Tight Lies

by Ted Denton

  Inside and safely out of sight, the prey exhaled deeply, feeling the tension fall from his shoulders for the first time in days. He shivered and rubbed the goose pimples off his arms, noticing that the dark cool space was several degrees lower than the outside temperature, far away from the remorseless attentions of a vindictive sun. With his eyes adjusting slowly to the gloom, Daniel groped his way forward. Froze suddenly. Then grunting in disgust, spitting and scrabbling wildly at his face to remove the sticky tangled mess of cobwebs that had enveloped him. A bat flustered and flapped loudly, swooping from one corner of the dusty grain store to the other causing him to drop to the floor instinctively in fright. Straightening up and squinting around to get his bearings, Daniel could make out that the farm building was little more than a utility barn which had seen better days. It was now ostensibly being used for storing discarded old equipment and some rotting harvest produce. The floor was made of dirty, cracked poured concrete coated with discarded kernels of grain and dust. A rusted combine harvester, emasculated by the removal of its two front wheels, lay abandoned to one side of the space. A collection of ancient scythes, hoes, and a burly wooden ladder lay piled against a large wooden water barrel. One corner of the barn was dominated by bales of tightly packed straw stacked up high. Daniel nodded in appreciation. That’s got to be the perfect hiding place.

  Chapter 31

  ENGLAND. LONDON. WESTMINSTER.

  ‘Alexander, please could you come through to the office? I’d like to bring you up to speed with certain developments,’ Derek Hemmings breathed excitedly into the intercom at his assistant. He leant back in the crimson leather chair, a smile of quiet satisfaction softly building across his crinkled mouth. A pigeon strutted pompously along the window frame through which a soft natural light poured into the room. The brusque meeting with Charles Hand had actually led to new avenues of enquiry and provided compelling information which had previously been inaccessible. For the first time since his meeting with Boris Golich at the club Derek felt like he had the upper hand, his instincts were about to be justified.

  He’d stuck his neck out, at significant personal risk to his long and established career, in order to best serve and protect his beloved nation. Done the right thing indeed, old boy. And now he could feel, nay practically taste, that he was to be vindicated. But there was probably more to it and, on reflection, he had secretly accepted that this whole escapade was to some extent the daring mission that he had always longed to take for MI6; previously forsaken on account of the manifold sacrifices made for Alice and choices taken to provide a stable future for their nascent family. So yes, of course he had fantasised that the resulting fallout of saving the country from this poisoned chalice would provide the perfect swan song to an industrious and less than glittering career. Recognition. Perhaps some minor honour or other and the chance to finally get one over on that supercilious Scottish shit Andy Bartholomew. Derek Hemmings considered that he had every right to smile and enjoy the moment of impending victory.

  ‘You wanted to see me, sir?’ the smart young man purred as he stepped briskly into the office, snapping the door into place.

  ‘Yes, Alex. I wanted to share some good news with you given all the late nights and assistance you have provided me in researching the Boris Golich situation.’

  ‘Really, sir? That does sound exciting. And you should know sir that I’m always at your service. Privileged, in fact, to simply be able to aid you in your important work.’ Gushing. Even by Alex Gontelmoon’s very own high standards, forged in the machinations of an expensive public school education where prefects whimsically dished out bare-bottom canings to younger boys who hadn’t displayed the requisite levels of idolatry, he was plumbing new depths of gratuitous obsequy.

  Derek continued unabashed. Beckoned Alex towards him conspiratorially. He was rather fond of his assistant, considered himself something of a mentor. ‘I’ve pulled some favours from the top. I’m being sent classified data imminently which will conclusively prove that Boris Golich is a notable crook and that the gas exploration deal with Great Britain must be halted at all costs.’

  ‘That won’t be happening any time soon, Hemmings,’ boomed a brash Scottish voice from the doorway. Derek spun in his chair to find a red faced Andy Bartholomew striding confidently into his office, a slim manila file clutched in his hands. He was sweating profusely, a fat blue vein angrily throbbed on the side of his blotchy neck.

