The communal bathroom was sparse, but plusher than she was expecting. It was set up as a wet room, tiled from floor to ceiling in dark grey slate. A shower unit overhung one wall, with a toilet at the other side. Along the wall facing the door, a mirror dotted with fine flecks of toothpaste hung above a porcelain sink unit. She placed her clothes, towel and gun down on the sink and twisted the shower dial into the red. The pressure of the shower surprised her and she was glad of the sting from the water as she stepped inside. Her skin felt paper-thin. Raw nerves bristled under the surface.
She closed her eyes and put her whole head under the flow. She hadn’t brought soap, but it didn’t matter. The water was hot enough to cleanse her soul. For now, at least. She stayed in this position a few minutes, cocooned in the transient safety of the steamy room. Maybe she could stay here forever, she thought. Away from Spook. Away from Caesar. Away from herself.
“Bonjour?”
Acid’s ears were full of water. So when she heard the voice, followed by a dull banging, she wasn’t sure whether she’d imagined it.
“Excusez-moi. I need the toilet most desperately.” She was certain now. It was a man’s voice, speaking English with a French accent. “Are you there?”
Acid put her head back under the water and tried to ignore the banging. But it was no use. The moment had passed. She yanked the shower off and stepped out, catching a glimpse of herself in the mirror and looking away.
She’d never enjoyed catching her reflection off guard. Something about marrying the external representation of who she was with her internal sense of self. It always jarred. Because who was she? Acid Vanilla? Alice Vandella? Maybe she was Melissa Font or Anastasia Blanco – or any one of the twenty pseudonyms she’d used over the years. More than likely, she thought, as she grabbed the towel and dried herself, she was none of those people. She was nobody at all – a soulless changeling who took on whatever form she needed to stay alive.
Acid’s reflection shook its head. It looked disappointed. It also looked a lot like Louisa.
“Please,” the voice called out again, more desperate now. “Are you almost done?”
Acid placed her towel down on the cold tiles and stepped onto it, drying the soles of her feet before slipping on her underwear.
“Open the door. Please.”
Acid stood upright as a dark thought hit her in the guts.
“You bloody idiot,” she whispered at the mirror. She’d been so absorbed in her own internal confusion she’d let her guard down. This person could be here to kill her. She didn’t recognise the accent, but that meant nothing. Annihilation operatives were trained in accent-work. She grabbed the Glock off the sink and moved to the door.
“Who is it?”
“Please,” the voice whined again. “I think I may wet myself.”
Acid gripped the handle of the gun as a million thoughts flashed through her mind, not one of them helpful. More banging from the other side. More pleading. They certainly were making a lot of noise for a trained assassin. Slowly Acid reached over and slid the bolt out of the latch. Then in one fluid movement she swung the door wide open and stepped back, gun raised.
“Merde! No, s’il vous plait”
Acid looked into the face of a short man in his late fifties. He stared at the gun, then at Acid’s naked form. He looked like he might wet himself there and then.
“Please, I am so desperate.” He was wearing a beige polo-necked sweater and brown trousers belted far too high around an extensive gut.
Acid leaned out, grabbed him by the shoulder. “Come on then. Don’t just stand there.” She pulled him into the bathroom and slammed the door shut. Then she gestured at the toilet bowl. “Quickly. Do whatever it is you need to do.”
The man’s eyes almost popped out of his head. “But I am afraid… You are… I need the toilet.”
“Yes, and I’m letting you,” Acid said, turning back to the mirror and placing the Glock on the sink. “But I’ve not finished. So do your business and then leave me in peace.”
The fat Frenchman paused a moment, but his bladder won out. He shuffled over to the toilet in the corner and unzipped himself. He let out a satisfied sigh as a loud cascade of piss splashed into the bowl.
Acid gripped the sides of the sink and dipped her head, snorting heavily down both nostrils. In, and out. It was an old trick her therapist, Angela, had shown her. It was supposed to calm her down, but it never did.
“Mademoiselle?” the man offered. “You are okay? You need a doctor?”
