Nurse Becky Gets Shot

by Gary Baker

  Mr Thin's inner right forearm flashed a silver, red and blue dagger coiled about by a green and yellow serpent. Colours dimmed by dirt and time.

  Hints of dark blue whorls and words poked from under sleeves and torn trouser. The left arm, inner forearm, Roger stepped forward, cocked his head, hard to read Gothic script, KOPALDA.

  Roger staggered back into the path of a young woman explaining why she was late – 'the bloody train was cancelled again' - into her mobile phone. Her elbow caught him in the ribs, her phone smashed into three pieces on the concrete paving.

  Battery, phone body, battery cover.

  'Fuck!' The woman stopped, stood feet together, heavy chested body tilted forward at the waist, hands held as if she had just let go of a tray of hors d'oeuvres.

  Battery, phone body, battery cover.

  'Sorry!' Roger stooped to retrieve the battery. 'Let me.' The phone.

  The battery cover lay touching the cardboard plinth of the begging bowl.

  'I was on the phone?'

  Up-speak. So irritating. 'Sorry. Yes.' Roger handed her the two pieces. She pointed at the remaining part. Eyebrows raised.

  'Excuse me, I just … ' said Roger. He reached for the last piece, met the quick green gaze.

  'Nice tits,' whispered Mr Thin.

  Alcohol smell.

  'What?'

  It was coming back. The alcohol smell. Tits? No, crudeness. Roger's neurons itched with memories just out of reach. The Salvation Army. That was it. Lenny. Lenny, sat opposite on a creaking single bed in a beamed hall crammed with other single beds. Lenny had just sloshed booze into his plastic cup and missed, laughing at his own unfunny crude joke.

  Roger straightened up holding the final piece of the phone.

  The tattoo. KOPALDA. Oh, God. He'd made a terrible mistake. They would find Harry. Hurt him. He had to get back, take his chances, find a way.

  Roger thrust the battery cover into the woman's hands and ran.

  Harry's life depended on it.

  *

  Roger stood getting his breath back on the other side of the road opposite the entrance to The Sea View Hotel. Ordinary people passed by on the pavement, entered and left the hotel. Four men stood among them, watching him like sated lions idly watching an impala.

  On some unheard command, the goons relaxed further. The inner two turned to face each other. A clear invitation for Roger to enter the hotel.

  Roger jogged over the road, between the two goons and into the hotel. Lenny Ludhoe was waiting for him in the lobby.

  'Now then, killer,' said Lenny.

  'Which room?'

  'This way, sir.'

  Roger followed Lenny into an empty lift. Lenny punched nine and Roger kept his teeth clamped as Lenny counted the number of each floor they passed.

  'Nine oh one,' said Lenny as the lift door slid open. 'To the left.'

  A dark suited man stood outside 901. He patted Roger down and, when satisfied Roger was weapon free opened the door for him.

  The bodies had been removed but the mess remained. The Major sat back from his desk, his fingers steepled, two splintered holes in the surface of the desk stared accusingly at Roger.

  Roger apologised for his actions. For killing the thug who shot Mr Auxiliary. It was the stress of the sudden shooting of Mr Auxiliary, who he was just getting to know, that had, temporarily, pushed him over the edge. It was like a side effect. One of the prices he paid for his savant talents. In exchange for incredible mathematical prowess and a, mostly, normal personality he reacted badly to stress. His personality tended to fracture at times of great stress or when he thought he was in great danger. It wouldn't happen again. Or if it did Roger promised to do his best to keep it under control.

  The Major watched Roger impassively as he grovelled his apology.

  When Roger had finished, The Major stood and looked at Lenny. 'He's in your care,' he said.

  'My pleasure,' said Lenny, taking Roger's arm.

  Roger shrugged off Lenny's grip with ease making Lenny stagger slightly with surprise.

  The Major narrowed his eyes at Roger. There was a new stillness about Roger which caused The Major to swallow some words.

  The Major dismissed them with a wave and sat down ostensibly turning his mind to other business.

