by Paul Starkey
Whilst not eidetic, his memory was excellent, and he knew enough Nigerians that he could mix and match names, locations etc. He knew fewer Chinese, but could add a few made up names in to add spice. He’d have to be careful on that front though, the boy Cheung might be unimaginative, but likely he’d spot an obviously fake name of Chinese extraction.
He’d spent time in Lagos, London, Berlin, Paris and a host of other places, so coming up with dead drop locations should be relatively simple as well. When lying though it was less about details than about consistency. He’d known several FBI and other law enforcement agents, and they’d pretty much all told him the same thing. The flimsiest story would be believed so long as it never changed. Where many in the criminal fraternity went awry was in concocting detailed alibis that fell apart under detailed interrogation because they couldn’t remember specifics from one minute to the next.
With this in mind he began constructing small scale lies that he could build upon if needs be, but which were simple enough that he could be certain of remembering them. He considered using Antonia’s notebook, but quickly discounted the idea. Even with the insurance afforded by the shredder, he could not be certain that he wouldn’t be interrupted before he could destroy any incriminating evidence. Best to keep his lies not only simple, but also virtual.
It was an annoyance, but hopefully the night would soon be over and he could move on.
* * *
Cheung was still annoyed with himself. He’d checked practically every door and window on the ground flood. All were secure. He imagined Chalice had known this in advance, she’d said the alarm system was top drawer after all. Maybe she was just being ultra-cautious, but more likely making him act like a night watchman had been intended as a punishment.
He thought about talking to her about it, telling her why he’d piped up the way he had, but in truth it likely wouldn’t get him off the hook to try laying the blame at Brendan’s feet, especially given that Chalice would likely make the same assumption that Thomas himself had about Fox’s motives.
One last room to check on this side of the house, then he could quickly swing by the front door before meeting up with Chalice Knight in the drawing room. Maybe she’d have softened a bit in the time they’d been apart.
Yeah, right, he mused sarcastically as he turned the handle of the door and pushed it open. His mind still occupied he stepped forwards and into a black hole.
For an instant he actually imagined he was falling, and for a heartbeat he almost screamed. Then realisation struck home as his senses adjusted to the darkness.
It was a conservatory. He imagined that in the summer, hell in daylight, the room would have felt huge. Above his head the roof was composed of large panes of glass, interspersed with thin strips of UPVC. The wall to his left was built the same way, and head of him were two glass patio doors that ran from ceiling to floor. Only the wall to the right was brick, the wall shared with the small toilet next door, it, like the conservatory he recalled Chalice saying, a recent extension to the house.
It wasn’t summer though, wasn’t daytime, and the room did not feel huge. Below his feet were terracotta tiles that seemed almost black in the dim light peeking in from the corridor behind him. The darkness outside seemed to press against the glass, and he could almost imagine the windows creaking, as if it wasn’t the night out there but instead the pressure of tonnes of rock and he were below ground, not above it.
Despite the oppressiveness that assaulted him he moved forwards, determined not to give in to his fear. As he stepped close to the patio doors his mood calmed as his eyes adjusted further. With no light outside, and so little behind him, he actually found that he could see some distance into the night and suddenly he didn’t feel so claustrophobic. The lawn, stretched towards the horizon looking like a calm millpond. And there, rising up from the lake of grass, was the large oak tree, and he had the sudden image of a submarine conning tower breaking the surface of the waves.
He smiled; Imagination running away with you, Tom?
When he realised there were figures standing under the tree his smile faded and his pulse picked up speed. Slowly he kicked backwards with his left heel, easing the door shut so as to eliminate any light behind him. He shifted slightly to his right and crouched after he’d done this, in case there was someone out there, in case they’d had a gun pointed at him, backlit there like a bloody easy target.
Rookie mistake.
