“No. You don’t understand,” Acid said. “I mean it. I have a condition.” She waited for his reaction. Nothing. “It’s like bipolar, but not as severe, easier to control. Sometimes.” She took another drink. “Other times all I want to do is dig a hole, climb in and never come out.”
Acid had wanted to kiss Dr Kingston when he’d first given her the diagnosis. Cyclothymic Disorder, to give it its full name. Not that a label made her feel any better, but at least she understood what was going on inside her now. Dr Kingston explained how Cyclothymia patients usually experienced mild forms of both mania and depression – classed as a lowercase m and a lowercase d on the spectrum – but went on to say that Acid was special. She was a lowercase d but an uppercase M – and in the right circumstances, that manic energy almost felt like a superpower. Her thinking was grander, more creative, she took greater risks, needed less sleep, felt invincible. This was coupled with a fluttering pressure on her nervous system, of course – what Acid called the bats – but usually she could harness that pressure. It helped her do what she did.
But then there were times like now, when she found herself in a nihilistic slump, oversharing with strangers.
“Well, you ask me, we’re all a little crazy,” Simon slurred, ogling her some more. “All the best people are. Bukowski said that.”
Acid sipped her drink. “I think that was the Mad Hatter, sweetie.”
“Whatever. Tell me, what do you do for work?”
“Me? Oh, I’m a hired killer.” She leaned in, whispering, “A deadly assassin.”
“Well you certainly look deadly.” Simon laughed, mistaking her comment for flirtation once more and eyeballing Acid with a growing lust. “Have you killed anyone today?”
Acid stared at herself in the mirror behind the bar. “Two people actually. Though one was an accident, truth be told.” She widened her eyes. “Probably going to get a spanking for that.”
She swilled her drink around the glass. Dr Kingston had been on at her recently to try a new course of medication that would dampen her mood swings. But Acid was adamant. No pills. She was the best at what she did, and those manic feelings of invincibility were a big part of it.
“Never been a fan of the old rye myself.” Simon gestured at her glass, almost empty now. “Wine for me. Lovely glass of Shiraz. Do you like wine…? Shit, I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name.”
“That’s because I didn’t give it.” She made eye contact with the barman and pulled a ‘save me’ face. She turned to Simon. “But yes, I like wine. Though it’s more of a social drink. As I say, I’m here for a quiet one. On my own.”
Simon swerved the comment. “Oh my god. Your eyes,” he cooed. “They’re amazing. Like David Bowie’s.”
Acid looked away. “How do you mean?”
“You know, one brown, one blue. Very striking. Bowie’s were the same.”
“Actually, they weren’t,” Acid replied. “Bowie had two blue eyes. Only, one got damaged in a fight, leaving him with an enlarged pupil. It looked like they were different colours. That’s what people think. But they weren’t.”
Simon stared at her, open-mouthed. “But yours are different colours.”
“Yes. How observant of you. But it’s not caused by trauma, I was born like this. So, not like David Bowie.”
“Fair enough. You not a fan?”
Acid sighed. “I’m a big fan. But that wasn’t what we were talking about.”
He paused a moment. Then, laughing, “Oh, you’re a feisty one. Let me buy you another.” He placed his hand on her knee. Acid tensed. She felt for the push dagger in her belt and imagined sliding the cold steel through Simon’s ribcage, straight into his heart. He’d never see it coming. With the music this loud, no one would hear him yell. She’d be out of here and into the night before his blood hit the floor.
She closed her eyes. No. That was the bats talking and she had to stay in control. No matter how satisfying it would be.
“What do you do, Simon?” she asked, shifting her leg away from his sweaty hand.
“I do loads of shit. Bit of this, bit of that. Mainly I’m an artist. Photography. Some would say I’m deadly too. With a camera.” He leaned closer. His breath stung Acid’s eyes. “I’d love to shoot you some time. You’ve an amazing look. In fact, my studio isn’t far from here.”
“Maybe another time,” Acid told him. “I wouldn’t be much fun tonight.”
“Here we are. Classic Mojito for the lady.” The barman placed the drink down in front of her.
