Agency O

by Tor Fleck

  29

  At first light, Paul dragged his shivering and broken body back up the riverbank. Two students hurrying to their first lecture of the day spotted him navigating the fence like an escaped POW. ‘Rough night, pal?’ one of them laughed as they passed. But then they saw the state of Paul’s face and scurried off in fright.

  Paul had tried Richard’s number three more times in the night, but still he hadn’t answered. Paul needed to be sure his friend was safe. He decided to take the river path to Kelvinbridge, a roundabout, but safer, route for a wanted man. It enabled him to avoid the main drag. He could stick to side streets and lanes until he got home. At the junction near his flat he stopped and scanned the road. It was clear of police cars and uniforms but he couldn’t take any chances. Not at this late stage. He doubled back and headed up an adjacent street, entering his own block from the opposite side. He managed to sneak across the drying green between the tenements unseen, and slid in through the back door of the close. There, he stopped and squinted up the stairwell to his floor. It was deserted. A wave of relief washed over him. It didn’t last long. At the top of the stairs he found the door to his flat wide open.

  ‘Richard!’ Paul ran down the hall and into the living room, then doubled back and checked Richard’s bedroom. There was no sign of him, but his bed had been stripped and his wardrobe was empty. The drawers too had been cleared. Shit shit shit! The dishes in the kitchen sink looked as though they’d been there for days, yet when Paul touched the side of the kettle it was still warm. Where the fuck is he? He tried Richard’s number again but the line was dead. ‘Fuck!’

  THUMP! THUMP! THUMP! Maybe Mrs McGilvray knew where Richard was. THUMP! THUMP! THUMP! Her front door flew open, only it wasn’t the Mrs McGilvray of now, it was the Mrs McGilvray of thirty years ago: the same skeletal features and morose expression, her hair tied up in a bun like a foetal beehive. ‘Yes?’ barked the ‘young’ Mrs McGilvray, waving a sink plunger in Paul’s face.

  ‘Excuse me,’ said Paul, taking a step back. ‘Is Mrs McGilvray there?’

  ‘Who wants to know?’ ‘Young’ Mrs M rasped through her sphincter-like mouth.

  ‘I’m from next door,’ said Paul, pointing at his flat.

  ‘My mother passed away last Tuesday,’ said Mrs McGilvray’s daughter, barely a ripple of emotion registering on her face. ‘We’re clearing her flat for the sale.’

  ‘I’m so sorry to hear that,’ said Paul, genuinely surprised. Mrs McGilvray’s daughter didn’t flinch. ‘My condolences to your family,’ Paul added. ‘Sorry, it all seems so sudden. May I ask how she passed away?’

  ‘Electrocution.’ The word was said with prosaic precision. ‘Her hot water bottle leaked onto the electric blanket switch.’

  ‘A hot water bottle and an electric blanket?’

  ‘We’re a cold-blooded family,’ replied Mrs McGilvray’s daughter, in a manner that fully supported her words. ‘My father would have told you that, if he hadn’t … accidentally died.’ She sniffed. ‘The funeral is at the crematorium on Friday at two. No flowers.’

  ‘I understand,’ said Paul. ‘I just wondered if – ’ He never got to finish. With a curt nod, the ‘Cocoon’ version of Mrs McGilvray slammed the door shut and double-locked it.

  Back at the flat Paul re-checked Richard’s room. Maybe he’d left a note. Around the other side of the bed, he found a bulging holdall, half hidden beneath the frame. He yanked it out and unzipped it. It was crammed full of hastily-packed clothes. A flash of tweed caught Paul’s eye. He pushed his hand in deeper and pulled it out. It was rolled up, but he recognised it immediately: the Peaky Blinders flat cap. Paul’s entire body shivered as the truth became obvious: it was Richard all along. Evil bastard! He double bluffed me. And he fucking killed Alice! Paul’s rage boiled over. He threw the cap across the room and snatched up his phone, intending to have it out with Richard once and for all. But he stopped himself. No, he thought. That’s too easy. There’s a better way. He opened up his messages and carefully composed a text. It was time to end this.

  Alice is dead. I’m going to the caravan to get the master USB and destroy it. I can’t take any more.

  When he was sure the message had landed, Paul stuck the cap back in the holdall, zipped it up, and returned it to its original position beneath the bed. The trap was set, but would Richard take the bait?

