by Paul Starkey
“Cat got your tongue?”
Cheung lifted the gun in his right hand and placed it in his lap. Then the fingers of his left hand absently toyed with the die cufflink at his right wrist. He smiled at the American. “You have no idea how lucky you are I’m not Brendan,” he said.
His smile died when he heard faint footfalls on the gravel outside. Damn whoever they were they were a quiet bunch. He took his eyes off Ibex, cocking his head towards the window to listen more carefully, but he didn’t move to open the curtain again, not even a crack.
He didn’t hear the front door open, but the disembodied voice reporting an entry violation was enough. Softly but quickly he got up and padded across the room, grateful for the thick carpet beneath his feet. He positioned himself to the side of the desk. Not much cover but it would have to do. He’d placed the swivel chair about a foot from the door. It wouldn’t stop it opening, but it would catch, delaying the men outside and hopefully leaving them vulnerable for a moment. He’d already decided his pattern of shots. A double tap through the door first, the two rounds at groin height—chest height was fine unless your adversaries were crouching in which case your bullets sailed over their head. This way at least you had more of a chance of a hit, and someone shot in the hip, or a balls or even just the knee was less of a threat. He’d shift aim immediately; another double tap to the wall to the right of the door, then to the left. Six rounds expended, nine left, after that he’d shift position and wait for them to make the next move.
“Get under the bed,” he seethed as he gripped the pistol in both hands and waited for all hell to break lose.
Ibex shook his head. “I’m not dying on the floor,” he said, but made no other move to protect himself aside from shifting back closer to the wall. He did at least have the decency to look scared. Given how calm he appeared the rest of the time Cheung didn’t find this reassuring, he found it worrying.
“They’re using silencers,” said the American after a moment.
“I guess…” it was the only explanation for the lack of gunfire. The hit team might have weapons fitted with suppressors, but Chalice and Tyrell didn’t, which meant they were already dead or dying.
“I’m sorry, Nancy.” He whispered as he waited for the end to come.
* * *
Tyrell wasn’t sure what he was expecting. Men dressed all in black like ninjas? Body armour and night vision goggles? The classic jeans/sweater Provo combo?
He wasn’t expecting a slight young man who looked barely old enough to shave, and who was dressed a little like an undertaker crossed with a New Romantic. Still, age was no indicator of threat, and he’d encountered plenty of those Armalite toting Provos who’d only just finished their O’ Levels. And the kid did look like he was carrying a weapon.
When the young man stumbled through the doorway with less grace than the average circus clown, Tyrell began to doubt. Then the long dark weapon he was carrying tumbled to the ground, and Tyrell realised it wasn’t a rifle, it was a long cardboard tube of the kind people used to transport artwork.
He was confused, and for a heartbeat or two wondered if this was all illusion, if his addled and damaged mind wasn’t seeing a weapon as something innocuous, a killer as a clumsy innocent. Perhaps it was a defence mechanism; perhaps he’d feel safe right up until the moment a large calibre round took the top of his skull off.
But then Chalice stood up and stepped out into the light, in full view of the young man, and she pointed her Uzi at the ground.
The young man was muttering under his breath. A holdall had followed the tube onto the floor, he had shut the door and now he was fumbling with the tiny cupboard where the alarm controls were. He hadn’t noticed Chalice, and the woman moved closer to him. Like a nervous child not wanting to be separated from his mother, Tyrell followed.
As they drew nearer he finally made out a few words the kid was muttering.
“…God’s sake shut…mother…shut up!”
And then the Frenchwoman did shut up, and the young man let out a sigh of relief.
It was short-lived. With the warning voice silenced, the footsteps of the current and former MI5 agents as they walked across the parquet floor sang out loud and clear. The kid spun fast on his heels and let out a strangled little squeal when he saw strangers with guns walking towards him. In a flash he turned and grabbed for the front door, panic overriding good sense because there was no way he could escape before being shot down.
