The Acid Vanilla Series

by Matthew Hattersley

  “So what you do, that you so miserable?”

  “You don’t want to know. Believe me.”

  “Try me. You know, I speak to all sorts in this cab. Politicians, gangsters. Hey, some would say they the same, right?” It was a well-rehearsed line, one he’d used many times before. He followed it up with a loud laugh.

  “All right,” she said, fixing him dead in the eye. “I’m a hired killer. Or at least I was. It was my job for sixteen years. I killed people for a living.” She gave it a beat, let that sink in. “But don’t you be telling a single person, Pieter Mazur, you hear me? Because I’d know it was you. And I’d find you.” She leaned forward in her seat, lowering her voice an octave. “You see, normally I kill without a trace. But I can make it a long, drawn-out affair if I need to. Lots of blood. Lots of screaming. That is, until I cut your tongue out and stuff it down your throat.”

  Pieter gripped both hands on the steering wheel. “You bullshit me, right?”

  She kept her eyes on his, employing the dead-eyed stare she’d perfected over the years. It said, I don’t bullshit about things like this. It said, Don’t fuck with me.

  Pieter swallowed hard, eyes fluttering between the road and the rear-view mirror. “No problem. I swear I not say a word. To anyone.”

  Acid winked. “Good boy.”

  She watched out the window as the last of the red-brick terrace houses merged into the high-rise developments of the city centre. Her thoughts turned to Davros Ratpack, her one-time ally, her one-time friend. She had assumed – stupidly, perhaps – that she’d feel some closure right now. Satisfaction, even. She’d killed one of the bastards who’d murdered her mum, and who wanted her dead. Yet all she felt was numb.

  Those thoughts left her and she closed her eyes. Her heart was beating fast, the vein in her neck ready to burst. Under Spook’s watch, she’d been taking care of herself these last few months. Trying to, at least. But she knew too well she could tip over the edge in a second. A righteous mission of vengeance had seemed so simple in her mind. But maybe that was the problem. Life rarely worked out the way you planned it, even for a highly trained assassin. It seemed the further away reality got from the expectations in her head, the harder it was to cope. Seeing Spitfire hadn’t helped.

  The cab turned the corner towards her hotel. Another few hours and she’d be in the air. A few more and she’d be back at the house. Home.

  For now.

  Eleven

  Acid zipped up her jacket and huddled down against the hard wooden bench for warmth. It was a futile move, done out of instinct rather than any actual sense of logic. But wasn’t that the story of her life? The streets of Dagenham were cold and wet and deserted this Tuesday morning. But that was usual. Whenever she made the pilgrimage here to her old house, a static aura of negative energy seemed to hang low in the sky. She came often. To sit. To think. To talk to her mum.

  Closing her eyes, Acid settled herself in the moment. Like always when she came, she started by telling Louisa how sorry she was. How she wished she'd done more. How she missed her.

  "And I'm sorry you ended up alone and nameless," she whispered, dabbing at her heavily mascaraed eyes with the curve of her index finger. “I did everything I could, but it would have been too risky.”

  All available records showed Louisa Vandella’s only daughter had died in 2001. Meaning Acid couldn’t take ownership of her mum’s remains. With no apparent next of kin her body had been buried in what was still referred to as a pauper’s grave. Though with space now at a premium, Acid had discovered the reality was her beautiful mum had been dumped in a mass grave. Without even a marker to commemorate her burial. Or her life. Or the fact she’d lived at all. It felt like a final knife in Acid’s heart.

  “I’m doing all right though, Mum,” she whispered at the house opposite. “Don’t you worry about me. Doing the best I can, at least, the best I know. I got one of them for you. Gutted the evil bastard.”

  She looked up at what was once their front room. The window was open a touch, and on the other side of the glass, curtains swayed in the breeze, off-white with a pattern of tiny pink flowers in perpendicular rows. Pleasant enough. Homely.

  Not for the first time, Acid wondered why she came here. It wasn’t like they were happy in this house. They’d struggled. Not to mention the fact it was where her mum had been attacked. Where she’d killed Oscar Duke and set off the bloody chain of events that created Acid Vanilla. She had no regrets or hang-ups about what she’d done but, regardless, the place held no joyful nostalgia.

