Beauty and the Beast

Beauty and the Beast. Days Filled with Sunshine and a Tale of Violent Death.

We’re staying with old friends and evenings are spent in reminiscence, fuelled by wine and vast quantities of food. The van sits neglected and ignored all day and most of the evening, awaiting the moment when we return to sleep within its metal walls.

‘I really should be writing something for my blog,’ I announced one evening. My friends looked at each other in the manner that only a gay couple with twenty years together behind them can manage and bust into laughter.

‘What?’

‘Oh, we talked last night about you being a writer and decided we’d each have a go at persuading you what to write next.’

‘Oh, right. Go on then.’

Of course their preferences were diametrically opposed. ‘Write about being here. A day communing with nature, if you like, with lashings of lovely descriptions’ was Gary’s request while Richard had something very different in mind.

“Something to make me shake in my boots. Violent, bloody escapism. You know all about that life. Write about it.’

Hmm!

Okay, this one’s for both of you. A day of observing nature in the raw and a ‘quickie’ on violent men and their thoughts and deeds.

Here’s the ‘nice’ part to begin with. I’ve borrowed words from descriptive passages I’ve previously written here and there. Laziness and excessive wine consumption are equally to blame.

Down on the coast, far below, moonlight cast iridescent pools of shadow, softening the harsh outline of the towering apartment blocks. Incoming waves would be dancing and prancing like circus ponies strutting their stuff in the Big Top, tipped with white foam and pounding endlessly at the welcoming shore. Plumes of spray would rise from each assault as successive rows of waves rushed headlong towards the golden sand like packs of wild dogs attacking a defenceless flock of sheep, but of this I saw nothing. Up here in the mountains it’s still the nineteenth century and a more innocent and enticing land.

A faint glimmer of light entered the world with all the stealth of a trespasser as the first hint of dawn touched the distant hills. My viewpoint was the terrace of an old finca; hunkered down against a backdrop of encircling mountains, and blending almost imperceptibly into its surroundings like a shy maiden at her first formal dance.

Sunlight cleaved its erratic way through the early morning cloud cover, the distant hills a shimmering dusky pink while the vast expanse of sky turned vivid blue. Any faint traces of dew lingering on the sparse scrub nestling beneath soft rounded boulders would soon be gone as the freshness of the preceding night was rapidly overwhelmed by the impending day.

Two hours later, below the terrace, pale oleander and deep red hibiscus mingled with bougainvillea of every conceivable hue and a basking lizard lay motionless on the warming stone, Heat haze danced and shimmered on distant hills and beyond the serried ranks of prickly pear patches of dried leaves rustled like the parchment of  ancient deeds in a lawyer’s office.

On the terrace, stealthy invasion by vine and creeper over a prolonged period has softened sharp edges. Inter-twined strands of vine clamber over rustic poles and old battered beams to provide precious shade allowing dappled sunlight to filter its undulating shafts of light on to the rough tiles of the terrace.

A pair of soaring buzzards, supported by outstretched wings, swoop and glide in the clear air, their button eyes alert for the slightest movement on the ground beneath. One drops vertically, to earth, its cruel hooked beak and talons ending the life of some unfortunate creature, then soaring upwards with its prey and re-joining its mate, swirling wings taut, as they ride the thermal hot up-drafts from the hot earth below.

In the heat of summer every day is the same. By mid-day the heat would bleach the scene to a white glare, painful to the eye, and the valley would bake under a remorseless sun, but in early February the sunshine is pleasant but not excessive.

As I lay down my tools at the end of a long day, the encircling hills turn to gold as the sun dips lower in the sky until each successive peak is tipped with vivid pink, the lower slopes marked by ever-deepening shades of indigo. Flocks of birds plunge and soar in a final riot of activity before settling down to roost, the last vestiges of discernible colour slipping away, marking the final passage of yet another perfect day.

Finally, the sun dips below the distant mountains leaving a trail of pale rows of lavender and pink in its wake. A soft bruising as glorious in its own quiet way as any of its vibrant flame-red companions.

As I watch crepuscular light visibly fading to blackness over the far reaches of the mountains, the last vestiges of daylight vanish  and within moments, the terrace is enveloped in absolute darkness, the faint breeze carrying with it the subtle scent of exotic herbs.

                             

Now for something completely different. I’ve named the main character Richard in honour of the bloodthirsty wretch who requested yet another visitation to my dark side.

Richard was a man unlike other men. A quality of stillness allied to inscrutable features gave nothing away. His face and his posture revealed no hint of the reality behind the mask. It would be impossible to imagine this man giving up; throwing in the towel. He’d accept setbacks but not defeat. His eyes were constantly on the move. Speculating. Evaluating. Gathering data on which to base a course of action.

Such men are vastly more dangerous than any posturing gangster. Whatever the situation, he’d face it head on. No hint of this dangerous nature was visible to the uninitiated. He radiated calm and anyone looking for a perceived threat would glance swiftly at him and look elsewhere. That was his ace in the hole.