“Felix!” shouted Chalice, and the boy froze with his hand on the handle.
Slowly he turned. He still looked terrified, but now recognition was slowly edging fear out of his eyes. “Aunty Kim?” he spluttered at last.
And finally Tyrell’s slow firing neurons put the pieces together, matching the doe eyed teenager with the younger boy seen in a photo, realising that he’d referred to the disembodied voice of Antonia Carmichael as mother.
“You’re not supposed to be here, Felix,” chided Chalice, sounding about a decade older than she actually was, sounding like she actually was the kid’s mother.
“I’m not supposed to be here?” said Felix Carmichael. His eyes were calm now, fear was gone and now relief was edging out recognition. “You scared the shit out of me,” he said, following up the words with a nervous little laugh. Tyrell couldn’t decide if it was relief at seeing a familiar face, or schoolboy glee at uttering a naughty word. The kid looked like a mummy’s boy. “I assumed the lights were just on the timer.”
He was definitely older than in the pictures, maybe eighteen or nineteen now. He wasn’t short, but slightness made him appear smaller than he probably was. His hair was jet black, clearly not a natural shade, and slicked back in a vaguely Hitleresque fashion. Tyrell initially thought he had dark circles under his eyes from lack of sleep, but quickly realised he was wearing eyeliner. He wore jeans that had once been black but were now a dirty grey, purple Doc Martins and a black suit jacket over a black T-shirt. As he appraised the young man, Felix reached down to pick up his cardboard tube, and Tyrell noted that he was wearing nail varnish that matched his boots.
“Your parents have loaned me the house for a few days,” said Chalice.
“Right,” said Felix, elongating the word to suggest he didn’t believe her. “You having some kind of costume party?”
“Excuse me?”
He gestured towards the Uzi with the tube. “With all the fake guns and everything. Or is this some kind of live role-playing thing?” He scowled. “Aren’t you a bit old for that?”
“It’s a party,” Chalice began without a hint of hesitation. “Or was, everyone’s gone home now except for John and I. We were just about to pack the water pistols away.” And she hefted the Uzi. “They were loaded with vodka. All gone now.” She winked and Tyrell noticed that suddenly she contrived to look uncoordinated. It was subtle, but obvious enough to imply she was somewhat inebriated. He figured he didn’t have to follow suit. Most people figured he was drunk or on something when they first met him these days anyway.
Felix was nodding and smiling. “Cool idea.” His eyes roamed the hall. “Must have been a tidy party?”
“Only out here,” said Chalice. “The kitchen and the drawing room are a mess, but your mum insisted that we take care out here.”
Felix frowned.
“The floor,” Tyrell found himself blurting out, surprising himself with his inventiveness.
Felix was nodding again. “Of course, I spilt coffee on it once, she nearly grounded me.” Now he was shaking his head, staring at the floor as he did so. “Dad’s always telling her, what’s a floor if not to walk on and get messy.” He looked up. “You know my mum though.”
Chalice laughed. “I do that.” She took a few steps towards him. “So what are you doing here?”
He shrugged. “Taking a few days off. Uni’s getting stressful.” Another shrug. “Figured nobody’d miss me, and mum said she and dad were flying to New York so I thought it would be a good time to bunk off. She�
��d never know.” His eyes widened. “You’re not going to tell her are you?”
“Of course not,” said Chalice.
“Phew.”
“I am going to have to ask you to leave though, Felix.”
He pouted. “I thought you said the party was over?”
Chalice smiled; a taut, thin smile. “It is, but we’ve still got to clear up.”
“I can help,” he said with a cheerfulness that didn’t suit his dark ensemble.
“It’s really better if we do it, Felix. The party was a little…well how best can I put it?”
“Wild,” said Tyrell. Felix looked at him as if he were an escapee from an old peoples’ home.
“Wild?”
