Killing It

by Asia Mackay

  Dasha and her children were still in London. She started divorce proceedings against Dimitri the minute he left the country, and although it was going to be a long, messy battle, with our help things would undoubtedly work out in her favour. In exchange for Eight not punishing Dasha for her leading role in the doomed mission to kill Dimitri, she had handed over to us her files on everyone in Dimitri’s business circles. They were right to fear the Dragon. Her records were meticulous and most illuminating.

  To anyone watching her, including us, she was just a lady who lunched and enjoyed frivolous gossip in between beauty treatments. But every whispered rumour, each confided secret, she would work out how to use to her advantage. A mention of someone’s husband being seen more than once in a hotel with a woman of questionable repute would end with Dasha in possession of photos of them in the act. Dasha would hold the hand of a woman crying over her husband’s terminal cancer diagnosis and then threaten him into doing her bidding if he didn’t want his company’s board of directors to find out. She was ruthless. With the information she held close, blackmail came as easily to her as bloodshed did to her husband.

  Dasha’s deal with Eight also included her agreement that we could call on her whenever her assistance was needed. The battle with Russia was ongoing and we knew having Dasha as a secret weapon would be a huge asset. I had no idea if she’d managed to become head of the Parents’ Association. I just hadn’t cared enough to find out.

  I knocked on the door of the meeting room.

  ‘Come in.’

  I walked in to see Anne and Chief at the table.

  ‘Good morning, Lex. Please do take a seat.’ I did not know our section chief’s name. People who did know it were encouraged to forget. For security, it was better if he was never referred to by name, so he just went by Chief. ‘I’m sure you’ve heard that Sandy told us everything.’

  I wasn’t surprised. Even without the added incentive of receiving much-needed pain relief for what were now two messed up legs, Sandy knew we had Dasha, that Nicola would be easy to turn and that the Nyan were in Moscow pretending they had nothing to do with anything that had transpired. The brown envelope Sandy had instructed me to steal from the restaurant was found in his office safe and contained nothing more than a recipe for Russian meatballs.

  Sandy’s grand plan had been to use the failure of the mission and my treachery as evidence that Eight had been compromised by Russia. And that, in retaliation, we needed more action, more violence and less regulation. With him at the helm as section chief he would lead a blood-thirstier, more merciless Eight. And one that, thanks to the dawn of VirtuWorld, would not be reliant on technology. With Russia winning the digital war the only solution would be to surrender our electronic devices and carry on without. He wanted to lead Eight into a future where technology was obsolete and violence was absolute.

  For all Sandy’s grandstanding about honourable intentions we knew he had a demanding ex-wife and two kids to support. His actions were clearly more motivated by the eye-wateringly large amounts of money the Nyan were offering. I had wondered, as someone who worked with a fleet of assassins, why he didn’t get one of us to just take the ex out. That would have definitely helped with his cash-flow problems. Maybe, as a father, he couldn’t do that to his children. Or maybe, as a father who didn’t seem to like his children, he didn’t want to end up stuck with custody.

  Sandy recruited Nicola to his cause as he needed her IT expertise to help doctor all the intelligence Eight was receiving. He figured her loyalty could be bought with the vast amount of money on the table. He didn’t realise Nicola had her own agenda. She was a member of an underground hacking organisation that believed all software should be free. Open and available to the worldwide web community so everyone could learn from it and improve it. She was a digital communist looking for a way into Rok-Tech to cause mayhem.

  It turned out her relationship with Sandy was never sexual.

  Handcuffs plus her contact lens solution. I’d put two and two together and got sixty-nine. Nicola had spent a lot of time at Sandy’s flat as they worked together on their intricate plan. Long days at the Platform followed by long nights at his flat as they worked hard on covering their tracks and planning their next move. They had both looked somewhat horrified at the suggestion there had been anything more to their relationship than traitorous intentions.

  ‘Where are Sandy and Nicola now?’

  ‘Nicola is at the Sweat Shop. She’ll be there for a good decade or so.’

