“No, don’t worry then,” Joseph said with a quick shake of his head, “let’s just get on. I’m eager to see the files.”
“I’m afraid I may not be much use if I don’t get some more caffeine into my system, Sir.”
“Go on then,” Joseph said with an urgent wave of his hand, “but straight there and straight back.” He looked hard at Cyril, “you understand?”
“Yes, of course, Sir.”
Cyril turned to go.
“Wait,” said Joseph.
Cyril stood and waited. Joseph picked up a pen from the coffee table and hurriedly scribbled something on the back of the letter from Cyril’s mother. He handed it to the profiler.
“What’s this?” asked Cyril.
“A safe-place,” Joseph stated simply. Cyril looked at him quizzically. “If at any time we get separated, we will meet there, okay?”
Cyril put the envelope into his pocket and nodded, then left the room.
Joseph heard the front door slam and decided to close his eyes for a few minutes. He woke with a jump, and wondered how long he had been sitting there.
“Cyril… Cyril?” he called gently into the still house.
There was no answer. A slight rustle outside the window caused him to jump up and hide behind the drapes. He peered out of the window. Nothing moved. The noise could easily have been a light gust of wind, but to Joseph’s experienced ears, something seemed wrong.
A noise then emanated from the back of the house; the rear door in the kitchen. The same vulnerable entrance he himself had used earlier. He pulled the gun from his waistband and made his way towards the unwelcome sound.
From the hallway he could vaguely see movement through the glass of the back door. Joseph steadied himself and trained the Walther on the door. It began to open, very slowly. A figure squeezed into the kitchen, unaware of the firearm pointed directly at them. The stranger then looked up and noticed Joseph.
Like most of us, the expression, ‘I’d seen a ghost’, had always been metaphorical to Joseph, but for the first time in his life he froze, actually believing he was seeing a real ghost. His gun dropped to his side, and his mouth sagged open.
“Tilda!?”
His dead wife looked at him and smiled.
“Hello, Joseph,” she said.
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Chapter 15
It sounded so clichéd, but he couldn’t help himself.
“But... you’re dead,” he said.
Tilda snorted awkwardness through her nose.
“You don’t believe your own eyes any more?” she asked. Joseph shook his head; his lips trembling. She looked him up and down. “Is that a gun in your hand,” she said, “or are you just pleased to see me?”
He swallowed loudly.
“Sorry,” he responded, putting the gun back into the waistband of his trousers. “Am I… hallucinating… or are you… real?”
Tilda moved unthreateningly towards him, and held out her left arm. She stooped slightly, and with her free right hand guided his to her extended arm. He felt her skin, tentatively at first, then sank his fingers into her flesh.
“Fuck… fuck!” he wailed through moist eyes, “how are you here?… I buried you… I fucking buried you!”
She took him in her arms, and held him tightly.
“You buried a box of stones, my love. Just a box of stones,” she explained soothingly.
Without warning, Joseph suddenly pushed her away. He took a pace backwards; his face set.
“How… how… could you do that to me? How could you do that?”
“I would never have done that. I could never have done that. Joseph, listen to me…”
“Fuck you!… Fuck… you!”
The words fell out of Joseph’s mouth, almost unintelligibly.
“Joseph… please listen to me. I was being held by the CIA.”
“The CIA?” Joseph said, “I don’t understand.”
She reached out both of her hands, attempting to take both of his. He evaded her half-heartedly, but her tenacity won him over. He let her hold his hands, but retained his physical and emotional distance.
“After the car accident, the CIA held me hostage at the hospital. They let SIS believe I was dead. I… wasn’t even close to that. Look at me, Joseph.” She stood back a little. “Look at me. It’s only been a few days… look, there’s barely a scratch on me.”
Joseph studied his wife.
“But why would the CIA do that?”
He looked into her eyes. All he could see was the woman that had saved him from himself. The woman that had enabled him to feel again.
“They thought… they thought you had gone bad… and… they thought you had taken me with you.”
“They thought what?” the pitch of Joseph’s voice rose in disbelief.
“They thought… you were leading a renegade group against them.”
“What the fuck!”
“I know, my love,” Tilda said with great sympathy, “I know. It’s fucking crazy. You are the truest person I have ever known.”
“I am!” he stated emphatically.
“I know… and I told them so. So, they let me go.” She smiled a big disarming smile. “And here I am.”
Joseph sighed heavily, then frowned.
“How did you find me?” he asked.
Tilda laughed gently.
“Listen, I know I said that there’s not a scratch on me, but I could really do with sitting down.” Her knees buckled slightly. “I’m feeling a bit faint.”
Joseph led her into the front room and guided her to the sofa.
“Thanks, Sweetheart,” she said. “We need to make plans. We can’t stay here. I convinced them enough to let me go, but I don’t think they’re completely convinced. Do you have any idea where we could be safe? I mean… do you know anyone… someone that can hide us away until we work out what to do?”
“Just stop for a minute,” Joseph said holding his hands up, then placed them both onto his face. He shook his head and breathed heavily. “I… I…”
“What is it, Joseph? Talk to me,” Tilda said.