  Lenny stood back to let Roger pass.

  Chapter 14

  Jennifer stood looking in the mirror. Who said: 'Speak so I can see you'? Or was it: 'Speak, so that through your words I may know you'? Something like that.

  She turned and looked at the door through which Roger had just left. Roger was scared but in control. He hadn't come to ask her for anything, he had come to ask her to do something. Asking her without framing the question but by painting the picture. Roger had gripped her shoulders and, through his arms and hands, willed the meaning and importance of his words into her. There was no breath or spittle or smell, just his intense unblinking gaze and his voice and his hot grip.

  It wasn't supposed to work like this. Jennifer was a part of Roger. One of the group that was Roger. It wasn't supposed to be like this. If I know I'm not real how am I to survive? If I know I'm all in someone else's head how am I to continue? How can I be in Roger's head with a part of me listening to Roger and another part of me thinking things like this? How is it possible for me to be alone? Roger is asking my help and breaking the rules. The rules clearly state … no, of course, there are no rules.

  Jennifer agreed with Roger. If Harry was to survive they had to use a different pallet. Paint a new picture.

  Chapter 15

  Lenny sat on the smaller, less comfortable seat in the back of the London black cab. He was forced to brace himself at every corner. Roger, sat next to Meadhill on the larger rear seat, smiled slightly at this tiniest of victories and for the third time since boarding the cab checked his pocket for the hard form of the USB memory stick he'd prepared the previous day.

  The taxi stopped on Pall Mall, outside the pale stone monolith that was the Institute of Directors.

  They wore dark suits, white shirts and dark ties.

  In stealth mode, thought Roger as they entered through the mahogany and glass double doors.

  While other members were made to insert their membership cards into a slot where a green light assured the doorman the card, at least, was genuine, Meadhill, Lenny and Roger were waved through, up a short flight of stairs passed signs to 'the morning room', 'director's lounge', across a marbled tiled floor, passed enormous gilt framed paintings of old men in elaborate uniforms, to a palatial thick carpeted ornate stairway. More gilt framed paintings of generals, admirals, knights of the garter. Conquerors and defenders of the colonies. Heroic midwives slapping the reluctant arse of baby commerce.

  So much gilt.

  Meadhill took the shallow stairs two at a time. Roger tried them one at a time but the stairs were too shallow. Two at a time felt right. Lenny followed.

  In a red carpeted hallway with a high ceiling another polished wooden door. Meadhill pointed at the floor indicating he and Lenny should wait.

  Meadhill knocked and entered the room closing the door behind him.

  Roger sneezed.

  'It's the fucking dust,' said Lenny, keeping his voice low. 'Dust made from old men's skin.'

  'Why are we here?' asked Roger in a hoarse whisper.

  'Fuck knows,' said Lenny. 'I've just got to make sure you don't throw another fucking fit, like.'

  'If I do, you'll be the first to know,' said Roger. He could see from his expression that Lenny found himself inexplicably intimidated but trying to hide it. 'You should be scared,' said Roger just for the hell of it.

  'Pha!' snorted Lenny.

  Roger liked this new feeling. Being intimidating is a state of mind. Fascinating.

  Meadhill came back through the door carrying a large brown envelope. Roger glimpsed a meeting room of dark polished tables, leather captain's chairs and more gilt.

  They left the Institute of Directors and got into the
same cab they had arrived in.

  'Why couldn't we have just waited in the cab?' said Roger.

  'Just in case,' said Meadhill.

  'Just in case what?' asked Roger.

  'Just … just in case,' said Meadhill. Lenny smirked.

  They're worried about me, thought Roger. Worried I'll run again or 'flip out'.

  Funny.

  The driver set off, already knowing the destination.

  The cab soon stopped due to heavy traffic and Roger watched a small piece of pavement through his window. A constant stream of people walked across that one small patch. All types of adults; smartly dressed, casual, destitute, tourists. Occasionally there would be a gap. No more people? Then they'd be there again. From the left, from the right, from the right, from the right, from the left. Non-stop. People, people, people.

