Agency O

by Tor Fleck

  ‘Hawd yer fuckin horses!’ yelled George as he unbolted the locks from inside.

  ‘Lock the door,’ said Paul, pushing past his dad into the hallway.

  ‘Whit?’

  ‘Lock. The. Door.’ Paul dropped the booze in the hallway and ran into the living room, his dad trailing him, nonplussed. ‘See that car?’ Paul said, holding the lace curtains open just enough for George to see out.

  ‘Aye?’

  ‘Do you recognise it?’

  ‘It’s an Audi S4. Nice motor if you’ve got the cash tae splash. 0-60 in – ’

  ‘I mean, is it one of the neighbours’ cars?’

  George looked at it more closely. ‘I’ve no seen it afore. Naebody roon here’s flush enough tae afford wan o’ they. Could be a mate o’ wee Boab’s boy though. He’s intae aw sorts.’ He stopped and looked over at Paul. ‘Ye dinnay think this is yer stalker, dae ye?’

  ‘We can’t take any chances,’ said Paul. ‘Not if – ’

  BRRING BRRING! BRRING BRRING!

  George grabbed his chest. ‘Fuck me, ah nearly shat masel.’ The ringing of the phone brought Jean through from the kitchen. ‘I suppose I’ll answer that myself, shall I?’ she said tartly and passed through into the hall. A moment later she was back. ‘Paul, it’s for you,’ she said. ‘A Tom Fleck?’

  ‘Tor Fleck?’ Paul asked, his voice far higher pitched than he’d intended.

  ‘Aye, that might be it,’ said Jean. ‘He sounded a bit foreign.’

  Paul felt his chest tighten as he entered the hall and picked up the receiver.

  ‘Hello?’ The line hissed with static.

  ‘Hello?’ Paul repeated, more agitated this time. ‘Who is this?’ The line crackled, but there was still no answer.

  ‘Listen to me, you fucking bastard!’ raged Paul. ‘You threaten my parents again and I will fucking end you, you cunt!’

  The line clicked and went dead.

  ‘That car’s away,’ said George when Paul re-joined him in the living room. ‘It just buggered off a minute ago.’ He looked closely at his son. ‘I heard ye rantin an ravin at yer man on the phone there. Whit did he want?’

  ‘Nothin.’

  ‘Fuckin coward.’

  ‘George!’ Jean scowled at her husband. ‘Language.’ She turned to Paul, ‘Who is this … whit’s his name … Tor?’

  ‘Just some clown I can’t be bothered with,’ said Paul.

  ‘Well, you sounded right annoyed with him.’

  ‘He borrowed some LPs from me and never gave them back,’ Paul lied. ‘He’s a bloody thief.’

  Paul’s room was pretty much as he’d left it, the day he’d started uni. His parents had preserved it, almost like a shrine, and it made him feel a little sad and nostalgic. It had been his castle when he was younger, and now he had to defend that castle, and the occupants in it. He’d intended to sit up all night at the window, but the Himalayan-sized plate of mince and tatties he’d had for dinner, followed by his mum’s artery-curdling apple pie and ice-cream, had totally drained him. He climbed into his old bed and squeezed under the tightly tucked duvet. The mattress wrapped around him like an old familiar friend, and within seconds he’d lost himself to sleep.

  He awoke to a presence in the room. It was his dad, standing over him, shotgun in hand.

  ‘Jesus, Dad, what are you doing?’ Paul mumbled through the fog of sleep.

  ‘There’s somebody in the gairden,’ whispered George. ‘C’mon.’ He gestured for Paul to follow him.

  Paul dressed quickly, his adrenalin pumping, and padded downstairs after his dad. ‘Who is it?’ he asked, hoping for a simple answer. Wee toe-rags raiding the crab apples, maybe?

  ‘Shh!’

  When they reached the kitchen, George stopped. ‘Listen,’ he said. Paul held his breath. Other than the ticking of the clock above the fridge he couldn’t hear a thing. ‘Dad, I don’t think – ’

  George stepped fully into the kitchen. ‘Right, that’s it!’ he hollered, his patience worn. ‘I’ve got a weapon here! Ye’ve got ten seconds tae git the fuck oot o’ ma gairden! Whit’s it tae be?’ Again … nothing. George crossed to the back door and eased back the bolt.

  ‘What are you doing?’ whispered Paul in alarm. George turned and put a finger to his lips. Turning back, he threw open the door and pushed his shotgun out into the garden. ‘A’m tooled up, ya bastard!’ he roared. ‘So get tae fuck!’

