Free Red Stripes by Matt Hilton Page A

pushed off the Audi, one of them, stocky with a shaved head, leaning back as though inspecting the paintwork for scratches. The other, a tall man, who looked like he’d been constructed from too many bones and sun-dried leather, lifted his chin, his nostrils flaring.
    “Fee, fi, fo, fum . . .” he said in a surprisingly melodious voice.
    I smell the blood of an Englishman , I finished the thought. I’d heard plenty like it since my move to the States.
    The second man finished his inspection of the paintwork, then used his sleeve to buff out an imaginary scratch. Then he turned his attention to me, holding an empty palm toward the car. His smile was wide but colder than the wind gusting around the parking lot. “No harm done, buddy.”
    “No harm, no foul,” the tall one echoed as he picked at a patch of dry skin on his bald head.
    Taking the car keys from my pocket, I aimed them at the Audi and disengaged the locks. Nodded amiably at both men, then moved to go around them.
    “A moment if you please.” The second man was shorter than me, but he was heavier built, and I noticed he had self-inflicted prison tats on his fingers. He stepped in the way, barring me from the car. He raised his ink-mottled hand and touched it to my chest. The contact was little firmer than a caress, but it sent a jolt through my body. Not because he held an electrical device—or any weapon—but because I’d allowed him to do it. The rule I’d always followed was that if an enemy could touch you, then they could kill you. This man was without a shadow of a doubt an enemy.
    Subtly I stepped back, knowing that the next time he tried to lay hands on me would be the decisive moment. I watched the man’s eyes and saw the same thought flashing through his mind.
    “Ease up, buddy,” the man said. “I’m only being friendly. You’re not from around here, right? England is it? Just wanted to say hi and ask you a question or two.”
    He was obviously lying, but I wasn’t averse to playing that game. “Look, fellas, I’d love to stay and chat but I’ve got to get on my way.”
    “On your way already?” The stocky man shook his head. “Hey, you just got here. You can spare a minute, can’t you? Especially when we’ve gone to the trouble of turnin’ out to say hello.”
    “Wasn’t expecting a welcoming committee, I bet.” The tall man leaned close, and his breath, stinking of garlic and something sour, washed over me. “Not at this time of night, huh? You shouldn’t be surprised: I never sleep. I’m up before the roosters. Cock-a-doodle-doo!”
    I didn’t reply to either. One was a liar and the other was crazy. But both were very dangerous. Instead I held the stocky one’s gaze as I maneuvered the keys around in my grip.
    The stocky man nodded in the direction I’d just come from. “Who did you visit in town?”
    “Who says I visited anyone?”
    “Can’t see any other reason for you being in Bedford Well. Not like there’s much to see in the dark.”
    “There’s a nice wishing well on the green.”
    “Yeah, we noticed you at the well. We were going to say hi then, but we didn’t want to spook you.”
    “I saw you, too,” I said. “But then you left and I walked back here. Slowly.”
    The man smiled at the tit-for-tat lies.
    So did I.
    Finally I said, “Let’s just get this over with, shall we? You’re here to give me some sort of warning. Well, I’ll save you the trouble. I’m leaving and I won’t be back.”
    I went to move past the man, and his tattooed hand came up. It wavered inches from my shoulder like he’d read my earlier thoughts. With his other hand he held open his jacket, showing the gun tucked into his belt. “Not very satisfying if we just let you drive away, buddy.”
    “No, but it’ll be a lot less painful.”
    “We don’t have to hurt you,” the stocky man said. “Just make sure you head outta here and know what it means if you come back.”
    “Of course, I don’t mind causing a