by Asia Mackay
Despite spending a month together in some pretty gruesome circumstances, I still couldn’t work out if she was over-compensating for being a woman by being extra ruthless and sadistic or if she was just like that naturally. I had started the mission naively hopeful that working alongside another female assassin meant we would become besties and spend downtime bonding over frappuccinos and how tough it was fitting a gun in our waistband when having a fat day.
‘Why the hell do you guys work in such a dump?’ asked the tall woman with cropped peroxided blonde hair who’d just stepped into the meeting room.
But she just wasn’t a very nice person.
Hattie uncurled himself from his plastic chair and got to his feet. ‘Everyone, please meet Cameron.’
Cameron was wearing a black polo neck, leather trousers and was vigorously chewing gum. ‘Take it in turns to stand and state your name and job,’ she barked.
Robin, Geraint and Pixie obliged. Jake and I remained seated.
Jake waved. ‘Jake. Rat. Hello.’
‘Lex. Rat. We’ve met.’
Cameron stared at me. ‘You’re still here then.’ She had a nasal New York accent that grated. Or maybe it was just that I disliked her and everything about her grated. Cameron looked around the meeting room. ‘I had no idea it was such a shithole down here. Track 101 just had another full renovation. Upgrades with underfloor heating, Sonos speakers in the canteen, the full works.’
‘You let builders down there?’ One of the many reasons why Platform Eight functioned on the bare essentials was that everything that needed doing to it we had to do ourselves. No outside contractors.
‘We killed them all,’ she deadpanned. ‘Just joking.’ Not a muscle moved in her face.
I made a mental note to check if there were any reported stories of an American contracting firm losing a vast percentage of their workforce.
Cameron looked at me again and cocked her head. ‘You look different.’
‘She’s a mama now!’ called out Robin. ‘You must be seeing the glow of motherhood.’
‘If by “glow” you mean older, more tired, and more badly dressed, then yes. She’s sooo glowing.’
‘Thanks, Cameron. You’re too kind.’ I tried to recall if there was anything in Cameron’s background that helped explain her being so awful. Something to give her a little humanity. But from what I remembered she’d had a nice upbringing and loving parents. I remembered her file included a photo of a teenage her on a pony. Maybe that’s what it was. She was a testament to how bad it was to spoil your kids.
‘What do you reckon?’ murmured Jake in my ear. ‘We pop her and call it a training accident.’
‘Well, Cameron, you’ve just met all of Whistle. Please take a seat.’ Hattie motioned to the chair next to him.
‘Why do you Brits have to be so twee?’ asked Cameron as she sat down. ‘Whistle? How the hell is that inspiring? Why not have names like ours – Independence, Liberty, Patriot – you know, names that mean something.’
Robin cleared his throat. ‘All our unit names mean something. “Megatron” is because their unit leader Dave is a big Transformers fan. Then there’s “Grinch”, which is another obvious one . . . Well, it would be if you met their unit leader, misery-guts Gavin. “Jagger” is because Dennis has the “moves like Jagger”.’ Robin paused to chuckle to himself. ‘Whereas “Watermelon” is because Joe thought to do this job you needed balls as big as—’
‘That’s ridiculous. And sexist.’ She looked at me as she popped her gum.
‘Cameron, I think the only thing offensive about boys wanting to name something after their ball-size is having to work with people with such a lame sense of humour.’
Cameron turned to Hattie. ‘So is this really it?’ She gestured towards us all. ‘This is all the personnel you have working on this?’
‘Yes, Cameron, this is our team. And there are two others at Six. You all know Dugdale, I gather? As Department Head he was the one who the Six agent approached with information on Tenebris.’
Harry Dugdale. Duggers. If you had told me back in Oxford that the rugby-playing chin downing yards of ale on the other side of the college bar would end up being one of the only people who knew what my job really entailed, I wouldn’t have believed it.
