Killing It

by Asia Mackay

  Dammit, there was always an excuse.

  I was on my second by the time Sandy arrived and took his position in front of the whiteboard.

  ‘Tomorrow is Pop Day. This is it.’ He brandished his iPad with the mission checklist. ‘Lex – the car?’

  ‘Dimitri’s Ferrari now has a driver’s seat with imbedded needle and a tyre fitted with a quick-firing explosive.’

  With a flourish Sandy ticked the relevant box on the checklist.

  ‘G-Man and Nicola, Dimitri definitely still flying to Moscow tomorrow?’

  Geraint looked at his laptop. ‘Dimitri’s pilot just submitted a flight plan confirming their departure from Farnborough Airport to Moscow International early tomorrow morning.’

  Sandy continued to flick through the checklist.

  ‘Robin – today you’re on Dimitri. Report back on anything he does that isn’t on his calendar. G-Force and Nicola – keep on the Nyan. Monitor their emails and any online chatter. Lex, I want you going over the route to the airport; test all the variables. When are you checking in with Dasha?’

  ‘Tonight at the big Bonfire Night.’

  ‘And you and Robin are set for tomorrow?’

  We both nodded.

  ‘Talk it through.’

  ‘Robin will be in position outside the house to confirm as soon as Dimitri has left the garage. I follow the Ferrari along the early-morning empty motorway. At the designated spot I will push the button, activating the charge and the needle, and speed off into the distance.’ I used a tissue to try to wipe away the stickiness of the donuts on my fingers. ‘Robin will be on standby in a Platform Eight ambulance ready to swoop in once the first 999 call is made and to confirm the Weasel is popped. I’ve also briefed Demon to be on standby with a good think-piece about drink driving and Russians believing they are above the law. If that gets published a few days later it will help make sure everyone’s singing from the same hymn sheet.’

  ‘Nice touch. By lunchtime tomorrow the Weasel will be popped and we’ll be popping the champagne on another successful mission. No one fucks with the security of this country. This is us taking a stand against The President and stopping the damage an army of VirtuWorld cars being released across the world could do. The stakes don’t get higher than this.’ This was Sandy’s attempt at a pep talk. ‘Anyone have any concerns?’

  I had to try one last time. ‘We’re definitely secure on the intel we have on Dimitri?’

  ‘One hundred per cent. We’ve gone over every statement and every hacked email from intelligence dating back over a year. And it’s all backed up by Dasha. Everything fits. Don’t ask again as it’s only going to piss me off.’

  Robin and Geraint both reached for another donut.

  Sandy looked round at us. ‘What the fuck are you all doing still sitting here? You all have jobs to do, now get out there and bloody do them.’

  *

  As the bonfire celebrations approached I spent four hours riding my motorbike between Junctions 13 and 14 of the M25 – the designated ‘kill zone’, chosen as a result of R & D’s numerous reconnaissance missions determining a crash at this location would have the highest chance of fatality. Along this stretch of motorway was a fifteen-foot section of side barrier that last night had been replaced with Eight’s special modified version. It may have looked as solid as the rest of the barrier it was linked to, but one small bump would be enough to make it crumble. The start of this faulty section was marked with a yellow painted arrow. I slowed down as I biked past it. I needed to push the button just as Dimitri was level with the arrow to guarantee the blown tyre would send him straight through Eight’s specially made barrier. With the speed he would be going and the steep drop down to the parkland and the river below R & D’s simulations had calculated a 99.97% chance of fatality. If the force of impact didn’t kill him, the car catching fire as it crashed into the parkland or filling with water if it landed in the river were useful back-ups. If all went to plan it would not just be the end for a dark man who had led a dark life, but the end of Russia’s plans for a worldwide intelligence monopoly.

  I went back and forth along the route, checking the surroundings for markers to look out for in my lead up to the arrow. I factored in everything from unscheduled pouring rain, to an unusually busy early-morning rush. R & D had informed me that pressing the button after the arrow meant with every second that passed the chance of a successful outright kill would drop by twenty per cent.

