by Faye Brann
TINKER, TAILOR, SCHOOLMUM, SPY
Faye Brann
Copyright
HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
www.harpercollins.co.uk
First published by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2021
Copyright © Faye Brann 2021
Cover design by Caroline Young © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2021
Cover illustration by Caroline Young and Shutterstock.com (shoes)
Faye Brann asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
Source ISBN: : 9780008479619
Ebook Edition © August 2021 ISBN: 9780008479626
Version: 2021-07-27
Dedication
For Louie
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Epilogue
Acknowledgements
Read on for an interview with the fabulously funny Faye Brann, winner of the 2020 Comedy Women in Print prize.
About the Author
About the Publisher
Chapter One
Victoria Turnbull ran up the hill, panting with effort, willing her body to keep moving. Shots echoed around her as she sprinted towards the shelter of woodland ahead. Only a few metres stood between her and the sanctuary of the trees, but if they got a lucky shot she’d be finished.
She dodged one way and then the other, blazing a kamikaze trail that even a trained marksman would have difficulty keeping up with, squinting into the trees to try and spot any sign of an ambush. Nothing obvious. She dived into the foliage, landing badly and rolling to a crumpled stop at the foot of a tree. The noise of gunfire was behind her; she was safe, for now.
She stood up slowly, taking stock of the situation and trying to control her breathing. The combat trousers she wore gripped her thighs like sausage casings; love handles spilt through the gap between her top and bottoms. She wasn’t as fit as she once had been; the years had taken a toll and she was regretting any number of lifestyle choices as sweat leaked into every crease and crevice. She leant against the tree trunk for support, legs shaking, and checked her weapon.
She needed to get to her team. She’d tried to tell them to spread out, to divide and conquer, but they hadn’t taken her seriously and had ended up cornered. Such were the perils of working with amateurs. Her eyes flickered with annoyance. Currently, as far as she could tell, she was the only person from Yellow squad who was still operational. Even so, her ankle was hurting from that badly timed roll. She tested the weight; she could still run on it, although not as fast as she would have liked. With a bit of luck, her attackers would assume she was already down, though, and she would be able to circle around and make her way back to her team without the need to sprint there. She listened hard and scanned the woods. Everything was still. Except—
She cocked her gun. There was a small movement deep in the trees and she thought for a moment she had seen something. But after a few minutes of intense staring there was no more movement and she relaxed her finger off the trigger. A squirrel, probably.
A battle cry came from the clearing in the small valley below. She took a deep breath and began making her way out of the cover of the trees. As she approached the brow of the hill, a hulking figure of a man ran up and over, towards her. Not an ally. She fired straight at him without hesitating. He staggered backwards, a look of surprise on his face, before falling away. She jogged on, not stopping. It was only a bit of paint. He would live.
Paintball. Who the hell has a paintballing party for their fortieth, anyway? Jon, that’s who: the youthful-looking, athletic husband of her best friend Kate, and the last one of their group to hit the milestone. Her friends had been moaning about it for weeks: why couldn’t he have chosen something more civilised, like a weekend in the country? Why would they want to run about shooting people with fake bullets full of Dulux’s finest, when they could be doing shots in some swanky West End bar? Vicky crouched low behind a small bunker and assessed the situation below her. Granted, by the time the younger ones in their social circle came to celebrate the big four-oh, they’d all agreed something a little less run-of-the-mill was required to coax people into spending yet another fifty quid on witty cufflinks or a Jo Malone candle, plus drinks. But paintballing? She had rather liked the idea herself. There was something a bit thrilling about firing a gun, even if it did only have paint in it.
Jesus, her trousers were snug. She needed to move on again before the waistband deprived her lower body of oxygenated blood. Evaluation over, she moved forward and saw a second enemy team member making their way up the hill. Vicky shot off another round of acrid gloop and heard the satisfying yelp as she hit them in the chest. Maybe she needed to unwind, or maybe it was hormones, but shooting people until they were covered in bright-yellow gunk was extremely enjoyable.
From her vantage point she had seen that her remaining enemies were occupied with the assassination of her team, who were cowered at the far side of the valley like sheep in the rain. It was the best time to strike; slowly, sniper-like, she moved around the site, stalking her victims with silent and deadly precision. She spied a member of Blue squad hailing paint pellets from behind a tree and positioned herself to shoot. Quickly, she took aim at the back of his knees, ran forwards, and fired as soon as she was in range. He doubled over and looked up to see who had taken him out.
‘Bloody hell, Vicky! That really hurt.’
It was Chris. Dressed in a decade-old set of waterproofs bought for a hiking holiday in the Lake District, he rolled about on the floor like an overgrown Boy Scout.
