Fit For Purpose

by Julian D. Parrott

  Tom stood. He looked at the two unconscious, broken men lying under the dim streetlight. “Shit,” he thought. He knew that his training had taken over. His response had been honed through years of such training in unarmed combat. It had all been a bit of fun in the gym back at base, but it had become all too frighteningly real through too many tours of duty.

  “Tom,” Nia said. “Let’s get the fuck out of here.”

  “No, I think I should call the police,” Tom said still watching the men on the pavement.

  “Tom,” Nia said as she held Tom close. “It will be complicated. The police are more than likely to arrest you than those two pricks. Let’s go. C’mon.”

  She pulled Tom and they began to move down the street picking up pace. Nia had almost broken into a jog and she reached behind to grab Tom’s hand. Tom stretched out his hand to meet hers and then realised he was still holding the mugger’s knife. He threw it over the high church wall.

  Nia snuggled into Tom as they sat on the Tube train. She rested her head on his shoulder. Tom looked ahead still in a half fugue state. “I’m sorry,” he said quietly.

  “For what,” Nia asked.

  “For that. I was… was too much.”

  Nia reached up and gently touched his face.

  “It’s the training you see,” Tom said looking down at his hands and then to Nia. “Whether it is commanding a troop or individually, you’re taught to respond quickly with as extreme a level of violence as you can. It’s reflexive.”

  “Tom,” she said sweetly and quietly. “You were protecting me from two men, drugged out of their tiny minds, and one with a knife. You did what you had to do and, and,” she paused, “I kind of like the fact that I have a big strong fella who can look after himself.”

  They were quiet for a moment. They held hands and held each other’s gaze as the Tube train gently jostled them together.

  “I liked the restaurant,” Tom said.

  Nia laughed.

  “One of my favourites,” she added. “But next time we go, we should go during daylight.”

  They both laughed and Tom kissed Nia softly at first and then, as she responded, more firmly.

  Tom and Nia slept late. Nia made brunch with an unaccustomed nervous energy. The BFI event would be a big one for Nia. She had withdrawn, almost as much as it was possible for a constantly working actor, from the public gaze. She seldom went to gala events, award shows, opening nights or premiers. On the rare occasion she did, it was to support one of her friends and, even then, Nia attempted to make herself invisible and usually made a polite and early departure. Somehow, she thought as she sipped coffee at her kitchen table with the BFI’s invite propped up in front of her, the lightness and happiness she felt with Tom had inspired her to agree to this one.

  Tom joined her in the kitchen with a yawn. She smiled at him. He was wearing one of her large flannel dressing gowns, but it looked more like an embarrassingly tight kimono on him. He poured a coffee, he motioned with the pot to see if Nia needed a refill, she nodded. Tom topped up her mug. “I’m tired,” he said with another yawn. “It’s the adrenaline you see.”

  Nia looked at him not quite comprehending, “Adrenaline?”

  “Err, the muggers,” Tom said as he sat opposite Nia. “The fight. It would have jump-started a flow of adrenaline, the fight or flight response… “

  “Well, I’m glad you didn’t fly without me.”

  “But, after a fight, after the danger is quelled, the adrenaline dissipates leaving you wiped out. We had guys over in Afghan and Iraq who would, back at base, crash out for twenty-four hours after a fire fight.”

  “So, it was the fight then, the adrenaline, and the tiredness?” Nia asked.

  “I think so, yes,” Tom answered earnestly.

  “And not last night’s incredible sex then?”

  They laughed and Nia reached across the table and entwined her fingers with Tom’s.

  “Thank you,” she said. “And thank you for coming with me tonight.”

  “Nonsense,” Tom responded. “I think it’s going to be brilliant, because you’re going to be brilliant.”

  ***

  Nia was in the master bathroom in front of the dressing table’s mirror. She was nervous as she prepared, more anxious than she had been on opening night of all but her first play. Her hair was redder, and she was a couple of pounds lighter, both in preparation for the evening’s BFI event. She stepped into a lacy black thong and then fastened a matching strapless bra that was skilfully and carefully engineered to provide enhanced push-up support. She stepped back and observed herself in the mirror. She was going for a bit of a wow factor tonight and it was coming along.

