by Robert White
I saw a McDonald’s appearing on my left and took it a signal to turn back, ten kilometers should take me less than forty minutes. I had the feeling I was going to have to run a lot further in the coming days. I turned on my heels and my thoughts turned back to my breathing, my head clear.
Tomorrow was another working day and Rick had to pay a visit to a Greek forger. Before I did anything else, I needed to change my appearance, get some passport photos and think of a new name and identity.
We were to take a massive risk and leave all the hard drives we’d stolen from the Davieses’ house untouched. No matter what was on there, we just couldn’t afford the Greek’s price to decrypt them. So, Rick was to swap Joel’s Porsche for three biometric passports and a weapon stash near Malaga. We could always use the hard drives for bargaining chips later if need be. Everything else was a shot in the dark. Would we find what we were looking for in Gibraltar?
Who knew?
I showered and dried my hair with a towel, pulled on a sweater and jeans, found my purse and walked to Tesco. I felt really strange pottering around the little Metro store, a box of Nice ’n Easy hair dye and a packet of Jaffa Cakes in my trolley and a loaded semi-automatic in my trousers. For some ungodly reason, I bought a lucky dip scratch card at the checkout. Once outside, I walked briskly along Oxford Road rubbing furiously and winning a tenner in the process.
I stopped off at a twenty-four-hour chemists, got chatted up shamelessly by the Asian guy behind the counter, and bought a pair of point-five reading glasses.
Despite all the massive changes to my life over the last months, it was good to know some things never changed. I got back to the hotel only to discover I had bought red hair dye by mistake.
I cut myself a new fringe with blunt nail scissors and stood in the shower to apply the colour, which incidentally quite suited me. Once dry and dressed, I popped on the glasses to complete the look.
I nearly fainted when the knock on the door came.
I drew the Glock and clicked the safety to the fire position, pointing the weapon downward as I approached the spy-hole in the door. My heart raced and the gun felt suddenly slippery in my grasp. I supported my right wrist by gripping it with my left hand just as I had been trained to do. I made my approach as quietly as I could and I released a slow breath in the last few paces.
I pressed my eye to the hole and saw Rick, hands in pockets, studying his shoes patiently.
A mixture of relief and irritation tore through me. I could have gleefully shot him for not announcing himself at the door.
All my anger subsided the moment I let him into the room and he gave me a rare smile. I felt myself check my new fringe before making my pistol safe and tucking it away behind my back.
He had the start of a beard which partially covered his new facial scar and he’d gelled his hair into small spikes, which suited him. His eyes sparkled in the dimly lit hotel room and he looked back to his peak: lithe, fit and typically focused.
“Sorry, did I scare you?” he said.
“A little,” I replied. “My nerves aren’t the best I suppose.”
“I just need your passport pictures for Makris and thought the easiest thing was to collect them in person. I should have telephoned to warn you.”
He wandered around my untidy room before adding, “The hair colour suits you, Lauren. It’s,” he fumbled for a word, “effective.”
“Effective? Is that the best you can do, Rick?”
“Well, you know what I mean.”
“Yes, you mean it changes my appearance sufficiently for our purposes.” I pointed a playful finger. “You can compliment a girl once in a while, it won’t hurt you, y’know.”
His rock-solid barrier slammed down and he moved a pair of crumpled jeans to one side and sat on my bed. “Won’t it?”
I gave up on any kind of confidence-boosting remark and tried to lighten the mood. I pushed my new glasses down my nose and peered over the rims. “What do you think? I thought I’d call myself Erica.”
Rick pulled out a notebook and scribbled. “Erica what? And what do you do, I need some background.”
He was so serious, he never let up, never gave in. I couldn’t help myself. It just came out without any thought.
“Forsyth. Erica Forsyth and I am a consultant neurologist!”
He looked up from his pad, unsure if I was taking the piss, and raised an eyebrow.
“Seriously?”
I pulled back my shoulders. “Seriously.”
With almost mechanical movement he continued to scribble but muttered under his breath.
“I suppose you were in the field and you were married to a consultant for a while so you could pull it off.”
That was a shock.
“How the hell did you know that?”
“Hmmm? Sorry? What?”
“How did you know I was married to a consultant? Come to think of it how did you know I was even married?”
“Well, Des mentioned a few...”
“Did he now? And did he tell you anything else about me, coz as I recall in the last four months or so, I’ve kept very shtum about my private life?”
Rick looked as shaken as I’d seen him.
“I needed to…well things just came up in…”
He pursed his lips briefly and touched his thumb and forefinger to them. Then, he snapped himself back to his normal composed, assured self and closed his notebook with a deliberate flick of his recently manicured fingers.
His voice was clipped.
“Look, have you got the pictures?”
“No!”
“No?”
“No, I’d only just finished dying my hair, before some buffoon nearly got himself shot through my front door.”
He pushed his notebook into a very nicely cut leather coat I hadn’t seen before, and I thought I saw the merest hint of mirth.
“We’d better go and get them done then,” he said.
“Is that a good idea?” I asked, “Going out together, I mean?”
