STANDPOINT a gripping thriller full of suspense

by DEREK THOMPSON

  “I’ll ring you back.”

  “No,” he insisted, “just text me.”

  “Okay. I’ll come over later tonight. You don’t sound good.”

  “Fine.”

  Back at the table, Karl was in full flow.

  “All Ulster men are romantics — it’s the Celtic blood; poetry is in our veins.”

  Thomas took his seat; the hammering in his chest had slowed a little.

  “I thought that was Guinness?”

  Karl’s eyes lit up at the prospect of a joust.

  “Whereas, your Yorkshireman . . . he has no finesse. It’s all whippets and coal.”

  Teresa turned towards Thomas. He pulled it together and went for broke:

  “Because of the light of the moon,

  Silver is found on the moor;

  And because of the light of the sun,

  There is gold on the walls of the poor.

  Because of the light of the stars,

  Planets are found in the stream;

  And because of the light of your eyes

  There is love in the depths of my dream.”

  “Well, well,” Karl mimed applause. “Is this a hidden side to you, Tommo?”

  Thomas smiled; more like a poetry book from a Leeds charity shop. One he’d bought, back in the day, to impress Miranda. Even now he could recall one or two, word perfect. The poet Francis Carlin would have been pleased, had he not been dead for a hundred years.

  The three of them found an easy rhythm of conversation, where nothing much was said, but everyone seemed to gel. Teresa continued to play one off against the other. Thomas saw early on that he was on to a loser; where Teresa was concerned, Karl was smoother than a vaselined billiard ball.

  As he watched Karl in action, it was hard to believe that his buddy was anything more. As if the previous conversation had never taken place. Then the text came in from Miranda. One word: yes.

  Chapter 6

  Miranda’s car was already at the end of his street. At first he felt relieved and then reality started to dawn. The charade he’d kept up for the last couple of years was about to come apart at the seams. He slowed, weighed down by the conclusion that he was as big a liar as Karl.

  She waved from the car as he approached. God knows how long she’s been waiting. Probably turned up, got no answer at the door, saw the car and decided to stay put, bless her.

  The car window slid down.

  “About time; shift your arse — this takeaway will be stone cold!”

  It was all he could do to stop himself from kissing her.

  She followed him inside and he heard the clank of the wine bottle in her coat pocket. With the oven on and the meal reheating, Miranda sprawled out on the sofa, leaving a deliberate space. He opted for the armchair and perched forward, cupping a loose fist.

  “Are you gonna tell me what’s up, then?”

  He rubbed a knuckle on his chin. This was it: the end of life as he knew it. “You know how I never talk about work? Well, it’s time to break that rule.”

  Miranda reached for her wine. Maybe she was trying to inoculate herself against bad news. He copied her, on the off chance that it might work.

  “What . . . what do you think I do for a living, Miranda?”

  She frowned.

  “We agreed that I’d never ask, just like you never ask about Mum and Dad’s business. You told me that you take photos and that’s good enough for me. I dunno, stuff like accident investigations, crime scenes, maybe? One time you also mentioned delivering packages . . .” she looked up, studying his face. “. . . And you said that it was all government work.”

  Which he translated as: ‘Is it really government work?’ He took a gulp of wine and felt the heat rise to his face. Let’s try a different approach.

  “Remember a couple of years back, when your dad was being fitted up by that dodgy copper.”

  “Course I do. Your pictures saved his bacon. What’s that got to do with your work?”

  Sod it, shit or bust.

  “That’s sort of what I do for a living, some of the time. You know, photographs, where people don’t know about it.”

  Miranda sat upright.

  “What? Like some sort of spy?”

  Nervous laughter followed, as if she wanted to be wrong about this.

  “Not exactly,” he looked away. “I do surveillance — pictures, film, audio.”

  The buzzer went off in the kitchen. Miranda got up. For a moment or two, he wondered if she’d be coming back.

