Deep Water

by Mark Ayre

  Possibly, he was an amateur burglar. But doubtful. Crooks liked to burgle empty homes. They might rob a home's downstairs while the owners slept soundly above, but would a novice break into a house and try to rob the place when he knew someone was awake upstairs? Almost no chance.

  As Bush Man reached the door through which Jacob had recently entered, Abbie deduced he must know the homeowners. His intentions were either to assault or scare someone within, or to steal something specific. Either way, his need to enter was so great he was willing to risk it, even knowing Jacob was inside and awake.

  Reaching the door, Bush Man didn't go for the pocket he had patted when crossing the garden. Instead, he took something small from his jeans—certainly not a key—and crouched beside the lock.

  Abbie stepped up to the gate. When Jacob had pushed it, the iron hinges had creaked. If Abbie did the same, Bush Man would hear her and spin. She suspected he carried a weapon. Possibly a knife. More likely, a gun.

  No matter. Rather than push open the gate, Abbie planted her hands on either side. Just like in the gym, she lifted her legs, balancing on her arms, and brought them over the gate, dropping silently onto the paving stone on the other side.

  Bush Man was still fiddling in front of the door. By now, Abbie would have been inside. Further evidence this guy was no professional. He had little or no experience breaking and entering; this was not a regular occurrence but a special occasion.

  The garden was expansive. It had taken thirty seconds for an agitated Jacob to get from the gate to the side door of his house.

  Abbie moved quickly but silently, keeping her eyes on the ground in front of her, determined not to snap any twigs or kick any stones. She guessed Jacob's family employed at least one gardener. The grass was freshly trimmed, the path clear. It made for a straightforward approach.

  When Abbie closed in on the man, she could hear him huffing and puffing. Frustration seemed to pour off the guy. It was abundantly clear he was getting no closer to entry. Nor was he paying enough attention to his near vicinity. Without much fear, Abbie was able to draw within a couple of feet of his back.

  Regardless of how underprepared and useless the guy appeared to be, Abbie would be careful. She was working under the assumption he had a gun. Even an untrained idiot with a gun was dangerous and needed to be handled with caution.

  The guy's jacket had two exterior pockets. Neither were situated where he had patted, indicating he had been checking an internal pocket. Abbie could yank the guy to the ground and grab for where he tapped, but if the pocket was zipped, she would get nowhere. If, while she was trying to retrieve the sealed weapon, he launched an attack, he might get lucky, might land a punch and retrieve the gun and blow out her brains.

  Better to go for the assault. Get the upper hand, then worry about the weapon.

  Bush Man still fiddled with the door. It was all Abbie could do not to sigh at his awful attempts.

  She readied herself for attack.

  As Bush Man huffed and dropped his arms from the door, Abbie launched.

  He was on the balls of his feet, crouched low. Abbie grabbed his chest and heaved.

  With a yell, he tumbled. As his back hit the ground, Abbie fired a palm into his face, smacking his skull off the concrete slab.

  She hadn't punched because she aimed to disoriented more than to harm. As Bush Man's head thunked the slab, as stars exploded in front of his eyes, Abbie got a knee on his chest and shoved Ana's knife to his throat, ensuring the cold steel touched but did not so much as knick the flesh. A warning.

  Bush Man whimpered. Still dazed, he tried to move his head.

  "Wouldn't do that," Abbie said. Her voice a whisper. "If you don't keep your head flat to the ground, you'll decapitate yourself."

  This was an exaggeration. The blade was sharp but short. If Bush Man came up fast and hard, the steel might pierce a carotid artery. This would likely kill him, but he would die with his head still attached to his body.

  Frightened, Bush Man kept his head still. He moved his arms.

  "No," said Abbie. "Spread your arms, keep your hands on the ground."

  Bush Man wanted to signal his willingness to be compliant, but Abbie had warned him about nodding, and he was afraid to speak in case it caused his Adam's apple to bob towards the deadly blade.

  He lay his arms flat on the ground.

  "You have something in your internal jacket pocket," said Abbie. "You know what pocket I mean. I want to know if it's a gun. Blink once for yes, twice for no."

