by J B Holman
This was a disaster. She had sent him to his doom, and if she hadn’t, she had sent herself to her doom. She didn’t know what to do, but whatever it was, it wasn’t here. It was time to move. She would shower, pack and go - to where she knew not. She flicked on the water and scrubbed, in the hoped it would wash away the dark stain on her soul.
She wandered out of the bathroom in a dream, clutching the towel.
The knife at her throat appeared from nowhere, the arm lock held her fast. Startled, she dropped the towel. Foxx held her tight. She had betrayed him and now he was here. The knife pressed harder. She was going to die.
One hour, fourteen minutes earlier, Foxx had been surrounded. He had assessed the six cleaners and identified the gardener. He felt no anger, only disappointment.
He had weighed up his options. Plan B was to wander blindly towards one of the bin men, grab his weapon and shoot his way out. It was not a good plan. Had he been in an enemy nation against enemy forces, he would have had so many more options, but here, next to Buckingham Palace, amidst sun-soaking Londoners on a quiet Monday afternoon, in a haven from their offices, his options were limited. This could get bloody.
So he lay in the sun and did almost nothing. That was Plan A for making his escape. He sat between two families, both with young and vulnerable children and took out his phone.
Four minutes later, he was walking away a free man.
The ballet unfolded in slow motion. He ignored their gradual circling, disregarded their choreography as they closed in like lions in the night. The quasi-council workers had guns and bullets and implements of destruction hidden from view; guns and bullets just a few hundred yards from the Palace, guns and bullets a few hundred yards from Parliament, from the Prime Minister’s residence - six disguised gunman and one fanatical leader, all armed to the hilt in the epicentre of London.
‘Hello? Anti-Terrorist Squad?
There’s a terrorist attack about to happen in St James’ Park. I am MI5. The code word is Terrides. There are six park cleaners pushing trolleys on the triangular lawn. Two of them have bombs and one has a gun barrel visible in his trolley. There’s also a female gardener. She’s with them.’
‘Yes, sir. What’s your name?’
‘Don’t be an arse. Check out Terrides and . . . Oh my god, It’s kicking off.’ He hung up.
The circle of six were now less than fifty yards away, still approaching with stealth, imagining themselves unseen. Then the world changed. Like the skyline in Zulu, every perimeter of the park was lined with hostile, advancing policemen. They approached with speed, guns raised. There was the essence of agitation in the park. It fluttered, then spread like a flash bomb as innocent people sensed the danger. The panic was visible. He lay face down on the grass with his hands on his head and waited for the inevitable.
A police boot stood by his head. This was it.
‘Get up, sir.’ He did. He looked. The six trolleys were each surrounded. The cleaners and the gardener were in handcuffs, guns at their heads. ‘This is a police operation. Please leave the park as rapidly as you can. Leave in an orderly manner.’ That suited him fine. He left, bought an ice cream and hailed a cab. She had been disloyal. Now it was time to pay.
‘No,’ begged Julie, feeling the knife at her throat. ‘No, it was a mistake. I didn’t know the PM was your dad.’ She had got it wrong again. Anger kicked in, more with herself than him. ‘I didn’t know you were Simon Palmer. How could I? Why didn’t you tell me, you idiot? Why do you make everything so difficult? Why don’t you just trust me?’ His grip tightened. The knife pressed harder.
‘Trust you? Trust you? You slammed your door in my face when I asked for your help. You held me at gunpoint, pushed me out of a window, alerted the authorities by turning on my phone and set me up for a police trap.’
‘Well, you kicked down my door, gave me cold water torture, tied me up, naked, held a gun at my temple and threatened to kill me; and then you threatened my relations. Fuck you, Pot! I’m just the Kettle. And you blew up my flat!’
‘Well, you’re so annoying. You look so small and slight, but you are so unbelievably stubborn.’
‘Yeah, but you conned me and invaded my flat,’ adding emphatically, ‘didn’t you?’
‘Yes. I did. But some relationships get off to a bumpy start.’ His grip loosened, she turned to face him.
