I turn to see a man I don’t recognise, short and slim, dressed in black, a handsome face with jet black hair and an eye patch on his left eye.
“Happy pill not so happy any more?” he winks at me with his good eye, reaches over and takes my glass, sipping the whisky.
“What?" I ask
“You know they’ll be after you don’t you?”
“The Chinese?”
“No, not the Chinese. Well, yes, they’ll be after you, but they’re the least of your problems. They’d just kill you. These guys want you alive.”
I have to get myself another drink now. I feel very weary, all of a sudden. “These guys?”
“Them, of course. The IN. They'll want your secrets" he whispers.
“But, “I start, shaking my head at him, “Simon..."
“Not Simon. It's you they'll want. You used to be s vague, marginal figure and now you've put yourself way in the spotlight. I must admit, I did quite enjoy your performance. Yes, it was pretty good, I’ll drink to that” and he raises his glass to me, “it was pretty brave."
“Beware the lady” he hisses, and winks again.
“The lady?”
“Oh, work it out.” He comes across and leans at the bar next to me. “But I can help you. We can help you. “
Oh God. Some neo-resistance movement, here we go. “You can?”
“Yes. We are the Resistance”; he lightly produces a card and puts it in front of me. “You can’t contact me, but here’s how you get in touch. I think you know of him already”
On the card there’s a number, and below that the words “HH Simmons”.
And he’s gone.
Chapter 15
He’s in trouble now, his hands are shaking as he holds the microphone and people are looking nervous, pointing, whispering. He wipes his eyes to get rid of the blood trickling into them from the wound on his forehead.
He searches in the crowd to try and find her but it’s too difficult, the lights are too dazzling and his eyes hurt too much. He takes one more drink and reaches into his pocket, pulls out the crumpled paper, folds it out in his trembling hands, he drops the mic and has to pick it up, a little blood on the paper now but he rubs it off and thankfully he can still read the words.
He starts talking, his voice cracked.
“In my dreams
Awake
I see you
At night
I watch insects
Crawl up the walls
Of my heart
They spread their poison
In my mind
I touch you
But poison seeps
From my dreamlike fingers
It kills everything
I don’t have the right to destroy you
For my empty heart to live on
Feeding on the innocent “
He crushes the paper in his fist, and throws it into the crowd, then unsteadily walks off the stage, into the crowd looking for another poor fucked up soul to mope over. As he tries to get to the table, he catches a glimpse of her leaving, a look of disgust on her face.
Chapter 16
Her name’s not Sarah Jacob. That’s what she tells me after the second time, after she leaves me breathless and desperate for more, her wrinkled skin laying so close to mine on the silk sheets.
So what is your name, I ask her and she tells me it’s Ruth, Ruth La Fleure. And then she gets close to me and whispers something in my ear, making me gasp in anticipation.
I’m not really sure how we got to this place (I mean now, not here), how I left wherever we were (and also what the hell happened to Elena, who looked pretty pissed off last time I saw her).
Ruth lays her head on my leg and strokes me. “Are you curious about me?” she whispers.
“Yeah” I gasp, I’m conserving energy.
“What would you like to know, sweetheart?” Her strokes become more urgent and she starts doing something with the other hand that I can’t actually describe.
“Well, erm, why were you using a false name?” I struggle to get this out, I’m sweating, and I think, panting
She sighs, and relaxes her grasp. Shit, wrong question. “Everyone has a false name, darling, at your ball. I wouldn’t have been invited if I didn’t. Don’t you have any imagination?”
I’m struggling to think, what is the right question, when there’s a crash behind me, I turn round to look (that hurts) and the door has been thrown open, literally off its hinges and standing there, the sun behind her burning a halo around her incredible naked body (except for a pair of panties), stands Elena, a pistol held in both hands, pointing at me. “How could you, darling” she rasps in her (admittedly sexy) Russian accent.