‘Get up, you big baby.’ There was no time for tea and sympathy. In any case, she suspected his pride was more injured than anything else.
Chris got up. ‘What did you do with my wife? Sh
ould’ve gone to the bloody pub.’
Vicky gave him a quick wave and turned back to the job in hand. She headed towards another bunker, reloading her gun and keeping her eyes open for imminent threat. Blue team’s attention had, for now, been diverted to killing off the remainder of her team; but it wouldn’t be long before they escalated their attack on her. As if to prove her point, a shot whizzed by her right ear and she dodged out of the way before leaning left of the bunker to fire back in the direction it had come from. She span towards a stack of crates and waited. Outsmart them, be elusive, stay in control. That’s what would keep her alive.
She carefully made her way towards the black cab randomly parked up on one side of the clearing, keeping her eyes peeled for any immediate threat. Once she’d reached the cab, she lay flat under the chassis. From there, she could see the legs of another Blue team member straight across from her. Bang. Clean shot to the ankles.
‘Dead man walking,’ came a female voice. It was Kate. Vicky got up and sat tight behind the wheel of the cab, waiting for a good moment to move. But Blue team were on to her position now, and her only option was to tempt them forwards and out into the open where she could get them before they got her. She whipped round at the sound of footsteps and hit someone right in the chest. Another two, approaching on the right, got pelted in the stomach. She paused to reload, feeling the sweat rolling down her cleavage, and listened to the ‘dead man’ cries of her enemies and the victorious cheers of her team. It was then that she realised she’d shot everyone.
She remained engaged until the ref called the end of the game. ‘You can put that down now,’ he said, placing his hand on top of the gun muzzle and lowering it gently. Vicky unpeeled her finger from the trigger. Her heart was pounding from the exertion, but inside, she felt the calm of a job well done. It had been a long time since she’d last had that feeling.
She turned to see Chris hobbling over, accompanied by Jon and the others. Feeling a little contrite, she ripped off her helmet and goggles and slung the gun over her shoulder.
‘That was some sharp shooting, Vics.’ Chris gave her a kiss and covered her in yellow paint.
‘Traitor!’ Jon yelled.
‘Well, she is my wife,’ Chris said, ‘and she did do a pretty good job against all of us.’
‘Nice one, Vicky.’ Her friend Becky gave her a hug and Vicky saw Kate limping up behind her, spattered in yellow paint from the knees down.
‘Vics, you were awesome.’
‘Sorry I shot you,’ Vicky said. ‘I got a little bit carried away.’
‘It’s only paint,’ Kate replied. ‘Mind you, I don’t think the boys were expecting any of us ladies to have such killer instincts. You should have seen their faces. Poor darlings.’
‘I’m sure they’ll get over it.’ Why was everyone so surprised that a woman could shoot a gun? Vicky wiped her hands through her sweaty helmet hair. She was in dire need of a shower, but it would wait until after a drink. ‘Shall we go to the pub now?’ she said.
‘We certainly can,’ Chris replied.
‘Winning team buys the beers, right?’ Jon said, followed by a chorus of cheering.
They crowded into the nearest old man pub with crap beer and chalkboards advertising pie and mash and a pint for £5. Vicky stood at the bar waving her debit card, taking orders. Her girlfriends Becky, Kate, and Laura bagged a table in the corner and waited for her.
The four women had known each other since their eldest children started school. Playdates and birthday parties eventually led to family barbecues, dinner parties, and weekends away; the children, ranging mostly in age between eight and thirteen, were more like siblings than friends.
Vicky and Chris were the only ones with three kids. Ollie was thirteen, Evie was eight and several jugs of sangria were to blame for James, who had made a somewhat surprise appearance nearly six years after Evie was born, when they were already in their forties. They’d done their best to embrace the situation, but, as much as she loved James, Vicky longed for a bit of freedom again, to go back to work, or at the very least to have a nice, long, uninterrupted bath.
Now James was at nursery, things were easier. But after such a long time as a stay-at-home mum, she was virtually unemployable in the traditional sense, and, with three kids to run around after, it was impossible to imagine how she would hold any kind of job down, never mind a full-on career like before. She dreamt of bagging a job in the school office, which would at least give her convenient hours and holidays off, but so far without much luck. While she was busy imagining various ways to bump off the existing school admin assistant without anyone noticing, her friends were attempting to persuade her to join the PTA. Vicky didn’t know why; she’d never shown the slightest bit of enthusiasm for it. She was happy to support the PTA by buying Christmas wrapping paper or offering up a batch of sorry-looking, misshapen bake sale items once in a while, but she resented working for free, and knew from years of experience that she was an executor, not an organiser. In any case, she despised the politics surrounding the whole thing.
