Apex (Ben Bracken 2)

by Robert Parker

  ‘My car? Why?’ she says. I notice that her accent is more prominent when flustered or angry.

  ‘When I say ditch, I don’t mean ruin and abandon. I just mean leave somewhere and we will carry on by other means. You can come back for it later.’

  ‘If everything goes to plan, you mean,’ she says. A touch of her fire is back, and I’m relieved to see it. I was beginning to worry of she could hack the task set us.

  ‘Something like that,’ I reply.

  I watch her carefully, for anything that might give away a hint of duplicity. I haven’t seen her touch a phone of any kind, so she doesn’t seem interested in keeping anybody updated of our movements. At least via such conventional means.

  She seems pensive and distant, and has done since she looked into the microscope back at her lab, as if the sight stripped away her fun and innocence. It seemed to be a big game to her before, a bit of a diversion. Then it all got very, crushingly, dangerously real. And she knows she is right in the middle of it.

  ‘Where are we headed?’ she asks. ‘I know we are roughly aiming for the capital, but where exactly?’

  ‘Just central London will be fine for the time being.’

  ‘And you still are sure you want to change vehicle?’

  ‘Yes. Soon.’

  ‘Then can I suggest the Night Riviera Sleeper?’

  It sounds like the quaintest mode of transport ever, like a battered armchair merrily floating along on a cloud of tea cozies. Which in itself would be better than this car.

  ‘What does that entail?’ I say.

  ‘It’s an overnight train that goes from Penzance, Cornwall, right through to Paddington, Central London. It lets people from the south west commute to the capital for work.’

  That actually sounds perfect. Quiet, fast, direct. I like that a lot.

  ‘How would that work?’ I ask.

  ‘We’d have to be a bit lucky with the times, but this is sunday night. And I know that on sunday night, the train makes a stop at Taunton, about 15 minutes south of here.’

  A change in direction to boot. Even better. Amina is playing a blinder. But is it a little too convenient? Why would she know such a thing unless she is walking me into a trap?

  ‘How do you know?’ I ask, trying to sound nonchalant and ready myself to watch her reaction closely.

  Amina smirks. ‘I told you, when I came over here, being stationed out in the sticks wasn’t exactly what I envisaged. It’s nice enough and everything, and I’m quite attached to my little home now. I keep dreaming of getting a big job in the heart of the action, and if I wanted to get there and keep my house, I’d have to commute. And I learned quickly that this would be the best way to do it.’

  Fair enough. I can’t really argue with that, but I know that hinges on the believability of her entire story. I’m watching her closely but I’ll let it slide for now, even if my instincts take a lot of persuading to go perch on the proverbial back burner.

  ‘Can you get us there?’

  The radio suddenly increases volume, making us both jump out of our skins, as a traffic report announces itself and demands to be heard. Before Amina can answer, we drowned out by a report.

  ‘Not much to report in terms of traffic through the night. There is still roadworks on the A38 to Taunton and the M5 Junction 28 at Cullompton is down to one lane for scheduled repairs on electronic signs. One more thing to add is that an alert has been issued for the general public to be aware of. There is a red Mitsubishi pickup truck in the Exmoor-Bristol area, which the police are keen to find. Anyone with any information is to call the Emergency Hotline on 0800 444 9999 as soon as possible.’

  They are on to us. Switching tactics could not come sooner. Amina and I exchange wordless grim glances, conversation superfluous. My pursuers, as ever, are not far behind and they have recruited the general public again in searching me out. Oh well... at least they didn’t call me a looter this time.

  ‘We are near Bishop’s Lydeard,’ Amina says, breaking our silence as the radio returns to its normal hushed volume. ‘Taunton is straight down here.’

  ‘How far?’

  ‘Ten minutes or so.’

  ‘When we are five minutes away let’s park up somewhere quiet and abandon the car. Out of interest, how much is it worth?’

  ‘You thinking of making me an offer?’

  ‘I’m thinking in case I have to replace it for you.’

  Amina looks at the dashboard. ‘This car was my first purchase when I got the job in England. It has some small sentimental value.’

  ‘Does your own life and wellbeing carry more sentimental value than this battered old truck?’

  She almost smiles. Almost.

  I see a sign up ahead for Taunton, harshly illuminated by the Mitsubishi’s full beams, rendering it only just readable. The road is still quiet, for which I am grateful. Prying eyes can prowl elsewhere.

  A couple more moments drift by with that unspoken potency, activity coiling just around the corner ready to unravel. I feel invigorated by at, as I always am with a challenge. My fever is almost gone, the horrors of the adder venom an ever-distant nightmare, passing further into footnote with every steady heartbeat. Whatever I make of her and her motivations, Amina has done a good job restoring me to past physical glories. Surely if she wanted harm to come my way, she could have already got rid of me?Oops, sorry, that wasn’t saline in that drip, it was bleach. Speaking of saline, that stuff is the mutt’s nuts. If I was still bouncing from hangover to hangover, a ready supply of this stuff would have made a world of difference. I might not even have got so uppity about having designs on saving the country.

