The Acid Vanilla Series

by Matthew Hattersley

  “Good work,” Acid said, once she’d finished. “I mean it.”

  Spook forced a smile as she slid her laptop back in the rucksack. “All in a day’s work.”

  “Another drink?” Acid held up the bottle, ready to pour her one.

  “I’m good,” Spook said. “I’ve not finished this one.” She took a long drink and shuddered. Absinthe. It tasted rank. Like Dr Pepper if someone had extracted all the nice sugary elements and replaced them with pure ethanol.

  “Listen, kid,” Acid said. “I know all this has been a complete nightmare for you. But it has for me too. I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I don’t feel too special right now. At all.” She finished her drink and poured herself another. “I guess what I’m trying to say is, I don’t mean to be so harsh with you. You’re doing all right.”

  “Am I?”

  “Yeah. You’ve been brave, considering. Biting Barabbas and all that. I suppose I owe you.”

  “Careful, that was almost a compliment.” Spook joined Acid on the bed, making her shuffle up.

  “Well we’re stuck here for a few hours now,” she said. “Let’s try and relax. Take some of this bloody pressure off ourselves.” She punched Spook gently on the upper arm.

  Spook put on another smile, wondering if she’d ever do so naturally ever again. She turned to face Acid. “All right then,” she said. “Since we won’t be seeing each other after tomorrow, tell me the full story. How did you get to be the great Acid Vanilla?”

  Acid lay back on the bed and stared at the ceiling. She looked sad.

  “Sorry, I didn’t mean to be a dick,” Spook offered. She put her drink down on the carpet and lay alongside her. “You don’t have to tell me.”

  It was pointed, the way she said it – you don’t have to tell me – but lying here she felt close to Acid. And, sure, she was probably suffering from some messed-up version of Stockholm Syndrome, but she didn’t care. There was a darkness inside of Acid that seemed far too dense and heavy for one person to carry.

  They lay there together for some time before Acid spoke. “You thought you were clever, didn’t you?” she said. “Working out why I’d chosen my codename – all that shit about juxtaposition of concepts.” She turned her head on the pillow and Spook did the same. “I mean, I admit, it sounded great. But you’re wrong.”

  Spook narrowed her eyes. “So, is there a reason?”

  Acid smiled. A real smile, with none of the pretence Spook had gotten used to these last couple of days. “Acid Vanilla was what I used to call myself when I was little. So my mother told me. She thought it was cute. You see, I couldn’t say Alice Vandella properly and that’s the way it came out: Acid Vanilla. Well, more like Asil Van’ella, but you get the idea.”

  “Aww, cute. Little Acid Vanilla.” Spook shifted closer. The absinthe rushed to her head. “Was it just the two of you, growing up?”

  Acid snorted. “Yeah. Until it wasn’t. You know, what with all her visitors.” She rolled her eyes. “Christ. I need more alcohol.”

  Spook opened her mouth but thought better of it. Acid grabbed the bottle, already two-thirds gone. She poured herself another large helping.

  “You can talk to me, you know,” Spook said. “I mean, I’m a good listener. It might help to talk it out for once?”

  Acid twisted around to look at her. “Calm yourself, Oprah. I’ve talked about this stuff a lot over the years. Too much. Never seems to help.” She took a drink and lay back down, resting the cup on her chest. She was silent a while, before letting out a deep sigh. “My mum, Louisa, she was only doing what she had to. After her fall she never danced again. And there wasn’t much other work out there for an Italian immigrant with no family and no qualifications, plus a young kid to look after. I’ve never thought bad of her for going down that route. She was a fighter. She did it so we could survive.”

  Acid took another gulp of the absinthe, difficult in the position she was in. Spook watched as a trickle of green liquid ran down her chin onto the smooth skin of her upper chest. She didn’t seem to notice.

