The Winding Path

Chandler scrabbled up the rocky path, his feet losing purchase. His shoes suited to the streets. Here they struggled. His breath was laboured. Lungs complaining at long last. Feeble moans about a misspent youth that had led to habits that would never end well. Regular visits to the pub for a quick one, followed by several slow ones and a double whisky to round things off. Solitary therapy sessions. Toasts to the fallen. He communed with the ghosts of his past on his terms then. An escape from their incessant presence. Worrying away at the edges of his life until he had no semblance of a life left. Only this. Always this.

Up ahead lay his goal. Terrence Clark. Terry. The name spoken with a reverence and fear that made it seem a shortening of terrible or terror. A single word that had cast a shadow across the entire city for an age. Terry had been a part of the fabric of the city for so long it seemed he had no beginning and no end. Chandler knew this to be one of many lies that cohered to make Terry’s legend, but even so, he was drawn into that shadow. Engaging with a compelling myth instead of the small man who hid behind it.

His vision swam as he pushed on up the hill. There was no stopping now. Never had been. His quarry had become everything. A lifetime’s pursuit with many a distraction along the way. His knee hurt. Worn out like the rest of him, but without the sense to keep its mouth shut. There was a potential mutiny taking place here. Chandler grit his teeth and stared it down. Not now. Not when he was so close.

When the farmhouse came into view, Chandler a-judged it semi-derelict. He had to revise his assessment as he caught his breath. Bent double. Hands on his knees. This was a different place and here there were different rules. The upkeep of the farmhouse was secondary to many other considerations. There was precious little vanity here. Besides, few would visit this place and when they did, they saw beyond the surface. This was how life had once been. A piece of living history. Chandler wished he could mourn it. But his days of grieving were long over.

*

Terry sat at the farmhouse table. Chair canted sideways, one leg thrust out before him, signalling his indifference to his surroundings. Always bigger than the scenery. Not only owning it. Consuming it. His hunger had not once abated. If anything, it had grown as had his empire.

Something had gone wrong. He was used to setbacks, but this tasted different. There was a copper taste to it. For once, it was his own blood that he tasted, not that of his prey. Gary was dead. That was very unfortunate. Gary was his man and he’d lasted longer than anyone else in Terry’s employ. Almost lasted the course to become one of those old warriors to be feared. Few reached old age in this arena. Some of the so-called lucky ones were languishing behind bars. Taken out of the game just as they were getting started. A death of stagnation draining them of all reputation and power. A waste when it was one of his own. Necessary when he stitched up his competition.

Not that there was much of that. Not anymore. There were the usual pretenders to the throne and the young pups getting ideas above their station, but they were nothing to Terry. He’d seen it all before. Been there. Done them.

Today was unexpected and Terry did not like surprises. He doubted betrayal. Gary’s body lying in the back seat of his car was testament to that. He scrolled through all the usual suspects and drew a blank. There were no lions to challenge him. He’d seen to that. Neutered or ended them before they ever began.

He let out a deep breath. Took a moment and then broke into a grin, “chance would be a fine thing!” he announced to the room. He’d always harboured thoughts of a worthy successor. Someone who could beat him at his own game. There was only one person who’d ever gotten close to that.

*

The Range Rover was an impostor, even with the mud splashes along its flanks. This vehicle was a show piece. An accoutrement to the life Terry had painstakingly built. Chandler gave it a wide berth as though whatever it had was catching. This was where the lines were drawn. He knew his place and he was careful not to overstep the mark. Not too far anyway. Sometimes he had to tread where the angels feared to. This was dirty work and he was equal to it. Had to be.

The door lay ajar. A glib invitation that felt like a double bluff. A closed door was what Chandler expected. That gambit would hold more welcome. This though made the hairs on the back of his neck dance in a prelude to revolt. Something lay in wait beyond that door. The fear of the known unknown spiked his adrenaline and he grit his teeth as he prepared to push the door wider open.

The lack of any theatrical creaking added to the ominous quality of the brooding silence into which he stepped. There was danger here. There always had been. Time drew itself out and allowed him the consideration of the ever present risk that had fizzed and spat between himself and Terry. A chemistry of sorts. They’d both had their moments. Either of them could have finished their association. But there were unwritten rules here. A code that they’d adhered to even as the red mist had descended. Often, Chandler had thought that this could end only one way. The question was whether he could ever bring the curtain down on the final act. What then? What lay beyond the stage door? There was a life there, he knew. He’d tried it on for size several times but it had never sat well with him. Sheep’s clothing for a fox with pretentions to be a wolf.

“Born in a barn?” he asked the figure at the table as he stepped through the kitchen doorway.

“What kept you, Ray?” asked Terry in reply. Landing the first blow. He knew Chandler hated that flippant nickname. Ray, as in Raymond Chandler. Making of him a fiction and a fantasist. Failing to take him seriously. The playground bully finding the simplest of ways to humiliate him. The name had stuck not only with Terry’s minions. It went beyond that. It always went further when it came to Terry.

“You assume you’re the centre of my universe.” Chandler scanned the room. There was nothing off about it. The problem was sat in a chair in front of him. That was where everything was off.

“Aren’t I?” Terry drew in a stertorous breath and grinned at Chandler, “there was a time when you’d not be so out of breath. And as for the pallor of your skin. You wouldn’t be out of place in a morgue.”

“You’ve put enough people there,” retorted Chandler.

Terry wagged a finger at him, “there you go with that slanderous tongue of yours, Ray. Never proven. Although you’ve tried often enough.”

Chandler rolled his eyes, “cut the crap, Terry. There’s only the two of us here. Speaking of which, where’s your boyfriend?”

Now it was Terry’s turn to roll his eyes, “really? You’re resorting to that sort of talk. With me?”