“Some people crashed we weren’t expecting. Let’s just say they brought things with them that were a lot stronger than vodka. I need to clean up before your parents get home, but also before any police show up, the neighbours might have complained at the noise.”
Felix shook his head. Jabbing the tube under one arm he picked up his holdall. “I wouldn’t worry. The only two houses close enough are Mr Flint’s, and he’s deaf as a post, and the Tanners’ and they’re spending the month in Australia.” He shrugged. “So mum says anyway.”
“Still, best not to take the risk.”
Tyrell could see that Chalice was tensing, her fingers tightening on the grip of the submachine gun. He had no fear that Felix was in actual danger, but the kid was definitely dropping himself into trouble. He guessed she’d give him one last chance to leave. After that, she’d figure it would be easier to tie him up and lock him in a room till morning. He might have wondered if the boy was smart enough to realise that something was going on, but his eyes showed a lack of thought. Felix didn’t quite look gormless, but it was clear that he wasn’t the sharpest tool in the box.
“No risk,” he smiled broadly. “I mean, not like I haven’t come across dubious substances at university.” He actually winked as he said it. “Plus mum would never let it get to court.” He glanced upstairs. “Tell you what, let me dump my stuff then we can get started.” He shivered, frowned and looked back at the pair of them. “You need to get the heating back on before you leave though, if mum comes back to a cold house…” he left the sentence hanging, then puffed a breath that was visible in the chill air.
Suddenly Tyrell realised that it had grown colder, much colder. He’d noticed a temperature shirt earlier, but all the excitement had prevented him from noting that it seemed to have continued, and, by the looks of it, become more pronounced.
“We haven’t turned the heating off,” said Chalice, and there was a hint of worry in her voice.
Felix didn’t seem as concerned. “Well I can check it before we tidy up. First things first.” He started towards the stairs. Chalice started after him.
Felix didn’t get far. After two steps he froze as a woman’s scream exploded out of thin air. It was a cry of pure terror, a cry born from the edge of sanity, but none of them had chance to analyse it further, because a moment after the scream, twin gunshots rang out from up above them.
Chalice sighed. Her heels clicked twice on the floor as she walked to join Felix. He turned at her approach, and finally a light had gone on behind those eyes. He might not have known the exact nature of the shit he was in, but he clearly realised that he was up to his eyeballs in excrement.
Chalice smiled warmly. “Here’s the thing, Felix. My name isn’t really Kim Manners, I’m not really your mum’s work colleague, we haven’t been having a party and this, I’m afraid, isn’t really a water pistol.”
As she hefted the Uzi, Felix Carmichael grew pale, which was some trick considering how pasty he’d been to begin with. “Please don’t hurt me,” he whimpered.
Chalice merely sighed once more, then glanced towards Tyrell. “The scream had to have been Lucy.”
He nodded. “And the gunshots had to be Tom.” The pistol suddenly felt slick with sweat from his palm. “We could split up?” he suggested.
“To hell with that,” she replied, and he resisted the urge to let out a sigh of relief. “And to hell with Lucy. We’re going upstairs.” She looked at Felix. “All of us.”
Chapter thirty
It wasn’t the scream that precipitated Cheung’s double tap. As it reverberated through the room he’d tensed, his eyes narrowed to focus on the red painted dot on the gun’s foresight, and he’d taken a deep breath. Preparing himself for what was to come.
But he didn’t pull the trigger until the door burst inwards with so much force that the office chair was hurled across the thick carpet as easily as if the wheels had been gliding over polished wood. The chair banged into the desk by his side, and a moment later a gust of foul smelling wind washed over him.
The door was wide open, and though the doorway was clear of interlopers, still he couldn’t fight the urge to fire, two 9mm rounds blasting through nothingness before embedding themselves in the far wall.
The room wasn’t small, but it was still tight enough that the thunderclaps made his ears ring. The acrid smell of cordite hung in the air, along with wisps of dirty grey smoke that hovered above the pistol. The gale that had blown in through the door had abated, but there was still enough of a breeze to make the wisps seem to dance in the air like tiny spirits.