He was compounding it now he knew; if they had automatic weapons, or shotguns, then shifting his position wouldn’t make a damn bit of difference. Still, he had to be sure before he raised the alarm. He inched towards the right hand door, slowly, oh so slowly, reaching under his jacket towards his gun as he did so. Every movement languid, almost imperceptible. He was hoping whoever was out there would assume he’d gone back inside.
He drew the pistol with equal slowness. A SIG Sauer P-226, the older brother of Chalice’s weapon— bigger in both size and calibre. The chamber was already loaded, and he eased the safely off now as he pointed it towards the tree, ready to fire the instant he was fired upon. Two rounds; the first to break the glass, the second to make whoever was out there duck.
Assuming the first bullet didn’t ricochet back at this close range.
Get back inside, a voice told him. Tell Chalice what you see.
Except what did he see? He was staring at the tree now, eyes focused with hawk like intensity, primed to detect any whisper of movement. But there was none.
Doubt assailed him. Where he’d seen figures he now saw nothing, nothing but the gnarled and aged trunk of a tree that was older than this house. A tree trunk that was so malformed that maybe he’d mistaken its irregularities for people.
He was conflicted. That explanation made sense, and he was sure he’d have seen if anyone had moved from beneath the tree. On the other hand the shape of the trunk didn’t conform to what he’d thought he’d seen —two figures, one standing the other crouched down on all fours.
The operative word was thought. His lips had gone dry and he licked them now. It did little good, his tongue had been stripped of moisture by nerves as well. He didn’t dare move, didn’t dare blink, and for a full minute he crouched there, staring at the tree, as if expecting it to pull its roots up and stride away.
He was never sure he truly had the patience for his job. Brendan had been a copper, he’d done stake outs, spent entire nights in cars, pissing into an empty plastic bottle because you didn’t even dare leave the vehicle. Cheung had no such grounding, he’d joined the service directly from university, and whilst he’d been involved in surveillance ops, none of them had entailed a level of discomfort he was feeling now. A comfy seat in the back of a BT van was one thing, crouching with your right knee against a stone cold floor was another.
He had two choices; go out and take a closer look, or retreat inside and report what he may have seen to Chalice. He knew she’d think him an idiot though, and so his options narrowed to just one. His left hand rested on the latch that held the doors secure before he remembered, just in time, the alarm. If he opened the doors Chalice would know about it. Better to go talk to her rather than have the wailing French woman announce his foolishness to the whole world.
Mind made up he found he couldn’t move. He was transfixed by the damn tree, certain that, if he looked away, those figures would return. This is crazy, he thought. Still he couldn’t bring himself to retreat fully. Instead, like a child playing a game he half turned away, then quickly looked back, ready to shout “Aha!” and start firing.
The tree stood in the same spot, as silent and alone as it had been moments before, and Cheung knew now that he’d imagined those figures. With a wry smile he turned to leave the conservatory, resisting the urge to look back once more, ignoring the paranoia that those figures were back there, watching him go.
* * *
Upon entering the room, Lucy Parrish had done nothing. She had not started to undress, she had not explored. Sh
e had merely sat on the edge of the bed and waited for what she knew would happen.
It was a pretty room, all pink and chintzy, with a large four-poster bed dominating it that looked fit for a fairy-tale princess. Lucy had always liked fairy tales growing up; in fairy tales the beautiful princess was always saved by the handsome knight, in fairy tales good always won.
Girls like her weren’t allowed fairy-tale endings though, she’d realised that, even as a child. Bad children grew up to be ugly stepmothers, not adored daughters of royalty.
So she sat on the bed and waited, as she had done so many times as a child. Sat and waited to do her duty. She was not calm however, though she kept her face serene her hands had clenched into tiny fists around folds of the lilac bedspread.
When the knock came it was almost a relief, and she let out the breath she hadn’t even realised she’d been holding. She would survive this, she had endured worse.
She looked at the delicate silver watch on her wrist. It was less than ten minutes since she had entered the room. She gritted her teeth and smiled. Men were all the same, impatient, overeager, and foolish.
