by Mark Ayre
After hitting send, she chucked her phone on the bed, stripped, and went for a shower, pushing Travis further and further from her mind with each step she took.
Afterwards, wrapped in a towel, warm, fresh, Abbie lay in bed but fought sleep. Half five came and went. At some point, she needed to go out and get clothes. She would need to eat dinner. After that, maybe she would allow herself a couple of hours sleep before she went to meet Eddie.
5.45. Abbie was in bed, mentally analysing everything she knew, when her phone began to ring. She assumed it would be Travis until she saw the number was blocked. Bracing herself, she answered.
“Abagail King.”
There was a pause. One second, two seconds, three. Then he responded.
“Hello, Miss King, it’s Ben. I was just returning your call. Is now a good time?”
Abbie pressed a finger to her forehead. Was that a headache building? She hoped not. That was the last thing she needed.
She wanted to tell Ben to piss off.
She said, “I’m alone in my hotel room.”
“Excellent. We can talk candidly.”
Abbie said nothing. She and Ben did not speak often. Whenever Abbie needed to communicate with those who had set up her fake job and who paid her wages and expenses, Ben was the one to whom she spoke. He was the only one she had met and, although he occasionally obliquely referenced other people, he never said any names or even indicated genders.
“Have you nothing to say?” he asked.
“I assumed you called to chastise me,” Abbie said. “I thought you’d want to get that out of the way before we discussed my thing.”
A light chuckle. “Oh, Abagail. No need to sound so sullen.”
On more than one occasion, Abbie had wondered if Ben might not be the top dog in the organisation that supported and employed Abbie. Potentially he had inherited a fortune and used it to support Abbie, or her and others. Each time she analysed this possibility, she disregarded it. To suggest Ben was the top man or woman in an organisation with such wealth and resource would be to attribute too much importance to Abbie. She was a puppet for this conglomerate. She doubted Ben was much more than middle management.
“It was an error in judgment,” she said, feeling her jaw tighten in annoyance though Ben had yet to reprimand her. “There were two thugs with whom I had to deal. I’m guessing you’ve never tried to fight with a drawstring bag over your shoulder?”
“It has been many years since I have been in a fight of any description,” said Ben. “But no, I don’t believe I ever partook in a fight with a drawstring bag over my shoulder. Certainly not a drawstring bag containing a precious possession I could not face damaging.”
Abbie fought the urge to grit her teeth. Years ago, she had mentioned The Stand to Ben in passing, along with what it meant. This was before Abbie knew Ben noted everything, no matter how small, and remembered just as much. She was more careful now, but on The Stand front, the damage was done.
“The thief was incapacitated when I took on the thugs,” said Abbie. “By the time I had finished them off, he was gone.”
“Not that incapacitated then.”
“As I said, it was an error in judgement. It won’t happen again.”
“And that we are speaking with one another indicates you have resolved the issue. No longer does this thief possess anything that is yours.”
It was unlikely but not impossible that Ben had Abbie under surveillance. Whether he did or he didn’t, Abbie usually regretted lying to this representative of her employers.
“He retains one item.”
“Incriminating?”
“Probably not for me. Definitely not a problem for you.”
“If it’s a problem for you, it’s a problem for me. Do you need help resolving this matter?”
“No.” She tried to be forceful but not sound petty or desperate. She was unsure if she had hit the mark.
For a time, Ben said nothing. Maybe he was waiting for her, but there was no chance Abbie was speaking next. It was his turn.
At last, he said, “Are you currently involved in a mission?”
“Yes.”
“Day one or two?”
“One.”
“Confident?”
“Yes.”
More silence. More consideration.
“The last time you failed—“
“This isn’t like that,” Abbie cut in. “This thief is not an issue. If needs be, I’ll deal with him once I’ve completed my mission. I don’t believe it will come to that.”
More silence. Ben deciding if he would trust her or if he felt the need to intervene. She prayed he would fall down on the side of trust but knew there was nothing more she could say to sway his mind.
“Okay,” he said.
“Thank you.”
“You know my concern is not for myself but for you.”
This was a lie. Abbie said nothing.
“We support you in every mission, but we know no one is perfect. You will always miss out occasionally. I worry not because of what it means for us, but because of what it means for you.”
Abbie considered ignoring this comment. Eventually went with, “You needn’t worry. I know the risks. I might succeed or fail tomorrow to save this man’s life. If I fail, it will not be down to distraction, and if I fail, I will take the consequences. I’ll deserve them.”
“You’re too hard on yourself, darling.”
Abbie closed her eyes. She hated when Ben spoke to her as though she were his daughter, though she were young enough to be. Ben, as a father, was a frightening prospect. Not that her real dad had been up to much.
“Can we talk about why I rang?” she asked.
“Before we do,” said Ben. “I have one more point to make about the thief.”
Abbie thought she knew what this point would be. Said nothing—no reason to argue before she’d heard him out.
“When you reclaim what he has taken, I trust you will use your judgment regarding what to do with him?”
Abbie drummed her fingers on the phone. Did not reply.
