A is for Apple

by Kate Johnson

  “And who’s this?”

  Beady eyes were turned my way. I smiled hopefully.

  “This is Sophie. My girlfriend.”

  Oh, thank God he’d used the G word. I stuck out my hand.

  “It’s nice to meet you. Uh,” I hesitated, “I haven’t really met any of Luke’s family.”

  “That’s because Luke never sees any of us,” Tilda said with a cut glass smile, which Luke returned. It was easy to see the family resemblance.

  “I return the affection I’m given,” Luke said, and I wanted to die.

  “This is not the time or place for this discussion,” Tilda said. Her eyes swept over me dismissively. “I have guests to see to.”

  And she glided away.

  “What are we, caterers?” I muttered. “Nice lady.”

  “Yeah. One of the nicer ones.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Yep.”

  “And I thought I had family problems.”

  “Your family’s great.”

  “If insane.”

  “Yeah, but that’s what makes them great. Look, champagne.”

  I scowled at the passing waiter. “Look, lots of meds.”

  Luke gave me a sympathetic smile. “Sorry. How’re you bearing up?”

  Like I was in labour or something. “I think I’ll make it through the day. Is there food here?”

  We found some canapés and stood picking spots off people for a while. Most of the people I singled out for ridicule seemed to be related to Luke, which he seemed to find hilarious.

  Until I spotted a large woman wearing a too-tight pink dress that made her look like a sausage that had been stuffed back into the tube. Her hair was blonde and piled up fatly on her head. Her legs went straight down into shocking pink court shoes.

  I shuddered.

  “What?” Luke said, looking over. “Oh God.”

  “I know. As if court shoes were ever—”

  “No, I mean Oh God. That’s my cousin Avril.”

  I gaped. People called Avril should be willowy and pale, like spring flowers. They should not be bright orange and the approximate shape of a lemon. “You’re related to her?”

  “Yep.”

  “But you’re so fit…”

  “Compliments later. Now, run.”

  But Avril had already spotted us. Screeching “Luke!” so loudly everyone turned to look, she sailed over like an ocean liner, happily unaware of sending ordinary people flying with her bulk. Being towed along behind her was a thin, nervous-looking man. As well he might be. I was starting to worry that Avril might start eating guests if she ran out of canapés.

  “Luke darling, I haven’t seen you in ages.” She clasped him to her, and he hung on to my hand grimly. It was all I could do to keep from laughing. “Mummy, Daddy, come look who I’ve found!”

  While I waited in grim fascination to see who the hell her parents were, Avril shoved forward the thin man.

  “This is Howard,” she said proudly, fingering his shirt collar.

  Howard ducked his head nervously.

  “Hey, Howard,” I said, feeling a dash of solidarity for someone else involved with this crazy family.

  “And, Luke, you haven’t introduced me yet! Where are your manners? Who is this charming young lady?”

  “Which charming young lady?” I muttered automatically, and Avril was sent into peals of laughter.

  “Oh, gosh, you’re funny! Mummy, come and meet Luke’s young lady!”

  Mummy and Daddy were as well-dressed as the rest of the family, considerably thinner than their offspring and noticeably more polite than Great Aunt Tilda.

  “Soph,” Luke said wearily, “this is my Aunt Bridget and Uncle Quentin and my cousin Avril and her—er—Howard.”

  I fought to keep a straight face.

  “And this,” I was pushed forward slightly, as if for inspection, “is Sophie.”

  No “girlfriend” this time. Huh.

  They all said polite hellos. Avril looked me over in admiration. “That’s quite an outfit you’ve got there, Sophie!”

  At least I think it was admiration.

  “Thanks,” I said uncertainly. “I, er, like your, er, shoes…” I stamped on Luke’s foot.

  “Oh, I know. I adore them. So funky!”

  God, this was killing me.

  “You’re a bit in the wars,” Aunt Bridget observed of me. “What happened?”

  I took a deep breath. “The graze? Oh, that’s just where someone tried to kill me in New York.”