“Er, well” I stammer, I can see her finger stroke the trigger, maybe she won’t miss, but she crumples, suddenly and spectacularly to the floor, throwing her arms out in surrender. Before I can speak, Ruth hushes me and whispers “but she was nowhere nearly as good as me, was she?” I have to admit that she’s right. I can see the excitement of the kill building in her eyes, and just says “hello” before pushing me on the bed, and shagging me senseless, again.
***
I’m enjoying a post coital cigarette, I have to be very still as Ruth has balanced a mirror on my chest and is snorting what appears to be an incredible amount of something. I would have some, but I just don’t see how I can manage it.
“So, darling” she starts, wiping her nose. Strange, even that, even for her, is sexy, and I shake my head slightly. Her voice is drawn, husky, like she’s smoked too much all her life.
“So, there’s a wonderful little cafe not far from here, and I thought we could have a bite to eat tonight. They do fabulous wine.”
I just stare at her, incredulous, and she lifts her head, carefully removes the mirror and regards me with a half smile. “No?” she asks
“Well", I start, "look, you’re amazing in bed, but I couldn’t really be seen out with you.” Hmm, I’m not sure that came out exactly right. But she’s cool, she just raises her eyebrows questioningly.
I need to be more subtle. “Look at you, you’re old and wrinkled, I’m young and handsome, I would be laughed at. I’m sure you can understand that.” Better, but not quite right, I think, and Ruth lifts herself up, stretches out her arms and for a second I think she’s going to hit me but then she just starts to laugh, high and loud, she starts rubbing her breasts furiously, still laughing, then suddenly throws herself down onto my manhood and God, is that good, I feel myself start to shudder when shit, the doorbell rings.
I jump up, throw on a robe and hurry to the door. I’m not sure I recognise the man standing there, but he appears to know me as he grasps and squeezes my upper arm, and tells me “Don’t worry, John, we have your back.”
I don’t really notice his face, but his suit is amazing, I can’t resist stroking a sleeve and feel my hand almost having an unearthly experience, it’s so smooth. He seems to be a little perplexed by this, and brushes quickly past me, walking to the marble table in the centre of the room, placing his soft, black, leather case carefully on it, and turns to face me. “This building is secure, it is impossible to enter it without the highest security clearance. Not even Mossad could get in here” he states, confidently.
Shaun. Of course, Shaun Marker, our Head of Security. Great friend of mine, I think. He opens the case, and gingerly lifts out a roll of paper that he unwraps, and lays it on the table top, smoothing it out with soft fingers, and beckoning me over, at the same time with his other hand. “Look, look” he starts, “this is your apartment building”. On his paper there are lots of straight lines, and lots of colours. Yeah, ok, I can vaguely see the building, its outline at least. In the centre, one apartment is highlighted in red, flashing lights around it, big “Keep out!!” signs scrawled in a child-like hand.
“We have identified the danger area and worked it from there”, his hand brushing against the highlighted building. Great science, this. “Mr Ha
rt said, and he meant it...” (dramatic pause), “money is no object, so we bought the entire building.” He’s stopped, waiting for some reaction, none from me, and he looks vaguely disappointed, but his eyes light up as he sees Ruth wander in from the bedroom, totally naked. “Hey there” she says, smiling at Shaun, and to me “do you have another bathrobe?”
I mutter something, she gives me a huge smile and brushes up against me before leaving.
Shaun whistles. “We’ll have to check her out” he smiles, and I almost hit him, but then I decide I can’t be bothered.
Shaun coughs, and starts again. “Ground floor, we’ve installed the latest in quantum nuclear devastation probes, so that anyone who doesn’t have approved security clearance and still passes checkpoint 1 experiences radiation level 6. Of course you know what that does. If, and I have to make the point that this will be extremely rare, they get past that point, the stairs are made from hydro-glycerine malatine substitute, and any level of touch, even through ½ inch thick clothes, will cause paralysis of the legs, followed by extreme pain to the chest and head for 30 seconds, before the heart explodes. Almost impossible to detect, and no antidote.”
“Do you have any coffee?” I ask.
