Bombmaker

by Claire McFall

  Without stopping to think about it, I slipped from the covers and padded, bare legged and barefoot, out of the room. In the hallway all of the doors were closed. Without knocking, I opened up the one door that had been shut earlier, the door I knew had to lead to Mark’s bedroom. I was right. The room was small, dominated by an old iron-frame bed, and bathed in the muted glow from a bedside lamp. He was still awake then.

  “Hi,” I said softly, slipping inside and closing the door.

  He blinked, surprised, then yanked the duvet up to cover his bare chest, forgetting, I guessed, that he’d already paraded in front of me without his top. Or maybe it was just that it was different, in this room.

  “Do you need something?” he asked.

  “No.” I sidled over and sat on the side of the bed.

  I saw him visibly swallow, then he shut the magazine he’d been reading and laid it down on the bedside table. I smiled, readjusting myself on the bed until I was lying alongside him, propped up on one elbow. He didn’t move, but his eyes watched me warily. I considered him for a moment, then moved in.

  “What are you doing?” he asked, just as our lips were about to touch.

  I leaned back so that I could see his expression. “What does it look like I’m doing?”

  “Well,” he gave an embarrassed half smile. “It looks like you’re… well, you know.”

  “That’s right,” I smiled and inclined my head again, but this time he deliberately pulled away.

  “But… why?”

  I sat up, then shuffled back towards the edge of the bed, mortification setting my features into a mask.

  “Don’t you want to?” I asked.

  “Well, I… I mean. It’s not that I don’t want to,” he looked distinctly uncomfortable. “But, the thing is. Lizzie… why are you doing this?”

  I stared at him, lost. “Well, you’ve been really great, letting me stay and everything. I just wanted to say thank you.”

  And right now I just wanted to crawl back to my couch and hide under the thick purple blanket.

  He smiled at me, his expression somewhere between pity and understanding. I didn’t like it.

  “Lizzie, you don’t have to pay me by sleeping with me.”

  I swallowed against a painful lump in my throat. He was making me sound like a prostitute.

  “I… not… that’s not what I was doing,” I said.

  “Okay,” he agreed quickly, sycophantically.

  “I’m tired,” I said suddenly, swinging myself up and off the bed. “I’m going to sleep.”

  He let me walk away, but called out just as I had my hand on the door.

  “Lizzie!” I turned. “I really appreciate the—” he stopped short of saying the ‘offer’, realising, I hoped, how it would sound. “Look, let me take you out tomorrow after work. On a date.”

  A date? I’d never been on a date. A little bubble of girlish excitement fluttered inside me – something I’d never felt before – but it was mostly snuffed out by my lingering embarrassment. I smiled, though it turned out more like a grimace. “That’d be nice.”

  Then I fled to my makeshift bed and hid my red-hot face under the protective cover of the blanket.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  When I woke up in the morning the flat was quiet, peaceful. The sun was up, filtering in through ill-fitting venetian blinds, but the clock on the wall told me that it was still early, not even eight. The door to the lounge was firmly closed, but I had the feeling that I was alone in the flat. I was also sweltering. Tossing the blanket aside I sat up and stretched the kinks out of my back and shoulders, then I tiptoed across the room, peeking out into the tiny hallway.

  “Mark?” I called.

  No answer.

  “Mark, are you in?”

  I paused for several seconds, listening for a reply, but there was only silence. I threw the door open and trotted into the bathroom. He’d left out a clean towel for me and I took advantage of the empty flat to have a long, luxurious shower, trying to wash the memory of the night before down the plughole. Unfortunately I’d no option but to put my dirty clothes back on.

  Mark had left me a note in the kitchen, propped up against an ancient coffee machine still half full of steaming dark caffeine:

  Didn’t want to wake you. Help yourself to anything in the fridge (I apologise in advance!). I’ll try and be back early. And for our date tonight – how about going out for dinner?

  I smiled, feeling that flutter again at the word ‘date’, then grimaced as his letter triggered a flashback to my faux pas from the previous night. It was going to be a little awkward when he got back.

