I grab Amina’s hand, hoping to rely on that united front of bumbling, anniversary idiots which got us so far yesterday, but she pulls away quickly. I try again, to the same result.
‘Don’t,’ she says sharply. I look to the door, and see that the inspector has seen all this, who looks at us with eyebrows raised ever so delicately. I shrug openly and give him that withered, reluctant smile that a man gives another man which asks ‘what can you do?’. He smiles back a pursed grin of understanding, and waves us both through. I almost smile for real.
‘The sign says there’s taxi rank over this way,’ Amina says, one step ahead of me this time. I follow her lead, noticing that I have to quicken to keep pace with her. There is a determination to her, an embedded well of resolve, that shows me exactly how this woman was capable of escaping the grasp of her captors and making it right across Europe to the UK, then carving out a new life for herself here. I find myself admiring her.
Before long, I am distracted by an annoying feeling of disquiet. There us a presence here, imperceptible almost to anyone but myself, and as we move through the ever-growing crowds, I feel extra eyes on me. I look to the newspaper stands, the people on their way to platforms and ticket offices, but nothing seems out of place. But the itch remains, coming from - there. By the coffee vendors, standing in over to my 11 o’clock. Two policemen, staring right at me, their eyes fixed and emotionless, locked onto me from beneath the peaks of their hats. I look away again, take a few more strides, and check again.
I am still the only thing they are interested in. Shit. And thanks to my ever-shifting perspective, I can see another man with them. Smaller, rounder, balder, vacuum-packed into a trench-coat. No, it can’t be.
Flanked by two of the Met Police’s finest, stands MP Lloyd Weathers.
Like a kid grabbed outside a sweetshop with his pockets full of unpaid-for gobstoppers, I feel caught red-handed. Busted is an understatement, as Weathers’ eyes widen in recognition and indignation. He seems to pass a charge to me, across his gaze, and I tense, ready to bolt.
‘Amina...’ I say, but as I do, Weathers looks away. His gaze just drifts off down the platform. The coppers still eye me, but the corrupt man between them looks anywhere but at me.
‘What?’ says Amina.
‘Nothing,’ I say, puzzled. I keep my head down, eyes front and follow Amina out of the wide exit of the station, onto street level. At the cab rank, I bundle Amina quickly into the first waiting car, while trying not to look back at Weathers. He saw me, right? He knew it was me, surely?!
‘Where to, guv?’ the taxi driver asks, as if playing to every London cabbie stereotype I could ever hope for. I can’t really see him from the back seat, apart from long grey hair tumbling greasily down the back of his head from beneath a flat tweed cap. Steel blue eyes lined with deep, crinkly crow’s feet glance back at me from the rearview mirror.
Amazed that I am even in the taxi having just stared my direct pursuer in the eye, I stutter.
‘It’s our anniversary... I... we... want to do something special.’
I feel Amina looking at me warily. She has seen all sides to me, apart from one that is flustered and confused. It is dawning on me that they have let me go. They know exactly where I am, they know I’m here, and by coming to the city to nestle in their clutches I have played right into their hands. They have us. And if they have us, they have the toxin.
But why not take us in? Why look me in the eye, and let us go?
The taxi drivers cockney tones pull me back to the taxi out of my fog.
‘Something special’s kind of broad, mate. What kind of special are we talking about?’
‘A hotel near Westminster,’ interrupts Amina.
The driver locks the taxi into gear, the engine lurching forward gradually to join the morning rush. ‘Which one?’
Is this driver in on it? Is he going to report our whereabouts to the powers that be?
I’m paranoid. For the first time in my life, that I can think of, I am paranoid. It’s what put me over halfway to killing Amina last night, and makes me want to reach over the seats now to rip on this taxi driver’s ear until he tells me the truth.
I mustn’t forget what brought me here. It has been, without doubt, a hell of a few days. I have been somewhat malnourished and exhausted, while at the same time I’m still on the immediate comedown from a nasty snakebite, and ensuing feverous breakdown. I glance down at my arm, and look at the neat dressing which covers the carefully cleaned bite marks. Guilt creeps up on me again. Amina patched me up, and what did I do to repay her?
There she is, sitting next to me, looking out of the window at the city waking up. The city that she was determined one day to visit, and prosper in. I’m sure this isn’t how she imagined it.
Never mind. Think forward, Ben. Think smarter, not harder. Considering what you’ve been through, no wonder your head is fucked.
‘Where would you recommend?’ I ask.
‘Well, it depends on how many Queens are in you pocket for a start. You can have a special night in the bloody Dorchester, but special can also be the Holiday Inn. Which kind of special do you want?’
‘Any near Westminster?’
‘Does it have to be Westminster? It’s a big city, guv...’
‘Westminster is fine. Most of what we wanted to do is round that area.’
The driver cackles a throaty, wet cough of a serial smoker, which finishes with a laugh.
‘Ha, tourists. No offense. It just never ceases to amaze me that you all come here looking for a bit of a glimpse into the fabled histories of just a select few crusty old buildings here, when there is oodles of history crawling out of every alleyway, every river bend, every rooftop. You just have to get out there.’
