Defend or Die

by Tom Marcus

  ‘Thought I’d take the bike out, get some miles under my belt. You know me; I need to be doing something. Be good to get out of London. And I can practise my counter-surveillance drills while I’m at it.’

  ‘Sounds good. What held you up?’

  She rolled her eyes. ‘Mrs Allenby wanted a word.’

  ‘About you speaking up about Martindale? I’m surprised you didn’t get a detention.’

  ‘No, not that. It was about you.’

  I gave her a quizzical look. ‘Me?’

  ‘She wanted to know whether I thought you were unstable. “Coming apart at the seams” was the phrase she used.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘I told her the truth.’

  ‘Jesus, I fucking hope not.’

  ‘I said you’d been through a tough time, and you still had some dark moments, but when it came to the crunch you still had what it takes.’

  I swallowed. ‘I hope that’s true.’

  ‘You don’t think so?’

  ‘Yeah, I mean . . .’

  I suddenly realized there was so much I wanted to tell her. About Sarah. About Daisy. About Lucy. Alex was my only real friend – the only living one, anyway – and I desperately wanted to empty out all the crazy thoughts filling my head in front of her and let her sort them out.

  But I knew I couldn’t risk doing that. Not if I wanted to keep her as a friend. Plus, what if she then told Mrs Allenby what sort of nutjob her partner really was? Alex was as loyal as they come, but if she thought I was going to compromise the operation and possibly risk the lives of the rest of the team, that would put her in a tough situation.

  ‘Yeah, I’m good,’ I said finally. ‘You don’t have to worry about me.’

  She gave me a long look, then took my arm and we started walking along a path that skirted round the edge of the park. ‘OK, good. I’ll cross that off my list. It’s not like we haven’t got anything else to worry about.’

  ‘Like Mrs Allenby stonewalling over the files?’

  ‘Exactly. But if she’s not on our side, whose side is she on?’

  I shook my head. ‘I can’t figure it out. Maybe she really does think we’re just being paranoid.’

  ‘And . . .’

  ‘Maybe we are.’

  She frowned. ‘So what’s the plan? Wait until someone else gets killed, and go, “Aha! See!”’

  I shrugged. ‘Maybe that’s the only way we’re going to get those files.’

  ‘And then we can use them as a bloody tombstone. Brilliant.’

  ‘If you’ve got a better idea . . .’

  ‘I’m going to get on the bike. Put myself out there. See if I pick up a tail.’

  ‘And if you do?’

  ‘I’ll see if I can draw them out of their comfort zone, funnel them somewhere where we can box them in. I’ll text you.’

  I didn’t like the sound of that. Alex knew as well as I did we didn’t have the manpower to pull off that kind of stunt. It was just frustration making her think like that. And when you got frustrated, that’s when you started making bad decisions. But I was hardly the one to tell her that, was I?

  ‘Watch yourself, yeah?’

  She grinned. ‘Always.’ Then she gave me a peck on the cheek and walked away.

  I watched her strolling casually towards the entrance across the grass, wondering if I was doing the right thing, keeping everything bottled up. The trouble was, once you’d pulled the cork, there was no getting it back in, was there?

  I pulled my phone out and checked for missed calls. Nothing. I hadn’t realized it until that moment, but I’d been waiting for Lucy to call again. Was it a good sign that she hadn’t? Did that mean everything was OK? She didn’t need my help any more? Or did it mean she was looking at a big glass of wine and a bottle of pills at this precise moment? I’d tried to pull her out of the abyss but maybe only halfway, and now she was being dragged back under . . .

  I looked at the list of recent calls. I had her number now. All I had to do was call. My thumb hovered over the button.

  Then I realized. The reason I’d wanted her to call wasn’t really because I was worried about her – or, at least, that wasn’t all of it. If I was being honest with myself, I wanted her to call because I wanted to hear her voice. I remembered the brush of her fingers against mine and felt a flutter of something deep, deep inside, like a voice calling faintly from the bottom of a well.

  Bloody hell, Logan, what have you got yourself into?

  I looked over my shoulder, expecting to see Sarah, but the park was empty.