There was a noise at the front door. They both tensed. Joseph drew his gun, and held his right hand up in front of Tilda. He indicated that she should stay put. Joseph moved stealthily into the hallway. Like the back door, the front also had a large glass panel, through which Joseph could see movement. With great speed he traversed the distance to the door, threw it open and secured the person outside in a head-lock. He pushed the muzzle of the gun against the temple of the intruder’s head. The man in the head-lock awkwardly raised a carton of milk into the air.
“Please, Sir!” pleaded Cyril, loudly, “it’s just me, Cyril… with the milk!”
Claude Maddison sat in the vehicle with three other men. Attached to his belt was a gun holster from which protruded the handle of a pristine Beretta PX4 Storm.
“Listen everyone,” Maddison said forcefully, “we do this by the numbers, okay? If anyone fucks up you’ll have me to face, right?”
The driver of the vehicle called to Maddison over his shoulder.
“That’s the house ahead, Sir. I suggest we park in that side street.”
The car glided to a stop, and the four men got out.
“Excuse me, Sir,” asked one of the men, “is Proctor so dangerous that we need this many people to bring him in?”
“Listen,” Maddison stated, “severity of the target’s threat is not the only consideration. The importance of the target must also be taken into account.”
“Sorry, Sir, but what’s so important about a Level Six Profiler, Sir?”
“Simmons wants this man in his office, yesterday! That constitutes top priority for me.” Maddison waved his hands to gather the men around him. “Right, you two take the back. We’ll go in at the front. And…” he emphasised, “… the guns are just for show. I don’t want any bullets flying around, okay?”
Maddison and the driver w
alked along the path to the front door. The driver unclipped the securing clasp on his gun’s holster.
“Keep it in your pants, soldier,” said Maddison sternly.
“Just for show, Sir. I got it.”
Maddison rang the bell. There was no answer. He stepped back first inspecting the house, then looking up and down the street. He moved to the door again and rang a second time. After a few seconds had passed he raised his wrist to his mouth.
“On my count we light the candle.” He stood back and nodded at the other man. “Three… two… one… go, go, go!”
The driver shouldered the door off it’s hinges, and they ran into the house. Simultaneously, a splintering sound came from the back door. The two, two-man teams met mid-house, then instantly spread out. Maddison and the driver taking the lower floor and the other two racing up the stairs.
Maddison stood in the middle of the front room. The crashing from the other rooms diminished, then stopped. One by one, Maddison’s team convened in the front room. Each entered and shook their heads in an unambiguous negative.
“Fuck… fuck… fuck!” shouted Maddison, each utterance growing in volume and frustration.
Tilda had insisted that they needed to leave the house immediately. Although they could extrapolate from what they knew, what Simmons might know, there was no telling what the CIA knew. Tilda believed that agents could come crashing through the door at any minute. However, Joseph and Cyril were less worried. It would be a while before either of the two secret services made the connection between the two of them.
Arbitrarily, they had started heading north, but had no idea where they were going. They cruised along the M11 motorway in Cyril’s Ford Fiesta, all three deep in thought.
“Tilda,” said Joseph, “there’s something you need to know.”
They were both sitting in the back of the car. She turned to him.
“What?”
“Look, it’s complicated, but it appears that…”
“What?” she repeated, laughing awkwardly.
“… I am… apparently… the leader of a… renegade group of agents.”
“But… what do you mean, ‘apparently’?”
“You’re not the only one the CIA are fucking with. They took me hostage as well. They tortured me and gave me something… a drug… I can’t remember anything about… Well, there’s some sort of subversive plan that I’m, apparently, involved with… together with these other agents. But I don’t remember what it is.”
“Subversive?” she questioned.
“Well, something against the services. There’s something wrong; Simmons, the CIA… I don’t know how deep it goes, but from what I understand, I was striking out against them. They don’t know what it is I’m supposed to be planning, but more to the point, neither do I… not since they drugged me.”
Tilda shook her head in disbelief.
“What the hell… The CIA were right about you?”
“No… no,” Joseph said taking Tilda’s hand, “I know that if I was going against them, it’s because they had gone bad, not me.”
“How do you know? How can you be so sure?”
“Look at me Tilda. Who am I? I may be many things, but I’m not bad.”
Tilda stared at him.
“And all this was going on under my nose, and I had no idea?”
“I suppose so,” Joseph shrugged, “but I don’t remember anything about it.”
They talked for some time, then fell into silence. Joseph stared out of the window. Finally, he turned back to Tilda. He felt he had more he needed to say to his resurrected wife, but her eyes were closed.
“Cyril,” he said turning to the driver, “let’s go over what we know about the five Bedfellows, again.”
“Right, Sir…”
“Do you have to keep calling him ‘Sir’?” Tilda interjected.
“I thought you were asleep?” said Joseph.
“No,” she said, “just resting my eyes.”
“I quite like him calling me ‘Sir”,” said Joseph.
“Me, too,” added Cyril, “seems you’re out-voted, Ma’am,” he said with finality, then turning his attention back to Joseph, continued. “Apart from yourself, there are five other people. I’m pretty confident that one is at the Treasury, one in the Judiciary, another in politics – maybe a lobbyist or consultant, one in mainstream media – probably the BBC, and the last in heavy industry.”