  She was about to leave when she felt her phone rumble in her pocket. She pulled it out and checked Caller ID, half-expecting it to be Spook and ready to ignore the call. But it was a number she didn’t recognise. She let it ring one more time, then answered.

  “Acid?” a gruff Irish voice asked. “That you?”

  She smiled to herself. “Sure is. How are you doing, Dullahan? Sorry – old habits. How are you doing, Jimmy? I still find that weird, to be honest.”

  “You’re the one still calling herself Acid fecking Vanilla. You not think that’s weird? It was his name for ya.”

  Acid sat upright. “No, it wasn’t. I chose the name. It’s who I am.”

  Jimmy chortled to himself. “Fair enough. I didn’t ring to discuss monikers.”

  She was about to ask him who Monica was but thought better of it. There was a time and place. “Do you have news on Caesar?” she asked instead.

  “Not exactly.”

  She got up from the bench and began the walk back to the Tube station. “What does that mean?”

  “I’ve got news for ya, but not about the big man. I have Spitfire Creosote’s location.”

  “Oh? I see.”

  “Aye. My source tells me he’s in Hanoi. Working with some new underground organisation. From the sound of it he’s going to be there a few days yet. Probably more. He’s a sitting duck, so he is.”

  Acid didn’t reply straight away. She got to the corner of Reede Road and Heathway and stopped. “I want Caesar.”

  “You want all of them, don’t ya?”

  She leaned against the wall of a newsagent and poked at an old Coke can with the toe of her boot. “Yeah, I do. But if I take him down, the rest will fall a lot easier. Kill the head and the body will die, sort of thing.”

  “Bullshit. You telling me you wouldn’t jump at this chance if it was anyone else but him?”

  She kicked the can into the road. “What the hell do you mean?”

  “It’s no secret to me, lassie. You and James Bland had a fling, didn’t ya? A few years back?”

  “A few years? Try twelve.”

  “Way I heard it, it was serious. Love, some might say.”

  “Fuck off.”

  Acid scoffed audibly at the suggestion, but for whose benefit she wasn’t sure. Her mind drifted back over the years. Their first assignment together. Her first time in New York. It felt like a whole lifetime ago now. She was a different person back then. So was he. It was a whole other world.

  “Hanoi is a long way. You sure it’s him?”

  The line went silent but for heavy breathing. She pictured The Dullahan, his malevolent stare stripping her of all humanity.

  “It’s him, all right,” he snarled. “So I suggest you get yourself on the next flight over there and kill that poncey prick. Ya hear me?”

  “Why do you care so much?”

  “That fecker shot up my house. No one walks into my domain and starts his own war. I want him dead. Ya hear me? You kill Spitfire and I’ll help you find the rest of them. If not, you’re on your own.”

  Acid set off walking again, talking as she went. “Fine,” she told him. “I’ll do it.”

  “Good girl. I knew you hadn’t gone soft like everyone said.”

  The words stung. But they were meant to. She composed herself before she replied. “Can you email me everything you’ve got from your source?”

  “Already sent it a few seconds ago. A
link to a secure site where you’ll find all you need.”

  Acid reached Dagenham Heathway Tube station and stood under the concrete awning as rain began to fall. She looked out into the dreariness of East London. “Well I guess a few days in Hanoi won’t hurt. Might be fun.”

  Jimmy laughed. “That’s the Acid Vanilla I know. God speed and all that shite. I’ll speak to ya once it’s done.”

  Twelve

  Acid arrived back to the house an hour later and put her head around the door of the front room. It was empty. An atmosphere of dead air hung about the place. As though no souls had been here all day. She checked the kitchen. Same.

  “Spook,” she called out. “Are you in?”

  Upstairs, she followed the landing around to Spook's room at the far end and laid her ear against the door. No sound. She eased open the door and peered around. The curtains were drawn and the last burst of afternoon sun shone through the thin orange material, casting the room in a warm glow.