‘I know you didn’t do it,’ she said in a voice that was softer now. ‘I know you’re not the assassin. I know you wrote the Risk Assessment in good faith, to keep your dad safe. But I’m not guilty either. I was just the conduit of communication. It’s my job. I’m not part of this. I can help. I can get information that you can’t. And when we find out who did it, I can back-trace it to their computer to prove it. You need me. I want to keep the PM alive too.’
‘But you set me up.’
‘Yes, I did. I was wrong. I didn’t know who you were then. Obviously no one does. You changed your name and shrouded yourself in secrecy. I was doing what I thought was best to keep your dad alive.’ His grip released and it became more of a hug than an arm lock. She looked up at his lips and then back into his eyes. She spoke quietly. ‘So, is that what it is?’
‘What?’
‘A relationship?’ He just looked at her. ‘Well, I’m naked again, in your arms, in a bedroom and you said, some relationships get off to a bumpy start.’
‘Get dressed,’ he said dismissively, like he was talking to someone who was not all there. He let go, ending the hug. She felt the release land hard in her heart, but said nothing. His instincts said kill her, but his judgement said not. His training said remove her, but his affections said No. Not yet. ‘I’m hungry. We’re going out to eat.’ He beckoned her to get dressed.
There was an uncomfortable silence while she searched for clothes. The skirt fitted her well. It showed her at her best. She would wear it one more time.
‘I’m taking you to dinner,’ he announced. ‘We’ll talk about anything other than the case.’
They walked. She linked arms. He was tall by her side, but she liked that – even though she felt small. She was glad he wasn’t dead, and even more glad she wasn’t. She liked him - and didn’t – equally. He was trouble and his existence in her life troubled her. It gave her angst. The restaurant was intimate, if not particularly good. They sat all evening, in a semi-circular lover’s booth, cuddled up closer than he had intended, out of earshot of all other diners and talked about nothing . . . except the case.
In Central London today, startled on-lookers watched as hundreds of armed police stormed through St James’ Park in a co-ordinated anti-terrorist operation. Seven suspects were arrested, but it turned out to be a training exercise. A Home Office Spokesperson said ‘The operation was a complete success and demonstrated the speed and professionalism of all the officers involved.’
Julie had showered, again, unnecessarily. She walked across the room holding the towel carelessly, scarcely hiding her modesty. She stood in front of the handsome, controlling, innocent, noble, six foot Mr Foxx, and looked up at him. She stood so close that the towel was now held firmly between their bodies. She put her arms high up around his shoulders.
‘Thank you for a lovely dinner, Mr Foxx,’ she said.
‘My pleasure,’ the gallant replied, as he took her arms off his shoulders and placed them in a gentle, controlling, half nelson behind her back. He looked down at her, she looked up. There was a moment. He leant in and gave her a light, sensual kiss on her lips; a single kiss, three short seconds of affection, then released her arms and stepped away. The towel fell to the floor. He passed her a tee-shirt.
‘Sleep well,’ he said. ‘We have a busy day tomorrow.’
Julie put on the tee-shirt, grabbed the towel from the floor and hid the pang of dejection that destroyed her soul. Her pride and bravado vocally reaffirmed the imaginary Mason-Dixon Line that ran up the middle of the bed. He had settled for confederacy, she wanted union.
Mr Foxx had an air o
f confidence even as he slipped into bed. This room was his; every room he’d ever been in was his. Her making a fuss was like an ant ranting at a mountain.
She wanted to be like him, to be liked by him; to be loved by him - so she could reject him. She told herself she didn’t care. She didn’t need a cuddle, and she certainly didn’t need anything more. Men! I hate you all. She continued her long slow preparation for bed.
Her tee-shirt was too short, her knickers too small, her posture too revealing, as she bent over to brush the knots out of her hair. She looked at him with soft, submissive eyes and reiterated again how he must not cross the line or she wouldn’t know what to do. He reinforced his lack of intention by falling asleep.
