***
Kara showered and felt the baby kick. Harder this time and more frequent. She allowed the hot water to soothe her aching body, aware that her stress levels would register an almighty 9.5 on the Richter scale, if one in fact existed for people being measured for the equivalent of a human earthquake. Feeling the kick again, she was clearly ready to explode in more ways than one. Last night, she had tried to talk to Marcus and at first they had reached an amicable truce. It went swimmingly until she mentioned her recent lunch date with Michael. Then he really let rip, accusing her of having secret trysts behind his back. First Ronald, now her former boss. His parting shot on storming out was something on the line of ‘fuck you’ and he hadn’t been seen since. He’d probably slept in the gallery, she guessed. With an IQ of 126 she knew that their little conversation hadn’t gone well, to put it mildly.
She decided to let him stew. He could be so juvenile sometimes. So competitive, believing that he and he alone could protect her and that the likes of Michael was intrusive and melodramatic to the point of always, in his words, making mountains out of a molehills. He could talk!
That’s how he saw it in magical Marcus World, according to her. She was equally incensed and repeated the same words – fuck you – under her breath.
She dressed, made coffee, and pottered around the apartment. There were things to do, but her mind would not focus properly. Certain issues did her head in. Firstly, she needed to see her mother and grovel big time for her outburst on the phone. Then there was the forthcoming magazine story that Michael told her about, which now threatened to lift the lid on all their lives. Exposure and ridicule would follow. Jesus, she hadn’t even got to that part before Marcus threw a fit. She would leave that tasty morsel for when he had calmed down. Never a dull moment, she had to concede.
She emptied the washing machine and chucked the wet clothes into the dryer, switched it to fast spin and pretended that it was her boyfriend who was gyrating inside, with her holding the control button. The world was screwed. She checked the time: 10am. If Marcus was at the gallery, he would need a fresh shirt at the very least. She collected one from the wardrobe, grabbed his deodorant and planned to make her way over shortly, and in the process make-up big time with him. She thought too of her rash behaviour in slamming down the phone on Michael. She would have to grovel to him too. Men
Attempting to lift a basket of wet sheets, her back went into spasm, forcing her to cry out in discomfort. She dropped the heavy load and reached out for support, grabbing the bedroom door handle. She felt nauseous, and her head began to whirl insanely. An excruciating pain, like a dagger ripping at her womb, shot through her protruding belly. She gulped for air, and in an instant felt a warm sensation overcome her. Looking down, she saw a strange puddle gathering at her feet. Normally, she would freak out at seeing this. So she freaked out.
***
Marcus got the call at the gallery at just after ten. He felt like shit, having drunk a bottle of cheap red plonk from the local supermarket the night before. Kara’s hysterical rant took maybe two seconds to register before it dawned on him what she was babbling on about. He did the arithmetic: nearly three weeks late! He locked the gallery and raced home like a madman, knowing the birth of his child was about to happen right in the bloody apartment if he didn’t get her to hospital, and fast. He found Kara slumped against the stairs, breathing erratically and sweating profusely.
Her clothes were soaking wet. He knew her waters had broken. Although they had rehearsed this moment, right now he went into panic mode, then regained his composure. He snatched an overnight bag, lots of towels, grabbed Kara and, in what seemed like a blink of an eye, drove like a wild man toward the hospital at Whitechapel, barely half a mile away. In his confusion, he must have done something right, miraculously remembering to call in and tell them to expect their imminent arrival. It was utter relief to see the wheelchair and two attendants waiting on the pavement. After that, everything was a blur. Two hours later…fuck, just two hours later… Marcus Heath, artist extraordinaire, budding entrepreneur, and all round good guy was a proud first-time father to a newborn son. He was a Daddy to a son he had already secretly named as Harvey. It just seemed to fit perfectly. Harvey Heath! Kara would just have to get used to it because he wasn’t going to change his mind. He was going to have to marry her now. He was actually thankful that he had a baby boy. Firstly, because his name would be preserved for the next generation…but more to the point the girl’s intended name was going to be Heavenly.
That would have taken some convincing.
***
Michael got the news from Marcus at one o’clock and rushed over to join him at the maternity ward. The baby was in an incubator as a precaution. In the corridor, they hugged and, for the time being at least, put their differences behind them. Michael saw the utter exhaustion and pride on Marcus’s beaming face. In a moment of supreme exhilaration, the new Dad burst out shouting with unrepentant joy the simple news that mother and child were in perfect health. Then he wept for England.
Michael stayed for several hours, waiting for a fleeting moment to see Kara and catch a glimpse of, dare he say it…Harvey. Both were asleep when his chance came. Both looked utterly beautiful, the newborn wrapped in his mother’s embrace after her son was removed from the incubator. Michael too had a tear in his eye. Then he went home, a very happy man.
That night, unlike the previous night, he slept beautifully too.
