The Mission

by Naomi Kryske

She was jumpy now, clasping her hands in her lap and then unclasping them. He joined her on the sofa. “Jenny, the anniversary of 9/11 wasn’t too long ago, and the danger’s not yet over. It wouldn’t surprise me to hear that many Americans living abroad feel the need to look over their shoulders.” She crossed her legs, and he noticed that her socks weren’t matched.

  “It feels more personal than that, but maybe it isn’t. I spent months being afraid of the man who attacked me, so maybe I’m more easily frightened than most people. And I know it sounds crazy, but being married to a policeman made me feel safer. Now the only police officer protecting me is the teddy bear Barry Bridges gave me. Remember? The one in the constable’s uniform. It’s silly, but holding onto him helps.”

  She’d closed her hands into fists. He took one, uncurled the fingers, and laced his through hers. “If you see someone suspicious, you’ll ring me?”

  She smiled. “Thanks, but I can’t go running to you every time I feel afraid. I have to learn to take care of myself.”

  In the past he would have approved her desire for independence. Now, however, he felt a pang of regret.

  CHAPTER 28

  A dilemma. Look for a job on Finchley Road or the High Street? Alcina visited both. Finchley had larger commercial establishments and might be more likely to have job openings, but the High Street was more posh. Sinclair had had four names and sufficient income to live in Hampstead. She chose the High Street.

  A challenge. She walked up one side of the High Street, up Heath Street, and back. Many posh boutiques, but she couldn’t apply for a job at any of them. Their closing hours would not allow her enough time to arrive at her evening job at Kosta’s. Also, she would be confined to the shop for long periods and thence unable to continue her reconnaissance.

  Where then? Again she marched up one side of the street and down the other. Cleaning establishments would need few employees. Restaurants might have openings for an experienced waitress, but her target would be unlikely to dine alone and thus might not ever enter. A bookshop? She had always been too impatient to read, so she had never developed skills that would qualify her for employment at a bookshop.

  The newsstand: one worker. The chemist? She saw two, both elderly but robust. Post office. No. Charity shoppes? She smiled bitterly. She was more suited to be a customer there than an employee. Florist? She had never arranged or sold flowers; in her better days she had received them. The retail shop which sold primarily kitchen items was so crowded with merchandise that she would not be able to watch the street.

  She had time for one more circuit. Restaurant, cleaners, boutique, restaurant – no, not a restaurant. A bakery. Bakeries opened earlier in the morning than other establishments and closed earlier in the afternoon. There were several bakeries in Hampstead. She must remember to smile when she applied.

  CHAPTER 29

  During October, Jenny continued her exploration of the Heath and its hundreds of benches. Some were in need of repair, with slats missing that allowed the wind to caress her back. Some showed the wear of frequent visitors, the movement of a multitude of feet preventing the grass from growing nearby. Others were clearly not used, because the overgrown blades that surrounded them nearly obscured them. Memorial benches with epitaphs like “So many happy hours spent here” saddened her. Leaves crackled under her feet as she walked. The reds and yellows were the most recent casualties of the season, too new to have begun the process of decay.

  The Heath attracted all kinds of people: birdwatchers, landscape photographers, athletes, artists, even swimmers, or as the British called them, bathers. Naturalists looked for mushrooms or catalogued types of trees. In some seasons a croquet club held games, and art or amusement fairs occasionally occupied a portion of the park.

  One Sunday she passed people engaged in tug-of-war games. In another area she saw a gathering with individuals holding dark brown objects hanging from strings. Conkers, she was told, another name for the seed of the horse chestnut tree. No tampering was allowed: It was against the rules to boil, roast, or alter the conker in any way. The competition appeared to be purely offensive, since one player had to let his conker dangle while the other swung his and tried to crack his opponent’s.

  She surveyed the faces of the contestants and saw tension and anxiety, absorbed concentration, and sudden, wide smiles when an attack was successful. All ages were represented, and even the spectators were having fun.

  She tried to remember the last time she had done something light-hearted and playful and couldn’t. Colin would have known all about conkering, or whatever the game was called, and would have laughed with her when she teased him about the odd pastimes of his countrymen. She walked on.

