by Paul Starkey
He dried himself off in the bathroom, but then slung the towel over the radiator and padded across the landing to his bedroom. He still needed to shave, but that could wait.
He pulled out a comfortable pair of clean jeans, had his right leg in them before he realised he wasn’t wearing any underwear. With a muttered curse he awkwardly extricated his leg, then grabbed a pair of underpants from the top drawer of his dresser. For good measure, and in case he forgot to later, he grabbed two pairs of socks and another pair of pants.
Wearing his jeans now he headed to the wardrobe. As he did so he tried to ignore the full-length mirror that stood in the corner, silvered surface facing the wall like a naughty schoolboy. From the wardrobe he grabbed a small leather holdall, as well as selecting another sweatshirt, pale blue this time, and a white shirt from the clothes crammed into the wooden box. He had never realised before how like an upright coffin a wardrobe was.
Morbid notions like that seemed to intrude on his thoughts more and more these days. At first he had found it troubling, then he had found it annoying, only now, months later, did he find such thoughts amusing. He wasn’t sure why.
He laid the shirt on the bed, dumping the bag next to it. He shoved the sweatshirt and the spare underwear inside. There were several cans of deodorant on the dresser, he picked them up in turn and shook them until he found the one that seemed least empty, sprayed himself then tossed it into the bag as well. For a moment he considered a book, which was the moment he consciously realised he was packing, realised he was considering taking Sir George up on his offer.
He shook the thought away. It was still purely hypothetical at the moment, and in truth maybe he hadn’t been thinking about it, instead he’d let himself get caught up in the moment, as if subconsciously he knew he wasn’t going to say no. His conscious mind still might have something to say about it though.
He decided against a book. If he went, he doubted he’d have time to read. Likely he’d sleep during any breaks in the debriefing.
If he went…
He looked over at the mirror again. Not yet. Instead he let his eyes drift down to the twin socket built into the skirting board. An identical socket was placed near to the double bed, lamps plugged into each side. The socket by the mirror, however, was unused.
With a grunt he knelt by the socket, gripping the outer edges between his fingers he tugged. The plastic didn’t move. He pulled again before he remembered. Each socket had a switch; on/off. At the moment both were on. He flicked the left socket off, then tried again.
This time the plastic box came free from the wall. It trailed a white wire behind it that supplied electrical power to the sockets—the illusion would be ruined if the socket didn’t actually function—he laid the box on the floor and reached into the hole left by its removal. Inside the gap was an object wrapped in a leather chamois. He took it out and laid it on the floor before unfolding the leather. Nestled within was a snub-nosed Smith & Wesson revolver, along with two speed loaders— each holding six .357 magnum calibre bullets. He picked up the jet-black gun and swung the cylinder out. Brass gleamed in every chamber.
He hadn’t liked lying to Sir George, but old habits died hard, even when it came to people he trusted. Besides, he was slightly embarrassed with himself, embarrassed and annoyed. Seventeen years had passed, and he was still hiding things in the same damn places. Similarly there was a passport and a credit card in the name of Reginald Hooper concealed under a thin sheet of plywood taped to the back of a drawer in the kitchen. Tyrell didn’t know much about the man he had been, but one thing had become abundantly clear. He had grown complacent, and he’d grown sloppy.
He snapped the cylinder gently shut, then simply held the gun and stared at it. The small barrel size meant that accuracy was useless at anything beyond close quarters, but the hollow nosed magnum rounds at least meant anything he hit likely wouldn’t get up in a hurry. For a moment he considered putting the gun and ammunition into the bag as well. Instead he neatly folded the items up again and re-secreted them back in their hidey-hole. Sliding the socket back into place he flicked one of the switches to lock it.
Taking the revolver would have been pointless for two reasons. Firstly, Sir George had cautioned against it, and likely he, or someone else, might search Tyrell before he was allowed anywhere near Ibex. The second, stronger reason was that he no longer trusted himself with a gun.
