“You going to be trouble?” he asks me.
“No,” I tell him. “I’m going to be awesome.”
This doesn’t seem to entirely reassure him. Still he lets me in with a solid pat on the back and the words, “Go on, you plonker.”
For a moment, on the cusp of the club, I question the wisdom of my decision-making. A sweaty, jumping beast of a crowd oscillates before me. I’m pretty sure I’m the oldest person here by a clear ten years. Even the bartenders look like I should card them.
And then, unbidden, I think of Felicity. No matter how deep I drown those thoughts they keep bubbling up. And I don’t want to think of Felicity. I don’t want to think at all. I want to be a young buck. Stuck in the eternal now. No future, no past, no goddamn worries. Just this, here, now.
I fling myself at the crowd.
In retrospect that phrase probably shouldn’t be used literally. Still, I dust myself off, and stagger away before confusion can change to accusation.
The music batters at me. I have another drink, close my eyes, try to stop thinking. The music slowly morphs, becomes less of an assault, more of a channel, pushing me, pulling me. My body starts to find a way to move.
I fall off my bar stool. I’d forgotten I was on that.
More dusting off. I am distantly aware of pain in… pretty much everywhere actually. I order another drink, head to the dance floor.
I spin. The room spins. I abandon sense. I dance. I fucking dance. And screw the kids staring at me. I am a buck, maybe not young, but, but, but…
I think I’m going to throw up.
It turns out I’m right.
The bouncer comes to collect me from the dance floor.
“Not what I’d call awesome,” I hear him tell me, but the world has gone sideways. I laugh at that but then I throw up again. The bouncer isn’t so friendly after that. What’s more it turns out he’s terrible at bouncing. I land on the floor and just lie there.
Finally I manage to gather up enough dignity to stagger into an alleyway and heave out the last of the alcohol in privacy. My stomach clenches. An ugly mess of beer, regret, and defeat spills onto the floor and stains my shoes.
55
IN THE HORRIFIC LIGHT OF DAY
Oh God. Oh God why? What in the name of hell was I thinking? Acting half my age last night, and now I feel twice it this morning. I didn’t arrest the forward march of time, I bloody accelerated it.
On the plus side, if the world decided to end today, I’m not sure I’d be all that sad.
My apartment feels as small and cramped as my skull. There is too much shit here. The contents of my fridge horrify me. The roiling in my stomach convinces me breakfast is something made for braver men on better days. I make coffee instead and swallow more ibuprofen than the packaging recommends. My stomach doesn’t thank me for that.
When I reach the office the pounding in my skull has at least decreased from full-on siege bombardment with heavy artillery to more of a running battle. If I could just find a small corner to curl up in, that would probably be fine. I’ll let Tabitha and Clyde find Friedrich today. With any luck he’ll need another day or two to complete the Uhrwerkgerät. We’ll have some time to…
To…
I should have stayed in bed.
The elevator rumbles down into the bowels of MI37. My stomach rumbles right back. I take deep breaths before I step out into the corridor. Fluorescent lights flicker. Long corridors full of long empty offices stretch out on either side.
Soon, they’ll all be empty, I suppose.
Will MI6 be so bad? Probably. I wonder if I’ll go back to police work.
I catch myself. I’m still thinking about the future. Like it’s a tick I can’t quite shake.
But it’s what I know. And nihilism hasn’t exactly been working out for me. Maybe I’ve been playing this all wrong. I should be going full Dylan Thomas. Raging against the dying of the light.
Would anger be better?
I’m too hungover for this. And as that realization hits, Felicity’s head appears from out of a door. Conference room B. At the sight, my stomach lurches yet again. It’s not got much to do with last night’s excesses this time.
“If you could step in, Arthur,” she says, emotions in tight control, “we’re having a full staff meeting.”
She’s formal. That’s all I can get. Not hostile. But far from warm.
I should have stayed in bed.
We’re all there, in the conference room. All as dysfunctional as ever. Tabitha and Clyde, Kayla and Hannah.
