by D J Harrison
Bewley’s Hotel is a vast, featureless place, crowded with travellers and businessmen and as near to the terminals as I can be. I suppose I should still be cowering in my modest bedroom but a whole day and night up there watching crap telly is all I can stand. The busy sprawl of the lounge and bar area makes me feel less isolated, even if I am a bit more accessible. I’d rather take my chances here, sitting in a crowded bar, than cowering alone upstairs.
Alex keeps himself foremost in my thoughts. Should I answer his texts? Tell him where I am? Invite him to join me, explain what I’m doing and how I’m feeling? Ask him what the hell did he think I would do when I found out he’s a policeman?
The bell chimes again as my phone announces yet another text from him. I can’t keep quiet, the poor man must be worried sick. I slowly form the words, I’M FINE, TALK TOMORROW X, then press the send button.
There’s hardly a pause before the answer dings back. WHERE ARE YOU X. I feel an almost overwhelming need to tell him, then I can sit here and see if he comes to me. A very young waiter brings me another gin and tonic, distracts my line of thought. He sounds foreign, I wonder where he’s from. When I think about it, most of the staff here seem to be from Eastern Europe. Maybe this lad is from the Ukraine, maybe he knows Kat. Perhaps she’s actually serving drinks in a hotel somewhere, making a living, unmolested, not in any danger at all. I want to ask him how he got here, why he came, whether his family know where he is. But I don’t. Because his answers can’t help me at all. I know how ready I am to believe that the human cargo delivered to Trafford Trailers is destined for clean, honest work in shops, restaurants and hotels. The problem is I’ve seen things that tell me different.
‘I’m waiting for my boyfriend,’ I tell the man who sits down opposite me. Unlike two previous contestants, this one doesn’t instantly stand up and move away.
‘Then you might be better to do that somewhere a little less conspicuous, Mrs Parker.’
His voice triggers instant recognition and puts me back to the fear and hopelessness I experienced in the Ukraine. I look up and see the man for the first time. If it weren’t for the voice I would have found him only vaguely familiar. Here, out of context, he could have quietly sat next to me all evening and I doubt I would have placed him. Without that unmistakable tone of superiority and condescension I might never have realised that Charles Smith, the man who got me out of Ukraine, is now accosting me in Manchester.
‘Oh, it’s you,’ I say. The effects of the drinks in the day combine to make me worse than speechless. As I look at him I’m getting a good feeling through the surprise, as if I’m grateful he’s here.
‘On your way back to the Ukraine, I suppose?’
‘No, not at all. I’m looking for you, actually. Now I’ve found you, I rather need you to listen very carefully to what I have to say.’
Visions of being extradited and being sent back to prison over there run through my head. I tighten with panic, fear begins to grip me yet again. I swallow the rest of my drink, savouring the bitter sweetness.
‘I’d like another drink before we talk,’ I say.
‘There’s not actually any time for socialising, I’m afraid. It’s not safe here. We need to go somewhere a touch more secure.’
‘I’ve got a room. We can go there.’
Mr Smith’s face takes on a stern expression. He reaches over the table to gently touch my shoulder as I start to rise.
‘I don’t understand,’ I say. ‘Is this about that policeman in the Ukraine, are they wanting me back?’
His eyes are looking behind and beyond me. ‘No, nothing of the sort. It’s our current predicament I’m concerned about. I must say, Mrs Parker, you do seem to have the knack of making yourself unpopular wherever you go. Now don’t look round, as they say, but I spy a person with evil intent towards you heading this way.’
I feel compelled to turn and look, to jump to my feet, to run for my life. Instead I watch Mr Smith, take my lead from his body language, wait for his instructions. He’s on the edge of his seat, feet firmly planted, body upright and poised. A man passes my shoulder, I feel him look down at me, sense his reaction, then watch as he turns back towards the reception area.
‘He’s calling his colleagues. They’ll no doubt be upstairs looking for you in your room. We really need to move quickly as soon as they appear.’