  Vampire Moon was a seriously B-grade film, but it had been fun to work on and it had helped Nia’s career, although it had deepened her typecasting as a vamp, literally. Nia looked back on the movie fondly as it opened career doors to more auditions, job offers, and an expanded social life. It had been a pivotal moment in her life, a touchpoint that led on to some good things but also some darker times. Looking in the mirror now she couldn’t remember whether she had been truly happy when she made the film but she recalled the excitement and the thrill of that time. She smiled at her reflection with the knowledge that she couldn’t remember being happier than she was at that moment.

  Tom showered and shaved in the guest bathroom and changed into his rented dinner jacket. Nia had taken him to a good theatre costumer and made sure the suit fitted almost as if custom made. He looked at himself in the bathroom’s full-length mirror. It reminded him of being in dress uniform. It was a realisation that just a few months prior would have precipitated a wave of nausea. He wasn’t too excited about the evening. He had never liked crowds or formal events, but Nia had really wanted him to be with her and he wanted to be with her, wanted to be there for her. He was looking forward to spending the Christmas period with her. Tom went into the study and poured a glass of red wine. He knew that Nia was often invited to grand social events and that she hadn’t been to many of them over the past ten years. But this one was special.

  Upstairs, Nia slipped on a classic black sleeveless evening dress. It was tight and low cut, accentuating her hips and her cleavage. She dabbed Floris No 89 again, behind her ears and on her cleavage. She added an emerald necklace. It had a certain wow factor appropriate for the evening and for the film. Tom hadn’t seen her ensemble yet. Nia came downstairs to the vestibule where Tom waited with coats. She stopped about halfway down the stairs and swayed sultrily from side to side, then turned around, so Tom could take in the full effect.

  “Holy fuck,” he said. “I think I have a stiffy.”

  Nia laughed her deep throaty laugh, “That’s what I was going for.”

  “My God, you really do look fabulous, vivacious,” Tom added.

  “Thank you, I actually feel vivacious.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  London, December 23rd

  The British Film Institute Southbank, all big-box glass and steel, was stuck between the concrete brutalism of the Royal Festival Hall and the National Theatre, on, as its name suggested, the south bank of the Thames. Many a tourist would have walked past it on their way to the London Eye. BFI had laid on a car service and Nia and Tom were dropped off right in front of a red carpet in good time for the seven p.m. showing. Tom was surprised by the classic red-carpet entrance and with a respectable crowd and paparazzi.

  “It’s for the star,” Nia whispered. “He became quite big after the film.” She turned to Tom and smiled apprehensively. “It’s show time.”

  She felt Tom pull back but held him tightly to her side as she stood on the periphery of the red carpet.

  “It’s your moment,” Tom said. “I’ll see you at the door.”

  “No, Tom, let’s do this together.”

  Tom noticed Nia’s smile was strained.

  Nia took a deep breath and moved onto the carpet holding Tom’s hand.

  Tom was in awe of Nia as she
worked the red carpet, posing for photos, chatting with some of her old cast mates. He was amazed at her confidence and her self-possession, her radiating an easy but affected charm. The crowd shouted for selfies, or a direct smile, there were a few wolf whistles. The door was held for her and she waited for Tom now a pace behind her. Tom, rather embarrassed, quickly moved up the carpet to Nia’s side. Photos flashed, and they entered the BFI.

  Nia and Tom were escorted to the theatre’s red seats. Tom relaxed when the theatre lights dimmed. A single spotlight focused on a rather academic looking academic who took to the stage to introduce the film. Nia reached over the armrest, found, and then held Tom’s hand. She remembered the flight from Montreal and how far they had come since then, how much they had changed. Tom enjoyed the film, even though he had just watched it; it was more vibrant and visceral on the big screen. He was pleased for Nia as the audience ‘ohhed’ and ‘ahhed’ appreciatively. She squeezed his hand hard when her nude scene began.

  “Love those giant, perky boobs,” he whispered into her ear.

  She squeezed his hand again and he squeezed back.