  There was nobody there.

  ‘Where’d the wee cunt go?’ George muttered, stepping out onto the path and swinging the gun from side to side.

  Paul ran across the kitchen in a crouch and peered out into the night. ‘Dad! Come back!’ There were no lights in the back garden, and no sign of his dad. Christ, what if he – Just then the front door rattled violently. ‘Dad!’ Panicking, Paul ran back across the kitchen and into the hallway, running into his mum at the foot of the stairs.

  Jean tightened her dressing gown. ‘What in God’s name is all this commotion?’ There was another sudden banging at the door, and she jumped. ‘Who’s that at this time o’ night?’

  ‘Get back upstairs, Mum,’ Paul insisted.

  ‘Will I hell,’ said Jean. ‘Whoever that is, is getting a piece o’ my mind.’

  ‘Mum, no!’ Paul shouted, but Jean turned the lock anyway and opened the door. Paul leapt in front of her, just as his dad stepped in.

  ‘It’s me, ya bampot!’ said George.

  ‘Jesus Christ, George,’ said Jean. ‘What the hair oil are you doing out there?’ In times of crisis, Jean liked to invent new phrases. ‘And what’s that?’ she asked, pointing at the gun. Before George could answer, a brick smashed through the living room window, spraying glass all over the sofa and the floor and landing on the TV.

  ‘Fuckin wee bastard!’ roared George and ran out the front door.

  ‘Get upstairs, Mum!’ Paul insisted, ‘Go!’ Pushing Jean out of the way, Paul rushed after his dad. He found him in the middle of the road, aiming the gun at the tail-lights of a car racing away from him. A couple of hundred yards down the street, the car screeched through a handbrake turn and came roaring back towards the bungalow, its headlights blinding. George raised the gun and pointed it directly at the windscreen. He was about to pull the trigger when Paul ran at him and pushed him out the way. The shotgun blasted into the air, the pellets peppering the branches of a neighbour’s tree. The car roared past, narrowly missing them both as they rolled across the tarmac. The car squealed to a halt. With a crunch of gears, it reversed back up the street towards them again.

  ‘For fuck sake,’ groaned George. Paul hauled him to his feet, just as the car screamed past them, reversing all the way to the end of the road. As it carried out a manic three point turn, George cocked the shotgun and loaded up again.

  ‘No, Dad!’ Paul pleaded. But his father was like a man possessed. As the car made its final screech and turn, George aimed at its tyres. Before he could fire, however, the car bumped over the kerb, raced out of the street, and was gone.

  ‘Bastards!’ hollered George.

  The neighbour whose tree George had hit – Danny McLintock - chose that moment to open his front door and peer out, a fur coat thrown over his XXL pyjamas.

  ‘Is that you, George?’ he shouted across the street.

  ‘Aye, Danny,’ said George. ‘It’s me all right.’

  Danny crossed the road. ‘Whit’s goin on?’ he asked, doing up his buttons.

  ‘Some bampot’s tryin tae dae us over. Nice coat, by the way. Somethin ye want tae tell us?’

  ‘Shut it,’ said Danny. ‘Oh hello, Paul. I didnae recognise ye there.’

  ‘Hey, Danny.’

  ‘Are ye both okay?’

  ‘We saw them off,’ said George.

  ‘Aye, you did that,’ said Danny, yawning. ‘An ye shot ma bloody tree.’

  ‘Sorry about that,’ said George. ‘I was aimin for the bastard in the car.’

  ‘Christ, they Argies must have been shittin themselves when
they saw the Balloch tree killer comin,’ laughed Danny.

  ‘Did you get a look at them?’ asked Paul, eager to interrupt this absurdly casual banter.

  ‘No really,’ said George. ‘He was wearin wan a they bunnets, ye know, pulled aw the way doon. But I bet he saw ma little friend.’ He held up the gun, causing Danny to duck. ‘There must have been two o’ them though; wan drivin and wan shittin himself runnin awa. They’ll no be back in a hurry, believe me.’

  ‘I’m so sorry, Dad,’ said Paul, his hands shaking. ‘This is my mess.’

  George shook his head. ‘Och, awa wae ye. Tae be honest, this is a lot mair interestin than vegetatin in front o’ Coronation Street. C’mon. Ye look like you could use a wee snifter. We’ll see ye in the mornin, Danny. We’ll git the rest o’ the troops the gither fur a pow-wow, eh?’

  ‘So am no gettin a snifter, is that it?’ said Danny. ‘Despite bein totally bereft efter ye murdered ma tree.’