Despite the ringing in his ears he clearly heard someone outside of the room breathing, and despite the smell of the expended rounds he still smelt something else, the fetid odour of a neglected animal.
“What are you waiting for?” said Ibex.
Cheung licked his lips. He knew he should take his next volley, follow the plan, two shots to the right of the door, two to the left, but suddenly he was afraid. Sure he’d been scared before, but that was of a very real threat, of men with guns.
This…this was something else. He might have been expecting to die, but at least he’d had a clear understanding of how that death would come. A stun grenade rolled into the room, thunder and lightening exploding around him, deafening and blinding him, so that he wouldn’t see or hear the shots that would kill him.
Suddenly the situation seemed lot less clear, and for some reason that unsettled him more than the thought of being shot dead.
“Nobody to shoot at,” he yelled, though the words still seemed muffled to his damaged ears. He didn’t look at the American, didn’t take his eyes off the doorway.
There was nothing there. Except... His ears might be reverberating like the inside of a bell tower, but he wasn’t so stunned that he couldn’t realise that the breathing he’d heard had shifted its position, and was coming from inside the room, and was far deeper and more ragged than even the nervous exhalations of either he or Quintus Armstrong.
“For the love of God will you…”
The rest of Ibex’s words were drowned out as Cheung turned towards the American and fired. He kept the shot low, the pistol angled so that the bullet struck the floor between where he couched, and the bed.
“What the hell are you doing?” Quintus was clearly screaming, but tinnitus reduced it to barely a whisper. The American was standing on the bed now, back to the wall and a look of fear mixed with indignation on his face.
Cheung ignored him. It was a dumb thing to do but he stood up and moved away from what cover the desk had been providing. It had been feeble, but still he was more vulnerable now. Somehow he knew that it wouldn’t matter. He kept the open door in the periphery of his vision, ready to turn and shoot it anyone appeared, but his main focus was on the patch of carpet he’d just pumped a bullet into.
Ibex was looking as well, but his eyes quickly rose to stare directly at Cheung. The look in them said he thought the MI5 man was mad.
Thomas Cheung almost hoped he was mad, because the alternative was even less pleasant. Many times during his training, instructors had banged on about a spy’s sixth sense, and about how every agent worth his or her salt had one. They’d said that many an intelligence operative had been saved from capture or death b
ecause they’d suddenly felt that they were in danger.
As a rational man Cheung could accept that experience and perception might ring alarm bells. The vehicle parked too long on the road outside, the contact who suddenly seemed just a tiny bit too eager for a meeting, spotting the same face several times a day in different places. This made sense, but the way the instructors talked about it, it was somehow preternatural, extrasensory perception.
One particular instructor used to refer to it as his spidey sense.
So Cheung had nodded and smiled, but had never truly believed.
Until now. Because something was telling him, insisting, that there was someone, or something stood where he’d just put a bullet. Something he couldn’t see, but something he could hear, something he could smell.
I’m going mad, I must be…With the pistol still in his right fist, he reached forwards with his left hand, fingers outstretched as he prepared to put his hand through that vacuum that he knew was no void, that he knew was occupied.
“Why don’t you give me the gun if you’re not going to point it in the right direction, eh Tommy?”
His gaze snapped upwards to focus angrily on Ibex. As he did so something began to form, at the lower edge of his vision, something pale and nebulous.
He didn’t dare look back down again, because if he did he feared the thing would vanish once more. More than this he feared it wouldn’t, that it would become more substantial, and he would see it in all its terrible glory.
And he knew that whatever it was would be terrible, knew that if he did see it, it would be something that would haunt him forever.
Conversely he couldn’t shift his gaze further away from the forming thing either, because if he did he was certain it would somehow attack him, catch him off guard.
“Are you ok?” said the American.