  Never mind. Soft orange lifts from the gloom ahead, a smudged halo over a settlement beyond. That must be Taunton. Historic Taunton, that I know so little about. I remind myself to read up on this place, if indeed its train station saves our bacon.

  Our bacon. I mustn’t forget that. One person can blend in, disappear, the training taking over and making the right decisions for you almost without your knowledge. I must think for two. And that other person, with the greatest respect to Amina, doesn’t know what she’s doing. She’s game. I’ll give her that.

  ‘You need to listen to me, and do as I say,’ I say to her, with a stern edge.

  ‘Ah. Now you are coming round are you reverting back to your true type? A sort of sexist, 60’s James Bond character?’ A roundabout appears, and she guides us straight over.

  ‘No. I... That’s not what I mean. I mean you have to let me take charge.’

  ‘Fine,’ she says. ‘We’ll do things your way while we are doing the silly running around, jumping and shouting. But when it comes to the toxin, you follow my lead.’

  ‘Where that vile substance is concerned, please, knock yourself out. I’d only kill us all anyway.’

  ‘You nearly did.’ She’s right. Anymore wear and tear to that earring would surely have resulted in the toxin escaping in full, all inside my shorts pocket. The Toxic Board-shorts. Sounds like an entry in the old Point Horror teen horror series I used to read as a kid. The reality is far more terrifying. I pat the shorts pocket where I used to be able feel it, how I used to check for it. Nothing. I know it’s in the tupperware thing, but still...

  ‘How far?’ I ask Amina.

  ‘About five minutes now. A mile from the station I think.’

  ‘And you are sure we will make that train.’

  ‘I memorized the times. It will be there in twenty minutes.’

  ‘Then turn off this main road as quickly as you can. There,’ I say pointing to a lay by on the left. ‘Head for the gate.’

  Along the lay-by, for farm access, is another broad gate. Another gate, another farm, into another field. I pull the canula out of my arm with a sharp jolt, without wanting to dither on the act of doing so, and open the door as Amina brings the car to a stop.

  I hop out, and approach the gate. Checking again for anonymity, I unlatch wooden lever, swing it open with a creak and
a scrunch, and usher the truck through, while pointing to a spot behind the hedges on the right. Amina follows my lead (as she said she would) and drives gingerly over to the hedge. She douses the engine, and hops out.

  ‘Take everything,’ I say when I reach her.

  ‘About five thousand,’ she replies taking her bag from the rear seats.

  ‘What?’

  ‘The value of the car. About five thousand.’

  ‘This heap of shit wouldn’t fetch five hundred at auction -’

  ‘You asked for its value, to me the car is worth five thousand. And you are getting off lightly there. I didn’t want to have to buy a new one. I didn’t want to be on the run with a scary amount of chemical weaponry.’

  Robbed at toxin-point. I have the money. But my money is only finite. I did have £180,000 left from my career in the services, but that was supposed to see me through the next fifteen years! I wasn’t expecting any major outlays.

  ‘I could always destroy the toxin right here if you like?’ she says, upping the ante.

  ‘No, no, five thousand is fine,’ I say, through gritted teeth. ‘Unless I find you a suitable replacement.’

  ‘Done,’ she says. ‘But I get to decide what is suitable or not.’

  Consider my balls in a vice.

  ‘Done,’ I say, weakly, and promptly stick it to the back of my mind. I’ll worry about that later. I get the feeling she’ll remind me.

  A couple of minutes later, and the car is empty, with flames licking up the windows on the inside, as if clawing to get out. It will burn up nicely, throughout the course of the night. When it’s done, no one will look at that heap and say, ‘oh there’s that red jeep everyone is looking for’. I’m hoping it will just be looked at as a joyrider’s leftovers, and filed accordingly. At the very least I hope it will buy us some crucial extra hours. We slip out of the gate again, shut it tight behind us, and start walking. I take Amina’s hand.

  ‘We need to look as unsuspicious as possible. Right now we are a couple out for a late stroll,’ I say.

  ‘Yeah, we look just super in our shorts and backpacks. A proper pair of happy campers.’

  I’m not quite sure what to make of her. She is certainly a firebrand of sorts. I think, having seen what’s beneath the veneer earlier at the lab, when she identified our heinous MacGuffin, that she occupies herself with bluster and a hard exoskeleton. She comes across as tough, but brittle. A paradox of personality. Maybe that is why I find her true intentions hard to read, because there is so much to wade through.

  ‘We need to keep the pace up. Ten minutes and we’ll be there, and we need to be on that platform, ready to hop on, tickets in hand.’

  ‘The ticket office won’t be open, we will have to buy them on the train,’ she replies. ‘Do you have cash handy?’

  ‘You tell me. Do I have cash handy?’ I reply.

  ‘You have about £270 pounds in your wallet.’ I had a feeling she had been through my things while I was out of it.