  “As I got older,” she went on. “I started noticing the bruises, heard the shouting. One guy in particular was a real nasty bastard. Oscar Duke, he was called. I think he paid to knock her around as much as anything. Took all his inadequacies out on her. Of which there were a legion.” She sneered, as if seeing him there in front of her. “I hated him so fucking much. Then one day when I was fifteen, I came home from school and he’d worked her over good and proper. She was laid out in the kitchen in a pool of blood – and him stood over her with a wine bottle in his hand that he’d been shoving up inside her. I thought she was dead.”

  She took another drink. She hadn’t blinked the whole time she’d been telling the story. It was kind of unnerving.

  “That must have been awful. Was she…?”

  “No. She got over it,” Acid said. “But she was never the same after. That made two of us.”

  “And what happened to the guy?”

  Acid shifted her weight, propping herself up on one elbow and resting her head on one hand. “You know what happened to him.”

  “He was the guy?”

  “Yep. He was the guy.” She sighed once more. But with no pain behind it. “You see, I was only fifteen. But I was strong, athletic. I did gymnastics and Judo every week. At first it was a way of keeping me out of the flat when Louisa had visitors, but it turned out I was a natural at both. I was even scouted for the Olympics. Before my life went tits up.”

  Spook stared into those striking, mismatched eyes. “That’s awesome,” she whispered, immediately wishing she’d said anything else. “I mean, not that your life went tits up… but, well, you know…”

  “I lost it,” Acid went on. “I walked in, saw her, saw him, and went berserk. I managed to get the bottle out of his hand, and I went for it.”

  Spook propped herself up, mirroring Acid. “You killed him.”

  “I killed him all right. Smashed the bottle off the kitchen counter and jammed the broken end into the bastard’s neck. Over and over again. I don’t remember much about it, but the police said I almost cut his head off. Good. He deserved it.”

  Spook’s voice trembled as she asked, “Your mom called the police?”

  “They were already on their way. Some neighbour had heard him beating on my mum and called them. When they arrived I was dripping with blood. Head to toe. Like that scene in Carrie. Pigs blood. Same thing. They arrested me. Sent me to the young offender’s institute, as you know. Then came all the therapy and tests.”

  “Tests?”

  Acid finished the drink. “They thought I was a psychopath at first. Said I showed no remorse for my actions.” She rolled her eyes theatrically.

  “I see.” Spook leaned over and picked up her own drink. It tasted better. The medicinal burn less harsh. “Were they correct?”

  Acid didn’t answer straight away, either she was thinking hard about it or she’d decided the conversation was too much. Spook watched her, pensive now. She couldn’t help but notice Acid Vanilla had the most perfect profile she’d ever seen. You could see the Italian heritage, now she’d said it. Her nose wasn’t small, but it wasn’t big either, and had just the hint of a retroussé end. And those lips. Full. All natural. Stuck in a perpetual pout that made her appear mysterious and intimidating all at once. Spook was just starting on the eyes when Acid looked straight at her and pulled a face.

  “You all right, Spook?”

  “What? Shit.” She’d been slowly leaning towards Acid with her mouth open. She sat up, dragging herself away from the tractor-beam-pull of Acid’s enigmatic energy. “Sorry. I was just… I don’t know… Go on. Were they… I mean, are you… a psychopath?”

  Acid stretched her arms over her head. “Thought I was. For a while. Then my therapist, Angela, helped me come to terms with what was going on. Helped me with coping strategies and the like. But it didn’t end well between us.” She sniffed. “Then one day I came to the conclus
ion: why would I show remorse? That bastard wanted to kill my mum. I’m glad he’s dead. I’d do it again in a second. You ask me, that’s the reaction any sane person should have. The only remorse I have for killing Oscar Duke was that I got caught. Which is why these days I make sure I never get caught.” She chucked the plastic cup at the small metal waste bin on the other side of the room but missed. “Anyway, it seems coping strategies only get you so far. Things have been hard recently. I’ve felt out of sync with myself. As though something’s chasing me – karma, maybe – and I need to put it right.” She blew her fringe out of her eyes. “Stupid, I know. But it’s lucky for you. Or we wouldn’t be here. You certainly wouldn’t.”

  Spook swallowed, unsure of the correct response. “Does your mum know about what you do now?”