  Charlie had proven himself unable to follow this simple code. Had shaken his head instead. Perhaps because he was unable to move his head, Bush Man followed Abbie's instructions. Blinked once for yes. Maybe it was an age thing. Teenagers were rubbish at following instructions. The man beneath Abbie's knee was late twenties. Abbie's age.

  "Is there a zip over the pocket? Once for yes. Twice for no."

  Another single blink.

  "You're good at this," said Abbie. "I'd ask if you thought I was pretty, but with a knife to your throat, I couldn't trust your answer."

  Bush Man was staring at her. Some of the fear had ebbed away. His mind was beginning to whir. Abbie had no doubt he was starting to get ideas. Ideas on how he might escape, on how he might get the better of Abbie. Everything Abbie had so far seen of the guy suggested he would fail to best her, even if she let him stand and handed over both the knife and gun. Still, she didn't believe in tempting fate and would always be careful.

  Keeping her knee on his chest and the knife to his throat, Abbie used her free hand to toss open his jacket on the side he had tapped. The internal pocket was immediately evident. It was not quite large enough for the gun he had stuffed inside.

  With ease, Abbie removed the gun. It was compact, black, a close if not an exact match for the Walther PPK famously used by James Bond to defeat Blofeld and an endless line of henchmen. Less famously used by Hitler to commit suicide. In one swift motion, Abbie removed her knee from Bush Man, stood, and slid the knife into her belt. While Bush Man scrambled to his feet, Abbie checked the gun's magazine and found it full. Six shots. She pointed the weapon at Bush Man's chest.

  "Name?" she said. There was nothing dignified about calling him Bush Man.

  "Do one," he said. This was a fine enough comeback, but the tremble in his voice stripped it of its effect.

  "Okay," said Abbie. "Do people call you Do for short? Or maybe Oney?"

  Do One only glared at Abbie. Frustration rolled off him, but she sensed he was not angry at her. He guessed she worked security for Jacob's family, which meant she was only doing her job. Impossible, or at least futile, to hate a person for that. He was angry at himself for screwing up, for failing to get inside, for letting someone get the better of him.

  "What are you doing here?" said Abbie.

  Above their heads, a light turned on. Do One looked up. Abbie kept her focus on the man in her sights. She considered the homeowners. Even close to the house, in darkness, Jacob might spot them if he opened a window or even just looked outside.

  "Why were you trying to break into this private property?" said Abbie.

  "Save it," said Do One. "Don't pretend not to know who I am."

  "Someone has a high opinion of themselves. If you were a child actor in some famous 90s sitcom, I must have missed it."

  "Funny," said the guy. "I don't believe you weren't briefed. Been watching this place a while, and I've never seen security. You must be new. That means Louis is nervous, so he must have warned you about me and mine."

  Abbie kept the gun raised, though her arm was starting to ache. Even a weapon this small seemed almost as heavy as that scrawny teen, Charlie.

  "Louis must be Jacob's father?" said Abbie. She saw nothing to be gained in pretending to be the security member Do One believed she was.

  "Like you don't know."

  Abbie sighed. "Earlier this morning, Jacob professed that I knew nothing. Now here you are, seemingly believing I know everyth
ing. Isn't it funny how that goes? Don't worry, I won't start talking about Sherlock Holmes and Nanotechnology again."

  "What?"

  Taking one hand off the gun, Abbie waved away the question.

  "I met Jacob on the beach a little while ago," said Abbie. "I was a stranger, passing through. I found him in danger and saved him from some unsavoury folk. Not that I got any thanks. In fact, he warned me I'd put myself in the middle of something that didn't concern me and told me to leave him alone forever. Unfortunately, I've never been great at taking orders."

  "I don't believe you," said Do One.

  "I can prove it. Order me to do something."

  Do One gave a beleaguered sigh.

  "Yeah, I make a lot of people do that," said Abbie. She glanced at the window. The light was still on. "Come with me."

  Do One glanced at the door. His face was awash with regret. Abbie shook her head.

