If The Bed Falls In

by Paul Casselle

  Cyril drew breath.

  “And what’s your opinion?” asked Mitchum.

  “Well, if we want society to function, we must all play by the same rules. The problem is that those who want to game the system do not adhere to those rules. They cheat. We cannot take those people to task if we are bound by restrictive rules and they are not. But how do we maintain a cohesive and righteous social system if we, even temporarily, suspend the rules. For me there is only one answer,” he looked directly at Mitchum for the first time since the slim man had asked his opinion, “People like you… Sir.”

  “So you respect me, but don’t like me?” Mitchum suggested.

  “Whether I like you or not is subjective and immaterial. Do I respect you?… No, but I do need you, and I am grateful to people like you for making my life possible.”

  Mitchum looked at Joseph and sported a wry smile.

  “He says a lot, your man, but seems to manage to wriggle out of an actual opinion.”

  Joseph shook his head.

  “No, Will. I think he is speaking very plainly. As much as we may want to be seen as heroes, we aren’t even close. We do what needs to be done, and we do it in the shadows because no one wants to admit that our work is necessary. But they know, and we know, that it is.”

  “I agree with that,” Will interjected.

  “What we do, Will, is bad shit, but we do it for the greater good. We have to take it on our own shoulders.” Joseph was acutely aware of what he wanted to say, but lacked the courage to say it. He knew that whatever the truth was, people like them enjoyed their work, and that realisation remained too much for him to contemplate. “What we do,” he concluded, “is our choice.” He laughed to himself. “If you’re looking for respect… or love, choose a different profession.”

  Joseph sat deep into a comfortable high-backed armchair. Mitchum sat next to him.

  “So Joseph, I want you to close your eyes. I want you to let your mind go blank. To focus only on my voice. Hear everything else, but do not react to it; do not think about it. Let everything, except my voice, wash over you, and then let yourself drift away.” He paused for a moment. “I’m going to ask some simple questions. Don’t think about them, just let the answers come.” Joseph nodded. “What is your name?”

  “Joseph Miller.”

  “How old are you, Joseph?”

  “Thirty-nine.”

  “Who do you work for?”

  “MI6.”

  “What’s your earliest memory?”

  Joseph tensed slightly.

  “Just listen to my voice. Don’t try to blank anything out. Let everything in, but notice it and let it go… What is your earliest memory, Joseph?”

  “Wh… when… I was four… or five.”

  “Go back there, Joseph. Go back to when you were a small boy. What’s happening?”

  “My parents are arguing. My dad is telling my mum off.”

  “What do you hear them say, Joseph? Listen to them. What are they saying?”

  “Dad’s telling Mum that she’s got it wrong again. That she always gets everything wrong. She’s a stupid fucking bitch!”

  “And what do you think?”

  “I love my mum. I want him to leave her alone. I must stop him from hurting her, but I don’t know how.”

  “What are you going to do, Joseph? How are you going to make this right?”

  “I must stop him. She’s a good mum. I love her… I hate him. He just wants to spoil everything. He’s selfish. He only cares about himself… Mum’s crying. Please stop crying Mum. He won’t leave her alone. I can’t… I can’t… stop him!”

  “What do you want to do, Joseph? If you could do anything. What do you want to do?”

  “I want him to stop!”

  “How will you stop him, Joseph? What do you have to do?”

  “I… have to… I… I have to… kill him.”

  Joseph began to get agitated. He opened his eyes.

  “Close your eyes, Joseph. You’re safe. You’re perfectly safe. Just concentrate on my voice.” Joseph relaxed. “Okay, you grow up and go to university, and then…”

  “Art school,” Joseph interrupted.

  “No, Joseph, you went to university, Lincoln College, Oxford.”

  “No! I was at art school. That’s where I met Sarah.”

  “Okay, okay,” Mitchum soothed, “After that, after that you joined MI6…”

  “I tried to kill myself.”

  “You tried to kill yourself, Joseph? When?”