  Luke had his knuckles in his mouth. The rest of the family stared at me for a few seconds.

  “Rough place, New York,” Uncle Quentin managed.

  “Oh, Daddy, she’s joking,” Avril said. “Aren’t you?”

  I shook my head happily. This was more fun than I’d thought.

  “And what about the bandage?” Bridget asked nervously.

  “What, this?” I looked at it. It was beginning to make my arm cramp. “Oh, this is where someone tried to OD me with heroin last night outside a club. I had to have the needle cut out this morning. Don’t worry,” I added when they looked alarmed. “I’m not stoned. I don't think.”

  “And she’s probably not contagious, either.” Luke slipped his arm around my shoulders. “Probably.”

  “We just have to wait for the blood tests to make sure I don’t have hepatitis.”

  “Or AIDS.”

  “Or septicaemia.”

  “Or tetanus. Or endocarditis.”

  “What’s that?” I looked up interestedly.

  “Heart murmurs. If the needle was dirty.”

  “Oh. But,” I added to Luke’s shocked relatives, “I’m probably clean. And Luke, I’m pretty sure you can’t catch it by kissing me.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Well, not unless we exchange about ten pints of saliva.”

  I could hardly believe I was saying all this. Aunt Bridget looked like she was about to faint.

  “Should we go?” I said to Luke.

  He nodded. “Let’s.”

  We half ran to the back of the band tent and Luke had to hold me up because I was laughing so hard I could hardly breathe.

  “Oh, God, their faces.”

  “I thought Avril was going to burst.”

  “I know.” I pressed my fingers under my damp eyes. “Endocarditis? Is that even a word?”

  “Yeah, it’s heart murmurs. One of those field training things. Don’t share needles. Always use a condom.”

  “What is a heart murmur?”

  “Something to do with the lining of the heart. Jesus, Sophie,” Luke could hardly stand. “I haven’t laughed that hard in—”

  “Is it serious?”

  “What? A heart murmur? It can spread. Naff up the kidneys and brain and things.”

  Suddenly it wasn’t so funny any more.

  “Can it kill you?”

  Luke straightened. “I don’t know.”

  I sat down hard on the grass, not caring about my leather jeans.

  “Sophie?”

  I was trying hard to breathe.

  “Look, it’s really unlikely. You’re healthy, your heart’s fine…”

  “What if it’s tetanus? Or hepatitis?”

  “Well, there are treatments for those…”

  “What if it’s AIDS? What if I’m HIV positive?” I started to shake, cold terror overwhelming me. “Luke, I could die.”

  Luke crouched down beside me.

  “You won’t die.”

  “I could get AIDS and die from a cold. I’ll be one of those people wearing bad hats who you see outside Tube stations begging for change. My parents will disown me. I’ll never have children. I’ll get stomach flu and die from it, oh God…”

  I was rocking now, well on my way to hysteria. Luke put his arms around me and I pushed him away.

  “And you, you’ll catch it too. I’ll kill you, too. God, Luke, you’re going to die because of me.”

  “No one’s go
ing to die because of you.”

  “Because of some stupid kid with a bloody needle…”

  “Sophie.” Luke took my face in his hands. “You are not going to die. I am not going to die. No one is going to die.”

  But they are, I thought. Someone’s going to die before this is over.

  I sniffed. “I’m really scared,” I said in the tiniest voice.

  “I know you are.” This time I let him hug me. “ But you’ll be okay. The tests’ll come back clean.”

  “What if they don’t?”

  “They will.”

  “But—”

  “If they don’t you can move in with me and I’ll wrap you up in cotton wool until a cure is found,” Luke said in exasperation.

  “I could be ninety.”

  “I don’t care. Having you safe is what’s important.”

  I felt tears flood uncontrollably out of my eyes. Damn, I wish I wasn’t wearing so much eyeliner. I’d look like a panda.

  “Luke.” I pulled him to me and kissed him. “You’re not scared about infection?”

  “No.”

  I sniffed. “Liar.”