  "I'm tired," she said. "If you like, I’ll find a hotel, rent a room, take a nap. You can stay here with your lock pick. When I wake, in a few hours, I’ll come collect you because you still won't have got inside."

  Annoyance crossed Do One's face. Directed again towards himself. He knew Abbie spoke true and was angry that he wouldn't be inside, even if Abbie hadn't caught him.

  Following annoyance was depression.

  "Lament later," said Abbie. "It doesn't matter now. I caught you doing something naughty. You know what that means?"

  "Shallow grave?" said Do One. He sounded resigned.

  "No," said Abbie. "You have to buy me coffee."

  Five

  He led her to a greasy spoon that had opened fifteen minutes ago, at six am.

  Abbie was taking a risk. Useless as he was at hiding in bushes and picking locks, Do One might have been the dud part in a criminal empire. One which based itself out of this stained, run-down building.

  The bored, dumpy lady at the till might have concealed beneath the counter an Uzi. When Do One reached the waitress, he might dive for cover while the waitress grabbed her gun and riddled Abbie with bullets.

  Maybe Do One was a poorly trained undercover cop. A hundred police officers might be hidden behind the counter, under tables, in the back, waiting to jump out when Abbie arrived like guests at a surprise party.

  Despite these possibilities, Abbie entered the spoon with her gun and knife concealed in her jacket and belt. She allowed Do One to go alone to the counter while she crossed the room to the table that placed first in the least sticky competition. It was close to the toilet. At this hour, she hoped that wouldn’t be a problem.

  “Black coffee,” she said to Do One before they split. “Lots if possible. No milk, no sugar. A mug that’s been washed at some point in the last decade would be a bonus, but I’m aware beggars can’t be choosers.”

  Without comment, he went to the counter. Abbie settled at her chosen table. If settling was the right word. After a few seconds trying to get comfortable, she had to stand to make sure she hadn’t mistakenly sat on an antique torture device rather than a chair.

  Putting her back to the wall, Abbie ensured she was best placed to see the single front door and the counter. The two locations from which danger might emerge. Abbie was on a mission to save a life. The two days following her prophetic dreams were always fraud with danger. Even if she was at a friendly local with no trouble expected, she followed the best practices Ben had taught her. After all, you never knew when danger might arrive.

  More than the front door, Abbie watched Do One. Some people used incompetence as an act, a hustle, to disguise their true nature. She doubted that was Do One. Climbing from that bush, patting his gun, failing to lock pick the door, he’d had no idea Abbie was watching. That was him at his most natural.

  Abbie would be careful. She couldn’t read minds but considered herself a good judge of character. Despite his gun, Abbie didn’t believe Do One was dangerous to her or anyone other than the mystery person who had driven him to attempt his first break and enter. As always, she was prepared to be proven wrong. If Do One switched and attacked, or if backup arrived, she’d be ready.

  Do One returned with a tray containing a black coffee server, two mugs, a jug of milk, and a sugar pot. No hand grenades lay amongst the ceramics and glass, and Do One did not appear to be concealing a sawn-off shotgun behind his back.

  Placing the tray, he chose a seat opposite Abbie while she removed and inspected the mugs, selecting the one that looked cleanest. For her sanity, she decided not to smell it.

  “Name’s Abbie, by the way.” She removed the coffee server from the tray and filled her mug almost to the rim. She pointed to the second mug, then to the milk and sugar. “I suppose I’m leaving space for the dilutants?”

  “I’ll do it,” said Do One. Reaching across the table, he almost snatched for the server.

  “Don’t worry,” said Abbie. “I left the poison in my other coat.”

  Do One didn’t respond, and Abbie released the server. He was agitated. Resisting his grab might have resulted in scolded knees and ruined jeans. Pre-sunrise was too early for such setbacks.

  Server in hand, Do One prepared his drink. In his peripheral, he must have seen Abbie’s face as she watched because he looked up.

  “What?”

  “You do realise you have more milk than coffee, right? And that’s, what, six scoops of sugar? If you’re so keen on a heart attack, why don’t I just shoot you through the chest?”