Originally there had been four speed loaders, another 12 rounds. After discovering the gun he’d taken a walk deep into the surrounding countryside. He didn’t know the area, but eventually he found a dirt track that led to a secluded copse of trees.
It had only taken four shots to realise something was wrong, but he’d used another eight just to be certain. Physically his aim was off. It might just be rustiness but he couldn’t deny that his hands were nowhere near as steady as they’d once been. The emotional trauma was worse. He’d been around firearms for many years, from almost he moment he joined the service, and he’d been exposed to many different types; pistols, shotguns, rifles, submachine guns…he’d even used a rocket launcher during one refresher course with the SAS. But he’d never been physically frightened by the roar of a gun before, nor by the recoil. After just 12 shots however he found he’d been reduced to a quivering wreck, and it had been fifteen minutes before he felt calm enough to move. He’d tossed the spent casings and the empty loaders into a river on his way home, then he’d put the revolver back into its hiding place and hadn’t taken it out again until today.
He wondered why he’d taken it out; perhaps his subconscious was using it as a reminder that he wasn’t the man he used to be. As if he needed reminding.
He tried to dismiss the thought and walked back to the bathroom. Steam still hung in the air, and the shaving mirror was misted over. For a moment he just looked into it, enjoying his blank reflection. Then with a sigh he wiped it clean and saw himself again.
Or rather he saw a stranger.
It had been almost five months since he’d woken up in the Berlin hospital room, and once it had become clear what had happened to him there was only so long they could withhold a mirror from him. Five months and still his own face had the capacity to shock. It had been his reflection, all those months ago, that finally convinced him this hadn’t been an elaborate exercise in brainwashing or torture. Makeup was one thing, but as he’d examined his features he’d detected none. Maybe crow’s feet could be surgically created, the same with wrinkles and liver spots on his hands, but who would go to that trouble? Tyrell was a realist, and he knew that if he had been captured by an enemy power they wouldn’t have needed an elaborate Mission Impossible like plan; they’d have used violence, drugs, and the promise of an end to his pain and degradation, and eventually—like most men outside of a Hollywood film— he would have talked.
It was weird though, still. He had gone to sleep and woken up seventeen years older with no memories to go with that gap, and while the face in the mirror was clearly his, well much like the contents of his house there was much he didn’t recognise.
That was the reason he’d grown the moustache. He thought it looked stupid on him, but it gave him back some control over his own body. Like a new tenant in a flat painting the walls to make it feel more like home.
He rubbed at his cheeks, at least two days of stubble. This wasn’t just down to laziness, it was because he hated looking at his reflection. He used an electric razor to clear away the stubble (he’d always been a wet shave kind of man, but an actual razor was too dangerous when your hands might start to shake at any moment) then slicked back his hair with a thin coating of gel.
Only then did he nip back into his bedroom to put the shirt on, pick up the bag and head downstairs. He still hadn’t decided what to do, although showering, packing, and shaving suggested he was going to go.
“Ah, there you are,” said Mellanby as he re-entered the living room. The old man was stood by the bookcase, and had been leafing through a book. Without h
esitation he closed it and slid it back once more. “Packed and ready to go I see.”
“I’m not wearing any shoes,” Tyrell said, as if that somehow explained that he hadn’t quite decided.
Sir George, it seemed, understood. “I have to leave within the next five minutes, John,” he said after a glance at his wristwatch.
Tyrell owned two watches, though neither he remembered purchasing; both of them were stuffed into a drawer somewhere. Time was the ultimate enemy of a man in his situation. Constant reminder of all you’d lost, of how long and boring your days now were.
He’d been a decisive man once, used to making life or death choices in the blink of an eye. Not anymore. Now his mind threw up instant obstacles to any decision he tried to make, switching sides like a double agent if he then tried to choose the alternate path, until sometimes he was left procrastinating for hours over even the simplest of decisions.
