Inbetween

By David Antonelli

Jan Markowicz is a young American bomb maker and aspiring artist trying to escape from his involvement with a secular terrorist organization dedicated to the destruction of American corporate power and globalization. He backs out of a Heathrow bombing plot when the photo of a mysterious woman awakens him to the futility of violence as a means of social change.

He takes refuge with a young slacker couple in London, the enigmatic Martin and enchanting Liisi, with whom he quickly develops a close bond. Jan then begins to use his former girl friend and chilling terrorist accomplice Rosalyn – or is she using him? – to get at Luinstra, the head of the terrorist gang.

As the plot unfolds, Jan becomes obsessed with meeting the woman in the photo, who turns out to be a local singer, while Martin sinks into paranoid delusions and Liisi prepares to go on a voyage to Burma to fulfill a vow she once made to her deceased father. Jan begins to paint portraits of the singer, while also planning and then executing an attack on Luinstra’s hide out. In a moment of inspiration Jan tries to meet the singer, but it turns out Luinstra has other plans and the story comes to a riveting crescendo on Tower Bridge.

Set in 1993 in London, New York, and Tokyo, Inbetween is as much a psychological drama as it is a stylish thriller and intimate dialogue on the nature of love, obsession, and inner transformation. Inspired by earlier film successes Performance and The Crying Game, but with the raw energy of Naked, Inbetween was made into a mutt-award nominated film in 2008 and portrays a dark underworld filled with hypocritical terrorist leaders and petty drug dealers against a dreamy, almost hallucinatory counter-world in which each character is locked in a universe of their own personal obsessions. Yet the message is life affirming, as Inbetween is ultimately about love and redemption in the face of violence and futility.

• Language: English
• Publisher: David Antonelli
• Release date: Jun 27, 2011
• ISBN: 9781465902795

David Antonelli

David Antonelli was born in Chicago in 1963. He was educated at The University of Alberta, Oxford, Caltech, and MIT. In 2010 he published his first novel The Narcissist, followed by The False Man, Inbetween, The Forest, The Mountain, The Candidate, The Architect, The Frozen Ocean, The Black Tide, The Sleep, and The Lipstick Empire. His film credits include Inbetween (2008), which was nominated for awards at several international film festivals, Finding Rudolf Steiner (Documentary, Official Selection Calgary International Film Festival 2006, now available on DVD), Lucifer Gnosis (short), Forever (16 mm short), Dreaming (16 mm short, named in top three at the Montreal International Student Film Festival, 1989), La Toyson D'Or (16 mm short), and The Chalk Elephant (16 mm short). He currently lives in Cardiff and teaches at Lancaster University.

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Inbetween

By David M. Antonelli

SMASHWORDS EDITION

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PUBLISHED BY:

David Antonelli on Smashwords

Inbetween

Copyright © 2011 by David M. Antonelli

All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

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This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author's work.

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There are a few people I’d like to acknowledge:

Paul Antonelli is thanked for helping to design the cover page, which includes an image from teh film version of this novel. Marylu Walters is thanked for editing an early version of this manuscript. Joanne Kellock is thanked for guidance while writing the early drafts of this book.

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Inbetween

By David M. Antonelli

In a still and barren field

a horse kicks violently about.

Later, the horse is asleep and the field

is alive with fire and sound.

Unknown poet

I

1 The Sacrifice

Late winter. London. Heathrow. A few grey-black clouds coughed out a few drops of rain; a few jets took off, a few landed. It was the kind of day that normally passes by unnoticed. Dreamy, ephemeral, almost unreal. Jan Markowicz sat on the edge of his hotel bed staring out the freshly cleaned window. He tightened his finger on the trigger of his gun. Then he stretched back painlessly on the bed and squinted his eyes. The evening sun focused its gaze on his pillow and in quiet response he focused his gaze away from it. He took off his white cotton shirt and tossed it on the bed beside him and turned to the mirror to examine the contours of his naked torso. Intricate muscle layers wrapped beneath tight folds of creased skin forming patterns across his chest with the elaborate symmetry of oriental lettering. This was a terrorist’s physique. This was his equipment. With it he could plant a bomb in the most highly guarded military installations before quietly disappearing behind the velvet membrane of a cold dark forest where nobody would ever catch him.

He picked up a copy of Melody Maker placed on top of the television across from his bed. Flipping through its pages he passed a picture of a rock singer in a full-page ad for her latest CD. He flipped back to look closer. He was immediately struck by the white-phosphorous glow of her delicate face. She was clearly Nordic. The mischievously slanted eyes and pale complexion said as much. The light curves pencilling up from the corners of her smile stirred new images inside him. The rustling of wind through dried grass, the gentle bending of frozen rivers, the warm touch of another’s skin, crumbling rooftops in the spring. He gazed into her dark marble eyes for a long instant before closing the pages of the tabloid. Such alien beauty was never meant to exist.

