Line of Sight

by DEREK THOMPSON

  Time was when he had his own front door key. Back when he and Miranda were more of a firm fixture than a series of friendlies. Simpler days, before he’d left his Civil Service desk job and joined the Surveillance Support Unit; before he’d got mixed up in all that secret squirrel stuff. Anyway, no use standing on the threshold like an apprentice Jehovah’s Witness, best get indoors.

  The doorbell twanged a chord in his heart. This was his second home, more so than his native Pickering, despite his Yorkshire roots. The Wrights were more a clan than a family, with the boys, Sam and Terry, making up the remaining forty per cent of the mix. But the jewel in the crown for all of them was their Miranda.

  It took Thomas a moment to realise that the door had opened. Sam was standing there impatiently. “You coming in or what?” Sam swung a playful punch and helped him with his bags. “Mum, where do I put Thomas’s stuff?”

  There was no answer from the kitchen. Small wonder. The sleeping arrangements all depended on whether Miranda was stopping over. It was more than ten years since Thomas had turned up on their doorstep — in the heart of London's East End in those days — with Miranda in tow, having pulled her away from the clutches of a dodgy photographer in Leeds. A mate of Thomas’s uncle — and the one Thomas had lamped good and hard.

  And since he’d escorted the fair Miranda home, they’d treated him like a prince. They’d even helped them set up home together, but young love and bad habits didn’t make for reliable foundations.

  Sam dumped Thomas’s bags in the hallway and led him into the living room. John Wright looked up from a table covered with a mess of wires and components.

  “‘Ere, Thomas, have a go at this — you’re the electronics wizard.”

  It sounded more like a dare than a request. It was only months ago that Thomas had told them what he really did for a living, so it was still fertile ground for piss-taking.

  “Come on,” John vacated his seat. “You work out what this is s’posed to be and I’ll get you a beer.”

  There was a glint in his eye as he sauntered off to the kitchen. Thomas looked down at John’s pet project, recognised a capacitor and a circuit board but not much else. Jesus, some components were glued to the motherboard. He fiddled with a couple of wires and they came away in his hands.

  “So what do you reckon then?” John could scarcely contain himself.

  “I reckon you’re having a laugh!”

  John set the beers down and erupted into laughter. “As soon as Miranda told us you were coming over, I put something together.”

  Thomas weathered the chorus of good-natured abuse and drifted away to the kitchen. He always felt like a lost sheep when Miranda was absent, and her mother was the nearest substitute. Diane gave him a motherly hug, which in no way detracted from the fine figure she cut in her skinny jeans and fading blonde locks, as she turned back to the oven. “She’ll be here soon,” Diane said, matter-of-factly. He felt his face simmering. “So . . .” Diane faltered.

  No one said ‘how are you?’ or ‘how’s things?’ anymore. Miranda must have drilled them. Neither did Karl, come to that. He knew they’d all spoken about him, about how he was coping. Maybe he’d get them each a Support Worker badge for Christmas, and make it official.

  Diane found her thread. “So . . . it’s cards tonight. Texas Hold ’Em followed by Blackjack, and then we’ll see who’s got any money left!” She touched him lightly on the shoulder and kept her hand there. “And no cheating!”

  He laughed. Given Diane’s croupier past, that seemed unlikely. Unless you counted those Christmas sessions, where Diane dealt and John inexplicably held the only hand with picture cards.

  A key crunched in the lock and he started, caught between trying to act cool and the desire to rush to the front door.

  “He’s in ’ere.” Diane bellowed as the door creaked open. Then she went off to sit with John and the boys.

  Miranda entered, doing her slinky walk, swinging a box of chocolates provocatively. She could look sexy filling a shopping trolley. “I see Mum’s keeping up the subtlety night classes. Alright, babe?” She moved closer and he felt his body responding to a wave of heat between them. He basked in the warmth of it, their feet almost touching. “Did you miss . . .” she began, but he finished the sentence for her, with his lips.

