by Simon Jenner
Who was the scruffy kid in the anorak? I’d written him off as a threat and he’d given me away. He’d been frantically looking for something or someone. I can’t picture anything but slim, mid-twenties, shortish hair, ripped jeans and an old blue anorak. Is he with Earthguard or the girl perhaps? Yes, the girl. He had looked harmless. He is a possible danger to my goal. I had let the excitement get the better of me. It is a mistake I will not repeat.
The orange waitress slams down a cracked plate beneath a withered-looking sandwich. An overfilled mug of tea, the colour of oxtail soup, follows.
“Anything else, luv?” she says, hands on hips as if daring me to ask for something else at my own peril.
A smile, a decent plate, bread instead of cardboard, a cloth for the mess of spilled tea? The possible responses are too many.
“Nothing,” I reply, looking deep into her tired blue eyes, wondering if I should ask her back to my hotel and snap her neck. I decide against it. She will not get a tip.
I pull out my phone and flick through the photos of the girl. The resolution is good. She has a face and a physique easy to remember. Living amongst the lowlifes has given me contacts and she will be easy to locate. The girl will lead me to Anorak man. Between Anorak and the girl I can extract enough information to lead me back to the agents and the weapon. Four deaths to enjoy along the way.
I hold my breath for a moment and close my eyes. I let the pleasurable tingles overtake me. Sasha pops into my head. It will be past midnight when I get back to my lousy room. I will not get to hear her voice until tomorrow. The tingles fade.
*
Back at the Ritz in their junior suite, discussions were getting heated as John and Savannah listened to what the two Earthguard agents had to say.
They surrounded a small coffee table in the seating area of the suite. Through much of the conversation John’s eyes had been drawn to the executive-looking case sitting under Johnson’s chair, next to a black Nike sports bag. It was the case he had temporarily returned to the left luggage office while he searched for Savannah at Waterloo Station. The most deadly firearm the world had ever seen, Johnson had said. Designed by Mark Bradshaw he had said. Other than that, the two men had told them next to nothing.
John noticed the tall agent’s attention was on him from the corner of his eye. It seemed that the American was reading John like a book.
“Don’t ask us anything about Bradshaw or the gun,” he said. “We are not authorised to share this information with you.”
John tensed. How many times had he reeled that line off? Mark was gone and, while insanely curious about the death of his best friend and what he had invented, his current concerns involved the living, particularly Savannah and himself. “You nearly got Savannah killed for God’s sake,” said John, waving his finger at Johnson and Wilson.
“Like my partner has already explained,” began Wilson, “the car was reinforced to withstand far greater blasts than that one.”
“What if she’d hit her head inside the car and got concussed or broken her neck?”
“I’m fine, John,” interrupted Savannah, who looked exhilarated by the whole experience, almost glowing from within. John noticed that the two agents could barely take their eyes from her. She was like one of those ultraviolet insect exterminator gadgets whose light lured unsuspecting insects into its deadly centre. John on the other hand was drained, ragged, and struggling to get a grip on reality.
Savannah, seated to his right, grabbed his hand and squeezed it. “We’ve landed in the middle of something bigger than us and we’ve got a chance to help. Aren’t you keen to bring Mark’s killer to justice?”
John raised his eyebrows and looked to the ceiling. He pulled his hand away. “Whoever set off the explosion is not playing games. He didn’t blow up the car for a prank. Whatever these two tell you, we’re in way over our heads and our lives may well still be in danger.”
She regarded him like a star-struck fan meeting her favourite rock star, eyes wide, lips slightly parted, mind searching for the right words to say. “And there you were, putting out the fire and trying to get me out.”
“Which you didn’t need by all accounts,” John reminded her.
“But you weren’t to know that. To me, you’re a hero.”
John blushed and looked away. It was true that a part of him also felt the rush of adrenaline that had so obviously affected Savannah. He couldn’t deny that he had felt more alive today than at any time in the last ten years. The difference was that he refused to allow it to overtake him. Until today, John’s life had been risk free and comfortable and now it was riddled with excitement and extreme danger. Who in their right mind would make that trade?
It was okay for Savannah. Her life was a mess of massive proportions and by agreeing to help these so called secret agents, or whatever they were, her life would be drastically improved. That was assuming that they kept their end of the bargain, of course. Risk her life for a new start? It wasn’t a bad deal, although no mention of the odds of survival had been floated by Johnson or Wilson. Savannah would no longer need help, not even from John. And what was John’s upside? There wasn’t one, but the downside was bleak and permanent.
“I’m just saying that we could take care of Christos on our own.” John glared into Johnson’s eyes as he spoke. The man remained as expressionless as ever, a great poker prospect if ever there was one. “We’ve still got enough cash to pay his thousand pounds and if he refuses then we’ll take it to the police.”
Johnson remained motionless, back and shoulders relaxed, his hands on the arms of the chair, fingers hanging loosely over the ends. “Now that we have the gun, we can make sure that it’s returned to safety but make no mistake ...” he narrowed his eyes and they looked right into John’s, “... anyone who will blow up a car in the middle of a busy station is not going to give up real easy.”