  “Look Miranda,” he called out to the kitchen, “I owe you an explanation.”

  The only reply was the clattering of the oven door. Miranda returned with a tray full of tins. She spooned out the food and put his plate down beside hers.

  “Is it dangerous, then?”

  He’d seen her like this before, calm and controlled — on the outside. He shook his head and tried his best light-hearted smile — the sort people use at funerals when they’ve got nothing useful to say.

  * * *

  He started at the beginning — a straightforward Civil Service job, at State House in High Holborn. That much she already knew, but he sketched in some of the detail. The Patent Office was on floors three to fifteen, with the Royal Navy occupying ground to two. He mentioned the Russian gift shop across the street that everyone thought was a front for a spy-ring. Ironic now, all things considered.

  He glided over the backdrop to that time, when he and Miranda had separated, and the trench warfare that led up to it — no sense in raking up the past again. After the split, his lowly desk job had kept him going, somewhere to while away the day until he could photograph the underbelly of the city. Even lunchtimes had been spent taking pictures — in nearby Bloomsbury, or the odd panoramic shot from the thirteenth floor of State House. Hiding from life, like every other pen pusher who thinks — or hopes — that they’re destined for something better. And his personal pipe dream, back then, had been that the right portfolio could get him on to a national newspaper.

  There had been one particular man in the building who shared his fondness for unorthodox hours — an inhabitant of the fifteenth floor, where mere mortals weren't allowed.

  Comments in the lift about his choice of camera — the one he brought to work religiously, as if to say ‘fuck you’ to lifer colleagues — led to an invitation to photograph the skyline from the top deck, and the chance to show his wares to someone who shared his passion. That was how he’d met Sir Peter Carroll, founder and patriarch of the Surveillance Support Unit, although Thomas didn’t know that at the time.

  A few weeks later, an opportunity arose for some weekend overtime as a stand-in cameraman. And, he freely admitted, a little bit of intrigue and interest in a Miranda-less existence. Wind forward two or three months and he was called up to the fifteenth floor for a formal interview with Sir Peter and two lackeys, under the watchful eye of a painting of Churchill.

  He ended his monologue, swerving past any mention of the assignments themselves. Miranda’s eyes looked capable of swallowing him, as if she were physically seeing him in a new light. She drained her glass and set it down carefully on the table.

  “Mum and Dad aren’t gonna like this.”

  He nodded rhythmically; she was right. John and Diane Wright took a dim view of the establishment, and here he was, coming out of the secrecy closet. And when all was said and done, they were still family to him.

  An uneasy silence hung over them. Miranda finished her meal with the same fixed expression, as if she wanted to slap him, hard. He couldn’t really blame her.

  “So why tell me now?” she paused and folded her arms. “And how long has this been going on?”

  He put his cutlery down; his appetite had died.

  “A year or so.”

  “Bollocks!” she glared at him, “I don’t believe you.”

  “Well, maybe eighteen months, give or take.”

  She was still glowering.

  “Look, it’s no big d
eal — I just work in the background.”

  “Right, so what’s the story with the Irish geezer you were asking about?”

  He blew out a long breath; crunch time again.

  “I think someone might be checking up on me.”

  She started laughing; he hadn’t expected that.

  “Serves you bloody right — one of your lot is he? Or MI-27!”

  She turned away and a part of him died inside. Instinctively, he reached out and touched her arm. Her face changed. Scorn gave way to concern; that made him feel worse.

  “Why don’t you tell me about it — I’ll go stick the kettle on.”

  “I was at Harwich yesterday and I saw your brothers’ van coming off the ferry from Amsterdam. It was definitely Sam and Terry. I kept Customs off their back.”

  “No point me asking what you were doing there?”

  “My job. Look Miranda, I’m trying to help. The place is crawling with Customs and Excise at the moment. Whatever the boys are doing, they can’t do it there.”