***
Kara could now believe in miracles and the strength of angels. God, how they helped her push the little blighter out! He was several weeks overdue and finally came out into the world in a rush. Never had she experienced such a contrast between agony and ecstasy, and for something so tiny, precious and…adorable. She sat up in bed, cradling her son, watched over by her adoring Mum and Marcus. Gorgeous, gorgeous Marcus. What a hero he had been. Through the window, she could see early morning shafts of light cascading down on the buildings opposite. A ray of light! A new day, a new beginning. Although she was shot through, she felt a surge of strength that simply overwhelmed her. She, Kara Scott: a Mother! Get that!
She took Marcus’s hand and looked him straight in the eye. ‘I love the name, Marcus: H-A-R-V-E-Y. It’s perfect. Like father, like son.’ Then she closed her eyes and slept deeply.
Marcus gathered his newborn baby to his chest, kissed his forehead, and asked Kara’s mum what she thought of their son’s name.
She looked at him witheringly, and said, ‘I’d hoped for something more dignified. Wilfred would have been lovely, named after Kara’s granddad, but I suppose we have to move with the times. As long as you two are happy, then the decision is made. Don’t concern yourselves with my feelings.’
Ouch. Marcus kept his cool. Nothing could faze him at this moment.
‘If we have another baby, even if it’s a girl, I promise we will call it Wilfred. Then everyone will be happy.’
For the first time in her life, he guessed, the woman was speechless.
***
Michael got to work early, refreshed and energised. He phoned Marcus to check on Kara’s progress, ordered flowers for her bedside and bought premium bonds worth £500 for little Harvey. It was a start. He met Toby to discuss their master plan for survival in the event of a serious economic downturn, which was now widely predicted in all the newspapers. Michael read Terry’s analysis and was thankful that he had sold his shares in the Rock. His story was a great journalistic triumph, full of damning rhetoric. The words were punched home by a true wordsmith.
The meeting with his son took three hours. At lunch, they grabbed a ham sandwich and, over a pot of Earl Grey, drew up a tight budget which would see them weather the storm over the next twelve months. If a tsunami was on the horizon, then nothing would save them. They gambled on a hurricane instead. Battening down the hatches usually did the trick. They had seen this sort of thing before, over the previous generations, and Churchill Fine Art still stood firm on its fou
ndations, if a little wobbly at times. Like now.
In the afternoon, business was surprisingly good, with three sales. Michael’s spirits lifted: First the news on Kara, now a good day on the shop floor. Gemma came to him and handed over a sealed parchment envelope, handwritten in ink and addressed as follows:
The attention of Michael Strange/ Confidential.
Gemma raised her eyebrows. ‘You know all the right people in high places,’ she remarked, sounding more and more like Kara.
He smiled thinly. ‘Gemma, find out all you can about a firm called Britton on the Map, will you? I tried Google and found nothing. See what you can dig up.’
She nodded.
Michael then retreated into his office. He removed the contents from the envelope. The note was short and to the point. Most annoyingly, there was no address at the top. It was handwritten and signed simply ‘Theo’. It contained an address in Venice and box number for a key to the property. There was also a PS, which read, I will arrange delivery of your down payment by courier at five this evening. That was it. No phone number. No email address. He regretted that he had not dialled 1471 when he last spoke to Theo, although probably the number would have been withheld anyway. He took stock of the situation. He was beginning to smell a rat. He reconsidered the proposition, decided against it and would now maintain a policy of doing nothing, as he was unable to contact Theo directly with his sudden change of heart. Let the courier go back with the cash. He was sure that Theo would then call again. Then he could get the measure of the man.
The courier arrived at five. He was sent packing at one minute past. Michael decided to stay the extra hour, just in case. The phone remained silent. He eventually went home, via the hospital, and stayed with Kara for half an hour. She was radiant. Marcus shared a coffee and a natter with him at the cafeteria and then he got home at eight. He was knackered. He kicked off his shoes, stuck a curry dish in the microwave and opened a bottle of chilled wine. The phone rang.
‘Michael Stra…’
‘It’s Theo Britton, do we have a problem?’
Michael was aghast. ‘How did you get my home number?’
‘There are ways.’
‘Do you always get your own way, Theo?’
‘Generally speaking. I can be very persuasive.’
‘In this instance, I think not.’
‘We had an agreement.’
‘I’ve broken it.’
‘I thought my terms were more than generous.’
‘They are, but I like an open line of communication to those I work with. We need to meet, to discuss matters. I want to know something about you. At the moment, you seem to know a great deal more about me. I have questions I need answers to.’
‘Go to your window, Michael. In the car park below you will see a black Mercedes saloon. I will be waiting for you, if you care to join me.’
Michael checked. He shuddered at the thought that this man even knew where he lived. He snatched his jacket and made for the elevator. Outside, it was cold. Michael approached cautiously. Within a few feet of the car, the rear door swung open. A portly, silver-haired man got out, smoking an Havana cigar. He was perhaps in his early sixties, groomed impeccably, his shoes polished to perfection. His cashmere topcoat looked like it cost a few thousand. Even in the gloom of the car park, his eyes shone with rapier intent. When he spoke, Michael detected a decorative and highly polished diamond lodged in one of his front teeth.
‘Good evening, Michael, so happy to make your acquaintance,’ the man said. He didn’t offer a handshake. The uniformed chauffeur then got out and hovered like a jittery protector, eyes peeled, hand in pocket.