  I sat down on a bench and took a deep breath, staring at my phone as if it were an unexploded bomb.

  Fuck’s sake, you pathetic twat. Just make the call. If she’s feeling OK, and doesn’t want to see you, then fine, you’ve done your bit. You can stop worrying, can’t you?

  I pressed ‘call back’ and held the phone to my ear. I remembered she’d left it at home when she’d tried to jump off the bridge. Maybe she was clutching it in her hand now as she lay on her bed, eyes closed, with a half-finished glass of wine and an empty bottle of pills on the bedside table, her fingers slowly tightening around it as rigor mortis took hold. When someone finally found her, they’d have to prise it out of her grip, and if they bothered to look, they’d see one final missed call. I felt an odd stab of hurt that she hadn’t left me a message before she did it.

  The image of her dead body vanished as her voice interrupted my thoughts.

  ‘Hi, this is Lucy. I’m not here right now, or I’ve seen who’s calling and don’t want to speak to you – only kidding! Leave me a message and I’ll call you back.’

  I tried to speak, but my breath caught in my throat. For some reason this was the last thing I was expecting: a funny voicemail message from the time before, when she had a husband, a family, a life. When she wouldn’t have looked twice at a deadbeat like me.

  I felt . . . what? Jealous?

  For fuck’s sake, Logan, it’s a fucking recording. Pull yourself together.

  ‘Hi . . . Lucy . . . this is Logan. You know, the guy . . . I’m just calling to see if you’re OK. Er . . . if you want to meet up or something, you know, just give me a call back. I’m gonna be—’

  I was cut off by the beep, feeling like a dickhead. What would she think? I sounded like a fucking teenager.

  I took a deep breath, still looking at the phone. Maybe she was listening to the message now and deciding whether to call back. I realized my heart was racing. I waited some more.

  After a while I put the phone back in my pocket.

  Nice one, Logan. I felt an urge to throw the phone as far as I could into the bushes or pound it into bits under my boots.

  I smiled ruefully to myself, realizing that was Stevie, trying to get involved. I could feel him now, squirming irritably under the surface.

  I hauled myself to my feet, grimacing as I felt a little twinge in my knee.

  All right, Stevie mate, let’s get going. You and me, we’ve got stuff to do.

  29

  The short man put another golf ball on the rubber tee, settled himself into his stance, waggled the club head a couple of times, then took the club back nice and easy until he could feel the tension coiled in his arms and back and hips, before letting go, the club head flashing through the ball with a satisfying thwack. Poised at the end of his swing, his torso twisted round to the left, his eyes facing the target, he watched the ball veering off to the right before landing just short of the 150-yard marker.

  ‘Fuck,’ he said, and not for the first time.

  He’d hit a hundred balls, first with a seven iron, then with a three, and now with a big, clunky titanium three wood, but never mind the club, almost all of them had followed the same trajectory: a big, fat, arse-cunting slice.

  It was a good thing he’d said no to a round with Shanks and Andy. They’d have fucking murdered him, and if there was one thing he didn’t like, it was looking like a twat on the golf course. That’s not what he pai
d the exorbitant membership fees for, never mind the lessons and the clubs and all the other fucking gear. No, golf was like anything else: he played to win, and if possible to make the other fella look like a cunt into the bargain.

  But today his swing was definitely off and the only person looking like a cunt was himself. He gave the bloke in the next bay a nasty look, just in case he was thinking of offering him some tips, but he was doing a good job of pretending not to have seen anything.

  Smart lad, he thought.

  He slammed the three wood back into his bag then walked over to the ball dispenser and put another token in, holding his basket underneath as another hundred rattled in. The basket overflowed, and several rolled onto the concrete, but he didn’t bother picking them up before placing the basket by the tee.

  He looked at his bag and took out the seven iron again, then put it back. Maybe he should just start with the nine. Get some rhythm back, some confidence, then take it from there. Or maybe he should just call it quits and hit a few balls on the putting green instead.

