If The Bed Falls In

by Paul Casselle

  “He’s in the Guinness Book of Records, you know?”

  “Edwards?” she said, setting her feet and getting ready to swing. “What the fuck did he do to get into that?”

  “Some sort of marksman, I believe.”

  Thandie mis-timed her stroke and hit the shot badly. The ball flew to the right and was heard ricocheting off trees. She stumbled and looked up.

  “Bad luck, old girl,” Woodger said churlishly.

  “He’s what?”

  “Mine’s over here,” Woodger informed her and started to wander off.

  “Charles?” Thandie said sternly.

  He stopped and turned to her.

  “Did you just say that Edwards is a marksman?”

  “Yes,” he said, a little dumbfounded, “Archery, I believe. Record for the most arrows into the bullseye in sixty seconds or some such nonsense.”

  Woodger spun on his heels and continued away. Thandie stared thoughtfully into the far off trees, and tried to imagine just how buggered she was on this hole, then walked briskly to catch Woodger up. When she got to him he too had selected a five iron, and was squaring up to his ball. Before either could say anything, they were interrupted by a voice from behind them.

  “Sorry, guys,” said one of the two thick-set men who had appeared out of nowhere, “do you mind if we play through?”

  “I beg your pardon!” said Woodger indignantly, “you are not supposed to tee off while there are people on the fairway. You could have hit us!”

  “I know, I know,” said the second of the two, “we’re just in a real hurry. Really sorry.”

  Thandie and Woodger stood to one side and watched the two men with deep disdain.

  “Here it is,” said the first of the two. He turned to the odd couple. “We’ll be out of your way in a jiffy.”

  He took a driver from his bag. Thandie and Woodger looked in disbelief at each other, then back to the player who took an awkward hack at the ball which flew into the same patch of woods as Thandie’s.

  “Bugger!” the man shouted, “not having much luck today.”

  “Maybe a more judicious choice of club might help,” Woodger said superiorly.

  The two men both started to march towards the woods.

  “They let anyone in these days,” Woodger muttered.

  “Like a working-class girl from Sheffield?” parried Thandie.

  “Yes, but you’re educated.”

  “Left school at sixteen. Not seen a classroom since.”

  “Oh, come on Thandie, you know what I mean.”

  “Aye, I think I do.”

  She turned and started towards the woods.

  “Thandie,” Woodger called after her, “No hard feelings, old girl.”

  “No,” she called back, “no hard feelings.” Then under her breath. “No, no bloody feelings at all!”

  After an uncomfortable night sleeping in Cyril’s Fiesta, the three SIS employees had woken early, and on Joseph’s instructions had cruised around the local streets looking for a red Ford Fiesta similar to Cyril’s. Hunting for such a ubiquitous car had not taken long, and after noting down its registration number, it was not difficult to find a shop that would supply the false plate for a few pounds. They had then bought a Dictaphone at a local electronics shop, and for the last few hours had pored over the recording from the previous day with Cyril making notes in indecipherable handwriting.

  “Okay,” Cyril said, “The first identifiable person is this woman at British Metals.”

  Cyril connected his laptop to his mobile phone and started surfing the internet.

  “Bingo! Her full name is Thandie Smith. She’s listed as the CEO of British Metals… and… I’ve got her phone number.”

  Cyril typed the number into the mobile and handed it to Joseph.

  “Hello,” Joseph said into the phone, “I need to speak to Thandie Smith urgently… Okay… yes… When do you expect her back?… Do you know where?… Yes, this is very important… national security… right… thank you.”

  He hung up. Tilda and Cyril looked at him.

  “Longbanks golf course,” he said, “She’s playing a quick nine before lunch.”

  Thandie had reached the edge of the woods. She sighed and started in. The light quickly became dappled and visibility dropped. Her eyes scanned the woodland floor looking for the small, white incongruity that would be her golf ball. A sound came from behind her. She turned quickly. The two men from the fairway were approaching.

