10. Ten #3
I took a deep breath before my next words knowing they would twist an already embedded knife, “I don’t think he’ll call,” I heard the sob before she tried to stifle it, “But I will ask.”
After that, our conversation steered into more comfortable territory.
Sometime last autumn, Mum had finally found another job as a cleaner at one of the budget motels on the edge between East and West Barrett.
Not a place nice enough that people actually tipped the housekeeping staff, but not so rough that she was surrounded by drug dealers and criminals all the time, like at some of the dingy places closer to her apartment.
Motels that rented by the hour. It paid the bills, and I was both relieved and happy for her, so it was easy to listen as she filled me in on the workplace gossip of people I didn’t know.
Just as she was finishing up a story about a woman named Susan, who apparently did a crappy job of making the beds, my attention was pulled by the muffled sounds of male voices outside the phone booth.
Then came the soft crunching of footsteps as the camp road shifted from dirt to gravel.
Mum plunged into a different story; one I didn’t really hear because I was too busy trying to listen for the voices.
I hoped it was just two random staff headed back to the Village after lunch, but as the voices got closer, I knew it wasn’t.
When someone haunts your nightmares the way my brother haunted mine, it was easy to recognize their voice even at a distance.
“Mom, I have to go” I mumbled frantically, before hanging up without waiting for an answer or any goodbyes.
If Francis found me out here, or worse, caught me talking to her, his next call would be to our father, and then I’d be back in that room, locked away, for who knows how long this time around.
Last time had nearly broken me. Before Xavi stepped foot in my classroom that day, I had been contemplating ways to take my own life.
I hadn’t told him that, but he saved me, in more ways than one that day.
Francis, and whoever he was with, got closer, their voices becoming clearer as they approached. I fought my desire to run, and instead, did my best to smooth out my breathing. Anything to remain hidden. Who knew I’d be grateful for the thin plywood walls around this old phone.
“Tomorrow,” Francis said, as they finally got close enough for me to hear them fully.
“What time tomorrow?” Asked the other voice. It was familiar, but I couldn’t place it at first.
“I don’t know, old man,” Francis grumbled, “We can always call my father and find out.”
The second voice shook for a second, “T-that won’t be necessary. I only need to know so that we can make sure your programs are covered.”
That statement made it obvious, and I couldn’t believe it had taken this long for it to sink in. It was Jack. Francis was leaving the property and Jack knew it.
My brain raced with questions. Why was Francis leaving? Where was he going? How?
In answer to at least some of those questions, a new sound, one I recognized as more gravel being chewed up and spit out under the wheels of a car coming up the camp road.
I wasn’t sure when my curiosity got the better of my sense of self-preservation, but I found myself ducking down so I could peer through a small gap where the poorly built walls of the booth didn’t quite join together.
The sliver of light was just enough that I could make out the two sets of feet, one belonging to Jack and the other to my brother, and behind them the all-too-familiar black of our father’s car.
Another set of feet, in well-shined black dress shoes approached the others, and, as anticipated, I caught the edges of Mikhael’s faded Russian accent, “Jack Walker. It is nice to see you again.”
To see him? Again? The words seared their way into my brain. When did Mikhael ever meet Jack? I flipped through my childhood memories, chasing down any times when those two might have interacted, even for a second, and I kept coming up blank.
Jack answered quietly, “Mikhael.”
That seemed to be enough pleasantries for our driver, who was never one for chit-chat, as he then asked a question clearly directed at Francis.
“Are you ready to leave, sir? Your father will be waiting for us at the Port.”
Francis didn’t answer, but I watched as both his and Mikhael’s feet tracked back toward the car.
Only when they got close, and the creak of the doors opening signalled that I was almost home free did Jack call out again, “Oh, Francis, tell you father that McKnight came through after all, but I need to know, what now?”
Now that he was closer to the car, I could see Francis’ face nodding as he took in Jack’s question.
When the Director shut up, a smile tipped up just one corner of Francis’ lips.
Even from a distance the sinister grin and hard edge of his shoulders made it hard to believe we were the same age. Hell, that we were even related.
When he called back, there was a shaper edge to his voice that sliced through the summer air, “Now, old man, you wait for instructions.”
“And then?”
“And then you’ll do as you’re told.”