The Guest House

by David Mark

  ‘I pitched it exactly as it needed to be pitched. We are the only department with the skills, the experience and the contacts to run the operation within the timeframe required and in a manner that leaves no department embarrassed or under-represented.’

  She drops her cigarette. Grinds it out. Takes a silver case from a pocket and slides out another cigarette. She turns the case. Pushes a button on the hinge and a flame shoots out. Paper crackles. She inhales, exhales, eyes never leaving his.

  ‘It’s my operative, isn’t it? There are still doubts.’

  Parkin looks away. He’s not permitted to reveal what went on within the confines of the meeting room on the third floor of the big rectangular building in Lambeth this morning. All the big players were represented. Border Force, Police Scotland, Europol, two faceless bureaucrats from the Home Office, and a tall sergeant-major sort from Scotland Yard. They’d each guarded their intelligence and information reports like children hoarding sweets. What happens next isn’t up to him. He knows he’s done his best. And yet, he wants her to know it too. Wants her to be pleased with him. To treat him like a good doggy, and perhaps, throw him a bone.

  ‘Of course there are doubts. You must understand that. I trust you implicitly and would go to the gallows to protect your reputation but while the rumours persist, people will be wary. There must be other people.’

  ‘There are. But he’s who I want to use. You’ve seen the results. You’ve done well out of the results.’

  ‘We both have,’ points out Parkin, diplomatically, as they continue to mooch along the path. ‘Quite a turnaround. You were facing charges two years ago. Now you’re next in line for my job.’

  ‘I don’t want your job.’

  ‘Well, that’s reassuring to…’

  ‘I want your boss’s job.’

  Beside him, the woman says nothing more. He finds the silence uncomfortable. Finds everything about her company uncomfortable. In such moments he can’t help wonder which of the many rumours surrounding her and her favoured operative might actually hold some weight.

  ‘If I could at least spend some time with him…’ begins Parkin.

  ‘No,’ she says, shaking her head. ‘That’s not how he works. He’s got his own methods. Unorthodox. Eccentric, even. But effective.’

  ‘We’re not spies,’ he says, with some degree of regret. ‘It’s not Mission Impossible. We’re a law enforcement agency. We have to stand up to scrutiny. We don’t have the luxury of saying “trust me”, because people simply don’t. All those weeks and months he was playing a vigilante, worming his way into the confidence of those two killers – you’re saying it’s all just an act, eh? That he knows where to draw the line? Are you saying he obeyed operational protocols at all times? Stayed in contact, filed the necessary reports, met his handler?’

  ‘I’ll say whatever you want to hear,’ she replies, without rancour. ‘I’m saying he’ll get it done. Minimum fuss, minimum spend, maximum results. That’s what I’ve done my whole career, Oscar. I don’t leave people disappointed.’

  He finds himself smiling. She’s never used his first name before. He manages to look at her properly, despite the burning sense of embarrassment and awkwardness. Not for the first time, he considers the rumours. He has no option but to think of them as tittle-tattle, because all of the files in relation to Operation Artemis have been classified. All he knows is that she posed in deep, deep cover and got caught up in something that she couldn’t get out of without blood. The gossips would have it that her months spent posing as a corrupt detective were not much of a stretch. She’s not short of enemies and they would have it said that she turned native without much in the way of encouragement from the group she was infiltrating. The organisation had made a fortune taking over crime syndicates and gaining leverage on bent authority figures, and they left a trail of burned, bloodied bodies across the country.

  When the police began to get some decent results, the gang suspected an insider had turned. She made a decision. The result was more important than anything else. To maintain her cover she sacrificed another officer to the group. Gave him up, with every intention of getting him back as soon as she could. Opportunity never arose. He suffered the agonies of Job during a year in their clutches, before freeing himself and assisting in the operation that left the leader of the group dead and his network on the run. In the investigation that followed, she was cleared of any wrongdoing, thanks almost entirely to the testimony of the undercover operative she had given up to maintain her own cover. Instead of being charged she was given a commendation and a posting to the National Crime Agency. And she brought her faithful, near-dead operative with her.