  “After I left art school… Sarah saved me. If it wasn’t for Sarah, I wouldn’t be here. Sarah saved me. Sarah found me again. I was lost… so lost… because I… killed him… I blew his head off.”

  “Who did you kill? Who did you kill, Joseph?”

  “He won’t hurt my mum again. I blew his head off. Except he had no head, just raw meat, like at the butcher’s.”

  “Okay, Joseph… let’s go to you joining MI6.”

  “I should have married her.”

  “Who? Who should you have married?”

  “Sarah. My one true love. I’ve never loved anyone else like I loved her.”

  “What about Tilda?”

  Joseph went quiet.

  “What about Tilda?” Mitchum repeated.

  “Tilda… Sarah, Tilda… same thing.”

  “Sorry, Joseph, I don’t understand.”

  “Tilda… Tilda… I met her at MI6, you know?”

  “Yes, that’s right. You met Tilda when you were at MI6. And you were upset, right? MI6 were not getting things right.”

  “They’re bastards! They’re all in it together. I’m a good person. I didn’t want to kill him. I don’t want to kill anyone. I… I can’t help myself!”

  “So, what did you do about these bastards at MI6? How did you make things right?”

  “I can’t lie in this mess by myself and do nothing. You understand, I have to do something.”

  “Yes, of course, Joseph. You have to do something. So what did you do?”

  “I can’t do it by myself. I need help.”

  “So, Joseph, who can help you? Who can you rely on?”

  “The Bedfellows…” Joseph’s voice was almost inaudible.

  “Tell me about these people that can help you, Joseph. Tell me about the Bedfellows.”

  The roar of the helicopter blades could not drown out the excitement Sherry was feeling. She had Miller by the balls, and he had no way out. The US CIA head of operations had tried to convince her not to go in person, but that would be like trying to enjoy someone else having sex on your behalf; some things you just need to do for yourself.

  If anyone could extract the necessary information, it was the Safe-Cracker, and Miller was there right now, having his head lightly sautéed. Her only sadness was that she wasn’t there in person to watch him spill his guts, but she would be in time to gloat.

  Her mobile vibrated in her pocket. She took it out and read the text. It was from Mitchum. He wrote that he had pulled enough from Miller’s addled mind to track down every one of the Bedfellows. But the Bedfellows were secondary. She wanted Miller.

  Sherry spoke into the microphone that bobbled on a stalk protruding from her helmet.

  “How long to the location?” she asked the pilot.

  “About ten minutes, Ma’am,” he replied. “From the landing site, another five or ten minutes by road. The cars are standing by.”

  Joseph and Mitchum emerged from the study, crossed the hall, and joined Tilda and Cyril in the living room where they had been waiting for nearly two hours.

  “Well?” asked Tilda expectantly.

  On seeing the physically diminished Joseph, Cyril sprang to his feet and helped him onto the sofa. Tilda continued to buzz around Mitchum.

  “Did we get it? Tell me? Did we get it?” she demanded.

  “Yes,” said Mitchum holding up a Dictaphone, “Really good stuff.”

  “Are you okay, Sir?” Cyril asked Joseph. He rubbed the m
an’s hands repeatedly, then looked up to Mitchum. “Can I make him a cup of tea?”

  “Sure, Cyril. Knock yourself out,” Mitchum replied waving his hand in the direction of the kitchen.

  Mitchum glanced at his watch.

  “Are you expecting someone?” asked Cyril.

  Mitchum looked up as if he had been caught out doing something he shouldn’t. Tilda grabbed Cyril’s hand.

  “Come on, I’ll help you,” she said.

  Cyril looked back at Joseph as he was manhandled by Tilda towards the door.

  “He’ll be fine,” Mitchum assured him, “I’ve seen men survive far worse than that.”

  “I’m sure you have,” Cyril managed to say before he was finally dragged out of the room.

  Mitchum moved over to Joseph, who had now closed his eyes. The slim man smiled sadly, then continued over to the window. He pulled the curtains to one side and carefully looked up and down the street. Everything was quiet. He turned around, and froze. Joseph was standing and holding the Walther PPK.