  ‘Nice try, neebur,’ said George. ‘Noo … fuck off!’

  ‘Hasta manana then,’ grinned Danny, and crossed to his house. In the doorway, he glanced back over his shoulder. ‘It wis gid seein ye again, Paul!’ A second later he’d slipped back inside.

  Paul found his mum in the living room, sweeping up the broken glass with a dustpan and brush. ‘Let me do that, Mum,’ he said, but she pushed him away without a word. He wandered over to the TV. There was a dent in its side, but the screen was okay.

  George came in with a large whisky. ‘Get that doon ye,’ he said, handing Paul the glass. ‘I’ve one here for you too, Jean.’ Jean ignored him, and carried on sweeping. ‘Jean!’ George repeated.

  ‘I don’t want that thing back in the house, George,’ said Jean, not looking up.

  ‘Och, awa wi ye, wummin,’ said George. ‘It’s no a real wan. It only fires blanks. It’s fur scarin the craws mair than onythin else.’ An outright lie, but a necessary one.

  ‘Yer father still thinks he’s in the forces,’ said Jean. She turned to her husband. ‘Well, you’re too old, George. I’m too old. I’m done worryin if the man I love is going to come home in one piece.’

  ‘They’re toe-rags, love!’ laughed George. ‘The Argies would have eaten them fur breakfast.’

  ‘Well, I think we should call the police.’

  George held up his hands. ‘Jean, Jean, listen,’ he said. ‘Me an Danny are gettin the troops the gither the morra tae sort oot our home security. It’ll aw be fine. I promise.’

  ‘No the bloody neighbourhood watch, surely? You lot are like Dad’s Army.’

  ‘The Home Guard,’ agreed George. ‘Exactly!’

  Jean laid the pan and brush down. ‘I’m going to bed. Goodnight, Paul. Your dad’s aff his bloody heed.’ Halfway up the stairs she stopped and turned. ‘I’ll let you and Captain Mainwairing there tidy up the rest o’ this mess.’

  ‘Everything’s fine, Jean,’ said George, hoping to reassure her. ‘I’ll be up in a minute.’

  ‘And lock the bloody doors!’ Jean shouted back as she slammed her own behind her.

  ‘She’ll be fine,’ said George with a nod. Paul was unconvinced.

  When Paul stirred, it was past lunchtime. George was already in the kitchen, brewing up. ‘Ah,’ he said with a grin, ‘the living dead finally arise.’

  ‘Afternoon,’ said Paul through a yawn. ‘Sorry, I must have passed out.’

  ‘Yer mither’s no in, but she’s left us some bacon butties.’

  Paul snatched up a sandwich from the plate and bit into it. ‘God, Dad, she’s a bloody slave.’

  ‘Aye,’ agreed George, ‘but a bloody guid yin.’

  Paul sipped at the tea George had nudged in front of him. ‘I can’t go on with all this shit, Dad,’ he said, putting the mug down. ‘It’s doin ma nut in.’

  ‘Listen, pal,’ said George. ‘These arseholes are bullies. Two fingers and two barrels, that’s whit they need.’ He bit into his own sandwich. ‘Dinny worry. We can look after oorselves here. We’ve been through a lot worse. Remember they dealers that took over number 33?’

  ‘Aye,’ said Paul, ‘but that was a while ago. You’re not a young soldier anymore.’

  ‘I’m an old an wise soldier,’ smiled George. ‘An there are four o’ us on this street. An anyway … a brick? Come on. Total fuckin amateur hour. If they think I’m aff ma heed, just wait till they meet the McRae twins. An then there’s Mr Grearson … and his wife!’ They both laughed. He leaned closer to Paul. ‘You keep going, son. Don’t let those bastards destroy yer dream.’ He glanced down at Paul’s half-eaten sandwich. ‘D’ye want that?’ he asked, but before Paul could reply, he’d snaffled it up.

  Paul didn’t wait for his mother to get back. Instead, he said his goodbyes to his dad, promising to ring every night.

  ‘Ocht, awa an don’t be daft,’ said George. ‘Just ring yer mithir later on, otherwise she’ll be oan at me aw night fur lettin you go.’ He took a hold of his son’s shoulders. ‘Noo listen. No surrender, okay?’ Paul shook his head and gave his dad a hug, and for once his dad let him.

  At the gate, Paul turned. ‘Thanks, Dad,’ he said, raising his fist.

  ‘You’ll miss yer train!’ George shouted back, and shook his own.

