The Rhythm Section--A Stephanie Patrick Thriller

by Mark Burnell

  ‘This must have hurt,’ he says, running a fingertip over the disk of ruined skin.

  ‘More than you can imagine,’ I tell him, praying he won’t ask for details, that he won’t force me into yet another spree of lies.

  We are silent for a while and begin to drape our discarded clothes around ourselves without actually getting dressed. Perhaps this is because we know we will make love again. I feel that Frank has something to say and I am soon proved right.

  ‘Do you think of the future much?’ he asks.

  What a question to put. To me, of all people. ‘I’m starting to,’ I admit.

  ‘Me too.’

  Not for the same reason, I’m thinking.

  ‘It’s been a long time since I’ve looked ahead,’ he tells me. ‘After Karen left me and after Rosa died I just didn’t see the point. Especially after Rosa. Even after the grief had settled down, I couldn’t bring myself to make plans. It seemed cheap at first, and then it just seemed like a waste of time. I went from day to day, then week to week. And since then, that’s always been enough.’ He turns to face me fully. ‘But not any more.’

  I am petrified that he is going to do something crazy like tell me that he loves me or, even worse, propose to me. If he does, part of me will melt. But another part will be apoplectic, or miserable, or something equally inappropriate. That’s the trouble with falling for me: you get all of me and all the different versions of me. Love me, love my secret family. The question is, who would be the object of that love? Stephanie? Petra? Marina? Or a blend of all three, perhaps?

  Frank says, ‘You’re bringing me back, Marina.’

  Which is exactly the way I feel about him. He’s hit the perfect note. I nod in agreement, which appears to surprise him.

  ‘It’s true,’ I tell him. ‘Ever since I was young, there’s been something missing. And as time has moved on, I feel, somehow, that I’ve been drifting further and further away from it. But now I feel I’m getting closer, getting warmer.’

  Frank takes my hands in his. ‘I’m falling in love with you, Marina. I can’t help it.’

  I don’t know what to do. Verbally, I want to reciprocate but I know that I will never succeed in forcing that word past my lips. Frank’s tearing me apart and doesn’t even know it.

  I say, ‘No one has ever felt like that about me.’

  ‘That you know of.’

  ‘No,’ I insist. ‘There’s been no one. How could there have been? The boys I knew when I was young and the men I’ve known since then …

  I run out of steam.

  ‘There must have been one.’

  I think of Keith Proctor. ‘There might have been. But nothing came of it.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘He went away. He had no choice.’

  Frank kisses me and I think about what he’s said. I am drifting back towards the shore. He’s right. I am losing my appetite for revenge because it cannot compete with love. Frank is resurrecting me. If I am not careful, there may be a danger that he could create a complete human being out of me.

  I smile ruefully and say, ‘It’s strange but I’ve always resisted moments like this. In my mind, that is. In practice, they never occurred. I never let them. I never let anyone get close because it was easier and safer not to. Not my parents, not even my brothers or my sister. I was scared to open myself up to anybody. I only saw it in terms of becoming vulnerable. But it’s different now.’

  Frank looks a little perplexed. Perhaps this is because he is unused to any form of outpouring of emotion from me.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ I ask him, when the pause stretches beyond reason.

  ‘I thought you were an only child.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You told me that you were an only child. But just now you mentioned brothers and a sister.’

  I feel my cheeks flushing. As the words of denial form in my throat, I stop them. I cannot lie to Frank now. Not at a moment like this when we are confessing truths. I’ve lied so much already but I will not corrupt the feelings that I am expressing to him. And yet I cannot tell him the whole truth. Frank sees something in my face and we both know that this moment is pivotal.

  I take a deep breath. ‘I had two brothers and one sister. Now, I only have one brother left and I never see him. My parents are dead, too.’

  This takes a moment to absorb. ‘Why didn’t you say so before?’

  ‘Because I couldn’t. And I still can’t. I shouldn’t even be telling you this.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because it could be dangerous for both of us.’

  He squints at me. ‘What are you involved in, Marina?’

