by Ed James
Hunter lay back, panting hard. He tied up the condom and stuffed it back in the wrapper as Chantal snuggled in close. He pecked her on the forehead. ‘I love you.’
She looked up at him, cheeks flushed, eyes cold. ‘You know you only say that when you’ve shot your load up me, right?’
‘Shut up.’ Hunter tossed the packet on the bedside table. That wasn’t true, was it? He frowned at her. ‘I tell you it all the time.’
She slapped his chest. ‘No, you don’t.’
‘Okay, well I’m sorry. I do love you all the time, not just after I’ve shot my muck up you.’
She smirked and settled back into his embrace.
Over by the door, Bubble sneaked into the room, her eyes catching the light. She snaked towards the pizza box on the carpet.
Hunter shot her a look. ‘Bubble!’
‘Miaow.’ Another step closer.
‘No, Bubble.’
‘Miaow?’ She was patting the box with her paw.
Hunter hissed at her. ‘Get out!’
She hunkered down on all fours, her focus trained on the pizza like she was hunting a rat.
‘Bubble!’
‘Miaow.’ She leapt forward and grabbed a discarded strip of green pepper, then raced out of the room.
‘Bloody cat.’
Chantal drilled a fingernail into his chest. ‘She’s as much of a freaky eater as you are.’
‘More so, if that’s possible.’
‘I like how you can have a conversation with her, though.’ More drilling, getting close to really hurting. ‘I bet you tell her you love her.’
Hunter reached down and tickled the rough stubble under Chantal’s arms.
She squealed out. ‘Stop it!’
Hunter let her go and raised his hands. ‘See in McNeill’s office… She knows. We can’t keep this a secret any longer.’
‘Craig…’ She sat back on her heels and bunched up her hair.
‘We’re at the point now where we’re lying to people. To your boss.’
‘Craig, come on…’
‘You’ve never said ‘I love you’ to me, even after I’ve sho—’
‘Craig, you know why.’ Chantal clutched her face tight. ‘I’m…’ She slapped his chest, hard this time. ‘You prick.’
‘Hey, hey.’ He pulled her tight to him and stroked her back. ‘It’s okay.’
‘Craig. Jesus. It’s not okay.’ She pushed him back, her palms slapping off his flat belly. ‘You know the deal. This has to be on my terms.’
‘Okay, but tell me you’re not ashamed of me.’
‘Stop being a twat. This isn’t about you.’
‘Some of it is, though.’
‘Right.’ She nudged away from him. ‘I’m not ashamed of you and your little willy. Happy?’
Hunter stared at his wilting cock. Not exactly massive, but…
She grabbed hold of it and it slipped through her hands. ‘Relax, Craig, I’m just winding you up. It’s perfectly adequate.’
‘Adequate. Right.’ Hunter shrugged at her. ‘You’ve been quiet today.’
‘Aye, making a mess of an arrest is something you want to scream from the rooftops. Twat.’ She slapped his chest, harder more than playfully. ‘Look, Craig, this case is important to me. Should be important to you as well. Instead of chasing our careers in the MIT, we’re on this unit to bring pricks like Tulloch to justice. This isn’t for us to sit in interviews and take statements, kiss the right arses and get a promotion. This is about stopping what’s happening.’
‘I know that. You know that.’
‘Right.’ She snorted. ‘Well, if we come out to Sharon, then it’s over. There’s no room for both of us in the unit. One of us will have to move. Could be you, could be me.’
She’s right. Bloody hell. Such a small team with nowhere near enough people.
‘It’s the most important thing I’ve ever done in my career.’ Hunter smiled at her. ‘I’d go if it came down to it.’
‘Back to uniform?’
‘Right.’ Hunter shut his eyes.
Back to uniform. To chasing cats around houses. Scraping smackheads off railway tracks. Dealing with those twats and their endless banter. Sergeant Lauren Reid and her constant griping about how cold it is. Inspector Buchan and his stupid chess bollocks.
This is where I belong. Doing this shit. Making up for everything that’s ever happened.
Chantal picked her bra up from the floor. ‘The cat’s at your pizza again.’
‘Bubble!’
She shot off through the flat, like she could fly.