‘They can’t do anything to me in a public place, I’m safe here, aren’t I? Can’t you call the police, have them arrested?’
‘No time for the police, by the time they get here it’ll be far too late. These people won’t mind killing everyone else here to get to you, if they need to. Okay now, hold my hand, don’t let go.’
Mr Smith leads me casually to the bar. I can feel the danger behind me as if it were incandescent heat. He half drags me behind the bar. I watch the barman’s look of surprise, his mouth opens in complaint, but we push past and through a door into a scruffy stock room. Smith opens an emergency door and we emerge into the cool evening air. There are crates of bottles stacked around the doorway, empties on their way out, full ones on their way in. One of these explodes, showering liquid and glass onto the side of my face. I have no time to discover whether the liquid running down my neck is blood or lemonade before Mr Smith yanks my arm violently, drags me across a flower bed and deposits me in tall bushes.
Something smacks into the tree above my head. I wriggle further into the foliage, aware of the wet earth caking my knees and the prospect of yet another ruined skirt.
‘They’re shooting at us.’ I find myself automatically whispering now I’m in a hiding place. ‘Can’t you do something?’
‘I suppose you want me to return fire,’ Mr Smith hisses.
‘Yes.’
‘Not a wise move, I’m afraid. The gunman is concealed, maybe half a mile away, there are hundreds of civilians around and it will in any case reveal our exact position to him. Best we keep still for the moment. When his friends emerge, the sniper may stop firing in case he hits his colleagues.’
‘But you do have a gun?’ My hopes rise with a vision of Mr Smith calmly shooting our pursuers and saving my skin.
‘I’d need something rather large and powerful if it were to be of any use, I’m afraid. My apologies if I seem inadequately equipped for the job in hand.’
My heart sinks again. I’m lying in the mud, pinned down by a sniper, waiting for armed thugs to come out and finish the job. Mr Smith is muttering to himself again, he’s been keeping a running commentary going ever since we ran behind the bar. Another shot hits the trees. This time it’s a long way above my head and well away to the side. Even so I flinch and cower, wanting to dig myself into the ground.
They should have followed us out by now, unless the barman decided he’d had enough traffic for the one evening and made a stand. They surely were closer behind us than this. Maybe they’re scared of getting shot, waiting inside, trying to get a message to whoever it is that has the rifle. When they do come out I’m certainly going to die, there’s no other outcome possible. I’ve nowhere to run to, nowhere left to hide. I send one last text to Alex.
SORRY I LOVE YOU. TELL TOBY I LOVE HIM X
82
The moment I send the text, I start regretting it. Here I am, trying to hide myself from deadly danger, the last thing I need is the distracting buzz that announces Alex’s almost immediate reply. It may be the very last message I get.
The two men emerging cautiously from the back door of the bar are blatantly carrying handguns and the noise of my phone draws their attention instantly towards my clump of bushes.
I try to keep perfectly still, blend into the gloom. I’m torn between putting my head down to make my white face less obvious and keeping my eyes on the men. The temptation is too great, I watch through splayed fingers, my equivalent of a polar bear hiding its nose. My eyes are fixed on the open door, the cascade of yellow glitter strewn about, the lights blazing brightly through the windows of the hotel.
On
e man stays by the door, the other, tall and wearing a leather jacket, begins to walk slowly towards me. My breathing stops completely, I’m frozen in position. It’s obvious from the way he’s walking that he isn’t sure of my exact location but he’s on a course that will bring him very close to me. Charles seems to be adopting the same plan as I am, he’s so still I can hardly register he’s there at all.
The man in the leather jacket is almost upon me, he’s about to start poking around in the bushes above my head. There’s a sudden shout, ‘Armed police, drop your weapons.’ Two policemen are standing at the far corner of the building, machine guns pointed at the man in the doorway. The gunman nearest to me drops to his knees and continues to peer into the foliage. He’s so close now, I can see his eyes.