I don’t doubt it, and I know from personal experience that there is far more to London than meets the eye. It was on the banks of the Thames when I was framed and arrested. I glance out of the window, watching a lazy drizzle blend the colors from the street into an ever-refreshing watercolor.
I remember that out there, somewhere, is Terry Masters. He can sit on his throne for now... But before long, I will come back here. And London will give up its secret, criminal monarch. And it won’t be me on the run on these streets. When I’m done with him, Masters will wish I’d killed him three years ago. I’ll make him kneel in front of me, and apologize for what he did to me, and England. And I will make an example of him.
‘How about,’ begins the driver, ‘I take you somewhere near Westminster with a couple of choices, and you can make your mind up from there. The bend of the river a bit further round from the Houses of Parliament has got two hotels next to each other, a Holiday Inn and The Savoy. The ridiculous or the sublime. Take your pick.’
I’ve heard of The Savoy. ‘That sounds good. Let’s go with that, thanks.’
‘Gotcha.’
A quiet silence beds in, myself and Amina lost in our own thoughts, as the taxi driver chats amiably to himself, probably wondering what on earth possesses the odd couple in the back of his cab to be together.
If only he knew.
15
The cab pulls out from a T-junction, and aligns itself along the River Thames, traveling slowly. Amina looks across me, out of the window, and I can almost feel her catch her breath. The London Eye is opposite, glistening clean, high and bright in the broadening sunlight. And below it, off down the river a short way, is the spot I was captured. The rusted cargo vessel they found me in is long gone, presumable carted away by the authorities when they found out it had become nothing more than a plaything and meeting place for the organized and disorganized underbelly of their city.
After a few hundred yards of slow crawl, the taxi takes a right through a narrow street, then pulls into the thicker traffic of The Strand, highlighted to me by the street sign whizzing by me on the building corners. It comes to a stop almost immediately. We hop out into the noisy bustle of the main road in the laborious early stages of the daily comm
ute, and I watch the driver for a tell. I can’t discern anything suspicious, but I doubt it matters. Weathers knows we are here, and it is up to us to sort out a strategy to bring a bit of security and covertness to our movements.
Seagulls caw high above, as we drag our bags from the seat. I keep my eyes firmly on Amina’s bag, hoping the toxin inside is still safe and intact. It looks such a small insignificant effort to transport it this way, when one jarring impact could spill the contents and decimate a significant chunk of the city’s population. It is a nasty side effect of bringing the toxin to the hornet’s nest. The stakes are so much higher. There is so much more human life at risk.
I pay the driver and catch Amina staring at The Savoy’s grand entrance, down the short strip of road which serves as a car port, the art deco edifice towering grandly. It is a beautiful building, a monument to the opulence of the old British Empire and its place in the international landscape of bygone times. A stone bastion of dignity, scale, and the promise of more. It is from an era long committed to the past, yet still proud and relevant. I immediately love it.
Nevertheless, I usher Amina over to the left of The Savoy’s where the Holiday Inn sits almost deflated in its shadow. I can feel Amina deflated with it. As we dodge pipping cars racing to avoid congestion charges, I scan for anything out of the ordinary. My eyes wander, we touch the sidewalk, and just as everything seems to be in order, I catch him. There, in the reflection of the front window of an upmarket delicatessen. The taxi driver has pulled up about 100 yards down the street after leaving us, and is craning back to watch us. To see which hotel we enter, I bet.
Son of a bitch.
Good job I’m a step ahead, but I need to watch that very same step. This town is positively overflowing with watching eyes.
We breeze into the lobby of the Holiday Inn, which is already pretty busy considering it is pre-7am, and I book a room for the night under the name of my false identity, Sean Miller, using the ID and credit card associated with the account. Amina wanders from my side to the vending machines in the corner of the lobby, but I call her back over. She needs to stay close, and I try to tell her so with the tone of my call.
The charming receptionist hands me a key card which is handed to me in a little paper wallet with a room number on it. I thank him, and press the lift call button with my finger in the sleeve of my hoodie. I don’t think we have much time, and when Amina rejoins me, I fill her in.
‘Don’t touch anything, and be ready to move,’ I instruct. She says nothing.
‘It’s a beautiful corner of the city,’ I say, still hoping to warm her a little. She surprises me with a murmured reply.
‘I once read that the Thames in summer sunshine is a sight to behold. Whoever said that wasn’t lying.’
I smile. After a bump and a slight jump in the pit of my stomach as we rise, the lift lets us out at our third floor destination, and as we step out, I tell her to ‘wait by the stairs’, which are situated just right next to the lift entrances. Jogging, I reach our given room 3029 in five seconds, and using my sleeved fingers, open it up and toss the key inside, before running back to Amina.
‘Go, go’ I say, and we start hopping down the stairs two at a time.
‘What did you do?’ Amina asks.
‘Left a scent trail with a dead end.’