“You’re a good person, Abagail. You won’t want to hear this, but if you fear he knows enough to compromise you—“
“If you’re going to suggest what I think you’re going to suggest, I’d stop now,” she said. “I wouldn’t want us to fall out.”
“He stole from you,” said Ben. “I spoke to him for mere seconds and heard in his voice arrogance, contempt. He seemed a nasty piece of work.”
“He’s a shit,” said Abbie. “But being a shit is not grounds for execution, and I won’t do it.”
Ben wanted to argue. Abbie could almost hear it in the silence. He knew her well enough to understand some battles were not worth fighting. Certain lines she would not cross.
“On your head,” he said.
“Understood.”
“So why don’t you tell me about this project,” said Ben. “You want 25k? That’s a lot of money.”
Abbie suddenly knew this was not a good idea. Ben was a stern man who seemed to be mostly without emotion. Earlier, he might have been in a favourable mood. Any goodwill towards Abbie, Travis’ call would have eradicated. This was never going to work.
She still had to try.
“You’ve put a lot of money behind me,” said Abbie. “With my pay, I cover my mortgage, my bills, and contribute a healthy amount to a pension with plenty left over.”
“You should get Netflix,” said Ben. “There’s some great stuff on there.”
“Point is, you think what I do is worth a salary that provides me a comfortable life.”
“We think you’re more than worthy of a comfortable life,” said Ben. “Yet you plough your disposable income not into jacuzzis and massage chairs but grubby hotels and bland rental cars..”
“That’s my problem,” said Abbie. She would never tell Ben why she spent so much time in hotels. He might have suspected, but Abbie would never confirm that the nightmares, the non-prophe
tic ones, were at their worst when she slept in the same bed for multiple consecutive nights. Only by moving could she keep them quiet and sometimes at bay. She guessed this was part of her punishment. For her failures.
“But you have a point?” said Ben.
“The point is you do all that so I can continue to save lives, and that proves you care about helping people—“
“No,” Ben cut in.
Abbie gripped her phone a little tighter. “You don’t care about helping people?”
“Of course we do,” said Ben, “You’re right. We pay you good money so you can follow your visions and save lives. But that’s where it stops. Your opening gambit confirms my suspicion that this money is going to someone you have not seen in a vision. Therefore, my answer can only be no.”
“You haven’t even heard—“
“Nor do I need to,” Ben cut in again. “Abagail, you do a wonderful service for humankind. We support you because we believe in the guidance your receive. Your dreams tell you who is worthy of your help. So help them. Let charities deal with the rest.”
“I see what you’re saying—“
“No you don’t. There’s no need to be diplomatic, honey. Tell me how you feel.”
Abbie had taken the phone from her ear. She took two deep breaths then put it back.
“Okay, I don’t. I believe if you mean that you want to help people, you should support me in helping this kid. He’s lost and alone, and the debts his mother has run-up are going to cripple him.”
“He’s one boy,” said Ben.
“And Eddie, the guy I’m going to save, is one man.”
“But he’s not,” said Ben. “More often than not, you save not just the person from your dream. How many killers have you taken out of action? And how many of those killers would not have stopped at the victim you strove to save but would have killed again, and again, and again. For each life you save, you’re actually saving two or ten. Sometimes hundreds. Can you not see the value in that? Vs giving money to some boy whose mother has run up debts? How would that help him anyway? If his mother ran up debts before, she would do so again. No. That is not something our organisation can get behind.”
Abbie had risen from the bed without noticing. As she had in the park when she had met with Michael earlier that day, she began to pace. She wanted to explode. Wanted to tear verbal strips from Ben. She fought for calm.
“Maybe we could talk about a lower amount.”
“No.”
“But—“
“No. Abagail, you must drop this. There will be no money. None. That’s my final word.”
There it was again. Like Abbie was a teenager begging her father for money so she could buy a dress for prom, and he was putting his foot down. Only this wasn’t a dress. This wasn’t prom. This was a good kid’s life.
“I’m begging for your support on this,” said Abbie. “I have some money saved, but it’s not enough.”
“And you’re not to give him a penny.”
“Excuse me?”
“Was I not clear? None of that money is to go to this boy, or his mother, because I need you to forget him and focus on the task at hand.”
“As I understood it,” said Abbie, “that money was mine to use as I wished.”
“Within reason.”
“And a jacuzzi is within reason but improving the life of an innocent kid isn’t?”
“Now you’re getting it.”
Again the phone came away. Somehow, Abbie managed not to hurl it across the room. Taking deep breaths did nothing to calm the furious beat of her heart.
“You can’t stop me.”
“You don’t think so? We can cut you off.”
“You need me.”
“Abagail, I care greatly about you, whether you believe that or not. The organisation I work for values you. But neither it nor I need you. We like what you do. We wish to support you. But if we had to cut you off, we would.”
“Maybe that’s okay.”
“Must I dignify that with an answer?” Ben asked. “Because I can. But you know already how ridiculous you’re being. You could tell me you’ll begin ignoring your dreams, but we both know you won’t because you can’t. How are the nightmares recently?”
