Agency O

by Tor Fleck

  Alice took a sip of brandy. ‘What about the murder? And the will?’

  ‘All made up.’

  ‘Interesting.’

  ‘I’m sorry we lied to you, Alice,’ said Paul. ‘I couldn’t go on with it.’

  ‘Does Richard know you’re telling me this?’

  ‘No,’ said Paul, ‘not yet. I just wanted to be honest with you.’

  ‘I appreciate that,’ said Alice. ‘I mean it.’

  ‘There’s more.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Over the past couple of months,’ said Paul, ‘we’ve been receiving some threats.’

  ‘What kind of threats?’

  ‘It started off just comments on our videos, threatening all sorts if we didn’t remove them. Then it was emails. And then last week we had a break in, and I was attacked.’

  ‘Oh my God!’

  ‘Just after that we got another email threatening that worse was to come.’ Paul examined Alice closely, looking for anything that might give her away.

  ‘That’s terrible,’ said Alice. ‘You must be really shaken.’

  ‘I was at first,’ said Paul. ‘But the thing is, I think I know who’s behind it.’ It was a blatant lie, but Paul wanted to see how Alice would react.

  ‘Who do you think it is?’ asked Alice, her face a mask of concern.

  ‘I’m not going to say anything until I’m sure,’ lied Paul again.

  ‘That’s so upsetting,’ said Alice. ‘Why would anyone do these things? And for what?’

  ‘Jealousy, maybe? Whatever it is, they want us to stop this project.’

  ‘Have you been to the police?’

  ‘Not yet, no.’ Paul shrugged. ‘We don’t really have what they’d consider hard evidence.’

  Alice reached out and took Paul’s hand. ‘Are you okay?’ she asked. To Paul, her voice was like honey dripping off a soft pillow.

  ‘Bearing up,’ said Paul, letting her hand rest on his. ‘It’ll be all over in a couple of days anyway.’ Again, he tried to find a flicker of deceit in Alice, but all he saw was genuine concern. If she was lying, he thought, she was good. She was very good.

  Alice slid her hand off Paul’s and smiled. ‘How about another drink?’

  Two hours, and four drinks, later they were out on the street, shoulder to shoulder for warmth. Their conversation had veered into more personal territory, and Alice had opened up about her sudden bereavement, the death of an ex-boyfriend. It felt natural for Paul to comfort her, holding and stroking her hand. Alcohol had lowered his defences quite significantly, and he was now pretty sure Alice had nothing to do with the threats. Whispers of paranoia, however, still fluttered around him.

  ‘Do you have your driver?’ he asked, buttoning up his coat. Alice shook her head and did his top button for him. Leaning in, she kissed him gently, taking him by surprise. He pulled her in close and for a moment she let him. ‘Coffee at mine?’ she asked, pulling away.

  Paul hesitated, his head reeling. ‘Are you sure that’s a good idea?’ he asked. ‘I mean, with everything that’s going on?’

  ‘I could do with some company,’ smiled Alice. Paul sensed the urgency in her and looked around for a taxi.

  He woke with a start, a door slamming somewhere distant. The bedroom was unfamiliar, the bed a little less so. He couldn’t remember much of the night before. A couple more drinks, his hands all over her body, and then nothing. What the fuck were you thinking? Like that’s going to make things less complicated. He pushed himself up and looked around the room. It was all soft palette whites and greys, with a forgiving blind over a large bay window saving his head from the glare of the morning. His clothes were strewn all over the wood-panelled floor. When the carousel in his head had stopped spinning he picked up his trousers and got dressed, shuffling from the bedroom into a wide hallway. There were three doors ahead of him. The first revealed itself as a bathroom. Inside, he splashed cold water on his face, avoiding eye contact with the hung-over idiot in the mirror. Down the hall was a second bedroom, full of boxes and clothes. The third door led into a modest open-plan living-room and kitchen. There was a pink post-it lying on the kitchen island.

  Gone to work, help yourself to coffee and breakfast.

  Alice x

  Paul let out a sigh of relief. He wasn’t sure if he’d made a mistake last night, partly because he couldn’t remember exactly what had happened. Had she manipulated him, or was it the other way round? The complexities of the situation made his head hurt.

