Run Rabbit Run

by Kate Johnson

  Maura will have called the police by now, I thought, as soon as I woke up. God, we’re going to be in so much trouble. There’ll be men with assault rifles waiting outside the hotel for us. Harrington will have handcuffs at the ready. That’s if they don’t shoot us down, Butch & Sundance style.

  I got up and showered and dressed in the bathroom. Jack was awake when I came back out and I said, without looking at him, ‘I’m going out for breakfast.’

  ‘I’ll come with.’

  ‘No,’ I said, a little more sharply than I’d intended. Jack frowned, and I said, ‘I’m really hungry. I’ll meet you there.’

  I escaped before he could even ask me where.

  For some reason I couldn’t even be in the same room as him. What had suddenly changed? Why had he said that about those charges? I mean, I’d sort of thought of it before, but he didn’t have to say it. We were never going to get out. Never, ever. And it was all his fault.

  I closed my eyes. His fault for reminding me. Not mine for being complicit in all the things we’d done. It was his fault. After all, he’d been the one who wanted to rob the cabbie, and he’d stolen that cop’s wallet in America, and he was the one who’d hit Maura.

  It was all Jack’s fault.

  I told myself that over and over again, but I was a rotten liar.

  I stomped out to the nearest café, but I was too angry to eat. Shopping, I thought. Shopping will cheer me up. Last night, Jack had stopped at a cash point and maxed out all of Maura’s cards. I had plenty of cash. For, you know, essentials.

  I headed for the nearest high street.

  But shopping didn’t cheer me up. In fact, every item I bought seemed to have a siren attached, blaring Stolen money! Stolen money! around the whole shop. I saw the most adorable little leather jacket that was well within my budget, but I couldn’t make myself buy it. I’d hate myself that little bit more every time I wore it. Taking a bit of money from Jack’s dim cousin was one thing – I didn’t like it, but we were desperate and she barely seemed to have noticed anyway – but robbing someone at gunpoint felt horribly grubby. Like a stain on my soul I couldn’t scrub away.

  I restricted myself to essentials, and stomped back to the café for some sustenance. There’d been a rack of papers on the wall and I might as well catch up with what was happening in the rest of the world.

  But Jack was sitting there, dark eyes watchful, as I walked in. I ignored him and got myself a coffee and my own table, on the other side of the room. I didn’t see if he saw me, but I had my best Pissed-off Independent Woman expression on anyway. It wasn’t an act.

  I got out my phone and started a search for surgeons called David-John. Hours and hours (or so it seemed) later, I found a New York practice where one of the doctors had that name. He even did orthopaedic surgery. Triumphantly, I stood up to order myself a congratulatory beverage.

  And nearly walked into a cup of coffee. And a muffin. Held by Jack.

  A blueberry muffin.

  I love blueberry muffins.

  I avoided his gaze, but my stomach rumbled loudly. I tried to remember when I’d last eaten properly, and realised that it was about two days ago. Airport food didn’t count.

  ‘Here,’ Jack said, and held the food out to me. The snake with the apple.

  ‘I’m not hungry,’ I lied.

  ‘Yes, you are.’

  ‘Don’t tell me what I am.’

  ‘You’re making a scene, is what you are. Do you want the food?’

  Hell, yes. ‘No.’

  ‘Liar,’ he said, but sauntered away back to his own table with the food, leaving me standing there looking like an idiot and feeling like a fool.

  I went back online and set up a new webmail address in the name of psychohellbitch. No telling if the address I’d used to contact Luke had been compromised. Then I sent a message to NYgayartboy, went and got my own coffee (no muffin, because I knew Jack was watching), and waited for a reply.

  It came instantly.

  ‘Baby, where are you? Harvey said you’re on the run … How bloody exciting. Don’t suppose you want to hide out at my place? I’ve never had a fugitive here. Not for want of trying, though …’

  Delighted, I replied in the affirmative. ‘I’m just about to book a flight. What’s your phone number again? I’ll call when we land.’

  ‘We? Please tell me the divine Luke is with you.’

  ‘No. Someone else. Swear to me on your paintbrushes that you will tell NO ONE. Especially not Harvey.’

  ‘Like I ever tell Harvey anything anyway. See you later, darling,’ and he added a phone number. I started checking flights.

