by Adam Carter
“Just like that.”
“Wow, that’s ... who were they?”
“Two delusional idiots. But don’t worry about them, tell me about you. You’re spending Christmas with your mother. That’s got to bring back memories.”
“My mother, she’s OK too?”
“Your mother’s fine. Just ... Just remember you have two lives, Tamara.”
“You really think I’m going to tell her about my job, Mister Sanders?”
“No. Probably not. Just make sure not to mention me either. Best not to bandy my name about too much.”
“Sure.” She frowned. He knew he should not have said that, but the last thing he needed was for Priya to hear his name after so many years. “Well, if it’s all sorted,” Tamara continued, “I should head back to mother. She must be scared sick.”
“Tamara,” he said as she stood. “I ... Never mind.”
Tamara looked at him quizzically and Sanders gazed at the fountain. It wasn’t working at the moment, but then there wasn’t supposed to be anyone here so it didn’t have to. He could feel Tamara’s eyes upon him, searching his face, wondering what he was going to say. She could ask him and he would tell her everything. He would tell her who he was, take her in his arms and hold her tight.
Maybe the fountain wasn’t turned off. Maybe it was just broken.
He was aware that Tamara was sitting beside him once more. She was leaning her elbow against the bench, looking at his profile. “What’s wrong, Mister Sanders? Don’t you like this time of year?”
“Do you?”
Tamara’s laugh was honey straight from the beehive. “Man, I love Christmas. I got a tree at home, presents under it and everything. I always go overboard, but then Holly likes it too, so we have a good old girly time, you know what I mean?”
“I’m afraid I’ve never had a good old girly time, Tamara.”
She hit him playfully in the shoulder. “And I cook a great big turkey with all the trimmings. Mince pies, cookies ... Man, I spend more time in the kitchen at Christmas than I do any other day of the year.”
“I’m sure I’d hate that.”
“You can’t hate Christmas, Sanders, it’s not allowed.”
“And work?”
“Mainly jolly guys knowing they’re going to fail to get off with whatever girl at the office they’ve had their eye on for months. And they tip so well this time of year.”
Sanders glanced at her. Her face was so filled with joy, with hope, that he felt a knot in his chest and fought the urge to cough. “What if you didn’t have to?” he asked. “What if you could get a proper job?”
“With Mum out the slammer I might have to. But then no one’s going to hire an ex-con, especially one her age, so I’m going to have to bring money in from somewhere. Maybe I can hold two jobs, who knows?”
“How would you feel about coming to work for me?”
He looked at her then. Not because he felt he could without his voice cracking, but because he needed to see the reaction in her face. What he saw surprised him. The sparkle was fading, and disappointment was settling like a fresh carpet of snow.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I don’t mean to ...”
“I should go.”
“Tammy, wait.”
She had stood once more, but paused, turned back to him. “Do you know, that’s the first time you’ve ever called me Tammy?”
“I’m sorry if I offended you.”
“You haven’t. Or shouldn’t have. I figured this day would come eventually, but after all this time I guess I just thought you were who you said you were. Different from everyone else. But I guess you’re still a man. Maybe it’s this time of year, brings that out in people.”
Sanders knew what she meant and she must have seen the look of horror pass across his face, because she seemed confused. “No,” he said. “I didn’t mean that at all. I meant you could come work with me. Give up the streets, draw a regular wage.”
She raised her eyebrows. “Become a copper?”
“It has to be better than this.”
“I ... This sounds odd, I know, but I kinda like what I do. I got freedom, the ability to choose my work, and no boss breathing down my neck for end of period reports. Sometimes I even enjoy the work.”
“I just want you to be safe, Tamara.”
She smiled. “I am safe, Mister Sanders. That’s what I have you for.”
“What if I was to die?”
She shrugged. “I’d manage. It’s what I do.”
A sudden wind blew but Sanders didn’t notice the cold. Tamara shivered slightly, but she was a hard woman. It took a lot to faze her.
“Tell me about Christmas,” he said. “You said you spend it with Holly, what’s that like?”
“Holly’s great. She’s like a kid sister, you know? I never had any sisters, but Holly’s been my family for so long.”
“Yet you didn’t tell her about meeting your mother?”
Tamara’s face fell slightly. “No. I will. But not yet. I’m not ready yet.”
“I spent the day with Holly. She was worried about you, we both were.”
“Oh Jeez, I’m so sorry. Poor girl, she must be out of her mind. I’ll call her, first chance I get. No, you know, I’m going to take Mum to my flat. Get her to meet Holly. There’s nothing back home which can link me to my work, why shouldn’t Mum see it? And it’d be a shame to have all the food go to waste.”
“Your flat’s very ... decorated.”
“You’ve been to my flat, Mister Sanders?”
“I was worried for you.”
“That’s so sweet. But I really should be going now.”
“Of course. Family. Here.”
“What’s this?” Tamara asked as he held something out. It was a poorly-wrapped thin package. It was the first present he had wrapped since Tamara was a child.
“Why don’t you open it?” he asked.