  After finishing my practice runs in the kill zone I went down to what would be the crash site. It was deserted with no sign that anyone had been down there in the last few months. The perfect location for a fireball car to hit. I checked my watch. Two hours to go until the first trickles of parents and their well-educated offspring were due to arrive at the school for Bonfire Night. After weeks of preparation, Chepstow Hall was going to bear witness to a night of unforgettable excess lovingly organised by a committee formed with social climbing, intimidation and murder at the heart of it, yet all working together in the name of charity.

  I needed to get home, pull my just-back-from-Singapore jetlagged husband off the sofa, pack my baby into her pram and prepare for one final soiree as a wannabe Super Mama.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  THE SMELL OF BURNING. It was in the air.

  Walking through the streets of Notting Hill bonfires were already alight. Other people’s celebrations had already started. Above the rooftops the crackle and fizz of the odd solitary firework permeated the dark night sky.

  ‘There’s a bloody programme?’ was Will’s reaction at being handed a colourful booklet as we arrived at the entrance to Dasha’s private communal gardens.

  ‘This is no ordinary Bonfire Night,’ I said. An understatement. The event was going to shortly kick off with a fifteen-minute fireworks display set to Mozart’s Symphony No. 6 in F Major, watched by parents and children enjoying organic marshmallows on sticks, non-toffeed toffee apples and a Châteauneuf-du-Pape mulled wine. Then, once a small fortune had been set off into the sky, there would be spit-roast pork in gluten-free buns, freshly procured from the line of five pigs that were turning on rotisseries, champagne from a straw in mini bottles and a large selection of themed cupcakes. In case that didn’t warm us up enough a twenty-foot bonfire would be lit by the low-level celebrity Demon had thrown me, any disappointment at his level of fame as a travel-show presenter buoyed by the fact he was good-looking and went to a minor public school – making him socially acceptable enough for all the yummies to fawn over him. I could see him now surrounded by a circle of fur-lined parkas and tinkling laughter.

  Will bit into a toffee apple. ‘Jesus, what the hell is this?’

  ‘It’s a Noffee apple. A non-toffeed toffee apple. I think it involves liquidised dates.’

  ‘So it’s totally biodegradable.’ Will dropped it on the ground as we walked round the gardens pushing Gigi in her pram. My gun was snugly fitted in the right hand of the Mummy Mitts attached to the handlebar. If faced with an oncoming threat I could fire while still keeping my hands toasty warm.

  Dasha approached. She was wearing a white mink coat with an enormous matching fur hat. This was her big night and she was going to make sure she stood out.

  ‘Alexis, Will, how lovely to see you. Isn’t everything just wonderful?’

  ‘Yes, Dasha, it really is. Quite an event you ladies have put on,’ said Will, putting an arm around me.

  ‘And aren’t we lucky? No rain,’ I added. ‘What’s the forecast for tomorrow?’

  ‘Clear. Totally clear.’ She said over her shoulder as she moved back towards her family.

  The music started up and the sky became alight with blues and greens and reds exploding in time to every beat. I looked around the gardens at all the families staring up smiling in wonder. Only five heads were not tilted up: Dasha and Dimitri’s bodyguards circled them, well positioned to take on any incoming threat. Dasha and Dimitri stood side by side behind their children, who were ex
claiming as they pointed at the different colours, now and again turning around to check their parents were really seeing what they were seeing. Her children’s joy broke through Dasha’s usual refined demeanour and she couldn’t stop smiling at their big eyes and frequent cries of, ‘Wow, Mama, did you see? Did you see?’ She bent down to kiss their cheeks and straighten their woolly hats. Dimitri’s face remained impassive.

  I looked over at Dasha’s flawless profile as she stared up at the sky. I still didn’t trust her. I didn’t care what Sandy and his wealth of intelligence was saying. It just didn’t add up. I didn’t see her as a political activist devoted to her country. More a socialite devoted to her social standing. A mother who loved her children. A wife who hated her husband – a man who, tomorrow, I had to eliminate. Something wasn’t right and I needed to try, one last time, to find out more. I saw Claudia and Cynthia over on the other side of the gardens. Since our bonding session over celebrities and coffee I was confident they might actually be a little friendlier now. It was time to stir things up a little.