“I just love that accent. Don’t you love that accent, John?” Savannah asked, tugging John’s hoodie sleeve.
“Jesus, Savannah, what planet are you on? How can you think this is a good idea?” John tore his sleeve free and addressed the two agents. “You have no idea who this guy is and all you can be sure of is that he wants the gun which you now have. I see no reason why we need to be involved at all.”
But Savannah was relentless. “Because, if this guy wants the gun so badly then he’s planning to kill with it. We could save lives.”
“And end ours.”
“Don’t be such a baby, John. I didn’t take you for a coward.”
It was no good arguing. Suddenly, the hero worship made sense. Savannah would do anything to enlist the help she needed to safely end relations with Christos.
Wilson stood up, taking in the decor as he spoke. “I should listen to your friend, Savannah. There are always risks.” Savannah sat back in the chair like she’d been slapped down to earth. “But what I should also point out is that if you don’t help us ...” his eyes honed in on John, “... then your lives will still be in danger. With or without us this person may well target you. But if you do decide to help, then at least you’ll have us to protect you.” The stocky agent sat back down.
John retaliated. “He has no interest in us. You’re just trying to scare us into helping you.”
“He’s seen you both and must assume that you’re with us.”
John didn’t like the sound of that. Not one little bit. “Something stinks,” he said.
“We can’t force you to help us, John,” Johnson said. Wilson gave him a curious glance and shrugged his shoulders. Clearly the two were not in agreement on this point. “Sorry,” Johnson corrected. “We can force you but my partner and I choose not to.” Wilson shook his head but didn’t interrupt. “It’s a shame, Smith. I saw great things in you. You’ve helped Savannah here out of three scrapes today: you saved her from being attacked by George Tibbett, a convicted rapist and fence; you recovered her passport by pretending you were about to burn her bedsit buddy alive and you were
willing to risk your own life to save her from the burning car. I’d say that showed great promise.”
“And I’d say that you know an awful lot about our day,” John said.
“Of course we do. You never escaped from us in the subway, sorry ... underground. As soon as we entered the crowd, I remotely unlocked your handcuffs, and we picked you up again back at your flat.”
John scowled at Savannah. “Did you know about this?”
Savannah looked away. Johnson continued.
“Come on, Smith,” Johnson got up and with one stride was standing over John. “I sense a great deal of sarcasm from you and while my partner tells me that this is a British pastime, I’m getting the hint that you’d rather we weren’t around. Now that’s fine and dandy and we’ll leave you to it but I have to say I’m pretty disappointed in you.”
Johnson’s remark sounded just like John’s mother and the words, although said without malice or his mother’s theatrics, stung every bit as hard. It had been a mad day and so much crazy stuff had happened. He needed to sleep on it and, judging by Savannah’s outrageous behaviour, she needed to sleep more than he did. In the cold light of day they could make a rational decision. Most of all he needed to talk sensibly to Savannah without their intrusion. Whatever they had filled her head with in the car had done its job. If he could just buy them a little time alone...
“Just give us until noon tomorrow,” he said, flexing his hands.
“What for?” the American retorted, still hovering over John where he sat.
A good question that was best lied to or skirted around.
“I want to see if we can sort out the Christos situation by ourselves.”
“Why?” Johnson asked.
“Because if we can’t deal with a regular creep then how are we going to deal with a cold-blooded killer?”
Savannah stared at John like he had murdered a close family member. Johnson’s brow creased, his gaze wandering from his partner to Savannah and back to John.
“On one condition,” he finally said, his face returning to its expressionless state.
“What’s that?”
“You wear one of our standard issue watches.”
“So you can listen in to what we say or track us in another way or ...?” John puzzled over the reason behind the condition. He was only half serious with his final guess, “Or blow us up remotely?”
John swore that Wilson nearly smiled but Johnson’s unreadable stare registered so little it could have been painted on.
“The watch can only be activated by the user,” he said. “If you make your decision sooner, activate it, and we’ll be with you in less than ten minutes.” The tall American dragged the Nike sports bag from underneath the seat he had left and plonked it on the coffee table. Unzipping the black leather bag he said, “Another Rolex Daytona, like the one you sold?”
John leaned forward in his chair and gazed into the bag. There was a selection of fine watches still in their perfect and elaborate packaging. John was lost for words.
“These are the originals but better.” Johnson chucked him a green cardboard box just like the one his parents had presented to him after graduating top of his class at Oxford University. “You’ll find that Daytona keeps far better time.”
John’s Daytona had always lost about a minute a week. He had returned it during the warranty and it had come back unchanged. He opened the box to reveal another dark wooden box inside. Opening the wooden box, he took the shiny watch from the felt-covered holder and snapped it on his wrist. It was the exact model he had sold to Tibbett, the pervert. If anything, it was slightly heavier than his old watch, which might have kept poor time but had the heft of quality. It was nice to feel the familiar added weight back on his wrist.
“How’d you know it never kept good time?” he asked.
“My own experience. Rolex can sell them regardless and the cost of making them more accurate isn’t worth the hassle or investment. We need one hundred per cent accuracy in the field. Our design teams take them apart, improve them and chuck in a few extras while they’re at it.”
