by Penny Knight
Rough hands grab my elbow and pull me to a halt.
My heart skips a beat. Maybe I’ve been busted?
But then the smell hits me. The intense body odour, mould, and is that wet puppy?
I scrunch my nose, looking at the old shriveled woman in front of me. She tightens her grip on my arm. When I look down at her hand, I feel bad but can’t help wondering when the last time she washed them was. They’re filthy.
“You shouldn’t be ‘ere,” she hisses at me.
What?
Are you kidding me? I just need one fucking break today.
My eyes widen, looking in her vacant eyes. She tugs again on my arm, and her skin feels like rough leather against mine. Looking around, I notice people have slowed and watch as this grey-haired woman maltreats me on the street.
“Uhh,” I start, turning back to look at her. “Sorry, can you please let go?” I whisper, not wanting this situation to garner more attention.
“I see it all around you,” she continues, and ignores what I just said.
With caution, I try to release my arm, but her grip tightens.
“It’s light. There is no colour. Nothing. You. It’s you,” she says, getting louder.
It’s not like I don’t have compassion for the homeless. I was almost on the street myself. There’s no doubt I could have been this lady. Alone, rambling to strangers on the sidewalk, but I was lucky someone had taken me in as a kid and kept me safe.
I may have been abandoned, but I refuse to be the victim. I chose to not only survive but build a life for myself. So yeah, I have compassion and want to help, but this woman is spinning off this planet, and she’s taking common sense with her.
My head still pounds, and she’s going to blow my cover. I’m not meant to be noticed. There’s no time for compassion, not now. Richard Carrington was due any minute, and I need to be inside to set up ASAP. With my spare arm, I try to loosen the grip.
“Your blood. You have to keep it. We are all going to die!” she yells.
“Quiet woman,” I hiss, getting angrier. Her rants become more obscene. I break her grip and my arm comes loose.
“You dream, don’t you?” her voice lowers as she asks me.
I freeze on the spot.
There is no way she could know about my dreams.
“Concentrate,” the grey-haired lady continues.
My heart pounds hard, and my chest is heaving. Now she is freaking me out.
“Shield your eyes. Let it in slowly. You will see it. You will,” she says.
That’s it, that was enough. I can’t hear anymore, it’s all too much.
“I have to go,” I say and turn to start walking back to the hotel. But a deep sickening gasp comes from behind me and stops me in my tracks. Swinging around, I find the older woman on her knees with her head bowed down, shaking, and not wanting to look up.
“What the actual fuck?” I mutter. Looking around, there is crowd that’s formed a circle around us. Great! This isn’t embarrassing at all. No one help, geez. I shake my head at them and focus back on the woman. Her body shakes as she shivers, scared on the pavement, but the old lady stays with her head bowed down.
She looks lost, helpless as she kneels there. I step closer and bend down to touch her shoulder. Her eyes peer up to mine, and as they make contact, they roll back into her head like the beginnings of a seizure. Shocked, I stumble backward and trip on my own feet, falling to the floor. My satchel with my laptop and tools hits my side under my ribs, causing me to become winded. She crawls forward, inching towards me, and my heart speeds up trying to gather my footing and avoid her touch. Her white eyes forever burn future nightmares in my mind.
The crowd gathers closer. In the corner of my eye, I see the porter from the hotel running towards me. The grey-haired woman edges closer and closer, arms outstretched, wanting to touch me. Hands land under my arms from behind, and the porter helps me to my feet.
The older woman coughs, heaving coughs from deep inside her chest, like something is stuck in there.
“She’s choking!” someone yells from the crowd.
Back on my feet with the porter behind me, we stand there as the woman coughs and spatters.
I’m torn. Do I help her, maybe pat her on the back? I don’t know. The other part of my brain, or maybe the devil on my shoulder orders me to get the hell away and run for the hills. She scares the absolute crap out of me.
Her coughs grow louder as blood splatters from her mouth. Gasps and screams erupt from around me. Someone is already on the phone with emergency services, thank God. But I can’t just stand here and watch this poor lady. Even though my hands shake, and I stand here paralysed. I know she has to be terrified. She’s sick and with everyone here watching, no one is offering her any support. She’s alone, there is no one else to help her.
I walk closer.
“Wait, be careful,” the porter says behind me. He’s worried, and I don’t blame him. This whole thing is crazy.
Hesitantly, I touch her on her back to offer her support. But as soon as my hand makes contact, she falls flat on her stomach, hitting the ground with a thud.
Silence.
The crowd goes quiet. I raise both hands, scared people will think I have done something to her. Looking around, the masses have already started to eye me suspiciously. I don’t know what to do. She feels like my responsibility.
Bending down, I feel for a pulse. But before I get a chance, she springs to her feet and I jump back, shocked at how quick she moves after all that has happened. My mouth drops open as I stare.
Colour has returned to her face, eyes back to normal. You would think I had just imagined everything.
Have I?
I question myself, but one quick look around at everyone and nope, they’re all just as mystified.
What the hell is going on?
“BOOOO!” the grey-haired lady yells, scaring and shocking everyone into a panic. The crowd disperses. Everyone’s looking down at their phones or pretending to be busy, anything to get away from this crazed lady.