  He put his hand on his hips and sucked his teeth for a moment. He definitely had a problem. But the problem wasn’t his wonky driving. Or, at least, his persistent slice was only the symptom of the problem, not the cause. The cause was somewhere in his mind, and if he wanted to cure it, that’s where he needed to look. There was something nagging away at him, fucking up his rhythm; he just didn’t know what it was.

  Could it be the job? Sure, it was taking a little more time than he would have liked, proving to be a bit trickier than anticipated. But that was par for the course. If one thing didn’t work, you did something else. You had to be adaptable. If the army had taught him one thing, it was to always have a Plan B. And then a C and a D. After that, you’d probably be dead, so there wasn’t much point worrying about an E.

  So what was it?

  His hand strayed over the club heads, searching for the right one. His fingers came to rest on the three iron. Definitely not the club to choose if you were having a bad day. So why had his hand stopped there?

  Three.

  Fuck. That’s it.

  It wasn’t anything specifically about the third hit that was bothering him. It was the fact that it was number three. He’d done a double once, but that was essentially one hit. Now the same client was commissioning three separate hits, one after the other.

  So why was that a problem? He peeled off his glove and searched in one of the pockets of his club bag until he found a cigar and a lighter. Standing, looking out towards the 300-yard flag, he sparked up, puffing on the cigar until the end glowed. He didn’t bother looking over at his neighbour. If he didn’t like it, he could have a three iron up his arse, slice or no slice.

  Perhaps he’d been blinded by greed. The money was good, top of the range, and a third job had seemed like the cherry on the top. It was always good to let cash cool off a little before putting it into circulation, but to be honest, he’d already started spending this one in his head. A new Range Rover, or something a bit flashier this time? Dory was always going on about electric, but fuck that. Or he could buy her one just to shut her up. Watch her on the phone to the garage stamping her six-inch heels when it ran out of juice in the middle of Oxford Street. That would be worth a couple of grand just for laughs. He could buy her some more jewellery; that would keep her sweet for a while. But what was the point? She couldn’t tell a fake from the real thing; as long as it sparkled and made a noise when she shook her wrist, she was happy. Until she lost it down the plughole, that is.

  He drew on the cigar and let the smoke out slowly, bringing his mind back into focus. OK, so he’d been distracted. He wasn’t thinking properly. But even so, what was so wrong with three? They liked the way he did things – no fuss, no mess – so why go elsewhere?

  Because one was . . . well, a one-off. Two was riskier, but still. Three in a row, though: that was different. That was a pattern. That was a giant fucking invitation to join the dots. And if you joined the dots, you might just see your client’s face staring back at you. So why were they taking the risk? It was almost as if they didn’t care if he figured out who they were.

  Then it hit him. That was it. They didn’t care. Because once he completed number three, they were going to take care of him. Maybe they’d get Hansen to do it. And then they’d take care of Hansen. That would be neat and tidy.

  He felt a flutter of adrenaline in his chest. So what to do? Just walk away? No, that would be tipping his hand. They’d come after him anyway. He could give them back the money, tell them it was too tricky? No, same difference; once he knew who the target was, he was already compromised. He’d have to complete the job.

  So, what then?

  He pulled out the driver and swished it back and forth.

  Then he’d just have to turn the tables, wouldn’t he?

  30

  I’d decided to wait until a bit later this time before making my way to the church. I wanted to make sure Martindale was alone, and I didn’t think there was any harm in keeping him waiting, anyway. I didn’t want to seem too keen. But Stevie had other plans. As soon as I put on my filthy old jeans and a manky hoody, he was raring to go, his swollen feet doing a nervous tap dance on the kitchen floor as I sat with a final cup of tea, trying to relax and focus my thoughts.

  ‘Easy, Stevie, mate. Plenty of time,’ I muttered, taking another sip. But after a few minutes I’d had enough. It was like sitting on a bench trying to read the paper with a hyperactive pit bull pulling at his lead. ‘Fine. Just let me take a piss, and we’ll be off.’