  It was an innocent question, but she got a sharp look.

  “My mum’s dead,” Acid snapped.

  “What?” Spook let out a nervous laugh. “No, she isn’t. I found her. She’s in some convalescent home in Scotland. Didn’t you know?”

  Acid shut her eyes. “No one knows about that,” she whispered. “No one.”

  Spook put her hand on Acid’s arm. “Don’t worry, who am I going to tell?”

  Acid looked out the window. When she spoke next her voice sounded different. Softer. Like all the hard edges had rubbed away. “I put her in that home three years ago. Before that she was living in a quiet little village in the Midlands. Safe. Away from me. Away from all the horrible shit I have in my orbit. But then I got word from her carer she was getting worse. Needed round-the-clock care. Alzheimer’s. Horrible disease. I first noticed it when I was inside, it was only mild then. I’ve always felt it was my fault. Punishment for what I’d done. My poor beautiful mum, paying for my mistakes.”

  “I’m not so sure about that,” Spook told her. “And you’re a good daughter.”

  “Am I? How can I be when I struggle to be in the same room as her? I hate seeing her like that.”

  “It must be hard.”

  “I only visit four times a year, and only then because I pay for her stay in cash. If I didn’t, I might never go. After everything she did for me.”

  “I’m sure she knows you care.” Spook was grasping at straws and they both knew it. She was relieved when Acid shifted onto her back. It was easier to talk that way. Less chance of losing herself in those penetrating eyes. “I think the fact you’re even saying this means something,” she went on. “You ask me, the fact I’m here at all proves you care more about people than you let show.”

  Acid sneered at the idea but didn’t reply. She closed her eyes. A minute passed. Then another. Spook wondered if she’d fallen asleep.

  “I should go see her,” she said. “A proper visit. Tell her how sorry I am.”

  Spook adjusted herself on the bed, gazing down at the woman alongside her. She knew her as Acid Vanilla: top assassin, master strategist, ruthless killer. But as she watched the steady rise and fall of her chest, she could see beyond the dark intensity of her persona. Somewhere in there she was still Alice Vandella: Judo lover, gymnast, vulnerable fifteen-year-old. Momma’s girl.

  “It was a guy, by the way.” The words were out of Spook’s mouth before she realised she’d spoken.

  Acid opened one eye. “Excuse me?”

  Spook felt her cheeks burn. “Sorry, I just… You asked me before why I came to England. Well, it was a guy who I broke up with.”

  Acid shut her eye. “Figures.”

  “Simon Kaye. He was my first boyfriend. First and only. We met at the MIT as freshmen and fell in love. Or at least I did. Thinking about it now I’m not sure he ever loved me back. We were together for two years. Then he invented this app, Dolla, that monitors your online spending – and it exploded. Until that he’d been the perfect boyfriend. He was kind, gentle. But once he got in with the tech crowd he changed, almost overnight. In the end he dumped me by text. Two weeks after my dad’s funeral.”

  “Classy,” Acid offered. “Worked out best for you though.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “If you’d married him, you’d be Spook Kaye. Wow, and I thought nothing could top Spook Horowitz.”

  “Ha,” Spook replied. “I never realised that. Never put the names together. Says it all. Deep down I always knew we weren’t forever.”

  Spook mused on the idea. Truth was, she’d hardly thought about Simon since she arrived in England. Even less so since she’d had a price on her head. But it was clear. She didn’t care anymore. Simon was part of her past. A simple conduit who’d brought her to where she was. Which was, figuratively, her being a stronger woman. Where it had actually brought her was lying on a bed in Paris alongside the most captivating person she’d ever met.

  “So, why so coy?” Acid asked. “Why imply it was a girl who broke your heart.”

  Spook stroked the bedspread. “I don’t know. You’re so mysterious. Maybe I wanted some of that too.” She grabbed the bottle of absinthe and gulped down a large mouthful without tasting it. “It wouldn’t have been a huge leap, I’ll be honest. I questioned myself a lot over the years. Don’t think I’ve ever decided one way or the other. People have always thought I was, you know…”

  “What? A dyke?” Acid turned to her, grinning mischievously.