  ‘Do I still have £270?’

  ‘What are you asking exactly?’

  ‘You didn’t... need it for anything?’

  ‘No, I didn’tneed it for anything.’

  ‘Will that be enough?’

  ‘How would I know?’

  ‘You seem to know everything else about it.’

  ‘That will be fine. We may even be able to get a cabin with that, to keep the toxin safely away from other travelers.’

  ‘They have cabins?’

  ‘So I read.’

  The idea of keeping the toxin a good distance from anybody else is a good thing, even though we both know that if it leaks, nothing will stop it from doing what it does in the immediate vicinity.

  However, spending a night alone in close proximity with Amina may be something else entirely. I am an insular soul at the best of times, happy keeping my own counsel. I haven’t slept anywhere near another woman in years, in fact, well over a decade now. Not that I am thinking in those terms but I am nervous in the company of women at the best of times, let alone ones that might be under the instruction of my direct opposition.

  That thing about not sleeping near a woman in years? Don’t think I’ll be breaking that duck tonight.

  13

  Get on board. Find an empty cabin. Get a ticket. Play the role. Keep cool.

  Taunton is as dead as I’ve ever seen a place. Maybe I am not looking in the right places, but at close to 11.30pm, I am still surprised. I like the idea of places like this, which feel like there is an enforced period of quiet, like an unofficial curfew. It’s like the town is made to go to sleep, a clockwork calm applied to the people. I can’t imagine anything ever going wrong here.

  And then there’s me, abandoning a car on the cusp of this island of rural humanity, carrying a lunchbox full of super-toxin. Wherever I go, bad things seem to follow. I feel guilty for that, not to mention for bringing our cargo into their midst. While the residents of merry little Taunton are safely tucked away in their beds, I am escorting a sample of chemical weapons under their noses. I don’t think they would be too happy with me if they knew. I know I wouldn’t be.

  Narrow streets lined with close hedgerows guide us into the centre, past beautiful quaint properties set back from the road, with names like The Old Post Office and Beaver’s Barn, some with cowed reading lamps on in second floor windows. As we get to what feel like the middle of Taunton, an assessment I make thanks to seeing what looks like a town hall, a convergence of roads and a heavier smattering of brick public buildings, I see that it is not as dead as I thought. A couple of pubs are shooing out their last order drinkers, heaving them out into the street and making them somebody else’s responsibility. Once out, the small groups congregate in pools of halogen from the street lamp like bloated moths, and say throaty goodbyes or work out what to do next.

  ‘Station is next left,’ Amina says, breaking the silence we had come to adopt as our own. The weight of what we are doing seems to press on us in such a way that sustained conversation is impossible. On the walk we snatched snippets of chat, but our words soon gave way to the gravity of our task.

  We step up a slight rise, to the archway of the station, and we pass under the familiar red tracked logo of UK train stations as if it were the famous entrance to Disneyland. The station is, true to Amina’s words, deserted. She knows where she is going, and marches ahead. We are on a platform before we know it, alone. Nobody else seems to be wanting the Night Riviera to Paddington.

  ‘Have we missed it?’ I ask.

  Amina simply points down the tracks. I follow her finger with my eyes, and see the unmistakable shape of an approaching train in darkness. The burning eyes at the front, the whisper of a snakelike body slithering after the head.

  We have done well here. I watch Amina as the train comes closer, and a quiet satisfaction has alighted her features. It might be happiness at pulling her weight, or delight that she is finally going to make this journey that she thought so often about. Fantasizing about this for so long appears to have eroded her conviction that it might actually happen. Yet here she is, on the platform at Taunton station, waving in that elusive train to London.

  I stay quiet, watch, and take it all in. I make a mental inventory of the train as it approaches. Five cars. The front two cars are darker than the last three, and through the windows I can see the seats peppered by weary faces. It is not very busy, which is again something to be grateful for. It pulls to a stop and Amina points to the second car.

  ‘Cabins this way,’ she says. I follow her up the step onto the train, to be confronted with a ticket inspector standing right in front, expectantly, her open face waiting for one of us to furnish her with pre-paids.

  ‘Hello,’ I say, grinning like an idiot. ‘Can we -’

  Amina bursts into conversation, like a cup of words overflowing and spilling right down the sides, pooling at the ticket inspector’s feet. ‘I hope it’s OK, but it is our dream to go on the Sleeper. We decided last minu
te that we wanted a trip to London - it’s an anniversary thing - and the Sleeper just seems so romantic and exciting. I didn’t know they did anything like this anymore, but we don’t have a ticket, and... please, please, my husband has cash, can we go to London with you?’

  What a performance! She has even ramped her accent up, let it overtake her speech a little, to give her even more sweetness and innocence. She comes across like someone who, in unfamiliar territory, made a genuine mistake and got a bit excited, but it’s all in jest andif it isn’t too much trouble etc. She mentioned marriage and I look down at her left hand. She has even slipped her gold band onto her ring finger, just to sell her little story.