  Once we were on the street, Stevie calmed down a bit. I wasn’t sure whether it was because we were on our way to St Saviour’s or just because he was finally walking, concentrating on putting one aching foot in front of the other so the riot of angry thoughts in his head faded into a meaningless background buzzing. I sympathized, knowing how effortlessly I could eat up the miles when I was running if there was something in my head I was trying to run from. Stevie was no runner, but he shuffled along at a decent pace, given the state of his legs.

  An hour later I turned a corner and there was St Saviour’s. At first it just seemed dark and shut up, and I wondered if I’d left it too late. ‘My bad, Stevie,’ I muttered. But as I got closer, I could see a faint glow flickering jaggedly in one of the windows, as if someone had put a brick through it since the other night.

  I tugged at the heavy door and it opened just enough for me to squeeze through. Not very inviting. So much for me playing hard to get. I was beginning to wonder if Martindale’s homeless recruiting drive was a figment of Mrs Allenby’s imagination. Maybe he wouldn’t even remember me.

  Inside, the only light was coming from a torch placed on the floor near a stack of planks covered in a dirty tarpaulin. The rest of the church was sunk in gloom. No sign of Martindale.

  ‘Stevie.’

  I turned in the direction of the voice and a figure materialized out of the darkness.

  ‘I’d almost given up on you. I suppose I should have had more faith.’

  Martindale was dressed in dark-grey combats and a black hoodie pulled low over his face. No wonder I hadn’t seen him. It made him look like a monk – but one dressed for action. The torchlight glinted feebly off his wire-rimmed glasses and I guessed he was smiling.

  ‘Yeah, yeah, right.’

  He took me by the elbow and guided me towards the tarpaulin, then bent down and picked up the torch.

  ‘Stay here for a moment.’

  Darkness swallowed me up as he walked to the door. I heard the clank of heavy bolts as he pulled it closed.

  ‘Good. Now no one can disturb us. Would you like a cup of tea, Stevie?’

  I nodded. ‘Be nice, yeah.’

  ‘Come on, then.’ He shone the torch in an arc to his right, picking out the polished brass of a doorknob. He opened the door and led me into a small, bare room. The vestry? I wasn’t very clued up about the ins and outs of churches. He flipped an old-fashioned swit
ch and a bare lightbulb hanging from the ceiling flickered on. He turned off the torch and slipped it into a pocket of his combats.

  There were two camp chairs. On the flagstones between them was a thermos and two chipped green teacups. There was a small barred window, high up, and a plain wooden crucifix hanging on the whitewashed wall above an empty bookshelf. And that was it. It was more like a cell than a room – not exactly the cosy setting you’d imagine for a nice cup of tea with the local priest – and again I thought of how Martindale made me think of a monk.

  We sat down and I stretched my legs out, rubbing my knees.

  ‘Painful?’ Martindale asked as he poured two cups from the thermos.

  ‘Weather, you know. Bit of a chill and they seize up, like.’

  The tea was milky with lots of sugar. Just the way Stevie liked it. I gulped it down, trying not to gag.

  ‘So, what have you been thinking since our first meeting? Are your feelings about being here any clearer?’

  I’d had plenty of time to think about what I was going to say, to come up with something that would convince Martindale that I was the kind of mindless zombie he was looking for, but putting things into words wasn’t one of Stevie’s strong points. If I sounded too convincing, I knew Martindale wouldn’t be convinced at all. I decided to let Stevie have first go, and if it really was total garbage, I’d step in.

  I drained my cup and put it down carefully on the floor. ‘I walk a lot, you know,’ I said. ‘At night, mostly. Even when I’m knackered and all I want is to sleep, I get up, start walking – don’t know where I’m going, you know. Nowhere. Just walking. Me feet are killing me sometimes, but I don’t stop. Not until . . . I don’t know.’

  Martindale was nodding, looking at me with those laser-beam eyes.

  ‘Thing is . . .’ I screwed up my eyes, groping for the right words. ‘The thing is, I walk and walk and walk – I’ve got all this . . . you know, I can keep going all night, I think I could walk forever sometimes. I don’t mind the pain. I don’t mind being hungry. It don’t bother me.’

  I lifted my head and our eyes briefly met before I looked away.