  He held me close against him, stroking my hair, and I thought about what he’d said. What if the results came back positive—now that I'd calmed down I didn’t think they would—but if they did, would he renege on his promise?

  “Would you really look after me if I was really sick?”

  “Course I would.” Luke kissed my neck.

  “What about if you had a job to do?”

  He moved back a few inches and looked at me. “This again?”

  I nodded. “I need to know.”

  “I—well, we’d think of something,” Luke said on a sigh.

  “If I was really sick and couldn’t be left…”

  “Then I’d stay with you.”

  Tears were flowing freely down my cheeks now. I must have looked awful—a good warning for Luke. If I got ill, I wouldn’t be a pretty sight.

  “Even if the job was really important?”

  “Even if.” He squeezed my shoulders. “Now what’s brought this on?”

  You, I wanted to say. You, preferring to spend time with me, rather than go out and do your job. You, acting like you’re in love with me. You, placing me above all other things.

  “You,” I gulped eventually.

  “Well, thanks.”

  I wiped my eyes. “I can’t believe I’m going to say this.”

  “Say what?” Luke looked a little apprehensive. As well he might.

  “I wouldn’t do the same for you.”

  A is for Apple

  Chapter Fourteen

  I sat in the boathouse, crying hard. So this was our second break-up. And this time it was a proper one—not just a bit of enforced celibacy for everyone’s sanity. This was the real deal. This was it.

  It was over.

  At first Luke hadn’t quite understood. So I’d had to explain, rather spoiling the drama of the moment. I’d had to explain that if push came to shove, the world was more important than him. So saving the world would be my priority.

  So I'd have to leave him to die.

  So I couldn’t be with him any more.

  The realisation had been creeping up on me for a while, but right then was when it clubbed me over the head and made its presence known. I was a spy. Maria had told me from the start that Luke was a relationship-free zone, and I’d figured that was just Luke, being a rock or an island or whatever. It hadn’t occurred to me that it was a hazard of the job.

  If I was ever going to be a halfway decent spy, then I’d have to make my job my first priority. I’d have to concentrate on it totally. Which meant any relationships I had needed to take a backseat.

  Only…

  Only Luke could never be on the backseat in my life. Luke had to be there right next to me. If I wasn’t going to go at this full throttle (where do all these car metaphors keep coming from?) then I’d have to cut him loose. Ejector seat. It would have to be over.

  There’s a reason James Bond never has the same girl from one film to the next.

  When I’d finished explaining, there was a sort of stunned silence.

  “Sophie,” Luke said, reaching out to me desperately. “Look, calm down, you don’t mean—”

  “I mean,” I said. “I don’t want to do this—”

  “So don’t.”

  “But I have to. It’s like Tara said.”

  Luke ran his hands over his face. “Who?”

  “In Buffy! About not wanting to go, because it’d hurt too much. Even though she really loves Willow…”

  There was another awful silence, then Luke said, “You don’t love me.”

  I was crying so hard now I thought my body would shrivel up.

  “Don’t ask me that.”

  Luke stood there and watched me cry for a while, my head bowed so I couldn’t see him. And I didn’t see when he left.

  At the bottom of the garden, away from all the noise and music and food and general happiness, there was a picturesque lake, fed by a small river that flowed off into the countryside. A boathouse sat on the lake, silent and dark, shielded from the sun, with a couple of dinghies on the decking and a smart houseboat moored up inside. When I was a kid one of my dad’s friends had a houseboat and we went on it for a day. Talk about going nowhere fast.

  I sniffed, loudly, and wiped my eyes. If I leaned over I could see my reflection in the water. I looked bloody awful.

  I stood up, determined to find Luke and get my car keys back so I could go home. My arm was aching—oh, shit, I couldn’t drive. Not like this. I felt okay walking about but I was on such a cocktail right now that if I got dizzy I could crash the car…

  Oh well, I was going to die anyway. Might as well go out wearing leather jeans.

  I checked my face in my little handbag mirror and wiped away the worst of my panda eyes. Out came the concealer to make me look more human, lip gloss for confidence, a pinch of my cheeks to brighten my face. I couldn’t wear an outfit like this and look like hell. It just wasn’t done.