Tamara took the present carefully, and Sanders’s heart almost broke at the sheer joy in her eyes. She tore the wrapper hungrily and gaped as she lifted the lid off the box. Sanders watched as she removed the necklace. It was studded with flaming rubies and threaded upon a chain of gold.
“I can’t take this,” she said. “It must have cost you a fortune.”
“Yes you can. And what else do I have to spend my money on? Here, let me put it on for you.”
Tamara held her hair up as Sanders clasped it about her throat. It rested upon her neck and glistened almost as brightly as her eyes. “Perfect,” he smiled.
“I don’t know what to ... I didn’t get you anything, Mister Sanders.”
He gently chucked her cheek as though she was still a toddler. “Just seeing you alive’s made me the happiest man on Earth.”
“You should come to dinner. There’s always plenty of turkey. Holly’d be thrilled to see you there, and Mum won’t mind, I’m sure. I don’t have to tell her how I know you, only that you’ve looked out for me all this ...”
“No.”
“But, Mister Sanders?”
Sanders took her by the shoulders and exhaled deeply. “Please don’t mention me to your mother. She ... wouldn’t understand.”
“But how will you be spending Christmas otherwise?”
“Oh, I have things to do, people to look after. I have a city to patrol, remember?”
“Don’t you ever get a day off?”
He smiled, squeezed her shoulders before releasing her and turning away. “Merry Christmas, Tammy.” He walked off slowly, fighting the tears and refusing to let her see him wipe them away. She did not need him in her life. And so long as he was protecting her, she never needed to see him again if she chose not to.
Perhaps it would even be best for them all.
CHAPTER EIGHT
The office was quiet. Quieter than Baronaire had ever known it to be. Sanders had told him none of the officers at WetFish had partners, but that didn’t mean they didn’t have families. And in Baronaire’s experience everyone had a family to
go home to at Christmas. Even Jeremiah had vanished, although with Jeremiah it was probably just that he was off getting away with as much as he possibly could while no one was looking too hard.
The bunker was not like other offices. There may have been desks and water-coolers and all manner of paperwork; but it was Christmas Day and there was no evidence of Christmas. There was no tree, no tinsel, no mistletoe conveniently placed over people’s desks. Even the individual workstations were not decorated, not even with a single Christmas card. The DCI not only frowned on Christmas, he had outright banned it. And woe betide anyone who ignored that particular command.
Baronaire couldn’t see Sanders in his personal office and figured even he must have gone home. Maybe he had decided to spend the day with his daughter. Maybe Sanders was human after all.
He walked across the bunker to where his desk lay tucked in the corner. Baronaire had some things he needed to tidy up, cases he could put in order. It was either that or go back to his pokey flat and pretend he actually had a life. He stopped several metres from his workstation when he found the DCI sitting in his chair, his feet on the desk.
“Didn’t expect you back, Ed.”
“I couldn’t sense you in the park.”
“Didn’t go to the park.”
“Thank you. We have our differences, Charles, but thanks for that.”
Baronaire was suddenly feeling very hot and uncomfortable. He cleared his throat. “So, how’d it go?”
“Fine.”
“Did you tell her the truth?”
“No.”
“Did you tell her what you did for a living?”
“No.”
“Did you recite any of that speech we prepared?”
Sanders thought a moment. “I winged it.”
“Oh.”
The two men said nothing, one of them sitting, the other standing. Baronaire thought back to when he had been captured and tortured a couple of months back. He never thought he would have longed for that day to return, but it would have been far better than this.
“Charles, you remember when I told you never to fall in love?”
“Yeah, it was only a couple hours ago.”
“I was wrong. I have a daughter, Charles, and she’s the most wonderful thing in the world.”
“I’ll take your word for it.”
“Sure will,” he laughed. “You ever go near the kid I’ll cut your damn head off.” Sanders swung his legs back to the ground and veritably bounced from the seat. “Come on, let’s get out of here.”
“Get out of ... I have reports to file.”
“Nope. I filed them for you.”
“Great. That’s my day shot.”
Sanders grabbed a coat and struggled into it. “You and me, Charles, we’re not that different. We have no one, nothing. Christmas is not a nice time for us. There’s not even any real crime today, just a lot of domestics. And here at WetFish we don’t deal with arguments about burnt turkeys.”
A sinking feeling settled within the pit of Baronaire’s stomach. “Where are we going?”
“We, my friend, are going to find a pub that’s open.”
“Whoa, I don’t drink, you know that. There’s only one substance I drink, and I’m not due for a shot for another week.”
Sanders encircled the other man’s shoulders with his arm as he led him to the door. “Well ... I think maybe we can arrange something there. I mean, it is Christmas.”
Baronaire was surprised; he certainly wasn’t used to seeing his boss so merry. Maybe, he reasoned, there was something to this time of year after all. “Merry Christmas, Ed.”
“Yeah,” Sanders grinned as they walked, “isn’t it just?”
OPERATION WETFISH
BOOK 5
A
NECESSARY
EVIL
CHAPTER ONE
The landing was awkward, his knee impacting painfully with the roof tiles. It elicited a mild grunt as he scrambled back to his feet to continue running, almost stumbling over his unusually clumsy limbs. He glanced down to the street, to the car streaking alongside the building, noted its direction, and poured on the speed. The edge of the rooftop rushed to greet him and Charles Baronaire leaped into oblivion.
