“Careful lover boy, you agree a pub date and five seconds later we’re moving in together?”
“Why not?” he smiled up at her. “I’m house broken, and a fabulous cook.”
“I’m sure you do,” Lucie conceded through her spreading grin, “but I have a job to do.”
“A job you hate,” corrected Ismail, “a job killing people…”
“Don’t,” she warned, “just don’t.”
Lucie had spent so many days since Lake had pulled her into this life doubting and even hating herself as she clawed around her soul for some kind of motivation to do the work she did. She had told herself that she wasn’t a murderer, that she only killed as a last resort, but in her darker moments she knew that there had been lives she had enjoyed taking – perhaps even wanted to take. She had been born with a ferocious temper that her dad had always put down to the ‘crazy arse Czech blood’ she inherited from her mother. When depression took vicious hold of her mind her temper could grow to levels she couldn’t control, and she would be lying if she claimed never to have killed while under its influence. Even her short tenure in this business had brought her into contact with true evil and true evil doers, and many were the nights she had asked herself if it was really a sin to send such evil from this world to the next? She knew of course that it was, and for every shot she had fired, she had spent hours wearing her knees to the bone in penitence. Her work was dirty, and she knew it. But hearing the man in her arms declare it so placed a knife upon her heart, and she had no desire for him to push it in.
Ismail looked wordlessly up at her. There was no judgement in his face and no condemnation, just an honest and loving concern for the soul behind the eyes he looked into. He squeezed her hand tighter, stroking her rapidly cooling flesh with his thumb.
“We’ve all done things we’re not proud of,” he said. “Sometimes we just need someone to tell us to stop.”
“I don’t know if I can,” she answered. “I don’t know if I want to.”
“Well I’m not surviving unless you promise to.”
Lucie returned his gaze and wondered if he could see the tears she could feel building in her eyes. His broken body was growing colder and his voice weaker, and Lucie wondered whether his was a promise that could be kept, but if her acquiescence gave him even the slightest boost it was worth it. And in any case, it would have been another lie to say that the shared dream their words had built did have a hold on her heart at least as strong as did her employment.
She leant forward and pressed her lips against his, ignoring the turmoil in her mind and the blood, sweat and tears on their bodies.
“Ok,” she softly said. “I promise.”
“You promise?” he echoed, his voice already stronger. “You and me?”
“Why not? We could give it a go. Back to the cops for you…”
“And back to the…”
“If you even think about saying ‘back to the kitchen’ I’ll finish you off myself.”
“Point taken. Back to chef ’s whites and blues for you. Mosque on Fridays and church on Sundays, unless you’re working.”
“I never miss church,” answered Lucie, ignoring the tear that had fallen from her cheek onto his. He tightened his grip on her hand as tears of his own began to fill his eyes and trickle down the side of his head to mix with the blood.
“I think you might be missing it this week.”
“We’re not dead yet.”
Goosebumps covered Ismail’s skin, and Lucie slipped off her treasured overcoat and covered him with it, sitting back alongside him and letting him lean closer into her. She may not be able to save him but she would offer what comfort she could now, for as long as she was needed.
“Lucie?” His voice sounded from her lap.
“Asif?” She replied.
“Now that we’re about to embark on a whole new life together, I feel I can finally tell you something that’s been bothering me for a while.”
“Yeah? What’s that?”
“I really need a piss.”
Their laughter warmed them as they huddled tightly together in a protective embrace, waiting for whatever would come next. Lucie knew that any window for escape would be brief and that she must be prepared for it, but right now this man needed her, and she was content in that moment to be needed. Her kind started to drift before being dragged back into the real world by the slam of a metal door and shouts of their captors.