The main source of contention was the Chair, William, who had ruled the PTA for the past eleven years while a never-ending stream of his children were farmed through the school. A recently retired accountant, William was the very definition of a middle-aged, middle-class misogynist, and Vicky was still bemused as to why no one had taken an axe to his head, or at the very least removed him from his seat of power. As of this summer, however, the last of his offspring had finished Year Six, and William had reluctantly, though not without enormous fanfare, stepped down.
With William gone, Becky had assumed the role of Chair, and she and the others were pressuring Vicky to join them. She wished they wouldn’t. Saying no to her friends made her feel bad, but, frankly, a night at Guantanamo Bay was more appealing. On the other hand, she was running out of excuses and she needed to start doing something for herself. Would the PTA be enough though? Second-hand uniform sales and school discos were hardly compensation for—
‘Congratulations, Victoria.’ The soft roll of the ‘r’ and the smell of expensive perfume told her that Matisse, another mum from the school, was right behind her. She turned with the tray in her hands and gave an awkward smile.
‘Oh, thank you, Matisse. Can I get you a drink?’
‘Non, non, I am fine, thank you.’
There was a pause while the two women wondered what else to say.
‘Did you enjoy the paintballing?’ Vicky asked.
‘I did not play,’ she replied.
‘No, of course not.’
Matisse was attractive, toned, immaculately dressed, and Botoxed to within an inch of her life despite still only being in her early thirties. She was a polite woman, nice enough, but there was something a little off about her. Or, more to the point, with the man she was married to, Sacha Kozlovsky.
Sacha and Matisse had appeared out of nowhere with their son, Dmitri, about six months ago. The Head of Year Three had announced, just before the Easter holidays, that Dmitri would be joining Evie’s class, even though everyone knew for a fact there were no more places. Dimitri was a small, skinny kid with a personality to match and took up very little space, so in the end no one minded very much. But, unlike his son, Sacha ate up the room. The man was in his fifties, with a strong Russian accent and tattoos adorning both arms, and everyone wondered who he was, what he did and what he’d done. Vicky did her best to ignore the curiosity nibbling away at her, but couldn’t let it go. She’d Googled both Sacha and Matisse and found very little on either of them through any normal channels. It was out there though, she knew it.
On the rare occasions he did put in an appearance, Sacha never let his wife stray far. Vicky saw him now, drink in hand, smiling as he made his way over to them; on arrival he put a possessive arm around Matisse’s shoulder.
‘She’s not bothering you, is she?’ he rasped.
It was almost a threat. Vicky held the tray in front of her like a shield, although her a
rms were beginning to ache.
‘Not at all,’ Vicky replied. ‘We were just … catching up …’
‘Excuse me,’ Matisse said, and sharply shrugged Sacha’s arm off of her. She headed straight for the ladies’ loo without saying another word. Sacha watched her go, his face ruffling for an instant before he turned back to Vicky and raised his glass.
‘You played well today,’ he said, smiling. His Russian accent cut through his words like gravel on bare feet. ‘You shot me right in the heart, you know.’
‘Did I? Gosh, I’m sorry.’ Vicky swallowed.
‘Did you enjoy it? The shooting, I mean?’
‘Yes … I suppose so.’ She relaxed her shoulders a little. ‘I didn’t think I’d have as much fun as I did, but once they put the gun in my hand …’
‘Did you ever shoot a gun before?’
‘Yes – er, no—’ With some effort, she dragged up the memory of a weekend away from twenty years before. ‘I mean, an old boyfriend and I went clay-pigeon shooting once, years ago in Scotland somewhere, but apart from that …’
‘Well, you were really very good. Very talented.’ He held his fingers in a gun shape and fired at her, making her flinch. The bottle on the tray wobbled. Sacha gave a smoky laugh and disappeared.
‘Vicky! Are you bringing us those drinks or what?’ A shout from the table in the corner cut through her jitters and she smiled at Becky, who was making room for her on the padded seat. Vicky finally made her way over and sat down to join the conversation.
‘Making new friends?’ Kate nodded towards Sacha.
‘How come they’re here anyway?’ Vicky said.
‘Oh, Jon said we couldn’t invite everyone else from school and leave them out or Sacha would probably poison our cornflakes,’ Kate said. ‘As it happens, Sacha was a pretty sharp shooter. Could give you a run for your money in a duel, Vics.’
‘Maybe. I still shot him first though.’
The girls laughed.
‘I had no idea you were so competitive,’ said Becky. ‘I feel like we’ve seen a whole new side of you today.’
