by RR Haywood
‘Yes, ma’am,’ Derek says, now looking at Ria’s boobs instead of the black curtain that pulled back a bit to reveal a glowing blue light. Ria leans in, brushing her breasts over his arm and plucks the curtain back.
‘So,’ she says as he swallows. ‘Where’s this bar?’
Thirty
‘Brilliant,’ Harry booms as the movie ends. His white teeth flashing through his black beard in the darkened room. ‘Aye,’ he adds. ‘Brilliant.’
‘You liked it then?’ Emily asks.
‘Ach, brilliant,’ he says.
‘Was great,’ Ben says. ‘Even Safa sat still for more than an hour.’
‘Blah, blah,’ Safa says, groaning as she stretches out on the big sofa. ‘Keep rubbing my feet.’
‘I’ve been rubbing them.’
‘Well, keep going then,’ Safa laughs, trying to sound aggressive and nice at the same time.
‘You ticklish?’
‘Try it and die, Ryder.’
‘You don’t scare me, Patel.’
‘Try it then.’
‘Er . . . nah,’ he says as she chuckles.
Emily looks over at them and thinks they should just get a room and get over it. The amount they touch each other is ridiculous. Her feet on his lap. His hands rubbing her feet. Shoulder-brushing, hip-bumping, pushing and shoving each other all the time, and Safa literally walking past him in her underwear every chance she gets. He puts his hands on her hips now to move her out the way too, and she either grins like an idiot or play-fights him. It’s increasing too. Safa was pretty much pissing around Ben when Emily first arrived, and that reaction seems to have opened a door for her. Like a teenager starting to accept there are emotions other than anger and happiness. It’s almost like Safa is testing him and constantly pushing the boundaries, while he remains entirely passive and casual about it.
‘Where’s Bertie?’ Harry asks, looking round the room.
‘Went back to the island,’ Emily says. ‘He told you he was going. He said Dumbledore gave him an idea and rushed off.’
‘Did he?’ Harry asks. ‘Brew?’
‘Aye,’ Emily says deeply. ‘Want me to make it, old man?’
‘Old,’ Harry tuts, rising to his feet.
‘You are an old man,’ Emily says, watching him walk over to the big table. ‘You’re almost a hundred and thirty years older than me.’
‘Three years,’ Harry says.
‘Where you going, beardy?’ Safa asks as Harry changes direction and walks towards the door.
‘Ask ma’am if she wants a brew.’
‘Arse-licker.’
‘Aye,’ Harry says, pushing the door open and flicking the light on at the same time to a chorus of groans at the others getting blinded. He chuckles and calls through, ‘Brew, ma’am?’
‘Yes. Movie finished?’
‘Aye, has,’ Harry calls back.
Miri checks her watch. The movie is just over two and a half hours long, and given the comfort break taken for Harry to have a smoke it means Ria is due back now. She folds the newspaper she was reading and moves from her desk to place it on top of the end stack. She’s working year by year. Reading paper editions from English-speaking countries to gain an insight into the world as it moved on after her period. Emily said she can download and access them all on a single tablet, but she likes the act of reading newspapers and she knows the others keep taking them out to read too. Apart from Safa, who just moans when everyone is reading.
She walks from her office into the corridor and stares into the portal room, then checks her watch again. She’ll wait another ten minutes. She moves up to the door and into the main room to see Safa stretched out on a sofa with her feet being rubbed by Ben, and thinks the two should just get a room and get over it.
‘Movie good?’ she asks Harry.
‘Aye.’
‘Good.’
‘Seen it?’
‘No.’
‘Should.’
‘Will.’
‘You two have the shortest conversations ever.’
‘Thank you for your observations, Miss Patel.’
‘You got Miss Pateled,’ Ben says.
‘Thank you, Mr Ryder.’
‘Haha! Rub, you bellend, don’t fucking tickle.’
‘Rub your bellend? Something you want to tell me, Safa?’
‘Twat.’
‘Sorry, that was childish,’ Ben says to the room at large.
‘S’fine,’ Emily chuckles, taking advantage of Harry being off the sofa to stretch out. ‘Was funny.’
‘Miri? You okay?’ Ben asks. ‘You’ve checked your watch twice since you’ve come in.’
‘Ria is late.’
‘By how long?’ Emily asks.
