in the hallway was jostling for space in his mind alongside the current predicament and result of his life choices. He couldn't shake the feeling he'd made a bad choice, back there in the hallway. Should have just kept going. Should have done a lot of things, just like always. His knee gave him a little tingle of pain, just to remind him. Hardly necessary.

He pulled up to the crossing, waiting for the traffic and looked back down the street, towards his building. He coughed out a strangled breath when he saw Scott, still stood where they'd parted ways. Still with his hands in his pockets, looking in his direction. Sam squinted at him, completely missing the green light and his chance to cross.

Was Scott looking at him? He couldn't be sure. There was a puff of smoke from the mans face, and a thin cloud of grey wreathed itself around him. The breeze carried it away, but Scott still stood there. Maybe he was just taking five and happened to be looking Sam's way. Or maybe not. Sam looked away, feeling awkward to be looking himself. He shook his head, dashing across the road to catch up with the last people who had been watching the crossing lights instead of wondering about strange, mop haired guys. He made the other side and carried on his way, unable not to have one last glance behind him, just to see. If he was still there, Scott was obscured by other people and a couple of buses going past. Maybe that was a good thing. Trouble was, maybe it wasn't either.

XXXXX

It was late afternoon when Sam crossed back over the street, the sun warm on the back of his neck and his mind only slightly clearer of the events of earlier. His walk had not really gone the way he planned. Not that plans coming together was in abundance right now, but still, he'd thought the fresh air would help at least.

Instead, as he passed through the doors to his building and crossed the lobby, the familiar and unpleasant smells already queuing up to replace any last clear air only served to immediately remind him of the letters waiting for him upstairs. Hopefully though that was all that was waiting. He pictured 59, arms crossed and leant by his door, itching to wrestle him to the ground and kick his head in. Probably then find the Landlady queuing up to finish him off, all before she took the clothes off his back to pay his rent. He blew a long breath through his nose as he trudged up the stairs, just daring his knee to add its two cents to his situation.

He shouldered the stairwell door open slowly as he reached his floor, the creaking of the hinges seemed rudely and unfairly loud. He wasn't sure why he felt the need to move cautiously. He'd been more than ready to go toe to toe earlier. Funny how confident, or stupid, a bit of anger will make you. He took a breath to dismiss his nerves and then strode down the hallway, keeping his head high should anyone appear.

He heard the vague sounds of a loud television set as he passed 59's door and felt a bit better. Maybe that was one unpleasant possibility avoided. He dug into his pocket for his key, finger poking through the key ring, and raised the point to the keyhole.

The door was open.

Only a few millimetres, but the thin black line between the edge of the door and the frame was horribly unsettling. A dark strip that made his mind race, nasty thoughts tumbling in one after the other. Maybe he'd just not shut it earlier when he'd been so preoccupied. And then that encounter, surely he'd just got distracted? Yes. Maybe he'd just not made sure of it. It didn't look like a forced entry. It must have been him.

Still, he chewed his lip and steadied a hand as he nudged the door open with his shoe. Cost nothing to be cautious. His door key found its way between his fingers, settling nicely with the point poking out as his hand curled into a fist.

The door yawned open, and he slid inside, feeling his shoulders tensing and fingernails digging into his palms. All that confidence from earlier had vanished now that he could have used it. He swallowed, trying to add a bit of moisture to his rapidly drying throat, and then caught the acrid stink of smoke.

Not the stink of a room that had been on fire, or anything that had been on fire for that matter. Definite cigarette smoke. Cloying and stinking cigarette smoke. He coughed, trying to clear his throat, trying to look deeper into the room.

The blinds were closed on his windows, the apartment thrown into a murky and smoke wreathed gloom. He flapped a hand for the light switch, fingers brushing the plastic. Yellow light filled the room, giving the undisturbed wisps of smoke in the room a dirty golden hue.

Sam's eyes darted around the apartment. The small couch and uncomfortable chair that served as his living room were empty. No ominous dark figure sat there waiting to accost him with a silenced pistol, like in the movies. His small kitchen was also devoid of any looming villains. Wasn't quite enough to slow his heart down though. He took a few more steps into the room and then the toilet flushed.

He froze, eyes snapping over to the door leading to the small hallway that led to his bedroom and bathroom. Footsteps now, and shuffling. He heard the clink of a belt buckle, followed by the squeal of the doorknob.

Sam realised he was horribly unprepared for whoever was coming out. The door was opening, and he was just stood there, fixed by the sheer mystery of who had broken into his home, smoked and then apparently used the can for a shit, judging by the new smell that was tickling his nose. Sam felt his anger flare a bit.