The only remaining seats are close to Felicity. I prop myself up against the back wall, between Clyde and Kayla. As far from her as it is possible to be.
She stands at the front of the room. She looks perfect of course. Not a strand of hair out of place. Not a single crease in her suit that isn’t meant to be there. Immaculate.
There is no smile to acknowledge us. No nod of the head. She just starts.
“I’ll keep this brief,” she says. “There’s not much to tell really. Two pieces of information. That’s it. Firstly, I will not sugar coat this. MI37 as it currently exists is over. It’s to be rolled into MI6. You will all still—”
But she doesn’t get any further.
“What the feck?” Kayla is the loudest, the most outraged, on her feet. I half expect to see her drawing her sword.
“The fuck it is.” Flat-out rejection from Tabitha.
“Wait… are you sure? I mean, not that I’m calling you into question. Well… I mean, I guess, by the whole effort of this vocalization I am. But very much routed in my own disbelief. My own issues involved here…” Clyde wanders into the conversational fray.
“Huh,” is all Hannah can muster.
And as for me. Well, I knew, didn’t I? I maybe didn’t expect it to happen so soon. But… It was coming. Or perhaps it still is. Maybe the word isn’t official yet and this is just fatalism on Felicity’s part. Maybe this is a death she’s made her peace with. The death of dreams, of ambition.
Felicity waits until the chaos quietens. Clyde’s voice fading last of all.
“…anything I can do.” He glances around. “Oh. Sorry.”
Felicity surveys us. She still hasn’t looked directly at me. I’m not sure I can really blame her.
“Secondly,” Felicity says, “effective immediately I shall be taking a leave of absence. I need a damn vacation. Arthur will be in charge until my return.”
And then she looks at me. Right then. Right there. Reap what you have sown. And before I even have a chance to respond, to even process, she’s out the door. She’s gone.
And yes, I really should have stayed in bed.
56
In different circumstances, I might take time to be surprised that so few people can make so much noise.
“What the feck?”
“The fuck he is.”
“Wow, that is… well, I mean first off congratulations to Arthur. Sure he’s ready for the responsibility. Never want to be seen to suggest otherwise, but that’s quite the double whammy.”
“Huh.”
And me too. I find my voice.
“No.” This can’t be how things are playing out. This can’t be the solution. This can’t be Felicity Shaw giving up on me and her dreams. Even though it is, I still deny it. But I’m not loud enough to be heard over the general hubbub.
Kayla has kicked her chair back with enough violence that its legs crumple slightly as it hits the wall. She strides to the door after Felicity.
“No,” I say again.
Maybe she hears me, misinterprets the negative. Maybe she just thinks better about where to direct her invective. But she stops shy of the door handle and wheels on me.
“You,” she hisses at me. And suddenly I am the focus of attention in the room. “This is your feckin’ fault.”
This is how the rabbit feels when the headlights strike. Kayla and I have been at peace for a fair while now, but I get the distinct impression that som
eone just turned the friends switch to off.
“I…” I manage. “I didn’t…” My eyes seek out Hannah. And this is her fault. She is the one who quit. She’s the one who doomed us. She’s the one who never understood us. Who never even tried. She’s the one who—
But when I find her she’s looking at me not with victory, not with malicious humor, not even with dull-eyed indifference. She looks at me, and it looks like sympathy.
So I look away.
“I didn’t know,” I protest. “I had no idea.”
“You’re fucking her!” Tabitha snaps. “How the fuck you expect us to buy that?”
“I was out last night,” I protest. The thunder of my hangover is surely loud enough that they can hear it as proof as well. “Something must have happened.”
Oh God. I know exactly what happened. But half truths might just save me from being kebabbed by Kayla.