My phone dings to remind me I’ve still got an unread text message. The sound jolts me as if I’ve received an electric shock. The eyes fasten onto me, the gun comes forward almost into my face.
‘Oh shit,’ Charles Smith’s voice is followed by two deafening bangs almost simultaneously exploding in my ear. The man’s expression changes from determination to surprise as he flops down onto the grass.
83
More shots. I feel bullets hitting the trees close by, then silence. Charles is muttering to himself again. I poke my head up to see two policemen dressed entirely in black standing over the other assassin slumped in the doorway.
Charles stops muttering, stands up, arms outstretched, gun held aloft. Then he walks slowly towards the policemen. I stay where I am, watching, too scared to move, not sure it’s all over, still feeling in mortal danger.
Charles hands the gun to a policeman who takes out his own pistol, gives it to Charles then puts the discharged weapon in his own holster. When he comes back for me, Charles has to lift me to my feet, I’m almost too weak to stand, my legs are as numb as the rest of me.
‘You said you didn’t have a gun,’ I say.
‘Not really supposed to have one, thought I might be allowed an exception in this case. Having to fire the damn thing is a bit of a paperwork nightmare. Hopefully, I can sort out the mess with the help of that nice firearms officer over there. He is authorised to discharge a handgun so we might be able to come to some arrangement.’
The evening gloom is descending into darkness. There have been no shots for a long time, or what seems a long time. Mr Smith is still muttering sporadically. I can’t make out what he’s saying, nor can I hear any replies he might be getting.
‘Ah, jolly good.’ Mr Smith breaks silence. ‘We can relax a little now. It seems our sniper has been apprehended. They found him on the top floor of Terminal 3 car park. The police are here now, evacuating the hotel. We should be making ourselves scarce.’
As he walks, I notice that he’s taller than I expect him to be. Had I been asked to describe the man I met in the Ukraine, I would have used the words small, wimpish, academic, unremarkable as well as weird and snobbish. Now I can see that he’s none of these things and I’m left confused at being so mistaken.
He leads me around the side of the hotel, into the car park, where we encounter two more uniformed policemen. Mr Smith waves some form of identification in their faces and they allow our passage. The same procedure works for the policeman on the barrier as we exit in Mr Smith’s rather swish red Jaguar.
‘I need to let Alex know I’m safe.’ I look across at Mr Smith’s calm features. ‘I am safe, aren’t I?’
‘I’d rather appreciate it if you would turn off your mobile phone, you never know who might be tracking you, you understand. If you could remove the battery that would be even better.’
‘It’s an iPhone, it’s all sealed up,’ I tell him.
‘Then pop the little SIM card out. There’s a tiny hole in the top, use this to poke it.’ He hands me a pin that he takes from the lapel of his jacket. I prod about until the SIM pops up and show it to him. He takes it from me and puts it in his pocket.
‘Is that how you found me?’ I ask.
‘Oh yes, very useful things, mobile phones, if you’re looking for someone. People use them to find out where their children are, husbands can keep an eye on their wives and vice versa. Marvellous. You also used your credit card to pay for your room, that’s another useful piece of information.’
‘Is that how they knew where I was?’
‘Probably. Or you may have been followed. As I say, people aren’t hard to find if you know how.’
‘What about Alex, he’ll be worried.’
‘Don’t fret. Mr Hartley is being kept fully informed regarding your situation.’
‘You know Alex?’
‘Not personally but I believe he has worked in our department previously.’
‘What department is that?’ I’m pretty sure I already know.
‘Security Services.’
So Alex is a spy. I’m not surprised, there’s been something not quite right about his job all along. First he says one thing and then another. All that business of DCLG and then he tells me he’s in police meetings. Has he been spying on me? I can’t believe that my Alex would do that. There’s no way he’d betray me, my trust, my love, everything.
‘I can see you’re a little perplexed,’ Smith continues.
He’s right about that, I’m puzzled and almost frantic with it.