  30

  It was already dark when Paul arrived in the village. The snow that had started as a flurry at the bus station in Oban was rapidly approaching blizzard strength. To add to the fun and games, the wind was whipping it into four or five foot drifts, making progress even more treacherous. Battling through the storm, Paul bypassed the hotel’s front door and slipped around the back, navigating his way along the lane that ran behind the caravan park. He’d managed to evade the transport police at the station and wasn’t going to blow his cover now. At a bend in the road he stopped and peered through a thick line of pine trees, shielding his eyes from the snowstorm peppering his face with bullets of ice. He could just make out the dim lights of the caravan park’s entrance, but the rest was blurred by a billowing cloud of white.

  By the time Paul reached the park’s boundary he was almost completely submerged under a thick layer of snow and ice. He may have resembled the abominable snowman, but he couldn’t have wished for better camouflage. The caravan was now only twenty feet in front of him. He crouched down behind a wall, folded his body into the snow that had built up behind it, and waited. Twenty minutes later the storm blew a final farewell and the clouds parted. A luminescent moon emerged from the pit black sky and bathed the snow-smothered caravan park in a cool grey light. Paul scanned the park’s entrance. There was still no sign of Richard, or anyone else for that matter. He stood up, stretched, and shook the accumulated snowdrift from off his head. Jesus, he shivered, it’s cold. He rubbed his hands together furiously to try and get his circulation going. Fuck it. He’d had enough of waiting. He climbed over the wall and crept up on the caravan, the blanket of snow helping to deaden the sound of his approach. When he reached the door he found it slung wide open. There was a window along the side wall. He snuck over and peered inside. Nothing. He crossed back to the door and stepped inside.

  Silence. It was as though the whole world had stopped breathing.

  Paul peered into the gloom, his arms raised in defence, just in case. His heart tripping, he slowly worked his way through the caravan: hallway, bathroom, bedroom. A noise at the rear of the bedroom made him jump and he threw open the wardrobe. ‘Come out, you fucking bas – !’ It was the electric meter, clicking through another cycle. And … breathe. Paul waited until his lungs had calmed down and carefully retraced his steps back outside. The park was still deserted. At the rear of the caravan he dropped to his knees. From behind one of the props holding up the frame he pulled out a small plastic bag. Inside was a USB stick, which he removed and dropped into his coat pocket. As he pulled himself up, he caught sight of a figure silhouetted by the open gate. His heart-rate doubling, Paul pushed back into the caravan’s shadows. Softly softly catchee Richard. The figure moved closer, the outline of a Peaky Blinders cap all too visible.

  ‘Gotcha, ya bastard!’ whispered Paul, retreating further behind the caravan. As the figure reached the caravan door, Richard’s profile emerged from the shadows, silhouetted by the light of the moon. Paul lunged at him, and they tumbled to the ground. ‘You fucker! Paul yelled, throwing punches wildly, until a fist connected with Richard’s jaw.

  ‘Wait!’ shouted Richard. But Paul was too far gone with rage to stop now. He continued punching Richard’s face until his friend’s nose exploded and blood sprayed out over his cheeks, spattering Paul’s knuckles.

  ‘Fuck sake, stop!’ Richard pleaded. In defence, he grabbed Paul’s wrist and bent it back as far as it would go. Paul screamed in pain. ‘Just fucking stop! Richard repeated, keeping the pressure on Paul’s wrist.

  ‘Let me fucking go,’ cried Paul, pain searing up his arm lik
e an executioner’s electric bolt.

  ‘I’ll let you go when you promise you won’t fucking attack me again,’ said Richard, blood streaming down his face.

  ‘Fuck you, you fucking traitor!’

  It wasn’t the answer Richard was looking for. He applied more pressure and elicited more screams. ‘Promise me!’ roared Richard.

  ‘Okay, okay,’ said Paul, holding up his free hand and submitting like a wrestler caught on the ropes. Richard released the pressure a little, but for insurance, didn’t let go completely. ‘I said I promise,’ said Paul. ‘Just let my fucking wrist go.’ Richard considered it briefly, then pushed him away.

  Paul rubbed at his throbbing wrist. ‘How could you do this to me, you cunt?’ he moaned.

  ‘How could you do this to me?’ Richard retorted, holding a hand up to his nose to stem the blood.

  ‘I’m going to do a lot more than that, believe me,’ Paul spat back.

  ‘You’re a bloody idiot.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’m trying to fucking save you,’ said Richard. ‘Save us both.’ He ran a finger up the bridge of his nose. ‘I think you’ve bloody broken it, by the way.’