  Mark hadn’t been kidding: there was almost nothing edible in the kitchen. I cobbled together some stale-looking cereal and milk that was definitely on the verge of going off. Taking my bowl back to the lounge, I tossed my blanket off the sofa then settled down, remote in hand. For once I was going to watch what I wanted on the television.

  After about twenty minutes, however, the novelty had worn off. There really was nothing on! Since the government had introduced a tax on any programme made outside the UK, half the channels had closed down, and the ones that hadn’t had dropped the US shows like they were hot potatoes on babies’ fingers. Now morning TV was nothing but antiques shows and reruns of chat shows featuring the very worst dregs of humanity. Hitting the standby button, I killed the image on the screen before the fat girl could push her finger any harder into her pathetic-looking boyfriend’s face.

  What to do? I drummed my fingers on the arm of the sofa, kicking my feet against the threadbare carpet. I was restless, itching to get up, to do something. At Alexander’s I’d be out on a delivery, or down in the basement sorting out imports, or loitering in a plump white leather chair in the office, listening to things not meant for my ears. Hanging around like this was strangely disconcerting. I’d been in Mark’s one-bedroom flat for maybe fourteen hours, and already I had cabin fever. I was not suited, it seemed, for going to ground. Hiding from Alexander was a different proposition than hiding from the GE.

  Just for the chance to move about, I wandered into the bathroom, thinking I’d tidy it up or something. I paused in front of the mirror, fussing with my fringe, which had dried at a funny angle. When I looked down at the clutter of shavers and gel and bottles of whatever it is men use in the bathroom, I noticed one topped with a little yellow Post-it. It had my name on. I didn’t know how I’d missed it before, but when I picked it up I knew at once what it was. Where did he get it from?

  “Thank you, Mark!” I breathed. Then I spun the top under my fingers, revealing a lump of light beige cream. Ultimate concealer. I slathered it on, then gazed at my reflection. Just another nobody. Reaching up, I fingered the blue fringe. I really did like it, but it made me stick out like a sore thumb. It made me memorable. Sighing, I took a firmer grip, picked up a pair of little nail scissors and cut.

  Minutes later, I yanked on my shoes and my jacket and snatched up the spare key from where Mark had left it, hooked on a nail just inside the front door. Slamming the heavy door to engage the lock, I tripped down the stairs and out into the muted grey light of another overcast day. I didn’t truly breathe until I was on the pavement. There my lungs expanded, drinking in the smog and fumes of an early autumn day in the heart of the city.

  Freedom. But where to go? I didn’t have any money, and I didn’t know the area so it probably wasn’t safe to go too far, but a little walk couldn’t do any harm. Just enough to clear the haze in my brain, stretch my legs and kill some time. Around the block I noticed a row of shops just a few hundred metres ahead. Fingering the change in my pocket, left over from my phone call to Mark, I tried to think how long it had been since I’d had something as simple as a chocolate bar and a can of fizz. It seemed wasteful – I wasn’t really hungry and God knows I didn’t have any cash to spare – but the more I thought about it the stronger the craving became. I could almost taste the sweet velvety smoothness, feel the tingling bubbles of pop
on my tongue. There’d be no chance of a Coke – that was number one on the government’s banned American goods list – but lemonade would be nice.

  The shop bell dinged politely as I pushed it open. Inside was empty, except for a bored-looking girl reading a glossy magazine behind a counter heaving with papers.

  “Hi,” I mumbled, but my hesitant smile died in the face of her frosty welcome. She raised one eyebrow disdainfully, then went back to some story about a has-been footballer and his bit of skirt.

  I took my time making my choice, knowing I could only afford one and finding, even in the limited stock retailers were now allowed to display, that there were so many chocolate bars from my childhood that I hadn’t even realised were still made. In the end, I eeny-meeny-minymoed my way to a Caramel. Just as I turned to make for the counter and the unhelpful salesgirl, something outside the shop window caught my eye. It was blurry, moving fast. I squinted, but the large square of glass was mostly covered over with a mixture of government ads and sales promotion posters, and my view was obscured. I was almost certain, though, that I had caught a flash of white-blond.