  Alice had laid out bread and jam, a box of cereal, and some Ibuprofen. Paul poured himself a coffee from the still-steaming pot and walked with it around the room. Considering her occupation, Alice’s tastes were surprisingly modest: modernist prints, the odd coffee-table book, and a wide variety of ornaments, mainly Eastern. Wandering back through the hall, Paul peered into the small office. A desk by the window housed a pile of papers. Above it was a shelf filled with box files marked Omni – in production, Omni – post-production, etc. Paul glanced quickly back at the front door before stepping into the room. He picked one of the papers up from the desk and skimmed its contents: it was a thank-you letter from some catering company. Then he noticed another pink post-it, stuck to the desktop PC. He leaned in to try and decipher the tiny, scribbled words. Tor-izon? A noise outside the room caused him to drop the letter and head back out into the hall. A loud clattering then led him into the kitchen. ‘Good morning!’ he said cheerily, expecting to see Alice. Instead, there was just a cat, up on the work surface, licking its way through the butter. When it saw Paul, it hissed and jumped down, running past him and disappearing beneath the coffee table.

  Time to go. Paul gathered up his things and was about to head off when his phone pinged. It was a text from a private number, listing his parents’ names, with an attachment. Paul’s heart stopped. Shaking, he clicked on the jpeg. It was a photo of his parents’ house, taken from their front gate. His phone pinged again. Paul almost dropped the handset in fright. He fumbled frantically with the buttons and clicked the message. With love from Tor x

  ‘Evil bastards!’ roared Paul. He quickly dialled his parents’ number, then hung up. His father was a retired squaddie and the last thing Paul wanted was to get him riled. Years ago, George Grant had stopped a burglar from making off with their telly by fracturing his skill with a baseball bat, snapping the bat clean in two in the process. They’ve definitely picked the wrong guy to mess with, Paul reassured himself. But he needed to be sure they were both safe, especially his long-suffering mum, who’d had to put up with the best part of a lifetime of her husband’s off-the-scale shenanigans. Grabbing his coat, Paul slammed the door behind him and hurried off to the station.

  12

  Paul’s mum and dad lived out in the sticks, just beyond the city boundary. It took him the best part of an hour and three buses to get there. Approaching their bungalow, he noticed all the lights were on, as usual. He automatically searched his pocket for his key before remembering he’d lost it walking the West Highland Way a couple of years ago. He knocked on the door. No answer. He thumped on it hard. ‘Mum? Dad?’ he cried. Still no answer. Paul ducked round the side of the house to the back door. It was wide open. ‘Fuck!’ he shouted, running in.

  Apart from a potful of potatoes boiling away on the stove, the kitchen was deserted. Paul was about to check the living room when he was grabbed roughly from behind.

  ‘Boo!’ the assailant cried. Paul spun round.

  ‘Dad!’ yelled Paul. ‘What the fuck?’ George Grant stuck his hands on his jeaned hips, looking childishly pleased with himself. ‘You scared the shit out of me,’ said Paul. ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘I was oot the back,’ said George, ‘havin a quick puff.’ He leaned forward conspiratorially. ‘Don’t tell yer mithir.’

  ‘Where is mum?’

  ‘She’s havin a wee lie doon,’ said George. ‘We’re no the party animals we once were, son.’

  ‘Aye, righto,’ said Paul. ‘I’m
sure you could give most clubbers a run for their money.’

  George rubbed at his stubby, broken nose. ‘So … where’s yer washin?’

  Paul raised his eyebrows. ‘I’m thirty-two, Dad. I have a washing machine.’

  ‘Then a wee loan, maybe?’

  ‘No!’ Paul shoved his dad playfully in the chest. ’You make me sound like a scrounging bastard.’

  ‘And?’ laughed George, rolling back on the balls of his feet.

  ‘I just thought I hadn’t been over in a while, and what with all these burglaries …’

  ‘You can’t kid a bull-shitter, son,’ said George. ‘so don’t even try. Whit’s the matter?’

  A small figure in a crocheted wrap shuffled into the kitchen. ‘Who was that at the door, George?’ she asked, rubbing her eyes. The sight of her son woke her up instantly and she grinned. ‘Oh, well, well, look who it is.’ She threw her arms out. ‘Come and give your wee mammy a hug, or are you too big for all that now?’

  ‘Never too big for a hug, mum,’ said Paul, wrapping his arms around her and giving her a long, affectionate squeeze.

  ‘Paul’s got a big bag a washin for ye, Jean.’

  ‘Oh, that’s good. I was just about to put a load on.’

  ‘Dad!’ shouted Paul. ‘Don’t listen to him, Mum. I’m here to make sure you’re both okay.’

  ‘Oh aye,’ said Jean. ‘And why would we no be? Did you think we’d both popped our clogs?’