  “Maybe. I hate that word though,” she said. “That’s not who I am.”

  “Semantics.” Acid propped her head up. “All right then, if you prefer – todger dodger. No? Muff diver? Rug muncher?” Spook squirmed, but it only incited more teasing from Acid. She had the devil in her. She leaned into Spook. “Stop me, won’t you, if I’m turning you on.”

  Spook laughed. A little too much. They both sensed it. The giggles quickly faded to a silence that hung heavy in the space between them.

  Then it happened.

  The thing Spook hadn’t stopped thinking about ever since she’d met this unfathomable woman who, in a crazy twist, had gone from being the Angel of Death to Spook’s only hope of survival.

  And it was happening.

  Right now.

  Spook couldn’t be sure who instigated the kiss. That was why it was so amazing. It just happened. Like in a movie, she thought, as their tongues darted in and out of each other’s mouths, wrestling for dominance. And when Acid slipped her top over her head and climbed astride her, for once Spook gave as good as she got. In that dingy Paris hotel room, with the net curtain flapping almost ironically in the afternoon breeze, Spook breathed in Acid’s hot body, finding the answer at last to a lifelong question. And this time she wasn’t on the receiving end of Acid Vanilla’s sharp tongue. Instead what she got was one that was softer. And much more accommodating.

  Thirty-One

  Acid sat on the side of the bed and emptied her lungs of air as the bats nibbled and toyed with her nerve endings. It felt like the worst jet lag she’d ever experienced, coupled with an uncontrollable hit of euphoric energy. A crash was coming. She was certain of it.

  She took another deep breath. She’d literally kill for a cigarette right now and she knew what that meant. Her focus shifted to the window frame, seeing details for the first time. The black mould encroaching into the room from the corners of the glass, the yellow stains on the net curtain.

  She’d known something had shifted the second she woke. She hadn’t even planned on sleeping but there it was. Casual sex – it was a good sedative. It was also a bad sign. She was losing control.

  “You bloody idiot,” she rasped to the carpet. It was talking about her past that had done it. That never ended well. But she hadn’t been able to stop.

  She padded over to the window and slid it open a few inches more. The breeze felt good against her naked body and she made no move to cover herself. The building opposite looked to be empty, but she didn’t care. She didn’t care about anything. That was the problem. The bats were here to stay, and they were vampire bats, they had teeth.

  She leaned out onto the Juliet balcony. The rough, peeling paintwork scr
atched at the skin on her stomach and breasts but she welcomed the discomfort. She traced her finger along the raised scar that ran down her left forearm, acquired after a run-in with a rival operative, both going for the same mark. That was sixteen years ago, back when she joined Caesar’s organisation. Sixteen years of killing people. By anyone’s reckoning that was a lot of bad karma.

  “Hey, you.” It was Spook, stirring sleepily in the bed behind her.

  Acid didn’t turn from the window. She could hear the American moving around. Could hear the scratching of the sheets. Then a contented sigh.

  “Listen, Spook,” she said, speaking quickly. “I needed that. I think we both did. The release. But it shouldn’t have happened.”

  “Geez.” Spook yawned. “How was it for you?”

  “Stop it. It’s not like that. But that was stupid.” Acid left the window and moved over to the two bags of shopping in the corner – the purchases made after disposing of the iPod. She removed a towel from one, along with a gauze dressing and some surgical tape. “I’m going to take a shower and try and freshen up. While I’m gone, you get yourself up and ready. Okay? We have to leave for the airport in an hour.”

  Spook brushed her hair behind her ears and moved onto her back. “What time is it?”

  “Half past four.” Acid wrapped the towel around her and gathered up her clothes along with the Glock. “Lock the door behind me. And same as before, don’t open it to anyone but me.”

  Spook grunted in response. For a second Acid had the idea to yank the bedclothes off her. But she didn’t. “Keep it together,” she murmured to herself, as she shut the door behind her and strode barefoot along the dim corridor. “Not much longer.”