by Lee Stone
‘Does he know?’
She hit Lockhart on the shoulder the same way she’d hit Elm.
‘He’s a nice guy,’ Lockhart said earnestly.
Marie’s exasperation dissolved as quickly as the previous night's storm, and her smile lit up the car like the morning sun breaking through the clouds.
‘Thank you.’
By the time the doors opened, Marie was done with the conversation. They’d never really been more than friends, but there had been a time when it might have felt awkward breaking the news to him. Once Trista had arrived on the scene, Marie knew the boat had sailed. She was a nice girl too. Nice enough that it had been impossible for Marie to resent her. So she and Lockhart became mates. Musketeers. Ruthless and determined reporters who would get to the truth, change the world, no matter the cost. For a few indulgent seconds she allowed herself to imagine what might have been.
They ordered lunch. Lockhart complained about the lack of risotto, and then the lack of lobster, and Marie laughed, just like the old days. She wondered whether Elm made her laugh enough, and she decided that he did. He was a work in progress, she decided. They spent an hour talking about Glinka, and the newspaper, and Lockhart even told her about his journey. The escape through Spain. The trip across the Middle East. The journey through Pakistan and into Afghanistan.
‘Will you head home now?’ she asked.
Lockhart shook his head.
‘Because?’
‘They’re still looking for me,’ Lockhart told her. ‘I can’t take them back to Tris.’
Marie frowned.
‘The Ukrainians? Even now?’
Lockhart nodded, straightening his cutlery and pushing his plate to one side.
‘And the Times can’t help you?’
He shot her a glance, his eyes clear and alert.
‘They killed Mykola with Plutonium two-ten,’ Lockhart said. ‘There’s nothing a newspaper can do to protect you against that. If they find me, I’m dead.’
‘Where will you go?’
‘I’ll just keep moving on.’
‘Like the littlest hobo?’
Lockhart smiled. Marie Sanders got it. They’d worked the trenches together, and that had earned her the right to be a wiseass.
‘Like the littlest hobo,’ he agreed.
She took a breath, and Lockhart said, ‘For the love of God, don’t sing it.’
She didn’t, and after a moment the smiles faded and she looked serious again.
‘What about Trista?’
‘She’s gone,’ Lockhart said simply. He ran a hand through his hair until it reached the back of his neck, which he rubbed. ‘She went into a witness protection program ten days after I left. I can’t reach her, she can’t reach me.’
Marie’s hand moved to her mouth.
‘Oh God. There must be a way to find her though?’
He took a breath and straightened up.
‘Even if there was,’ he said, ‘I couldn’t take the risk. Wherever she is, she’s safe right now. If I found her, I’d be bringing trouble to her door. I couldn’t do it.’
‘You think she’s the kind of girl to settle for a safe life?’ Marie asked him. ‘Once a girl meets the man of her dreams, living without him is a nightmare.’
Lockhart smiled.
‘A year back in New York and you’ve turned into Carrie Bradshaw?’
‘I’m serious, Charlie,’ Marie said, and she held his gaze until finally he looked away, out of the huge windows and across the New York skyline. ‘Trista isn’t going to just move on.’
‘I guess not.’
‘She’ll wait for you,’ Marie said. She paused before adding softly, ‘I’d wait for you, if it was me.’
‘That’s the worst of it,’ Lockhart said. ‘What if she is waiting? Living half a life?’
A pretty waitress swept past their table and then doubled back, turning like a ballerina and sliding the plates from their table. When she was gone, Marie asked, ‘Would you rather she found someone else?’
Lockhart’s attention came back from the window.
‘You know the answer to that.’
Marie leaned forward across the table, imploring him.
‘So you have to go back, right?’
Lockhart said nothing. There was no right answer. That was the torture of it. No matter how far he traveled and no matter what he did to pass the days, it all came back to Trista and the miles between her and him.
Marie watched him for a moment. He was the same reporter she had known in London. Months on the road had made him tougher, more resilient. And yet he looked more human than ever now. And more alone. Glinka had told her about Siberia. About the danger. About how Lockhart had put himself in harm’s way. But now she saw it wasn’t Glinka he had wanted to save. Glinka had been a distraction. So had the girl with the suitcase. Two more reasons not to go home.