Abbie said nothing. Even on her best nights, she tended to suffer at least one. In vivid, horrifying detail, she would watch the demise of one of the men or women she had failed to save. She had seen each one a hundred times or more. Each repeat felt like the first time. Every time, she woke in tears.
“You’d need a job,” Ben said. “Even without a reference, I’m sure you’d succeed in acquiring one, but how understanding would they be when you needed to take a couple of days off at a moment’s notice? They’d be fine the first time, maybe even the second. How long could it last?”
Abbie was biting her nails. Catching herself, she pulled her hand away—a stupid show of nerves, of weakness.
“What about when you get arrested?” said Ben. “You’ve been lucky so far, but it will happen. If you’re still working with us, we provide a world-class lawyer. You’ll endure not one day of jail time. Alone, how would you fare? And if you went to prison, how would you cope? How haunting would the nightmares become with you unable to act on your visions? The failures would mount up fast. How long before you broke down?”
Abbie was back on the bed. She had one hand palm down on the pillowcase within which lay The Stand. The other was on her phone, gripping so tight.
“Turns out you did need to dignify the question with an answer,” said Abbie. “Or felt the need to anyway.”
Ben gave no response to this. He said, “What are you going to do? Will you choose employment, or will you choose this boy.”
“You know where I’m staying?”
A pause. “I do.”
“Send me a new phone. ASAP.”
“That’s not an answer. Is this your resignation?”
“You know damn well it isn’t.”
“Wonderful. I think you’re making the right choice.”
“Just piss off, Ben,” she said before hanging up the phone, placing it on the floor, and smashing it repeatedly with a desk chair that looked exactly like the one Danny’s coat had fallen from around the time of his death.
Seventeen
In her change of underwear, top and jumper, and in Travis’ mother’s trousers, Abbie dressed. Leaving the smashed phone on the floor, she rushed downstairs and asked Glenda to borrow a phone. She made a call, received the answer she wanted, and left the hotel.
At seven PM on the dot, Abbie met Bobby outside an independent Italian restaurant, tucked away down a side street a couple of minutes from the town centre. Already smiling when Abbie turned the corner, Bobby’s grin became a beam when he saw her. His face lit up.
“You look stunning,” he said.
In town, Abbie had intended to purchase a replacement pair of jeans. While browsing a boutique on the corner under the watchful gaze of a shopkeeper who disapproved of her boots (from a fashion standpoint rather than because they were flecked with blood), Abbie had spotted a beautiful dress. Though she would have loved it at first sight, whenever she saw it, usually she would not have bought it. Dresses were for people who lived ordinary lives. Abbie needed to, at all times, be in clothes that would not restrict her if she had to run or kick someone in the face. Or stomach. Or balls.
Her anger at Ben, which had pushed her to call Bobby and take him up on his offer of the date, seemed like a hand around her wrist. Seemed to drag her to the dress and tug insistently until she picked it up. Seemed to drag her to a matching pair of shoes and then to the changing room.
When Abbie appeared from the changing room in the dress, the shop assistant told her she looked beautiful, but still glowered. Clearly, the slight of wearing such hideous boots in the boutique was not one the proprietor could easily forgive or forget. Despite the sour look, Abbie had bought the dress, the shoes, as well as a pair of jeans and a new top (now packed in her d
rawstring bag which she had taken on the date. Had the shop assistant known she was combining the dress and bag, she would no doubt have suffered a heart attack). Should anything kick-off while Abbie was on her date, she could always do like superman and run into a phone booth to change into more appropriate ass-kicking gear.
“You don’t look so bad yourself,” said Abbie to Bobby, who was wearing smart jeans and a tight blue shirt, both of which made him look even more handsome than did his smile, and far more handsome than had his Perfect Chicken outfit.
Pointing at the door, beaming Bobby said, “Shall we?”
“We shall.”
The Italian boasted low ceilings held up by ancient wooden beams. There was soft, instrumental music floating across the air. The kitchen was exposed, and the wonderful scent of good food and the warmth of the oven filled the room.
At a table in the corner, Abbie and Bobby took menus and perused them at first in silence. Each waiting for the other to make the opening gambit.
After a couple of minutes, Bobby said, "So what made you change your mind?"
"Change my mind?" said Abbie. "I said no to drinks. This is dinner. That's completely different."
"I believe on at least one occasion you completely ruled out a date."
"A date? Is that what this is? Oh, in that case—"
She began to rise. Laughing, Bobby placed a hand on her wrist, and she sat. His fingers lingered on her skin. When they retreated, she was sorry to watch them go.
Eyes back on her menu, Abbie said, "I have to say, I still think this is a bad idea."
Also looking at his menu, Bobby nodded in what he probably thought was a sage manner. The smile ruined the effect.
"Yeah?" he said. "Why's that?"
"Tonight is my last night in town. After that, you'll never see me again."
"Why not?"
"What do you mean?"
Bobby looked up from his menu. "Your home, is it in this country?"
An interesting question. But the answer was, technically, "Yes."
Bobby shrugged. "Country's not that big."
Abbie started to respond, but the waiter arrived with a notepad, a pen, and an inviting smile.