  “Can’t find yours either?” she asked.

  They didn’t answer, but continued towards her and picked up speed.

  “What do you want?” she demanded

  Her questions were met with silence and steely faces. She spun around and started to run. Her golf spikes made progress difficult. She tried to dodge a rotting log, but stumbled. The steel spikes of her shoe rasped down her calf.

  “Wait!” called one of the men, “Please wait a minute!”

  She hadn’t noticed it before, but the man speaking had a strange tenor to his accent.

  “Really!” the man called again, “Please, just wait a minute!”

  Thandie stopped and turned to the approaching men.

  “What do you want?” she said tersely.

  “Nothing,” the man said, “we’re just looking for our ball. Have you seen it?”

  “No,” she called back.

  The men had slowed their pace and almost sauntered towards her. Although she had turned to them, she kept the closing distance open by walking backwards.

  “What accent is that?” she called.

  “Oh, is it still that obvious… American, but I’ve been working here for years. Can’t get rid of the blasted thing.”

  Thandie stopped.

  “I’ve got the same problem with mine,” she said, “but to tell the truth, I’m buggered if I’ll let it go.”

  The men were almost up to her. She noticed the man in the lead make a strange movement. He reached under the top left of his jacket. She thought he looked like a secret agent going for a gun in a James Bond movie. Almost immediately he brought his hand back out again. But this time it gripped a large silver gun. Thandie screamed and ran. She heard the clack of a bullet being fired, and actually felt it pass her cheek. She darted to the left putting a large oak between her and the man with the gun. She ran with increasing speed as further shots rang out. Then suddenly they stopped, but Thandie didn’t. In fact, she broke into an even faster sprint until, finally, her lungs could no longer sustain her exertion.

  She stopped and collapsed against a large tree. She could feel its wet moss-covered trunk against her bare arms. She looked down to see bright, red, blood drip from her fingers and splash onto the decaying leaves at her feet.

  With renewed effort she surged forwards, only to stop abruptly. A loud, hollow thud, and a piercing pain on the right side of her head, stunned her into a standing stupor. Something warm ran down her cheek. Thandie thought it was blood, but it was brain matter; oozing in globules like jam infused rice pudding. She slumped to her knees, then fell face first into the dirt.

  One of the men stood over her body as his colleague reached him.

  “Now, that’s how you play, ‘Get the guest’,” he said with a laugh.

  He put the golf club over his shoulder, and the two strangers walked away.

  The members of the exclusive golf course raised their eyes from their newspapers and golfing magazines as Tilda, Cyril and Joseph rushed in.

  “Yes, Sir? Can I help you?” asked the receptionist.

  “I’m looking for Thandie Smith,” Joseph answered urgently.

  “Is she a member?”

  “I don’t know… Look, this is very urgent.”

  A woman behind the receptionist moved forwards.

  “I think she’s playing the first nine with Mr Woodger,” she said.

  “Charles Woodger?” asked Cyril. “The Minister for the Interior?”

  “Yes,” responded the receptionist.


  Tilda and Joseph had already started towards the course and the first tee.

  “I’m sorry, but you are not allowed into the club unless you are a member,” the receptionist called after them.

  Cyril smiled.

  “A law unto themselves, those two,” he said, then quickly followed them.

  There had been no sign of Thandie Smith or Charles Woodger on either the first or second holes, but as they crossed the hump of the third tee, they could see someone running in their direction. He was deathly white, and ran erratically, his progress lacking definite direction, but the net result of his meandering was to get nearer to the tee. The three ran towards him. Joseph grabbed the man by the arms. He recognised him as the Minister in question.

  “Whoa, just calm down, Sir. What’s happened?” Joseph asked reassuringly.

  “She’s… my god… she’s… her head,” Woodger mumbled almost incoherently.

  Tilda rubbed his back soothingly.