He made it to the next roof with the grace and balance of a medal-winning ballerina.
It was early morning and the sun was only just considering whether it might want to rise soon, which was why Baronaire was not feeling himself. The winter would keep the sun relatively mellow this time of the day, but it was rising steadily enough to annoy him. Baronaire was a man approaching his mid-thirties, wearing a crumpled shirt and always cloaked in his trademark earth-brown trench coat. His dark hair was like a solid brick upon his head, while his expression was stern, his eyes older than his body. He was a man in the peak of physical perfection; yet he could think of much better things to be doing at half-seven in the morning than chasing cars through suburban areas. If he was running across flat roofs, that might have made a difference, but these slanted semi-detached houses were just annoying.
The car veered sharply to the right and for an instant he feared he may have been spotted. But he had taken to the roofs for the express purpose of evading detection and knew the woman driving the car would be checking her mirrors for signs of pursuit. She would not even think to glance upwards. No one expected a Spring-Heeled Jack to be chasing them.
Baronaire considered the analogy as he leaped to another roof. There was a story of snow falling one winter, much like this morning, and come sun-up people went into the streets to notice a trail of footprints upon their homes. Perhaps it was a burglar, perhaps it was Father Christmas running late ... or perhaps it was Spring-Heeled Jack. But who was he? An urban myth, obviously. Every society had their faerie creatures: Russia had the Wurdulac, Ireland had the Red Cap, England had the Spring-Heeled Jack. None of them were real, they couldn’t be. Fictions born of superstitious, fearful minds. The same way gods were brought into being.
People didn’t run around on rooftops.
But if that was true, did that mean Charles Baronaire was not a person?
In truth he did not know what he was. His mother he did not recall, his father had been murdered when Baronaire was a child. Perhaps they had not been human, perhaps that was why Baronaire could do things no human being could, had urges no human being had. And perhaps the Wurdulac, the Red Cap and the Spring-Heeled Jack weren’t so fanciful after all. Perhaps the faerie folk of yesteryear were his ancestors. Perhaps he was no more human than the myths.
His radio buzzed from within his inside pocket and he ignored it. It did not much matter what he was; the fact was he had a job to do and he should be grateful he had such strange abilities that allowed him to do that job well.
He checked the ground as he sprinted, but he was still keeping pace with the car. Looking ahead he could see he was running out of rooftops. The car was veering into the high street, and that meant he would have to leap across the wide gap to the other side. It wasn’t that he could not make the jump, he probably could; but to do so without the woman in the car seeing him wasn’t something worth risking.
Instead he leaped from the roof, timing his jump so that the car passed directly beneath him as he shot down like a living bullet. He reached out, preparing his legs to absorb the impact for when he struck the car’s roof, and opened his eyes wide as the vehicle streaked away from him. He realised he had mistimed his jump.
Baronaire slammed into the pavement, splintering the tarmac, and felt his teeth jolt as his head smacked into the floor. He raised himself in a daze, and heard the sudden screech of tyres.
His world exploded as a car slammed into him, the front wheel all but crushing his chest as it rolled across, the second jarring impact indicating the rear wheel had also run him over. Baronaire’s body went rolling down the street, his mind fuzzing in pain, and even when he fell into a lamppost he could feel the world still spinning. He was vaguely aware of the car screeching t
o a halt, of someone panicking, the sound of running feet. He tried to focus, was certain he swore loudly and vehemently, and felt someone touch his arm. He shook the attention away.
“I’m fine,” he growled.
“You’re not fine. How many fingers am I holding up?”
“How many am I holding up?”
His vision was beginning to return to normal because he could see the woman glowering. Well, at least he’d thought it was funny.
The woman crouching before him was around twenty-five. She had short dark hair, a slim build and a serious expression. She wasn’t quite one hundred per cent Chinese, although clearly she had Chinese in her blood. Perhaps one of her parents was English, which would explain what she was doing living here. Baronaire had wondered about that, but had thought it rude to ask. His head was hurting and he knew that was probably not the best description he could have made of her.
“I need to get you to a hospital,” she said urgently.
“No,” he replied quickly, breaking into a coughing fit as he did so. And that only set his ribs on fire so he tried to stop. “No hospital, I’m fine. I’ll ... walk it off.”
“Charles, I just ran you over with my car, you don’t just walk it off.”
“Then you don’t know me too well.” He grabbed hold of her shoulder and hoisted himself to his feet. His legs were a little wobbly, but at least he was still in one piece. “And my name’s Baronaire.”
“Yeah, but your first name’s Charles.”
“Kind of know that. Just stop using it.” He looked down the street. It was seven-thirty in the morning but there were already people gathering to watch the show. He could see no trace of the car they had been chasing. “You bug her?”
“No, I wasn’t about to just leave you lying there.”
“You let her get away?”
“Charles, I was worried you were ...”
Baronaire shook her hands off angrily, stormed towards her car. He took two steps before his legs went out from under him and he ended up flat on his face again. He noticed his trench coat was dirty and torn. He cursed again, louder this time.