  Then a shadow fell over me, and it was Jack peering at my phone.

  ‘I can get us there for about half that,’ he said.

  ‘Get us where?’

  ‘New York.’

  ‘You found him, too?’

  ‘Wasn’t hard.’

  ‘You book the flights. I’ll get us somewhere to stay.’

  He hit the chair opposite me. ‘Let me guess. Harvey’s brother this time?’

  How did he know?

  ‘You don’t have to come,’ I said.

  ‘Someone’s got to keep you out of trouble.’

  So we collected our things from the hotel and went to Heathrow, and covered ourselves in fake tan and headscarves and baseball caps, and got on another plane, and watched more movies, and ate more plastic food.

  I was getting really sick of this.

  International espionage always sounds way sexier than it is. You never get endless scenes of James Bond lurking around in airports, buying rubbish magazines and trying to avoid people hawking credit cards. Jason Bourne doesn’t have to eat crappy airline food. Jack Bauer never gets cramp from those rubbish plastic seats.

  We landed in New York with no problems, got in a taxi and found ourselves in lower Manhattan, the curvy streets of the Village, after dark, cross-dressing hookers whooping at us.

  ‘So where does your friend live?’ Jack asked, and I blinked tiredly and looked around.

  ‘Apartment 6a, Lincoln House.’

  ‘What street?’

  ‘Corner of Seventh and Fourth.’

  ‘Which one of those is the street and which one the avenue?’

  ‘Um, I –’

  ‘Can’t you call him?’

  My battery was flat. ‘My God, do you ever stop asking questions?’ I marched up to the nearest transvestite hooker and smiled. ‘Hi.’

  He looked me over. He was wearing a PVC micro-mini that tastefully revealed the posing pouch matching his stockings. He wore a giant Afro wig and platform heels about a foot high. ‘Hi, honey.’

  ‘Do you know where Lincoln House is?’

  ‘It’ll cost ya.’

  ‘I only have sterling.’

  ‘Say what?’

  ‘Sterling. English money.’ I took a fiver out of my pocket to show him.

  ‘Oh, my Gawd, that is so pretty! Girls, look at this pretty little money. How much is this worth?’

  I opened my mouth to tell him, then thought better and said, ‘About twenty dollars.’

  ‘Lincoln House is right over there, honey.’

  I smiled again. ‘Thank you.’

  Jack was watching me in amazement.

  ‘So, seriously,’ he said, ‘is there anything you consider to be weird?’

  I shrugged. ‘Welsh people are pretty scary.’

  ‘My grandfather was Welsh.’

  ‘Liar,’ I said, because Maria had told me where each of her grandparents hailed from, and they were all considerably more exotic climes than Wales.

  Lincoln House was about four storeys high, sheltered by leafy trees. I dragged myself and my bag up the stoop and leaned on the buzzer.

  ‘Y’ello?’

  ‘It’s me. Can I come in?’

  ‘Did you bring anyone gorgeous?’

  I wrinkled my nose at Jack. ‘Yes,’ I said, ‘but he’s a bit of a bastard.’

  ‘Don’t,
you’re getting me all excited.’

  The door came open.

  ‘Thank you,’ I said, and we trooped in. The apartment was on the top floor, and there were no lifts. I remembered Xander complaining about it when he took over the lease. It was on the tip of my tongue to ask why he hadn’t taken a different apartment, but then I knew that most Manhattan apartments were like shoeboxes with cockroaches for carpets.

  I knocked on the door and when it opened, fell inside, caught by a warm, tall, handsome man wearing a t-shirt tight enough to show off his well-developed chest. I was enveloped by strong arms and a cloud of menthol cigarette smoke.

  ‘Sophie, baby,’ he cried. ‘You look like hell.’

  ‘Cheers. And don’t call me Sophie. I’m Alice.’

  ‘Sure you are.’ He looked over Jack, and his square jaw dropped open. ‘Oh, honey.’

  ‘You have got to be kidding,’ was Jack’s only comment.

  ‘Honey, he’s divine!’

  ‘Honey, he’s fucking Harvey,’ Jack snapped.

  I opened my mouth to ask how he knew what Harvey looked like, then shut it. Being married to the daughter of one of the Seventies’ most celebrated couples is a bit of a headache for an undercover operative. You tend to get snapped by paparazzi.