  “Take a breath. That’s it, try and calm down. Now, what’s happened?”

  “She’s… fucking dead!” he gasped, and pointed towards the patch of woodland.

  “Who?” Joseph asked, “who’s dead. Do you mean Thandie Smith?”

  Woodger froze and looked him in the eye.

  “My god! You know… Oh, my good god!” Woodger screamed.

  He tore himself from Joseph’s grasp, and carried on running and staggering in the direction of the clubhouse.

  It only took a minute or two to reach the edge of the tree-line, and between the three of them only a moment or two more to find the body.

  Tilda was the first to spot her. She motioned to Joseph who came up behind her.

  “Cyril,” Joseph called, “over here.”

  Cyril tentatively approached them, looked at their solemn faces, then down to what was once a vibrant girl from Sheffield. He instantly reacted, turned, moved a pace or two away, then vomited.

  “How did they find her so quickly?” asked Joseph.

  “They’re the CIA,” Tilda said incredulously. “They know as least as much as we do.”

  “But they don’t,” Cyril called to them, wiping the last of his breakfast away with a cotton handkerchief, “we have the tape. At most they only have my files.”

  “Well, does it really matter?” Tilda said dismissively, “She’s dead. She can’t tell us anything, can she?”

  “But there are four more,” Joseph reminded them.

  Cyril joined the other two, but kept his back to Thandie.

  “Do you think they know about the others?” asked Cyril.

  “I don’t know what they know,” said Joseph, “I still don’t even know what I’m supposed to know.”

  “No luck remembering anything then, Sir?” said Cyril.

  Joseph stared at the corpse, and studied the distorted face, reconstructing her features as they might have been in life. He slowly nodded his head.

  “I remember her… Something about the metal works… Someone important had to visit… Yes…” He turned to the other two. “Whatever had to happen, it was going to happen at her metal works.”

  “What was going to happen?” Tilda asked gently, taking both his hands and moving her head to keep eye contact with Joseph. “Joseph, this is very important. What was going to happen at the metal works?”

  Joseph pulled away.

  “I don’t know… I can’t remember.”

  “You must remember something,” she insisted, “Come on Joseph, think!”

  He rubbed his head.

  “There was a man. A small man. Thandie hated him, but they had to work together,” he laughed. “I think I made them work together.”

  “Can you remember who the man was?” Cyril asked.

  “I think… I think he was… someone in government,” Joseph said with dubious clarity.

  The three slowly turned and looked in the direction of the clubhouse and the terrified Minister. They became aware of sirens in the distance. Without a word they ran further into the woods until they came to a wire fence, which they scaled without much of a problem, then walked calmly down the road as a string of police cars sped past them.

  Simon Morrison was at work on Monday morning unusually early. The Greek referendum, the day before, had been a resounding democratic ‘no’ to accepting the international banks’ proposals for a financial bailout that would cost the country more in sovereign autonomy and national self-esteem than any benefit it could ever hope to receive. There would be serious repercussions in the global economic system, and Morrison needed to be there in the thick of it. That had always been his major role as an SIS sleeper; to steady the ship. But he had realised some time ago, that although he went through many difficult manoeuvres to keep a righteous course, the captains were drunk on their own self-importance and greed. Morrison had to start deciding for himself what course the vessel should be taking. And he needed to do it before it sank; taking with it all of its innocent, trusting passengers.

  “I’m really sorry,” said Kim, “I couldn’t stop him.”

  In front of her rushed an agitated Edwards.

  “It’s okay,” Morrison said casually, “I know Mr Edwards.”

  “You don’t need me to call someone?” Kim asked sternly.

  “No, we’ll be fine, Kimberly. Maybe some tea?” He turned to Edwards. “A cup of tea, John?”

  Edwards nodded, tight lipped. Kim withdrew and left the door ajar.

  “That’s okay, Kimberly, you can close the door.”

  The door closed with noticeable attitude.