Blinking away her blurred vision, Lucie jumped to her feet and threw a punch at the man coming for her as she tried to force her way through to Ismail, who was being dragged through the door by another figure. Her distraction was her downfall, as the felled attacker, the thin Liverpudlian she had earlier confronted, rose back up and thrust a rag hard into her face, while another pulled her arms behind her. The aroma was sweet and overpowering, like strong vodka mixed with sugar, and made Lucie sick to her stomach, her sinuses filling instantly and her senses failing. Still the man held the rag in place, not allowing any chance for her to recover her mind and fight back, but Lucie cared only about the stricken Ismail.
The last image she saw as her sight gave up and plunged her back into night, was of her partner and friend hauled down the corridor outside, a mocking thug on either side.
“Don’t worry about him pet, worry about yourself,” came the cruel voice, fading in her ears. “It’s time for you to make a covenant.”
TWENTY-TWO
The angered cry that shot through Lucie’s ears as she awoke came from her own throat, and she threw herself upright, forcing her eyes open and air into her lungs as she waited the tortuous eternity for her senses to return. The movement exacerbated the dizziness she felt and the more her surroundings came into focus, the greater the pain in her head pounded and throbbed. Her forehead felt clammy and cold, and goosebumps had broken out all over her body.
Keeping still enough for the pain to subside, she examined her surroundings, expecting to have found herself almost anywhere except where she appeared to be. Around her were the walls of what looked like a sparsely decorated but otherwise average looking bedroom, containing a wardrobe, bedside table and a window with blandly coloured curtains drawn. Lucie was lying in a relatively comfortable double bed, made with white cotton sheets and a duvet devoid of pattern or colour, and as she risked the protestations of her aching head by inching herself upwards, she looked down to see she was dressed in only a plain, short nightdress.
Her anger at the violation rose in an instant, fuelling and re-energising her enough to overcome the debilitating pain in her skull and rise from the bed. Although ready and quite willing to rampage through wherever she was until she found those responsible, she knew that the reality of her situation demanded she retain her focus, and she had no intention whatsoever of giving her captors the satisfaction of witnessing an emotional response. Of her own clothes there was no sign, but fresh underwear and a business suit were hanging from the handle of the wardrobe. Ignoring them for the moment, the sound of traffic led Lucie to the window and pulling back the curtains she peered out onto the street, frowning in incredulity at what she saw.
She, and the building she stood in, were inside what seemed like an enormous warehouse structure, upon the walls of which the image of a dawn sky was projected, complete with a rising sun in the distance and accompanied by the chirp of early morning birdsong. The traffic she heard was in reality a single car, its hollowed out chassis attached to a pole, inside which sat a battered wax mannequin, ‘driving’ around a track on a makeshift street, encircling a row of ‘shops’ flimsily constructed from what looked like plywood, like some ghoulish merry-go-round.
“What the…?”
Ignoring the pain in her head and shaking free from dizziness, Lucie ran from the room, passed the immaculately laid out living room, kitchen and bathroom, down the stairs and outside onto the ‘street’, the noise of everyday life continuing to build, mimicking the sounds of any awakening city she had lived in. Everywhere
she looked, worn out and clumsily painted mannequins, dressed in a multitude of attires, stared back at her through soulless plastic eyes, as though voicelessly willing her to join them in damnation. There had to be a way out of here, Lucie thought, resisting the stares of her morbid company and setting off barefoot around the bizarre town, her eyes analysing every nook and cranny as she ran towards its perimeter. As she passed the final building, the warehouse shutters beyond it in sight, an ear-splitting alarm screeched in hysterical objection, the spy crashing to her knees, her hands pressed so tightly to her still throbbing head that it thumped all the more angrily in protest.
The sound grew louder as she attempted to inch herself forward, until she could move no more, a stentorian voice booming the words ‘NO EXIT’ from somewhere high above. Lucie dragged herself back towards the plywood prison, crossing back over the perimeter and leaning against a fake wall as she breathed deeply and relished the sudden silence as the screech finally died and the agonising pulsing in her head began to subside.