  After the film’s credits had rolled and the theatre’s lights returned, Nia along with four other members of cast and crew took to the stage for a Q and A session. They were seated on comfy chairs around a low table. Generously filled wine glasses were placed on the table. The academic who now served as the Q&A moderator had clearly developed a bit of a crush on Nia and directed the majority of questions to her. Tom thought Nia looked simply stunning sitting up the stage. He could tell from her accent that she was excited and the more excited she became, the more Welsh she sounded. Nia enjoyed the experience, she felt Tom’s support from the seats, and noticed his big grin, she felt freed somehow and was animated, funny, and charming and less guarded than usual. The crowd responded approvingly. Nia got a standing ovation when she left the stage.

  Tom re-joined Nia for drinks in the spacious private bar artfully decorated for Christmas. The bar was crowded with the guests and patrons. Jane emerged from the crowd and grabbed Nia by the elbow and pulled her along as she worked the crowd of old acquaintances and industry professionals. There was lots of fake cheek kissing and loud ‘dahlings’. Tom instinctively stepped back to the edge of the room where he had sightlines to areas of ingress and egress and he felt more comfortable in a position where he could have eyes on the crowd. Nia’s friend, Constance, came and stood next to him. She was already buzzed.

  “Not comfortable Tom?” she asked with a slight slur.

  “No, I’m fine. Enjoying the moment,” he smiled. “Nia’s moment.”

  Constance leant into Tom.

  “Nia’s looking really good, tonight,” she said. “I think you’re good for her.”

  He nodded not sure what other response to make.

  “You know that she’s been hurt badly, that we all love her and want to protect her, right?” Constance asked.

  Tom nodded slightly. “Aren’t they the same, love and protection?” he asked.

  Constance swayed a little.

  “Yes,” she answered.

  “Then I’d like to try to protect her too,” Tom said.

  Nia joined them before Constance could respond. Nia grabbed Tom by the hand and held it down at her side. Constance excused herself to step outside for a smoke.

  “Tom, come and meet my oldest friend, Jane,” Nia said.

  As Tom and Nia made their way through the crowd, an actor came up to Nia and gave her an intimate hug and kissed her full on the lips.

  “Nia darling, so nice to see you out and about. We must catch up some time,” he held her hands and stepped back clearly appraising her. “Fabulous dress and that body, you’ve been working out. Someone’s a lucky guy.”

  He winked at Tom, and with another kiss on Nia’s lips, he was gone, absorbed into the adjacent crowd. Nia looked at Tom nervously, “Don’t worry,” she whispered in his ear. “He’s gay.”

  “Oh, really? Figured that,” Tom said.

  Nia finally joined Jane again. Jane was wearing a dinner jacket with a white silk scarf and white owl glasses.

  “Nia darling, the room’s abuzz. You’ve been brilliant, you clever girl,” Jane greeted her with a real kiss on the cheek. “And, you look absolutely fucking fabulous.”

  Jane turned to Tom. Nia introduced them.

  Jane smiled at Tom, “Nice to meet you. Have heard a good bit about you, Major Price. Nia tells me that you are good for her and I must say she has been glowing since she met you.”

  Tom wasn’t sure what to say so responded with a simple, “Thank you”.

  “Nia’s one of my closest friends,” said Jane whose demeanour had become matronly. “And if you ever hurt her, I will have your balls.” She smiled with phoney sweetness.

  “She’s just joking,” Nia said.

  “No, I’m not,” Jane responded without the smile.

  “In that case then, I will endeavour to keep my balls out of your hands,” Tom said.

  Jane laughed, “You do that young man. You just do that.”

  Jane turned to Nia, who was still slightly in shock, “Nia, there’s someone here I’d like you to meet. They were very impressed with your performance tonight…” Jane grabbed Nia by the hand and moved her on to another group.