  It was all presented to Parkin as a done deal. None of it has ever sat right with him, but he cannot argue with her efficiency. The people who work under her have never worked out whether she has their best interests at heart, and most secretly believe she would sacrifice them in a moment if it offered personal advantage, but most are willing to take that chance in order to be part of a team that has become near legendary since she took over.

  ‘There were raised eyebrows in the room, let’s put it that way,’ mutters Parkin. ‘The Deputy Chief nearly swallowed his coffee cup when he worked out who I was suggesting.’

  ‘Me, or my operative?’ she asks, with the merest hint of a smile.

  ‘Both.’ He grins, and glances discreetly at his watch. ‘I should have an answer by close of play. I’ll push. I know this is the right way to do it; I just think they’d be more comfortable if there weren’t so many unknowns.’

  ‘Then take their fears away, Oscar. Tell them that you can personally vouch for the operation. Put your name to it. When it works, the glory’s yours.’

  He takes a breath before speaking. ‘I want to,’ he says, as if discussing the possibilities of a clandestine and ill-advised romance. ‘I really do, but I’ve a lot to consider, and if it goes wrong, or if he’s not as ready for this as the psychological evaluation would suggest, then…’

  She stops still. Shakes her head at him. ‘Don’t trust him, then. Trust me.’

  ‘But I don’t know you,’ he says, and the words are out of his mouth before he can stop himself.

  She steps back. Looks him up and down. Then she steps forward. Close. She’s all warmth and cigarettes and expensive perfume and she’s got her head angled like a vulture looking at a dying wildebeest. ‘You’re the boss,’ she says, quietly. ‘You’re in charge. I work under you, Oscar. I’ll keep you informed all the way. I know you’re an experienced officer. I know how frustrated you must be not getting all the recognition you deserve, and how hard it must be having somebody with a bit of dirt in their record on the team. I want to reassure you.’ She reaches out, about to put her hand on his arm, then stops herself, making a fist, as if fighting an urge. ‘What can I do to reassure you?’

  He doesn’t know how to respond. Just knows that whatever happens, he will go back to the symposium and do whatever is in his power to persuade the other agencies that his team is the only one that can mount this operation, and that he can personally vouch for the officer in charge. All he needs is their blessing, and they will each come out of it looking good. And if things go according to the plan that has just presented itself to him, Oscar Parkin might come out of it smelling of her.

  ‘Can I take it you’re on board?’ she asks, sucking the last of the cigarette down to the filter.

  ‘If only I could meet him,’ says Parkin, distantly, dry-mouthed, his last doubts stirring like ashes in a hearth.

  She cocks her head. Smiles: a slash of crimson, curving to show perfect teeth. ‘You did. You just gave him what he needs for tonight’s hostel.’

  Parkin’s eyes widen. He spins back to where he left the homeless man. He’s nowhere to be seen.

  ‘He’s good,’ says Parkin, half embarrassed, half impressed.

  For a moment she looks serious. ‘No,’ she says, quietly, looking away.

  Then to herself: ‘Not
deep down.’

  8

  ‘What do you want?’

  ‘I called the house phone. That daft lass from Acharacle answered. She said you were on a date.’

  I sit back in my seat, feeling rather satisfied with the evening’s turn of events. He doesn’t sound angry, but there’s a note of incredulity in his voice, as if he’s been told I’m out crocodile wrestling and needs to check he hasn’t misheard.

  ‘Yes,’ I say, quite pleased with my tone. ‘And?’

  He’s quiet for a moment. I feel a lovely warm tingle in my fingertips and toes, as if the blood is starting to flow again after a wee nip of frostbite. I don’t get many chances to be nasty and I save them all up for those who deserve to see that side of me. Callum’s never really seen it. He’s heard me whine and sometimes get a little snappy when I’m tired or things aren’t going my way, but the person I’ve been since I found out about his lies must have boggled his mind.

  ‘You’re on a date,’ he says again, as if trying a foreign language for size. ‘And you’ve left Lilly at home with that girl?’

  I feel as if I’m a bottle of Irn-Bru and every word he says is giving me a good old shake. I’m going to go off soon.