  ‘God, how incestuous.’

  ‘He’s not Harvey,’ I said patiently. ‘He’s Harvey’s brother. Xander, this is –’

  Jack threw up his hands. ‘First his daughter and then his brother? Jesus fucking Christ, Sophie, what are you trying to do? I didn’t think you would actually contact Harvey’s brother!’

  ‘Isn’t it fun being a fugitive?’ Xander asked with a festive wave of his cigarette.

  Jack narrowed his eyes at me.

  ‘Okay, you know what? That’s it. I have had enough. You are a bloody liability,’ he stormed.

  ‘Liability? I don’t see you getting us anywhere to stay.’

  ‘What’s wrong with a hotel?’

  ‘We can’t afford a bloody hotel! She’ll have cancelled the credit card by now and –’

  ‘Whose credit card?’ Xander asked.

  ‘You know, you’re not the only person who knows someone in America,’ Jack said. ‘I know bloody millions of people. I damn well live here!’

  ‘Well, if you have so many friends, you go and bloody stay with them!’

  ‘You know what? That’s the best suggestion you’ve ever made,’ Jack said, and picked up his bag and walked down the stairs.

  Xander leaned against his doorjamb, smiling at me. ‘You are the most entertaining woman I have ever met,’ he said. ‘Drink?’

  ‘God, yes.’

  Xander had a new blender that crushed ice and he mixed me a strawberry-and-cream margarita. It lasted two minutes, gave me brain-freeze, and loosened my tongue.

  ‘He’s a bastard,’ I moaned, curled on Xander’s sofa, wrapped up in a pink fluffy blanket. He takes his sexuality quite seriously, does Xander Harvard. He’s an artist, and after he got falsely accused of the murder of a rich client last year, he’s become a very rich artist. Hence the new apartment. His last one was basically a warehouse, in which he was, legally speaking, squatting. He now does mostly nudes of very fit men.

  Damn, I wish I could paint.

  ‘He’s seriously cute, though.’ Xander sighed, handing me another drink, complete with cocktail umbrella and straw. ‘Are you shagging him?’

  ‘No. I’m shagging Luke.’

  Xander put his head on one side. ‘Uh-huh. And it’s been how long since you shagged him?’

  ‘A week,’ I moaned.

  ‘But I thought you’d been on the run for –’

  ‘I sneaked back to see him.’

  ‘Nearly three weeks now,’ Xander finished. ‘Harvey asked if I knew anything when he called.’

  ‘Great,’ I said gloomily. ‘What’d you tell him?’

  ‘The truth, I’d heard nothing.’

  ‘Have you spoken to him since then?’ Xander shook his head. ‘Don’t. He’s not happy with me.’

  ‘Why, what have you done? Apart from …’ He waved his hand.

  ‘I went to visit Rachel.’

  He frowned. ‘Did you put her in any danger?’

  ‘No! You think I’d do that?’

  ‘I know you wouldn’t, sweetie.’ He patted my shoulder reassuringly. ‘He’ll come round, once he’s calmed down.’

  ‘Hmph,’ I said.

  ‘Listen, Harvey’s at a complete loss on this. I don’t think he knows you and this Jack guy,’ here he gave a happy little sigh, ‘are working together.’

  ‘If you tell anyone, I’ll turn you into a eunuch.’

  ‘I believe you. I remember the mess you made of my last apartment.’

  ‘Cleared your name, didn’t I?’

  Xander put his arm around me and held me close as I sucked up the last of my drink. ‘You did,’ he said, ‘and I’ve pledged to love you forever for it.’

  ‘And you won’t tell Harvey I’m here?’

  ‘I won’t tell a soul. I even cancelled a sitting with a truly beautiful Polynesian boy tomorrow, just for you.’

  ‘You needn’t have gone that far,’ I smiled.

  ‘Wasn’t your type, darling.’

  ‘Still, beauty is always cheering.’

  ‘What about me? Time magazine called me the hottest young artist on the scene today.’

  ‘Really? Wow. Well done you. But you’re not my type either, Xander. Besides, you remind me too much of Harvey.’

  ‘Possibly because we were once the same egg.’

  ‘It’d be like cheating on Angel.’

  ‘But I am cute, right?’

  I looked up at him. Kind hazel eyes, shiny brown hair, a very chiselled jaw. An all-American dreamboat.