  “Still using that old-fashioned piece?” commented Mitchum.

  “It may be old, but it would still make a sizeable hole in you,” answered Joseph.

  He held his right hand out, and motioned with his fingers.

  “I’ll take the tape, old man, if you don’t mind.”

  Mitchum ejected the small cassette from the Dictaphone, and held it between finger and thumb.

  “Do you mean this?”

  Joseph nodded slowly.

  “What happened to us, Joseph? It used to be so uncomplicated. Us against the bad guys.”

  “I guess the confusion comes when the bad guys start wearing white hats.” He laughed at the conclusion to his own analogy. “Then, you are forced to look under the hat. What’s under yours, Will?”

  “I suppose as the world gets more confusing, you lose sight of what’s right and wrong. The only conclusion is to look after yourself. At least you can be sure of who you are.” He smiled and played with the tape in his hand. “Do you know who you are, Joseph? Do you really have any idea of what you’re doing?”

  “Just give me the tape, Will.”

  “No. I don’t think I will.”

  “You know I’ll just shoot you if you don’t give it to me.”

  Mitchum smiled.

  “We both know you’ll kill me anyway. Never let any possibly useful piece of information get away, and never leave a threat. Wasn’t that what we were taught?”

  “Just give it up, old man. Come on, just give it up.”

  A loud scream came from the kitchen followed by a number of men rushing into the living room. Joseph jumped at Mitchum and saw the tape fly out of his hand. He tried to see where it landed, but a fist struck him full in the face. He stumbled backwards and crashed into the window. He felt the glass crack under the impact, and braced himself for a tumble into the front garden, but the pane held.

  There were two assailants in the room with him, Mitchum had disappeared. Joseph moved his gun’s aim between the two men. Each had a weapon trained on him, and each was closing in. A sudden noise at the door momentarily caught the focus of all three of them. As if by magic, the man nearest the door crumpled to the floor, lying like a grotesque still life. As he fell he revealed a small figure standing behind him; Cyril, holding a frying pan. Joseph instantly turned his gun back to the second man, and fired a single shot. The well-placed bullet entered the man’s heart and he was dead before he hit the ground.

  Joseph moved around the sofa to join Cyril at the door, but Cyril seemed to be looking at something on the floor. Cyril moved across the room and got down onto his hands and knees.

  “What the fuck are you doing?” Joseph shouted.

  Joseph ran over to the small man and grabbed him, dragging him towards the door. As they approached the entrance to the front room, Cyril put up strong resistance.

  “What?” he screamed at Cyril.

  Cyril simply pointed to the man at their feet, that he had moments before felled with a frying pan.

  “Never leave a threat, Sir. He’s only stunned.”

  Without a moment’s thought, the Walther claimed a second victim leaving a tell-tale red hole on the man’s forehead.

  As they stepped into the hall, bullets rained down on them. They both retreated back into the living room. Cyril picked up the dead man’s machine gun, and re-entered the hallway like a diminutive Rambo, with his finger pumping the trigger. When the noise stopped, three more agents lay dead in the hall. Tilda appeared at the kitchen door. The three looked at each other. They made their way, over lifeless limbs to the front door. Joseph pushed the other two back, opened the door and checked the street.

  “Come on,” he said, motioning to Cyril and Tilda.

  They ran to the car, and sped off down the street.

  No one spoke until they were a good distance away.

  “How did the fucking CIA know we were there?” Tilda said, her face red with exertion.

  “How do you know they were CIA?” questioned Joseph.

  “Well who the fuck else would they be?”

  “MI6?” suggested Cyril.

  “MI6 don’t run operations like that,” Tilda exclaimed, “That’s crazy American shit!”

  “She’s right, Cyril,” added Joseph.

  Joseph’s demeanour suddenly changed. He tensed and shouted.

  “Oh, shit!”

  “What? What?” Tilda demanded.