  ‘How dare you fucking cross me, you useless old prick,’ he seethed. Derek rose slowly from the chair to meet him, only for a fat sweaty palm to slam into his chest forcing him backwards into the seat.

  ‘What the devil,’ he blustered.

  ‘You’re finished pal. Your career is fucking toast. You’re out. As of today, Hemmings. Sans pension too, Old Boy.’ Andy spat the last two words with pure disgust, mere centimetres from Derek’s face, expelling his diction with the vehemence of a motocross rider splattering a muddy trail. He continued: ‘Our mutual friend here, Mr Gontelmoon, has been very enlightening regarding your undercover detective work, you sad old goat.’ Andy gloated ostentatiously, fanning the loose sheaf folder in his hand whilst nodding towards Alex. ‘You certainly are an ambitious young man. Aren’t you, Gontlemoon?’

  ‘Alexander?’ Derek enquired sternly, his gaze unreturned as the young civil servant fixed a dogged stare at the thick carpet nestling around his fiercely polished shoes.

  ‘Oh yes,’ chortled the ebullient Scot savouring his moment of triumph, ‘and a fucking good judge of character too it seems. Shown he knows how to back a winner wouldn’t you say, Double-O Nothing?’ An attempt at an exaggerated Sean Connery impersonation, designed to heap further humiliation on his older colleague.

  ‘Alex here needed to back the winning horse to further his career prospects in Whitehall. Guess what? It turns out that was me, pal.’

  ‘I don’t know what on earth you are banging on about, Andy,’ Derek retorted, his poker face devoid of emotion. I’ll see your stake and raise you double, to hell if my hand consists of a nothing but a bag of spanners, I’ll bluff this out.

  ‘Have you been drinking at lunch again? I’m afraid I don’t have time for your petty shenanigans. I really do need to get on with some proper work, so if you’ll excuse me.’

  ‘Everything’s right here in this file, you slippery old bastard. The unauthorised activities. Refusing to sign the trade agreement and putting thousands of British jobs at risk. Disrespecting a powerful new ally of the United Kingdom and, to add injury to insult, making clumsy enquiries into Boris Golich’s past to try and stymie what’s already been agreed at the highest levels of Government.’

  Derek sat stony faced, listening purposefully, calculating his next move.

  ‘I have your letter of resignation freshly typed out inside this file, Hemmings. It’s already been accepted. It just needs your signature. Sign it by the end of the day or I’ll personally make sure you are escorted from the building under a dark cloud of dishonour and a wave of unpleasant negative publicity. How would little Alice like that then, d’you think?’ he snorted.

  At the cruel mention of his wife’s name, Derek winced visibly. But by then Andy had already turned and flounced out of the office shadowed by a smartly dressed traitor. The simple file tossed upon the desk top, nestled innocuously amongst the other papers, understated in its deadly purpose.

  Chapter 32

  SPAIN. VALENCIA REGION. OUTSKIRTS. BAYFIELD MANDARIN RESORT.

  I woke with a rancid taste in my mouth and the familiar pervasive sense of bitter regret. Rubbed my milky eyes, pulled the knife from the inside of my boot. Gritted my teeth and tore the blade against the back of my hand slowly, deliberately. Blood bubbled fiercely to the surface of the skin and snaked its way back towards my cocked wrist. The body’s reaction to the cut sent pain receptors instantly to my spinal cord, releasing chemicals which stimulated the hypothalamus in my brain. The signal to the adrenal glands, immediately released adrenaline and noradre
naline hormones to raise my heart rate, increase respiration, and slow down my digestion in readiness for a situation of either fight or flight. I’d learned this. Remembered it all well. It worked. But in this instance, the standard biological response to pain served a more powerful personal purpose. To cleanse my thoughts, to flush away the violent haunting memories that were branded onto my soul.