  The Sweat Shop was a prison that didn’t officially exist and therefore was not held back by the need to respect any pesky human rights. Its prisoners were high-level assets or Security Services employees who due to their skills or knowledge were considered too important to be placed within the mainstream prison system. At the Sweat Shop prisoners were put to work, divided up according to ability, and given allocated assignments to complete. It was just like any large corporation. Except longer hours, no pay and serious micro-management. Everything they did was monitored. Not so much Golden Handcuffs, just handcuffs. Those who did their time and managed to not burn out were released back into the world, some even to the same job they’d had before. Most went on to be model citizens, suddenly appreciating a place of work that gave such civil liberties as days off and lunch breaks. Those who ended up back in the Sweat Shop for a second time didn’t get out again.

  I wondered if Nicola’s hair was still shiny and if she had customised her prison jumpsuit in some way. Asymmetrical hems. A turned-up collar.

  ‘Sandy is up in maximum security at the Box. We still have more questions for him. He’ll either end up at the Sweat Shop for an indefinite stay, or just be sent straight to Medical Research.’

  ‘Considering his health they surely won’t get much use out of him?’

  ‘They’ll try their best. It’s what the programme is for, after all. Using those we deem disposable as trial patients for new treatments. A way to use his life to save others.’

  Rat to Snake to Guinea Pig. It was a fitting end for Sandy.

  ‘Either way, you don’t need to worry; you won’t see him again. We know he put you through a trying time.’ I nodded and thought that yes, that was exactly how I would’ve described nearly dying three times in a week.

  ‘We owe you an apology.’ This was Anne’s contribution. ‘That’s what this meeting is for. We wanted to welcome you back personally and try to make things right.’

  ‘And how do you plan on doing that?’

  ‘We’d like to offer you the role of unit leader of Unicorn,’ said Chief.

  My face remained expressionless. I stared him in the eye as I spoke.

  ‘Having these last few months off gave me time to think. To go over everything that happened and think about what I want. And to be honest, right now I’m not even sure I want to come back. You’ – I nodded towards Anne – ‘were all too quick to believe I was some crazed mother willing to betray my country to get my kid a private education.’ I leaned forward. ‘Do you have any idea how hard I worked to get here? A spotless record, years of hard graft and still I get penalised for being a woman. That attitude is clearly never going to change.’ Months may have passed, but my anger hadn’t.

  Anne and Chief turned to each other. Chief cleared his throat.

  ‘You don’t know my name, do you?’

  ‘No, sir. I don’t.’

  ‘How do you know I’m your section chief?’

  I paused. It was a good point. Over the years I had seen him at a couple of joint-unit briefings. He had never introduced himself but he had stood at the front of the room and acted like a big boss and the whispers of other Rats had told me he was. His appearances down at the Platform were rare but for big missions he was always there rallying the troops.

  ‘I don’t have the energy for mind games. Are you Chief or not?’

  ‘I use the name but no. I’m not the decision maker. I’m not for all intents and purposes the one who runs Eight.’


  ‘But then who does?’

  ‘I do,’ said Anne.

  I looked from one to the other.

  ‘Why are you telling me this?’

  ‘Because after what you’ve been through you deserve to know,’ said Anne. ‘Don’t think this is just one big old-boys network looking after its own kind. Eight is a place where being a woman will not hold you back. Although I’ll be the first to admit it was unfair to question your ability to be both a Rat and a mother, and for that I apologise.’

  ‘Why use a Chief imposter?’

  ‘It’s how it’s always been done. There’s always been a Chief in name and a Chief in action. We need a figurehead to draw everyone’s attention to. If he’ – she motioned towards the nameless man – ‘is compromised, blackmailed or eliminated, it will have no bearing on anything we do. And don’t think it doesn’t give me a certain satisfaction watching everyone write me off as just a secretary. Hide in plain sight. That’s what we teach you all.’