Slowly recovering, she looked back at the exit she had run towards, which stood mirage-like, shrouded by the projection of rolling fields and a burgeoning sunlit day. Tempted for a moment to ponder why someone would go to the lengths of constructing such a set-up, or indeed populate it with what seemed like ancient wax figures, Lucie concentrated on finding a way out. Shifting her gaze upwards, she spotted the projector from which spewed the breaking day at three hundred and sixty degrees, fixed to a ceiling about thirty feet from floor level, too high for her to reach, even if she climbed atop one of the odd ‘buildings’. Likewise, an array of cameras and speakers were peppered throughout the complex, seemingly to capture her movements and speak to her wherever she might go. She expected that her ‘flat’ such as it was would be filled with the same, and while she could at least try to take care of some of them, she reasoned that like the projector, it was unlikely she could reach them all. The pain in her head was lessening, and a rumbling in her previously nauseous stomach gradually replaced it.
Rising to her feet, she re-traced her steps back towards her apartment, her bare feet slapping against the concrete ground as she properly examined each of the store fronts on this nightmarish street for the first time. A bar, a general store, and alongside that, a deli, through the window of which Lucie saw a motionless vendor alongside what looked like fresh ingredients.
Stepping through the door, Lucie examined further and found trays of freshly baked loaves and rolls stacked across from a counter resplendent with fresh meats, vegetables and condiments that set her mouth watering instantly, though no knives or utensils were anywhere to be seen. Reaching for a warm baguette, Lucie pulled it unevenly apart with her fingers and began filling it with items from the display, creating an overly large sandwich. A small warning had triggered in her mind, guarding against eating something which for all she knew may have been coated with poison or something equally harmful, but she quickly dispelled her concerns, reasoning that it would be illogical for anyone building such an elaborate prison to finish her off in such a way. Besides which, if she were to attempt escape, she would need her energy, and had no way to be sure when she would next be able to eat. Content in her decision, Lucie raised the sandwich to her mouth and took a bite.
“Only the first meal is free,” a quiet but threatening voice suddenly sounded through a speaker grill on the counter. “After that, all items must be paid for.”
“That’s fine,” Lucie voiced back, her eyes fixing on the speaker as she chewed her food, “I don’t intend to stay.”
⌖
“If you’d care to make your way to the edge of our little town, we can discuss things in person, though do please be careful not to cross it this time.”
Placing her hastily prepared meal on the counter, Lucie stepped out of the shop and walked slowly back towards the fence, the chill of the cold, concrete warehouse breaking through her thin nightdress to frostily caress her skin. She remembered that clothes had been laid out for her, but there was no way she would appease her wardens by wearing them. Scanning the street, she spotted a mannequin stood alongside a row of traffic cones, dressed in dark blue overalls, hard hat and yellow hi-vis jacket, and she crossed over to him. Likewise determined not to allow the men behind the cameras watching her the satisfaction of seeing any embarrassment, she slipped off the nightdress and deprived the mannequin of its overalls, which though somewhat rough were at least a more dignified attire. The yellow vest she left discarded on the floor.
She reached the perimeter and stood waiting, her eyes searching for what she was sure must be motion detectors of some kind to capture any movement out of the zone. The shutters, over which the projection of green fields and blue skies now danced, were about fifteen to twenty metres away from where Lucie stood, no distance at all were it not for the instantly crippling noise…
The shutter began to creak open and Lucie parked her contemplations, strangely relishing the impending confrontation.
“Good of you to show your face, Whyte…,” she began, her voice tailing off as she realised her error, the shutters raising to reveal her captor’s triumphant smirk.
“Butcher?” Lucie quizzed in surprise and contempt.
“That’s ‘Mr Butcher’ if you please, Ms Musilova,” the Cabinet Minister corrected. “The Right Honourable Mr Butcher, if we’re being formal.”
“I’d never thought there was anything particularly honourable about you, Butcher,” Lucie retorted, “but I confess I didn’t have you down as the kind of man who’d keep women locked up in some kind of pervert’s playpen.”