  Tom stood there alone with a glass of indifferent champagne in his hand. He watched as people and groups moved and interchanged like dance partners. Tom caught Constance’s eye in another group clustered around a high table. There was Orla with her arm around an unnaturally pale, tall, thin woman in a slinky dress that purposefully exposed a significant amount of side boob. Talking to the side-boobed woman was a face he half recognised. He knew he had seen the face before and trolled his memory for context. When no context emerged, he moved close to Constance and gestured for her to join him. When he felt they were out of earshot of Orla’s group, he subtly nodded to the mysterious man and asked Constance whether she knew him. Constance stared at the man for a moment, then told Tom that she didn’t recognise him. Seeing the concern on Tom’s face, Constance said she would find out. She artfully moved towards a waiter with a tray of drinks and was soon absorbed into the group where Tom’s man stood. Tom grabbed a fresh champagne from the itinerant waiter and watched as Constance chatted with Orla, Orla’s companion, and then exchange a few words and a polite smile with the mysterious man. Tom made some painful small talk with a Czech art director while waiting for Constance to circle back. Tom excused himself from the art director as Constance grabbed him by the hand and moved him away from the mingling patrons.

  “He’s Russian, from their embassy,” she said.

  She noticed Tom’s face change immediately. A photofit of a memory took shape in Tom’s mind’s eye.

  “Some kind of cultural attaché at the embassy here,” Constance continued. “Name of Kamenev. Looks like he’s had some facial injuries, burns perhaps.”

  “Fuck me,” Tom said to no one.

  “Do you know him?” Constance asked.

  “I’m not sure,” Tom answered honestly. Images of faces flashed through his mind like business cards in a Roladex. The name Zalkind screamed in his head. The Mi-17 helicopter crash must have been for real and Zalkind must have survived it with some injuries. A new name, new face, a new role but same evil bastard. Kamenev/Zalkind, as if suddenly aware of Tom’s psychic hatred, looked across the groups into Tom’s eyes. Tom noticed a cloud of concern cross the Russian’s face.

  Constance moved on to another circle of loud and happy people. Tom felt himself move as if electrically charged to the very periphery of the room. He didn’t notice Nia as she joined him, but she sensed his apprehension.

  “What’s wrong?” Nia asked.

  Tom nodded towards Kamenev still ensconced in Orla’s group.

  “I think it’s someone from my past,” Tom said.

  Nia laughed falsely, “All these people are from my past.”

  Tom didn’t laugh.

  “Oh.
Military past?” she asked, “Bad?” and Tom nodded.

  A few high tables away, Kamenev graciously made excuses and stepped away from his group. He took one last long look across the room at Tom trying to lock his facial features into his own memory. He didn’t recognise him, but he was concerned. The British guy had a military bearing, had taken up tactical positioning to watch events in the bar, and had a limp possibly from military action. The Brit had no field craft, so he wasn’t an intelligence operative but Kamenev was concerned enough to leave the event earlier than he had originally planned.

  Jane approached Nia and Tom and pulled Nia away to be interviewed by a young, starry eyed reporter from the Evening Standard. Tom left the event room, took some stairs down and stepped into the utility bowels of the BFI. He found a small blocked corridor that he felt was relatively secure and called Jacques Gagnon. Gagnon answered on the fifth ring.

  “Tom, not that I’m not pleased to receive a call from you, bro, but it’s five p.m. the day before Christmas Eve. Tomorrow’s a holiday here and I’m buried in paperwork trying to clear my desk. And, there’s an office party to prepare for. Can we chat after Christmas?”

  “Sorry Jacques mate, it is important. I think Zalkind’s alive. He’s calling himself Kamenev working out of the Russian Embassy here in London as a cultural attaché, probably cover for intelligence.”

  There was silence, Tom heard Gagnon’s heavy breathing.

  “Are you sure?” asked Gagnon. “You’re not at some party pissed out of your mind?”

  “Not pissed and not one hundred per cent sure. But, Jacques, I’m pretty certain. He’s had some facial surgery. My friend said it looked like the type someone would have to cover burns rather than anything cosmetic. So, yeah, pretty sure it’s him.”

  “Shit. Fuck. Okay. I’ll do some digging here to see if we have any records we could piece together. I’ll also see if your MI5 and MI6 can shed any light on this. My office party can wait while I try to do the digging but don’t you do fucking anything, okay?”