  ‘And knowing this is supposed to make me want to stay? Forget everything that’s happened and just report for duty?’

  ‘Eight has been home for you for a long time. Don’t turn your back on us just because we were a little short-sighted in how we handled your situation. We’ve learnt from our mistakes. We don’t want to lose you. You’re a fine agent and we need you here.’

  ‘I appreciate what you’re saying and I’ll think about it. But I need to do what’s right for me.’ I gave a nod to them both and left the room.

  I walked down the corridor running my hand against the rough wall. Could I really walk out of this underground world of mine and never look back?

  I headed to the canteen. A package should be waiting for me there. I checked my watch. If it wasn’t, all hell was going to break loose.

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  ‘HAPPY BIRTHDAY, GIGI!’ CAME the frequent chorus from guests arriving. Gigi was turning one. The house was full of the noises of a kids’ party – laughter, tears, screams and corks popping as the adults tried to self-medicate. I remembered what everyone said about the first year being the toughest and internally toasted myself for quite literally surviving it. Will came up behind me and wrapped his arms around me.

  ‘Look at her. Isn’t she perfect?’ Gigi was sitting on the floor, playing with wrapping paper, grinning. Chocolate was smeared all over her face and the hideously pink frilly dress my mother had bought her. We gazed at her together, feeling pretty proud of ourselves.

  We had succeeded in keeping Gigi alive to make it to her first birthday – none of those things that had so terrified me in the early days had happened; she didn’t choke on a grape, she didn’t get strangled by a blind cord, she didn’t overheat from being put in too many layers and she didn’t get kidnapped and held to ransom by a pack of pissed-off Russians. We were totally winning at parenting.

  The radio was on and there was a pause from the fast-talking DJ before the unmistakable strains of ‘Killer’ entered the living room.

  ‘I love this song.’ Will reached over and turned it up. Gigi started nodding her head along to it and gurgled as she clapped her hands.

  ‘Do you think this is really appropriate?’ sniffed Gillian from the large sofa she hadn’t moved from all afternoon. I couldn’t help but laugh. If she thought it was inappropriate now she would choke on her finger sandwich if she knew just how inappropriate it really was. I was saved from answering her ‘What on earth is so amusing, Alexis?’ by the doorbell going.

  ‘I’d better get that.’

  I opened the door to Jake. He was holding a large present and a pink balloon.

  *

  Jake. I had him so wrong.

  After the big shootout I had passed out just before I was able to do what I wanted.

  Which was to ask him to be Gigi’s godfather.

  He had been somewhat floored by my proposition of being the significant other father figure in Gigi’s life. He thought of as many reasons as he could to turn it down (‘I have never met a baby I liked,’ ‘Wouldn’t it be incest then if I made her my third wife?’ ‘What if she senses evil and cries every time she sees me?’), but I wasn’t having any of it. It may have seemed a crazy idea to bring him into our lives officially, but it was the only solution I had for working through whatever messed-up feelings I had for him. I knew myself well enough to admit that whatever I felt for him went far beyond what it should. And the only way to simplify things was to confront it.

  I was not going to go through my marriage wondering ‘what if?’ So I invited him into our lives and most importantly that of our daughter. Will was a little surprised when I pressed him to ignore his university best friend in favour of Jake, my somewhat mysterious and mostly grumpy colleague. But a Willifyed version of exactly how Jake had saved my life (bravery in the face of an oncoming car, as opposed to oncoming guns) helped him understand why making him godfather was so important to me.

  Jake has been coming round for Sunday lunch for the last couple of months. He mocks my cooking, has a few beers with Will while discussing whatever game is on, and even does a little babbling at Gigi on her playmat. He may never admit it but I think he enjoys it. I keep telling him it’s trial family time – dipping in and out to see if it’s a lifestyle he thinks he can one day adopt. I know now above all that Jake values loyalty and getting to know Gigi and Will was the key to getting him to abandon any thoughts of wanting to tear me away from them. As godfather to our child keeping her parents together is part of his job.