  Once she passed a bench where a little boy, ten years old or a small eleven, sat with an older woman, perhaps his grandmother. She had never seen a child so dejected or so still. The kids at Beth’s school were always in motion, swinging a foot or twirling a lock of hair, even during silent reading or exams. She paused, curious but not wanting to intrude, as the grandmother took his hand and coaxed him to walk with her by the ponds. “The ducks will be there. You always liked the ducks, didn’t you?” The boy, his blond hair so light it was almost translucent, looked up, showing eyes as blue as Colin’s, but his face was blank, and he didn’t answer. He stood stiffly and walked with halting steps, and Jenny wondered what could make a child so lost and so sad.

  She stayed away from Parliament Hill; she and Colin had shared too many afternoons there enjoying the panoramic view of St. Paul’s and other London landmarks. Instead she wandered down the wide trail that led to the Viaduct Pond, or as the locals called it, the Red Arches, because red brick had been used to construct them. Ducks with green heads and others with multi-colored plumage barely disturbed the surface of the water, and no one seemed to notice that she perched on the bench for long periods without doing anything. She had no dog, no human companion, and no reading material, only the ruminations of her mind. Could external peace bring internal peace? Why had no one told her, as Oscar Wilde had written, that “the brain can hold / In a tiny ivory cell / God’s heaven and hell?” Where were the birds she could hear but not see? She occasionally found a feather. Birds, unlike people, could lose a part of themselves without pain.

  She watched the skies weep and wondered if the ground beneath her feet would begin to shudder as it had in Manchester, where fifteen earthquakes had been reported in a twenty-four hour period. Her mood was unsettled, too, the chilling gloom in her spirit matching the news bulletins describing the IRA’s resistance to peace and the victims of a serial rapist who was still at large. When it rained, she shielded herself with her umbrella but didn’t leave her bench. In the States benchwarmers were extra players who didn’t get into the game. Was she doomed to spend her life on the sidelines?

  She started her walk back to the flat. The rain was cold, falling gently but unceasingly. Some parts of Britain had experienced storms so severe that people had been killed by falling trees. At least Colin hadn’t died that way, she thought, as she zig-zagged around the puddles on the gravel path. She wished the downpour would dull her senses the way it dulled the surroundings. When the rain stopped, stray drops, like residual tears, fell from the branches as she passed by.

  Not far from Heath Street, she heard a child crying, and his sobs threatened to shatter her fragile composure. Was it the blond boy with his grandmother? No, he had not walked in this direction. She took a deep breath and looked for a distraction. Ah – a bakery. Surely it wouldn’t matter if she indulged her sweet tooth occasionally by purchasing a chocolate croissant or cookie, and it would calm her. Nevertheless, her conscience must have bothered her because her stomach felt queasy as she stood by the counter. The owner, who was round all over, packaged her selections quickly, while his equally rotund wife served as cashier. A tall woman, thin and somber as Jenny, brought trays of fresh bread and rolls and placed them on the shelves for the customers.

  She continued her walks,
not caring whether the sky was sunny or cloudy, but always weighed down with her umbrella. Sunshine in the morning was no guarantee of a rain-free afternoon. The British sun didn’t stare, the way it did in Texas; it blinked. Some days the breeze was mild; on others crisp gusts of wind nipped at her cheeks. People walked their dogs in all kinds of weather, but clear days were needed for the kites. Until Colin’s death, she had liked watching families fly kites. Now watching shared fun – and seeing kites soar when her life had crashed – hurt. The snatches of conversation she heard reminded her that others were not alone, and the laughter and happy chatter of children saddened her because she had no children.

  A vague sense of uneasiness kept recurring, like a candle she couldn’t blow out. Was it the knowledge that she was on her own that made her feel so vulnerable? Colin had always known what to do, and she had even teased him by saying that he wouldn’t have made detective if his reassurance quotient hadn’t been so high. And now he was gone and the reassurance she needed was gone with him.

  Streets which had once had a gentle slope now felt steep to her leaden feet, and the sun, that deceptive orb, gave no warmth. Coming down the High Street one Sunday afternoon, lost in thought, a pedestrian bumped into her, hard, knocking her to her knees. Usually Londoners were solicitous in these situations, but this individual didn’t stop or even slow, much less apologize.