Simon sat back. “Now that’s more like it. I think I might join you in one of those.”
“Here, have this one.” She slid the drink over to him. “I’d say it’s more your style.”
“Don’t mind if I do.” His hand was back on her leg, sliding up the inside of her thigh. It was a bold move. One he would regret.
“Move that. Now,” Acid snarled.
“Come on. We’d be great together. Couple of deadly assassins.” His hand reached Acid’s groin. A finger slid underneath her, pushing at the seam of her jeans.
That was it.
She was on her feet, grabbing Simon by the wrist, twisting his arm behind his back and slamming his face onto the bar. “I said, move it.” She pushed his face down onto the polished surface, mashing his smug features into the wood. “Was that hard to understand?”
“Fuck you.” Simon squirmed, trying to get free.
Acid pushed down harder on his face. “Now, I’m going to use the bathroom and then I’m going home. Alone. So why don’t you keep your mouth shut and keep your hands to yourself. Yes?” She shoved his arm further up his back. “Yes?”
Simon whimpered in agreement. Acid noticed the cute barman watching the exchange. He winked at her conspiringly but that was all. She released Simon and marched to the bathroom. The door (being one of those deceptively light, hollow affairs) smashed loudly against the wall as she pushed against it. A single cubicle stood in one corner and, opposite the door, a large graffiti-covered mirror hung over a small sink unit. Acid walked over and gripped the white porcelain for dear life. Her heart was racing. This wasn’t like her.
She peered at her reflection, pulling at the thin skin beneath her eyes and opening her mouth as wide as it’d go. It did little good. She adjusted her fringe, then headed for the cubicle. The fact she sat directly on the cold toilet seat without first laying out a carefully constructed halo of toilet paper told Acid all she needed to know about her current state of mind.
Usually when the needle went so far into the red, it wasn’t an issue. Acid saw it coming and would take herself away from it all for a few weeks. A log cabin in the mountains, a deserted beach. That way her system could reset itself before she did anything stupid. Only, this time the chaos had sneaked up on her.
She was fastening her belt when the bathroom door opened. Loud music drifted in from the bar. Acid halted. Held her breath. A woman would have knocked on the cubicle to see if it was in use. Would have made some sort of noise. But Acid already knew it wasn’t a woman out there. She gave it a beat, cracked her knuckles and opened the cubicle door.
“Dumb bitch.” Simon stood there, his face bright red. “You’ll pay for that.”
“Oh dear. Did someone hurt your feelings?”
Before Acid had a chance to move, he lunged at her and got his hands around her neck, pushing her back into the cubicle. She staggered back and smashed her head onto the tiled wall. Her eyes bulged as Simon squeezed harder at her windpipe. He was trying to kill her. But that was good. The pain excited her. Not that she liked pain, she wasn’t a sadist, but it focused her, got her head back in the game. It was enough.
A sharp knee to the groin followed by a push kick sent Simon flying out of the cubicle. He stumbled into the wall, jarring his back on the corner of a hand dryer. Acid made for the door but Simon blocked her way, coming at her with a flurry of punches. One of them caught her in the temple and then he was behind her, dragging her into the centre
of the room with an arm around her neck, squeezing the life out of her. He was stronger than he looked. Acid kicked out at the sink hoping to slam him backwards but she couldn’t get purchase. He pulled her away and tightened the sleeper hold, putting more pressure on her windpipe. Reaching down with his other hand, he unbuckled her belt.
“Not so fucking deadly now, are you?” he rasped in her ear.
A black fog seeped across Acid’s vision. She met Simon’s eyes in the mirror as he shoved his hand into her knickers. The bastard was laughing.
Despite the angle, she managed to raise her right foot and scrape her boot heel down the front of his calf. He yelled out and his grip slackened, enabling Acid to access the push dagger in her belt. She pulled it out and stabbed the blade deep into his thigh muscle. A part of her – the bats – had been yelling for the femoral artery. But she’d spared him. She wasn’t sure why.