  Besides, I needed to function effectively if I was going to be able to neutralise the savage criminals who had taken the Target. I checked my shoulder wound which seemed to be a little less tender already, not bleeding overtly. I redressed the burnt fissure scarring, padded it extensively with wads of cotton wool, strapped it tight and then rolled an Elastoplast tube over my arm to keep everything in place. Overall movement was slightly restricted but it would have to do. I popped a couple of pain killers into my mouth and swallowed them dry. It was time to get moving.

  I gunned the engine of the Range Rover, squealing back out onto the road, heading in the direction of the mountains towards the Pussy Palace. I’d make some ground and check in with Ella for intel en route.

  I drove for two straight hours, fast and efficient, mindlessly staring at the empty tarmac ahead of me. My thoughts were a binary tract vacillating between the memorised image of Daniel Ratchet’s face and a parade of contorted dead bodies that I’d both encountered and generated in the past few days. The stark images played out to a backdrop of dull throbbing pain that licked away at my energy. Pangs of hunger finally roused me. I urgently wanted to reach the Target but experience had taught me to slow down, prepare, wait for the right intelligence before busting a move. That meant refuelling when I had the chance, so I pulled off the dusty highway round to the back of a single-pump petrol station that fronted a corrugated iron box serving as a restaurant. Parked up next to a beaten and rusted pickup truck, sporting muscular looking winching gear on its flatbed. The structure of the restaurant may have been rudimentary on the outside, but inside it was beautifully appointed. Instead of the cheap, uncomfortable fast food joint I was expecting, the whole restaurant was panelled with wood and framed with hanging baskets. Lovely bright green vines springing from the ceilings and walls. A pretty brunette waitress smiled a greeting at me as I clambered inside. She showed me to a table in the corner and instead of the typical offering of greasy burgers and all-day breakfast fry-ups that were staple nosebag in English roadside diners, I was presented with an extensive menu of delicious sounding tapas dishes. Too many options.

  As I flicked through the pages of dishes listed within the fat menu, I reflected on my situation. On the choices I took. War had made me selfish. I often felt as if the normal rules of a civilised world didn’t apply to me. I knew I had become desensitised to emotion and empathy, as if the nerve endings of my soul had been burnt away in some hellish explosion. I was torn between a harsh reality of danger, fear, and adrenaline; and a series of increasingly traumatic and inescapable flashbacks that transported me to relive moments of pain and cruelty so powerful that I could even taste the gunpowder in the air, hear the screaming. The scent of Maria’s perfume consuming me. Always there in the background, surprising me at the most unexpected moments. Blurred lines. The means of escape I had chosen was to step on the accelerator of living experience. Not so as to hide, but in order to simply feel more. And to grip desperately onto what I could to stop it slipping from my grasp. But like a wet beer bottle, sometimes the harder I gripped, the faster it slid from my hands. I had rebuilt my life only to have it smashed from under me. I remembered when the pain was at its worst, taking more and more drugs until the Hand of God had found me and dragged me free. I still drank heavily and popped pain pills for fun. When alcohol wasn’t an option, for operational purposes, I drank coffee like it was going out of fashion. And when one addiction had abated I merely substituted it for the next. Killing had first become normalised to me and later I realised it was thrilling, gratifying. And sex. I craved sex from the moment I awoke until the moment my brain shut down through either exhaustion or intoxication. I didn’t care which.

  But a man like me, with certain skills and experience, a man prepared to go to the dark places that others wouldn’t, who could hold his hand inside the flame longer than the rest, still had his uses. I got the job done. And besides, there was always a chance that as long as I could keep lying to myself and everyone else that I was participating in normal life, that I felt the same as everyone else - that if I smiled at their jokes and cared just a little about their banal concerns, I might make it through to the other side. And that was all I needed.

  I ordered a San Miguel. Slugged it down thirstily on arrival, immediately ordering a second. The recent action I’d seen had induced a powerful hunger, carnal appetites, and I knew that where I was headed things were going to get bloody. If I was going on a killing spree then I’d need to replenish myself.