‘Are you going to write this story up for me?’ she said eventually, changing the subject. ‘Can I still pay you through the Times?’
Lockhart thought about it.
‘It’s Glinka’s story,’ he said eventually. ‘Let Glinka write it.’
‘You’d write it better.’
‘I wasn’t kidnapped.’
Marie kicked back and conceded that Lockhart’s point.
‘You’re still working though?’
‘Sure. Regular hack. As long as I’ve moved on by the time the piece is published, I’m happy enough.’
‘Well,’ Marie said. ‘Any time you want to write for me, Charlie…’
‘Thank you.’
‘You sticking around a few days?’
‘No.’
Marie had known the answer before she asked the question.
‘You got a plan?’ she asked. ‘La Guardia’s under water, apparently.’
‘I’ll take a bus.’ Lockhart said.
‘To where?’
He thought about it. Nothing pulled at him. There was no plan.
‘Somewhere you don’t know,’ he said. ‘Just in case anyone comes asking.’
Marie understood. She told him to come back, anytime. Told him she had space in the newsroom for him, and a spare bed at home. That she’d never ask questions. That she only wanted to help. But she didn’t really think she’d see him again.
‘I’d better get back,’ she said eventually. ‘There’s no more storm. I need to find some news.’
‘Glinka want’s the front page,’ Lockhart said. ‘That’s why he went Hunter S. Thompson on you.’
‘Everyone wants the front page,’ Marie said. ‘I’ll see how Glinka writes it up.’
She stood and instinctively Lockhart did the same. Then she stepped forward and wrapped her arms around him, gathering him up in a sisterly hug.
‘Go find Trista,’ she whispered in his ear.
Then she stepped back and took a breath and suddenly she was the brash New York editor once more.
‘Can I trust you on your own?’ she asked. ‘They count the cutlery when we’ve had strangers in the canteen.’
Lockhart looked about him.
‘I hate to break it to you but it’s not genuine silver.’
‘Yeah well,’ Marie smiled. ‘We’re not in Claridge’s now.’
For a moment she remembered London, and the Times, and Lockhart’s ability to entice her out into the rain at the drop of a hat, making an adventure of everything. Even afternoon tea. She looked him up and down, just once, for the road.
‘I’d have put you on the front page, Charlie.’
It was a compliment tinged with regret, and a statement hungry to claw its way back out of the past tense. An invitation to her most guarded and treasured place. And then she was gone. Lockhart headed over to the wall of glass, and Sunshine broke through the morning cloud. He took it as a good sign. Far below, the drying tarmac was covered with yellow cabs, hustling for trade. New York was pulsing and alive. Resilient. Lockhart spent a moment watching the view, capturing the soul of the place the w
ay old-fashioned cameras take time to commit an image to film.
Eventually he stored New York away with his other memories. The wheat harvests on the plains of Castilla y Leon. The sharp stars above the Bedouin camps in North Africa. The dust clouds rolling across the bleached white landscape in Afghanistan. The tide of eager explorers washing across the beach in Kep. They had all been waypoints on a long journey to where he was now. Far below, the commuters spilled out of the Port Authority Bus Terminal on the other side of Eighth Avenue, and he wondered how he would remember New York City. Was it just another marker on a long road to nowhere, or was it a turning point? Was it the start of a long journey home?
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Lee Stone is a thriller writer from Gloucestershire who has collaborated with James Patterson to write two Bookshots - Break Point, a fast paced thriller set at Wimbledon, and Dead Heat, set at the Rio Olympics.
More recently he's released the first four books in the Charlie Lockhart Thriller Series, which he began writing at Camp Bastion in Afghanistan while reporting for the BBC.
Lee spends his time between London, Birmingham and the Cotswolds, and is married with a young daughter
More by Lee Stone
Charlie Lockhart Thriller Series
Fearless
The Smoke Child
Helter Skelter
The Road North
Prime Target (Coming Soon)
Bookshots (with James Patterson)
Break Point
Dead Heat