A man ambled out, slender hand pulling the lit cigarette from behind his ear at the same time as brushing back a lock of grey, greasy hair. Hair that looked exactly like a wet mop head. Sam squinted.

"Scott?"

"Oh good. You're back,'' said Scott, strolling out into the living room and tucking his shirt into his belt as if he were right at home. Sam watched him as he went past, the pulsing worry in his throat swiftly turning to incredulous bewilderment. That flicker of anger from a moment ago sent a flurry of twitches up Sam's face, the heat of it burning through the confusion. The words bubbled up and tumbled out of his mouth.

"Just what the hell do you think you're doing in my place? How did you get in here? The fuck do you even want anyway?"

Scott just carried on as if he hadn't heard, settling himself in the chair and wiggling his ass into a groove. Sam felt his lip curling in annoyance. His earlier act of helping the man out suddenly felt like every ounce of wasted effort. And he couldn't stop the creeping sensation of regret. Regret that had a flavour of panic as well. What did he want? News headlines of an unexplained murder in Chicago suddenly flashed across his mind. He took a step back, not liking that prospect one bit.

"I think you'd better go,'' said Sam, hoping his face had enough determination on it to get the reaction he wanted. Scott just produced another cigarette and quickly lit it, exhaling a large plume of smoke. "I'm calling the cops then." Sam turned to stride towards the phone, the blinking light of answer phone messages ignored this time. He could feel his palms beginning to sweat.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you,'' said Scott. "But be a lamb and shut the door eh?" There was a metallic click, and Sam felt the hairs on his neck stand up. He looked over his shoulder, expecting to see that silenced pistol after all. That news headline appeared again, just with a bit more detail of a bullet riddled corpse this time. His corpse.

Am Only there was no gun. Scott just sat there, looking even more at home, holding a stapler in his hand as he squared a few bits of paper together. Sam's stapler, now that he saw it properly. Scott crunched the corners of the papers together with a practiced squeeze and set the stationary neatly on the arm of the chair. Scott gave a smile that had as much warmth as an ice cube and nodded at the door. "The door, Sam."

Sam, his palms still sweating and his annoyance and confusion arguing for first place to appear on his face, wordlessly moved towards the door, turning his body so he could keep his eyes on Scott. The door clicked shut at his push, the noise an unpleasant sound instead of its usual comfort of shutting the world out. This time he didn't know what he was shutting in.

"Just what the hell is this?" Sam tried to raise his chin, to show some sort of control. A bit of defiance against the strange calm Scott was displaying, against that serene look on his face. As if it was quite normal for the man to break into peoples homes and use their staplers. Scott smoothed the papers on his lap, his eyes watching Sam closely. "What are those?"

"These?" said Scott, raising the stapled corner of the papers as if he'd just noticed him. Sam was getting more annoyed by this. "This is a letter." Sam raised an eyebrow. "A letter to your landlady,'' went on Scott, "from you."

"Start making sense, or I really am going to call the police."

"That wouldn't be in your best interest Sam,'' said Scott, adjusting his position in the chair. "This letter on the other hand would, given you've had, how did you put it, the shittiest day?" Sam frowned, edging closer. His key was still buried in his fist, his hand not quite able to unclench. He looked at the letter.

"What do you mean?" said Sam. Scott pursed his lips and sniffed, leaning forward ever so slightly, as if he had a good secret he was ready to share.

"In this letter, you have written an apology to your landlady for the months of missed rent. You explain you've had some hard times with family and work, but you have enclosed a cheque for the outstanding amount, including forward payments for another six months' worth of rent." Sam could only feel his frown deepening.

"And how am I going to cover that cost exactly?"

"You won't,'' said Scott. "I will. Or, my employer will at least."

"Why?"

"I have an offer for you, in addition to this favour I am giving you," smiled Scott, the smile that said he gave out plenty of favours. "A position has come available for a venture my employer is undertaking. A position I think you would fit nicely into, now that your neighbour has backed out."

"We met this morning. For ten minutes. How do you figure?"

"That ten minutes revealed a lot about you Sam Summers," said Scott. "But mostly, it revealed you don't really have a great number of choices. You're in a tough spot, given your finances and lack of success with work, not to mention your ailing attempts to join the CCFD." Sam winced inwardly, not liking hearing the nasty truth of it. "And judging by the messages I overheard, your family are reaching similar conclusions. Your mom certainly is worried. Oh, you're out of toilet paper by the way."

"You listened to my messages?" said Sam, feeling somewhat violated even more. Maybe he should have just called the cops after all.