  I left Will talking to Tamara and Ed and pushed Gigi over to the two Cs.

  ‘Evening, ladies.’

  ‘Oh, Alexis, hi.’

  ‘I think we’ve done a wonderful job.’ I took a sip of my wine as we all looked up at the sky. ‘Who cares what Dasha says? We all know we were a big part of this and that’s all that matters.’

  There was a pause as they digested the dig.

  ‘What do you mean? What has Dasha been saying?’ They were both now looking at me rather than the bright colours showering over us.

  ‘Well, I heard those mothers over there’ – I pointed towards a well-heeled group wearing Canada Goose jackets and holding large handbags – ‘tell her that she had done an amazing job and she said something about it being tough not having enough support. Can you believe that? After all those meetings we sat through? She was really complimentary about you two, though.’ They made no comment but started to look back towards the sky. ‘She said it was amazing how you didn’t miss a single meeting despite being so busy with surgery appointments and meetings at the Priory.’ Their heads swivelled back to me.

  ‘She said fucking what?’

  ‘She was being really nice about how much you contributed despite all that was going on in your lives.’

  ‘That bitch.’ Claudia spat.

  Cynthia stared at me. ‘Alexis, if you’re going to try to infiltrate this world, you need to recognise when people are fucking you over.’

  ‘What? I thought . . .’ I stopped and put a hand to my mouth. ‘Oh no! People didn’t know you were going to the Priory? Or having surgery? I’m so stupid. I thought she was being a good friend.’

  ‘After all we’ve done for that Russian whore.’ Cynthia shook her head and looked down at her chest. ‘It’s only a bloody boob lift. Barely counts as surgery.’

  ‘And so what if I needed a little help with that Valium dependency? Who doesn’t have therapy these days?’ Claudia folded her arms. ‘She should bloody try it. Rather than ranting to us about how much she hates her husband.’

  ‘So things aren’t good between them? I could’ve guessed that.’ I leaned towards them. ‘I heard rumours she was going to leave him.’

  Claudia and Cynthia burst out laughing. They took it in turns to talk.

  ‘Oh no, she would never do that,’ Claudia started.

  ‘Ironclad pre-nup. She’d end up with nothing. No money, perhaps even no children. His team of lawyers would make sure he could whisk them off back to Russia.’

  ‘She is totally stuck with him. And worse than that, his father is on his last legs and he’s getting them ready to move back to Moscow to take over the family business.’

  ‘He told her to give Chepstow Hall their one term’s notice.’

  ‘But she hasn’t. I checked. No one has any idea they’re out of here after Christmas.’

  ‘Serves the bitch right. Bye bye, St Paul’s. Bye bye, Parents’ Association. It’s going to break her heart,’ Cynthia finished, and the two of them sniggered together as they looked over at Dasha and drank their wine.

  ‘Surely Dasha would be happy back in Russia? They’ll be even richer if Dimitri takes over the company. And wouldn’t it be nice for her to be back home?’

  Cynthia wrinkled her brow. The Botox did its job and only one tiny line could be seen. ‘She doesn’t need any more money and she couldn’t give a shit about Russia.’

  ‘She has no family over there, no friends,’ added Claudia. ‘I just can’t believe that rather than be gracious about her departure she’s trying to ruin our chances with the Association.’

  ‘She must be jealous. She obviously considers you two a threat.’ They murmured agreement to this idea. ‘I’d better get back to my husband.’ I looked over at Will, who was being attacked with marshmallow sticks by Shona’s twins. They offered a distracted goodbye and continued talking between themselves about how best to damage-control Dasha’s supposed exposing of their vulnerabilities.

  The fireworks display was coming to an end. The sky exploded in a crescendo of flashes, bangs and colourful confetti as the letters ‘C’ and ‘H’ were spelt out in a flicker of falling stars and met with gasps and applause from the crowd. Chepstow Hall was certainly having an unforgettable Bonfire Night. I looked back towards the dark scheming faces of Claudia and Cynthia. Another fireworks display could be coming our way.

  *

  ‘I’m so glad we have a daughter,’ was all Will said when I rescued him from the clutches of Shona’s hyperactive calf-kicking sons.