  Acid moved inside and perched on the edge of the unmade single bed. It was the first time she’d set foot in Spook’s room since they’d taken on the lease. That was more than six months ago. The place smelt musty. Clothes and takeaway cartons littered the carpet. On the wall Spook had pinned up a selection of typical film posters. Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind. The Life Aquatic. An enormous Overwatch poster was tacked above the bed - a computer game, from what Acid could gather.

  Under the window was a cheap desk, on top of which stood Spook’s new Linux-running hard drive and two monitors. Acid walked over and ran her finger over the keyboard. The set-up was adequate, but they needed more. Having The Dullahan on-side would be a big help. Spook had found Davros, but it had been a fluke. The more time went by, the more chance Caesar had to strike back. He might be telling the world Acid Vanilla was dead but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t send his own operatives after her. You could only be a thorn in someone’s side for so long. Eventually you had to take the initiative and slice the evil bastard in two.

  She left Spook’s room and retraced her steps back to her own bedroom. Although calling this stark space a bedroom was generous. A room with a bed was the most you’d get away with. But for Acid it was a self-imposed isolation chamber. A prison cell of contemplation and contrition. A crucible for her thoughts and plans of revenge. Most of her days and nights were spent here, sat at her leather-topped desk with the seven bullets in front of her. Set up perpendicular in a row, like tiny metal soldiers, steel totems of her rage. Seven shining tributes to her desire for retribution. She held them up to the light, ran them between her fingers. They helped sharpen her confused wrath into something more useable.

  “Hey, it’s me. You home?”

  Spook’s voice carried up the stairs and Acid moved over to the door. Her first instinct was to shut it. Bolt it. But she stopped herself. She was being unfair, she knew that. Ever since the two women had moved into the small rental property in St John’s Wood, Acid had been particularly hostile and unsociable. But six months ago she’d been an assassin, a hired killer, answerable to no one but Caesar. It would take more time for her to adjust to this unfamiliar world of friendship and trust.

  She heard footsteps on the stairs. A moment later Spook popped her head around the door. “So you are home?”

  Sat on the edge of the bed, Acid unlaced and took off her boots. "I wouldn't call this home, would you?"

  “You know what I mean.”

  Acid turned to see her. Spook’s hair had grown long since they’d been here. Today she had it styled in two cute little plaits. She’d also gotten new glasses. They were large and blue, similar to the ones Acid had worn on the Cerberix job. She didn’t mention them, but watched Spook glance around the box room and saw the place now from her perspective. It was a far cry from Acid’s old place. No artwork hung from the walls. No ornaments or plants on any of the surfaces. There wasn’t even a lamp. There wasn’t even a light shade.

  “Do you want anything to eat?” Spook asked.

  Acid let out a long, deliberate sigh. The sort she’d been doing a lot recently. She couldn’t help herself. It meant, Leave me alone. Piss off.

  Spook ignored it. “Come on,” she said. “It’s not healthy being cooped up in here twenty-four-seven.”

  "Look, Spook, I'm busy," she snapped, moving over to the wardrobe. She swung the doors wide, revealing the seven bullets on the shelf. A reminder of her goal. A reminder of the single-minded focus she'd need to achieve it. To the detriment of all others. Her shoulders sagged. She turned to Spook. “Look, kid, I’m sorry I’ve been such a bitch. But you knew this was the deal. I’ve got a lot to work through.”

  “Yes. And I understand. But don’t shut me out.”

  Spook’s expression was a blend of worry and bewilderment, with more than a touch of care and concern bubbling under the surface. At least, that’s what Acid assumed. Being gifted either of those emotions was a novel experience for her.

  “Give me five minutes and I’ll join you downstairs, okay? We’ll get takeout. My treat.”

  Spook frowned, but slunk out the door. Acid waited until she heard footsteps on the stairs then turned her attention back to the wardrobe. Back to the shelf. To the bullets. She reached inside and picked up the bullet marked ‘Spitfire’. She held it up between thumb and index finger, feeling the sharp point pressing into her flesh.