  Paul didn’t say anything. He was glad he’d hurt him. The bastard deserved it.

  ‘I came to warn you,’ said Richard. ‘We need to get out of here, as in right now.’

  Paul snorted. ‘What … is Tor Fleck coming for us?’

  ‘I’m not the bad guy, Paul,’ said Richard. ‘Alice and Omni, they’re the bad guys. And we need to get the fuck out of here now before they find us.’

  ‘I’m supposed to trust you now, is that it?’

  Richard sighed. ‘I know you think I’m a cunt, but that’s because I needed you to think that. I needed you to believe I’d sold you up the Swannee and that I was with her, and them, so she’d let her guard down.’

  ‘Who, Alice?’

  ‘Something about her just didn’t add up. I was working on a way to trap her.’

  ‘Fucking crap. I fucking told you that over and over but you said nothing. That’s because you were fucking me over.’

  ‘I knew that if I told you what I was doing, you’d blow it. You’re useless at lying.’

  ‘Unlike you.’

  ‘I’m the actor, remember?’ said Richard. ‘I’m a trained liar.’

  ‘Bullshit,’ said Paul. ‘You just thought you’d come all this way in a fucking blizzard to save me? I’m the one who set a trap … for you, you fuckwitted cock-wipe.’

  Richard shook his head frantically. ‘You’ve got to believe me, Paul,’ he said. ‘I was getting closer to the truth, but when you got shot, I realised that Alice and the people she works for are capable of anything and we were in real trouble. But then she took you in and blocked me from getting to you.’

  ‘So why didn’t you reveal all then, if you were so fucking worried about me?’

  ‘I was scared. I am scared. It was too dangerous. I was way out of my depth and you were in no fit state to do a runner. All I could do was sit tight, play along, and wait till you were stronger.’

  Paul glanced away. ‘Yeah, well, she’s dead now,’ he said quietly, ‘so you don’t have to worry about her anymore.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Forensics are probably trying to scoop up what’s left of her right now.’

  ‘Oh, Jesus Christ,’ said Richard. ‘What the hell happened?’

  ‘Come on,’ scoffed Paul. ‘You’re telling me you know nothing about it?’

  Richard looked genuinely frightened. ‘It’s worse than I thought,’ he said in a low voice. ‘I should have – ’ Something whizzed past Richard’s head, causing him to glance up, just in time to see one of the caravan windows explode. ‘Fuck!’ he yelled, as shards of glass shot outwards towards them. He grabbed Paul’s arm, and dived round the side of the caravan. The two of them made a haphazard scramble for the park entrance, skidding and stumbling to find the path in the blank white void of the snowfall. TWANG! A crossbow quivered in a tree trunk directly in front of them. ‘Shit!’ yelled Paul, stumbling to his knees. Richard hauled him back to his feet and they ploughed on up the path, heading for the safety of the hotel. A third arrow ripped through Richard’s coat sleeve as it squealed past. It hurt like hell and he wanted to roar in anger and pain, but the adrenalin forced his body onwards, dragging Paul behind him towards the beckoning lights of the village.

  The icy slush on the road outside the hotel almost claimed the two of them, but they clung to one another like drunken skaters and all but fell through the front door of the saloon bar.

  The sudden commotion, and the sheer state of the pair who had caused it, surprised Duncan who seemed to forgot he was pouring a pint of beer until it spilled over and splattered onto his shoes. Shit and bugger! He quickly snapped back the pump and tipped half the contents of the overflowing pint down the sink before any more of it escaped. ‘What the hell’s all this?’ he growled, as he returned to the bar, wiping his hands on his trousers and acting as though nothing had happened. ‘Have you two been having a barney?’

  ‘You could say that,’ mumbled Paul.

  ‘And what in God’s name have you done to your nose?’ Duncan stared at Paul’s makeshift dressing that was now dangling from his cheek.

  ‘Shaving accident,’ huffed Paul. He peeled the plaster off and slapped it back on again.

  Duncan stepped out from behind the bar. ‘Jesus Christ, Richard, is that you? I haven’t seen you in years. Yer looking well.’ He winked at one of the ageing barflies nearby, who coughed into his pint. ‘So whit’s aw this aboot then? I thought you two were mates.’

  ‘So did I,’ said Paul.

  ‘We’re still mates,’ said Richard. ‘Don’t listen to him.’

  ‘Now we don’t want any trouble,’ warned Duncan. ‘And believe me, you don’t want any trouble from me. There’s many a deid Argie’ll tell ye that.’

