TO LOVE SOMEONE Eleven The knock to the back of Vincent’s head hurt painfully. He awoke in a small hotel—still just inside Switzerland. He needed something to take away the throbbing pain. Looking at the pillow. It had become crimson. Clusters of blood stains upon it. His head turning restlessly when he had been asleep. There was not much he could do for that. Sitting on the bed he picked up the phone next to it. Dialling in Aldo’s number. He waited a second or two. Still their was no answer. No dial tone! Placing the phone down; he stood up. Walking into the bathroom. With no time to spare; to shave or shower. He turned on the cold water tap in the sink. Splashing his face with cold water three times. Until he felt his eyes had cleared. Gently he tried to clean the dry blood on the back of his head. The large lump the size of a golf ball. With what felt like a one inch gash through it. Dabbing water on the wound—stung his head. He winched screwing his face up. While watching himself in the mirror. Taking a large towel he dried his face. Then caressingly he patted the hair around the place on his head he had been hit. More than likely by Manni de Pedro. He remembered looking at Ricardo, so it could not have been him. Vincent tried to summarise what had happened. Ricardo new who hit him. But Vincent was confused that Ricardo had not shown emotion on his face—prior to him being knocked unconscious. Back inside the hotel bedroom he dressed. Placing back into his travel bag any loose clothing that lay around. He kept a brown driving cap out—to put on his head. So people, especially the police could not see the gash. Anything not to attract attention. He needed no obstructions while driving to Madrid. Time was of the essence. It was a one thousand four-hundred kilometre journey. It would take Vincent around seventeen hours to get to the Mansion. Avoiding the city centre of Madrid. It would be dark when he got there. Checking he had everything he opened the door and left the hotel. The sun had not yet come up. But it was daylight. Throwing the travel bag into the boot of the hire car. He then climbed into the driver’s side. The dash board clock showing the time; ten minutes past six in the morning. Driving off towards the border. He had slept over in Perly; now driving along the viaduc de Bardonnex towards the border post. He stopped over at a twenty four hour stop. Getting him self pain killers for his head. Reading the label making sure they did not make him drowsy. Sure the pills would not. He swallowed half the packet’s content of pills. Then driving to the border. He made his way through. Quickly as he could. Into France. Taking the road past Saint-Julien-en-Genevois. He drove towards Grenoble. Approximately one hundred kilometres away. Here he decided he would try to phone Aldo again. Hopefully he would get an answer . . . but Vincent was not so sure. Driving carefully Vincent slowed down his actions. Trying not to panic. This could cause him to have an accident. He set off early wanting to take advantage of the lack of traffic. But in time the early rising working world took to the roads. Heavy duty vehicles started to appear. His speed being such he would, after overtaking a large transport goods vehicle. End up behind another. So it went on until he arrived at Grenoble. Driving until he was on the other side. He stopped at a another twenty four hour café. Finding a public phone box he once again phoned the mansion. Again there was no answer. Not stopping for anything to drink or eat. Vincent set off once more. Driving now to Avignon. There he would take a rest: eat some food. As well as make another phone call. The sky overcast had not yet released any rain. The pain killers taking an effect. He was able to concentrate on his driving. At ten o’clock he arrived on the Avignon side of Grenoble. Vincent made his way straight to a pay phone. Another twenty four hour service station. Dialling the mansion once more. Still there was no dial tone. Vincent placed down the phone. He went to the toilet to relieve himself. It was busy with travelling motorist. Finding an unused sink Vincent washed his hands, then rinsed his face. Still keeping the cap on his head. Placing carefully the cold water over the sides of his temples. The soft area’s to the side of his eyes. Helping to awaken his senses one more time. He brought some food. Not too much he didn’t want to become drowsy on the road. The last thing he needed was an accident! Walking slowly back to the car. He was convinced that Aldo was more than likely dead. He felt there was probably no reason to rush. But what else was he going to do. Sitting in the car. Vincent sat eating a sandwich. He could still feel the lump on his