by Mike Binder
She remembered, she told him she did, and now she was dressed, dressed from that night, and then she was dressed in the suit she wore the morning they crashed into the sea together, and it was ripped and covered in her blood, and now he wasn’t laughing—he was angry and intent on driving the Bentley into the Serpentine. He picked up speed. She begged him to stop. He wasn’t having it. They drove into the empty pond and the car sank, sank as if it were a cold blue ocean they were sinking into, not a slimy pond, and then she was unclothed again and he was laughing once more, wildly alive and happy as they both drowned together.
She woke up uneventfully—not a jolt up, not even immediately. She just woke up, covered in a light night sweat. The dream could have been hours earlier, but she remembered it perfectly. She still smelled the stewy leather of the Bentley. She sat up. She needed more pills.
The bottle was empty.
* * *
JACK EARLY LIVED south of the Thames just below Croydon with his wife of twenty years, his two young daughters, and his fifteen-year-old son. It was a small three-bedroom home. He’d been Georgia’s private secretary for almost eight years. He knew her as well as anyone, which meant that he didn’t know her well. It was a nice-paying job—nothing extravagant, but the benefits were solid and he mostly enjoyed being part of “Team Turnbull.”
It wasn’t his first job at Number 10. He had been a “garden girl” for ten months before she took him on. The “garden girls” were the steno pool that typed up the speeches and documents that went out of 10 and 11 in a steady stream. Their warren of offices overlooked the back garden. The sobriquet dated as far back as Churchill’s day and stuck through the years, regardless of gender. Jack almost lost his job there once. He stood up to Gordon Brown, who had pushed aside a young typist in a fit of rage and took over the job at hand himself. It was the manner in which the PM spoke to the young woman that got under Early’s skin, and he had said so. Gordon Brown looked up at him as he typed, considering going off on the lanky young civil servant, the way a bear may consider eating a broken deer he’d found by the side of the river, but he grunted and thought better of it and went back to the computer terminal he had commandeered. Early’s job was saved, only to be lost a year later in a cutback.
He returned again in another year, tucked deep behind the coattails of the new chancellor of the exchequer, the very protective Georgia Turnbull. He took the job seriously, even if he did make a bit of a clown of himself from time to time, falling, tripping, and constantly saying the wrong thing. The fact was that she needed him. She needed someone watching over her at all times, someone to have her back. He was that someone and was proud of it, even if he had to do things he wasn’t sure were right. His job was to keep Georgia running. Georgia in turn would keep the trains, the clocks, and the banks flush and on time. He had to wrangle just her, and for his money he had the better end of the stick.
He sped into London from Croydon at four a.m. on a chilly Wednesday morning. He usually took the bus when he came in later, but this run was an hour or so earlier than normal. The streets were barren, he’d made almost every light, and so the ten-mile trip in to Number 11 that could sometimes take ninety minutes took only fifteen. He pulled around the back of the Horse Guards to the little-known rear entrance of Downing Street, used his key card at the rear security shack, drove his Ford Focus up to the lip of the garden, and stepped out into the cold morning air. It smelled of dry sand and horse manure. There was the usual fog in the air, so it remained rather dark despite the hour. He was going to light a smoke as he waited for Georgia, who, according to their time-tested drill, would wait for the most recent pass of the night guard on the back lawn, then sneak quietly out the rear door onto the Horse Guards Plaza. She had called him eighteen minutes ago. He had woken from a deep sleep, stumbled out of bed, and gotten here, but he was sure, knowing her as well as he did, that he had a good-size wait on his hands, so he prepared a hand-rolled cigarette.
The smoke never happened. She stepped from the shadow of an old elm tree. She had been waiting for him—maybe a first. She wore an oversize scarf that covered her hair, a large pair of sunglasses, a heavy brown wool overcoat, and an odd pair of boots that she hadn’t bothered to buckle up. She looked homeless, or at least hospital bound—nothing like the powerhouse she was. She had her walking cane with her again, something she hadn’t used much these last few days, he realized.