‘I’ll explain something about your Mr Hartley that might assist. He can be best described as a mandarin, or a mandarin in the making if I’m to be strictly accurate. Very soon he will be running this glorious realm of ours and, if I may make so bold, doing a pretty good job of it.’
‘Mandarin?’
‘I beg your pardon, mandarin is a rather opaque term. Let’s say Head of Government Department instead, shall we.’
‘So Alex is going to be a politician and run the country?’
‘No.’ Smith’s face creases into a wide grin. He seems to find my question very amusing. ‘Certainly not. Mr Hartley is a civil servant, part of the permanent establishment. Politicians come and go, the smooth operation of government can hardly be entrusted to such a temporary and transient population.’
‘But you said he was a spy, so he must still be one, mustn’t he?’
‘Certainly not, and anyway Mr Hartley was engaged in a strategic role rather than an operational one. He was responsible for the concept of the National Crime Agency, an organisation he helped set up from the Cabinet Office. Now he’s implementing the changeover to the new regime, a job which I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy. However if he somehow manages to pull it off without civil war, riots and a general strike, it will do his career no harm at all.’
‘So he’s not a spy?’
‘Far from it.’
‘Or a politician?’
‘Certainly not.’
‘Oh.’ I’m grateful to Mr Smith but I can’t understand why Alex has kept all this from me. Or perhaps he’s been telling me about his job all along and I’ve not really listened. Everything Mr Smith tells me is vaguely familiar, worryingly so. Most likely my own lack of interest in anything other than my own business is what’s made me so ignorant. It’s a big relief though. My mind is teeming with instances where Alex’s behaviour seemed odd. Now I think back, it’s no wonder he’s interested in finding Kat, dealing with traffickers, using tracking devices. He’s already worked in that sort of environment and now he has the likes of Hector Brighouse in police committees to deal with. None of it is to do with me. He’s not spying on me. He’s looking after me, supporting me, protecting me. He probably even loves me. The sadness at having to give him up when I go to prison is even greater now that I can trust him again – that’s if I survive long enough to be convicted.
84
The apartment I’m left hiding in is pleasant enough, part of a big house, set back from Mauldeth Road. A young man who introduces himself as Tariq pops in twice a day to check on me and run any errands I need him to. His shopping skills are not great, half of the list I give him is generally unobtainable. I suspect he use
s the Tesco Metro rather than a proper shop. Fresh vegetables seem to be considered exotic items. I’ve put kale on the list for three days running and my wish remains unfulfilled. It may be the shop but I suspect the motley collection of tins and frozen packets are the product of Tariq’s idea of what’s good for me.
My suitcase from the hotel arrived on day two, at least avoiding the difficult problem of clothes shopping. There’s been no sign of Charles Smith since he left me here and suggested that, although I am free to go as I please, it would be prudent to stay indoors until it’s safe. The concept of it becoming safe is an appealing one, it would be nice to think that there were no more gunmen after my blood.
Tariq’s idea of fish, frozen cod in batter suitable for microwave cooking, is warmed up and on my plate, together with boiled frozen peas and a generous portion of instant mash. I am hungry but not yet starving. The peas are quite nice but the slab of fish is unappetising and inedible.
I’ve kept the TV on all the time for company and to distract me from reality. There’s been only a brief mention of the attempt to assassinate me at Bewley’s Hotel on the local news. It describes only a precautionary evacuation following suspected terrorist activity. There’s not been any mention of a sniper firing or a woman cowering in the bushes.
I’ve been thinking about Alex and how I misjudged him. It’s so easy for me to dismiss the possibility that he loves me. I’ve never felt worthy of anyone’s love, that’s why I can’t trust him. All this chasing around inviting danger is my way of punishing myself. When I get into trouble, it’s all I deserve. I need to be held in the thrall of quiz shows and soap operas to avoid confronting myself about this. Who is driving me to destruction? Why am I constantly throwing my life away? All I know is I’ve done it very efficiently. There seems no way back to salvation for me now unless I can be with Alex.
