Traveller Probo
14. USA

The dry-rubbed ribs were delectable. There was enough to feed more than one man with a big appetite, so Sergeant Ian McAlister decided he would give it his best shot. As he greedily ate, the blues band cruised through a few numbers and was enthusiastically applauded by the, Saturday-night crowd.

There was no denying the smooth vibe at the BB King’s joint in Memphis but McAlister had long since ceased to get into the spirit of the occasion. A pretty waitress with teeth bigger than her mouth and a heavily tattooed arm paused to ask him if his meal was to his liking and took his order for another double bourbon. As she walked away, McAlister glanced at her shapely bottom and suddenly was no longer hungry. He angrily wiped his hands and whiskered face on a serviette and, bleary-eyed, watched a couple of girls dance to the music. By the bar, a young man had his arm rested around a plump girl’s neck, his hand thrust firmly down the front of her blouse.

Not for the first time, McAlister wondered why he was there. It had all happened quite innocently of course. Having returned from his mission as a Traveller in Saxon Aengland with the rest of the lads, he had endured the debriefing, rest and recreation, and finally the reassignment. By the time the shield-bash to his face had healed, McAlister was offered a consultative role to support the French, who were planning their own Traveller project. Luckily he had been able to take Zoe with him. He successfully developed a French-based training programme for potential Travellers and, for the first time in as long as he could remember, enjoyed regular office hours. Working closely with the delightful Professor Esther Febvre from the Sorbonne in Paris, he and Zoe had been wined and dined and feted, for he was one of those brave, famous Travellers who had fought so hard against the terrible Vikings on that desolate, muddy battleground in Saxon Aengland.

The training programme took a leisurely six months but once it was completed, McAlister found it difficult to adapt back into active duty with the SAS. He had put on some weight and had been experiencing strange nightmares, often involving situations he couldn’t recollect. With some leave of absence owed he and Zoe were married in a tiny church in a twee little village close to Welbeck. Most of the other Travellers had attended though not Hunter, or Osborne, who had been undergoing further surgery.

Osborne, poor bastard that he was. Losing his arm like he had. McAlister always felt he was to blame. He had turned to strike at a young Viking and vividly recalled thrusting his beautiful katana into the lad’s nostril and the vague surprise at how the deadly blade entered his face so easily. The young man had stopped, stunned, and as McAlister withdrew his sword the lad simply fell. A big man, no doubt his father, had screamed and tried to beat at his son’s killer but the tide of battle caused him to be distracted and killed, for McAlister never saw him again.

That was when Osborne lost his arm.

After France, McAlister began to experience feelings of vulnerability that were disconcerting. He felt it as soon as he and the lads had been Transported into the past, even as they hiked through the midnight forest to find Hunter. There had been a magic to the place. Parker called it a spookiness. But there was something more, a dreamlike quality, no doubting it. He had killed of course, from the barrel of a gun or by the blade of a knife but he was a professional. It was part of the job. But not like in Giolgrave. Thinking back, he had experienced the best time of his life while training for the mission in old Aengland, yet while he had fought in that time, every kill seemed indelibly etched into his very psyche.

McAlister completed some work with Hurley, the mad Irishman, and then conducted follow-up work in France but soon discovered that his love of his job had dulled, that he had to escape, to just get away. He wasn’t as strong or as calm as he thought and caught himself in petty arguments with Zoe. Whenever she cried it made him even angrier, because Zoe wasn’t a crier. It was suggested he chat with a Medical Officer who was studying the effects of the Battle of Giolgrave on the Travellers.

It seemed McAlister wasn’t the only one having issues.

He decided to take Zoe to America for some leave. Besides catching up with a few old army mates, they tried to forget the pressures and have a great time. In New York, they attended a couple of shows on Broadway and Zoe had caught up with a little shopping. She had never looked so happy and McAlister had to concede that, finally, he had done something right. She was a handsome one, that’s for sure. Her Rockabilly style had New Yorkers stare. With her 50’s hair and dresses and her solidly tattooed left arm, Zoe had been the hit of one Rock-and-Roll restaurant they visited. The bright lights and the great food and drink had been exciting and just what they needed.

Until…

Well he had made a right mess of it, hadn’t he? An argument had started from nothing and there had been some yelling and slamming holes in a couple of walls and he had simply walked out. In a blind rage, McAlister caught a bus from the New York and ended up in Philadelphia, then grabbed a rental Mustang and drove. He didn’t know where he was going, just …away. All he possessed was his credit card and the clothes on his back. Exhaustion caused him to stop at a roadside flea-pit of a hotel. After a brief and broken sleep he continued onwards, destination unknown. McAlister was consumed with an unending rage and anguish. To top it off, he felt ashamed that he was no longer the proud man he once was, no longer as fit, as capable, or as strong. A second night saw his pain subside and he began to feel guilty at how he had treated Zoe and had left without even taking his phone.

No one knew where he was.

Zoe did not deserve this. She certainly didn’t deserve him.

He pulled into Memphis a little worse for wear. He knew he had softened, that he was carrying far too much weight. He headed for the Beale where the lights were bright, the sound of the Blues filled the air and the smell of food tempting. Poor Zoe, all she wanted was a baby; an ‘Ian Junior’, for them to have their own happy family.