  “How rude!” said a young woman pushing a stroller. “Are you all right?”

  “Yes, thanks,” she answered, feeling ruffled and ridiculous as she picked up her purse and gathered the contents which had spilled out. She couldn’t even have described the person: someone tall in a raincoat and hat was her only impression, and when someone her height described a person as tall, it wasn’t very useful.

  On other walks she felt a nervousness that ebbed and flowed like a tide. Sometimes walking faster helped. Once she stopped and looked at the people on the street: more women than men, and none of the men seemed to have any interest in her. In the evenings she watched smoke from the chimneys rise into the sky. Sometimes the wind dispersed it the way a child blew out a birthday candle; other times it hung over the houses like a shroud.

  One particularly dark evening, the flashing blue lights of police cars lit up one of the larger, more upscale residences several streets away from her flat. As she walked closer, she spotted several officers in the lane. “Danny?” she said. “What are you doing here?”

  One of the men turned and smiled. “I’m on IRVs now – immediate response vehicles.” It was PC Daniel Sullivan, a former member of her witness protection team. At age 22, he had been the youngest as well as the most lighthearted and least officious policeman she had met. “Two adult males in hooded sweatshirts accosted the female resident as she locked her car. One grabbed her handbag, and the other demanded her jewellery. She’s shaken up but all right. What are you doing out after dark?”

  “Passing the time, Danny.”

  “I’ll walk you home. Back in two ticks.” He spoke to another officer and returned. “We’ve had several calls to this area. There’s concern that the frequency and force will escalate. I wouldn’t like to be called to your flat, Sis.”

  She smiled upon hearing the nickname and asked about his real sisters.

  “Samantha’s still working as a hairdresser. She has a partner, but she tells Mum and Dad that they’re engaged. Gemma finished secretarial school and has a job at one of those fancy financial offices. My younger sister, Gwennie, works at a library. A shy Sullivan, if you can believe it! I told her she’d never meet any blokes there – all the men in libraries are either old or dull.”

  “Do you have a girlfriend?”

  “Lots! No one special, though.” His smile dimmed. “Sis, I want you to promise that you’ll not walk alone at night. It’s not safe.”

  Simon had said the same thing, but she hadn’t paid any attention. She liked the embrace of darkness; a cruel embrace but an embrace nonetheless. “Danny, I have so much time on my hands.”

  “Rent films then. Stay home and lock your doors.”

  She noticed that he wasn’t armed. “Where’s your gun?”

  “I’m not an authorised firearms officer anymore, Sis. I decided I didn’t want to carry a firearm so I didn’t keep up with the training.”

  “Because of what happened to us?” When she had been shot at the courthouse prior to her testimony, he had been, too, and his injuries had been far more serious.

  “I saw what guns can do, and I don’t want any part of it. Unarmed policing is a bit of fun. I’m better suited to it.” They had arrived at her door. “Now promise.”

  She promised and hugged him.

  In the days that followed, she limited her walks to the daylight hours and rented movies as he had suggested. They helped to pass the time, because she still didn’t have the concentration to read. She had tried books set in a different time or place, but reading about fictional characters didn’t help her, because their lives all seemed to follow a plan, while she felt aimless and unmoored. On Simon’s next visit, she told him about Danny’s advice. “I don’t rent romances or anything with a Pollyanna ending.”

  “Some of these I wouldn’t mind viewing,” he said, picking up Saving Private Ryan, Courage Under Fire, and The Matrix.

  “I haven’t gotten to those yet. I liked Billy Elliot. G.I. Jane I couldn’t watch – she was raped. In Castaway Tom Hanks was stranded on an island. I have all the creature comforts, but even in his deprivation, he seemed more alive. That’s my life now: pause, rewind, stop.”

  He saw a bed pillow and rumpled blanket on the sofa in the living room. “What’s this?”

  “I sleep here most nights now. The bed upstairs is too big for one person. And lonely, hence my teddy bear.”

  He looked up sharply. Was that an invitation?

  She gave him a sheepish smile. “I guess I’m feeling a little sorry for myself.”