  Time with Miranda always felt different; tensions longer, emotions more intense. He gave himself up to the moment. When they separated she pressed her hand to his chest, to the place where Yorgi’s bullet had struck the body armour during the shootout. The heat from her palm penetrated right through him, making his back sweat.

  “Hard day at the office?”

  He moulded his hand over hers, filling the gaps between her fingers, and squeezed.

  “Knock, knock.” Diane rapped against the doorframe, beaming. “No spectators allowed — caterers only I’m afraid!”

  * * *

  Dinner was a simple affair: shepherd’s pie and veg, followed by apple crumble and custard. The chocolates and spirits didn’t come out until the boys had cleared the table and laid a green baize cloth over it reverently. As John always said: if you’re gonna play cards, do it properly. Ironic, given that John was one of the worst card players known to man. Well, to Dagenham. His occasional lucky flourishes only seemed to coincide with Diane’s stints as dealer. No, he was definitely not one of life’s high rollers. How he’d ever lasted long enough in a casino to hook up with Diane in the first place remained one of life’s enduring mysteries.

  In deference to Thomas’s lack of preparation and ready cash, John declared it a chips and IOUs night. The stakes were the usual, enough to keep your interest but not silly money; it was a family game after all.

  The cards flew thick and fast, with the chips moving round the table several times. He sat to one side of Miranda, so she couldn’t read his face. And, if he was lucky, he might get the odd furtive leg squeeze.

  “’Ow’s your Irish mate, Thomas?” John didn’t look up from his cards.

  Miranda’s hand rested reassuringly on his thigh; he cleared his throat. “He’s fine.” Nah, they deserved better than that. “Actually, Karl bumped into an old army mate; I think it shook him up a bit.” Yeah, that and the dead body. “I think the bloke is after a favour, as it goes.” He tabled a couple of cards to be exchanged. “Well, you know Karl!” He looked right at John.

  Miranda intervened, reaching for the box of chocolates, which she waved under his nose. “Something to nibble on?”

  He selected a toffee and wondered if the question counted as a promise.

  * * *

  The clock read eleven fifteen. “Right then,” Diane drew the cards together and formed them into two fans, merging them flawlessly. “Let’s see the final scores.”

  Thomas was down twenty quid and he’d got off lucky. Fortune — or Diane — had favoured Sam. He collected the IOUs and sat back in his chair, hands interlaced like a Mafioso. “Why don’t we all just call it quits?”

  John smiled sadly and shook his head. “No, son, cards is cards. You win and you collect, simple as that.” He said his goodnights and headed off to bed. Diane followed a minute later, reminding the boys to leave the room tidy.

  Miranda turned to Thomas amid the hubbub of cards, chips and glasses being moved away. “I believe you owe me a hard centre,” she raised an eyebrow. “I’m off to bed.” She could still make him blush on command. He followed her out, picking up his bag on the way.

  “Try and keep the noise down, sis,” Terry pleaded.

  Miranda was completely unfazed. “I’ll do my best,” she called behind her. “But so will he, probably, so I’m not promising anything.”

  Chapter 5

  Miranda paused at her old bedroom door, smiling coyly. It was only when she relented and moved to put her arms around him that he noticed the ring. So much for observation skills.

  “Blimey.”

  The old engagement ring, from the days when love’s young dream had leapt the crevasse to
formal commitment. Even if it did end up jumping back again a few months later.

  “Hey,” she scolded him, “I do still wear it now and again.”

  Yeah, like now — on the right hand with the stone palm-side. He swallowed that thought and delved beneath the curtain of her hair, landing lightly on her neck. Forget the G spot; Miranda had an N spot. He let his fingertips do the talking, gently kneading her flesh.

  “You know,” he paused, just to gaze at her. “I’ve never quite worked you out.”

  “That’s the plan,” she laughed and kissed him, flicking her tongue into his mouth.

  She tasted of brandy and chocolate, rich and exotic, like a good liqueur. They didn’t speak of love or commitment as they fell onto the bed; no one spoke at all. In the wordless pact of familiar lovers, nothing needed to be said.