‘Two minutes.’
‘I’m sure she is fine,’ Emily says.
‘You worried?’ Ben asks.
‘Not worried. Concerned.’
‘Same thing,’ Safa says.
‘It is not the same thing, Miss Patel.’
‘She’ll be fine – she’s twenty-two,’ Ben says.
‘Young twenty-two though,’ Safa says.
‘Only by your standards,’ Ben says.
‘Meaning?’ Emily asks, lifting her head to look at Ben.
‘Both of you were doing serious stuff at that age. Ria hasn’t, but that doesn’t mean she is less than . . .’
‘Safa never said that,’ Emily says.
‘Yeah, I know, but . . . What I mean is, Ria is young by your standards of not being professionally trained and disciplined, but by normal standards she’s probably fine. You two are the rare ones. Ria is normal for that age . . . or at least what people that age were like in my time.’
‘Makes sense actually,’ Emily says thoughtfully.
‘The egghead has spoken,’ Safa says. ‘Where were you at that age, Emily?’
‘Israel.’
‘What about you?’ Ben asks, looking to Safa.
‘Dunno, rub my feet.’
‘I am.’
‘Awesome. I joined the police because of you, then joined the Diplomatic Protection Team because of you, and now I’m on a sofa having my feet rubbed by you. Fucked up, but it is what it is. Rub my feet.’
The brutal, raw honesty brings a sudden silence to the room that even Safa detects. She lifts her head, looking round at them.
‘Would you rub my feet?’ Ben asks.
‘Will I fuck! That’s disgusting. I’d literally puke on you.’
‘Other people in the room,’ Emily says, holding her hand up.
‘Twats,’ Safa laughs. ‘Cheers, beardy,’ she adds, sitting up swiftly to take the mug held out by Harry.
‘My Ben,’ Harry says, offering the other.
‘Never going to live it down,’ Ben says. ‘Cheers, mate.’
Miri checks her watch and feels the irritation. This is why civilians are no good in missions.
‘Come on,’ Ben says, heaving himself up to his feet at seeing the look on her face. ‘We’ll get ready.’
Changed. Dressed. Shirts on to cover pistols holstered on belts. Weapons made ready. Radios into pockets. Earpieces in. Comms checked, and all while they finish the drinks Harry made.
‘Milwaukee, 2010,’ Miri says, holding them in the portal room next to the shimmering blue light. ‘Time is synced to here, currently twenty-one fifty hours. It will be dark with urban lighting. Opposition is not expected. Blue is in a van at the edge of a parking lot across from the mall. You have all seen it. Questions? Good. Safa on point. Locate and extract. We are not drawing attention. Go.’
Safa walks through to the van and pushes aside the curtain. She looks back, seeing Emily coming and not seeing the white, shabby-chic low chest that her shinbone rams into. Instant pain. She swears under her breath.
‘What’s up?’ Emily whispers.
‘This fucking thing,’ Safa says, kicking the chest.
‘Oh, that’s nice,’ Emily says. ‘Is it a chest? I like that.’
‘What’s up?�
�� Ben asks, coming through the portal.
‘Oops,’ Harry says, behind Ben. ‘Hold up?’
‘Fucking chest,’ Safa says, still rubbing her shin.
‘It’s nice though,’ Emily says. ‘Shabby chic, I think.’
‘Shabby pile of shit,’ Safa says.
‘Hold up?’ Miri asks, coming through behind Ben and Harry.
‘Chest,’ Harry says.
‘Shabby chic,’ Ben says.
‘It’s nice,’ Emily says.
‘Ria there?’ Miri asks.
‘Is Ria there?’ Ben asks.
‘No, just a chest,’ Emily says.
‘No, just the chest,’ Ben relays. ‘Shabby chic, apparently.’
‘Go over it,’ Emily says to Safa.
‘I am . . .’
‘Don’t stand on it,’ Emily says.
‘How the fuck do I get over it then?’
‘Just step over it.’
‘It’s too big . . .’
‘Why are we still here?’
‘Miri wants to know why we’re still here?’ Ben asks.
‘Step over it,’ Emily says.
‘I’ll kick it out the fucking door in a minute.’
‘Stand it on one end,’ Harry rumbles.
Silence.
‘Should do that,’ Emily says.