  Where are we going?' asked Roger pulling away from the window.

  'Downing Street,' said Meadhill.

  Roger snorted not believing him. Meadhill's expression said believe it.

  The cab started again and made its staccato way through the mid-day traffic eventually stopping on Whitehall opposite Downing Street.

  Bloody hell, thought Roger, it really is Downing Street.

  Grey metal fencing held back a thin scattering of tourists. On the inside of the barriers, uniformed Police strolled and rocked on their great cliché feet.

  Meadhill called a Bobby over, took out a sheet of paper from the brown envelope he'd collected at the Institute of Directors and showed it to him.

  The Bobby nodded as he read the sheet, handed it back to Meadhill with a small salute and gestured to his left. 'Over there, sir,' he said indicating a small gap in the barriers.

  Meadhill, Roger and Lenny walked in single file through the gap and along Downing Street passed number ten, number eleven and on to number twelve. The last door on the corner. Twelve Downing Street. Among other things, home of the Head of the Strategic Communications Unit. Flashbulbs went off. The tourists are taking pictures of us, thought Roger. How bizarre.

  Meadhill banged on number twelve with the side of his fist. Policemen on either side mumbled into their lapels.

  The black door opened and a small ferret of a man, not wearing his suit jacket, raised his eyebrows and twitched his moustache at Meadhill who silently handed him the piece of paper. The man stopped twitching for a moment as he read.

  Hanging on to the paper, Mr Ferret stood back allowing the three men in and closed the door behind them. Roger felt his skin prickle as the cool air outside was replaced by the air-conditioned fug inside number twelve.

  Mr Ferret lead them into a green and cream waiting area where they were shown a coffee pot and some soft leather chairs.

  'H-help yourself,' he said, nervously. 'I-I'll be right back.' He backed out of the room.

  Four CCTV cameras, one high in each corner, whirred gently as their operators scanned the three men.

  Roger looked at a clock mounted on the wall opposite and thought there was something wrong with it. Then it ticked. The second hand moved. All hands had, for one suspended second, been melded into one, all pointing at the twelve. Noon exactly.

  The second hand ticked exactly one hundred and twenty times before a Mr Ferret look-alike appeared. He was a little older than Mr Ferret, wore his suit jacket and was perspiring heavily. His moustache and the hair on his forehead was wet. Roger recognised him from photographs presented at the previous day's briefing. This was one of three personal aids to the Head of the Strategic Communications Unit herself.

  'This way gentlemen,' he said like a bad actor, only gesturing when he'd finished speaking. He led the way out of the waiting area, up a narrow beige and cream staircase and into what, Roger assumed to be, his office. Meadhill closed the door behind them.

  'It's logged in,' said Mr Ferret Senior indicating a computer on his desk. He then turned and looked silently out of the window to Downing Street below.

  Meadhill looked at Roger meaningfully. Roger took his cue and sat at the keyboard. The terminal had direct access to the Level 9, secret MoD network. Roger could also access the small programs –he'd christened them Roger's Renegades – sprinkled throughout the network running under Admiralty Arch and most of central London. Roger inserted the USB memory stick into a spare port and uploaded a small program to the super secure network. A program which spawned more Renegades into the network. These Renegades had a special feature, by manipulating switches and computer ports they could set up slight variations in the frequency across the power lines feeding the networks through the national grid. By varying the frequencies the Renegades could send and listen for messages to and from each other across networks that may not be directly connected but which drew their power from the national grid system. In this way – as well as squirting data down A/C power lines when the voltage neared zero - messages, information, anything could be sent from one secure network to another seemingly unconnected network.

  Roger waited for confirmation that his 'renegades' were operating properly. He needed five messages from the terminal to be sure.