“I’m sure it’s going to be all right.” Clyde is on his feet, moving around the table. Not toward me, but toward Tabitha. “I mean, not that I’ve suddenly gained any sort of prophetic powers. Though that would be incredibly handy and really help me prepare for events like this. Though, if myths are anything to go by, foresight isn’t the most wonderful gift. All sorts of trade-offs. That poor Cassandra girl, for example. Very great pity, that. So, maybe better off all told. But I suppose that’s what I’m talking about. I mean, we don’t know for sure we’ll be worse off with Arthur in charge.” He puts a reassuring hand on Tabitha’s shoulder.
“Get the fuck off me,” she snaps, and pulls away.
“You don’t know what you’re feckin’ talking about,” Kayla says to Clyde.
“I don’t think we need to assume that I’m happy about this situation,” I point out. “My girlfriend just went on a vacation she’d never mentioned to me.”
I don’t think anyone is willing to buy the sympathy angle.
“Great.” Tabitha throws up her hands. “The future. Just hand it to Friedrich. Might as well set off the Uhrwerkgerät now. Nice knowing you all.” She looks directly at Clyde. “Well, not all of you.”
Ouch.
“Oh come on,” I say.
“It’s not as bleak as that, Tabby,” Clyde protests. “You know. Chin up. Think of England. Sun never setting, all that. And we’ve found ways before. Quite a successful team, you and I.”
“Oh give it a fucking rest.” Tabitha is out of her chair now too. “Just give it a fucking rest.”
For a moment an unfamiliar emotion seems to ripple across Clyde’s face. Exasperation? Anger even? It’s so unexpected I can’t quite pick it out.
“I was going back to MI6 so I could avoid all this crap.” Hannah is the only one left in her chair.
“—this a permanent deal?” Kayla is asking no one in particular. “He in charge for the long term? At MI6?” She points at me. “Is she out?” She thumbs off in the direction Felicity went.
“We just need to rally together.” Clyde tries again. He even reaches out for Tabitha one more time. She pulls away.
“Clyde’s right,” I say. “We’ve surely got through worse things than my temporary leadership.” Actually, I’m not sure that’s true…
“Got through worse things with Felicity in charge,” Tabitha points out.
“Sure, let’s argue about this,” says Hannah. “This is more important than trying to stop the Uhrwerkmänner.”
“Oh shut up, you fucking quitter,” Tabitha spits at her.
“Oh be quiet,” I snap at Tabitha. “For once she’s bloody right.” There, that’s payment for the sympathetic look. Now we can go back to mutual animosity.
“Look, Arthur,” Clyde says, leaping to Tabitha’s defense. “I don’t think that tone is maybe the most helpful—”
“Will you give it a fucking rest!” Tabitha wheels on Clyde. “I don’t need you. Don’t want your help. Your defense. You. Are. Unwanted.”
And for a moment silence actually fills the room.
And there it is again. That look. And it really is something close to anger. Frustration maybe? Hurt?
But this time it doesn’t flicker away. This time it explodes.
57
“Dear God, I’ve fucking had it!”
Clyde stands at the end of the conference table, clenches his fists, and loses his shit. And that shuts us up. That makes us all take a collective step back. Because the uncomfortable truth is that, while he is a very decent affable chap, Clyde has the power to drop this whole building on us if he wants to.
He looks away. “I’m s—” he starts, then cuts himself off. “No, you know what, I’m not actually sorry. You know. I probably should be, but I’m not.” He looks directly at Tabitha. The rest of us might as well not even exist.
“I try, Tabby,” he says. “I try, and I try, and I try. And I understand that you are upset, and hurt, and though you would never admit it, you are very afraid. The future is a terrifying place, and you carry it in your stomach, and it is precious to you, and it scares you, and you do not want to be scared, and you do not feel ready, and you blame me for every conflicted emotion, for every moment of dread that this thing has brought to you. I truly do understand, Tabby. I understand all of it. Because, as I have stated many times before… and actually maybe that’s the problem. Maybe I say it too much so that it no longer registers. It’s just some tic, and I have devalued the words. I don’t know. If so, then that is most definitely and squarely on me. But this is all to say, in fact I was saying it, the exact words. I understand. And I try to make allowances because I do understand. And I love you.”