We reach the ground floor, and pause before reentering the lobby.
‘We need another exit. We can’t go out the front,’ I say. ‘I saw the cafe over to the left of the lobby. When we go out there, go straight to it. Don’t look at reception. Don’t look at the front door. Just head down, into the cafe.’
She nods.
‘Let’s go,’ I say, and plough through the door. Three steps across the small lobby, through the open door of the cafe - IN. And just as hoped, at the far end, a smokers’ exit. I try to take Amina’s hand yet again, and this time she lets me. The patrons in the cafe are few and far between, but none look up. I can’t see any staff, which works even better for us, and we head out into the side street, which I had already worked out as that same recessed main entrance to The Savoy, pulled back from the street, fronted by an impressive ornate awning over concrete, presumably to give good enough turning circles for the odd Rolls Royce. A hop skip and a jump across the tarmac, through grand revolving doors, and we are through into The Savoy’s lobby.
The change of scenery hits us immediately. The cool bite of dawn makes way for a lavishly serene enclave, rich wooden walls above a black and white chessboard tile floor, the air laced delicately with notes of cinnamon and fresh linen. The taxi-driver wasn’t messing around when he said sublime. I feel enriched and enlivened. I hope Amina does too. There is a convenience to us stopping here, with it giving me the ability to keep tabs on the misguided surveillance operation which is sure to commence on the Holiday Inn, but at the same time I want to make a gesture of apology to Amina, and give her that special taste of the life she dreamt about after all. If that’s the least I can do to make up for what I did, not to mention the harm that I have placed her in the way of, then that’s something.
We cruise through the room as if on wheels with our jaws slack, soaking in the atmosphere just by being there. There are pieces of gold-framed fine art on the walls, and glass cases embedded in the oak-cladding containing artifacts and sculptures of all eras and designs. I wouldn’t mind some extended time here just in this lobby, quenching my curiosity.
‘May I assist with the bags, madam?’ a voice asks, and a tuxedo-clad butler emerges from one of the side rooms, approaching us with well-practiced grace. Amina looks at me.
‘No, thank you,’ I say in a tone that offers no compromises.
‘Of course, sir,’ says the butler, raising a white gloved hand towards a short stack of wide stairs. ‘This way.’
Once up the stairs, we are presented with a long, swelled reception desk, which is a block of wood you could make giant sculptures with. A smiling lady is there to great us.
‘Welcome to The Savoy’, says the lady, teeth gleaming.
‘Thank you,’ I reply.
‘Do you have a reservation?’
‘No, I’m afraid we are here more on a spur of the moment thing. I was wondering if you had a suite available?’ I know a suite will have two rooms with a joining living area, and while it will set me back an arm and a leg, it will give myself and Amina the nicest place to prepare and plan that you could ask for. Plus, I’m quite sure Amina doesn’t fancy sharing a room with me again.
‘I can look into it, certainly. How many nights?’
‘Just the one, please.’
‘That’s usually something we can do. Just give me a moment.’ The lady begins click-clacking on a nearby computer, and I look to Amina. ‘Will this be OK?’ I ask.
She actually looks at me, for what feels like the first time all morning. ‘Yes,’ she whispers, looking away quickly. I can tell she’s surprised. Good. And good for her. The lady returns.
‘We indeed have a suite for tonight, no problem. The rate is £1,499 per night. Would you like to place a credit card on file?’
I almost involuntarily gulp at hearing the price, like Bugs Bunny might have done in an old Warner Brothers cartoon. ‘No, I’m... more of a cash man,’ I say, shuffling my backpack as if to suggest it is stuffed to the clasps with pressed bank notes. She smiles, as if she has seen such types of customer before. ‘I’ve got a bit of banking to do while I’m here. May I settle the balance with you when we check out tomorrow?’
‘Of course. Would you like me to arrange breakfast?’
I’m familiar with this line of questioning, and it’s often unpredictable whether I will be asked to leave ID. I don’t want that. No sir. So I pull a couple of twenties from my pocket and place them on the counter. ‘That will be all, thank you,’ I say, doing my best super-spy impression.
‘Of course, sir,’ she says, while swapping the bank notes for a couple of keycards with the kind of sleight of hand that would make a magician quiver.
I smile, take the cards, and grab Amina’s hand - which she lets me yet again. I don’t think I’m doing too badly this morning, but I couldn’t really do much worse.
16
Moments later, we are padding around barefoot in a suite so lush, lavish and lovely that it would make Liberace blush. Three of last night’s train cabins could fit just in the decorative foyer. Amina had slipped her shoes off at the door, and I, eager to both appease and please, followed suit.
After the butler left, having insisted on escorting us, I locked the door behind us, and even propped a nearby walnut chair under the handle, just to be sure. Amina gravitates inside the main body of the suite, which is an Edwardian masterpiece straight from the pages of any high class living magazine. I feel extremely out of place being there, in my hoodie and board shorts. Oh yeah, and carrying a box of modified super toxin. Mustn’t forget that.
Apex (Ben Bracken 2) Page 15