  ‘A suicide pact, Jean,’ quipped George. ‘That’s whit we agreed, remember? An you’re takin your pill first.’

  ‘Och, George!’ laughed Jean. ‘Yer father’s an awful man, Paul. Do ye no think?’

  ‘Open wide,’ said George. He grabbed his wife, pretended to shove a pill into her mouth, then kissed her on the cheek.

  ‘Hands like bloody shovels,’ said Jean, pushing him away. ‘Anyway, son, ignore him. Have you had yer tea? Yer probably starvin.’

  ‘He’s always starvin, Jean,’ said George. ‘He’s a human Hoover.’

  ‘I’m okay, mum,’ said Paul. ‘But thanks anyway.’

  Jean placed a palm on her son’s cheek. ‘Yer lookin a bit peely wally,’ she said. ‘Ye need to come back more and I’ll feed ye up.’

  ‘Don’t fuss, Mum,’ said Paul. ‘I’m fine. A cup of tea would be nice though.’

  ‘A cup of tea coming up,’ said Jean and shuffled over to the kettle. Paul went through to the living room and slumped down on the sofa. George followed him.

  ‘So whit’s aw this nonsense about break-ins?’ George asked quietly so Paul’s mother couldn’t hear.

  ‘It was in the Record,’ said Paul. ‘Apparently this area’s been targeted. You need to be careful.’

  ‘I didnae see that,’ said George. ‘When was it in the paper?’

  ‘A few days ago. And it was on Reporting Scotland.’

  George rubbed at his nose again. ‘Well, we huvnae heard anything. An the neighbours huvnae mentioned it either, an they’d use ony excuse tae come roon an drink me dry.’

  ‘You need to make sure you’re safe, Dad. You know, check your home security’s sound.’

  ‘Get you, home security. Don’t you worry about that,’ said George. ‘I’ve got all the security I need.’ He held up his fists and took a playful swing at Paul, narrowly missing his face.

  ‘Dad!’

  ‘Are ye forgettin I was the Springburn boxing champion five years on the trot?’

  ‘But you’re not now,’ said Paul with a scowl.

  ‘I also have back up,’ said George. He pushed himself off the sofa with a groan and gestured for Paul to follow him upstairs. In the bedroom, he rummaged in the wardrobe before emerging with an ominous looking long black case.

  ‘Are we going fishing?’ quipped Paul.

  George lay the case down on the bed and, with a quick squint at the door, flipped the lid. ‘Ye mess wi me, ye mess wi this cunt,’ he said, removing a twelve bore shotgun.

  ‘Jesus Christ, Dad,’ said Paul. ‘What the fuck is that?’

  ‘It’s a fully functioning antique shotgun. Gorgeous, isn’t she?’ He turned it over to inspect it.

  ‘I can see what it is,’ said Paul. ‘I meant what the fuck are you doing with it?’

  ‘I got it from an old pal. He thought I might want tae update ma ‘home security’.’

  ‘Fucking hell,’ said Paul. ‘Is it loaded?’

  ‘Of course not.’ George opened a flap in the case and removed a cartridge. ‘The shells are – ’

  ‘Don’t load it!’ yelled Paul. ‘Jesus.’

  George un-cocked the barrel.

  ‘Dad, I mean it!’ Paul repeated.

  ‘Spoilsport,’ said George, snapping the gun shut.

  ‘Put it away,’ pleaded Paul. ‘It’s making me nervous.’

  Jean shouted up from downstairs. ‘Tea’s ready!’

  George replaced the gun and returned the case to the wardrobe, covering it with an old blanket. He looked over at Paul, his expression serious for once. ‘Don’t tell yer mither.’

  Back downstairs, Jean handed Paul a plate with enough biscuits on it to induce a diabetic coma. ‘I’ve put a couple of Jaffa Cakes on there for you, son,’ she said with a wink.

  ‘Thanks, Mum. That’s plenty.’

  When Jean returned to the kitchen, Paul turned to George. ‘I’m being trolled, dad.’

  ‘Trolled?’ asked George. ‘What the fuck is that?’

  ‘I’ve been getting these texts and emails, you know, threatening messages.’

  ‘Who’s dein that?’

  ‘I don’t know. It started a few weeks ago. I wrote a film script and put it online, and somebody’s taken the hump with it.’

  ‘Ah didnae know ye’d started writin films,’ said George. ‘Christ, that’d be something, eh? Turnin up at yon Oscars.’

  The thought of his dad hassling A-listers on the red carpet made Paul smile despite himself. But this was no time for levity. He looked his dad in the eye. ‘Then Richard got attacked.’