  Zane.

  No, don’t be ridiculous, I told myself. What the hell would he be doing here? It must have been somebody else, or maybe just my mind playing tricks on me. It couldn’t possibly be him. Nonetheless, I paid for my purchases and headed back to Mark’s flat quickly, looking over my shoulder every two seconds until I’d let myself in through the reassuringly impenetrable main door. I didn’t see the flash of blond again.

  Mark came back mid-afternoon. It had been three hours since my jaunt to the shops and I’d spent all of that time trying not to think. Trying not to wonder what Samuel had said to Alexander and whether the elder of the two brothers was looking for me: whether that had been Zane I’d seen, whether I had done the right thing. When I caught the sound of keys in the door I was so relieved that I was no longer alone with my thoughts that I all but ambushed Mark as he opened the door.

  “Hey!” I said, smiling hugely in greeting.

  “Hey,” he replied.

  He was dressed smartly, in grey trousers and a white shirt, tie yanked down a few inches so that it no longer choked at his throat. Even with the top button undone and his jacket tossed untidily over one arm, he looked different, grown up.

  “Did you survive on your own?” he asked.

  I shrugged, not wanting to confess the muddied doubts that had circled in my head. “Daytime TV is rubbish.”

  “I wouldn’t know,” he smirked.

  “Right.” I shifted my weight from foot to foot, back to being a little uncomfortable with Mark. The wine had smoothed the way last night; without its calming influence I felt awkward.

  Suddenly he cocked his head to the side and stared at me. One hand reached out and ran over the hacked bristles along my hairline. It tickled but I didn’t move.

  “You cut off the blue,” he said softly.

  “Yeah. Seemed smart.” For some reason I had to push the words past a lump in my throat. I shrugged. “It’s only hair.” So why did I feel like crying?

  There was an uncomfortable pause while Mark looked at me and I looked at the floor. I got the sense he wanted to hug me and I hoped he didn’t because I had the feeling that then I really would start bawling.

  The moment passed.

  “So, about that date,” Mark tossed his jacket aside and looked at his watch. “Is it too early to go out? I’ll buy you something to eat? We can call it lunner.”

  “Dinch,” I amended. “And it’s definitely not too early, I’m starving.”

  Mark changed into jeans and a light blue V-necked jumper that set off his flint grey eyes, then he took me to a little cafe-cum-restaurant just a few streets away from his flat. It served Anglo-Indian cuisine, more Anglo than Indian now that the government refused to allow anyone to import foreign foods – including spices – but the curried lamb I had was tender and tasty, if a little weird served with mashed potatoes instead of rice. Rice was available, but it was twice the price and I already felt bad that Mark was footing the bill. He had chicken breast and chips coated in a sludgy brown spicy sauce. It looked disgusting, though he said it tasted nice. The restaurant was all but empty, in that lull between lunchtime and the pre-theatre bookings, so we were served in double-quick time and back out on the street before I knew it. Or maybe it was just that the conversation was flowing and I was, for once in my life, having fun. We purposefully avoided discussing anything serious. Who I was running from; whether they’d be chasing me; how long I could stay with Mark. The possibility I could turn traitor, turning informer. Mark was laid-back and naturally cheery, and I managed to forget about my worries as he cracked jokes and entertained me with stories of his childhood, which sounded much rosier than mine.

  “So,” Mark banged lightly into my shoulder as we began the walk back to his flat, “Did you enjoy your dinch?”

  “Lunner,” I corrected.

  “You…” he rolled his eyes and smirked.

  “Bloody Celt?” I suggested.

  “Yes!” he huffed, but the corners of his mouth were twitching. He reached for my hand, fingers curling around mine. Looking down at me, he squeezed gently and I blushed. A strange warmth was zinging through my veins. It felt nice.

  We walked close together as we wound our way slowly back to Mark’s flat. The schools were just out and the pavement was crowded with teenagers in various different uniforms, mothers dragging along smaller, tired-looking children with Bob the Builder lunch boxes and dirt on their noses. We had to sidestep and weave around the throng, our progress made much harder by the fact that we were joined at the fingers, but I didn’t want to let go of Mark’s hand, and he, it seemed, did not want to let go of me.