  I bite my lip to buy some time. Then: ‘Did you mean those things you were saying?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  ‘Well, I meant all the things I was saying, too. No matter what happens, I want you to remember that.’

  ‘What’s going to happen?’ Franks asks.

  ‘I don’t know yet.’

  ‘Look, I…’

  I place a finger on his lips to silence him. ‘Don’t ask. I don’t want to lie to you. Not now.’

  Frank isn’t sure what to do or say. He looks away from me.

  ‘I want to be with you,’ I tell him. ‘And that’s why I’ve got to make this right. And if you want to be with me, you’re going to have to let me.’

  He doesn’t respond and I don’t expect him to.

  I venture one last question. ‘If we had to disappear, could you live with that?’

  * * *

  A saxophonist was playing ‘In The Mood’ at the foot of the escalator at Piccadilly Circus. Passengers tossed coins on to a grubby grey blanket that he had spread on the ground at his feet. The acoustics flattered his meagre talent. Petra looked at her watch. She was five minutes ahead of the four o’clock schedule. At the top of the escalator, she passed through the exit barrier and headed for the phones, as Basit—Reza Mohammed—had instructed her. Both men were already there. Mirqas and Yousef. They exchanged nods with her but neither of them said a word.

  They walked along Shaftesbury Avenue and turned into Wardour Street. Petra tried her best to ignore the proximity to her past. The building they entered had been under development when she had been Lisa and when Keith Proctor had come to visit her. Now it was open. The façade had tones of Art Deco running through it, but the inside was just a collection of unimaginative office units. A restaurant and bar occupied the ground floor; zinc tables, white walls, lots of glass, lots of hard edges and empty spaces. The entrance to the upper floors was a door to the left of the restaurant. According to the copper board just inside, the building was home to a catering firm, a film production company called Unicorn Films, a travel agency specializing in long-haul discounts, the administrative office of a clothing firm and a secretarial agency. The travel agency was located on the top floor. Petra wondered why they hadn’t picked up their tickets from RJN and assumed it was part of Serra’s rigorous security procedure. Keep everything separate. Divide and rule. Don’t let any one part of the plan be in a position to compromise any other part and, therefore, by extension, the plan in its entirety.

  The office was L-shaped. There were pictures of Bermudan golf courses and Mexican ruins pinned to the walls behind the operators. Yousef spoke with a skinny woman in a tatty turquoise cardigan. A cigarette was wedged into the corner of her mouth. She sorted through a drawer full of paper and found the package—a bulging envelope secured by a rubber band—which she handed to Yousef, who put it into the inner pocket of his ill-fitting grey jacket.

  They were halfway down the stairs from the second floor when two men emerged from the offices of Unicorn Films on the first floor. They moved on to the landing and turned to look at the three strangers coming down the stairs towards them. Petra found her attention drawn to the smaller of the two. As she got closer, she recognized the sickly skin, the bulging eyes, the crooked yellow teeth. And she saw recognition in the same instant that she gave it out
herself.

  Surprise reduced his voice to a rasp. ‘I don’t fucking believe it!’

  Dean West.

  26

  West was wearing a burgundy knee-length leather coat that Petra remembered from her past. Beneath it was a black polo-neck—another favourite—camouflage combat trousers and Caterpillar boots. The protection standing behind him was new but he belonged to a general category that was familiar; six foot five, stubble for hair, a dark green Armani suit, a diamond ear stud.

  ‘Well fucking well,’ West muttered. ‘What a fucking surprise. How you been, Steph?’

  Her own name paralysed her.

  ‘You’ve scrubbed up nice, I must say. Got rid of that dye job and put some meat on your bones. Betcha charging twice as much these days.’

  Petra glanced at Mirqas and Yousef, who were looking at each other in confusion.

  ‘What’s the fucking matter, Steph? Not allowed to speak unless your friends say so? Bet the bastards make you walk behind them in the street, too. Barry said he thought you’d started shagging the towel-heads in Mayfair but I said, “Leave off. There’s no fucking way those tossers are gonna start shelling out five hundred upwards for some fucked-up slut like Steph.” Looks like I was wrong.’