  I ordered greedily and leant back in my chair, taking pleasure from watching the little senorita waitress sashaying her arse around in those tight jeans and wiggling her hips between the tables as she tended to the other customers. The food duly arrived. Lots of little circular terracotta dishes filled the table and I helped myself to liberal servings of succulent lamb, plump beans, and crispy calamari heaped together on the same plate. Simple hearty food. I swallowed down the other beer, fully aware that the local police turned a blind eye to driving under the influence, something that was simply deemed to be part of the indigenous culture. The waitress took her time cleaning the table. She paused, deliberately catching my eye. ‘You’re English, no?’ she said coyly, her head tilted to one side as she dabbed her cloth at a thick smear of split sauce.

  ‘Yeah. English,’ I responded, noticing cute dimples set into the soft skin of her rounded cheeks.

  She continued, ‘I like English. I study it well. I want to go there.’

  I grinned up at her and she blushed, looking down at the table before returning my gaze, eyelashes fluttering. ‘English are polite. Nice. Not like Russians. They are rough in here, you know. Always causing trouble. Problems for us. For my family.’

  ‘You have Russians in here?’ I countered.

  ‘Yes. Often they stop here. Get drunk. Break things. Every month.’

  ‘I see,’ I muttered, eyes narrowing to slits. ‘Well that’s just no good, is it? I’m looking for some Russians myself. I’ve got business to attend to.’

  She leant towards me and traced her fingers across my bandaged shoulder. ‘I like that. I think you are a good man.’

  I held her gaze for a long moment and nodded, pushing back the chair as I stood up. Slowly made my way towards the back of the restaurant and kicked open the men’s toilet. I took my time over a long and satisfying piss and when I reopened the door to the washroom I found she was standing there swaying slightly, hands clasped together in front of her. She smiled, stepped towards me and, in a single motion, I grabbed her wrist, pulling her back into the men’s toilet, closing the door behind me with the heel of my boot.

  I kissed her hard, my tongue swirling inside her mouth whilst she backed up until flat against the wall. Her fingers played in my hair. I responded, running my rough hand over her elegant neck and throat and down over her T-shirt, squeezing her pert breasts hard. She gasped. Raised her knee upward and wrapped her leg around me as I pawed and mauled at that tight arse with a rampant hand. She was panting hard now and I was in no mood to take my time slowly with this horny little Spanish bitch. Finding the back of her head I twisted my fist, entwining it into her hair and pulling her head back. I sucked and bit eagerly at the soft elongated neck presented in front of me, inducing involuntarily whimpers and moans as she writhed again humping hard against me. Forced her forward so she was bent leaning against the wash basin, pretty face, already jewelled with beads of perspiration now just inches away from the stained cracked mirror. Holding one arm twisted loosely behind her back I tore her jeans and black lace panties down from over those smooth hips in one movement. She groaned deeply and arched her ba
ck, causing those curvaceous, buttocks to thrust out towards me. I growled and forced myself inside her sex with a single, primitive trust.

  ‘Oh yes. Give it to me, bastardo,’ she pleaded as I mercilessly banged into her, grunting as she lifted off her feet with each individual thrust. Retained the savage intensity of the coupling for several delicious minutes before finally exploding into her hard. With one arm wrapped around her waist I pulled her pelvis back onto me and ground my hips against her raggedly abused behind as forcefully as I could muster. Exhausted I collapsed over the back of my little Spanish conquest, crushing her with my weight and forcing her pretty face to squash flat against the cold mirror.

  ‘Fuck. You are delicious,’ I panted as she wriggled from underneath and turned to face me, pulling up her jeans from around her knees. She stood up on tiptoes and kissed me, running her finger tips across my face and down the vivid scar on my neck.

  ‘Thank you,’ she purred in that glossy Spanish accent. ‘I want you come back and visit me when you return this way. You promise me no, English?’ She looked earnestly at me before adding, ‘Only after you find your Russians. I want you make them pay for me.’

  I cupped her face in my hands and kissed her full and hard on the lips before pushing the door to the washroom open. Threw a fist full of euros onto the table, more than amply covering the bill for the meal and, I considered devilishly, a fair consideration for services rendered.