  13

  Moscow, 5th October, 7.08pm

  Convinced the security arrangements for the oligarch’s unexpected visit are water-tight, Dimitri Pasternak, the flustered manager of the Moscow State Opera, checks his watch for the umpteenth time, takes a deep breath, and steps out to face the waiting crowd and huddled paparazzi. A burst of camera flashes momentarily blinds him, and for a split second he wishes he was at home with Yuri, sharing a hot bath and a bottle of Stolichnaya. But he has a job to do, and so he smiles and waves and descends the red carpeted stairs like the paid lackey he is, engaging in mindless small talk with local dignitaries and bug-eyed fools lined up to greet the great Oleg Petrov. He’s interrupted by the arrival of a long black limousine, from which steps an inscrutable and immaculately dressed driver, who opens the door for Russia’s third-richest man and most eligible bachelor. Petrov is rocking a smart suit and sneakers look, his heavily bleached Hollywood smile well practised. The crowd of mostly young women scream and cheer – ‘He looked at me!’ ‘No, he looked at ME!’ – as the paparazzi click incessantly to catch a half-decent shot of the icon. Two shaven-headed brutes, shaped like fridge-freezers, exit the car behind Petrov and flank him as he approaches Dimitri. The flimsy barrier separating Petrov from the rows of perspiring, oestrogen-fuelled WAGS threatens to topple any second, a fact the fridge-freezers pick up on immediately. They sweep Petrov brusquely towards the opera house entrance where he greets Dimitri with a firm, farmer-like handshake.

  ‘It is a pleasure and a privilege to meet you, Mr Petrov,’ says Dimitri, trying not to sound too ingratiating. ‘Thank you for coming.’

  ‘Where do we go?’ asks Petrov, expediency trumping politesse.

  ‘Please.’ Dimitri directs Petrov into the opera house, leaving the fridge-freezers to guard the door. Inside, he introduces Petrov to the hastily-assembled staff, some of them still tucking in their creased uniforms. Petrov shakes their hands perfunctorily and moves along the line quickly, eager to get to his seat and get the evening over with. At the bottom of a grand, gold-leaf covered staircase, Production Director Sven Edberg rushes from a side door, heading straight for Petrov. From nowhere, a third fridge-freezer – this one wearing sunglasses and a Schwarzenegger scowl – appears and manhandles Edberg to one side.

  ‘No, no,’ says Dimitri, intervening. ‘This is the director of tonight’s opera.’

  Schwarzenegger seems reluctant to let Edberg go, but eventually does. Flustered, Edberg straightens his bow tie and flattens his hair. Petrov, meanwhile, unleashes a torrent of abuse, in Russian, at his unbowed guard. ‘My apologies,’ he tells Edberg with the smallest of nods. ‘My men, they are not usually so … how do you say … pig-headed.’

  ‘That’s quite alright,’ replies Edberg, alth
ough it clearly isn’t.

  ‘There are many people who wish me ill will,’ continues Petrov. ‘I fear my life parallels one of your wonderful operas, Mr Edberg.’ He laughs and is joined by Dimitri, but Sven is not impressed. ‘If you will excuse me, Mr Petrov,’ he says. ‘I have some last minute preparations to attend to.’ Retreating with a curt nod, he returns backstage.

  Dimitri ushers Petrov and Schwarzenegger upstairs to the Royal Box. It’s usually reserved for heads of state and other high-ranking officials, but Dimitri feels its usage tonight is justified. A nervous usherette bows repeatedly as the entourage approaches.

  ‘The curtain please!’ Dimitri clicks his fingers, snapping the usherette out of her star-struck trance. She pulls back the curtain and Petrov slips inside, followed by Dimitri. Schwarzenegger pushes the usherette away from the entrance and takes her place.

  ‘The finest seats in the house, Mr Petrov,’ Dimitri says proudly, inviting Petrov to sit.

  The audience, Moscow’s glitterati, file in, jewellery and teeth gleaming under the lights of the giant chandelier. There are gasps and murmurs, nods and pointing, as Petrov is spotted high above them. The three Romanov sisters, direct descendants of the last Tsar, are perched on the edge of their seats in the less showy Grand Box opposite Petrov. One of them raises her champagne glass in Petrov’s direction, smiling seductively at the oligarch. The identical triplets, much to Petrov’s dismay and growing impatience, have pursued him with romantic intent for more than five years. He waves them away dismissively, sighs, and flops back in his seat. He’d offered the theatre a substantial sum for a private performance of Edberg’s opera at his country estate, but the temperamental Swede had refused to play ball.

  ‘Champagne and caviar is on its way, sir,’ purrs Dimitri.