  ‘Whit? Jesus. Is he alright?’

  ‘He was a bit shaken up,’ said Paul, ‘but basically he’s okay.’

  ‘So whit happened?’

  ‘Somebody jumped him in the street. Then we got a follow-up text. Here, I’ll show you.’ Paul got his phone out, found the text chain, and handed it over. ‘You’ve got it upside down, Dad,’ he said, turning the phone the right way round.

  ‘Och, Jesus,’ said George. ‘I canny be dein wae this shite. How dae ye - ?’ He peered at the screen.

  ‘Use your finger to move the – oh never mind, give me it.’ Paul snatched the phone back and read the texts out one by one, checking over his shoulder to make sure his mother wasn’t nearby.

  ‘Whit sick heid-the-baw wid dae this?’ asked George, unable to conceal his fury.

  ‘You can see why I came over,’ said Paul. ‘I thought you needed to know.’

  George turned his anger onto Paul. ‘Exactly whit the fuck huv ye been dein?’

  ‘I told you,’ said Paul. ‘I wrote a film script. Just a crappy thriller. A load of bollocks, really.’

  ‘An are ye gonny dae as they say an remove it?’ asked George. ‘Destroy the incriminating evidence?’ He cracked a smiled. ‘Christ, it’s like an episode o’ Line o’ Duty.’

  Paul looked a little sheepish. ‘Well, things are escalating … an I wouldn’t want you two to – ’

  ‘Stop right there,’ interrupted George. ‘There’s nae way yer dein whit they say. If this thing ye’ve written is windin folk up, then ye must be dein somethin right. Ye need tae tell them tae fuck right off, in nae uncertain terms.’

  ‘I’m worried that they might come after you,’ said Paul.

  ‘Do I look worried?’ asked George, shrugging his shoulders. ‘I fought in the fucking Falklands. These wee cowardly shites don’t frighten me.’

  ‘But what about Mum? She’d be terrified if she found out.’

  ‘She’s been living wae me fur over forty
years, son. She’s seen plenty, let me tell you. She’s harder than she puts on. I’m a pussycat compared to her when she gets goin. An whit ye huv tae understand, son …’ George’s eyes took on a steeliness Paul couldn’t recall seeing before. ‘… is that these cunts are gettin aff on scarin the shite oot o’ ye. Ye need to take charge, show them yer a fuckin Grant, an that Grants are no threatened withoot consequences. An anyway,’ he sneered, ‘I’ve got Little Nellie upstairs waitin tae unleash fuckin hell if they care tae try me.’

  ‘Whit are you two jabberin aboot?’ asked Jean, entering the room. ‘On second thoughts, don’t answer that. Whit happens in Balloch, stays in Balloch.’ She wiped her hands on a floral apron. ‘I’ve put some mince on fur ye, son,’ she said. ‘Ye’ll be stayin fur yer tea?’

  With the local bus situation, staying for tea meant staying over, and Paul hadn’t thought that far ahead. ‘I haven’t brought any clothes or a toothbrush or anything,’ he said.

  ‘Acht, ye can borrow something from yer father’s wardrobe,’ said Jean. ‘I’ll go have a wee look.’ She turned to the door.

  ‘NO!’ shouted Paul and his father in unison, causing Jean to halt. ‘It’s okay, Mum,’ said Paul, ‘I’m used to wearing clothes two days on the trot.’

  ‘You bloody students,’ said Jean, shaking her head. ‘What are you like?’

  ‘I left uni six years ago, Mum.’

  ‘Aye, righto,’ said Jean with a knowing smile. ‘I’ll just go make up yer bed.’

  ‘I can do that,’ said Paul.

  ‘I know,’ said Jean, ‘but I like looking after you. I don’t get to do it that often anymore.’ She pulled his head down to her height and kissed his forehead.

  ‘Mum,’ said Paul, pulling back.

  ‘You’re still my wee laddie,’ smiled Jean, and headed for the stairs.

  ‘An yer ma wee laddie an aw,’ grinned George, grabbing Paul’s cheek and shaking it.

  ‘Jesus!’ Paul recoiled.

  Later, returning from the off licence armed with a rattling bag of booze, Paul took a shortcut across the nearby playing fields. It was already dark, and the street lights barely lit the path that wound slowly towards the bungalow. As he drew closer, a car crawled past and stopped about four or five doors from his parents’ front gate, its engine still running. Paul tried to catch a look at the driver as he passed, but the windows were blacked out. He hurried up the garden path and banged on the door.