  RR: OK

  That's the first one, thought Roger. Could have been a little more imaginative with the message, he supposed. He looked up: Lenny stood by the door; Meadhill paced quietly up and down; Mr Ferret Senior looked resolutely out of the window onto Downing Street below. Concentrating on his task, Roger hadn't realised just how quiet it was, how the fuggy atmosphere was frozen with tension. Lenny kept swallowing, kept looking at Roger and then at the door as tiny noises came from the other side. Meadhill looked calm but his hands were mottled red and white, fiercely gripping each other behind his back. Mr Ferret Senior; his neck and sideburns looked very damp. Sweating for England. I'm the most relaxed one in the room, thought Roger.

  RR: OK

  Two down, three to go.

  A noise outside in the corridor, Lenny reacted instinctively by raising his hand towards it. The door quickly burst open banging Lenny on the back of his arm.

  A grey suited man holding an open file entered purposefully. 'Trentbridge, do you know anything … Oh, I'm sorry.'

  'No problem,' said Lenny rubbing his arm. 'My fault.'

  Meadhill froze. Mr Ferret senior spun on his heal to face the newcomer who closed the brown card file and looked from Lenny to Meadhill.

  After a moment the newcomer said, 'Sorry, Trentbridge. Didn't realize you were busy.' He noticed Roger sat at the terminal and frowned lightly.

  A breathless second of silence.

  Meadhill cleared his throat.

  So Mr Ferret Senior was really called Trentbridge, thought Roger. He looked at Trentbridge who looked back at him stupidly, mouth agape. Roger raised his eyebrows in a silent, 'Well? Say something, knob-head!'

  Trentbridge's mouth puckered up. Nothing emerged. His face began turning red. A movement caught his eye, Meadhill was reaching inside his jacket. Lenny was quietly closing the door behind the newcomer.

  'Password!' The word was an Exocet missile launched by Trentbridge at the newcomer.

  'What?'

  'There's a problem.' Trentbridge took a deep breath.

  RR: OK.

  Just two to go.

  'There's a problem with one of the passwords into my user area,' said Trentbridge.

  The newcomer looked from Meadhill to Roger. 'Couldn't Phil sort that out for you?' he asked. 'I'm sure he's just … '

  'Phil doesn't have clearance.' Trentbridge held the newcomer's eye, his expression defying the man to contradict him.

  The newcomer looked puzzled. Then tried to look as if he understood. 'Oh,' he said. 'I expect … ' He stepped back towards the door stumbling into Lenny.

  'Oh, sorry. Again.'

  'No problem,' said Lenny.

  Meadhill took a step forward. Sucked through his teeth.

  RR: OK.

  Jesus, that lunatic's going to …

  'Nearly done.' Roger blurted out the words. Meadhill stopped. 'Just one more check to make sure a
nd we'll be out of your hair.'

  Meadhill relaxed. Stood aside, gestured for the newcomer to approach Trentbridge.

  The newcomer moved towards Trentbridge uncertainly. He opened the folder. 'I was just wondering if you'd seen this before.' Handed the folder to Trentbridge.

  'Oh yes, this is old hat.' Trentbridge closed the folder with a snap. 'Was superseded in the nineties by article nineteen. Should have been archived years ago. Must have been missed.'

  'Right,' said the newcomer. 'Thought it must be something like that.'

  Silence for a long heartbeat. A second heartbeat.

  RR: OK.

  'Done,' said Roger. 'Should be fine now.' He stood and moved towards the door then paused.

  Lenny opened the door and the group stood silent until the newcomer realised it was his cue to leave.

  'Right,' he said heading out of the door.

  Trentbridge turned back to look out of the window onto Downing street. A slack, sad figure.

  Now Roger had finished his work The KOPALDA could listen to any electronic message of any kind sent by any organisation in the UK. And Roger's renegades could spread. Across the World's networks, if he allowed it. And they could be electronic mimics. By listening to encryption keys, passwords and data signatures, they could be anyone talking electronically to anyone else.

  Trentbridge straightened himself up then turned and led them out of his office, back down the narrow stairway, along the passage and out into Downing Street.

  Cameras flashed and Roger could not resist waving to the photographers who quickly realised he was no one and turned away.

  *

  The next day, Trentbridge was found hanging from beneath Blackfriars Bridge. A note in his pocket said: Sorry.