John admired the gold and stainless steel timepiece which had been pre-set to the correct time.
“Just unscrew the start button and press to signal us,” Johnson said, zipping up the bag and taking it from the table. “We’ll be there in minutes.”
“I don’t doubt it. Does it still work as a stopwatch?”
“No. Do you need a stopwatch?”
“No.”
“All right then.” Johnson motioned to Wilson who immediately rose to his feet and collected the case which contained Mark’s deadly invention. “Then we’ll see you at noon tomorrow or earlier if you come to your senses.”
“I have a condition of my own,” John said as the agents headed for the door.
Both men stopped in their tracks. Neither man looked back.
“Don’t push it.” There was the merest hint of stress in Johnson’s words. John wondered if the agent’s expression had shifted given that he couldn’t see it.
John wasn’t going to be fobbed off. “If we agree, I want to know everything about Mark and what’s in the case.”
The men remained silent and motionless for what seemed like an age. John blew out a slow and constant stream of air until his lungs ached and begged him to inhale. He was certain that, if he spoke next, he would lose the advantage.
Johnson finally spoke. “Okay, you have a deal.” Both men recommenced their stride.
Savannah’s face was stern and accusatory, her eyes ripping flesh from John’s bones. Twenty seconds later, John and Savannah were alone. Twenty one seconds later Savannah spoke. “I hope you know what you’re doing, Smith,” she said.
“So do I,” he said.
15: Sunday 25th September, 01:20
Tiredness enveloped Savannah as she lay in the deep bath covered in citrus and ylang ylang scented bubbles. The bath was so wide and deep that at times she found herself floating and needing to grab the side to steady herself.
She was worried about John. He had been a tower of strength all day. Even when she thought he was truly disturbed, he had continually acted with her best interests at heart. He’d even sold his outrageously expensive Rolex. So what if it didn’t keep perfect time? It was a huge gesture all the same. He really was an enigma of the most baffling kind. Could he possibly be right not to trust the two agents? She didn’t think so and she didn’t understand his reluctance to team up with them. Surely they had a better chance of getting out of this mix-up unscathed with their help than without it.
Savannah fought the compulsion to shut her eyes. Half an hour ago she had been so alert that she imagined sleep to be several hours away, yet the second Johnson had agreed to John’s request to deal with Christos by themselves, the familiar lethargy, which accompanied abject disappointment, had returned with a vengeance.
Tiredness won and her eyes closed briefly. Images of Christos and Tibbett flooded her mind, and her eyes popped back open. She pressed the scented bar of soap against the complimentary white flannel embroidered in gold thread with the Ritz family crest and began to lather up her whole body with suds. She rinsed away the foamy bubbles and repeated the process several times. Each time she pressed a little harder. Not an inch of her skin went unwashed but no matter how much pressure she applied, the feeling of being dirty would not be washed away. She realised that this feeling came from inside and could not be reached with a flannel or even the roughest of brushes.
If she were to feel clean again, she would need to come to terms with the events of the day as well as the possible outcomes of the one to come. She would take her own life before letting Christos sell her to the Arabs. Damn John for wanting to take on Christos without assistance.
With two hands on the side of the bath for purchase, Savannah pulled herself upright and showered off the soft bubbles from her body. Her skin was as soft as velvet. No wonder the rich always looked so good. Limitless money could make a princess ou
t of a harridan. If only they had enough money for her to disappear.
She dried herself with the large, fluffy, white towels but even these hurt when in contact with the places she had scrubbed the hardest. She put on her second set of underwear from Harrods, a soft pink matching set of bra and panties, and stormed back into the bedroom to confront John.
*
“Am I attractive?”
John was on the phone checking his new watch for accuracy against the speaking clock. As he looked up at Savannah, the handset, which had been held in place between his shoulder and his ear, fell to the bed by his side. Savannah stood in front of him dressed only in her sexy underwear.
While John believed the question was delivered with implied ogling rights, the sight of this damp-haired, crazy specimen, who had never looked more beautiful, brought out the bashful in him. Surprised at himself, he turned his head to the right, picked up the phone, put it on the base and concentrated his gaze on the cream-coloured wall.
“Smith, look at me!” she bellowed, marching around between John’s position on the bed and the wall he was watching. “Am I attractive?” she repeated.
“Jesus, Savannah, what’s got into you?”
“Look at me, Smith,” she demanded more loudly.
John, concerned that Savannah’s volume would only get louder and they would be ejected from the hotel, reluctantly and yet somehow not, turned his eyes towards a nearly naked Savannah Jones. Not wanting to be accused of focussing on one particular body part, he attempted to take in the view without moving his eyes, but the only way he could manage this was to look beyond her to the wall behind, leaving her quite out of focus.
“Very nice,” he said. She was doing the hands on her hips thing, obviously waiting for him to continue. “You’re a fine-looking woman,” he added.
“You’re not even looking at me. You’re still looking at the wall.” She dropped her hands and took two steps closer so that they were only three feet apart.
John looked her directly in the eyes, refusing, however tempted, to be drawn into her game. “What do you want me to say?”