‘Dugdale and the agent have been running their own off-the-books investigation but have now come to us to help them finish. They’ll be in for a meeting tomorrow. We need to get this resolved fast. The Tenebris Network threatens the very existence of Eight. Of all our Security Services. Tenebris is a terrifyingly efficient way of not only organising but recruiting Snakes. We’re going to be severely incapacitated if we start having to put additional security protocols in place to try and protect our intel from our own employees.’
Tenebris’s Terms of Business were still up on the whiteboard. From a business perspective it was impressive. Tenebris had seen a gap in the market and gone for it. Those working in the Security Services who wanted to sell information could hardly offer it up on eBay or post an ad. Tenebris legitimised it. Snakes being able to absent-mindedly flick through an unhackable secure app deciding who to sell what to, at what price, took away the severity of what they were doing. There was no hovering in dark alleyways exchanging USB sticks and briefcases of cash. They didn’t have to seek out criminals and dangle the carrot of information in front of them. These Snakes didn’t even have to deal with the risk of associating with ruthless employers who could choose to kill them rather than pay them. Tenebris’s Inappropriate Behaviour clause meant that if the Employee came to undue harm after the information exchange, Tenebris would be paid their share and the Employer would be struck off for future job postings. The Snakes were protected. Christ, they were one step away from having their own union.
Chapter Two
‘WELCOME, EVERYONE.’ Yvonne clasped her hands together. ‘We are so delighted that you were able to make it here tonight to get a chance to meet each other and see some of the wonderful work your children have been doing.’ She gestured behind her to a wall covered in multicoloured paint splodges and an array of colourful card with pieces of pasta glued onto them in haphazard shapes. ‘Please do mingle and help yourself to refreshments.’
Next to Yvonne was a small table bearing plastic cups of tepid white wine and some wilted sandwiches.
An evening of attempting to make friends with Gigi’s new friends’ parents was the last thing I needed after a stressful day at work trying to come up with a plan to take down a business that was getting colleagues killed and threatening the way all our Security Services operated.
Long ago I had determined to avoid any event that required me to wear a name badge. No fun was ever had anywhere you needed to announce your name to anyone casting a glance at your left breast. Yet here I was, ‘Alexis Tyler, Gigi’s Proud Mummy!’ stuck on the lapel of my leather jacket. I looked around the room wishing Will hadn’t got stuck at work. I needed an ally.
I walked over to the table and picked up a plastic cup of warm white wine, took a sip and winced. Right. Now to ‘mingle’. Why did that sound about as appealing as ‘torture’? The other parents seemed already deep in conversation with one another. I recognised one mother from the morning drop-offs; we had yet to break through the weather small-talk barrier.
I walked around the classroom, cup in hand. At the wall at the back there was a display titled ‘My Family’, so I looked for Gigi’s. There we were. Somewhat creepily, mine, Will and Gigi’s heads had been cut out of the family photo I had dutifully supplied one morning and stuck on stick figures made out of penne pasta pieces that were all holding hands.
‘Jesus, this is terrifying. Why have we all been impaled by angry pasta?’ A man in a suit had joined me and was staring at the wall, grimacing.
I smiled. ‘Which happy family are you?’
‘Here we are.’ The man pointed to the one next to Gigi’s. His wife was blonde, and with those jutting cheekbones I doubted her body was much more fill
ed out than the pasta stick figure on which her photo was currently stuck. Her pasta body was holding hands with a round baby head of indeterminate sex and a frowning white-blonde-haired girl I recognised from drop-offs.
‘Oh right, so you’re Florence’s dad. Gigi talks about her a lot.’ I remembered the anonymous bite victim and made a silent prayer that I wasn’t about to be on the receiving end of a lecture on violent pre-schoolers.
‘Yes, that’s me. Florence’s dad. Although my name outside of this Portakabin is Frederick.’ He held out a hand. It felt strangely formal considering the setting. I shook it. Was it my imagination or did he hold it just a moment too long?