  “Good afternoon.” Someone stepped in front of us, blocking our way and commanding our complete attention.

  Mark was slow to react, but I instantly stiffened. My eyes were level with the man’s broad chest and I recognised the distinctive bulky black vest, which was both uniform and lifesaver. If there was any doubt, the GE emblem was emblazoned just below his left shoulder. I stared at it, then, inch by inch, I dragged my gaze up to his face.

  Oh my God.

  I knew that face. Frantically I wracked my brain, flashing through memories, searching for the time I’d seen him before. It didn’t take long – I didn’t come into contact with many Government Enforcement officers. It had been at St Paul’s. This was the bent officer who I’d delivered Alexander’s package of drugs to. What was his name?

  Riley. His name was Riley.

  “Is there a problem, officer?” Mark asked politely.

  Riley had been looking at me, but now he snapped his gaze to Mark’s courteously curious face. I was glad he still held on to my hand; I was gripping his now, using it to support my shaking body. If I’d recognised Riley, surely he had recognised me? Why else would he have been staring at me like that?

  “I’m following up on reports that a Celt girl has been seen in the area,” he said.

  “Oh, I see,” Mark sounded shocked. “Well,” he glanced down at me, “I don’t think we’ve come across anyone like that. What does she look like?”

  Riley’s eyes glared back down at me.

  “Small, thin. Short dark hair with a blue fringe. Scottish accent.”

  In short, an awful lot like me. I kept my lips pinned closed, aware that I was hardly the master of a convincing English accent.

  “Has she been branded?” Mark asked.

  “Yes.”

  The tattoo on my cheek seemed to burn, as if it wanted to melt away the heavy make-up and expose me. I resisted the urge to cover half my face with my hand.

  “Well, officer,” Mark pulled me to the side as he made to inch around Riley. “If we see her, we shall certainly not hesitate to call in the GE.”

  “Wait,” Riley threw his arm out. “Before you go, I’d like to see your IDs.”

  No ‘please’. It wasn’t a request. The badge on his uni
form and the gun discreetly holstered at his side was all the authority he needed.

  “Certainly,” Mark pulled out his wallet and handed over the credit-card sized licence. Riley took it, gave it a cursory glance, then turned to me.

  I opened my mouth, but no sound came out.

  “Angel?” Mark looked down at me to smile, then his gaze dropped to my free hand and he frowned. “Where’s your handbag?” he asked.

  I blinked, totally confused. What handbag?

  He sighed indulgently. “You haven’t forgotten it have you?”

  Eh?

  His eyes burned into mine, trying to convey a message. I stared back, my brain trying to scramble into gear but stalling instead. Handbag?

  Oh. Realisation dawned. God, I was slow.

  “I… I must have,” I mumbled, trying to keep my voice low to hide the Scottish lilt that I’d never managed to drop.

  “Not again!” Mark sounded annoyed.

  I tried to look sheepish, a bit embarrassed, but really what I was, was impressed. The lies were tripping easily off Mark’s tongue, the fake emotions convincing. Forget officer work, he should be an actor.

  But then, I supposed, the danger here was all focused on me.

  “Sorry,” I whispered.

  “Don’t worry, we’ll just phone the restaurant when we get home, see if anyone’s handed it in.”

  “So you don’t have ID?” Riley’s eyes narrowed.

  I shook my head, trying to look believably innocent. And not frightened. Though I was sure he’d see right through my poor pretence.

  Riley pulled a notepad out of his trouser pocket. He flipped it to a blank page then fixed me with penetrating blue eyes.

  “Name?” His voice was curt and commanding, officer mode, and it turned on some switch in my brain. I was used to being ordered and sneered at. My terror vanished, and I knew at once who I was going to be.

  “Tanya. Tanya Middleton,” I said without hesitating, my tongue rolling oddly around an upper class accent.

  “Address?”

  I gave him a street in Chelsea, one that made his eyebrows ride up his forehead and the first stirring of doubt creep into his expression.