“Put the cigarette out. We don’t have the time. I want to beat the traffic.”
He nodded. “Yes, ma’am.”
She made a face and got into the passenger seat. She didn’t wait for him to come around and open the door. She was in a hurry.
They raced through the deserted streets, north now, up the hill past Holloway, past the gray streets of East Finchley and into Finchley proper. Thanks to the early hour, the trip took only twenty minutes from Whitehall. The only other vehicles on the road were by and large delivery trucks and vans. The traffic lights once again seemed to be on their side and they made good time, which made Early happy. He never felt right about taking Georgia on these little excursions, skirting security and protocol. He knew that he could lose his job for it. He also knew he could lose it for saying no, so he took the option that left Georgia as happy as it was possible to have her.
They pulled onto High Street, rolled past the Turnbull Pharmacy—her father’s place—drove up to the end of the block, and circled back around through the alley. Early pulled as close to the back door as he could get and kept the car running while she got out and fumbled for her key. Neither said a word to the other. They had already made this trip several times in the last year or so. Lately they were spaced closer and closer together. He wondered, as he watched her sneak in the back door of the shuttered chemist, if he should speak to her, sit her down, talk about seeking help of some kind. The idea seemed like a disaster as soon as he had it. He promised himself to not consider it again.
* * *
GEORGIA HAD WORKED in her father’s store as a teen. She worked in the musty shop alongside him all through school. He’d opened it when they first moved down from Glasgow in the late seventies, when she was just a year old. She knew the alarm code, knew which tiles creaked and which didn’t. She didn’t need to turn on a light; she made her way behind the counter and into the shelves of medicines and medical equipment. The work light on her father’s spot at the counter was always left on: part superstition, part security. It was the eternal beam, a small tubular beacon of shielded light cutting through the blackness that led her way back to the shelf she needed, to the little bottle of help that she pulled down off the top rack and placed in her pocket.
In this moment on each previous trip, she always considered taking a second bottle in order to make it easier on Early, so that they didn’t have to sneak back as often. She never did, though. One, because her mind always fooled her, told her she didn’t need them because she was about to quit and was ready to kick this dreadful need. Two, and more important, was the inventory process she knew the shop had, the rigorous pill count that one of the young employees would do once a fortnight.
One bottle gone would constitute a refill order. Two would demand that a pill audit list be cross-checked with past sales and then against current sales slips, which was the one thing she never wanted to trigger: the cross-check. She feared her father more than she feared the press, the party, the Tories, or the voters. “Dad” was the one thing she never wanted to go up against, never wanted to sully, embarrass, anger, or provoke. She loved her father profoundly, loved how proud she had made him all these years. She lived for his encouragement and support. These trips were launched against every fiber of her being; the very thought of letting him down in any way was horrid to her, so she never took more than one bottle.
This morning, though, she thought about a second bottle. The events at hand had weakened her. The odd thoughts swarming her mind, awake or asleep. Steel. Her lips. Her eyes. The way she looked, talked, laughed, and listened.
The tough, cute, stern little inspector. Steel and Roland. Life and death. The Party. Power. Roland. The responsibility she would now have. The opposition. Europe. Taxes. Donald Stanhope. David Heaton. The Mirror. The Telegraph. The Sun. So many things were on her mind at all times these days. It never stopped, never slowed down. Even asleep she was tortured.
This morning was a morning for a second bottle. This was a different time. It had to be worth the risk. She stepped back to the shelf, reached up, grabbed another bottle, put it with the first one in her jacket pocket, and briskly left the shop.
ON THE RUN ■ 4
The Great Western Railway Paddington Band was performing on the main concourse of the cavernous Victorian-era rail station. The band of older men and women, brass and woodwind players, performed on most Friday nights, and when they did, they trumpeted their special version of old-time joy throughout the congested rail terminal. The station was packed with travelers. The express from Heathrow was just settling into one of the glorious train sheds first built in the 1860s. Trudy Tatum was the first passenger off.