Chandler shrugged, “I thought you were a couple. I’ve not seen you step out without Gary attached to your hip for a long while now.”

“Yes well,” Terry sighed, “Gary’s taking a nap in the back of my car.”

Something in the way Terry said that told Chandler everything he needed to know and more. The revelation of Gary’s demise prompted him to see what he had initially missed. Some of what was off with Terry. His posture and the long, drawn out breaths between each exchange. Eyelids just a little heavier. Not just old and tired. A grievous weight lay upon the man.

“You need an ambulance?” Chandler asked Terry.

Terry waved it off, “I’ve had worse playing football.”

“You’ve not played football since before the premiership started,” Chandler was shaking his head at Terry’s stubbornness. Even now. Always a front. Ever the hard man. Trying not to relate to it. Ignoring his own tenacious hold on a youth that was long gone. An old dog snarling at new tricks.

“You’re a fine one to talk. You’ve one foot in the grave and you’re too ignorant to see it. When’s the last time you saw your doctor?” When Terry grinned this time, there was blood on his teeth.

Chandler did not answer. Terry had a habit of hitting the mark. In some respects, he knew Chandler better than anyone. There was a covert form of honour here. Two boxers in the ring refusing to let go of each other for fear that this was their last bout. The ring was what defined them. That and the fight. After that, there was nothing. Only more ghosts and the prospect of joining their number.

An uneasy silence settled between them. The brother of the silence that had greeted Chandler at the door. He knew them both only too well. There was the tragedy of death here. A prelude to grief. This was the longest relationship Chandler had ever managed to keep going. The only one that meant anything to him anymore. Behind him lay a graveyard of a life. He seemed to walk in the wake of the grim reaper. Sifting through the bones of broken lives to discern meaning that could never belong in the land of the living. He found the narrative that had occurred prior to the unhappy ending and no one ever wanted to hear that part of the story. His was a thankless task, but one that had to be undertaken nonetheless.

Terry was his reason for being. There had been a time when all he saw was the darkness of what Terry was. That darkness had endured, but Chandler’s eyes had become accustomed to it. Saw that it was far from unique. Instead it was commonplace, and Terry was a lesser of several evils. There was far worse out there. And although Chandler wasn’t foolish enough to think he could control this man, he had contained him for over twenty years. The borders had been drawn and Terry had understood that were he to make incursions, there would be swift and direct retribution for any invasion or encroachment.

Terry was Chandler’s animal and it did not escape him that he was to a certain extent Terry’s animal. Whatever the truth of that was, they were growing long in the tooth and their time would soon be at an end. Things would run their course. But not now. Not like this. A copper had an instinct that ran far beyond a gut feel. This city was not ready for new blood. Probably never would be. But the old guard was still required for now. There was time for change a little further up the winding path.

Shifting in his seat, Terry gave Chandler a look, “you’re not one for change, are you?”

Chandler felt an icy chill of discomfort. It were as though Terry were reading his mind. Maybe they had been at this too long. An odd couple reading each other’s thoughts after an age in each other’s pockets.

Terry chuckled, a liquid quality to the sound, “you know your problem?” Chandler just stared, “you’re just like me. We’re twins separated at birth. Romulus and Remus. You never could bring yourself to kill me though could you? You saw too much of yourself in me. It’d be like committing suicide. I’m your dark half. That’s the way you chose to see me wasn’t it? You still try to, but you can’t make it stick, can you?”

“I thought I was the armchair philosopher,” commented Chandler, indulging the man in front of him. Seeing the pain he was in. Pulling his punches. Truth was he was too tired to fight. And he’d never hit a man when he was down. Kicked him maybe. But only when it was the only way to end the fight.

“Why do you think I endured for so long, eh?” Terry threw the question out into the room. It was something they’d both considered many times. More so of late. Thoughts of legacy and the point of a long life in an arena vacated swiftly by a throng of pretenders. They were the last men standing. Difficult not to think about why that might be so. Sometimes Chandler thought he was too stupid and too stubborn to know when he was beat. That, he would concede, was a quality he shared with Terry. As for the rest? The clear waters of his youth had long been muddied. There was no longer any clarity to be had here. This was all there was. The hard slog of survival. Landing punch after punch in an act of belligerent motor-memory.

Something in those last words of Terry’s caught Chandler, but too late for him to react. The most unexpected of sucker punches. He was reeling with the latent finality that opened up to him after a well timed delay. This was a moment that would play over and over in his mind. Living rent free within him long after today.

“No,” he breathed out that one word. A word that took the place of so many more.

As though on cue, DCI Gill Trotter stepped into the room and took Chandler’s arm, guiding him backwards. He felt, more than heard the words that brought his world crashing down around him. Would replay Gill’s entrance and the flicker of recognition in Terry’s eyes accompanied by the ghost of a smile. Would wonder whether there was resignation in that moment. A resignation he would never find within himself as he toyed with an act of betrayal he could never understand. Betrayal was how Terry chose to bow out. This was his way of saying goodbye. Stubborn to the last. Needing to have his say.

Take the shot.

There was no discernible pause. There was an impossible fluidity that removed Chandler from the tableau before him. Terry had straightened at the sight of Trotter, the words were cast forth and then he fell sideways never to regain his feet.

What hurt the most was that Chandler never saw it coming. He’d kept his eye on the lion cubs and saw them come and go. Few challenged the old lion and those few challenges were lacklustre and half-hearted. Everyone knew this lion remained in the ascendency.

No one saw the lioness. She’d taken her time and played the game that was required of her, whilst all the while continuing to play the game of the lion. She’d outsmarted them all. Strode right up to the king and taken everything from him in a final and decisive act. And this was only the beginning. A new story in which Chandler had no part.