As I start searching the apartment for any sign of a coffee machine, Ruth wanders in (in a robe now) and hands me a perfect cup of espresso. I have underestimated her. I think Shaun is trying to catch my attention by the way he keeps coughing, and eventually, feeling a little restored, I look at him.
“This has all, already, been put in place.” He waits and I stare at him, he turns to look at Ruth who gives him this most amazing smile.
“Anyway” he coughs, catching his breath, “if, through any amazing miracle, they make it to the first floor, we have covered that with laser guided heart impact molecular steering missiles, or LIM’s for short. Have you heard of those?”
He gets no reaction, so carries on “They will destroy anyone who hasn’t been vetted and approved within one point two milliseconds of entry. They cannot fail. And then... they of course, have to take the elevator to your apartment, and they have to know the code, which is only known to four people in the world. If the code isn’t entered, or if it's entered incorrectly, or if the fingerprints or heart rate or brain scan, or shoe size, do not match to the records, then the walls of the lift move inwards suddenly, crushing the occupant to a pulp.”
He picks up a glass of water that I had not noticed, and drains it. “And that, my friend, is the security that we have installed.”
Ruth, who is standing very close to me, passes her hand inconspicuously into my robe as she says “that is some system”.
“Er, Miss?”
“La Fleure,” she answers, “Ruth La Fleure.”
“I’m so sorry, but anyone who has contact with Mr Paris, now needs to go through our vetting process. Would you, er... mind? I assume you, er... will carry on having, er... contact with, er... him?”
She gives him a huge smile and starts doing something with her hand. “Of course I don’t mind”.
He gets this almost schoolboy grin on his face, as he rushes back to his case, and pulls out what seems to be a paper thin, state of the art power tablet. It is jet black, very shiny and absolutely beautiful. His hand runs all over it and then he stands straight, looks at Ruth.
“So, Miss” he’s looking down, I’m not sure if he’s too embarrassed to look at what’s going on, or can’t take his eyes of it.
“Call me Ruth” she interrupts.
“Oh, ok, erm, Ruth, well we have to go through a number of checks.” He’s moving his hand swiftly over the tablet and holds it out to her, still not looking at her.
“First, could you please put your hand on the screen?”; “Erm, your right hand, I mean” as he glances, definitely this time, at where her left hand disappears into my robe.
Ruth actually brings her beautiful, wrinkled hand to her mouth and licks it, slowly, sensually, before drying it gently on her robe and placing it on his PT. It makes a couple of sounds, and Shaun waits, concentrating hard, till his expression relaxes and he says “Thank you. Could I please ask you to confirm your security number, and your identity number?”
She coughs, slightly. “Security number 1543779001, and my identity number is 444669-78402A”.
“Yes, ok, that’s fine. Now,” he lifts the PT up so its screen faces her, “please look straight into the screen and... yes, that’s fine, just a second.”
He notices my questioning look, “iris scan” he explains helpfully, “yes that’s fine, erm, Ruth”, and she rubs her eyes.
“Now, final test here and then we’ll have to go to the lab”. He pulls something else out of his case, I realise it’s a syringe (is this going a little far?), he preps in and motions to Ruth, who, with just a smile obligingly pulls up the sleeve of her robe and offers her arm to Shaun. He quickly takes a blood sample and she lets her sleeve fall back down, and I see a tiny droplet of red come through.
He allows a drop of blood to fall on the screen of his tablet, and I see it disappear as it’s absorbed into the machine. Again, he looks at the screen for a second and then up at Ruth. “Wow”, he says, “that’s good. Now, all we have to do is the brain MRI to check emotional response on the Kazzar scale, and you’re clear. It will only take about five mins, and we have the lab upstairs fully fitted. You don’t need to come to this bit, John, if you don’t want”, he adds, turning to me.
Sadly, Ruth removes her hand and says “yeah, relax darling, have a cup of coffee”. Darling, well that’s a step in some direction.
“Hang on though,” I say, “before you go, why did you say wow when you saw her results?” I ask Shaun.