  ‘You’re adorable,’ I told him, ‘and if I wasn’t so madly in love with Luke I’d definitely fancy you.’

  ‘You say the nicest things.’

  ‘Actually, generally I say the nastiest things,’ I reminded him. I snuggled closer and yawned.

  ‘You tired, baby?’

  I nodded sleepily. ‘I’ve been up since about five a.m., local time.’

  Xander looked at his expensive and, to me, unreadable watch, and whistled. ‘Right. Bed time.’

  He hauled me to my feet and took me across the room to one of the doors on the far side. There was a low, futon-like, unmade bed, strewn with clothes and books and magazines. Xander is a boy after my own heart: he’s incapable of anything resembling tidiness.

  ‘Isn’t this your room?’

  He shrugged. ‘It’s the only room. I have my studio set up in the other one, so …’

  ‘Where will you sleep?’

  ‘I’m okay on the sofa.’

  I put my arms around him and hugged him tight. ‘What would I do without you?’

  Xander laughed. ‘You managed pretty well for the last twenty-some years of your life. You only met me in September.’

  ‘I love you, Xander.’

  ‘You’re drunk, Sophie.’

  ‘What? No, I’m not. I only had two drinks …’

  ‘I make a strong margarita. And you sound like you’ve hardly eaten in days. Go to sleep.’

  He tried to push me towards the bed, but I clung to him. The last few days had been pretty bloody depressing, and I was lonely, and quite frankly the only other person likely to hold me in his arms was Jack and he’d almost certainly make a move on me.

  Xander wasn’t Luke. He didn’t feel like Luke and he didn’t smell like Luke, but he was big and strong and kind, and he promised to hold me until I fell asleep.

  The phone woke him, and his heart clutched. Groping in the dark for the flashing, bleeping device, Luke wondered if he’d live long enough to see Sophie return home safe, or if she’d have given him a heart attack long before then.

  He peered blearily at the screen. Not Sophie. Evelyn.

  ‘What?’ he said. The Head Lad’s flat was quiet and dark, which had to mean it was reall
y the middle of the night. People woke up early in a stable-yard.

  ‘Just wondered if you’d heard the latest on your girlfriend,’ she said with the sort of crisp efficiency one only got from automatons who had no idea it was three a.m.

  ‘Don’t tell me, she shot JFK.’

  ‘If they could pin it on her, they would.’

  ‘It was twenty years before she was born.’

  ‘The mood Harrington’s in, I doubt that matters. No. Does the name Maura Lanley mean anything to you?’

  Luke fell back against the pillows and let his eyes drift shut. ‘No.’

  ‘Works for BBC&H. Kidnapped and robbed at gunpoint yesterday.’

  ‘And?’ Luke said, although he’d pretty much figured out where this was going.

  ‘There’s not much doubt who it was. Jack de Valera and your Sophie.’

  As if she was a possession. ‘She’s not my Sophie,’ Luke said, and wondered why he’d bothered.

  ‘Yes, she is. And she’s in a lot of trouble.’

  ‘I know that. Why are you calling me at three a.m. to tell me this?’ And on a phone 5 were almost certainly monitoring.

  Evelyn seemed surprised. ‘I thought you’d like to know.’

  ‘At three a.m.’

  ‘I’ve only just found out,’ she said. ‘Apparently nobody thought it was worth mentioning to me.’ Which meant it was no longer a news bulletin. 5 were probably all over it already. ‘Luke, this is serious. I can’t even begin to calculate the charges against Sophie.’

  ‘Did they hurt this Mary woman?’

  ‘Maura,’ Evelyn corrected, and Luke was pleased to hear a little annoyance in her voice. ‘Knocked her out. Back of the head. Needed stitches.’

  Great. So that was murder, unlawful imprisonment, assault, and theft. ‘What did they take?’

  ‘Money. And she had a gun, so that makes it armed robbery.’

  ‘Wonderful. Anything else?’

  ‘I’m not sure you’re taking this seriously, Luke.’

  ‘My girlfriend has been accused of murder, armed robbery, assault, and unlawful imprisonment.’

  ‘Not just accused, Luke. She actually did those things.’

  ‘She didn’t kill anyone,’ he said firmly.

  Evelyn was silent a moment, then she said, ‘Actually, technically –’