  When she spoke, still employing the slightly Germanic accent that had become second nature to her, Petra’s stare glinted with hardness. ‘I’m sorry. You’ve made a mistake.’

  ‘What’s with the Eva Braun? Anyhow, you’re the one who’s made the fucking mistake. That twat you laid out with the bottle cost me large. The filth shut down Brewer Street for about three months on account of what you done.’

  Mirqas and Yousef’s anxiety had bloomed into alarm. Petra turned to them and saw in their eyes that she had already lost them. Yousef began to move down the stairs. West pointed at him. ‘Oi, Noddy! Stay there!’

  People always underestimated West because he was slightly built but his rage was more than adequate compensation for his lack of physical presence. Petra recognized the signs; the pursing of the bloodless lips, the wildness in the eyes. The minder was familiar with the routine too. He reached inside his Armani jacket and produced a 9mm Heckler & Koch from the waistband of his trousers.

  Petra felt numb. Everything was disintegrating. She thought of the journey she had taken from Brewer Street. Around the world, through a procession of months, through a slew of identity changes, she had arrived at this moment just a few yards from where she had started. Was all she had endured to count for nothing?

  Suddenly, Yousef was holding a gun too. A Walther P88. Petra had assumed neither he nor Mirqas would be armed. West’s frog-like eyes bulged in their sockets. ‘Who the fuck are these two jokers, Steph?’

  ‘My name isn’t Steph.’

  ‘Stop messing around and answer the bloody…’

  Something snapped inside her.

  It happened in a fraction of a second, but the effect was colossal. For the first time in months, she felt no pressure. In an instant, it evaporated. The burden of lying to Frank—and the burden of being Petra for Serra—was suddenly gone. And the fury that replaced it was pure and liberating.

  West’s jaw was still pumping, his mouth opening and closing, but she didn’t hear a word he was saying. Hand on the rail, she leapt over the banister and lashed out with her left foot, catching the protection on the side of his face. Large as he was, he still spun like a top. The Heckler & Koch went off once before slipping from his grasp. The bullet hit Yousef in the neck. West and Mirqas were stunned to stillness and silence. The protection was quick and reached for the weapon, despite the blow. But Petra beat him to it. Nevertheless, he grabbed her ankle and yanked it, pulling her off-balance. Automatically, Petra twisted round and shot him through the top of the head.

  The second crack of gunfire filled the stairwell and left a ringing in her ears. She shook the dead hand from her foot. By now, Mirqas had pushed past West and was descending towards the ground floor. West grabbed Yousef’s Walther P88 and turned to aim at Petra, but she was quicker. The first shot knocked him down. As he tumbled, she remembered him at his worst. She thought of the rapes and how the pain in her mind had lingered long after the bruises and grazes had healed. By the time she had rescued herself from these memories, the Heckler & Koch was empty.

  Petra inhaled the gun’s smoke deep into her lungs.

  Out of the corner of her left eye, she saw Mirqas at the foot of the stairs. Yousef was dead. She reached inside his jacket pocket and removed the envelope containing the air-tickets, stuffing them into her own coat pocket along with the Heckler & Koch. Then she was down the stairs and out on the street.

  Petra knew the shots would buy her time, particularly since there had been so many of them; she had fired eight or nine into West himself. That noise would compound the first thirty seconds of confusion for those who were nearby. She looked left and right. Half the people on Wardour Street were standing still, looking at one another, which made it easier to spot Mirqas. He’d turned right.

  Past the amusement arcade, past the stalled lorry blocking the traffic, past St Anne’s Church, Petra kept Mirqas in her sight. He turned left on to Shaftesbury Avenue and looked back for a moment. Petra assumed that he’d seen her. He cut across the traffic without looking. There was a screech of rubber on tarmac. A black taxi swerved to avoid him and clattered a dispatch-rider, knocking him from his bike. Petra wove in and out of stationary vehicles. She saw Mirqas turn into Gerrard Street and Chinatown—he was turning back on himself—and saw him exit at the bottom of Wardour Street, where he turned left.