She scanned the crowd for Étienne. She couldn’t text him because her father had destroyed her phone. There would be hell to pay for running away like she did, she knew that. She couldn’t think of that right now. She needed to find her Étienne. She needed to hear him say what he had last texted her, that he wanted to spend the rest of his life with her. She had to see him say it, watch his lips move as he did. She needed to touch his face, stroke his hair, and hold him close as she responded in kind. She would figure a way to make it up to her mother and father later. Right now, Étienne was all that mattered.
Trudy searched every face, looked up and down, walked in and around the various benches, through the reuniting families, past bored travelers with their e-readers, others with noses buried in newspapers or chatting away on mobile phones. Each face that wasn’t Étienne’s was harder and harder to endure. She thought for sure that he would be there, waiting for her the minute she got off, as eager to make the connection as she was.
She moved slowly, sadly, toward the end of the train, closer to the concourse and the crowd of people listening to the big band, when she saw Elise, Étienne’s mother. Her heart almost burst. Why was she there? Had something happened to her sweetheart? Had her parents contacted her? Was she just going to be put back on the train and sent back to the airport, home to Chicago, never to see him again? She walked over to the woman, who was on her mobile, excitedly telling someone she had found Trudy. She hung up and addressed her in a similar comic version of the broken English that her son spoke.
“Trudy, thank God you are here. I was very upset to have not found you. Come quickly. We must leave.”
She didn’t wait for a response; she took Trudy by the arm and headed out toward the front of the station. Trudy stopped. The woman turned to her, annoyed as Trudy peppered her with questions.
“Where’s Étienne? Why isn’t he here? Why are you here? Where is he?” She was crushed that her love didn’t show, that he had sent his mother.
“He is at the hotel. He is very excited to see you, but we must go now, Trudy. Right now.” Once again she took the teen’s arm and led her down to the concourse. Trudy stopped again, her eyes liquid with the pain of a dream that had been doused by cold reality.
“He couldn’t come himself? Why didn’t he come?”
Why are you here? is what she wanted to say. After all I went through to be here, he sent his mother?
The woman was through playing. She turned with a harsh glint to her eyes.
“We go now. It is enough talking. We go now. You must listen to me. We are all in trouble if you don’t.” She was harried, this woman, spooked. Her words had a strain to them. She was flailing around at the end of her wits. She snatched Trudy up and pulled her along.
Very suddenly someone grabbed Trudy from behind—a tall man with a dark head of hair and a friendly face. He clutched her firmly, stopping both the French woman and Trudy in their tracks.
“Hello, Trudy. I’m a friend of your mum’s. You’ll be going with me, Princess.”
He had a thick British accent and a deep, comforting voice. She had no idea who he was, but he sure seemed to know her.
“I’ve just spoken to Mum. She wants me to ring her straight up, so you two can speak.”
The French woman pulled Trudy away, her voice cracking in desperation, “No, you come with me, Trudy. Right now.” She pulled her by her collar, ramming them through the crowd of people, but the British man, the one claiming to be a friend of her mom’s, wasn’t giving in.
“No, sorry, love, but this girl’s going with me tonight. Back to her mum and dad.”
He brushed Elise off Trudy, pulled Trudy close, and stood in between the young girl and the French woman. Once again the crowd of departing and arriving passengers washed over and around them, cascaded past, oblivious to the struggle taking place over Trudy. Elise came at her again; the tall British man pushed the tiny French woman away with a long, strong arm just about as thick as her whole body. Elise fell backward and tumbled against a pillar. The man took it as a chance to move on, and he did. He put his arm around a very confused Trudy.
“I recognize you from Facebook, in case you’re wondering how I knew it was you. Your mum and I are Facebook friends. Of course we go back a hell of a lot further than Facebook, that’s for damn sure.” They had just about made their way out to the front of the station, past the brass band, when Trudy was aware that Elise was back. She didn’t see the knife, not at first.