  * * *

  He twitched awake in the early hours, startling her. She cradled him, and he lay there, listening to their breathing in the dark, trying to push back the creeping dread. He felt as if something had been lost; wondered if she felt it too. He agonised over whether things could ever be the way they had been.

  Later, when he surfaced once more, he heard the birds outside and struggled at first to work out where he was — curled up in a ball, submerged beneath the covers. Miranda’s legs were warm against him, and he raised his mouth to her stomach, uncertain whether she was awake. He let his hands travel freely over her body.

  Sometimes he wished she’d play hard to get. But they weren’t kids any more.

  “When you’re done playing Gulliver’s Travels down there, remember that Dad gets up early. So if you’re thinking of a rematch, we’d better get a move on.” That was Miranda, just like her mum: all subtlety.

  * * *

  By the time Thomas made it to the kitchen, Sunday breakfast was in full swing. Miranda would follow at a discreet interval; he never understood the logic, but that was true of so much about her.

  Diane was usually the hostess with the mostess. However, John Wright liked to do Sunday starters. Diane was at the table, mug of tea in hand with a magazine in front of her. “Morning, love. You stopping for dinner today?”

  “I’ll see what Miranda wants to do.” Or, more accurately, what Miranda wanted him to do.

  “Why don’t you nip out for a paper and get a bottle of something — make it red, we’re having beef. Oh, and a couple of cans for John.”

  Good plan. A seal of approval from Diane would overrule Miranda’s contrariness. “Okay — I won’t be long. Anyone else want anything?” Sam shot into the kitchen like a puppy at the jingling of a lead. “I’ll come too.”

  Thomas grabbed the keys for the Land Rover and got ready to face the day. Dagenham had lost none of its charm. The cul-de-sac was as silent as a politician wired to a lie detector. The lawnmower brigade wouldn’t be on duty for at least another hour.

  He stood for a moment eyeing up the vehicle. These days he didn’t take chances, not since a tracer on his car had led to Miranda’s abduction. Who gave a shit if people thought he was paranoid? Let’s face it — he was paranoid — it was an occupational hazard.

  He did a circuit of the Land Rover. Nothing untoward; cancel the red alert in his head. But . . . but then he did a double take, as his brain caught up with him. There was a cylinder attached underneath, and he’d never noticed it before. His mind raced, rationalising the irrational. He wasn’t scared exactly but it didn’t make any sense.

  He whipped out his mobile and phoned Karl.

  “Hi-de-Hi there, Tommo. What’s shaking?”

  Idiot. “I’ve got a problem — the Land Rover’s been tampered with.”

  “I’m listening . . .”

  He sent Sam back indoors, told him not to come out again. If it was a bomb, it was the least covert bomb in the history of incendiaries. He described the container to Karl and tried not to sound freaked out.

  “I’ll come straight out, if that’s okay. It doesn’t sound like an explosive device and I can’t see why someone would have put it there overnight.”

  Before, then?” Thomas flashbacked. “Maybe when we stopped at the Services yesterday?”

  “Nah, I stayed with the vehicle. Granted, I was a wee bit hung-over, but I think even I’d have noticed someone playing Meccano.”

  Thomas stared at the canister and felt the world retreating.

  “So I’ll pop over, then, Tommo?”

  “Quick as you can — I’m sure you know the way.”

  The notion of a visit from Karl caused quite a stir in the Wright household. Less, Thomas reasoned, because Karl was a newcomer to their lives and more that they’d probably spent time him when Thomas had convalesced in Yorkshire.

  The family loitered in the living room, making small talk. Then John disappeared abruptly into his office, returning with a mobile and a pissed-off look on his face. “‘How long is Karl gonna be? I could do without all this.”

  Thomas didn’t have any answer; he was too busy reminiscing. Medical books and the Internet might tell you that a flesh wound from a bullet doesn’t take long to heal — a month or so, tops. And less, for the chest bruise, where Yorgi’s precision had hit the padded vest, dead centre. But the mind . . . Jesus, that was a different story altogether. Google that one and settle into a comfortable chair.