  ‘Girls come with their own problems.’ It was with regret I knew that only women would be so easy to manipulate with a simple ‘she said’.

  ‘Note for Nigel? Note for Nigel?’ Two CH prefects were wheeling round a life-size Guy for the Bonfire.

  Will looked confused. ‘Shouldn’t it be Penny for the Guy?’

  I opened up the Bonfire Night programme and drew his attention to the ‘Negativity Nigel’ section, which outlined how all the CH children had written down their biggest fear and stuffed it inside Nigel. The piece ended with, ‘And parents are invited to do the same. Let’s all set fire to that negative energy!’

  ‘You aren’t actually seriously thinking of sending Gigi here?’

  ‘Come on, let’s get into the spirit of things.’ Like many of the parents around us I took one of the notes and pens proffered by a prefect. I scrawled a sentence down and stuffed the paper under Nigel’s shirt. Nigel was wheeled off round the groups of parents, getting fatter and fatter. I watched as he was lifted out of the wheelbarrow and dragged up a ladder by two fathers. With a great heave they threw him on to the top of the bonfire. The wind rattled against Nigel, his shirt billowed, yet he held steadfast, keeping close his precious cargo of Negativity. I watched thinking how one large gust of wind could tear him open, blow his contents all round the gardens and how in among the no doubt identical notes saying, ‘My child not getting into their first-choice school,’ ‘Never getting back to my pre-pregnancy weight,’ ‘My husband having an affair,’ ‘Losing all our money,’ one original note would flutter down: ‘Not seeing my daughter grow up.’

  A gong sounded, announcing the bonfire’s imminent lighting. We each took a pork bun and bottle of mini champagne from one of the waitresses and watched as the travel-show presenter approached with a lighted baton. He got a high-pitched cheer from the crowd. The fathers clearly did not share their wives’ enthusiasm for his presence. The baton touched the bonfire, there was a roar and whoosh and it was alight. I watched the flames crackle and dance and started to feel the heat.

  While Will was talking to Shona, Dasha came storming up to me. ‘This is my life,’ she hissed. ‘These people are my friends. What are you trying to gain by turning them against me?’

  ‘I was just having a gossip with my new buddies.’

  ‘Causing a scene now could get us killed. What are you playing at?’

  ‘I’m just showing
you a little glimpse of what trouble I can make if you haven’t been straight with us.’

  We stared at each other. Our steely eyes and straight faces at odds with the cheery socialising and small talk surrounding us.

  Dasha took another step towards me. ‘I have done everything you’ve asked of me. If tomorrow fails it will be down to you, not me.’ Her lips curled. A perfect face ruined by vitriol. A couple of mothers tapped her on the shoulder.

  ‘Darling, this is all so amazing.’ The sound of their voices turned her sneer to a smile and she turned towards them to soak up the compliments.

  I was pushing Gigi towards a waitress holding a tray of Irish coffees and whipped cream when Claudia and Cynthia blocked my way. Their mouths were set in thin lines. Round Two.

  ‘We should’ve known you weren’t to be trusted.’

  ‘You’re a nobody and you think you can turn up to a few meetings and be one of us?’ They continued to tag team with: ‘You can forget your daughter ever getting a place at this school.’

  ‘We’re going to make it impossible for you.’

  ‘We should’ve known better than to think Dasha would betray us like that.’

  ‘Who do you think you are?’

  Click. I cocked the safety of the gun nuzzled in my pram mitt. It was tempting. So very tempting.

  ‘There you are.’ Will was back at my side. ‘Oh, hello, we haven’t met. I’m Will.’

  ‘Darling, let’s go. Gigi needs to get to bed.’ I turned round and took him by the arm.

  He looked back over his shoulder at the two Cs. ‘Aren’t you going to say goodbye to your friends?’

  ‘They aren’t my friends. I never have to see them again.’ The mission was nearly over. No more fucking wannabe Super Mama. Just back to being a regular mum with a gun.

  From: 8itallcomesdowntothis@gobigorgohome.com

  To: lex.tyler@platform-eight.co.uk

  Subject: **High Stakes Poker***

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