He patted the SLP tucked neatly in the small of my back. “I think we’ll be as safe as houses, Ms Forsyth.”
“Don’t touch what you can’t afford, Mr. Fuller.”
He stepped back in mock surrender.
“Madame.”
I pulled on my coat, the lining felt cold against my arms and it somehow chilled the rest of me. I checked there was enough change for the photo-booth in my pocket, and, satisfied there was, I looked straight into Rick’s face.
Everything I needed from life had become focused over the last weeks and at that very point another section of my existence became clear. I realised the only thing that was really vital to me was the team and finding the bastards that killed those kids in the cemetery.
New identities from dodgy Greek forgers, weapons drops made by faceless ex-paratroopers, a big posh hotel in the gangster capital of Spain, all felt right. None of it seemed out of place or unusual.
I shrugged my shoulders and felt my chill subside. First we were going to Puerto Banus and then on to Gibraltar. We were to capture or kill Williamson and Goldsmith, and his two murderous offspring we knew as Susan and Stephan. Once that was achieved, we would all return to our normal everyday lives. Yeah, right. The chances of that were slim to none, but I didn’t care. I didn’t want to go back. I couldn’t ever go back and that just didn’t scare me anymore. What we had to do though, well that terrified me.
I realised I was still staring into Rick’s eyes and looked at my shoes.
“God help us, Rick.”
He cupped my chin with his hand and brought my face back level with his own.
“We didn’t need a God, Lauren, we just needed a break.”
He sat back on my bed again and pulled my file to him. He quickly flicked to a page showing an aerial photograph of a luxury home inside the old wall in Gibraltar. I had seen it myself but it had no relevance to me.
“Despite the obvious connections to Gibraltar, the file name, the
tunnel blueprints, property development etc., it will still be a wild goose chase if Williamson isn’t going to be there, yes?”
Rick pulled a pen from his inside pocket and made a circular motion over the picture.
“You see this?” he said. “You see the driveway, these cars here?”
I peered over at the grainy picture, unsure of what I was looking at.
Rick popped the ballpoint of his pen and circled a white car on the driveway of the property.
“This car is our break, Lauren. This car is the final piece in the jigsaw. This proves that Williamson and Goldsmith operate on the Rock. Because this car is mine!”
Rick Fuller's Story:
I took Lauren to Piccadilly railway station by cab and she managed to sort a decent set of passport pictures in one of those booths just off the platforms. I had tried to compliment her on her hair, but, as usual couldn’t find the words. She looked beautiful though. Her hair was russet-coloured and her new fringe stopped just above her eyes, bringing out their colour. Her pale skin was luminescent and she bristled with a new confidence which made her even more desirable.
The night had cleared and the moon outshone the streetlights as we walked slowly back towards the gardens in silence. As we approached my hotel I suggested we have a drink in the bar underneath.
It was pleasant enough, especially with a beautiful woman for company and we sat in a cosy corner and settled in.
The car in the aerial photograph was a 1967 Aston Martin DB5 finished in cream with red leather interior. It was a one-off, the only one of its kind in that finish. It had been stored in the secure parking area of my building and only ever came out on special occasions. It had been my pride and joy and had been taken from me along with everything else by Stephan and his crew. Obviously someone in his organisation had taken a shine to it, and believing I was dead, didn’t see a problem in driving it around the Med. Lauren toyed with her bottle of Bud.
“So how can you be so sure that the car is yours?”
“Was,” I said. “Not anymore.”
I knew I could never drive it again. The mere thought of that scumbag Stephan or any of the other vile murdering lot sitting in my car made me retch.
I watched Lauren take a long drink from her bottle before casually placing it back on the circular beer mat in front of her. It wasn’t quite central and I adjusted it for her to make me more comfortable.
She eyed me for a few seconds.
“Compulsive.”
“What?”
“Obsessive compulsive disorder. You suffer from it, don’t you?”
“Do I?”
“Yes, I think so. I’ve watched you, lining things up, putting things in order, checking and re-checking minor things. I wouldn’t say you were a severe case but you certainly show some symptoms.”
“I can cope.”
“I’m sure you can, Rick, we all have our own idiosyncrasies. I pile all my rubbish into cupboards and pretend my house is tidy.”
“That would drive me mad.”
“I’ll bet.”
“Do you lose things that way?”
She nodded furiously and laughed. “All the time!”
It was a lovely tinkling sound, and it floated around our warm cosy corner of the bar and made me feel at home. I realised that for the first time in years I was sitting in the company of a female and felt completely at ease.
“You asked about my car, well, it’s an old Aston Martin and that alone makes it quite rare, the colour is very unusual and when put together with the red interior, it makes it a one-off car. I used to love driving it. It was very special to me.”
“I can imagine. My ex-husband used to have an old Triumph Stag. It was bright yellow and had a soft top; he spent more time cleaning that car than he did with me.”
Lauren looked a little wistful as she mentioned her doctor ex-husband, but it passed quickly. We talked casually about my fascination with cars, clothes and gadgets, anything but our dilemma.