  “I guess I’ll see you in Hanoi,” she whispered. She brought the bullet to her lips, kissed it gently and replaced it on the shelf. Finally she took hold of the bullet marked ‘Davros’ and laid it flat. Like one might do to a king in chess. Then she shut the wardrobe, and went downstairs.

  Thirteen

  Spook was watching Netflix on her laptop when Acid joined her in the front room, arriving via a brief detour of the kitchen to get herself a beer. One for Spook as well. A peace offering.

  “Here you go.” She shoved the beer at her. “What are you watching?”

  Spook took the bottle from her, but not her eyes from the screen. “A documentary, about cults. It’s pretty good.”

  Acid rolled her eyes. “I think I’ll pass. I’ve had enough of cults to last a lifetime.”

  Spook looked at her. Closed the laptop. “Is that how you see it?”

  “Maybe. Sort of. Doesn’t matter, does it? I’m out. And soon they’ll all be dead.” She widened her eyes and grinned manically, making Spook look away.

  “What do you do up there anyway, with those bullets?”

  Acid picked at the label on her beer bottle. “Nothing much. I wait, mainly.”

  “Wait for what?”

  “Not sure.”

  Spook didn’t look any less perturbed. “Do you want to talk about Manchester?”

  “Nothing to talk about. I did what I went there for. Davros is dead.” She took a gulp of the beer. “Now I’m ready for the next one.”

  Despite the silence that followed, it was clear her housemate had something else to say. More waiting. Acid sank back into the lumpy, uneven couch and looked around the room. At the drab furniture, the yellowing walls and curtains, the eighties fireplace. What the hell was she doing here? She swigged another mouthful of beer, letting it fizz on her tongue. The malty aroma penetrated her sinuses. She’d been taking it easy on the drink these last few months – an attempt to get her head and body fighting fit – but, boy, did it taste good. And it sure took the edge off living in this shithole.

  “I was hoping you might have got it out of your system,” Spook ventured at last. “The killing, I mean. This crazy revenge mission.”

  Acid sneered. Didn’t look at Spook. She’d expected something like this from her, hence why she’d stayed up in her room for most of the last few weeks.

  “Well, I haven’t,” she told her. “I’m only just starting. Why I came down actually. I’ve got something to tell you. I’m going to Hanoi tomorrow. For a week. Maybe longer.”

  “Hanoi? As in Vietnam?”

  “No, Spook, Hanoi in South London.
Do you know it?” She glared at her. “Yes. Vietnam.”

  “Why?”

  “Why do you think? To continue my ‘crazy revenge mission.’” She eyeballed Spook until she looked away. “The guy who helped me up in Manchester, he’s called The Dullahan, he rang me earlier with some intel. Spitfire Creosote is over there setting up something for Caesar.”

  “Spitfire,” Spook repeated. “Isn’t he the one who…”

  “Yes.”

  Spook nodded.. “I see.”

  “Makes no difference to me.”

  “Is that so?” She sipped at her beer. “I wondered. After what happened in Berlin…”

  “I told you, that was a stupid wobble and it won’t happen again,” she told her, speaking fast, the words clipped. “I thought you might have offered some support. Guess I was wrong.”

  Spook sat forward, her face melting into a simpering look of compassion. Acid rolled her eyes. This kid.

  “I do support you, Sid. You know that. But I’m worried too. I still don’t think you’re back to your old self yet. I know I didn’t know you back then, but after everything that’s happened, maybe you aren’t as capable as you once were.” She held her hands up. “I’m not saying that’s bad. You’ve found your heart. Your conscience, even. Don’t knock it.”

  “Enough,” Acid barked. “And I don’t know how many times I have to tell you. Don’t call me Sid.”

  “Why don’t you like it?” Spook asked. “I think it sounds cool.”

  “Cooler than Acid?”

  “Well, no, but it’s more accessible. What if I need to shout across a room, get your attention? Acid sounds a little weird, no?”

  She leaned over. “What, weirder than Spook?”

  “I could call you Alice.”

  “No. Don’t start.”

  They drank in silence a few minutes. Both staring at the space in the far corner of the room where, if this was a proper home, a television might have stood.