  I could already feel the way he looked at me changing.

  My crazy ploy had worked. Obviously I was delighted, although my ego was a little miffed that he was so easy to convert.

  ‘Darling, your glass is empty. Here, let me top you up.’ Frankie bounded up to me with another bottle of Prosecco.

  I had kept in touch with Frankie, Tamara and Shona. I needed some fellow mums to hang out with, and without Dasha lording it over us in the strained setting of committee meetings they were becoming more like friends. They weren’t really so different to me. It all came down to the fact we were all mothers wanting the best for our children. They were normal, really.

  ‘So are these made with cocoa or cacao?’ asked Tamara, brandishing some chocolate biscuits at me.

  Well, nearly.

  I looked around our living room, bursting at the seams with friends, family and children in party hats. I tried to imagine the years ahead. What would I be like when Gigi started school? Forever using my Platform-learnt skills to help me navigate the world of competitive parenting? Relying on my hostile negotiation experience to stage a coup at the PTA? Breaking into school to get advance copies of exams? Taking out a teacher that was giving Gigi a hard time?

  And that was just at school. How would I be at home? Sewing state-of-the-art GPS trackers into her coat? Running full background checks and surveillance on anyone she showed an interest in? Making the boy who broke her heart disappear for good?

  It was going to be very difficult to not be a heavily armed helicopter mum, always hovering over Gigi, unable to let her make her own mistakes. It was a natural parental urge to want to protect your child, especially when you knew the things I knew. But not everyone had access to the resources I had, not everyone had the skills I had.

  It had been months since Sandy was imprisoned, the Nyan were still in Russia, there was no existing threat against me, and certainly not Will or Gigi, but the blackout cover was still in the pram base. I liked the security of knowing it was there. Just in case. I knew that was how it was going to be for the rest of her life. Wanting to keep her secure in a bulletproof cocoon so no harm could come to her.

  ‘Thank God you’re back at work tomorrow. I’ve been stuck with a dumb Pigeon who can’t shoot straight.’ Jake came up to me eating a pink frosted cupcake.

  ‘It might not be tomorrow.’ I looked over at Gigi. ‘I haven’t decided yet.’

  ‘But you are coming back?’

  I ignored th
e question.

  ‘Better get over there, she’s opening your present.’

  Jake turned and saw my daughter ripping at his brightly coloured wrapping paper and went to help her. Together they pulled it apart until a huge cuddly sheep came into view. Jake wiggled its head at me. ‘Thought I would help encourage her on to the right path.’

  I shook my head, smiling.

  ‘Get ready, everyone, the cake is coming out!’ shouted Will from the kitchen. I sat down next to Gigi as we all began a rather off-key rendition of ‘Happy Birthday’.

  Out came Will brandishing an enormous cake in the shape of the number one. It was covered in hand-made ornate marzipan butterflies and dainty winged fairies in differing shades of yellow, pink and purple. One solitary lit candle was at the top, looking a little underdressed in such magnificent company.

  The crowd oohed and ahhed as it passed them.

  ‘Jesus, where the hell did you get that from?’ said Shona through a mouthful of biscuits.

  ‘I picked it up from my office this morning. A friend owed me a little favour.’ The cake box bearing the logo of a Michelin-starred restaurant lay crushed in the bottom of our recycling bin. That celebrity chef would be ruing the day he made a deal with the devil now that I had decided he was my go-to man for all things catering-related.

  Gigi’s eyes were transfixed on her father coming towards her with the masterpiece cake. He presented it to her as the song finished. ‘Blow it out, Gigi.’

  She gave it her best try, and with a little help from us, the flame went out.

  Everyone clapped and cheered. I looked around at all the smiling faces, and my daughter already munching the head off a purple fairy.

  It had been a long, crazy year since she burst through the starting line, beginning her life and forever changing mine. I had learnt a lot, cried a lot and nearly died a few times. And only now did I feel I was getting to grips with what it was all about.