Chantal followed the cat out into the hall, shaking her head.
Well, Hunter, you are a cockblanket…
He reached down and tore off the crust Bubble had been licking. He dropped it on the box. Then the rest of the slice. No appetite for it.
What can I do? How can we keep this a secret? I feel like Lady Chatterley’s lover. Sergeant Jain’s lover.
So many bloody secrets. All tangled together like cables in a box, no idea which was the one I actually want.
That bloody Taylor Swift song blared out, muffled under a pile of clothes.
‘Chantal! Your phone’s ringing!’
15
CHANTAL
* * *
Chantal flushed the toilet and tugged on her bra. Out in the corridor, Bubble sat on the laminate chewing on some green beans she’d stolen from the pizza. Freaky cat. Freaky owner.
What am I playing at? He’s right. Lying to Sharon like that. Daft cow.
What’s so wrong with being split up at work? Having someone else to shadow me, him working with another DS.
Nothing.
It’s… It’s admitting that I’m in a relationship with someone. Someone that I…
Do I love him? Really?
He’s nice. Strong, kind, funny. Smart. Sensitive.
It’s just… All the shit in my head. Does he deserve that?
He’s as bad. Worse. That flashback at lunchtime. Christ, what if it happened during an operation?
‘Chantal! Your phone’s ringing!’
Here we go.
She jogged through to the bedroom. ‘Shite, where is it?’ She rummaged around in the heap of clothes. Bubble lying on her trousers as she ratted at the pizza box. She snatched it from under the cat and checked the display. ‘It’s bloody Sharon.’ She put her fingers to her lips and answered it on speaker as she lay on the bed. ‘Sorry, Shaz, I was—’
‘Shagging Craig?’
‘Piss off.’ The photo on the caller display was Sharon drunk out of her skull, hoisting a bottle of blue WKD above her head like it was a gold medal. ‘Have they got him?’
‘Tulloch walked through passport control an hour ago.’
‘They didn’t arrest him?’
‘Saying they need evidence. Caught a load of flak when they arrested a Romanian last year. Turns out he stole two lettuces.’
Chantal collapsed back onto the bed. ‘Shaz, this is boll—’
‘I know, I know.’ Sharon sighed down the line. ‘Look, I’ve got approval for you and lover boy to investigate over there.’
‘He’s not my—’
‘You’re on the seven o’clock flight to Faro tomorrow morning. Three nights’ accommodation max. Ideally less.’
‘Thanks, Shaz.’ Chantal looked round at Hunter, smiling like she couldn’t control it. ‘Whose arm did you have to break?’
‘You don’t want to know.’ Sharon’s sigh hissed out of the speaker. ‘A local detective will meet you at the airport. Inspector João Quaresma. I think that’s how you say it.’
‘You seem to be the expert.’
‘Right, well, I’m sure you’ll be able to find Craig and tell him, aye?’
‘Aye, funny.’ Chantal scowled at the phone. ‘I’ll call you once we’ve spoken to this Quaresma guy, okay?’
‘Look forward to it.’
‘Cheers, Shaz.’ Chantal ended the call and got to her feet. ‘Glad tha
t wasn’t FaceTime.’
Hunter smiled at her as he chomped on a slice of pizza. ‘So, you happy now?’
‘Happier. Ball’s in our court now.’ She stepped into her pants and hoisted them up. ‘Right. Need to get someone to look after Muffin.’
Day 2
Friday
13th May
16
HUNTER
* * *
Still far too bloody early.
Hunter stared out of the flat window again, yawning as he sipped more tea. Rain battered the glass as the first rays of sun broke through the heavy clouds overhead. Looked like the Biblical flood had hit again. Now, where did I put my Ark?
Bubble rubbed against the legs of his jeans, almost tying herself in knots. ‘Miaow.’
A dark car pulled to a halt across the street by the park, the diesel engine’s throb transmitting to the stone tenement. Chantal got out of the back, lugging a box, and held out her hand to the driver. Five minutes.
Hunter crouched down and tipped a cup of biscuits into Bubble’s bowl then into another next to it. He wagged a finger at the cat, her nose twitching. ‘You’re in charge, okay Bubble?’