The men blocking his exit from the building were ready for trouble. Behind him the man he’d been sent to kill had taken his last breath. Job done, he’d been about to leave when he’d heard the clatter of heavy boots on concrete.

Always look for an edge was a mantra that had served Richard well when the odds were stacked against him. Three men who should have protected their employer from a nocturnal visitor with murderous intent. He disregarded the two men in the doorway. A broken nose and scar tissue over the eyebrows. They were big men and undoubtedly won most of their battles, but damaged faces confirmed their inability to avoid collateral damage along the way. He concentrated on the third man, almost concealed by his larger brethren. A face without blemish. Bad news. He’d be the one who’d learnt how to start and finish a fight quickly with minimal risk to himself. Richard took such men seriously as he was just such a man himself.

These three men were a problem, but not sufficiently daunting to make him consider other options. The best way out of here was the way he’d entered and that meant going through the doorway in front of him. It was time to even up the odds.

Richard raised his hands, showing he was unarmed, and walked slowly towards the men in the doorway. He radiated calmness from every pore and sensed the moment the two leading men relaxed their aggressive stance. Closing the distance between them in two swift strides, he seized both men by the collars of their open-neck shirts and dragged them off the low step on which they stood. As the men fought to regain their balance, Richard tightened his grip and swung the two men violently inwards, bringing their heads together with a sickening crash. Both men dropped to the stone floor and Richard kicked each man full in the face with his leather-shod brogues. It was the work of an instant, but he darted to one side a fraction of a second before the blade wielded by the third man made contact.

Richard had deliberately come unarmed to the job. If he’d been discovered on the way in he could possibly have bluffed his way out again. Discovery of a weapon would make the option impossible. He’d killed his target with his bare hands, at the request of the man who’d ordered the job.

The man with the knife grinned wolfishly as he circled the destroyer of his colleagues. They’d be no use to anyone for a while, but he didn’t even glance at their motionless bodies. He had the knife and all the advantages.

A fight where one man has a weapon but his opponent has none usually ends swiftly. The man facing Richard was of no more than medium height, but was far more dangerous than the much larger men already dispatched. The knife had a wickedly curved blade and was at least eight inches long. A dangerous weapon, but any weapon is only as good as the man using it and it was this aspect of the threat that gave Richard most concern. The grinning man held his weapon with an ease that spoke of familiarity and a fair degree of expertise.

There are ways to win a fight with a man wielding a knife, but Richard knew none of them excluded the possibility of getting cut. The best he could hope for was to be cut in an area that allowed him to continue fighting rather than the fight ending with the first strike. He was comfortable with the idea of being cut and was familiar enough with the sight of blood. Even when the blood would mostly be his own.

Richard circled, watching his opponent’s eyes and ignoring the flashing blade; both men waiting for an opening. Richard wore only a shirt and jeans; the heavy shoes his only usable weapon. It wasn’t enough. Eventually, the man with the knife would either back him into a corner or reinforcements would arrive. He had to end this now.

Richard took half a stride closer, momentarily disconcerting the grinning man, and threw his upper body forwards, forearm protecting his face and accepted the inevitable consequence of a deep cut to his outstretched arm. The blade was razor-sharp and he barely felt the pain, but the blood spurted freely and brought the desired reaction from his opponent. That tiny flinch away from the gushing blood was all Richard needed and before the man with the knife could draw back his hand from that first slash, Richard was inside his guard, chest to chest. He butted the other man in the face, but it was no more than a glancing blow and Richard bellowed in pain as the knife buried itself into his shoulder.

The other man struggled to withdraw the blade, but it was firmly gripped by the solid bunch of muscle mass and Richard had a hand against the man’s throat in an instant. He half turned and felt the blade come free and drop to the stone floor behind him. No time for niceties now and Richard kept a firm grip on the man’s throat with his right hand and wrenched his head to one side with the other. In the silence of the darkening room the sound of a breaking neck was unmistakable.

Richard lowered the body to the floor and gathered up the bloodstained knife. The other two men lay motionless and it was the work of a moment to cut their throats. Ripping the shirtsleeve off the body of the nearest man, he bound the savage cut on his forearm. The pain from his shoulder was intense, but there was nothing he could do about that. He slipped the knife into his belt. No point in trying to bluff his way out of here now. Not when the blood was still dripping freely from his arm and shoulder. The knife would give him the edge he always sought.

He stopped for a moment in the doorway and looked at the carnage behind him. An easy job, he’d been told. Maybe he’d have a word with the man who’d ordered the hit and point out that even the easy jobs can hit a snag. Maybe not. A job was a job and once accepted it was down to him to deal with any problems. He turned his back and walked out. Neither rushing nor dawdling. A man heading home after a successful day at work like so many others. Nothing remarkable about him. An ordinary man. Apart from the blood of course.