  Petra needed him to slow down so she slowed herself and watched him turn left into Leicester Square. She took Lisle Street, sprinting past the back of the Empire cinema. She caught a glimpse of him down Leicester Place. He was still running, but not as fast as before, half-turning to see if he was still being followed and appearing somewhat perplexed to find that it didn’t seem he was. Petra knew he would keep moving and that it would probably be in the same direction; that is, away from his pursuer the last time he had seen her. Petra accelerated into the short stretch of Newport Street. By the time she had turned right on to Charing Cross Road, she had slowed to a walk.

  She glimpsed him for a moment. Head spinning, almost colliding with several passers-by, he was frantically checking every face for hers. Then he ducked into Leicester Square Underground station. Petra followed but couldn’t see him once she was inside. She bought a ticket, passed through the barrier and was presented with a choice. Piccadilly Line or Northern Line?

  She chose Piccadilly. She heard the rumble of an approaching train while she was halfway down the escalator. She hurried her descent, taking three steps at a time. Then there was another choice to be made. Eastbound or westbound? An eastbound train hurtled into the station, carriages grinding, metal wheels shrieking. The platform was crowded. She couldn’t see Mirqas so she rushed across to the westbound platform, which was virtually empty, a train having just departed. He wasn’t there. She returned to the eastbound platform. Those disembarking were heading for the escalators while those who had been waiting were now boarding. The mass of movement was hopeless. Perhaps she should have chosen the Northern Line after all. The doors began to close.

  Petra just made it, squeezing through the narrowing gap. The train began to pull out of the station. That was when she saw him. On the platform. She pressed her face to the glass and he turned round. Their eyes met. No! It wasn’t him. Similar, but not the same. She pressed the palm of her hand to her chest and closed her eyes. When she opened them, several passengers were staring at her.

  Leicester Square to Covent Garden is one of the shortest stops on the entire Underground network. The train began to decelerate almost as soon as it was in the tunnel. What now?

  The doors opened. Only four people from her carriage were getting off. She leaned out to look along the platform and that was when she saw Mirqas again. There was no mistake this time. Two carriages ahead, his back was turned to
her. Petra let more passengers get between them and was about to step on to the platform herself when she saw Mirqas re-board the train at the next carriage.

  She stayed where she was.

  He got out at Holborn. So did many other travellers, which gave Petra some reasonable cover. But Mirqas didn’t leave the station. Instead, he transferred to the Central Line, heading west. Petra watched him meander towards the far end of the platform. There weren’t enough people on it to allow her to follow him. A train came in two minutes.

  Where are you going? What will you do now?

  He only stayed on for one stop, disembarking at Tottenham Court Road. Petra glanced at the electronic notice-board overhead. Another train was due in a minute. Mirqas was still going through the process of ensuring his safety but Petra could tell that his senses were dulling. The initial panic over, he would now be trying to think, trying to absorb and comprehend what had happened on the stairs, trying to figure out a plan. Just as she was.

  She reached the foot of the steps and saw that he was not rising towards the exit, but was ambling on to the eastbound platform. She stepped back out of his field of vision for a moment. A breeze began, teasing a piece of paper into a dance. Petra felt the vibrations from deep within the tunnel. A group of people hurried down the steps towards the platform, anxious not to miss the train. Petra allowed herself to be absorbed by them and moved on to the platform, which was not crowded. She saw Mirqas just ten yards away.

  He glanced at the group as a single unit, not scanning the individual faces within it, and thought nothing of it. They drifted down the platform, getting closer to him. Light began to emerge from the darkness of the tunnel, reflecting off the gleaming steel of the rails.

  She was behind him now, just five feet away. The group had moved on, their backs turned to them. The train roared out of the tunnel to their left and into the station. She looked right and saw that no one was watching so she stepped forwards until her mouth was just inches behind his right ear.

  ‘This is for Proctor,’ she whispered.