‘Miaow.’
‘Don’t let Muffin eat all the food. Okay, Bubble?’
‘Miaow.’
The lock twisted. Chantal pushed through the door, her keys dangling from her grasp. Sunglasses propped over her hair, pastel yellow crop top and a flowery skirt. Not clothes for Edinburgh. She lugged the box over and set it down by Bubble. ‘Sure this is the right thing to do?’
Bubble sniffed at the cat box.
‘It’s going to be fine.’ Hunter waved at the window and the giant buildings hulking across the main road. ‘Murray works at the Scottish Government building. He looks in on Bubble most lunchtimes. Murray’ll feed them and change the litter. This’ll be the third time they’ve stayed together and they’re both neutered.’ He pointed at a beige plug in one of the sockets. ‘Anyway, I’ve put out some of that stuff that chills cats out. They’ll be stoned.’
Chantal laughed through an exhale. ‘Okay.’ She unclipped the box and a monster-sized blonde cat stepped out, regally, like he owned the place. Muffin. He sniffed the air. ‘Ma-wow!’
Bubble paced over to him and kissed him on the nose. Then bopped him with a paw. Muffin sat back and licked his front left leg. Bubble backed off, happy that she was in charge.
Chantal crouched down and rubbed her cat under the chin. ‘You know, Muffin was litter mates with Sharon’s cat, Fluffy. Nobody would take two huge boys, so we split them up.’
Hunter stroked the top of Muffin’s head then did the same to Bubble.
A dry run for moving in together. Not that I’d say it out loud.
Chantal hauled herself to her feet. ‘Come on, the taxi’s waiting.’
Land swept past out of the window below, France or northern Spain. Lush green tree-covered hills, sparkly blue rivers and roads with tiny cars and lorries, like a children’s play set.
Hunter shifted around in his seat, sweat trickling down the back of his jeans. Too bloody hot and drier than Iraq in the height of summer. Not that an Iraqi winter was much better. Another glance up at the air conditioning and Murray’s advice rattled around his head — that’s where the germs are. Never turn it on.
A row of golfers danced in the aisle, waiting to drain the four breakfast pints they’d downed.
Hunter unfolded his Argus. That newspaper smell. The front page was filled with the grinning face of Harry Jack, the missing Northumberland kid who’d shunted all local stories off the front. A photograph of his mother at a press conference, frail and gaunt, desperate.
HARRY MUM: I JUST WANT MY SON BACK
He flicked through the article. Kid disappeared on his way home from school in Alnwick. Small town between Berwick and Newcastle, that bit of England that was quite Scottish. Not that you’d say that to a local.
He showed Chantal the paper. ‘You see this?’
She didn’t look up from her Kindle. ‘Read about it last night. Horrible.’
‘That poor woman.’ Hunter tapped at the page. ‘I can’t imagine what she’s going through.’
Chantal finally looked up to point at the photo of the mother, her finger landing on the figure next to her. A tired cop in a grey suit. ‘I know him. Can’t remember his name for the life of me…’
‘Where from?’
She went back to her Kindle without a word.
Hunter rested a hand on her thigh. The tiniest grains of stubble dotted her coffee skin. Her knees were tinged with red. ‘Sharon could’ve got us the extra legroom seats.’
She nudged his hand away and shot a nervous look towards the man at the end of their row, hidden behind his Daily Mail. ‘You might need to lose a few inches.’
He leaned in to whisper. ‘Thought I needed to grow another couple?’
‘Craig, get over it.’
Right. That easy.
Hunter adjusted himself in the seat again and folded up his paper. ‘I’m not sure we should be flying on Friday the thirteenth.’
‘What?’ An impish grin filled her face. ‘Tell me you’re not superstitious.’
‘Of course I’m not… It’s…’ Hunter shrugged. ‘I don’t want to be the one who laughs at it and the plane falls out of the sky.’
‘You have flown before, right?’
‘Of course I’ve bloody flown.’ Hunter squeezed his arse to the right. Not good. Back to the left. That’ll have to do. ‘You don’t drive to Iraq or Afghanistan.’