  When the doorbell rang, everyone jumped — the way they do in cheap dramas. John cast a glance at Thomas; he took the hint and went off to deal with it.

  Karl flashed a smile as the door opened. “Clean your car, mister?”

  Thomas felt his jaw relax a little as he fell into the game. “Yeah, you could as it happens; there's a terrible stain on the underside.” He held back by the door as Karl circled the vehicle slowly.

  Karl finished his lap of honour and scratched at his chin thoughtfully. “Might be better to do this somewhere private. The boys have a breaker’s yard down Wapping way . . .”

  Thomas teetered on the doorstep, weighing it up. Karl had been down there once before; another incursion into his territory. But what other option was there? “Wait here — I’ll speak to Sam and Terry.”

  Five minutes later, the whole Wright clan emerged, with Thomas leading the way. Karl nodded to them each in turn, saving a small smile for Miranda. Thomas tried not to look too bothered, and failed.

  * * *

  A two-vehicle convoy left for Wapping. John Wright rode with Thomas and Karl in the Land Rover, following Sam and the rest of the family. Thomas felt squeezed again; he was getting used to his work and personal lives overlapping, but this was so far outside his comfort zone it could send back postcards.

  John was clearly enjoying himself immensely, swapping jokes with Karl like they were old pals. Thomas figured they probably had more in common; Karl had been in the army, and John was definitely ‘a man’s man.’ Meantime, here he was again, on the outside.

  John slapped his hands together as he delivered the next punchline. “And the feller says: ‘Don’t look at me, I brought the music!’”

  Karl’s laughter could have shaken the chassis apart. “Come on, Tommy Boy, let’s have some of that native Yorkshire wit.”

  John threw him a wry glance. This was a new one — Karl and John teaming up against him. He told them the one about the blind man giving his dog a biscuit. And then made a stab at a joke about the whistling prostitute with the glass eye. They left him alone after that, which suited him fine. All the better to check the mirrors, just to make sure there was no third car anywhere.

  * * *

  Terry got out to unlock the gates, and then both vehicles drove right into the yard before he bolted the gates behind them. Everyone decamped; Thomas watched as Sam went off to make a brew. Jesus, this was turning into a real family outing.

  Karl and John carefully detached the canister and laid it down on a piece of tarpaulin. Everyone else unconsciously backed up a step. “I just want to say,” Karl started unscrewing the cap at one end, “here on in, we keep this amongst ourselves.”
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br />   Thomas felt a dull sense of familiarity thudding against the inside of his forehead. He muscled to the front. “You know what this is, don’t you?”

  “Well,” Karl removed some packaging then retrieved the first part of a contraption. “Let’s just say I could hazard a pretty good guess. He delved back in and extracted the other pieces. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he stepped back from the spread of pieces and carefully put down the handle, “I give you . . . the smart gun.”

  Thomas clocked that Karl was wearing gloves. Then he gazed down at the tarpaulin, and saw the shadow of clouds as they passed overhead.

  Miranda sidled up to him and pressed her hand against his back. “You okay?”

  He sighed. “I think I could do with that tea now.”

  Sam did the honours. Thomas grabbed a mug and sniffed the milk — passable, even if it was that sterilised crap. He beckoned Karl away from the family. “I think you were bang out of order getting them involved — couldn't you have taken the canister off to your own people?”

  Karl took a long, slow sip of tea and wandered off towards an avenue of cars piled five high. Thomas trailed him like a sullen spouse. He could see Karl was searching for something; hopefully, a decent explanation.

  “Tommo, you do trust me? Surely to God you’ve learned by now who your friends are?”

  He conceded that one with a nod.

  “Okay, here’s the deal. I can’t get involved — not with a weapon. The footage from the lab, well that’s different — I know my superiors won’t like it, but they’ll wear it.”

  Thomas knew straightaway that he wasn’t talking about the head of their unit, Christine Gerrard. He meant Karl's other job in counter-intelligence.