And now here he stood. Packed bag in hand, but no shoes on his feet, and his mind was again in turmoil. It would be easy to unpack, and maybe it would even do him good to have company, even if it was only for the next 24 hours, even if they were just monosyllabic security guards. But eventually they’d go; eventually he’d be alone again until one of his old friends, or people from the support group, popped round to visit. Alone and useless.
It would be easy to slip his shoes on, he could see them now, poking out from the side of the armchair, and maybe it would do him good to get back in the saddle, to feel useful again. But maybe the strain of the next day would prove too much, set back his recovery by months and leave him bereft of the meagre confidence he’d slowly built up in himself.
He could feel himself getting angry as frustration threatened to overcome him. He didn’t know what to do, and the indecision was like a knife twisting in his stomach. He wanted to clasp his hands together, to squeeze his fingers so tight against one another that they went white. Instead he gripped the handle of the bag tighter in his left hand, whilst he thrust his right into his pocket, feeling loose change inside.
Mellanby looked like he was about to speak, but Tyrell beat him to it. “Thirty seconds,” he blurted out. “I just need thirty seconds, then I’ll give you my decision.”
Sir George didn’t look happy, pursing his lips and checking his watch once again. Finally he gave a tiny nod of acquiescence. “Thirty seconds, no more.”
“Right…ok…” Tyrell was nodding like an idiot. “I’ll be right back.”
He went into the kitchen and dug a handful of change out of his pocket. His hand was shaking as he dropped the coins onto the nearest counter. They bounced and scattered, several dropping to the floor. He ignored them. Instead he picked up a fifty pence piece, and quickly flipped it. “Tails,” he muttered before gravity claimed it back and it landed on the upper side of his left hand where he instantly covered it with his right, somewhat amazed that he hadn’t dropped it.
It was a technique Dr Drake had suggested, for when he really couldn’t decide between two courses of action. Leave it to fate. His heart was beating fast now, his breathing coming in shallow little gasps. Still he procrastinated, eyes darting around the room—focusing on things to waste time. The dishes still in the drainer, the scruffy trainers he needed to clean, the lawn outside that needed mowing, the sticker that had fallen from the cupboard again…
“Tails,” he muttered once more, and lifted his hand.
* * *
Sir George was just about to go looking for Tyrell when he appeared back in the doorway. “Well?” he said curtly, no longer willing to cut the other man any slack despite his condition or the many years they’d been friends. Bottlewood was too important, and he’d wasted enough time already.
“I’ll probably need a nap in the car,” said Tyrell.
Even before he finished speaking, Mellanby knew he would say yes. Why else would he be wearing scuffed white trainers?
Chapter six
He awoke with a start as something nudged him, and for a few confused seconds he hadn’t a clue where he was. Instinctively he shrank back into the leather seat of the car, eyes frantically darting left and right as he sought potential escape routes.
“It’s ok, John. We’re nearly there,” said Sir George, and slowly his panic began to fade and he remembered where he was, and why he was there.
Still he was disorientated. He squirmed upright from where he’d slumped. Before he’d left home he’d grabbed a dark corduroy jacket, and now he instinctively rolled up the sleeve, only remembering that he wore no watch when he saw the blank wrist. He glanced out of the window. They were driving through an industrial estate by the looks of it. He turned his gaze to Sir George. “How long have I been out?” he croaked, his throat dry.
Mellanby favoured him with a quick glance and smile. “Over an hour,” he said. “You’re lucky you don’t snore or I might have had to wake you sooner.” He slowed the car and took a left turn. “There’s water in the door,” he added by way of an afterthought.
He knew he should be trying to ascertain where they were, try and figure a location, but instead Tyrell just nodded his thanks and grabbed the bottle of spring water from where it sat in the moulded compartment. It was new, and he had to twist the cap hard to break the seal, fearful for a moment that he wouldn’t be able to it actually snapped with ease and he took a long gulp.