“I need something,” Acid whispered into the sink. She turned to the man. “Do you have a mother? I mean, is she still alive?”
The man’s eyes widened. “Well, yes. But she is ancient.” He smiled, despite himself.
“Do you visit her?” Acid asked.
“Of course,” he replied. “Poor woman. She gets confused. I have to do lots for her now. But it is fine, you know. I don’t mind.”
Acid scoffed. “Yeah. You don’t mind.”
“Well, it is the least I can do after everything she has done for me, non?”
It was like a bullet to the heart.
Acid picked up her black jeans and pulled them on. “You know, I told him I needed a holiday,” she said. “I bloody well told him. Two weeks away and none of this would have bloody well happened. Wait a second…” The man had zipped himself up and was making for the door, but Acid blocked his path. “Do you tell your mother all that?”
“Tell her what?”
“That you appreciate her. That you love her.”
The man frowned. “Mais oui. She is my mother.”
“Yes. I know.” Acid picked her black t-shirt up from the sink and pulled it over her head. “I have to see her, don’t I? I have to tell her?”
The man went to reply but Acid had already turned back to the mirror. She scraped her hair into a ponytail and slid on a hair tie from her wrist. Her reflection stared back at her, resolve twitching at the corners of her mouth, the pout fierce with determination.
“You’re right though,” she told the man. “I have to see her. Before I go away forever I need to tell her how I feel. Tell her I’m sorry. Tell her I love her.” She slapped the confused man on the shoulder. Kissed him hard on his salty forehead. “Thanks for the chat, friend. You’ve been a real help.”
She grabbed her towel and the Glock and opened the door. As the stout Frenchman waved a limp hand in goodbye, Acid Vanilla pushed past him and disappeared down the corridor.
Thirty-Two
The pressure in Acid’s head was almost unbearable as she returned barefoot up the musty, hotel corridor. The seventies carpet didn’t help – dirty slashes of beige and cream swirling into pink and crimson – it was enough to send anyone insane. But at least she knew her next step. Now she just had to break the news to Spook.
She tensed as she got to the hotel room, noticing the door had been left ajar.
“For heaven’s sake,” she mumbled to herself, pushing it open. “Spook. I thought I told you to lock this.”
“Hello there, Acid.”
She was already in the room before she looked up to see Banjo Shawshank over by the window. He was dressed in his usual attire, tweed suit, patent-leather winkle pickers. The large vintage pistol – pointed at Spook’s head – finished off the ensemble. In one fluid motion Acid dropped the towel and pulled the Glock from her waistband. She pointed it at Banjo as he grabbed Spook around the neck, using her as a shield.
“I wondered if you’d be next,” Acid said. “I would say it’s good to see you but, you know, I’d be lying.”
“Well, it is good to see you, babe,” Banjo hit back. “You’re somewhat of an elusive butterfly these days.” He squeezed Spook’s neck tight and aimed his gun at Acid’s head. “A lot of people have been looking for you ladies.”
“Yeah? Well, they keep finding us,” Acid said. “But then they end up dead. By the way, what the hell is that?” She gestured at Banjo’s gun, playing for time.
“It looks bloody ancient.”
Banjo sneered. “Philistine. This little beauty is a 1902 Luger. An absolute classic. All reconditioned, of course, but antique enough to get through customs with the right paperwork.”
Acid considered the angle. The Luger held 9mm rounds and from this distance it would punch straight through her skull and shred her brain matter before she knew what was happening.
“Go on then,” she told him. “Do it.” Banjo flexed his grip. She could tell he was itching to. “But I don’t see a suppressor,” she added. “I bet it makes a right old racket. Could get messy.”
Derision turned up the ends of Banjo’s moustache. “That’s rich. Coming from the queen of chaos. What happened to you, Acid? You were the best.”
“I am the best. Always will be.”
“Nah. You’ve gone soft. Helping a mark to escape? Killing two of your colleagues. Jesus Christ. How’s that search for salvation working out for you?”
“I told you, it’s not like that.”
“Sure it’s not.”
Acid closed one eye over the barrel of the Glock. “Put the gun down, Banjo.”