She slipped into bed, his bed. She lay awake, alone and unvanquished. Her heart was filled with remorse and rejection. She reflected. A panoply of emotions swirled around her brain and consumed her erratic, errant thoughts. She needed to think.
It was Monday night in London, miles from home. She was a fugitive from the law and an unwitting conspirator in an assassination. Three nights earlier, she’d had no idea how her life would change the following morning. All she’d wanted was a few things from the supermarket, and she’d come back with him. She’d been attracted to him and two minutes later had wanted to kill him. And this evening he’d wanted to kill her.
That was who he was.
He was a cold-blooded killer; she had been sure. He was the would-be assassin of the Prime Minister - that had been her only certainty, but now she had proof that he wasn’t. Didn’t she?
He snored gently. He couldn’t have done it; unless this was not a political crime, but a domestic crime played out on a big stage. Maybe he didn’t like his dad. And why didn’t he like her? She thought he liked her. Charlie had said he liked her. How dare he kiss her goodnight and not follow through. This was their second night in bed together. He was an almost rapist, he had tied her to her own bedhead and now, snoring gently, he was forcing her to be alone with her emotional and physical confusion.
He was a bastard.
There was still only one certainty in her life. Men were bad. They used and rejected her.
Foxx was no different, he just did it in a different way. He was just like the rest of them. No, he was worse. She hated him. He’d tricked himself into her flat, into her emotions, into a bed in a London hotel. And the whole ‘loving orphan’ was a lie too. It had to be. Everything about him was a lie. And why didn’t he fancy her? What more could she have done? It was her body, it must be: it was awful - fat ass and no breasts. He could have better, she was not in his league. He’d had hundreds of girls better and prettier than she was, for sure. Or maybe it was just her: her ways, her speech, her personality.
Her.
She couldn’t stay in his bed.
The angst was palpable, the agitation almost volcanic, an eruption inevitable. She wanted to cry or fight or scream or kill. She picked up the knife from the desk and held it in her hand. It felt good. She looked at him sleeping; the courageous, good-looking, gentlemanly, house-breaking, home-invading, heart-pervading, degrading, neglecting, rejecting, dejecting bastard. She held the knife high in both hands, directly above the gentle, almost imperceptible, rising and falling of his sleeping, snoring, unsuspecting, unprotected chest.
She wanted to stab, to bring it down hard into his heart. Her muscles tensed. This was it. Stop!
She had to think. She had to. She had to do the right thing, the smart thing. He was the assassin. No, he wasn’t. No, he was. Anger blurred her thoughts. She had no idea why she was so angry.
Why did he make her feel like this?
How dare he come into her life and screw it up so much; how dare he highlight every one of her small and feeble shortcomings, make her feel every crack in her personality, make her see everything she had tried so hard to hide from herself. How dare he be so desirably unattainable - so bad but so irresistibly magnetic? He was a killer. The evidence pointed to him. It wasn’t perfect, but it never was. He’d hoodwinked her into believing in his innocence, just by using those hypnotic deep blue eyes. Gorgeous eyes, controlling eyes. But they were shut now, she was in control and she had to do the right thing.
I hate you. I hate that you came into my life, I hate the way you make me feel. No more men in my life, in my heart. Men only cause hurt and trouble, and you caused me both. You’re a killer and a heartbreaker - you don’t deserve to live.
And that was it.
The phone rang. It was still dark. Storrington answered with a guttural grunt. Hoy spoke with excitement and no introduction.
‘We’ve got him. He’s in hospital.’
‘Who?’
‘Foxx! He’s in pretty bad shape. Local CID called us. Apparently, he’s lost a lot blood, severe cuts and lacerations, in surgery at the moment. He’ll take a while to come round, but we have to be there when he does.’
‘How d’you know it’s him?’
‘DNA match.’
‘Is he guarded?’
‘They had one copper there, I said get four and make sure they’re the best. I’ll pick you up in an hour.’
Storrington hung up, looked at the picture of his wife through the darkness and said out loud,
‘We’ve got him!’
And life began to feel just a little bit better.