“Erm,” he shifts uncomfortably, “I’m sorry, Mr Paris” (Mr Paris? He must be nervous), “but it’s confidential personal data I’m not allowed to share, erm...” he trails off, not looking at me
“It must be about my job, darling,” says Ruth.
“Your job?” I ask
“My job.” She smiles sweetly. “I tell you what, I’ll tell you about my job over dinner” and she winks at me. I must admit I am curious, and slightly taken by this old lady. So I sigh, dramatically and start to say "I thought you made dresses" before stopping, ashamed.
“Wonderful!” she reaches over and licks my lips. “Now, Shaun, shall we go”, offering him her arm. Shaun looks a little puzzled, and takes her arm hesitantly. As they turn, he says to me quickly “John, you see, you are completely protected here – if anyone enters this building, I’ll know after less than a second, and if they’re not authorised, they will be dead in less than five.”
The doorbell rings; we all look at each other for a second, then Shaun says “must be one of my team” and he touches his tablet; the door slides open to reveal a tall handsome man in a dark suit.
“Good morning,” he starts, “I was looking for Mr Paris."
“That’s me” I say and he walks in, and offers his hand. “My name is Stephen Carver, I’m with the Central Investigations Body. May I have a quick chat with you?”
Shaun coughs and we all turn to look at him. “Erm, how did you get in?” he’s almost stammering.
“Well, I could only find a parking space at the back of the apartment block, and then the back door was open so I came in and walked up the stairs”
I look at Shaun. “Gap in your security plans?” I ask, smiling. “Shit, the back stairs” he sounds acutely embarrassed and starts to hurry away. “We’ll do, er, your MRI later, if that’s ok, Ruth?” he asks, but doesn’t wait for a reply.
“So, Mr Carver, would you like some coffee?” asks Ruth.
***
“How can we help you, Mr Carver?” I start, helpfully.
He coughs, and replies “Detective.”
“Excuse me?”
“That’s Detective Carver, I’m a detective, not a mister.”
“Oh, sorry, how can we help you, Detective Carter?”
“Well, Mr Paris, there’s
a few things that we still need to follow up on from the, erm, strange incident from two weeks and three days ago.” He pauses, reaches down into his attaché case and pulls out a file, with paper inside it. Interesting. He coughs as he studies a sheet, running his hand down it and nodding to himself. “So, let me see. Your police report is here, it’s slightly bizarre, wouldn’t you agree?”
At least I have got changed by now, into a black Len Ashton suit, which allows me to display a little gravitas as I scratch my chin thoughtfully and sip my jet black espresso.
Detective Carver takes a sip of his whisky, and continues. “So, let me see. You claim here that you swerved to avoid a car that suddenly pulled into your lane, and that your car left the road, mounted the side reservation with sufficient force to, erm, take off, jump over the barrier, land in a field and continue for several seconds until it was stopped by a horse. The last thing you remember was seeing the horse’s startled head fly through your windscreen before you woke up in hospital. Is that correct?”
I swallow. “Yes, that’s right” I say.
“OK”. He takes another sip, then leans forward and puts his hand on my knee, looking me closely in the eye. Ruth and I exchange a glance. “The thing that we, erm, don’t quite understand, is that, when we inspected, there were no signs on the road...”
“No signs?” I interrupt. “Well, what were you expecting – it’s a motorway?”
He smiles patiently. “No, I mean, there were no marks, no evidence of a skid, nor, when we appealed for witnesses, did anyone come forward to corroborate your story.”
I wait, and so does he, gently massaging my knee. “Do you always do that?” I ask.
He looks genuinely puzzled. “What?”
“Massage people’s knees?”
“Oh, that? Yes all the time. It helps me to concentrate. Look – John, may I call you John, look John, at the end of the day it’s not a big deal, I mean no one cares right, you just killed a fucking horse, but it’s strange, you know, don’t you think? Strange, yeah.” He downs the rest of the whisky in one and shakes his glass at Ruth, with a wink. She smiles, and her leg swings up suddenly, catching the glass which flies out of his hand and smashes on the floor.
Falling Page 3