‘Alexis.’ I motioned to my name badge. ‘But everyone calls me Lex. Nice to meet you.’ I nodded my head towards their family portrait. ‘She has your eyes.’ I really thought it was just something people always said when they didn’t know what to say when admiring a baby or child. But in this case Florence really did have Frederick’s eyes. Piercing blue with a fleck of green. She didn’t share the rest of his features – strong jawline, coiffed dirty-blond hair. And thankfully the delicate little two-year-old did not have his build. He was broad shouldered, and his white shirt seemed to be straining to fit what looked like a very defined torso.
‘The photo doesn’t really look anything like me but I do look just like that under my clothes.’ He motioned towards the penne.
I laughed. ‘Now that’s something I’d like to see.’
‘I . . . Well . . .’ He looked surprised, then smirked.
Shit.
‘I mean . . . that would be funny, if you really were made of pasta. How could you be? I mean, where would the food go? I’d better check where my husband is. Yes, my husband. Right. Bye.’
Abort. Abort. Mission abandoned.
I headed for the door, nodding a few hellos along the way, downed the wine and dropped my plastic cup in the bin on the way out. What the hell was wrong with me? Could I not make it through a standard social evening without imploding? One encounter with a Hot Dad and I was simpering about wanting to see him naked. I was acting like a highly-sexed desperado. It’s not like I was deprived. Or was I? I tried to think of the last time Will and I had sex. It couldn’t have been that long ago. There was that time last week. Or was it last month? I had a vague recollection of Will murmuring a post-coital ‘I think we’ve got time for one more’ and the relief when I realised he meant another episode of Game of Thrones.
I just needed some perspective. Yes, I had embarrassed myself in front of a fellow parent at Gigi’s nursery by implying I wanted to see him naked. But chances were I wouldn’t see him again.
Apart from potentially every drop-off and pick-up.
And then just at any school event.
I thought back to the detailed school calendar we had been sent. There was an upcoming harvest festival, a Halloween party, fireworks night, nativity play, Easter bonnet parade, spring bake sale, summer concert, sports day.
How did a two-year-old have such a packed social schedule? And why couldn’t I at least wait until the end of the school year to make a tit of myself?
Why did parenting never get easier?
Will and I had celebrated when we survived the first year: the constant waking in the night, teething, explosive nappies. And just when I felt like I was finally finding my way, a new set of challenges were catapulted at me: fussy eating, tantrumming, potty-training. Now it seemed biting was part of the repertoire too. And if all that wasn’t enough, always in the background was the fear that I was screwing this up. Screwing her up.
Will always did what came naturally to him. Didn’t overthink things. She worshipped him; whether it was being chased squealing round the house by the Tickle Monster, to weekday afternoons spent in the park, just the two of them, hunting conkers and holding hands. He’d sneak away early from the office, citing a meeting, and I’d come home to find them out there, kicking leaves and eating ice cream, no matter the weather. I’d ask ‘Aren’t you worried you’ll get in trouble?’ and he’d shrug and say, ‘Fuck ’em. I missed her.’ He adored her and knowing that he was her father, that he therefore knew what was best for her, gave him all the confidence he needed.
But I felt the crushing responsibility of raising a daughter. I found myself poring over parenting articles. Reading the latest studies. Listening attentively when more knowledgeable mothers waxed lyrical about what was expected. I now overthought everything to a terrifying degree. I feared an offhand comment here, a simple observation there, would have the butterfly effect of determining the type of person she was going to become.
It meant any given everyday situation was suddenly a cause for concern.
At playgroup:
‘Here you go, sweetheart.’ I handed Gigi a doll. There I was, gender stereotyping again. ‘You can have this too.’ I quickly gave her a truck. ‘Play with what you want. You can do anything you want.’
‘I want doll.’
‘OK, that’s great. But remember you can have the truck too.’
A visit to my mother:
‘Now go and give Granny a kiss.’ There I was, forcing her to be physical with someone against her will.
A playground altercation:
‘He doesn’t mean it when he pulls your hair. He’s doing it because he likes you.’ Now I was teaching her that it didn’t matter if men hurt you as that was how they showed affection.