18
Intensive Care
‘Is he conscious, yet?’ Hoy asked, as the nurse came out his room.
‘He’s just come round, still a bit groggy. Hang on here a minute.’ She went back into his room. Two guards stood to attention at the door. Two more stood opposite.
‘Don’t underestimate him,’ said Hoy, to the guards. ‘He’s a dangerous son of a bitch - killed a whole police force in Georgia, when he was in a coma. If he so much as moves, take his legs off.’ The guards stiffened. ‘He killed two of our guys in Brighton with his bare hands, when he was wearing a dress. The other’s still fighting for his life in Intensive Care. Is he handcuffed to the bed?’ The guard confirmed he was. ‘He can probably unpick it with his teeth. Watch him.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Storrington was bored of waiting, he was not a man to take instructions from a nurse.
‘Come on,’ he said brusquely to Hoy. They hustled past the guards. The nurse opened her mouth to defend the sanctity of her patient, but was silenced by the curt and strident tones of the tall authoritative man in his early sixties. ‘This is a matter of National Security. Please leave.’ She opened her mouth again to argue, but acquiesced under the pressure of his imposing presence. She picked up her tray and left.
The patient was lying with his head rolled away from them. With no regard for his well-being, Hoy grabbed a clump of hair and twisted the patient’s head towards them, face to face.
‘That’s not Foxx.’ Storrington’s voice was strong, disparaging, accusatory and angry. ‘Who the hell is this? And why have you brought me all the way down here to see him?’ A penny dropped heavily through Hoy’s brain. He confirmed his suspicions.
‘What’s your name, soldier?’
‘Sam Stone. Who are you and what the fuck do you want?
‘Do you own a dark blue Vauxhall Astra?’ demanded Hoy, adding the registration number.
‘What is this? Are you here about some unpaid parking tickets?’
‘This,’ said Hoy, talking to Storrington, ‘is Foxx’s accomplice; the guy who was in Raper’s Hide with him. It was his car they used to get away. DNA told the doctors that he was on our wanted list. Brighton confirmed he was in the Raper’s Hide incident, and somewhere in communication it got to us that it was Foxx, not his sidekick.’ Storrington shook his head in disbelief at the incompetence of his Head of Investigations and turned to the irate patient.
‘You’re a man with medals, a man who has shown great bravery in protecting the liberty and values of this country, why get mixed up with someone like Foxx?’
‘Who?’
‘Secret agent, national traitor, assa
ssination planner, a tactician trained in the strategic destabilisation of unwanted regimes, Eduard Foxx,’ added Hoy for clarification.
‘Sorry, mate. Don’t know the fella.’
‘Why did you go down that dark alley, Raper’s Hide? What sent you down there?’ Storrington’s tone was urgent and incisive.
‘Some tranny was gonna get a panning from three National Front anti-gay gorillas. They needed to feel some righteous justice.’
‘You expect us to believe that?’ said Hoy, sounding as aggressive as he could.
‘Don’t give a flying fuck what you believe,’ he said to Hoy in tones that defined dismissive, and turned his attention from the monkey to the organ grinder.
‘What’s this about? I’m hurting like I just stuffed a grenade up my arse and I wanna go to sleep,’ he said to Storrington. The Commander stared down at him for a silent fifteen seconds.
‘The man you helped that night was not a transvestite. He was the man who planned and we believe perpetrated the assassination attempt on the Prime Minister.’
‘You’re fucking joking! That fucking sissy boy is a hit man? I’ll fucking kill him.’
‘We have that in hand,’ said Storrington calmly.
‘I knew I should’ve dropped him like an ugly tart on a Sunday morning. He was more trouble than clap on your tenth wedding anniversary.’
‘Yes, quite,’ said Storrington. ‘Those three men were not National Front. They worked for us and were going to arrest him.’
‘Oh shit! They didn’t look like coppers.’
‘No,’ said Storrington curtly. ‘That was the point.’ The full impact of what he had done and what he was about to be accused of hit him like a brick falling from a fifteen storey building. ‘Tell me, what happened when you went down the alley? In detail.’