I ordered two more bottles of beer and placed them carefully on the table. Lauren touched my hand as I did so, and watched my reaction.
I tried not to flinch, I really did. In fact at that moment I wanted nothing more than her touch and her company. I felt happy to just be there in that place with Lauren. But I did flinch and I spilled a little beer on the table. She looked a little shocked at my reaction. I felt she was analysing me.
“I just wanted to see your manicure, Rick.” She looked a little hurt but it was brief. “You don’t like to be touched, do you?”
I looked hard at my nails. I’d had them cut and polished, and bought some decent clothes that evening. The visit to Makris loomed and I didn’t want to look like my standards were slipping in front of the Greek. If he smelled weakness he charged double.
I forced myself to hold out my hand so Lauren could inspect them, fingers slightly splayed.
“I’m sorry, go ahead.”
She gently took my hand and rubbed her thumb across each fingernail, pausing between each one.
Finally she looked up but didn’t let go.
“When you first came onto the ward, before you were conscious, I used to sit with you and wonder where you came from and what you did. I saw then that you had nice hands and that you looked after your nails. I figured you were a businessman of some sort. Soldiers don’t have manicures, do they?”
“This one does.”
She let go of my hand and took a drink.
“How long have you been like this, Rick? How long is it since someone touched you and it felt good?”
I didn’t know how to deal with the way the conversation was going. I hadn’t confided in anyone before. Seconds ticked by and they felt like minutes. I could see Lauren wasn’t going to offer me an escape route by speaking, so I just told the truth.
“I suppose it started after Cathy was murdered, and sort of crept up on me without me noticing it really. I mean, being touched by someone was the furthest thing from my mind at that time. I was a mess. I suppose it went unnoticed until later, until I came out of the other side of my grief. Des was the only person who knew where I was at that time. He was my only contact with the outside for months on end. He would tell you what I was like. I didn’t wash or eat properly. I was drinking heavily too. Once I got my shit together enough to work in the outside world again, I began to notice my aversion to being touched. Then, later, came the cleaning up and straightening things, even the smallest spillage would mean cleaning the whole living space. I mean, I’ve always been organised and tidy, the army saw to that and I’ve never been ‘touchy feely’, but it got to the point where any physical contact was abhorrent to me. I managed a strange kind of physical relationship with Tanya, but I knew deep down that I could never love her. I don’t think I could ever love anyone again. I find it hard to shake hands except with Des.”
She put down her bottle, this time completely off the beer mat. I decided she was being playful rather than forgetful. She wore an impish grin.
“And how did it feel then when I held your hand?”
I felt myself smile back. “It felt good, Lauren, thank you.”
Then she stood, pulled her jacket from the back of her chair and slid her arms into it with one swift movement. She pushed her hands behind her neck and released her trapped red hair from under the collar. She shook it and it fell around her shoulders.
“I think I’d better go.”
“Yes,” I said, and she turned and walked away without looking back.
Des Cogan's Story:
I’d been feeling pretty pissed off with myself after Rick’s briefing. Even though I’d stuck by him the last ten years, I never really wanted to believe Rick’s theories that Williamson was involved in the drug trade, or worse still, the murder of a fellow soldier’s wife.
A small part of me couldn’t let go of the Regiment values. The army had been good to me and I’d always been able to rely on it. Now I wasn’t so convinced and it hurt. Sure, there were plenty
of bad eggs in any organisation, but I’d always looked up to Williamson. Well, now he would get the chance to explain himself, wouldn’t he, and if I got the chance, it would be a very painful experience for him.
I’d taken my hair down to the wood using some cheap electric clippers from Boots. They were half the price the boy in the hairdressers across the way wanted for a cut and would do the job a few more times if needed. I had enough of a goatee to show up in my pictures and I figured that I would look sufficiently different to any grainy CCTV footage the opposition had obtained from Leeds Hospital, which as far as I was concerned were the only possible shots they had.
After digesting the file Rick had put together and then flicking through the five available channels in my shoebox of a hotel room for two hours, I decided a pint and some grub was in order.
I was about to pull on my coat when I heard Rick’s voice at the door.
I let him in and noticed he smelled of drink. Not pissed but he’d had one or two.
“You got your pictures done, then?” he said sitting heavily on the edge of my bed.
“I certainly have, matey.”
I handed him the eight head and shoulder pictures and he glanced at them before adding,
“Ugly little Scottish fucker.”
I picked up my jacket and rubbed my newly cropped head. “I’m fuckin’ better looking than you, you English bastard. I can smell y’ve had a pint or two already. D’ya fancy another with yer old mate?”
Rick nodded slowly.
“I suppose one or two more won’t hurt. I’ve been over to get Lauren’s shots and we had a couple of bottles before I came here.”
I felt a pang of envy, or was it jealousy? Whatever, I knew deep down that Lauren wasn’t interested in me romantically. I also knew that it would be crazy for the three of us to be anything more than comrades in arms. When this was all over, we’d see who was left standing and take it from there, simple as.