He was somewhat surprised. Despite suggesting he’d need a nap he hadn’t been sure if he’d be able to sleep. He was too excited, too nervous. Worry tugged at him like a kitten playing with a ball of string, and he’d feared a repeat of something that had happened a couple of times in the aftermath of his illness. Where he’d got so wound up about something beforehand that he’d been knackered before he even got around to actually attempting it. But despite the nerves, and despite his need to waste several minutes ensuring every appliance in the house was off, every door and window locked. Despite the gnawing thought that his house would burn down in his absence, he must have drifted off within minutes of their setting off.
The water helped, as had several minutes of consciousness, and he began to feel better. The nap had recharged his batteries, the trouble was those batteries were old, and they leaked quickly.
“Where are we?” he asked, seeing only locked warehouse doors each side of the street.
“Luton,” said Mellanby. “You slept through the M1.”
As if on cue an airliner came into view, high in the cloudless sky. The weather it seemed was better down south. “We’re near the airport?” he said, feeling slightly stupid for stating the obvious.
“Not far away, almost at the rendezvous now. In fact…” Mellanby let the sentence trail off as he slowed right down and swung the car left again.
For a second the sudden darkness re-ignited his disorientation, but as he saw the ramp lead up to where a red and white striped barrier blocked the way he understood. They were in a multi-storey car park. Mellanby pulled up just ahead of the barrier, then hit the button to lower his window (it still amazed Tyrell that every car seemed to have electric windows now). He grabbed a ticket and the barrier lifted. Seconds later he eased the Volkswagen inside.
“We’re meeting Ibex here?” said Tyrell, stating the obvious again he tried not to feel too guilty. As a tactic it did help him from getting too confused.
Mellanby shook his head. “You’re meeting Ibex here. I’ll be gone before he arrives.”
They were heading up another ramp now, onto the next level.
Tyrell frowned. “You’re not staying, not leading the debriefing?” A sudden fear gripped him. “I can’t…”
‘”Don’t worry, John. I’m not saddling you with this, what do you take me for? I’m not allowed to get involved, too high a pay grade and all that but…” he paused as he took another ramp, onto the third level now. Tyrell suddenly started to see isolated spaces in amongst the army of cars, but Sir George ignored them and kept going. Only once he’d taken another ramp to the fourth level did he continue. “I’ve
put a very capable agent in charge so don’t fret, Chalice is one of my best.”
“Chalice?” he wasn’t sure he’d heard right.
Mellanby nodded, never once taking his eyes from the road. “Chalice Knight. Don’t ask her about the name, she gets annoyed when I do it, and I can fire her.” He chuckled. They were on the fifth floor now, the spaces were more prevalent but still they carried on. “She’s a good agent though, John”’ Now he did chance a quick look his way. “Almost as good as you.”
“You mean as good as I used to be?” said Tyrell without a hint of bitterness.
Mellanby said nothing and they carried on in silence. Past the sixth floor now, heading up to the seventh, and now at last Mellanby stopped the car. Tyrell started looking for a woman named Chalice—not having a clue what a woman with such an unusual name would look like—but he quickly realised he was being premature. Mellanby had stopped to let some old lady in a hatchback out of a space. As she drove off Mellanby started after her, but while she took the down ramp, Mellanby carried on, towards the next upwards incline. Here we go again, thought Tyrell.
Which was when Sir George braked hard and swung the car into a space, the manoeuvre so sudden that Tyrell had to grab onto the door to stop himself being flung about.
“Sorry about that,” said Mellanby, but Tyrell recognised the grin that shone even to his eyes. Those eyes might be a lot older than he remembered, but the childish delight of the fighter jockey was still evident. He wasn’t sorry one bit.
Without another word Mellanby got out. After a moment Tyrell realised he probably needed to get out as well. The noise as both doors closed echoed around the cavernous space like ricocheting gunshots, and Tyrell winced. Furtively he began to scan the immediate area. They were in the corner of level seven. On Tyrell’s side there were no cars parked for several spaces, but on the opposite side there was one space between the Volkswagen and the far wall, and a bright yellow Mini was parked there, though nothing like the Minis Tyrell remembered. He leaned over the roof of the Volkswagen and tried to peer in through the windows, looking for their contact inside.
