The Acid Vanilla Series

by Matthew Hattersley

  Shitting hell.

  They’d disappeared into the last part of the carriage. Hidden by the crowds. His heart sank, but he pulled it back. They had nowhere to run. Sitting ducks to his alpha fox.

  He imagined the hero’s welcome he’d receive back at HQ. Him single-handedly saving Annihilation Pest Control from embarrassment. Caesar would love him for this. They all would.

  A single bead of sweat formed on his top lip and he wiped it away with the back of his hand. It just meant he was ready, pumped, in the zone. He was going to finish this, once and for all. The train was approaching the next station but it didn’t matter. He had them. Passengers swayed with the movement of the slowing carriage, revealing the mark a few steps in front. She gazed at Alan, a pathetic expression on her face. This was it. Alan advanced on her, holding out the umbrella like a medieval lance. He couldn’t see Acid Vanilla but no doubt she’d be further up the carriage, searching for an escape route. Saving her own skin. It didn’t matter. He’d take them one at a time.

  “Not so fast, sunshine.”

  A dark shape lunged in from below and caught Alan off guard. He felt a sharp pain in the back of his knee and his leg buckled, sending him lurching into the metal bar by the train doors. Passengers glared at him – as if it was him being the nuisance. He spun around grabbing hold of the bar to correct himself, but Acid Vanilla was on him. In a flash of leather and hair she grabbed the umbrella with one hand and applied pressure at the base of his thumb with the other.

  Shitting shit.

  Alan gnashed his teeth and tried to fight it, but it was a classic move and rendered his grip powerless. He watched in horror as Acid twisted the weapon from his grip and jammed the poison spike into his own thigh. She dodged around the back of him and twisted his arm up his back.

  “It’s done, mate,” she whispered in his ear. “It’s over.”

  Alan peered down at the spike protruding out of his leg, a numb sensation already spreading though his groin, into his feet. His muscles quivered. “I’m… going to… kill… you…” he wheezed.

  As the train pulled into the station, Acid lowered him into an empty seat at the end of the carriage. “No. You aren’t, are you?” she sneered.

  Alan’s guts churned as his whole body went into shock. He tried to scream but no sound came. Tried to move but he couldn’t. It was reminiscent of those times when he’d fall asleep on his arm and wake up with it feeling dead, not his own. Only now it was his whole body. And it was dying for real. His head was numb. His vision was cloudy, a fog of grey seeping in from the sides. Where were the bright lights? The chorus of angels?

  “Don’t worry,” he heard Acid purr in his ear. “I’ll tell Caesar you gave it your all.”

  Then, with a lurch, the train stopped, at the same moment Alan’s heart did the same. The last thing he saw was Acid Vanilla helping the mark up from the floor. Then the train doors opened, Acid shot him a final look, winked impishly, and they were gone.

  Twenty-Eight

  Acid raced up the steps and out of the Odéon Metro station with Spook following close behind. They hadn’t travelled far – one stop, in fact – and it didn’t bode well for their escape.

  “That was crazy,” Spook gasped, catching up with Acid at the top of the steps. “It all happened so fast. You were amazing.”

  “Yeah, well, I do this for a living, darling.” She looked about her. “Okay, change of plan. This area is going to be swarming with police as soon as they find Hargreaves. I reckon our best move now is to walk to the Sorbonne and jump on a Metro there.”

  It wasn’t the best plan, but it’d do. Out west would be far enough away from danger that they could lie low until their flight. It would give Acid time to rest and consider her next move.

  They got to the Sorbonne with no issue and rode the line to the last station: Pont de Saint-Cloud. After a quick assessment of the locality, they happened upon a small hotel a few hundred metres from the Metro, imaginatively named The Hotel Saint-Cloud. Acid gave it a quick once over – taking in the old sign covered in mould and bird shit, the warped and rusty Juliet balconies, the paintwork not tended to in years. It was a real dump, but it was also innocuous. The sort of place you’d walk straight past even if you were looking. Perfect for their current requirements.

  The two women approached the entrance in silence. Acid noticed Spook seemed thoughtful now. The giddiness of the last few hours had faded and had been replaced with something darker. That was a good sign. It meant she was grasping the enormity of her situation.