With a cry he let go. Acid grabbed him by the hair and dragged him forward, smashing his face into the hard edge of the sink unit. His nose exploded on impact. She felt the cartilage turn to mush. She released her grip and he slumped onto his knees, upright but barely conscious. His right eye was swollen shut and his nose no longer something you’d call a nose. Acid pulled the push dagger from his leg and held it to his face. She didn’t want it to come to this, but the bats were screaming at her.
Finish him.
Kill him.
Simon squinted at her. “You’re fucking dead,” he sneered. “I know people. Scary people.”
Acid looked away. She was embarrassed to realise there were tears in her eyes. “Why is it pricks like you think they can take what they want with no comeback?” She gripped his shoulder. To stop herself from shaking.
Simon sneered. “Screw you.”
“No.” Acid grabbed his man-bun in her fist and cut it clean off with a slash of the knife. “Screw you.”
She stuffed the hair into his bleeding mouth and let him fall to the ground. He was gone, out for the count. She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand before crouching to go through his pockets. Flipping open the tan leather wallet from his jeans, she counted a hundred pounds in twenties and tens. She stuffed the notes in her back pocket and the wallet in her jacket. Then she adjusted her fringe in the mirror, applied some lipstick, and walked back out to the bar.
“That dude bothering you?” the barman asked, as she passed by on her way out.
Acid hit him with her sweetest smile. “I can take care of myself, sweetie,” she purred. “Though I noticed the floor was wet back there. You wouldn’t want anyone to slip and hurt themselves.” She pulled out a twenty and slung it on the bar top before skipping up the stairwell.
The homeless man was still there as Acid got to the top of the stairs. She pulled out the wad of notes.
“Here you go, mate.” She hunched down next to him and offered the money. “Buy yourself some food.”
The man looked fearful for a second, then reached out with his bony fingers. “Thanks,” he wheezed. “I will do.”
Acid stood. “Or, you know, spend it on drugs and booze. Whatever gets you through the night.”
The man sat up. It looked like it hurt to do so. “You’re a good one,” he told her.
“Not so sure about that, but you take care.”
Acid’s heart was beating fast as she hailed a cab and gave the driver directions back to her place. She could have handled Simon better, she thought, as the car pulled away. But she hadn’t killed him. She hadn’t lost complete control.
There might be another issue, however. Simon had said he knew people. Scary people. It was probably bullshit posturing, but Acid had to be careful. She was already in Caesar’s bad books after tonight, and the boss hated his operatives drawing attention to themselves. She sat back on the cold leather seat and considered her options. Simon looked the type who might know dodgy people. If he was in The Bitter Marxist he’d have some sort of underground connection. Well, screw it, Acid thought, if someone was coming for her, let them come. She’d handle them or die trying. And right now, either of those options was fine by her.
Five
In a large, windowless office in Canary Wharf, Team Purple’s late shift was coming to an end. It had been a long, eventless night, and this was no more evident than in the demeanour of every single team member, each of them now staring blank-faced at their monitors, watching intently as the last few minutes ticked away until they could re-emerge into the real world. The four-till-twelve shift was always the hardest. You started work when most people were signing off for the day, had to walk past them as they skipped to the pub or joyfully met friends on street corners. It was worse in the winter months, venturing out into the cold and dark with only the prospect of a gruelling eight-hour shift to look forward to.
The small digital clock on Spook Horowitz’s monitor screen showed 11.49 p.m. Almost there. She clicked out of her current feed and began the logging process. Somewhat premature perhaps, but she’d risk it. Jacqueline Madeley – the user she’d been assigned this evening – had been reading in bed for the last hour. A total dud. Spook sat back in her seat and glanced around the room at her colleagues, immediately wishing she hadn’t as, over in the far corner, Kelvin Walker made eye contact and waved.
Damn it.
Spook snapped her attention back to the screen. But it was too late. He was coming over. She tensed, readying her stock response. The one she gave Kelvin every time he asked her out for a drink…
Thanks, but I’ve got plans.
Except she never did have plans. And tonight more than ever, falling asleep in front of her Xbox seemed a particularly grim prospect.