  ‘Hypothetically speaking,’ asked Richard, ‘how long would it take the police to get here?’

  ‘Why exactly?’ asked Duncan, warily.

  ‘Cos there’s a maniac out there who thinks it’s fun to fire crossbow bolts at folk, that’s why exactly.’ He glanced over at Paul. ‘And since I’ve been hit, that maniac can’t be me.’ He braved a look at his damaged sleeve, but the sight of blood on the torn fabric made him wince. Paul screwed up his face. He still wanted Richard to be the enemy, but his mind was turning.

  ‘Woah, woah, woah,’ said Duncan. ‘I’m the only one with a license to threaten folks round here. One of the many perks of my training with the SAS.’

  Richard wasn’t sure even the beast of a man towering over him was capable of stopping the threat lurking outside. ‘The police?’ he asked again.

  ‘Well …’ said Duncan, rubbing his chin, ‘… oor local bobby, Frank the Tank – well-named, by the way – can be up here in less than fifteen minutes, snow or no snow, dependin’ on the urgency o’ the matter.’ He peered out the bay window opposite. ‘An’ if someone’s wandering around shootin’ at folks, then …’

  ‘It’s fucking urgent,’ Paul butted in, glancing up at Richard with the slight hint of a forgiving smile. ‘Ring them now. Please.’

  But before the landlord could even get his phone out, a set of headlights lit up the bar from outside. A split second later the bay window exploded as a 4 x 4 came crashing into the lounge, narrowly missing Paul, who had to leap out the way. ‘Jesus Christ!’ yelled Duncan, as everyone ducked for cover. ‘Seems pretty bloody urgent right enough!’ one of the barflies whispered to his mate as they cowered on the floor.

  The car’s engine roared and reversed back out of the gaping hole. Paul pulled himself to his feet and looked around for Richard, but he’d gone. ‘Call the police!’ he shouted again to the shell-shocked Duncan, and ran out the bar and into the street. The car was still screaming up the road in reverse, its spinning tyres spraying up slush and snow. But then it screeched to a halt, revved its engine, and took off again, heading
straight for Paul. It would have hit him if Richard hadn’t rammed into him and knocked him over. The car tore past, missing them by millimetres. It drove to the end of the street and then swung round for a second run.

  From nowhere, four men stepped into the middle of the road. George Grant and his neighbourhood watch crew raised a variety of antique weaponry to their chests and fired at the vehicle as it thundered towards them, shattering its windscreen and exploding its tyres. It spun off the road, smashed through a fence, and disappeared down a steep bank to the lochside below. ‘This time,’ said George, emptying the smoking barrels of his shotgun, ‘ah didnae miss.’ But as George lowered his gun and walked back to his son, sitting on the tarmac, an arrow fizzled through the cold air and dug deep into his shoulder. His knees buckled, and he dropped to the ground. ‘Dad!’ yelled Paul, rising to his feet and running over.

  ‘I’m alright, son,’ snarled George through clenched teeth. ‘Just you go get the bastard.’

  Richard grabbed Paul by the shoulder. ‘Give me the stick,’ he said. ‘I’ll draw them away.’ Paul hesitated, but he knew it was the only plan they had. He ferreted out a tiny USB stick from his jeans pocket and handed it to Richard. Richard stepped away to the other side of the road and raised his arm. ‘I’ve got what you want!’ he hollered. ‘Come and get it!’ He then turned and ran up the road towards the edge of the village.

  Paul turned back to his dad, who was clutching his chest’

  ‘I’ll be okay, son,’ said George. ‘It’s yer pal who needs yer help.’

  ‘I can’t leave you,’ said Paul, his voice choked with emotion.

  ‘Fucking go!’ shouted George. ‘Don’t make me have to tell you twice!’ Paul nodded. He knew better not to cross his dad. He took off up the road with the echoes of ‘Gie the bastard a kick in the baws fae me!’ ringing in his ears.

  The snow was more treacherous the further out of the village Paul went. That, coupled with his aching wound, meant that the going was slow. A single mis-step and he’d end up in A&E. Up ahead, Richard wasn’t having it any easier. He’d only just kept his footing when a patch of black ice took his legs from under him and he slid across the road and into a wall of hard-packed snow, knocking himself out. Paul skittered his way over to him and was about to call out when a tree shook to his left and a shadow in the woods flitted past. No no no! Paul leapt at Richard and managed to push him to the ground just as a crossbow bolt flew millimetres above them.