Michael searched around. He didn’t like this one bit. ‘Theo,’ he said sharply. He buttoned up his jacket and shivered.
Theo gestured with his hand. ‘Would you care to step inside where it is warmer?’
‘I’m fine just as I am, thank you.’
‘Shall we walk then?’
‘Just the two of us?’
‘Vladimir can keep his distance, if that’s OK?’
Just what he needed: fucking Russian mafia. Michael nodded valiantly. In truth, he was as nervous as a cat on a hot tin roof.
They strolled into the adjacent avenue, with Mr Heavy hovering fifty paces behind. It was a typical tree-lined road like many others in the neighbourhood, made up of handsome and expensive three-storey houses painted in Chelsea pastel shades. Sleek cars parked nose to tail. The street lamps made eerie pools of light on the pavement which they had to pass through on their journey to nowhere. In one of these illuminations, Michael spotted a long jagged scar down Theo’s neck. Who was this man? A man of means, apparently: but with no registered company to speak of. Don’t go there.
‘Who are you, Theo? I can’t work for someone who hides all traces of their identity from me. I have no means of contacting you.’
‘I’m here now.’
‘That’s not the same thing.’
‘I wish for my identity to remain unknown, for security reasons. Vladimir will be our go-between. I am not a British citizen, although I do conduct business here throughout the year and have a home in London. I am based in Monte Carlo. I am known as a Shifter, I shift things: People, cargo, weapons, governments.’
‘Governments..?’
‘I am well connected. For instance, look ahead. Do you see those two men standing by that Range Rover? They work for me. If you glance to your right and look above, you will see someone on a flat roof. See him?’
Michael blinked and stared.
‘I own him too.’
‘Own him?’
‘A figure of speech.’
‘Do you intend to own me as well?’
‘I’ve done my research, Michael. You are clearly your own man. That’s why I chose you.’
‘This painting in Venice, is it stolen?’
‘You be the judge of that. I value your opinion. It could be many things to many people. Depends on your prospective and your need for the money.’ He halted and shivered. ‘Shall we go back?’
‘Tell me: Is the story of your father’s death true?’
‘Yes. He had three homes, although I only knew of one, as I had previously explained on the phone. I now have six to contend with. A burden of sorts. The expenses of maintaining them are enormous.’
Michael didn’t answer or offer sympathy or weep for the man. They turned. Vladimir held his ground as they passed. He looked Michael straight in the face. Eyes like ice.
As they reached the Mercedes, Theo smiled generously for the first time.
‘Michael, let us be clear on this. You do not need to know who I am, just whether I can deliver what I promise. I always deliver. The point is, can you do the same? I ask very little of you, in return for a great deal of money. I am paying for your expertise. It is in your interests to know as little as possible about me. Do a job. Get rich. Forget about it.’
‘You said you were a Shifter. If you can dislodge a government, then surely you can dispose of a simple painting if you see fit?’
The driver rejoined them and unlocked the car. He waited.
Theo settled into the rear and looked up at Michael. He flashed his diamond smile. ‘Not this one. I need a real shifter in this case. You’ll have your money in advance, tomorrow. I don’t need a contract, nor an inventory of your expenses. Spend whatever is necessary. Enjoy your trip to Venice. Authenticate the painting. If it is genuine, we talk again. If it is a fake, throw it in the bin. You still get paid. Don’t look for me, Michael. I cannot be found. But I will be watching you. As you know, I have eyes everywhere. My colleague will be in touch. Goodbye.’
Michael watched as the door closed and the Mercedes glided out of the car park and disappeared like a stealth bomber, swallowed up by the night. He felt shaken and a little stirred. He needed a stiff brandy. Several, in fact. He then remembered the curry in the microwave. It would be frazzled by now. Just like him. He’d have to settle for beans on toast. In truth, his
appetite was gone.
He shivered. What in God’s name was all that about? Who was this Theo Britton, a man with a diamond in his teeth? A man who could shift things...Whoever heard of anyone who could do that? It was the stuff of fiction, dreamt up by the like of Ian Fleming. He’d read about this sort of thing in novels, but never in real life. Lauren O’Neill was a pussycat compared to Theo, he was sure. He wasn’t even being given a chance to cut and run. The job was now expected of him, full stop. He breathed in the cold air and steadied himself. It would be a barmy ride, if it wasn’t so scary.
Back in his apartment, Michael locked his door and checked the nearby rooftops from his window. There was no one to be seen. There was a certain perverse humour to all this, though.
Theo, the Shifter. As he had earlier predicted with misplaced confidence, he had got the measure of the man. As if. He wanted to laugh. Instead, his gut twisted.
***
The following afternoon, Harvey Michael Wilfred came home to a house overflowing with flowers and balloons and banners proclaiming his arrival into this world. Marcus had done all the fancy decoration, and Kara cried with delight. They were now a family. While she and baby rested, he cooked lasagne and drank several bottled beers in celebration. From the kitchen, he couldn’t resist a peek into the lounge to catch sight of them, both fast asleep, his dozing son contentedly spread-eagled across her chest.
Call to Witness Page 10