He tossed the tabloid on the floor and looked out the window, shivering at the thought of the bombing and what would happen to him if he backed down. Luinstra would certainly come after him. Jan looked at the wall and his insides froze and shattered in a single motion. The Dutchman was ruthless, cunning, almost mechanical. He spoke with sewing-machine precision through a pair of thin, motionless lips. Jan imagined his pock-marked face hanging whitely in front of him, the icy nozzle of a gun digging into the back of his neck.

He looked at the runway stretching out in the distance. An aircraft moved gracefully upwards at a speed that seemed to slow to keep it airborne - its soft grey underbelly reflecting shards of light from the low-lying sun off towards the control tower. But instead of the angry shrieking of its aluminum engines all he could hear was the imaginary ticking of the bomb he’d stashed beneath the bed a few hours earlier. He walked over to the mirror and put his shirt back on. Then he ruffled through the sheets of the bed until he found his wallet. Inside were the codified plans for the bombing. He took out a folded piece of paper with a series of numbers scribbled on the outside. Then he flattened it on the side table and held it up to the light.

The plot was so perfectly drawn. Like even the best suit of armor, Heathrow had its flaws, its seams. It was only a matter of divining them, unravelling them. A loose thread pulled is already a hole. All he had to do was set the explosives in the suitcase and send it on its way. He looked down at his hands - pink from the cold. He looked out the window at the strange heavy shapes assumed by the rumpled masses of fog hovering in the distance. He looked back at his hands and watched his fingers tremble over the smooth surface of the bomb’s cold putty. He felt what he’d felt all day. Sympathy.

Jan opened his suitcase and emptied its contents onto the bed in front of him. A fuse, a timer, and a small grey lump of putty. He picked the putty up and squeezed it in his left hand. It wasn’t as malleable as he thought it should be. He pinched it between his index finger and thumb and tossed it back onto the bed. It was a form of beauty few men had ever experienced. The beauty of pure destruction. Destruction as man’s final creative act. All the fire and chaos: perfect like rose petals and milk. Einzurstende Neubaten: the dismantling of new buildings. Destruction. The concept of violence. He stepped back from the bed and a strange nostalgia for explosives welled up inside him. After all, that was what had brought him here in the first place. Explosives. It was why he was here, and why he was anything at all. He undid the top button of his shirt and stepped over to the curtains. He unfurled them. Then he took the bomb and hid it securely in the inner pocket of his raincoat hanging on the chair beside him. He might need it later. Any weapon would help.

Sympathy. The word hung in his mind as he pulled the heavy curtains back together and packed his suitcase. He had to escape. If he stayed in the room any longer, de Koenig would find him for sure. Then Jan would be finished. He would never be forgiven for failing to go through with the plot. He had to leave immediately. Rosalyn was waiting for him at Crystal Palace and he couldn’t afford to miss their appointment. He wondered what she looked like. Was she still as beautiful as the last time he’d seen her? It was in Tokyo almost a year ago, and he could still remember the deep red of her lips when they met at the airport. With any luck, he could sway her to his side and get her to help him. He felt cold as he wrestled his arms into his coat and walked down the hallway to the elevator - the bomb hidden securely in his pocket.

He rushed through the hotel lobby and caught the first shuttle to the Underground station. The train came almost immediately and he boarded the crowded car. The first stations passed by slowly. Hounslow West. Hounslow Central. There was even a Hounslow East to round things off. After each stop his eyes scanned the train for potential enemies. Grey-clad professional after grey-clad professional boarded and got off at each passing station, crowding the doors and platforms as they shuffled indifferently off to their next destination. Any one of them could be a spy sent to check up on him. And even if they weren’t spies, it wouldn’t be long before The Organization got wind of his escape and sent someone after him. When the train passed through Acton Town he looked at his watch. It was nine thirty. Three minutes after he was supposed to meet de Koenig. He tightened his grip on the gun in his pocket. Its cold heavy metal comforted him, but it could just as well have been a pacifier jammed between his lips. What good would a pistol do him if at any second he could be machine-gunned to the floor by a team of hit men waiting at the next station?