The grey-haired woman looks back to me and smiles wide skipping away. Leaving me with my eyebrows raised and a dumbfounded look on my face.
“Are you ok?” the porter asks me, concerned.
“Um... I...” What can I say about what just happened? Other than I’m freaking out? My head is still pounding, and now my ribs are hurting where the laptop fell on me. All of this, plus the fact this woman just had an exorcist moment, doesn’t even compare to her knowing about my dreams. I’m lost for words. No, I am not ok. Not one bit.
But I still have my work assignment to complete, and Mr. Carrington will soon be here.
“Uh, yeah. I’m ok.” I turn to answer the porter, shaking my head out of my stupor. “I will be fine, thank you.”
“That was...” he pauses as he thinks of the right word, “Uh, intense.” He shrugs.
Hmph, that’s one word for it.
“Yeah, you could say that.” The message tone on my phone goes off. I don’t need to look to know who that is. It would be Topher, and he’s probably wondering where I was.
The porter goes to say something else, and I politely tell him I am running late. I almost break into a run until I reach the front doors of the hotel.
The cold air hits my face. It’s a relief, my body’s like an inferno. If pain wasn’t radiating out of my head, I would take my time and admire the stunning details of the foyer. But I only manage to lift my eyes from the delicate marble floor long enough to find the sign to the women’s restroom. Quickening my pace, I reach the door and push it open, hoping to find it empty.
Finally, something goes my way. There’s not a peep when I enter. The doors of the stalls are open. I’m alone. First, I need to cool my blood that burns under my skin. I turn the tap on and scoop cold water into one hand. The other hand I use to twirl my long, thick dark brown hair up and splash some much needed relief to the back of my neck. Where the pain and heat seem to come fro
m. I gently rub the water around and cringe, remembering the tattoo that sits there mocking me. One that I didn’t want and don’t remember getting.
During these operations, where I infiltrate a business or building, I wear a deliberate disguise. Hairpieces, contact lenses, sometimes even a padded bodysuit to change my physical shape, whatever I need for the case. Today I opted to forgo the auburn curly-haired wig I was meaning to wear. There’s no way in this free world I’d deal with pins in my head today. In fact, I did not alter my appearance at all. Now that decision angers me. Fingers crossed, no one witnessed that scene outside the hotel.
Dropping my long wavy hair, it falls down my back. The girl staring back at me in the mirror looks tired and worn, my large brown eyes seem smaller and my lids are heavy and strained. Even with my makeup, there’s a red tinge coming through and beads of perspiration dripping from my forehead. It’s getting harder to stand, my body trembles as the grey-haired woman flashes in my mind, the events stuck on replay.
What the hell happened? One moment I thought she would die and the other she would kill or infect me. Just seeing her spit blood was one thing, but her mentioning my dreams? How can I begin to process that? I don’t even want to. I have become good at putting memories in boxes in my mind, locking them up, and swallowing the key. This feels like one of those times it’s needed.
I grip tighter with both hands on the basin, trying to steady my feet, my heart racing. The floor sways beneath me. Taking deep long breaths, my hair feels as though it’s choking me, so long and thick and weighing me down. I have to put it up, but God, I hate exposing that tattoo. It’s not like it’s ugly, just the thought behind it. But if I don’t, I think I will face plant onto the cold hard floor. I need to cool down.
I work to tie a loose bun on the top of my head, giving me some relief. As my hand drops to my neck, my fingers trace over the mark. I wish I could say it was a dumb idea. Even that I was drunk or I let some ex-boyfriend convince me to get the ink. But I can’t. The truth is, I don’t know when I got it. All I know is, it’s been there since I was nine years old. It’s not clean and crisp, and my skin is raised like it was once infected. Not like ink from a needle, more like a branding.
I feel the familiar knot forming in my stomach when I think about how it could only have been from my birth mother. Maybe one drug-fuelled night, perhaps she let some loser she was dating ink me, who knows. Either way, it’s there, and I hate exposing it. That settles it, no more procrastinating, I’m getting it removed. Next week I will schedule a consultation.
The familiar buzz from my bag rings out. I reach in for my phone and look down to read the message.
Topher: YOU ARE NOT ONLINE YET!!!
“Shit!” I curse. Fumbling with one hand, I reply, as I finish my primping and gather my things with the other.
Elita: One minute.
I researched the hotel all night. There are many reasons for the intelligence collection stage before an on-site assignment. Safety first, that is paramount. Know your exits, the streets and surroundings, you can never one hundred percent know how a mark will react if they ever uncover they are being watched and followed. But most important, I need to show I belong and fade into the background. I need information to do that.
This hotel is not in the city’s heart, or in the busy end of North Terrace next to the casinos, train station, medical prescient and retail shops. It’s at the south end of the city. Hemmed in by parklands and many small boutique business offices. This means it wouldn’t be your first choice if you were a tourist, and it’s not a cheap option either. That’s why I chose my grey designer woolen pencil skirt combined with a white silk blouse. It always makes me internally smile when I hit the mark. I pull out the black cast iron chair with emerald velvet cushioning from the table and look around. It would seem I am spot on. There are a few others dressed smartly, buried in their laptops working, and I fit right in.
