The Knife Sharpener (32)

32.

The woman advanced on Nichola and Helmut. Her eyes flickered to the café behind them. Watching out for the wind jackals.

            ‘Odd couple,’ she said. ‘I can work with this. Lots of potential. How to best frame you both, mmm? Bring out that deep inner beauty.’

            Helmut had his hands up. Nichola held the knife out in front of her.

            ‘That the knife? Not much to look at, is it? Afraid, it won’t do you much good neither.’

They stepped away from her as she tracked them down Smith St.

‘Not too close to the jackals, now,’ she said. ‘I had this great idea of giving you all a heroic kinda pose. Like, hashtag last stand. Surround you with the freaks. True Custer at Little Bighorn sort of stuff. Maybe throw on an oil painting filter.’ With the end of her gun, she pointed them away from the café. Across the road to an alley. Within, Nichola could see a Bluetooth speaker, still blaring.

‘I wasn’t expecting such a big pack this close to the city, though. Cheese and whiskers, I must’ve lured close to thirty of them here. But they’ll grow restless soon enough and I’d honestly rather not be in the neighbourhood when they do,’ she said. Pointed Nichola and Helmut into the alley and glanced across Smith St into the café. ‘Golly, I would like a snap of the carnage in there. My followers really get a kick out of that kind of ultra-violence.’ She sighed a little. ‘It’s not really my style, though, is it? It’s a bit too flashy. Revealing. If life were that easy, where would all the adventures be, right? I’d much rather tantalise. Make a story for them to undress at their own imaginative leisure. Nice girls don’t give it all up at once, or something like that.’

Nichola followed Helmut into the alley. He had resumed his usual null character. A stoic acceptance. But maybe a tightening across the shoulder? An eye twitch? He must have a plan. She sure didn’t.

‘I think there’s been a mistake,’ said Nichola. ‘Nothing special about this knife. Him. Me.’

‘Ah, honey. There mightn’t be anything special about neither of you. Certainly not to me. But on someone else’s scale of one to ten, you’re both an eleven.’

The woman cornered them.

‘So, tonight, all things considered, I’m afraid it’s going to have be simple. Star crossed lovers sneaking a kiss? No. Not likely with you two. Maybe, uncle showing niece the ropes? Two Smith St degenerates out on a nightly prowl? I need a little hush to think.’ She bent over and turned off the Bluetooth speakers, keeping her gun fixed on them. The howls in the café suddenly sounded searching. Bewildered. The crashing momentarily ceased.

‘Oh my, it’s been such a productive night,’ said the woman.

A deep motor grumble roared. Light suddenly cast over the mouth of the alley, catching the black clad woman by surprise. Then a large motorbike flew by. The woman dived out of the way. Came quickly to her feet and pulled her gun in the direction of her assailant. The bike was faster though. Swinging back. Forcing her to move. Almost collecting her leg.

The woman was staggering. Let off a series of loose shots in the direction of the motorbike. Holding her silence. Trying to find her balance.

‘Run,’ said Helmut.

Nichola and Helmut sped out of the alley behind the woman. Saw the motorbike hit a sudden skid turn. Squealing its tires and revving the motor. The wind jackals answered with their own harmonised screams. The woman turned back to the café. Then the bike. Her gun darting back and forth. Not sure where to aim.

The motor revved low again. Nichola caught a glance of the rider. Jacket zipped up. Helmet strapped tight under his chin.

‘Chance,’ she said.

A few wind jackals leaped out of the café, disturbed by the hooligan manoeuvres on Smith St. They charged.

‘Dang it,’ said the woman and dropped to one knee. Swivelled in the direction of the carnage heading her way.

Helmut stepped in front of Nichola and pulled her in the direction of his van still parked at the front of the café. Chance pulled another sharp turn, trailing acrid smoke. Pulled into a dramatic wheelie and sped off down Smith St. The wind jackals steamed towards the woman with the gun, who fired off a handful of shots as they raged.

A couple dropped. Spasmed on the ground. Pulled themselves back up. The rest continued the charge. Seemingly blind to Helmut and Nichole, barrelling ahead to the sound of the popping gun. To where the motorbike had called them. Nichole could see their tongues flapping and poking the air. Helmut pulled her on. More wind jackals tumbled out of the café screaming and howling.

            The unmistakable whistle of a bullet brushed her ear. Another. Helmut groaned and almost lost his footing. Gathered himself and limped on. A crash as the wind jackals reached their target. The woman yelled out. Short puffed bursts from her silenced gun. Nichola didn’t turn around. She made on to the van.

            Helmut got there first. Pulled his keys and with the same calm he had shown when chased by the Church, efficiently opened the door. Through the passenger window, Nichola could see more wind jackals holding back on the sidewalk in front of the café. Bent over and breathing feedback mist into the winter evening. Helmut stepped back and let her climb over the driver’s seat. Entered and turned the ignition.

            Black eyes flipped in their direction. One wind jackal lurched back. Sprang off its heels, leading with its amplifier. Collected the van with a rust-soaked crunch. Another followed. Much closer to Nichola’s window. She recoiled back. Holding the knife out again in some display of self-defence. She realised she was drenched in sweat. Her fingers struggling to stick to the hilt of her puny weapon.

            Johnny Cash started moaning through the speakers. The wind jackals moaned back. Country met avant-garde electro. Helmut pressed down hard on the accelerator and loosed the hand break. He grunted and grabbed at his knee. The van trudged into movement. Its motor puttering and purring. The wind jackals fell back as it took off.

            The woman with the gun ran in front of them. Caught in the beams of the van. A thin black silhouette out of ammunition. Trailed by the galloping drum steps of the wind jackals. Lurching and using their hands to get balance as they tilted over forward, then onwards. Almost four legged. Springy in their movement. Strangely arrhythmic.

            She wouldn’t stop tracking them if she got away. There was relish in her voice. Excitement. The game of the hunt drove her. Nichola knew the attitude well. Had seen it in her father’s Biff friends. Her father, too – even in his rebellion, always seeking something to placate his restlessness, the unfortunate union between his physicality and brain. Thwarting her had only made it more exciting.

            Nichola didn’t doubt she’d get away from the wind jackals. People like her survived.

            Helmut held the steering wheel straight. Making to slide right past her. Off down Smith St to Johnston. Nichola reached across and yanked the steering wheel hard to the right. The van veered towards the woman.

            With one hand, the knife sharpener growled and pushed Nichola back to her seat. Corrected the course of the van and stayed his course. They drifted past the woman, who turned into a dark alley and disappeared.

            ‘What –’ said Nichola.

            ‘No. I will not be responsible for that,’ said Helmut.

            ‘It was me, though.’

            ‘I was close enough,’ he said. ‘There is no excuse. There are other ways.’

            Nichola looked at him. He kept his eyes forward. Turned hard left onto Johnston St and drove back towards the city. In what little illumination there was, flickering past the window on the street, she could see pain on his face. Crinkled eyebrows. Sweat. Shallow breaths. But also, a jaw grit shut.