  Morrison looked hard at Edwards.

  “What do you think you’re doing? Not only coming to see me, but making such a fuss in doing so. We’re not fucking around here. People could get killed.”

  Edwards stifled an involuntary laugh. Morrison stared at him.

  “Did I say something funny?”

  “No,” said Edwards, “not funny…”

  His face crumpled slightly as if he were about to cry.

  “Well, what is it, man?” demanded Morrison, “What’s happened?”

  Edwards breathing was sporadic and uncontrolled.

  “She’s… dead,” he said.

  “Who’s dead?… Who’s dead?”

  “Thandie.”

  Morrison snapped his head towards the window, and watched the passing traffic. His mouth twitched. He faced Edwards again.

  “What do you mean… dead?”

  “They fucking killed her, Simon. It’s not on the media yet, but I’ve had corroborated stories coming in all morning. I set up a meeting between her and Woodger. They were to play a round of golf this morning, and she was going to try and get the details of the visit. But she’s been found… dead.”

  “Where?” Morrison asked.

  “Longbanks… in some woods off the fairway.”

  Morrison turned and stared at the traffic again.

  “What do you think we should do?” whined Edwards.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Does this mean they’re on to us?” Edwards continued.

  “I don’t know, I don’t know,” he turned to Edwards, “I don’t bloody know!”

  “Well,” said Edwards, “I’m not hanging around to find out.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I’m getting out… now,” Edwards stated emphatically.

  “Are you fucking mad!” shouted Morrison, then caught himself and lowered his voice, “Are you fucking mad. This isn’t a fucking game. We have to do this… someone has to do this… Pull yourself together, Edwards… Listen,” he said, calming down, “it might have been an innocent accident.”

  “Her head was caved in with a golf club. The police have said nothing was taken from her. They can’t find a motive for the murder. But we know differently, Simon. We know differently.”

  “No, we need to have a meeting. We need to get the Bedfellows together.”

  “Look,” Edwards said determinedly, “I just came to tell y
ou, and now I’m off.”

  “Why did you come to tell me?”

  “What?” Edwards’ brow furrowed.

  “Why me?” reiterated Morrison, “Is it because you couldn’t face Mrs Law? You knew that she wouldn’t let you go, so you thought I could be your messenger boy. Is that it?”

  “No, don’t be silly… no… I… look, I’m gone, right? I just wanted you to know.”

  Edwards turned, threw the door open, and rushed out. The door bounced noisily against its frame before coming to rest half-ajar. Kim pushed it fully open with her foot. She carried a tea cup in each hand.

  “Is everything okay, Sir?” she asked.

  “Well, what do you think?” Morrison said angrily as he pushed past her and ran after Edwards.

  Morrison careered across the lobby and crashed through the glass doors onto the street. He ran a few paces in each direction, but there was no sign of Edwards. He walked dejectedly back towards the Treasury. A car door opened directly in his line of travel. A man got out and stood in front of him, his face obscured by shadows. For a moment Morrison thought he recognised the man, but before he could react, the man grabbed his arms and bundled him into the car. The door slammed and the car screeched away.

  A dispassionate face observed from the fourth floor of the Treasury building. Kim turned away and went back to her desk. She picked up the phone, and carefully dialled a number from memory.

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  Chapter 18

  Cyril’s fiesta came to an abrupt stop on a quiet, cobble-stoned street. Morrison had not uttered a word since Joseph had man-handled him into the car. Joseph turned around in the front passenger seat, and looked at him.

  “You know who I am, don’t you?” Joseph asked. Morrison flared his nostrils and nodded. “And you’re one of the Bedfellows?”

  “I’m not at liberty to say,” said Morrison.

  “Look,” Joseph said soothingly, “I know you’re scared, but you need to understand that I’m back in control. I’ll protect you, okay? But I need you to help me. Can you do that, Morrison?”

  “You’ll protect me?” Morrison echoed.