  He shot her a look to which she was accustomed. The one people gave when they couldn’t quite decide what kind of person Abbie was. Do One knew she didn’t act like a security guard. But what else could she be?

  “Your name,” she pressed. “I’ve told you mine. Don’t you want to return the favour?”

  He considered this. “You might be lying.”

  Abbie chuckled. “Is it lonely in your trustless world?”

  “It’s hard to trust someone after they’ve put a knife to your throat and gun to your chest,” said Do One.

  This earned another chuckle.

  “The moral high ground? From the man who was breaking and entering—badly, might I add—with an illegal firearm concealed in his jacket. Meanwhile, I was simply performing a citizens arrest while making a mockery of the saying, Don’t bring a knife to a gunfight.”

  She watched him. He took a gulp from his mug and seemed to enjoy it. Bizarre. Abbie’s coffee was too hot, but she sipped anyway. She was in dire need of caffeine.

  “When it comes to my name and honesty, maybe you’re right not to trust me. I could produce my birth certificate, and you’d see it does not say, Abbie or Abagail King. But that is the name I’ve gone by the past few years. It’s on my driving licence. I can show you that if you’d like?”

  Do One shook his head. “That’s fine. I’m happy to call you Abbie.”

  “And why wouldn’t you be? From my side, I don’t care if you’re honest. Give me your birth name, pet name, or Twitter handle, whatever. Just give me something to call you other than Do One. I implore you.”

  Do One took a breath. After a couple of seconds, he nodded.

  “Tony.”

  It was impossible to tell for sure, but Abbie got the impression this was his real name. Or close enough.

  “Hello, Tony,” she said. “It’s lovely to meet you.”

  Stirring his drink, Tony examined her, as though by looking into her eyes, he might uncover her secrets. No chance.

  “Who are you?” he said at last. “Why are you here?”

  “Should I bother answering your questions?” said Abbie. “You’ve already shown you don’t trust me. Why would you believe me now?”

  As though ashamed of himself, Tony looked into his drink. Shrugged. Abbie watched him. From the top of his head, she was no more able to read his mind than he had been able to read hers by looking into her eyes. Her observations of him so far did suggest he was no cold-blooded killer. Abbie believed his motives with the gun were driven by emotion and were nothin
g on the hate side of the spectrum. Grief or desperation were much more likely.

  “I’m a stranger,” she said to the top of his head. “I’ve never visited this town before; I don’t know anyone who lives here. I arrived at five this morning and went for a stroll on the beach. On my stroll, I encountered the dregs of a party and, in a small cave, found something that made my blood boil. Jacob was there. Like I said, I didn’t know him. From a despicable creature masquerading as a human, I saved him. Worried for his continued safety, I offered to walk him home. He told me to piss off, so I followed to ensure he arrived safe and sound. Would have left right after had I not spotted you. A man appearing from a bush. Naturally, my curiosity was piqued.”

  Halfway through her story, Tony had looked up. Once again, he watched her eyes, and she knew this time he would see she was telling the truth. Not because she gave anything away, but because that was what he wanted to see.

  “At the beach,” he said. “Who was attacking Jacob?”

  “A few people were involved,” said Abbie. “Some tried to stop me reaching the cave. As for inside: a cameraman, a muscular guy called Gray and—“

  “Ana,” said Tony. He didn’t try to remove or soften the revulsion from his expression.

  “You’ve had the pleasure?”

  Tony nodded. “Gray is one of her, uh, followers. Yeah. That’s the only word that fits with Ana; she doesn’t have friends. She’s unique, beautiful, dangerous. People are drawn to her.”

  “That tends to happen with vile but attractive people,” said Abbie. “Sometimes, I feel I’m a puppy kick away from becoming a cult leader.”

  This drew a smile before further thoughts of Ana clouded Tony’s expression anew.

  “I would have known it was her even if you’d only mentioned Jacob, a cameraman and a woman. Of course she’d want to film it. And I’m guessing it wasn’t just a beating or even the threat of murder. That wouldn’t be enough for Ana.”