“You first.”
Neither of them moved.
Acid took a moment to slow her breathing, slipping effortlessly into a well-worn persona – that of a mechanical, stoic, killing machine. In this state she was present, unshakable. To say it felt good would be incorrect, but it hadn’t let her down yet.
“Acid. Help me.” Spook wriggled in Banjo’s grip, pawing helplessly at the wiry arm wrapped around her neck.
Acid ignored her. “What’s your play, Banjo? I take it you’re here to kill us both. Why haven’t you?”
“Caesar would still prefer you back in one piece. Wants to deal with you himself.” He flexed his hand on the gun. “But if I have to kill you, I’m sure he’ll understand.”
Acid didn’t flinch. “Why’s she still alive?”
“Hey!” Spook cried out.
Banjo gave it a beat. “Well, babe, right now she’s a convenient shield. But she’s also good bait. Plus, I’ve orders to retrieve this bastard recording everyone’s so stressed about. Soon as I get that, well…” He grimaced. “Problem is, we seem to have found ourselves in a classic Mexican standoff, don’t we? Tut, tut. What to do?”
Acid glanced at Spook, then at the floor. She’d noticed something.
“Okay, listen,” she said. “Say I surrender, give you the recording. What then? What happens to me?”
Banjo bared his teeth. “I told you. I take you back to Caesar.”
“What if there’s a better way? For both of us.”
“You’re bargaining with me? Jesus Christ. Do you think you’re in any position to?”
Acid’s eye twitched. “Maybe. I know how important this job is. How important that recording is. My guess is, you take that back to Caesar along with evidence you’ve eradicated the mark, he won’t worry too much I’m in the wind. You see, I can make this easy for you, Banjo. Extremely easy.”
No one moved. Even Spook was silent. Her soft whimpering faded away as time slowed. The room bristled with electric danger.
“How easy?” Banjo said.
“I put the gun down. Get you the recording. Then I turn around and walk out that door. Done. You’ll never see me again. You can tell Caesar the same.”
Banjo grimaced. “He won’t like that. You see, the boss has noticed my potential. At last. I go back empty-handed I’ll be back in the dog house.”
Acid gripped the Glock tighter. “You won’t be empty-handed. You’d have the recording. That’s what he cares about.” Acid glared at him. “I could shoot you right now. You could shoot me. You might even get me first. But you might not.” She widened her eyes. “My only plan is saying goodbye to my mum and then get gone. For ever.”
Banjo screwed up his face. “Thought your mum was dead?”
“She is. I mean… I’ll go to her grave, say goodbye. Then I’m gone. As good as dead. But without all the mess and hassle for you.”
Banjo was silent. Looked like he was thinking about it. “Where’s the recording?”
Acid kept her aim up. “If we’re doing this, I’ll get it, okay? No sudden movements.”
A beat. Then Banjo jerked his gun for her to move. “Slowly.”
Not taking her eyes off Banjo, Acid side-stepped over to Spook’s rucksack. Then, gun still raised, she knelt down and felt for the zip. Once located, she opened the top compartment and stuffed her hand inside. She rummaged around for a few moments before her hand fell on the thumb-drive.
“Here. It’s here.” She showed it to Banjo.
He held out his hand. “Give it.”
Acid edged over to him, holding the thumb-drive at arm’s length. Banjo’s moustache twitched. He had no free hand. He hesitated a moment, then shoved Spook. She stumbled forward, rubbing at her throat as Banjo snatched the thumb-drive and slipped it inside his waistcoat pocket.
“Don’t fucking move,” he yelled, moving the gun between the two women.
“You’ve got the recording,” Acid told him. “So I’m going to put my gun down, and I’m going to leave. Deal? Nice and easy. No fuss.”
Banjo raised his head. “And you trust me not to kill you as soon as you do?”
“Well, like I said, I don’t care. But that monstrosity will make a lot of noise. Draw attention to you.” She glanced at the floor. “You don’t need that. Let me go, you can handle this in a much quieter way. Tell Caesar you killed me, if it helps. I mean it, you won’t hear from me again. No one will.”