“Playpen,” Butcher smiled almost nonchalantly, his face glowing with warped pride as he surveyed his creation, “yes, that’s not bad. ‘Pervert’ is a matter of opinion but, ‘playpen’ isn’t bad, although it’s really more of a ‘play street’. And there are no locks on any of the doors within it, you can walk in and out of any one of the buildings.”
“Just not out there,” she replied, gesturing to the door he stood in.
“No,” Butcher laughed, his tone condescending and superior. “That would present us with one or two problems.”
“Well be sure that I have every intention of presenting you with more problems than you know what to do with”.
“No doubt you do,” he quietly intoned. “But unless you make the covenant within the next couple of days, the only problem I’ll have is where to dispose of your body.”
“Covenant?” Lucie snapped, “What covenant would I want to make with you?”
“What you want has very little to do with it,” Butcher replied, his chest puffed out like some immaculately attired peacock. “Besides, I’ve grown utterly sick of it.” The sneering mockery had disappeared from the politician’s face, replaced instead by a cold and almost softly spoken malevolence. Lucie had heard such tones before in others, both in the Afghan desert and in the bars and tea rooms of Parliament, where the more extreme Members could voice their true opinions free from the glare of cameras and the scrutiny of the public.
“Sick of what, exactly?”
“Sick of what other people want,” Butcher spat, “or more specifically you people.”
Lucie balked at the expression and allowed her disgust to show on her face.
“You mean women? Or foreigners?”
“Both, actually,” came the reply. “As if listening to women bleating on about ‘equality’ wasn’t bad enough, we flung open the borders and before we knew where we were, we were up to our bollocks in nig-nogs and wops, all demanding the right to live next door to decent people and insisting on ‘representation’ - whatever the fuck they mean by that. In my grandparents’ day women and foreigners knew their place.”
“So that’s what this is all about?” Lucie quizzed, “Nostalgia? You kidnap and murder women because you’ve got a boner for the days when a man could come home to his tea on the table and put his feet up in front of The Black & White Minstrel Show? Do me a favour…”
“
Why?” he spat back, aggression in his voice. “No woman has ever done one for me.”
“Oh, boo-hoo,” she retorted. “No hairdresser has ever got my style just right, but I don’t round them up and keep them in a B-Movie horror set.”
“If you had power over them you might,” he quietly countered. “I waited a long time to have power enough to punish one woman, but that wouldn’t do when there’s so many others out there who need bringing to heel.”
“Ah…” Lucie voiced in perverse satisfaction. “We’ve got above ourselves, and so here comes Adam Butcher to put us back on the leash again.”
“Someone has to,” he coldly replied. “God knows the government won’t, at least not with its current leader. But as soon as I’m sitting in Downing Street and the country is out of Europe, we can start to unpick all those restrictive ‘employment rights’ Remoaners get so worked up about. You’d be surprised what people will agree to when food and medicine are scarce and they’ve children to care for.”
Lucie could feel the bile rise in her throat, as she took in the words of the preening monster before her.
“Bastard! Rather than fight poverty, you’d use the threat of dropping people into it to strip away rights they bled and died for?”
“The wrong people, Ms Musilova,” Butcher replied, the smirk once more embellished with malevolent amusement. “You’re the wrong person too. An MP’s aide who solves crimes, an ex-priest with a gun? Well don’t entertain any idea about your friends in MI5 coming to save you, I’ve got that little outfit sewn up…”
“I’m not with MI5,” Lucie corrected, relishing the flicker of uncertainty across his features. “There’s too much to do over at Cross Boundary Affairs.”
Butcher squinted, the perpetual smirk twitching upon his permatanned face as the Overlappers official designation slowly registered with him.
“You?” he scoffed. “A fucking Overlapper? Bloody hell, I’d forgotten that shower still existed!”
Butcher’s chuckle grew into a cacophony of unstable laughter
Sealed With A Death Page 16