  The interior of the hotel was no better than the outside. After creaking open the main door, Acid and Spook found themselves at one end of a long narrow space with a metal lift to their right and a small reception area at the far end that consisted of a counter window and, beyond that, a larger room. Acid detected a faint smell of cabbage as they walked the length of the dingy room, flanked on both sides by racks of information leaflets advertising bus tours, museums, places of interest. The reception area was empty, so Acid leaned on the counter and put her head around the window. The room was a real mess, with worn orange carpets and two battered filing cabinets along the wall. An ancient, tobacco-yellow computer sat on a desk below the reception window and on the wall opposite a framed print of Monet’s Water Lilies was even more washed out than usual. But no sign of any life. Acid leaned back and dinged the brass bell on the side of the counter.

  “Will we be safe here?” Spook whispered. “Why don’t we go straight to the airport?”

  Acid didn’t answer. Mainly because she didn’t know what to say. At times of heightened stress the bats took over. So far she’d put on a good show, but now she felt herself unravelling. Maybe that was fair enough – it wasn’t every week you killed two of your colleagues and got a price put on your head by your boss. Well, ex-boss. Though he was more than that. He was her mentor. Her friend. Hell, Acid might have once used the term father figure. Not anymore. Caesar was good to those who worked for him, but he was also a vicious and vindictive man. Killing two of his operatives was bad enough, but helping a mark to escape, defying his orders – he’d take that as a personal insult. He’d want blood. He’d want her head on a spike.

  “Where the hell are the staff?” Acid banged her palm on the bell a few more times, then turned back to Spook. “Airports are too busy,” she told her. “I can’t relax in crowds. We’ll be safe here until it’s time to go.”

  “But I thought—”

  “Well don’t, all right?” Acid went for it again on the bell. “Let me do the thinking.”

  “Yes, okay, I am here.” A woman appeared on the other side of the counter. A small, wiry woman with thinning, hennaed hair that gave her a look of late-period Paul McCartney. She didn’t smile when she asked, “Can I help you?”

  “We’d like a room,” Acid said. “Merci.”

  “Just the one?” The woman curled her mouth and a row of tiny wrinkles formed on her top lip. A smoker. “For the two?”

  Acid beamed. “Yes, that’s fine.” The woman’s eyes drifted to the hole in Acid’s leather jacket, the dried blood on the sleeve. “It’s supposed to be like that,” Acid told her. “You know, fashion.”

  The woman held her gaze. Then she sighed dramatically and shuffled over to the computer, tapping in a few details. “We only have a double room, no twin.”

  “Yes. We’ll take that,” Acid said. “A double is fine.”

  The woman looked down her nose at them. “Mais un seul lit! Umm… one bed?”

  Acid pouted. “One bed is perfect, isn’t it, darling?” She sensed Spook bristle next to her. “We are in Paris, after all. The city of love.”

  The comment received a loud sniff from the other side of the counter. The woman typed something into the computer and handed Acid a key without looking at her. “Breakfast is served from seven until nine.”

  “Thank you. We’ll try and make it.” Acid winked at the woman. “If we’re not too exhausted from all the sex.” It helped,
being like this, playing another role. It was only ever a temporary fix but it worked, escaping her problems inside her own twisted psychology. She put her arm around Spook. “Come on, sweetie. Let’s get you upstairs.”

  They rode the rickety old elevator up to the third floor in silence and Acid yanked open the stiff metal concertina doors. Still in silence they zig-zagged down four short corridors until they reached their room, 11.

  “Here we go,” Acid said, handing Spook the key. “Inside, quick.”

  Spook unlocked the door and went in. Acid gave the corridor a once over and then entered herself. She shut the door and locked it.

  “Geez. It’s freezing in here,” Spook whined, pulling her coat around her.

  Despite the season, someone had left the window all the way open. A flimsy net curtain flapped in the breeze, revealing the hint of a view and the rusting frame of a Juliet balcony on the other side.

  Spook walked over and looked out the window. “Oh, real nice.”

  “What’s wrong?” Acid asked, checking the wardrobe, checking under the bed.

  “The view,” Spook told her. “I hope you like air-conditioning units and garbage bags.”