  “You’ve a right.”

  “Maybe so, but I don’t want to be that way. I just can’t seem to stop missing him, though.”

  Damn. First because she still missed Sinclair and also because he still cared. We’re cut from the same cloth, he thought. Both wanting what we can’t have.

  CHAPTER 30

  Alcina’s appetite had been whetted. Her one encounter with her quarry – who hadn’t even seen her coming! – had been satisfying, but she wanted another. Wait, she told herself. Biding her time would make her stronger. Delay is not defeat. Time would only make her object even more complacent. Alcina would use that false sense of security against her. She could do it. Their collision hadn’t been planned, but it had taught her that she could improvise, that she was capable of acting on the spur of the moment. An important quality to have. Hadn’t someone said that battles rarely went exactly as intended?

  She had also confirmed that her target was weak. It had taken only a bump to bring her to her knees. She wished she could have witnessed her target’s distress, but allowing herself to be seen was dangerous. Attracting attention was not wise. It was too soon, much too soon, to reveal herself. She must give no clue about who she was and what lay ahead.

  CHAPTER 31

  Simon’s evening with Marcia’s parents got off to a slow start. She had warned him that her dad might be a bit gruff; he was more protective of her since Adrian’s desertion. “He’ll introduce himself as Walt and my mum as Frances, but he’ll be reserving his judgement.”

  “Not to worry,” Simon said. “He’s doing what he ought.”

  Simon brought flowers for her mother, something that Adrian, even with his flair for the dramatic, had not done. Frances, neither as blonde nor as slim as her daughter, placed the bouquet in a vase in the sitting room where it provided a bit of colour in the otherwise neutral space. The muted green sofa and patterned armchairs were comfortably upholstered, and Simon, who had dressed conservatively in khaki slacks, a dress shirt, and a jacket, accepted a beer but waited to seat himself until Marcia’s mum had done.


  “You and Marcia met at hospital,” Frances began. “Do injuries occur often?”

  “Not as often as you would expect,” Simon answered. “Our work is inherently dangerous, but our training is the best, and we’re well aware of the importance of safety procedures.”

  “Don’t like firearms,” Walt said abruptly, shifting his bulk to be more comfortable in the chair across from Simon.

  “They’re needed on some ops,” Simon responded in his usual terse way and then seemed to realise that a fuller answer was called for. “We’re mindful of the fact that we carry loaded weapons. Show-offs or officers with a complacent attitude don’t qualify for our unit.”

  “Not satisfied with being a regular copper?”

  “I like a challenge, sir,” Simon said evenly. “Mars and I both do.”

  Marcia liked the nickname Simon had given her, although they weren’t as close as the affectionate appellation implied.

  “Fond of films, are you?” Walt asked in a brusque tone. “Dad!”

  “Walt!” Marcia and her mother objected almost simultaneously. The last thing Marcia wanted was for her dad’s demeanour to drive Simon away.

  “Not a problem,” Simon said, placing his hand over Marcia’s. “Sir, I’m not much for films. I’ve very little recreational time.”

  Frances, relieved that the conversation had not escalated, headed for the kitchen. Walt nodded a grudging approval at Simon. He had never been sold on Adrian’s charm or choice of career. “He’s not on stage here,” he’d grumbled. “Ought to tone it down. Damn firefly. Only ever loves himself.”

  “My hours may look reasonable on paper,” Simon continued, “but if a call comes in, we’re obligated to answer it regardless of the time we’ve already spent on duty. Marcia’s the same: If she’s needed beyond her shift, she stays. I respect that about her.”

  Adrian had always downplayed the importance of her work, Marcia recalled. Only his world of make believe had been real to him, and she had never been certain that his romantic declarations were true or if he simply wanted to hear himself recite the lines. She had been so flattered when he had drawn her into his circle; now she wondered why he had. Had he valued the stability she provided? She had been an emotional as well as a financial anchor for him. No, she thought bitterly, her gullibility had been the key. She had given him power over her self-esteem, and his sudden and heartless departure had destroyed it. Perhaps that was why she still hurt. The tortoise and the hare: Simon, the cautious and steady one, and Adrian, rushing headlong without thought or care.