Free To Fight For by Phillip Hunter

head, like a shadow. It had been there, casting its darkness over my actions. Every time I thought I knew where I was, what I was doing, I’d walk, blind and confused, into some dead-end. Maybe it was just getting caught by Compton that had me thinking like that. Maybe it was the whole thing, never being able to get away from it all, from the past, from the bastards out there.
    Whoever they were.
    Wherever they were.
    I checked the motor for any electronic surveillance gadgets. These days, though, I’d be hard pressed to find them anyway. I rolled around the streets for a while, looking for tails. I couldn’t see anything obvious. I drove into some big Tesco car park, pulled up and watched the entrance. Nothing came in for a few minutes. Then a red mini entered, drove past me slowly and parked. A middle-aged woman got out and headed into the shop. I waited some more, saw nothing, then headed back onto the street and drove to the address Green had given me.
    When she opened the door, a gurgled sound came from her throat. It sounded like she was being strangled. She took a step back, tried to slam the door shut. I put my hand up and threw the door back. She turned and staggered away, going as fast as her dressing gown would let her. She went into the bathroom and slammed the door. I followed her into the flat, stopped in front of the bathroom door and smashed that thing off its hinges.
    I’d told myself not to lose it, to be calm, to be in control. I only wanted to ask her some questions, I’d told myself. She wasn’t to blame for her husband’s work, I’d told myself.
    But as I’d neared her place I kept remembering what they’d done to Brenda and all that shit I’d told myself about keeping cool went out the window. So what if she was just his wife? I didn’t care about any of that. She was all that was left of Marriot, she’d been married to him, must’ve known what he was, what he did. That was enough for me.
    And then, by the time she opened the door, I’d been about ready to rip her apart.
    But when I smashed the bathroom door in, all of that fell away. She was cowering in the corner, her eyes screwed tightly shut, the dressing gown twisted around her, her knees up to her chin, her arms covering her head. I could see the inside of her leg, blue veins bulging, and her shoulder blades poking through the fabric of the gown. Her hair was dyed brown, but the grey roots were showing through and had been for a while. Whatever life she’d been used to with her husband was all gone. Now she was just another old middle-aged woman, a widow, waiting her time out.
    She didn’t move. I could hear a sound, a whining, mumbling noise.
    â€˜I’m not going to hurt you,’ I said. ‘I only want some information.’
    Now she opened her eyes. She was wearing make-up, and her mascara had streaked with tears.
    â€˜What?’ she said. ‘What do you want?’
    â€˜Answers.’
    â€˜I don’t know anything.’
    It bothered me that she was in her dressing gown. It was mid-afternoon and she was in her dressing gown. Either she’d got up late or she was going to bed early. But she had make-up on. I couldn’t work that out.
    Then I worked it out.
    I turned in time to see him, bare to the waist, shaven grey hair, old, collapsed chest. He brought the bottle down on my head. I moved quickly, and the blow glanced off my jaw. It dazed me, but I still managed to throw out a fist and catch him in the ribs. He crumpled.
    Then the pain scorched through my head and the bath came up to hit me. I put my arms out and felt them take the weight of my body as I crashed into the white plastic.
    When I looked up, the old man was staggering away, doubled over, one arm across his torso. There wasn’t much to him. I could see his spine ripple down his back. A punch from me should’ve floored him for good. Christ, I couldn’t even down some thin old