A new dress:
‘You look so pretty.’ Oh God, I mustn’t focus on her looks. ‘I mean, you look so clever.’ I need to show her that intelligence and personality are more important. But how can I celebrate her brains when she’s only two and a half and can only scribble and count to seven? Maybe I big up every little achievement. A big HURRAH for zipping up her coat. But then won’t that give her an inflated sense of self-worth? Will I be giving her a big ego and she will expect praise every time she wipes her own bum? Actually, I really would give her praise for that – when does that start?
Doing up her Velcro trainers:
‘Let me do that.’ I was teaching her not to be self-reliant. ‘I mean, keep on trying, you’re doing a great job.’ She needs to learn how to solve her own problems. That perseverance is eventually rewarded with success. Even if it does take her twenty minutes to fasten up a Velcro strip . . . Even if it takes all day . . . Oh fuck it, we’re late. ‘Come on, I’ve done it, let’s go.’
Going to have her hair cut:
‘No, darling, we aren’t going to keep the fringe – Daddy doesn’t like it.’ A man’s opinion on your appearance is more important than your own. ‘I mean, Mummy and Daddy don’t like it.’ We are in charge and we determine how you will look. ‘I mean, you don’t like it.’ I am telling you your own opinion. ‘You know what? Keep the fringe if you like it.’ You’re the boss and I have no control over you.
This nagging internal monologue could take over any interaction.
Even telling her I loved her:
‘I love you, Gigi.’ She carried on playing with her doll. I nudged her. ‘I said I love you.’
‘Love you, Mama.’ I was forcing her to declare love. Teaching her that to be loved you have to love. There was no unconditional love.
It was an absolute minefield. The demands, the worry, the all-encompassing need to keep her safe, the endless pressure to raise her right. To do the best job to give her the best start. The weight of expectation was exhausting. No wonder there were days when Rat felt more natural to me than Mother.
It was less pressure when the only life on the line was yours.
Chapter Three
I PUNCHED THE EASTER BUNNY.
That was why I was back here at Platform Eight.
After everything that had happened a couple of years ago I had questioned returning to Eight. If it was too much to handle. Rat and Mother. People trying to kill me, bosses betraying me; who needed all that shit when I had teething and tantrums and potty-training to deal with?
But then wal
king back from Sainsbury’s with Gigi one afternoon I had taken a shortcut down a quiet street. I’d heard loud footsteps approaching us from behind, and a large hand seemingly reach out to grab Gigi. Pulling her towards me, I’d swung round and punched the incoming threat with two hard jabs to the stomach. As I watched the Easter Bunny go toppling backwards and hit the ground hard, his basket of brightly coloured foil eggs spilling round him, I realised I may have made a mistake.
When apologising to the winded eighteen-year-old underneath the bunny head, I blamed the war on sugar for my spirited response to his attempt to give my daughter a free promotional chocolate egg.
The truth was it felt good.
Not so much the assaulting an unarmed teenager, but the buzz of using my specialist skills. The buzz of being in control, of fighting back. Of remembering the power I had.
Holding Gigi’s hand as we watched the bunny stagger away clutching his basket, I had rung the Platform and finally confirmed my return.
It was best for everyone.
I was a coiled spring. Just one gentle nudge and my talents as a Rat would be unleashed.
Who knew how it would next manifest itself?
Would I challenge Gigi’s judo teacher to a fight? Break into our neighbours’ house to check they really hadn’t stolen our missing recycling bin? Hack the nursery’s reading reports to verify a smug mother’s claims of ‘Arabella is only two and already blending sounds together’?
What was the point of specialist training if you couldn’t use it?
Platform Eight was where I belonged.
Home needed to be a place I felt happy to retreat to, not desperate to break free from. To keep the good life there, I needed a bad one here. To roar round my underground world, wreaking terror, stopping terror, calling the shots, firing the shots.
Fly high here and lay low at home.
*
I entered the meeting room and joined the rest of my unit awaiting Dugdale and the Six agent. I glanced around. This was the first time Platform Eight itself was under threat.