Then he puts his hand to his head. “But Jesus fucking Christ. Could you give it a rest for a moment. Could you at least attempt to show that under the layers of hurt and blame there is a spark of compassion in you? And I know you display your affection differently. I know you. Intimately. In fact so intimately that one might consider that perhaps some degree of allowance might be allowed on your part rather than this total, cataclysmic shut down of affection. Because that is inappropriate.”
The way he says the last word makes it sound as if it is the word one should use to describe the act of smearing excrement on church walls.
“And I have made allowances. And maybe that’s a terribly patronizing thing to say. Maybe you want no allowances. Maybe if you hurt, you feel you should be allowed to express yourself in any which way you please. And maybe screaming ‘shut up’ was controlling and rude of me. But simply know that if your chosen form of expression is repeatedly shitting on me from as great a height as possible then that act is not without consequences. Your acts exist in a social context. Or more specifically, to be more concrete about the example, it is getting righteously on my tits. I am upset. I am angry. I am at the end of my fucking tether.”
He sweeps his arm around the room. “All this. Everything that happened in the last ten minutes. And my world is destroyed. Everything I thought I fought for is gone. And I reach out to you. Not unselfishly. I will admit that. It would be a dishonest moment to say that I wasn’t hoping for some comfort in return for trying to provide it. And again, it’s perhaps wrong to expect anything from someone. It’s not a right. But maybe it’s common social courtesy. Part of that whole social contract. The bit where we aren’t total selfish arses to each other. The bit that you seem to want to flagrantly ignore vis-à-vis me and everything that involves me.
“I tried, Tabby. I tried.” He is almost imploring. Even in his anger I think he’s looking for something, some forgiveness. But either Tabitha is too caught off guard, or too backed into a corner to give it to him. “But I can’t fucking take it any more. I just can’t. I’m swearing even. It’s all falling apart. I am. And I can’t take it. I can’t. I can’t. I can’t.”
His argument is falling apart. His words collapsing in on each other. And it feels like this is it. The moment where the storm will pass, or whirl into a tornado and rip us all apart.
I search Clyde’s fingers for batteries. Thank God he’s not
holding any.
Maybe he feels the moment too, and is neither willing to let the moment simply blow out, but nor does he want to inflict any more damage than he already has.
“I can’t take it,” he says one more time, then bolts for the door, and the path out that Felicity has forged.
58
We all stew in that one for a moment. Tabitha somehow is the first to speak.
“Prick,” she says. But there is no feeling to it, no heart.
Hannah is shaking her head. “Bringing all this to MI6,” she says. “Whoop-dee-bloody-doo.”
“Hannah,” Kayla says, her voice very low, “I love you like the sister I never feckin’ had, but now is not a good time to for you to keep talking.”
Hannah looks over her shoulder at Kayla, still standing by the door. Her expression is incredulous. “Really?” She gives brief voice to her patented bitter laugh. “I mean, you’re a smart sensible woman. You don’t look at this and think, we put these bloody people in charge of saving the world?”
Kayla steps toward her. “This is my feckin’ family,” she says. Her voice is still low. Not the good, tender sort of low either. The sort of low that creeps around with a silent blade and an attitude problem.
“This is a military bloody organization!” Hannah looks aghast at Kayla, as if she’s been betrayed.
“No.” Kayla shakes her head. “This is different. That’s why you’ve never feckin’ liked this, because you haven’t figured that out. We are messy, and stupid, and we feck it up a whole feck of a lot. But we work. We feckin’ do. You told me that first day how feckin’ excited you were when you read our case files. We do good feckin’ work.”
Hannah shakes her head. “And I honestly have no bloody clue how.”
“My whole feckin’ point!” Kayla shouts. She sounds as exasperated as any of us now. “If you had a feckin’ clue then you wouldn’t be such a feckin’ quitter.”
“A quitter?” Hannah weighs that one. “A quitter.” She tastes it. Nods. “And you look around and see no possible place for improvement.”
Broken Hero Page 31