Another thing McAlister had begun to detest was the sensation that he was being watched, not by any of the increasingly rare public who recognised him as a Traveller but by others he suspected might be tracking him. It would be nothing to track his credit card but he feared something more insidious. A table of four overweight men laughed loudly in their drunken state and McAlister caught a woman looking at him, her eyes bright. Was she watching him? Were there others watching him now? He felt an irrational desire to rush across and grasp her by the throat and shake her till she told him the truth but instead paid for his meal and drinks, leaving a generous tip.

The footpaths were shiny with a fluorescent glow reflected from mirror-like puddles left by a late evening storm. A drunken man was supported by his noisy buddies as they made their way to another bar, while a squad of revellers staggered past. The young girls were dressed in little black dresses and tinsel, having lost most of their shoes some bars away. They laughed loudly as they sang bawdy ditties together. One of them recognised him and cried out, “Hey! I know you!” but he hurried on.

Though the United States was a big country, it was still a challenge to get lost. The Americans did it bigger; bigger cars, bigger hotel rooms, bigger meals and bigger people. He ran his hand over a growing paunch and was immediately ashamed and angry. Where he used to have pride in his fitness, now he had none.

Half of a dozen tall lads pushed along the footpath. They might have been tracking the girls as they shoved past, secure of their strength in alcohol and numbers. A few were big and beefy, as if they worked on the land and wore their trucker hats and five o’clock shadows with grim pride.

As he was shoved against the wall, McAlister impulsively called out, “Hey, what the fuck’r you doing? Take it easy!”

One turned eagerly, as if anticipating an outburst. A lean, hard-looking man missing a front tooth rounded on McAlister who knew immediately what was about to happen. He greeted the prospect with relish.

“What the fuck! We do what we like. Bitch!” crowed missing-tooth. He, like the other lads, was drunk and his hard face and broken nose implied he had seen a few fights in his day. The others in the group stopped and turned to watch with weary interest as the tall man shaped up to the soft Englishman.

“Just watch yourself mate! You’re being a right cocksucker!” responded McAlister angrily, for he would never back down. There were five men. Three might be a problem, including Missing-Tooth. The other two were young lads in their late teens who looked a little worse for wear. “Just take your young friends to your next bar and fuck off!”

Missing-tooth barely paused. “I said, Bitch, I’ll do what I want!” and, without any warning, he stepped forward and waded into McAlister with a savage flurry of blows that would normally leave a man shattered and unconscious in the street.

But McAlister had anticipated the violence and, without a thought, his hands were up, guarding his face, so the punches did little more than bruise his arms and push him back against the brick wall. Having trained intensively for every conceivable hand-to-hand combat scenario, McAlister treated the attack as simply another training exercise. He knew he looked soft but his skills were sharp. He casually diverted one of the wild blows into the wall and stomped savagely onto a booted toe while he struck an open-handed blow to the unprotected bladder. There was a grunt of pain, probably as much from the fist hitting the bricks as from a crushed toe and suddenly soaked jeans, for the blow made him piss his pants. Missing-Tooth looked down in shock long enough for McAlister to connect a vicious uppercut to the point of his jaw. Teeth cracked together so loudly everyone in the street would have heard. His head snapped back and, as McAlister watched with satisfaction, the whites of his eyes showed as he fell his full length, like a tree, to hit the pavement with a surprisingly loud wallop.

Missing-Tooth’s stunned companions watched him fall as if such an eventuality had never occurred to them. It took McAlister to speak up to draw their attention back to him. “Take your friend and piss off. I’m the wrong fucking person at the wrong fucking time lads,” he growled. “Don’t continue this because I’d love it, if that’s what you want!”

The largest of the lads, a farm-hand in a battered Western Star hat, looked as strong as a bull. He gave McAlister a small, lop-sided grin and spoke with a drawl. “Ohhh, he won’t like that. First time I’ve seen that happen to old Lou here.” His face was one used to good humour with smile creases at the corners of his eyes. “Looks like you’ve more trouble than us to mess with,” he nodded. “Thanks for the fun though,” he smiled as he and his friends gathered up the unconscious Lou and half dragged him off as a young, black police officer strode up purposefully.

“I saw that mister. That was nice work! Lou can be a damned nuisance at times, so I hope it’ll teach him a lesson. But you’ll have to come with me! Not gonna cause me trouble, are ya?” he asked firmly. McAlister could see the policemen was nervous as his hand hovered near the butt of his pistol but he looked determined to be polite and handle the situation well.

With a shake of his head McAlister silently headed across the road in front of the police officer and meekly climbed into the back of the squad car.

Later, alone in his cell, the sergeant at the police station roused McAlister from slumber. He was still slightly drunk, with a thumping headache and a mouth that tasted like he had licked a urinal clean. The eyes of the sergeant and the arresting officer shone with respect as they politely guided their charge to a phone and left him to the call.

A sharp voice sounded at the other end of the line. “McAlister?” it asked.

McAlister grunted out a ‘Yeah!’

“Where the hell have you been? It’s McFee here! Look, I’ve got something you might be interested in.”

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