‘Oh, shite. Yeah.’ She locked her Kindle and stuffed it in the seat rest. ‘Look, you could’ve brought something other than a paper to read. Instead, you’re annoying me.’
‘I know.’ The food trolley clunked behind them, letting one of the waiting golfers past to the toilet. ‘Could do with a sleep.’
‘So sleep.’
‘Maybe.’ Daily Mail man was lost in his latest threat to house prices. Hunter put his hand back on her thigh.
‘And we’re not joining the mile high club.’
‘Wasn’t going to suggest it.’
The air hostess leaned over to them. Smelled like she’d spent half her salary on perfume, even at duty-free rates. ‘Sir, can I get you anything?’
Hunter shook his head. ‘I’m fine.’
‘Madam?’
‘Coffee, please.’ Chantal gave her a five euro note. ‘Milk, no sugar.’
‘Of course.’ She handed her two little milk cartons stuffed into a plastic cup. Serviettes and plastic spoons lurked out of the top.
Chantal wrestled her tray table to horizontal and put them down. She took the coffee from the hostess, whose gaze had already switched to Daily Mail man. ‘Thanks.’
‘We should go on a holiday, Chantal.’
‘Okay.’ She tore off the lid and blew on the drink, then tipped in both milks. ‘When?’
‘When you tell Sharon we’re an item?’
‘Oh, Craig.’
‘I’m serious. We’re not going to get time off together any other way, are we?’
Chantal took a drink and grimaced.
The stewardess squeezed past a waiting golfer and walked to the front of the plane.
‘We’ll talk about this later, okay?’ Chantal grabbed her Kindle and unlocked it. ‘Now, try and get some sleep.’
‘Maybe.’ Hunter shut his eyes and huffed out a breath.
The plane droned around them.
Chantal slurped at her coffee.
Am I being unreasonable here?
Probably.
She’s got her reasons. Solid reasons. Good reasons, the sort you shouldn’t mess with. Respect them.
You selfish twat.
Still. Sharon McNeill’s her friend. Best friend. They’d been cat shopping together, splitting a pair of cats. Why can’t she tell her as a friend? Come to some sort of arrangement?
Sharon had worn similar shoes when started she dating… him. Surely she’d understand?
; ‘Here you go, sir.’
‘Thanks.’
The smell of bacon wafted over to him.
Hunter clenched his fists and fought hard against—
17
Hunter
White noise, everywhere, the RAF transport’s propellers droning in the darkness. Cold wind hit Hunter’s cheek, distracting him from his teeth rattling.
A few faces lit up in yellow around him. Friends, now. One grinned maniacally at him. ‘Lance bloody Corporal Hunter.’ Terry lifted the cap off his hip flask and handed it over, the cockney twat grinning away. ‘Have a swig of this, you big Scotch poof.’
‘Just because you want to shag me doesn’t make me a poof.’ Hunter reached over, the straps cutting into his shoulders, and raised the flask. ‘Slainte!’
Terry scowled at him. ‘Slange? What?’
‘Slainte. Gaelic or something. But you spell it with a T.’ Hunter downed a measure of the whisky, burning the back of his throat. Disgusting. ‘What’s that?’
Private Dave Mowat sat opposite, smirking away. Twat from Dundee, barely tall enough to enlist. ‘Single malt. Like that Sassenach would know any different.’
‘It’s Dunpender, if you must know, pipsqueak.’ Terry took the flask back and necked a good measure. ‘Slainte.’
Mowat almost spat at him. ‘You’re not allowed to say that, you cockney wanker.’
‘I can say what I like when I’m drinking your whisky, pipsqueak.’ Terry put the cap back on and hurled the hip flask at Mowat. It clattered off the bulkhead behind and dropped to the floor behind him.
‘Watch it!’ Mowat craned his neck to look below. ‘You’ll have dented it!’
‘Hardly.’ Terry buckled with laughter. ‘Get it down you, Hunter’s drying up.’
Hunter wiped the whisky from his chin. Started repeating on him. Horrible stuff, but you’ve got to play along. ‘Last decent booze we’ll get for a while.’
Terry snarled as he caught the flask, thrown with enough venom to crack a window, if there were any.