“What the hell are you playing at?” Spook rasped next to her.
Acid didn’t respond. Banjo’s finger quivered on the trigger of the Luger. Seconds passed.
“Fine,” he said at last. “Put the gun down and piss off.”
Acid gave it a beat, she looked at the floor and closed her eyes. Then she raised her gun in the air along with her other hand. With eyes still on Banjo, she went down on one knee. Then slowly, deliberately, she lowered her gun to the floor, handling it as though it were made of glass. She didn’t breathe. A second would be all it took.
“You have lost it,” Banjo sneered. “You stupid c—”
He didn’t finish his sentence.
He didn’t get chance.
Acid grabbed for the bedsheet draped across the floor – the one Banjo was standing on – and yanked it towards her. Banjo flung his hands in the air and released a shot into the ceiling as he toppled backwards. His arms flailed about as he tried to regain his balance but it was too late. As the floor fell away from him, Acid launched herself forward, catching him with a sharp elbow to the solar plexus and barging him out through the open window. He cried out, grasped for something to hold on to but found nothing. Acid gave him another shove before grabbing his legs and flipping him over the top of the Juliet balcony. He looked at her with sheer terror in his eyes as she released his legs and watched him fall.
He screamed all the way down. Three floors.
Seconds later Spook joined Acid at the window and the two women leaned out to see Banjo’s broken body lying on a pile of rubbish bags in the alley.
“Three down,” Spook gasped. “How many more of them are there?”
Acid stared down at Banjo. Her friend. “Enough,” she said quietly. An image of Caesar flashed into her mind and she wondered how he’d react to this development – another of his top operatives dead by her hands. She almost felt sorry for him. After all they’d been through together, she never imagined it would be her who’d destroy his life’s work. She closed the window. One thing was certain, he was about to throw everything he had at her.
It was time to disappear.
For good.
Thirty-Three
Spook stayed at the window for a minute, catching her breath and focusing on not bursting into tears. She’d been uncharacteristically flippant just now – taking a leaf out of Acid’s book – but it hadn’t helped to alleviate her anxiety. She continued to s
tare down at the man in the alley. The fourth man who’d tried to kill her in as many days. He looked so weird lying there, with one of his pipe-cleaner legs twisted up behind him. He was reminiscent of a Wes Anderson character, Spook thought, or a Quentin Blake drawing, though much more chilling.
Calmer now, she turned back into the room to see Acid sitting on the bed examining the gun that the man had dropped.
“You know, I almost thought you were going to screw me over,” Spook told her. “But no. You saved my life. Again.”
“Yeah, well, don’t make me regret it,” Acid said, peering down the gun barrel, then chucking it on the bed. “Get your stuff together and let’s get to the airport. We aren’t out of the woods yet.”
Acid got off the bed and pulled her black hooded sweatshirt over her head, followed by her leather jacket. She glared at Spook, still in her pants and t-shirt.
“Jesus Christ. You’re standing there like people aren’t trying to kill you. We need to split. Now.” She moved over to the door. “I’m going to check the corridor, see if there’s another way down. Get dressed and meet me outside in one minute.”
She paused, about to say something else, but thought better of it. She pointed to Spook’s clothes then held up a finger. One minute. Then she slipped out the door and closed it behind her.
The second Spook heard the click of the latch, she collapsed onto the bed and screamed into the pillow – a long, powerful scream that came from deep down inside of her. She wasn’t entirely sure what was behind it – frustration maybe, or just plain old fear – but it seemed to help. She sat up and wiped her eyes on the bedspread. Then she gathered up her clothes from where they’d been strewn and put them on.
Acid was at the end of the corridor as Spook exited the hotel room and let the door shut behind her. Unnoticed, she watched as Acid inspected a large window opposite the elevator before sliding it open. A gentle breeze lifted her hair and blew it over her shoulders. Spook let out a long deliberate breath. Then she swung her rucksack onto both shoulders and started down the corridor as Acid climbed out the window.
The Acid Vanilla Series Page 17