But they were strong as well, stronger than girls. Especially daddies’ girls…She stood as the rapping was repeated. There was no hesitation in her walk to the door. The quicker she opened it, the sooner it would all be over.
“Hi,” she said.
“Hiya,” grinned Brendan Fox, leaning lazily against the wall.
“Is anything wrong?” she asked, forcing a nervous smile to suggest that she didn’t know exactly why he was here.
He shook his head. “Nothing much, but Chalice popped up a few minutes ago, she wants me to check all the upstairs rooms and, I’m afraid, that means your boudoir as well.” He looked her up and down. “Lucky I got here before you undressed, well lucky for you anyway.” He chuckled.
Turning her back on him was hard, but she made herself do it. “You’d better come in then,” she said and stepped back towards the bed. There she turned and waited, hands clasped together like an obedient child.
The easier you made things, the quicker they happened.
He waltzed in, the cocky grin never fading, and closed the door behind him. At first she thought he was going to be direct because he walked right up to the bed as well, but it seemed even Brendan Fox could be subtle. He tugged at his open collar, then shrugged off his jacket. “Hot in here, ain’t it?” he tossed the jacket onto the bed and then turned away from her.
Lucy noted several things at once, tiny details lodging in her mind. Sweat stains under his armpits, the way the snap designed to hold his pistol in place was loose, the fact that part of his shirttails were handing out from his trousers. Her eyes were drawn back to the shoulder holster, to the Beretta Model 92 that was nestled there.
“You ever take that off?” she asked, voice barely above a whisper. Men, always stronger and yet they still chose to add to their power, as if they could never be strong enough.
He winked at her. “Sometimes,” he said.
“It’s not loaded is it…I mean, I mean I know it’s loaded but…”
“I know what you mean,” he said. “Round in the chamber. Always.”
She glanced down at the floor, at the virginal white carpet. When she looked back up again she lifted her eyes slowly to meet his.
He saw the worry there and shook his head. “I thought you were used to weapons, don’t even secretaries get basic training these days?”
“Half an hour on the firing range, and I was late.” She giggled.
Fox shrugged his holster off and draped it over the chair that sat before a wooden dressing table covered with bottles and pots, perfumes and creams. “Feel safer now?”
“A bit.”
“Well just hope no Chinese kill team kicks the door down while it’s there.”
He walked towards the far side of the room, what would be the front of the house. No windows there, but three doors in the wall. A solid, single one and double slatted ones a bit further along. He opened the single door and peered in. Craning her neck Lucy saw a toilet, and the edge of what she assumed was a shower cubicle. Her eyes drifted away from Fox’s explorations then, towards the gun. So close, but probably not close enough.
Fox closed the door delicately and shuffled across so that he could stand before the double doors. Taking a doorknob in each hand he pulled them open.
“Aha!” he said and ducked into what looked like a walk in wardrobe. Lucy saw several rails of clothes, boxes on the shelf above. As Fox moved out of sight, Lucy took the opportunity to move towards the dressing table. It was perhaps four steps away, but she made it only two before he reappeared.
He was carrying a pair of thigh length, black patent stiletto boots; the heels impossibly high. “So tell me, Luce. What shoe size are you?” he grinned.
She shook her head. “Very funny.”
“No, seriously what shoe size, I think it’d be kind fun to play dress up, don’t you?”
She forced a smirk. “Only if there’s a gimp mask in there.”
“Now who’s being funny,” he said. Realising there was no way she was going to put them on, he dropped the boots on the floor. For an instant Lucy considered telling him to put them back where he found them, but what would be the point. Hadn’t the inevitable been delayed enough?
“Chalice didn’t really ask you to check up here, did she?” Lucy was two steps from the gun, two steps from the bed. She didn’t move.