head. Without touching it with his fingers. He finish the sandwich. Taking off the cap. He applied a quantity of Vaseline to the open gash on his head. Having brought a bottle of it at the twenty four hour service station. Cleaning his fingers with a towel he kept beside him on the front passenger seat. Content he was ready. Vincent set off once more. Driving towards Montpelier. The traffic in full flow. After just over one hour he arrived. Once more trying to phone through to the mansion. Once more with no answer. He decided stopping and phoning delayed his progress. Driving through to Andorra. He arrived there at twenty minutes to four. Feeling tired eyed. Stopping at a filling station. He still had six to seven hours left to drive. Asking the filling station attendant if he could use their phone next to the counter. He was given an abrupt, ‘Non!’ Taken back by this; he tried to not let it worry him. He travelled through to the border. Passing into Spain he headed for Zaragoza. Arriving after seven o’clock in the evening. Feeling tired. The need to get through to Aldo’s home drove Vincent on. The next phone call producing nothing. He ate another sandwich. Drank some water. Got back into the car. It felt like a tomb. He wanted to escape it—but he could not. In the dark he was now on the road towards Madrid. Vincent peered almost squinting at the road. The cars head lights showing the way. He turned off the Madrid road towards Avilla. The last town before Aldo’s mansion. The closer Vincent got. The harder his heart thumped in his chest. He began to dread what he would find once there. Turning in to the lane that led towards the mansion. In the dark, it could have been a nightmare—it was. Slowing down he approached the double iron gates. A police car outside. He kept going. ‘Oh my God no!’ he said aloud. Driving for just under half a kilometre. Finding a farm gate. He parked the car to the side. Keeping it out of the entrance way. Off the road. Getting out of the car. He could smell it in the air. The smell of something that had burned badly! The mansion was only two hundred metres away through the trees. Across an open farm field for part of it. Climbing over the farm gate. In the dark he ran as fast as the soft muddy farm land would allow him. The smooth hard leather soles of his shoes giving no traction. Part of his feet sinking into the muddy soil. In the dark he got into the cover of the tree’s. The over whelming smell of vinyl or plastic in the air. With splattering of ash. Making his way in the dark through the woods. Tripping now and then on a fallen tree branch or slipping in the mud. Vincent eventually found him self at the back of the mansion. Below the back garden area. What his eyes saw shocked him. The mansion in ruin smouldered in the dark. He could see from his position that the police along with the fire brigade had a presence still. Some thirty metres from the mansion in the dark he could not really make much out. But it was quite clear the mansion was burnt down. The high apex roof was gone. Probably collapsed into the building. A flame here and there coming to life then going out. He thought he could get closer to the mansion. It was then behind him towards the river he heard a whimper. Barely audible. He thought he was hearing things. He heard it again, it sounded like a small child crying. Slowly quietly he crept back into the trees. Making his way towards the sounds he heard. Away from the direction he had came in—for some twenty metres, in the dark it felt like a kilometre. Such was his shock, tiredness. The crying stopped. Vincent stopped; waiting to see if it started again. He could not hear a sound. For some reason he looked down at his feet. There only five metres from him lay a bedraggled Isabella. In jeans with a red top on curled inside a bush for cover. He moved closer she cried in low moans. As he got within touching distance he knelt down next to her. Not touching her. ‘Isabella?’ He said gently slowly looking at the curled up form on the ground. Stopping crying she turned her head around to see who it was. Her hair untidily across her face. Isabella fearful at first. Turned her head to see who it was that called her. Seeing it was Vincent. She new he was a friend of her father’s. She sat up immediately moving into Vincent open arms. She cried louder clinging to him with her seven year old child’s arms. Clinging onto Vincent as though she would never let go. Vincent brushed the hair off her face. That was red from her tears. ‘¿dónde está tu padre?’ Vincent asked where her father was. He looked into the childe eyes. They looked fearful, her lips shaking as Isabella looked at Vincent—a small hand to her face. ‘Que está muerto!’ He is dead! Isabella cried loudly tears flowed down her face, waterfall like, without stop. ‘Su madre? ¿Dónde están tu hermano?’ Vincent asking where Isabella’s mother and brother’s where. He held her on his knee. Keeping low so as no one could see them. ‘Ellos están muertos! Her hand fell to her side as she told Vincent her mother along with all her brother’s where all dead as well! He noticed she looked at him fearfully. As though he would kill her too. She cried more. ‘Shh . . . Isabella no te preocupes yo soy amigo de tu padre, ¿lo sabías?’ Vincent trying to make her not fear him telling Isabella he was friend of her father. She looked at him thinking. Her eyes searched his. In a way a child should not—looking at someone. Questioning if that person would kill her too. he could see this. She remembered him with her father only a few days ago. Deep in conversation. While sitting on her father’s knee—she looked at Vincent. Thinking him a curious person with his pony tail on the back of his head. ‘Sí.’ She said yes, quietly between her tears and crying. She would not stop crying. Trembling with fear and cold. ‘¿Quieres venir conmigo, yo te ayudaré!’ He now asked if Isabella wanted to come with him, saying he would help her. ‘Si.’ Was all she said. It was all he needed. Without a another word he picked her up. Then made his way back through the trees, over the farmers field to the car. Luckily no one was around. Placing Isabella on the other side of the gate. He quickly climbed over. Then unlocking the car. He helped Isabella into the front passenger seat. Looking at her she looked so tiny. Her hair a dishevelled mess. Climbing in he reversed the car out onto the lane. Driving away from the mansion. Isabella quickly turning in her seat. She knelt in it looking back in the direction of the burnt out mansion. That unknown to Vincent at that time had become the grave of the Niesta family. Except Isabella. As they drove away she stretched out her arms towards her home. ‘¡Padre! . . . Madre! . . .’ She cried, screaming loudly for her father and mother; for as long as Vincent drove. In that moment of escape. Vincent had no idea as to what direction he was going in! Isabella’s crying screams of bereavement loud inside the car. He could say nothing to console her. He didn’t know what to say. He was confused himself, fearful too. For them both. He new these men, Pilger had killed all Isabella’s family. Some how she escaped. Vincent new if they new he and the girl had survived. They would try to kill them again. He new in those moments. With Isabella’s tears, screams while he drove the car. Trying to keep himself under control. That they would have to disappear out of the country. Somewhere far away from here. But first he had to get himself and Isabella out of Spain unnoticed. Not leaving a trail. For anyone to follow. Vincent drove back towards Madrid. Making his way towards the airport. Having stopped over at the Clement Barajas hotel many times before. The staff new him well; he just may need help when arrived. Making his way there, and as a base until they could leave the country. He needed to get clothes for Isabella. She had no shoes, socks on her feet. It was a pitiful state for them both. She was a witness to the murder of her whole family. He new he could not feel what she felt. Driving for an hour Vincent stopped at the twenty four hour service station. His fuel was low. Pulling up into the filling station. Isabella had fallen asleep. In a crumpled heap in the passenger seat. Leaning across he placed the seat back. So at least she could stretch out. Then he filled the car with fuel. He had no idea what dress size the young girl was. Leaning over he looked at the labels of her cloths. He shook his head. ‘My God!—I have never done this before!’ Making his way then to the stores inside the highway stop over Not ever having had children. Buying clothes for one was something new. He needed to buy her socks, underwear, trousers a top. Something to keep her warm. Finding a store for children he walked along the rows of clothes. Grabbing what he thought would fit. Buying different sizes and types of shoes. He was unsure as to the size of her feet! Making his way back to the car. Luckily Isabella still slept. Taking a blanket he had brought he lay it over her. Then drove to the hotel. Parking the car outside. He went into the hotel alone. ‘Ah hello señor de la Rey,’ the young women in her late twenties behind the reception greeted him. Noticing his tired exhausted state. She said nothing. ‘Hi Sara,’ he said presenting a smile. He found it difficult. But he did. ‘I require a room with two single beds for a week.’ He said. Looking at computer for booking it was okay, ‘Will you require coffee, breakfast with it,’ she asked. ‘Everything,’ he replied. ‘Breakfast lunch and the evening meal.’ Sara nodded her head. Vincent had not stayed this long before she thought. But it was none of her business. He was a well known stop over traveller. From America with some business interest in Spain. Paying the bill with his card. Collecting the key for the room. He made his way out back to the car. Isabella still slept. Keeping her wrapped inside the blanket he made his way into the hotel. Up to the first floor he found the room. Inside he lay Isabella onto the bed still inside the blanket. She moaned slightly but carried on sleeping. Luckily he thought. He went back to the car. Bringing everything he had brought back up to the room. Isabella was awake sitting up on the bed. She looked at him. He placed the clothes onto the other bed. ‘I have brought you some clothes,’ he said in English. He new she could speak English. Now was the time to use it more he thought. Isabella looked at the clothes while Vincent placed them out in some sort of order for her. She wiped her eyes still sat on the bed. ‘You take a look at what you like,’ he said. Laying the various sizes and types of shoes out. ‘I have brought you shoes, try them see what you like and that they fit . . . okay,’ He said kneeling down next to the bed. She moved across the bed giving him a hug. She had so far not said a word. The grasp of her small arms around his neck felt uncanny. He had not been hugged by a child in his life. ‘Thank you,’ Isabella said looking back at him. She knelt on the bed. Unsure what to do next. Looking at him. ‘Go on try the clothes,’ Vincent kneeling still at her eye level of contact. ‘I will run a warm bath for you, while you decide what clothes you like, alright?’ he spoke as softly as he could. She nodded getting up like a tiny dwarf. She examined what Vincent had brought. While he got a bath ready. She was covered in dirt. A warm bath he new would sooth the young girl. After Isabella had a bath. Clean at least Vincent had thought of pyjama’s for her. She sat once more on the bed—now hers. Wearing the pyjama’s while not all the sports shoes he had brought fitted her. At least one pair did. It would do until he could take her to a store. There she could he hoped pick out her own. ‘Where are we?’ she asked looking at Vincent. Having had a quick bath himself. Changed into a pair of shorts and vest. He sat on the bed opposite. ‘In a hotel,’ he said adding. ‘Near the airport.’ ‘Why?’ she somewhat ponderously eyed him. Sat cross legged stroking the toes of her feet nervously. Vincent thought a moment. Wondering what to say—watching her. ‘We are going on a holiday,’ he said managing a smile. He picked up a hair band fastening his dangling wet long hair back into a pony tail. She sat watching him as he did so. ‘A holiday . . . why?’ She asked without any expression on her face. He sat opposite her, deciding it was better having to explain the predicament they found themselves in. The sooner the better. ‘Because those people who killed your family will not find us on a holiday,’ he said trying to sound reassuring. He wandered if he was. Or if he had done the right thing in mentioning the killing of her family so soon. Better than sitting worrying about it. That was not Vincent’s way. Any problem he met head on. Determined to overcome what ever it was. What ever it took. Maybe it was the comfortable surroundings. The hotel was warm. The small hotel fridge in the corner contained drinks. Lots of chocolate bars. Which they both ate hungrily. Vincent was quite surprised that Isabella seemed to accept the misfortune without complaint. Maybe, he thought, it was a young child’s age, malleable to adapt. So long as there was comfort along with direction. Keeping the brain occupied. No thought of the past allowed to creep in. Clouding the present or the future. Sleeping, while pondering their day. They awoke the next morning. Their first mission was to buy clothes for Isabella. They set off to a clothes store. He brought a few large hats. The type that would cover their faces. Mostly from closed circuit television. Vincent walked down the rows of girls clothes while Isabella made her choices. Picking out thinking as she did everything her mother would have got her. Like a lost limb every now and then glancing at Vincent. Hoping to see her mother standing over her. She was not there. Isabella at a tender young age felt empty. But such was her temperament. Having seen how all her family had died. With Vincent’s every day reassuring presence. Only one thing developed inside her tiny head. Revenge—one day she would get her own back!
Posted on: Wed, 04 Jun 2014 21:10:31 +0000
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