  Acid joined her and they both paused a moment to take in the run-down building a few metres away. In the alley below, a small cat snaked its way around piles of food waste that had spilled out of two industrial bins. It was safe to say this wasn’t the nicest hotel in Paris. But then, they weren’t on holiday.

  “Wait a minute,” Spook said, spinning around. “Where’s the bathroom?”

  “There isn’t one,” Acid told her. “I saw a communal one down the hall.”

  “A communal bathroom? Gross.” Spook lowered the window to within an inch closed and moved over to the bed. “Where the hell have you brought me?”

  “Calm it down, I can still change my mind about you.” She watched as the cat pulled at something white sticking out of one of the bins. “Anyway, we aren’t staying long.”

  “Woah, there’s a bunch of posts on Twitter about Whitman,” Spook cried, from inside the room. “Consensus is, he did it. He killed Paula Silva and Cerberix are covering it up. Nice. That’s got to work in my favour, right?”

  Acid didn’t reply. She watched the cat as it struggled to remove whatever it had found.

  Spook kept on, her voice rising excitedly. “He might have to put out a statement at this rate. What do you think?”

  With one violent tug, the cat released its prize, which turned out to be the curled-up handle of a white bag. It came flying out and split open on the floor of the alley. The cat ran off as a pile of shitty nappies spilled out. Story of my life, Acid thought, turning back to the room and registering what her companion had just said.

  “What the hell are you playing at?”

  Spook was lying on the bed with an iPod Touch resting on her chest, the screen illuminating her face as her eyes darted about the screen.

  She looked at Acid. “Huh?”

  Acid was on her in a second, snatching the device from her hands. “Why didn’t you tell me you had this?” Spook opened her mouth a few times, trying to form words. She looked confused. “Are you stupid?”

  Spook blinked. “It doesn’t have a SIM card,” she said. “I leapfrogged onto the Wi-Fi from some café down the street.”

  Acid closed her eyes. “Doesn’t matter. They can still track us. Triangulation? Wi-Fi hotspots? Ring any bells? I thought you were supposed to be a genius.”

  Spook stared into her now empty hands. “I wasn’t thinking,” she mumbled.

  “Right, well say goodbye to it.” Acid smashed the iPod against the corner of the windowsill, breaking it up enough to remove the battery components.

  “I’m sorry,” Spook offered.

  Acid didn’t look at her. “Stay here,” she growled. “I’ll be back soon.”

  Spook sat up on the bed. “Where are you going?”

  “I need to get rid of the battery. Plus I need a dressing for my shoulder.” She looked around the room. “Maybe a towel and some soap.”

  “Eugh. You’re going to use the communal bathroom?”

  “I’ve been in worse places. I’ll be about an hour. Lock the door behind me and keep it closed. Do not open it to anyone but me.” She craned her head to make eye contact, make sure Spook was listening. “Do you understand? No one but me.”

  “Yes. I’ll be fine.”

  Acid considered Spook, marvelling at the girl’s naïvety. But maybe it was her own that worried her. She couldn’t blame Spook too much. It was her who’d fallen for the sob story. Who’d let her heart rule her head. She grimaced at the thought. She was losing the plot. It wasn’t even lunchtime and she’d burnt every bridge available to her.

  She flipped her sunglasses on and swung the room key into her palm. It was pointless worrying about it now. The die was cast. All she could do was keep on her guard and try and stay alive. One day at a time. She gave Spook a final nod. Then she let herself out the room and locked the door behind her.

  Twenty-Nine

  Beowulf Caesar pressed a fat, heavily jewelled finger down on the intercom button. “Ethel? Doris? Can you come back in?” He walked over to the window and rolled his neck around on his shoulders. He hadn’t slept since yesterday, but he was too angry to feel tired. Every sinew in his body was taut. Every muscle tense with rage. How could she do this to him? After everything he’d done for her.

  “What’s going on? Tell me,” he barked, as the old women shuffled into the room. “Have we heard from Hargreaves?”

  Doris drew a bony finger across her throat.

  “What? Dead?” Caesar slammed his fist onto the desk. “And it was Acid?”

  The sisters nodded.