  She opened her mouth to speak, but Thomas headed her off at the pass. “I don’t care what they’re up to. I just wouldn’t want any trouble for them.”

  She nodded, as if he’d just flashed the family loyalty card at her. “And the Irish geezer?”

  “Like I said, he could be investigating me.”

  “Could be?” she sounded exasperated. “For what — is he interested in the family?”

  “Honestly? I don’t know.”

  “Well, you better bloody well find out.”

  “Okay,” he conceded. “But will you help me warn the boys off, tomorrow?”

  She picked up the remote control and flicked through television channels. If she’d been a cat, her tail would have been twitching. She settled on a made-for-TV film of no interest to either of them. He stole glances at her as she sat there, avoiding eye contact. Surely he could trust her of all people?

  Out of desperation, he snorted like a horse and she stifled a smile; she always liked that. He nestled into her side of the sofa and felt her leg against his. Her handbag started buzzing.

  “Mobile,” she said, deadpan.

  Still not out of the woods yet then.

  “Hi Sheryl, how’s business — many punters in?” There was a long pause. Miranda’s eyes narrowed. “Oh, really. Alone?” she looked daggers at Thomas. “Keep him there . . . no, if he looks like he’s gonna leave, chat him up and spike his drink. I’m on my way.” She snapped the phone shut. “Your Irishman is at the club right now. Get your coat.”

  The car grumbled menacingly; Miranda held the wheel like it was a lifebelt.

  “Either you sort this today, or I will.”

  It wasn’t a request; it wasn’t even a threat. But he could feel the walls going up around her.

  “When we get there I’ll take the side door — you go in and speak to him.”

  He knew what else was coming.

  “Miranda, don’t call your brothers.”

  They stopped at the lights, opposite a billboard for a building society. An old advertising slogan popped into his head: because life’s complicated enough.

  * * *

  Miranda parked. He touched her shoulder lightly, but she shrugged it off.

  “You better deal with this, Thomas.”

  He pushed the swing door: high noon, in uptown London. There were maybe a dozen punters in the room and Karl was sitting in full view of the bar, reading a copy of Private Eye. He seemed engrossed in his magazine, chuckling away, giving every indication that he was enjoying himself enormously.

  Miranda appeared behind the bar and Sheryl sidled over to her, flattening her New Yorker tones to a whisper.

  “He’s been drinking a pint of shandy for ages.”

  “Shandy?”

  “Yeah, when he ordered it, he said that’s what real men drink these days!”

  Karl laughed aloud suddenly as if he were listening to every word.

  Miranda opened her mobile, selected a number carefully and held the phone up as if she was trying to get a signal. Thomas read her, loud and clear. Resolve this now or the Brothers Grimm would turn up, like working class cavalry. He couldn’t blame her. Nothing was more precious to the family than Miranda. He held on to that thought and tried to walk tall to the bar, clocking the cover of Private Eye — Tony Blair grinning like The Joker.

  He ordered a drink — Southern Comfort and lemonade — which Miranda made sure he paid for. Glass in hand, he drew up a chair and faced Tony Blair. Karl didn’t stir.

  “What are you doing here, Karl?”

  “Can’t a man enjoy a nice quiet drink and a read of his comic?”

  “Cut the bullshit, I’m not in the mood.”

  The magazine lowered like a drawbridge.

  “I’ve been asked to tell you, as a friend: the conversation we had earlier today — it never happened. It’s off limits — comprendez?”

  Thomas knew now how an ant felt under the magnifying glass. His friend was threatening him. For a second or two, he thought about smacking him one. But Karl was becoming a more unknown quantity every minute.

  “Then this place is off limits too. Understand?”

  Karl smiled a conciliatory smile.

  “Agreed. I take it that the staff are out of bounds as well?”

  No laughs today. They sipped their drinks in unison. Thomas felt the tension reach out across his shoulders. He held his position; hard, unyielding and still close enough to lamp Karl if the need arose.