“But what are they up to?” asked Tilda.
“I’m afraid we don’t know, but we do know it’s big, very big,” informed Cyril. “The frustrating thing is – you, Sir. Although we are blessed with all the information we need, it’s locked up in that head of yours.”
Joseph had gone silent, but his thoughts rumbled as loudly as the car’s tyres. Suddenly he spoke.
“Cyril, what would you do if you had some important information locked in a safe that you couldn’t open?” Joseph asked cryptically.
“Find a locksmith, Sir?” Cyril responded, “… Ah, I see, Sir… very clever.”
“What are you two talking about?” Tilda demanded.
“Do you have a particular locksmith in mind, Sir?” Cyril continued, ignoring Tilda.
“I do, Cyril, I do. One of the most brilliant safe-crackers I’ve ever known. Cyril, pull in at the next services and I’ll give them a call. See if they’re still in the business.”
After a short drive further up the motorway, Cyril turned onto a slip road and parked. The three made their way into the services.
“I’ll find a phone and call my guy, then I’ll be straight back here. So, ten minutes?” said Joseph.
“I just need a pee, Sir,” Cyril added.
“Me too,” Tilda threw into the mix.
Joseph walked towards the telephones, and Cyril and Tilda towards the toilets. The two doors, ‘Ladies’ and ‘Gentlemen’ were next to each other.
“I guess this is where we part company,” Cyril joked.
“I guess so,” Tilda responded.
The two disappeared through their respective doors. Inside the ‘Gents’ Cyril was confronted with a ‘wet floor’ triangle. A hand written sign had been taped to it and read, ‘Out of Order’. Cyril sighed, turned around and headed out through the door by which he had just entered. Back in the throng of the main thoroughfare, he scanned the building looking for an alternative convenience. He spotted Tilda walking away at speed.
“Tilda!” he called to her. She didn’t respond. He increased his volume. “Tilda!”
This time she turned to him, looking a little shocked.
“Yours out of order as well?” he asked.
“What?”
“Your toilets are out of order as well, are they?”
She continued to look slightly dazed, then smiled.
“Yes,” she said, “they were out of order.”
She turned and carried on walking.
“Where are you going?” Cyril asked.
“For god’s sake! To find another loo,” she said angrily.
“But,” he suggested lamely, pointing in the opposite direction to her travel, “they’re over there.”
“No they’re not. They’re this way,” she insisted, “I am capable of finding a fucking toilet.”
She marched off in what Cyril was sure was the wrong direction.
Sherry was in her office waiting for something to break. She knew Joseph so well, and was sure she could get him, but first she needed to get ahead of him. Maybe Simmons did have people watching Joseph, but he was never going to let her at him. But for now she’d play ball, or at least let him think she was. The door opened and a young woman entered. She punched the air.
“We’ve got him, we’ve fucking got him!”
Sherry tried to control her excitement. This was a score she really needed to settle. It wasn’t just the bolt-cutter Joseph had jammed into her leg. No, there was a deep wound underneath that.
“We’ve just got word from one of our agents… they’re
in, and they think he’s about to give it all up, the whole fucking thing,” the woman continued.
She placed a file on Sherry’s desk and moved towards the door, then turned at the threshold.
“Hey, Sherry?”
Sherry’s eyes were already devouring the file. She looked up.
“You got him, Sherry. You finally got him.”
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Chapter 16
Cyril’s Fiesta came to a stop outside a suburban, end-of-terrace house. Tilda, Joseph and Cyril got out and walked to the front door. Joseph swung the brass door knocker a couple of times. The door was opened by a slim man in his late thirties. The four people stared benignly at each other.
“Long time no see,” said the slim man.
“How’s it going, Will?” said Joseph.
“Good,” he said, then turned to Tilda, “nice to see you again, Tilda.” He looked at Cyril. “You, I don’t know.”
“Cyril Proctor,” offered Cyril, “SIS Level Six Profiler.”
“A new boy, eh?” commented Will.
“Why do you say that?” Cyril asked.
“Old-timers like us,” he indicated Tilda, Joseph and himself, “still call the place MI6.”
They went into the house and settled into the living room. The hall they passed through was piled high with books and magazines. The living room was no less cluttered.
“So you’re William Mitchum?” inquired Cyril.
“I am,” said Will.
“I’ve heard about you.”
“Should I be pleased or offended?”
“I only know what I’ve read. You, Sir, know the truth.”
“So what have you read?” Will asked.
Cyril, realising he may be getting deeper than necessary, deferred to Joseph with a subordinate look. Joseph smiled and raised his eyes. Cyril turned back to Mitchum.
“You’re usually referred to as the Safe-Cracker, which does not do your considerable skills justice. It is believed you wrote the book on effective torture techniques virtually single-handedly. You have cracked people, and subsequently cases, that others believed un-crackable. When it comes to the human mind there are no doors you cannot open or crash through. General opinion, in the business, cannot work out if you are a force for good or a monster.”
If The Bed Falls In Page 12