  “Maybe now you’ll see sense,” Ethel wheezed, in a rare vocal moment. “You know we never saw eye to eye with that one. She was far too impetuous, too full of herself. I always said you let her get away with murder.” She laughed. A husky spluttering laughter that made her entire body sound hollow. “I’m not telling you anything you don’t already know. She’s been a liability for far too long. Yes, it’s true, we don’t like her, but I’ll be the first to admit she was good at what she did. The best, even. But something’s changed in her, and she needs to be put down. Eradicated. Before she does any more damage to our reputation.”

  Caesar sat. He didn’t want to admit it, but Ethel was right. Acid Vanilla had run out of last chances. Going off script like this wasn’t only career suicide.

  “I don’t understand what the bleeding shit she thought she was doing. What was she hoping to achieve?” He swivelled the chair around until he faced the window. “You know, I’ve had Kent bastard Clarkson on the phone again this morning. He’s an annoying prick, but he’s got a right to be angry, don’t you think? We’ve messed up royally and we’re still bloody doing it. He wants the recording in his hand, he says. Can’t understand why he hasn’t got it.”

  “What have you told him?” Ethel asked.

  “What do you think I bloody well told him?” He spun back around to face them. “I fed him the party line as before. ‘It’s all taken care of. Not to worry.’ But I can’t keep that up forever, can I? He hired us because he wanted this doing quickly and efficiently. With no fuss. And what does he get? The fucking mark still in the wind. Protected by our top operative. Jesus bleeding Christ. And now you’re telling me she’s killed Barabbas Stamp and Alan Hargreaves? Are we certain?”

  Ethel nudged Doris, who pulled a photo from her handbag and slid it across the desk at Caesar. He snatched it up and squinted at it. With today’s technology it annoyed him how blurred and useless most CCTV captures were. Raaz had once explained that the reason the quality was so bad was due to storage capacity and financial costs. Wasn’t it always? In the end everything came down to money. The image was clear enough, however, to make out the prone form of Alan Hargreaves.

  “Useless prick.” Caesar pulled at his bottom lip. This was too much. He was losing face and that woul
d not do. Acid Vanilla might have been someone he valued, even liked, once upon a time. But this wasn’t a fairy tale. Ethel was right. She had changed. She’d belittled him and everything he’d built, and he needed to send a message. Not only to her, but to the whole organisation. To the world.

  He thumbed the intercom button. “Raaz? Get me Banjo Shawshank on the line. I need to speak to him. Now.”

  Thirty

  “Are you sure this is a good idea?” Spook asked, sniffing the contents of the plastic cup and pulling a face. “Don’t we need to stay on guard?”

  “Yeah, well, I need a drink as well. So, cheers.” Acid raised the plastic cup, sloshing the green liquid over the side.

  Spook sat on the edge of the bed with the cup in her lap. “Fine, I guess. Cheers.” She took a long drink and looked out the window, trying to hold back the inevitable.

  “Aw shit, no. Don’t do that.” Acid sighed. “It’s going to be okay.”

  Spook wiped at her eyes. “How the hell do you know? You’re going to abandon me the minute we get back to London. What then?”

  “You get a one-way ticket to somewhere far away. Start a new life. It is possible.”

  “Great. Thanks. What a help.”

  Acid sat upright on the bed and crossed her legs. “Listen, I need you to do something,” she told her. “I found a payphone while I was out and rang Tariq, my forger, about getting new aliases. Passports. It’ll take him a few days, so if I give you a secure email address, is there a way we can upload what he needs without giving away our location?”

  Spook sniffed. “I can leapfrog onto the café’s Wi-Fi from my laptop. Set up a Tor – an anonymous network. No one could trace us in the time it takes to upload a few photos. Even if they could, they’d get a false reading.”

  “Wonderful. Can you set that up, like now?”

  “No problem.”

  Spook went to her rucksack and pulled out her laptop. It took her less than fifteen minutes to set up the Tor. Then another five to upload the photos – using the ones she’d already found of Acid, and one of herself. She created a secure email account and uploaded the files to the address Acid gave her. Then she deleted all evidence of the mailbox and the network. It took her about thirty minutes and neither of them spoke the whole time.