  “One more thing Karl — there better not be any bugs here.”

  Karl reached into his pocket and Thomas flinched; they both saw it. Karl pulled out a small plastic case, and slid it across the table.

  “As a show of good faith. On Monday, we reset the clocks and it’s business as usual. Deal?”

  “Deal,” Thomas lifted the lid for an instant, clocked the electronic device then closed it carefully.

  Karl drained his drink and rolled up his magazine.

  “Well Tommo, I must be off. It’s been grand. See you at the office,” Karl picked up his glass and took it over to the bar.

  Sheryl started towards him but he carried on walking.

  “Nice meeting you . . . Miranda, isn’t it?”

  Thomas remained at the table, with his back to the bar, until Karl had gone. The door was still moving when Miranda sat down to join him.

  “He won’t come here again.”

  “Thanks,” she said quietly, staring at the table.

  His face softened and he rolled back his shoulders, like a boxer winding down after a successful bout.

  “And Thomas,” she was close enough to kiss him, close enough that he could smell her body’s scent below the perfume; “Don’t bring your work into my life again.”

  The blood drained from his groin in an instant. He palmed the plastic box into his pocket, locking eyes with her all the while.

  “I think I'd like to sweep this place for bugs, as a precaution. It’ll be Monday before I can get the equipment.”

  She nodded; maybe she was adapting more quickly than he’d expected. Leaps and bounds. Yesterday she only knew he was a photographer; today he was Spiderman.

  She snatched his glass away as she got up from the table.

  “You know your way home.”

  He swore under his breath and thrust his hands into his jacket, crushing his hand against the box until his fingers were numb.

  * * *

  Ten-thirty at night, the doorbell rang. He paused the film — a black and white comedy more than sixty years old. He was still smiling as he checked the silhouette through the glass.

  Miranda didn’t move; she kept that model profile thing going on, knowing its effect on him. He managed to open the door without ripping the handle off. “We never got to dessert,” she said, slinking past him, with an overnight bag over one shoulder and a carton of vanilla Haagen-Dazs in her hand.

  Chapter 7

  Thomas blinked, in the Sunday morning h
alf-light. All around him was the faint, unmistakable scent of ice cream. He pulled a spoon from under his shoulder and stretched his arm out, contacting Miranda’s leg. Oh yeah.

  She stirred, looked up at him like the cat that had got the ice cream and rewarded him with a delicious smile.

  “Well, we haven’t done that in a while.”

  She crossed her thigh over his and shifted closer — but not too close — honouring their unspoken rule: whatever happens today is only for today. And now it was tomorrow. He shaped a hand around her breast, but she held it to one side: down boy.

  “Let’s just sleep a while.”

  He closed his eyes and tried to think of something other than sex. Karl came to mind first, and he wondered what a therapist would make of that? Where did he stand with Karl now — could they really reset the clocks? He twitched and Miranda playfully slapped him to lie still. And what was Bob Peterson really doing on the scene?

  Miranda groaned in protest.

  “Look, if you really can’t sleep,” she flicked his erection and paused, opening her eyes wide to see his reaction, “Milk and one sugar, thanks.”

  He disentangled himself and reluctantly left the bed, glancing down at his misplaced enthusiasm. Not today, by the sound of things. The kettle took its time so he waited in the kitchen, taking the pistol stance and handling a lethal fork while doing replays in his head. Something else he hadn’t told her about.

  Miranda was feigning sleep when he returned to the bedroom, breathing a little too heavily — always a giveaway. He plonked the tea down and started gathering up clothes from around the floor. Along the way he lifted the ice-cream lid and flung it into a bin.

  “Aren’t you coming back in again?” she pouted, drawing back the sheet like the world’s best show and tell.

  He didn’t need a map and directions.

  * * *

  Miranda’s mobile alarm sounded at ten-thirty.

  “Get up you lazy bastard — I’ve got things to do. I need to stop by the club.”