‘Yep,’ Safa says.
The chest is moved to stand on one end. They go past it to view the front and a mostly deserted car park. Streetlights glow here and there. Lights on in the mall and the late businesses still open.
‘Clear,’ Safa says. She goes to open the passenger door and drops out to land deftly. Emily follows. Ben comes out. Harry drops down and holds position to offer a hand to Miri, who glares at it for a second before accepting the assistance without a word said.
‘I said we should use the back doors,’ Safa grumbles.
‘Welded shut,’ Miri says.
‘Unweld them then . . . This air stinks,’ Safa says, pulling a face.
‘Does,’ Emily says.
‘If one of you stays with the van, I’ll check the launderette,’ Ben says.
‘I’ll stay,’ Harry says.
‘Two stay – looks more natural,’ Miri says.
‘I’ll stay,’ Emily says.
‘Lead on,’ Miri says, looking at Ben.
‘Mind if I smoke?’ Harry asks Emily as the others head off over the parking lot.
They reach the launderette. Lights on. People inside. A sign proclaiming the facility is self-service after 10 p.m.
‘Wait outside,’ Miri says to Safa. She goes in behind Ben, who walks through looking over the tops of the machines. Miri goes along the front to view down the aisles formed by the rows of washers and dryers. People folding clothes into baskets, loading and unloading machines. Low music from hidden speakers. No Ria anywhere.
‘Hi, do you work here?’
The old lady stands, grimacing at the pain in her lower back. She looks at Ben, then behind to Miri. ‘The British girl, right?’ the old lady asks.
‘Er, yes, that’s right,’ Ben says, charming, easy and super-concerned all at the same time. ‘Black hair, er . . . sort of medium build.’
‘Curvy,’ the old lady says. ‘She didn’t come back. Went into the mall. Clothes all folded in the bags over there.’
‘That’s very kind of you. Did she seem okay?’
‘Seemed fine to me,’ the old lady says, walking off. ‘Saw her with a black kid. He works in the mall.’ She stops to turn back. ‘Nice kid, not a gangbanger.’
‘Thanks,’ Ben says. ‘These bags?’
‘Yep,’ the old lady calls back. ‘What are ya? Soldiers?’
‘Soldiers?’ Ben asks.
‘Clothes,’ the old lady says, making a few heads turn to listen. ‘All black, like soldiers.’
‘Er,’ Ben says.
‘Laser-quest,’ Miri says with a laugh that animates and brings sudden warmth. ‘Damn kids running about playing. Vacation from the UK – they don’t have it over there. Whole family doing it now.’
‘Damn kids,’ the old woman laughs. Ben looks round to see a few of the other women tutting and shaking heads as they go back to folding clothes.
‘Owe you for the wash?’ Miri asks, pulling a small clutch of notes from her pocket.
‘She paid,’ the old lady says.
‘Thanks,’ Miri says.
‘Hope you find her,’ one of the other women calls out. ‘Ain’t safe here late. Too many damn kids with guns.’
‘Thanks,’ Miri says. ‘We’ll find her.’
‘Wow,’ Ben says softly once outside. ‘That was very good.’
‘Mall,’ Miri says. ‘Safa, take the washing back to the van.’
‘On it.’
Ben and Miri walk in through the main doors of the mall to see a uniformed security guard marching towards them. ‘Closes at ten-thirty,’ he says quickly, his accent thick. Miri takes him in. Nigerian, maybe Ghanaian.
‘Looking for a girl,’ Ben says.
‘Cops?’
‘No, family. Black hair, this tall, curvy . . . Speaks with a British accent.’
‘No, not see. I not see her. Close at ten-thirty. Two minutes, I lock doors.’
‘We’ll have a quick look,’ Ben says, walking off.
‘Two minutes.’
‘Yes, you said,’ Ben says. ‘We’ll be quick.’
‘I get trouble if late. Ten-thirty.’
‘What’s his problem?’ Ben asks, walking up the main aisle with Miri.
‘Jobs are scarce,’ Miri says. ‘He’s worried.’
Ben looks back to see the concern on the security guard’s face as he glances at his watch.
‘Emily, you still at the van?’ Ben says into the discreet transmitter fitted under the collar of his shirt.
‘Confirmed. With Harry. Safa walking towards us.’