I follow suit and take mine out from my satchel. There’s a compartment in the middle of the table where you can plug a network cable and power outlet in. It’s highlighted on their website as a notable feature.
Opening my laptop, I connect all the cables and log in. Topher needs me on their network to gain access.
A dialogue box pops up and asks for authentication to their wireless network. It wants a room number, and a token given from the hotel. I close that for now. Topher can figure that out when I give him control of my computer. Instead, I connect to my wireless hotspot and open the encrypted messaging app. I don’t even have time to type before his message pops up on my screen.
T: Bout time!! You’re cutting it close. What the hell happened?
E: Long Story. Video is up.
From the online images, there was no clear view of all the exits or points of interest. So we decided I would cover the front entrance and reception. While Topher can monitor the bar behind me from the webcam, I just turned on.
T: WTF you look like shit!!
Rolling my eyes, I take out my tiny earpiece and pretend to fix my earring, ignoring his comment. Clearly, the webcam works. I already know I look like shit, I don’t need to be reminded.
Now I have to test the audio through the head peace.
I message Topher.
E: Say something, Loser!
His laugh is loud and clear. It works.
“Loser?? What are you, 6?” he says.
I don’t reply, not wanting people to think I’m talking to myself. Instead, I pull up a spreadsheet on my computer to feign work in case people are nosey.
“Seriously though, you look terrible,” he continues in my ear.
I put my elbow on the table and place my hand over my mouth as I lean, looking at the computer.
“I’m fine,” I say. “Can you see the bar?
“Um, move it two inches to the right. And your big head out of the way,” he says.
I do as he says and sit back in my chair.
“Perfect,” he says.
And just in time.
Richard Carrington stalks in with his chin up. Oozing arrogance that can only come from an entitled asshole that cheats on his wife. He pats down his maroon tie and fixes the collar of his grey pinstripe suit. Eyes straight on the bar, he beelines straight to it.
I hope I’m wrong. Maybe this time we can say. “Hey, you know what, he isn’t cheating. He is actually working when he claims he works. He speaks about you all the time. And when you ring, he always smiles before he answers.”
It’s sad, but I suspect this is not the case for her. I know she will get awful news. I just hope she gets a better lawyer than he is to take care of their divorce.
“He sat at the bar. I think he’s ordering a drink,” Topher narrates. “I don’t see anyone else. You’re the only chick alone in the lobby.” He laughs. “What a surprise.”
I roll my eyes and type.
E: “What’s the battery life on the brooch?”
“About 30 minutes. If you get close enough, I will hear him, too,” he responds.
I open my bag of tricks and grasp the brooch that includes our recording equipment inside. Turning it on, I then clip it to the left side of my blouse. I feel the adrenaline kick in a notch.
The sadness I felt for his wife has spiraled to anger, which feeds my need to catch this scumbag.
E: “I’m going in.”
“I got you E. Right here with you.” It’s good to know I have backup. I don’t need it for this case, but feeling he’s around gives me added confidence. Leaving two seats between us, I take sit down.
The bartender is a beautiful red-haired curvy woman with a big, sunny smile. She turns towards me, strolling past Carrington. In my peripheral vision I spot him stare down at her arse, in her tight black skirt.
“Good afternoon, Miss. May I get you a drink?” she smiles at me.
“Yes, thank you.” It takes a moment to think what to order, but just settle on Topher’s favourite. “A Cosmo, please.” He chuckles in my earpiece.
“Not a problem. I can take it to your table.” She nods towards where I was sitting. Talk about five-star service.
“Oh no, I need a break from work,” I sigh and wave off my table.
“Then I won’t scrimp on the vodka.” She laughs and winks. She sashays towards the rear end of the bar to make my cocktail.
Maybe it’s the situation, what happened outside, I don’t know, but I can feel my temperature rise. A faint heat emanating from my neck. Oh God, not again. I thought the pain was subsiding. Now it comes back with a vengeance. I wince and grit my teeth.
I hear a message tone, then from the corner of my eye. I catch Carrington reach for his phone inside his trouser pocket.
“E, I see a potential vixen walking towards the entrance,” Topher says in the earpiece. Vixen being our code name for the other woman.
That explains the message. He stands and reaches inside his suit coat pocket and pulls out a yellow envelope that fits in the palm of his hand. A regular patron could miss it, his that slick and practiced. But all my focus is on him. I even notice him hide the envelope in a crevice in the leather barstool and in the same movement push the chair under the bench.
The bartender comes back and places my drink in front of me. Smiling and thanking her, I watch as Carrington walks off back through the lobby. I peer over my shoulder and catch him heading to the restrooms.
“She’s walking in the hotel now,” Topher says.
“Did you see that?” I whisper as I bring the straw to my mouth before taking a sip.
“See what?” he replies.
“He left an envelope in his chair.”
“Did you see what’s in it? Can you try to look now?” he asks.
I’ve turned so I’m slightly facing the entrance. I clear my throat and mumble into the straw. “Is the potential Vixen a blondie with red heels?”