  ‘It’s none of your business, Callum. You made your choice. You turned your back on us. You don’t ever get to judge how I raise my children.’

  ‘Our children, Ronni,’ he says, and I hear how hard he’s trying to keep the temper out of his voice. ‘They’re my children too. We need to talk things through properly. We need to discuss proper access.’

  ‘We can discuss maintenance,’ I say, feeling hateful. ‘Do you know what it was like paying for Christmas?’

  ‘I tried to put money in your account,’ he says. ‘You wouldn’t take it.’

  ‘We need nothing from you,’ I hiss, and I can picture his face, all smug, as he processes my contradictions. I dare him to mention it. To say anything at all.

  ‘Who is he?’ he asks, quietly. Something stirs within me, as if a faint gust of wind has illumined a near-dead ember in a cold hearth. I feel a tiny spark of compassion. He sounds so broken. So far away.

  ‘You don’t get to ask,’ I say, and I hear my breath catch in my throat. I cough, trying to cover it. To stay resolute in my hatred of this lying, cheating, two-timing bastard. ‘You won’t know him anyway.’

  ‘I can find out,’ he says, simply. ‘Would be easier if you told me.’

  ‘Threatening me now, are you?’ I snap, and in my head he’s lying in bed with Kimmy and she’s kneading his temples to keep him calm.

  ‘I want us to talk properly, Ronni,’ he says. ‘I’ve tried so many different ways but you won’t hear me. What you found – what you think: it’s not like that. It never was.’

  ‘Friend, is she?’ I snap, and a sharp pain in my palms tells me I’m making fists. ‘I can’t believe your bullshit, Callum. There’s no way you’re going to talk your way out of this. I saw the messages. You had a secret phone for God’s sake! The only thing that will happen if I let you talk is you’ll convince me I’m insane and that I’ve imagined all this, and I can’t allow you to do that, even if I want you to. I don’t think you understand how much you’ve hurt me.’

  He doesn’t speak. I realise my eyes are wet and it pisses me off even more. He doesn’t get to upset me anymore. I have to cling on to my absolute hatred if I’m going to keep myself together.

  ‘He’s called Bishop,’ I snap, sounding very pleased with myself. ‘He’s single. Bit of a lad. Got a sort of Liam Gallagher look, if you need to picture him. Works in cyber security. Makes me laugh. Makes the kids laugh…’

  ‘He’s met the kids?’

  ‘Oh yeah,’ I say, enjoying myself now. ‘Had Atticus in bits. Lilly’s a bit stand-offish but give it time…’

  He doesn’t speak. I hear him breathing. Feel the fire go out within me. None of this feels as it should.

  ‘Bishop,’ he says, at last, and for the first time since Poppy was a baby and we had to rush in to hospital with suspected meningitis, I hear tears in his voice. ‘He’s okay with you, is he? Treats you right?’

  ‘We’re in the car park at Glenborrodale, actually,’ I say, and I slap away the tear that runs through my make-up. ‘Having a lovely time.’

  He doesn’t reply. I start to think he’s hung up. Then, just as I’m about to drop the phone, he speaks again, in a rush. ‘Gold teeth, Ronni? Scruffy. Beard. Rents the place overlooking the ferry harbour. No, Ronni, I know you don’t want to hear it but you have to listen to me – all the stuff with the phone and the messages, and him wandering into your life, it’s all part of the same…’

  I see my face reflected in the darkened glass. I’m pale, with red spots high on my cheeks, and the face I’m pulling is one of absolute rage and disgust. How dare he! How dare he try and use any of this to gaslight me into forgiving him.

  I end the call. Switch the damn thing off. Scream, desperately, into the crook of my arm. Then I drive home, slowly: every bend in the road made perilous by a veil of tears.

  9

  There are four voicemails from Callum when I switch my phone back on. It’s a little after 5am and Lilly has already begun grizzling. She can start to complain even before she wakes up. She roots for my nipple like a pig snuffling for acorns. Latches on. Burps, milkily, and starts to play with my other nipple as if searching for a favoured station on a transistor radio. I try to pretend I’m still asleep but I can’t keep up the fiction for long – not when my phone is blinking and beeping and calling out to me like an ice cream van.