Spook removed her thick-framed glasses and tucked her black bob behind her ears, making out as though she hadn’t noticed him. She breathed on the lenses and was rubbing them on the bottom of her flannel shirt when he got to her desk.
“Hey there, Spook,” Kelvin mumbled into the floor, like he always did when he was around her. “Shift’s almost done. Do you fancy going for a drink after? Or whatever?”
Spook looked at the clock on her screen. 11.57 p.m. “Yeah, why not.”
It was clear Kelvin was not expecting this. “Wow, okay. Great,” he mumbled. “Well, Arsenio’s is open till three. We could go there.”
“Cool.” Spook put her glasses back on and they stared at each other a few seconds.
“Hey, is that an Overwatch shirt?” Kelvin pointed at Spook’s chest. At the large Overwatch logo emblazoned there. White on black.
“Sure is.” She held up her fist self-consciously. “Team D.Va all the way.”
“Awesome. Junkrat for me. But check it.” Kelvin lifted his white button-down to reveal the same t-shirt. He laughed. “What about that? Must be fate.”
“Yeah.” Spook widened her eyes. “Must be.”
Not that Spook believed in fate. She was a woman of science. A bona fide computer genius to boot, ever since she’d sat behind her father’s Apple LC 500 aged six and wrote her first piece of code. At age ten she’d created a new reporting database for her school, baffling even her IT teacher. Age thirteen, she’d hacked into the White House undetected. Just for a look around. In terms of hacking, Spook was strictly white-hat. To test herself, rather than for any immoral gains.
“Well, that’s great news,” Kelvin whispered, backing away as their team leader Terry appeared at the far side of the room. “I’ll get the first round in.”
“Awesome.” Spook watched him shuffle back to his desk and sank back in her chair. Was this all she had to look forward to these days, she wondered, an awkward drink with Kelvin-freaking-Walker? She might not believe in fate or destiny or any other cosmic force, but surely she was owed a break? After all she’d been through these last few years.
It had been no surprise to anyone, after Spook’s early shows of genius, when she’d gotten a perfect 1600 in her SATs and enrolled at the prestigious Massachusetts Institute of Technology. After that, a lustrous career seemed a sure-fire cert
ainty. She’d move to Silicon Valley after college, work at a start-up for a few years, maybe launch her own. Then, once she’d established herself in the industry, it would be a short while before a COO role was on the cards. CEO a few years later.
So exactly how Spook Horowitz came to be in London, with nothing to look forward to except a few beers with Kelvin, was a long and rather tragic story. One that involved both her parents dying within a year of each other, and a messy break-up. Spook had turned to prescription painkillers and Valium to help with the grief. But all they’d done was make everything ten times worse. So with her mental and emotional health in tatters, she’d taken the only reasonable option left. She’d run away. Booked a one-way ticket to London. Her plan was to see the sights then travel Europe for a few months before returning to the States to see how things looked with fresh eyes.
But after a month in a small Airbnb in Hackney, Spook realised she liked the British way of life. The tech world in the US was intense, cut-throat. And it wasn’t much different here, but the talk in the UK media was about gender pay gaps and there was a sense change was coming. Plus, no one knew her here. She could be anyone she wanted to be.
So, before her visa expired, Spook had found herself a place to live and got a new job: working for Cerberix Inc. at their brand-new London office. The job was a godsend for someone like Spook. A dream ticket. Despite being a relative newcomer in the tech world, Cerberix was already becoming a major player, readying itself to take on Apple over the next five years. This alone would have seemed like a preposterous goal if it wasn’t for its charismatic CEO, Kent Clarkson, who was fast becoming the new poster boy for forward-thinking innovation.
Spook had initially interviewed for a coder position. It was what she knew, what she was good at. But on her first day, a man had taken her and six other specially selected candidates to a sealed office and told them they were to be employed in a newly created role – as Covert Data-Gatherers and AI Facilitators. ‘Covert’ because it was a project Cerberix didn’t want the public knowing about. And as Spook quickly found out, it was a project they didn’t want the authorities or the police or the media knowing about either.
The Acid Vanilla Series Page 3