‘Check that chest in the van. See if it’s got a receipt or something.’
‘Doing it now, over.’
‘Good idea,’ Miri says.
‘Place is deserted,’ Ben says. ‘They’ll have cameras though. Worth checking?’
‘Won’t let us look. We’re not cops.’
‘We’ve got a time machine – we don’t need to ask.’
Shutters going down. Staff making final adjustments and preparations to close for the night. They pass McDonald’s to see a group of kids eating burgers at a table while an Indian woman mops the floor round their feet.
‘Ben, receipt says Terry’s Treasures.’
‘Seriously?’
‘Afraid so.’
‘Cheers.’
‘Over there,’ Miri says, pointing to a glass-fronted store. Throws and furniture arranged artfully in the window. He spots another white, shabby-chic chest in the corner.
They go inside to see a man at the counter working the cash register with a big notepad open next to it.
‘Closed,’ he says, glancing up. ‘Open in the morning.’
‘Sorry to disturb you,’ Ben says politely. The man stares at him. ‘We’re looking for a girl. She might have bought a chest here, the same kind you have in the window.’
‘British girl. Dark hair. Sure.’
‘Yes, that’s her. Er, how long ago did she buy it?’
‘Why? She not get home?’
‘Not yet,’ Ben says, showing a worried look.
‘Saw her down at McDonald’s talking to a kid who works there. Black kid. Derek, I think. Nice kid. Joining the Marines.’
‘McDonald’s?’ Ben asks.
‘Sure,’ the man says. ‘Hope you find her.’
‘Thanks.’
Back out and down to see the kids laughing and throwing fries at each other, while the Indian woman tries not to notice as she mops. She looks exhausted. Bags under her eyes. Sadness in her features.
‘Hi,’ Ben says, drawing her attention. ‘Does Derek work here?’
The woman looks at him, then at Miri. She doesn’t smile or show any e
xpression. Fries land next to Miri’s feet. The Indian woman looks down at them.
‘We’re looking for a girl, my sister,’ Ben says. ‘British girl, black hair, curvy . . .’
More fries land. Cackles of laughter. Slurps of beverages that spill from cups on to the floor the woman just mopped.
‘Help you?’ a man asks, walking out from behind the counter.
‘Yes, hi,’ Ben says. ‘We’re looking for Derek.’
‘Who are you?’ the man asks, his face flushed from cleaning down the surfaces. His tie tucked in between the buttons on his McDonald’s shirt. ‘Cops?’
‘Family,’ Ben says. ‘Looking for my sister. British girl, dark hair, curvy.’
The man shrugs. ‘Can’t help you.’
More fries land. More drinks spilled. The Indian woman mops the floor.
‘Sorry, mate,’ Ben says, smiling at the manager. ‘My sister isn’t from here. Someone saw her talking to Derek. Is he here?’
‘Don’t give out company information,’ the man says, scowling at the Indian woman, then over at the kids.
‘I’m not asking for company information. I’m asking if you saw her, and if Derek is here so I can ask him.’
‘Derek left three hours ago,’ the man says quietly. ‘Gunjeep, clear that fucking mess up,’ he barks at the woman, pointing at the mess.
‘Maybe you should tell those kids to stop throwing it on the floor,’ Ben says.
‘Maybe you should leave before I call the cops,’ the man retorts. ‘Gunjeep! Clear that fucking mess up. Bitch is deaf . . .’
‘Ben!’
‘Listen to me, you fucking twat,’ Ben says, bending the manager backwards over the counter. ‘That was rude, very rude . . . I fucking hate rude people . . .’
‘She is deaf! Gunjeep is deaf, man! She can’t hear anything.’
‘What?’
‘She’s deaf! She’s deaf. She can’t hear. She got the job through a programme. Learning difficulties, man . . .’
‘Oh,’ Ben says, still holding the man over the counter. ‘Right, well . . . still shouldn’t call her a bitch,’ he adds stiffly, slowly releasing the manager.
‘Long day, man,’ the manager says weakly, clearly terrified. ‘Other manager sick . . . I been here since seven this morning.’
‘I see,’ Ben says, nodding. ‘Er, so . . . Derek finished work, did he?’
The manager nods. ‘About three hours ago. He’s a good kid. Joining the Marines. Probably in the bar having a beer.’