Twenty minutes later the train whistled downwards from the surface rails into the dark sleeve of a tunnel, signalling their arrival in central London. As the train nudged into Victoria Station Jan sat in silence, drawing on the back of a pack of old matches. Bridges, walls, rivers, a face – the singer’s face, its diamond-point bone structure moving up from the top of her neck and extending upwards to the first patch of hair pushing out from under her ear. Her eyes: warm and sharp. Her hair: dark, uncombed, troll-like. She looked like the offspring of a savage Mongolian warlord and a Northumbrian fairy princess. Radiant and unnatural, she stood before his mind’s eye like an outcast from behind the stars, never meant to walk the earth for fear it might crumble in the face of her archangelic beauty.

2 Rosalyn

Jan took a quick look at his watch and stuffed his hand into his pocket. Rosalyn was already ten minutes late. He clicked his feet together like a soldier in a line of salute and walked over to a set of three garage doors beside the entrance to Crystal Palace station. Its walls and windows looked shapeless and imaginary in the death-white light of the moon. He looked across the street. A billboard stood without color or form, as if carved from a pillar of total darkness. He heard a sudden crackling.

Who’s there? he whispered.

Like a spout of blood from the throat of silence, Rosalyn stepped out from around the corner. She was holding a gun at the head of a gagged man in a mechanic’s uniform. Her hair was still long and brown, short bangs falling just above her eyebrows. She walked towards Jan, her arm locked securely around the man’s neck as she held him in front of her like a shield. She said nothing as she approached. Jan could hear the occasional muffled holler coming from the man’s mouth. He looked at her. Her eyes told him she knew about Heathrow.

What happened? Her voice plunged through the stillness.

I couldn’t do it.

Couldn’t do it? Are you crazy? It was your one last chance to redeem yourself and you had to fuck it up.

Redeem myself? They would have killed me either way. I’m not that stupid.

I can’t imagine what Luinstra’s going to do when he finds out.

Fuck Luinstra. I’m sick of this whole business. Can’t you see what we’re doing? Do you even care?

Rosalyn straightened her face and looked coldly into his eyes. Satisfaction, she said as if reading from a manifesto. The satisfaction of destruction leading to a final and ultimate cause.

There is no ultimate cause.

Satisfaction leading to an ultimate cause, she repeated as though she expected him to bend to the force of her will.

Who’s the man? Jan stepped towards her and she pulled back.

Don’t you remember? You were supposed to meet de Koenig and switch clothes with an air traffic controller.

Jan stepped back and shook his head in remonstration. I want out.

Is that all you have to say for yourself?

"Say for myself? He grimaced. After what happened in Thailand? And you think you have the right to criticize me?"

"That has nothing to do with this. Don’t you understand? You violated the code. Our code."

Code? He lifted his eyebrow.

You took a vow six years ago. You devoted yourself to The Organization. In your own words you swore yourself to the overthrow of America.

It was just for the bombs. The extra money. That was the deal. I’d make the bombs and that was it.

Rosalyn’s face softened for an instant as if she was savoring a pleasant memory. She loosened her grip on the man’s neck. The man struggled and elbowed her in the stomach. Without a flinch she rammed her gun into the man’s ear and pulled the trigger. The sound of the shot echoed off the walls of the station. She pushed him away as he slowly dropped to the ground. The body convulsed for a moment and then went still.

Jan rushed towards the body and dropped to his knees. The sidewalk was wet with blood. He touched his thumb to the man’s wrist. There was no pulse.

What the hell did you do that for?

Tell me you’re just bullshitting me, she said. She raised the gun from her waist and pointed it in his face.

I’ve been doubting this all for a while, he said with sudden conviction. He stood up, shaking his head in disgust. Rosalyn’s gun followed him like a spectroscopic probe. What did this guy ever do to you? he said.

There’s some things you just don’t question. He was the hostage and it was his role to die.

Role?

Everything has its role in life. Just like it’s the hummingbird’s role to fly from flower to flower looking pretty for all the schoolgirls, this was his. Now it’s over.

You get more fucked up every time I see you.

Maybe if you hadn’t screwed up the bombing I would have let him live.

How merciful of you.

She let her arm drop to her side. It was my duty, she said.

You don’t give a damn about all that. You never did. You just want violence.

This isn’t about violence...

Yes it is, Jan interrupted. That’s what that business in Thailand was all about. Violence. Violence towards me. You were bored and you needed to stir things up.

"Bored? I’m not that simple."

Jan stepped back from the body and looked at Rosalyn. In the darkness her face seemed almost childlike. Her nose looked small and white, her cheeks clear and rounded. For a moment it was as if nothing had ever happened to pull them apart. And now I suppose you want me back, he said.