Fox sidled up to her, exaggerating his wide-boy swagger as he did so. He stopped right in front of her. She caught the intermingled scents of cigarettes and cheap aftershave that combined to create something worse than either. She noted that the sweat stains under each arm had grown, and she saw his pupils dilate with lustful hunger. She didn’t protest as he grabbed her shoulders, gently but firmly.
“Of course she didn’t send me,” he said. He was grinning now, his tiny sharp teeth on full display.
When he leaned in to kiss her she didn’t pull away.
* * *
Part of him hadn’t been sure that she really did fancy him as much as he fancied her. He suspected of course, the little knowing looks, the coquettish giggling, the playful banter—but he hadn’t been really sure it went beyond typical office flirting until she let him kiss her.
Her lips parted with teasing slowness under pressure from his tongue as he clamped his mouth to hers. Already his hands were wandering from her shoulders, one to her backside, the other to a breast.
She smelled gorgeous, tasted better. Her perfume was subtle, so ethereal that he could smell soap and cleanliness beyond it. She didn’t wear much makeup, so the taste of her lipstick didn’t detract from the pleasing ripeness of the lips beneath.
Even after he broke the kiss he couldn’t keep his lips from her body for long, planting wet kisses on her neck, nuzzling against her in a way he hadn’t kissed his wife in many years.
There was some slight resistance as he manoeuvred her towards the bed. He wasn’t surprised at this. Women always wanted to prolong the starter, while men always wanted, needed, to get to the main course as quickly as possible. Brendan was in charge of this feast, and so the food would be served to his timetable. Squeezing tightly with both hands he gently encouraged her towards the bed.
He laid her down, but there was little respite, he was upon her within seconds, lips pressing haphazardly to hers as his hands moved of their own accord, at first groping her breasts before urgently undoing the buttons of her blouse. She offered him no help in this endeavour, said nothing as he moaned and groaned, and told her how beautiful she was, how sexy she was, how hard he was. He knew she wanted to be taken, to swoon beneath his caresses.
He undid most of the buttons, ripped the rest loose in haste. Now he pulled back, admiring the pert breasts barely concealed under fine white lace. Now, finally, she spoke, uttering the word no so softly that it was almost a moan. She repeated it, added a please into the mix for good measure.
&nbs
p; He liked it, liked the pretence of resistance; it would add a sweet tang to their lovemaking. The next time, and he was sure there would be a next time, many of them in fact, he would savour her more, spend more time exploring every inch of her. For right now though time was of the essence, and besides, Brendan Fox really was almost painfully hard under his trousers. And so he smothered her tiny cries with his lips, even as one hand lifted her bra, the other sliding up her skirt.
The pace of their sex increased. Soon he had her practically naked, his own trousers discarded, underpants kicked off and consigned to who cared where. He entered her with a speed that took her breath away. She wasn’t as wet as he’d have liked, not as turned on. Next time she would be he decided, next time he’d take more care, bring her to the point of ecstasy and in so doing ease his own entry. For now though his need was too great, and with each thrust it got easier. She uttered sounds, but they were lost within his own grunts of pleasure until, at last, with one exultant snort, he claimed his final reward.
Only after, as he slid out of her and flipped onto his back, did he worry about how much noise they’d made. This room was above the drawing room after all.
“Ah fuck it,” he muttered between gasps of air. His heart was pounding, and he felt droplets of sweat coating his arms, his back. He lay looking at the ceiling, contented smile on his lips, one hand lazily thrown across her body, the merest semblance of intimacy now he’d had his pleasure. He didn’t wonder if she’d had an orgasm as well. It wasn’t that he didn’t care; he just automatically assumed she had.
She didn’t say anything, but he didn’t mind. Peace and quiet was an admirable quality in a woman. After a few moments the bed undulated as she clambered off it. He didn’t look to see what she was doing. He assumed she wanted to freshen up, women always did after sex for some reason, for his part he just wanted to lay there and bask in languid ecstasy.