  I ignore the messages. I don’t want to hear anything else he has to say. I check every app on my phone for something from Bishop. Nothing. Absolute bloody silence. The last I heard he was telling me to meet him where we had our first kiss. He’d bring the blanket. Yeah, okay, Bishop. Whatever. Would have been good if you’d brought yourself, too.

  I lie and stare at the ceiling for a while, emotions coming in waves. One moment I’m relieved to have extricated myself from what felt like a relationship without much in the way of a future. Then I’m missing him. He makes me laugh. And he’s got that confidence about him, as if he’s never met a problem he couldn’t sort out. But he hadn’t really warmed to the kids, had he? And there was a petulance about him – a self-importance that shaved the attractiveness off his self-belief.

  But to be dumped? To be stood up? Am I somebody who should get used to this? Am I the sort of person who can look forward to driving home sober and depressed after a no-show? I didn’t think I was. There are bits about myself that I’d have tightened and twanged if I had the money and I’ll admit that in temper I have a face that could sour milk, but I’m pretty switched on, and I’m funny and can do a crossword without really thinking about it and can do the kids’ homework with my left hand while making dinner with my right. And I look okay. He’d seemed to like it, anyway.

  I find myself growing more and more agitated. He just doesn’t seem the type to stand somebody up; that’s the problem. Maybe something happened, I think, chewing my lip. Maybe there’ll be flowers and chocolates before lunchtime and a lengthy message explaining that his car broke down and his phone fell in the loch…

  I’m so deeply involved in conversation with myself that when I hear the crash, it takes me a moment to realise that it’s coming from the real world and isn’t a projection from the deep, deep place in which I have my most private chats. Lilly sits up as if yanked by a string, the shock sparking immediate tears. I have to shake myself to reconnect with reality, and then I’m half running, half stumbling out the door and down the stairs, Lilly bouncing on my hip. Both kids are in the living room, faces pressed against the dark glass, staring through their reflections at the silvery black surface of the loch.

  ‘Mum, you’ve got a boob out…’

  I grab my coat from the peg, plonk Lilly down on the floor, pull my walking boots over my bare feet and barrel through the kitchen to the back door. I spill out into the pitch dark of ea
rly morning as a fine rain is swirled by a hard wind. A large white van is noisily trying to extricate itself from the stone wall that marks the boundary of my property; its sidings wedged into the branches of a high, thick-trunked tree.

  ‘Hey!’ I begin, running down the drive, pulling my coat around myself and trying not to appear unnecessarily demented. ‘Hey, did you do this? Don’t be thinking you’re just going to up and leave. You woke my baby… How the hell did you hit it?’

  I can feel my temper bubbling like lava. I skid across the wet shingle of the driveway and bang on the glass of the driver’s window. It’s tinted, so I can only see myself. The van gives a roar and I realise I’m being ignored – the driver is still trying to get away without facing up to what he’s done.

  ‘Oi!’ I yell, and decide to let some Glasgow bleed into my voice. ‘Oi, pal, I’m talking tae ye! Buzz it down noo or ah’ll tek a rock tae it, understan’…?’

  The revving stops. The window slides down. A big round face looks out from the driver’s seat. Red hair peeking out from under a baseball cap, a camouflage jacket. A three-day stubble smear on his fleshy chin.

  ‘Sorry love,’ he says, wincing. ‘Bad bend, that, innit? Did I catch the wall? Thought I felt something go under the wheel. Thank Christ it’s just bricks and mortar, eh?’

  I give him some serious eyebrow work in response. They almost reach my hairline. ‘Thought you felt something? You’ve taken half the wall. And you were about to drive off!’

  ‘I wasn’t. I was just trying to back out; see the damage. I’m not that sort of chap, I swear.’

  He gives me a look – the sort that says “butter wouldn’t melt in my mouth”. I look past him. There’s another guy in the passenger seat. He’s a colossal specimen: tall, broad, heavily bearded. He’d only need some furry trousers and a dab of face paint and he’d pass for a Viking. He’s staring ahead, saying nothing.