“This girl goes with me!” She got up close to Richard and flung herself at him. He made a face, a grimace. She pulled back. Now Trudy saw the knife, covered in blood. She saw the side of the big man’s shirt pool with dark liquid. She saw him hobble back on the balls of his feet, unsure what had hit him. A few people started to recognize the drama unfolding. Someone yelled, but they were so close to the brass band, now playing a tune from Mary Poppins, that not many people heard the scream.
Trudy was grabbed again. She was dizzy with fright. She wanted to throw up. Elise used the confusion to whisk her away. She held the small girl tightly now, the knife hidden in her pocket, purposefully hurting Trudy’s arm, twisting it. She had been sternly told not to make a scene and now she had done even worse. She had stabbed a man. It wouldn’t be long before the flames of panic would ignite the station. She needed to flee, needed desperately to get Trudy out of there.
As they got free of the crowd, Trudy had had enough. She pushed Elise off her with a violent lunge. She had seen the bloody knife even if everyone else somehow hadn’t. She screamed at the top of her lungs and shoved Elise again. The French woman went flying into the back of one of the brass players seated in the folding chairs. Several of the band members stopped playing, Elise got up quickly, ran toward Trudy, and grabbed her by the hair, her eyes crazy now. The knife was out of her pocket again, suddenly making her way toward Trudy, attempting to jab it into her side.
Out of nowhere Elise was torn off her and thrown a good five feet into the middle of the band members. The show was now over. People were pushing and yelling, screaming and running away in the early stages of terror. It was the man, the tall man who claimed to be a friend of her mother’s. He grabbed Elise and threw her forward with an angry intensity, slamming her headfirst into a pillar. She hit the post with a velocity that stopped her cold. She fell backward and dropped to the ground like a bag of rocks.
The British man turned, saw Trudy, ran over, picked her up in his arms, and tore through the crowded station as if he were a stallion breaking free from a barn. Trudy didn’t know why Elise had flipped out like she had, but for some reason she felt safe with this man; she somehow knew he wasn’t going to harm her. His shirt was covered in blood but he kept going, smiling at Trudy, telling her to be calm, that everything was going to be okay. He was even trying to make her laugh.
“I was actually enjoying those old folks in the band, too. Shame they had to cut it sh
ort.”
The entire station was ablaze now with hysteria. Trudy looked back over the man’s shoulder and saw that Elise was up again, with the knife, slashing at several people who were trying to help her out. Two policemen had run over and were carefully trying to calm the madwoman down. The man whose arms she was in used the excitement to run through the crowd and outside toward Paddington station’s taxi entrance. Once outside, he set her down and quickly moved them along, never looking back, never missing a stride, until the two men in suits stopped them both cold.
They were younger, thick like him, in nondescript business suits. One of them, a man with a thin mustache, punched the man claiming to be her mum’s friend in the face, and when he did, her stallion’s knees gave out and he fell to the ground. The other one of them, a smaller man, grabbed Trudy and tried to whisk her into a waiting car. The stallion quickly got to his feet. The mustached man pulled a gun. Trudy screamed but she needn’t have worried. Somehow the stallion wrestled the gun away and just as swiftly turned it around and began to beat the mustached man on the head with the gun’s butt until the man finally collapsed to the ground in pain. Before he could land, the stallion had come over to the littler man and pulled him off Trudy with twice the force he had used on Étienne’s mother. The little man put a gun to Trudy’s head and threatened to fire it, but even that didn’t stop her stallion. He grabbed Trudy away and wrestled with the little man, slamming his head into the side of the car over and over, until the small man finally passed out.
A crowd had developed. The stallion was winded. He tried his best to steady himself. He saw Trudy and saw the mustached man getting back up to his feet. The stallion came over in a flash and kicked him hard in the head before he could rise: the man dropped flat to the cement.
The mysterious man—the stallion, her mother’s friend—turned once again to Trudy. He nodded, was strained from a lack of oxygen, but somehow managed to pick her up over his shoulder and run. They crossed quickly to another street, hit the main road, and then darted off into an alleyway of small mews homes just a block or so up.