  I was just about to snap the mirror shut and make my way out into the sunlight when I saw, reflected behind me, someone in a shapeless black hoodie, hood pulled over a balaclava’d face, sneaking up behind me.

  Damn, I thought in that split second, I wish I had my gun.

  And then I dropped the mirror—bad luck, hah!—and rammed my elbow back. I caught the stalker in the stomach and he—she? it?—doubled over. I glanced around for some kind of weapon and saw a coil of rope on the floor. I dashed for it, but the black figure lashed out and I tripped, my ankle caught, and fell heavy on my face, winded.

  I saw the rope come down on me and rolled to the side, desperately trying to breathe. I kicked out, restricted by my tight jeans (Buffy never has this problem) and landed a foot somewhere on a knee or a thigh. My attacker came at me again, this time pulling a spanner from under the big black hoodie, and I suddenly found my breath and yelled, loudly and incoherently, just enough to startle the attacker until I’d scrambled to my feet. But he had a rope and a spanner—a big heavy spanner—and I had nothing. Not even my handbag, which had got flung in a dark corner of the boathouse.

  It was so dark in here I could hardly see, but then the hooded figure glanced behind at something, and when the head came back I caught a glimpse of eye, recognised the head movement, and nearly fainted with the realisation.

  “You?” I gasped, and the hooded figure came forward with its spanner and rope. I was backed into a corner, no escape, and I was just about to dive into the water, sod my jeans, when the door slammed open and Luke came rushing in.

  Feeling like the helpless heroine in a film, I let a grateful sigh escape me, a sigh that was rapidly expelled as a scream of horror when the hooded figure lashed out suddenly with the spanner, slamming it into Luke’s jaw and sending him crashing hard against the cement wall. I heard a hideous, nauseous crunch, a sound I will never, ever forget, and saw a dark streak of
red on the pale wall as Luke slid down it.

  He was dead.

  “No.” Once again winded, I couldn’t even move. The hooded figure grabbed Luke’s body and shoved it across the decking, kicked it hard in the ribs and sent it sprawling with a boneless thud into one of the dinghies. A second later, the boat hit the water with a splash, and the black figure kicked it out into the water, where the current caught it and snatched it outside.

  “God, Luke—” I stumbled towards the water, sniffing and snottering with fear (this definitely never happened to Buffy), but I was caught with the spanner. I went down, my head crashing against the decking, seeing the hooded figure halt and listen like a cat as voices passed by.

  “Help,” I tried, but my voice wouldn’t come. Light was fading. My attacker ran out of the door, pushing it closed and dropping a lock into place. “Help, don’t let…”

  And that was it. I was out.

  Someone shook me awake, someone who was whispering and sobbing my name, crying, “Please don’t be dead, Sophie, please don’t let them have killed you, please…”

  I recognised the voice, and although my head was throbbing like a flamenco dancer was practising his petulant Spanish stamping on it, I somehow managed to drag my eyes open.

  “Clara?”

  “Oh, thank God you’re all right,” she wept, throwing herself on me. “I thought she’d killed you.”

  “What?” I tried to pull myself half upright. I was still in the boathouse, and there was an electric light blaring into my eyes. “Who? Clara, what are you doing here?”

  She rubbed her eyes, smudging glittery eyeshadow all over the place. “I came because…I came because I knew what they were going to do. I knew they were going to try and kill you.”

  “Who?”

  “Marc and Amber. I think,” she drew in a shuddery breath, “I think it was her who stuck the needle in you. I saw her whispering with Lucy.”

  “Lucy’s in on this?”

  “I think they made her. Luce is a bit of a sheep.”

  I nodded. I wasn’t surprised at anything she was saying.

  “Is that why she was making out with Laurence? To get him to go outside so they could attack him?”

  Clara dissolved into fresh tears. “No,” she sobbed, “he just followed her. He really liked her.”

  I absently put my hand on her shoulder, and through the fog of pain that pressed in on me, I tried to figure it out.