She smiled thinly. I wouldn’t be so presumptuous. Her face tightened with conviction. What happened to the guy who made the bomb that destroyed the oil refinery five years ago? What happened to the guy who did me on a bridge in the middle of New Jersey three minutes before it went up in flames? What happened? What the hell happened to you? She pushed him away as if to provoke him to slap her. "And so quickly. It must be a woman. You always had a weakness when it came to matters of the heart."

Jan narrowed his eyes in anger. He pulled her closer and moved his left hand over the crease between her legs.

She stepped back. I don’t know what’s become of you, she said. Sure, there’s been other men, but I always loved you the most. You were the only one who could handle me, who wasn’t scared away. Men always want their ladies wrapped up in a little pink bow. They can’t handle it when they find out their woman is as wild as they are. And now you... She looked at him with hard accusing eyes.

"Now me? If anything I’m more brave than you for having the strength to break away."

"You’ve just turned into a coward. Five years ago you made a vow not to quit until the streets were red with the blood of Americans. In your own words."

You just do whatever Luinstra says. You think you’re following some higher principle, but you’re just one of his tools.

Tools to reach that higher principle. She inhaled deeply as though she had just recited an epitaph.

And I’m supposed to love you? He shook his head contemptuously. You look so pretty standing there on your pedestal of blood.

You’re a hypocrite. Your bombs have killed so many people I’ve almost lost count.

Jan turned his head away in resignation. I only made them, he said as though speaking to an invisible presence hovering beside her. I never set them off. You know that.

What difference does it make?

He looked back at her. If I sell you a gun and you kill somebody is it my fault?

In so far as it never would have happened unless you gave me the chance.

I’m not going to blow up some plane and kill hundreds of innocent people just to live out someone else’s fantasies. He turned and looked up at a light that was flashing in the distance. From its position in the night sky he guessed it was coming from the top of a radio tower. There was a smell in the air that was both damp and fragrant. As he shifted his gaze downwards to the ground he wondered if it had anything to do with death.

Jan, Rosalyn said as she shook her head. Her tone was suddenly soft and tremulous. He sensed she was confused underneath her hardened exterior. I’m afraid. She traced a circular pattern across his chest and hung her head down. For an instant it was as if everything was calm and time had reeled backwards to the years they spent together in New York. As she pulled him into her, the gust of air created by her sudden motion wafted in his direction. Suddenly the strange scent became more clear. It was Fendi. She hadn’t worn it since they’d split up for the first of several times four years earlier.

So am I, Jan finally responded. Although he didn’t want to feel for her he couldn’t help it. Rosalyn moved out of the light from the overhanging street lamp. She quietly sang a line from The Clash’s Guns of Brixton under her breath as she beat the rhythm with her finger on his chest.

When they come to get you,

how you going to come,

with your hands behind your head

or on the trigger of a gun?

On the trigger of a gun, he said slowly, savoring the words as they fell out of his mouth. He remembered the song well. She always used to play it on her Walkman when they drank cheap red wine behind her parent’s trailer in Flint, Michigan.

She smiled warmly and stepped even closer to him. The scent of Fendi grew stronger. The scent was meant for her. Him and her. He thought of her walking through a revolving door, her slender, black-stockinged legs slipping through the fluttering play of half reflections created by the rotating panes of glass. He pressed his head against her cheek and inhaled deeply.

His eyes moved from a dangling lock of her hair to the dead man beside her. He trembled at the thought of how much she’d changed, how far she’d dropped, how much her loyalty to The Organization had demolished the woman she once was.

A car roared by. Rosalyn stiffened up and pushed him away.

We’d better go before the cops come.

Yes.

You’re in serious trouble. You’d better lay low, she whispered. The words came out slowly and deliberately. Her eyes looked tender and sincere. I’ll try to help you.

Why? You’ll only jeopardize yourself.

I feel I owe you something - owe you something for Thailand. I didn’t think there was anything left between us. I know some people who don’t know anything about The Organization or the bombings. You might be able to stay with them. I met them a few months ago and they said they’d be glad to take in some borders for extra money.

Her voice was strangely soothing. Maybe I can even talk to Luinstra, she continued. I could make up a story. Tell him that the bomb malfunctioned and you were afraid of being caught. Then I can get you another job.

Can’t you see? Jan took a strand of her hair and wound it tightly around his finger. I don’t want another job. I want out of this. Completely out.

So, what are you going to do instead?

Paint. He let her hair drop from his finger. From violence to art. A natural progression.

Please…not this again.

Why not?

"Don’t pretend you don’t know how I feel. Art only reinforces bourgeois values. It does nothing but feed the establishment with the illusion