  “The fucking tape! We’ve left the fucking tape!” Joseph screamed.

  “Well, we can’t go back now,” reasoned Tilda, “The place will be crawling with agents.”

  “We have no choice,” Joseph said calmly, “We need that tape, and they mustn’t get their hands on it.”

  Sherry’s car screeched to a halt outside Mitchum’s house. Four fully armed agents burst from the car behind hers and ran to the house. They checked the outside, then disappeared within. Sherry jumped out of her car followed by another two armed agents. She marched towards the house.

  Inside they found the results of the gun battle. Everything had been destroyed by Cyril’s maniacal gunsmanship, and five agents lay dead. The men that had gone ahead of her now joined her in the hall and shrugged their shoulders. Sherry pulled her radio from her belt.

  “Fucking mayhem!” she reported to the US CIA head, “It looks like all our agents are dead; stand by for confirmation. And the three targets are gone.”

  She chewed her lip and shook her head angrily.

  “Well, what the fuck are you standing around for?” she screamed at the agents, “Fuck off!”

  The six agents filed out, leaving Sherry to herself. A creak at the back door made her look up and raise her gun. Mitchum crept into the house.

  “All went a bit crazy, Sherry,” he said.

  “Oh, thanks for the update. I was a little confused whether it had been a success or not.”

  “Sorry,” Mitchum said, “you know what Joseph’s like.”

  Sherry stretched her hand out.

  “Just give me the mother-fucking tape.”

  “Of course,” said Mitchum, waving at her to follow him into the living room. “It ended up on the floor, but I saw exactly where it went.” He bent down and rummaged under a chest of drawers. “It’s right here.” He rummaged again, frantically. “It must fucking be here.” He looked up at Sherry. “You’ve got to believe me. I saw the fucking thing.” He resumed his search. “It was right here!”

  He turned to Sherry again. Her gun was drawn and pointing at him.

  “I don’t give a fuck about the tape,” she yelled, “I wanted Miller. You are one mother-fucking waste of space!”

  She fired a single shot that hit Mitchum square in the forehead. Sherry unclipped the radio from her belt.

  “That’s confirmed. All our agents are dead.”

  “What exactly are you trying to do, Sir?” asked Cyril.

  Joseph was at the wheel and the car was swerving erratically.

 
; “I’m looking for somewhere to do a fucking U-turn,” he replied, trying hard to stop himself punching the small man in the mouth.

  “Are you sure that’s necessary, Sir?”

  “Of course it’s necessary, you stupid little man!” shouted Joseph.

  “Maybe this will help?” Cyril said holding up a Dictaphone cassette tape in his right hand.

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  Chapter 17

  Charles Woodger hit a cracking drive from the third tee. He shielded his eyes from the glare of the sun with the flat of his hand.

  “Good shot!” shouted Thandie.

  “I think I sliced it a little,” he commented, although Thandie could see clearly that he had hooked it slightly.

  They started walking down the fairway, pulling their golf trollies behind them. Motorised buggies were not allowed at Longbanks. It was believed, by the original committee, that the true game is one of skill and exercise.

  “This is a nice course,” Thandie mused, “I like that they don’t let the fat, lazy bastards use carts.”

  “You are a refreshingly forthright gal,” Woodger said, stopping momentarily to re-tie his shoe lace.

  Thandie marched on unaware that her golf partner had disappeared from her side.

  “If Mark Twain played today he’d be pissed off that he didn’t even get a good walk,” she said.

  Thandie turned to find she had been talking to herself, then glanced behind to catch Woodger staring at her posterior. He coughed and finished re-tying his shoe, before hopping to a quick walk and catching her up.

  “That Edwards is a queer old bird,” said Woodger.

  “He’s a wanker. That’s what he is, plain and simple.”

  “Quite, Thandie, as you say… Surprising man, though.”

  Thandie found her ball.

  “This is mine, Charles,” she said, looking through the irons in her golf trolley. “What’s so surprising about him?” she asked while taking a practice swing with a five iron.