"I like to know as much about the people I recommend as possible,'' said Scott, waving away the violation. "Listen. You want to hear this offer or not? By all means, I can go and leave you to write your own letter to Sheila if you like?" Sam felt his chest deflate slightly, knowing he couldn't stop the nod. Scott smiled that smile again. "Good."

Scott stood up, disturbing the smoke in front of him and moving through it like a thin spectre. Sam edged away, leaning against the counter in his kitchen.

"In addition to your rent being covered, this offer includes a generous cash payment. Several thousands of dollars."

"And what exactly does this offer entail?" asked Sam, finding his arms were crossing against his chest. Scott flashed his smile.

"Well, things that pay well aren't always easy,'' said Scott, lighting another cigarette and placing his letter on the counter. "You would be joining a small group of people, and acting as a sort of security, something which you have a bit of experience."

"Simple as that eh?" rumbled Sam.

"Simple as that."

"And why isn't that easy?" said Sam, scratching at his chin.

"Did I say easy?" mumbled Scott around his cigarette, tucking his lighter away. "I meant legal." Sam's eyebrows now both shot up.

"You want me to take your offer knowing it isn't legal?" said Sam. Scott waved his hands.

"Details, details. A small risk, in the grand scheme of it. Its only illegal if we get caught. Anyway, aren't you the one training to run into burning buildings? That's far riskier."

"I don't count getting a record as a small risk though. Who exactly is your employer?"

"We'll get to that,'' said Scott, ambling around the apartment. "Look. You'd be part of a team that just needs to do a bit of driving, a bit of watchman duty, and making sure everything is ship shape."

"And what other catches are there you are glossing over?"

"Well,'' winced Scott, "I suppose there's the chance of loss of life. But hey, we face that every day crossing the street don't we?" Sam stared evenly back.

"Where is this job taking place?"

"You ever been to Costa Rica?" said Scott. Sam was beginning to put two and two together.

"Oh hell. You work for the Cartels don't you? Fuck, no way. No way!" Sam moved off the counter, ready to open the door and put an end to this. He'd rather take his chances with the landlady. No wonder 59 had been so prickly. Scott's hands went up, palms outward.

"No, no, no, wait a second there. This isn't drugs. Calm down." Sam returned to the counter, apprehensive about just exactly what this was. "You'd be going with some lab coats, you know? Science guys."

"Still sounds like drugs to me," said Sam. "I know about those meth labs."

"It aint drugs, trust me. They're doing some work, and you'd be there to watch the labs and get them to and fro. Standard security stuff."

"So what about this isn't legal then? And where does the risk of loss of life come in?" said Sam.

"The local wildlife is a bit…bitey, I guess,'' said Scott. "And the area is a bit… off limits, as they say. Restricted to the public." This was verging into the mysterious. Again.

"So dangerous wildlife and private property?" mused Sam. Scott nodded. "And I suppose the forward payments cover my time away?" Another nod. "How long?"

"Six months maybe. Maybe less, maybe more." Scott exhaled some smoke, watching Sam closely. Something didn't feel quite right though. Hell, a lot of this didn't feel right.

"Where exactly in Costa Rica?"

Scott smiled. "We'll get to that. If you say yes." Sam could feel his forehead beginning to ache from all the frowning. And Scott's near constant smile was just as wearing. "Could solve a lot of problems, eh?" Scott's voice sounded as if he was dangling the biggest carrot in the world. And he wasn't wrong, annoyingly. Rent covered. Cash payment of thousands. Maybe this would only help his chances of showing his family he could make it. As long as they didn't know how he made it, of course.

"Your name isn't Scott Archer, is it?" said Sam. There was that smile again.

"If you say yes, then it is. If you say no, then Scott Who? That's how this works, Sam Summers."

"How long do I have to decide?"

"Two minutes,'' said Scott. "There's a train to catch, people to see, and we'll have to get you packed. What's it gonna be?"

Sam chewed his lip, running his fingertip along his key and glancing at the letters from earlier and Scott's letter next to them. Might be he'd made a lot of bad choices before, to get here. Might be he didn't know a good one from a bad. Might be easier to take the carrot after all, like he thought he'd done before. Scott blew out another cloud of smoke and raised one eyebrow. Sam had the feeling his life was about to take a direction he wasn't really prepared for. But that had already happened with that tackle in that football game, all those years ago. He sunk his teeth into is bottom lip and let a long, thoughtful breath out through his nose. He flicked a glance to that eviction letter one last time, and all the others.

"I'm in,'' said Sam.