by Simon Jenner
“Fisher, tell Savannah what you plan for weapon.”
Fisher snarled his annoyance. He was not pleased at the halt in their progress. He ignored John’s request. “Do we have to catch a train from here?”
“No. The weapon is in the station. Tell Savannah about Whitehall.”
“Where in the station?”
“I don’t know. I’m following Savannah.” John wanted to mention Wilson to let Johnson know that they were meeting his partner, but he thought that Fisher’s surprise at the sight of Wilson might be to their advantage. “Where is it Savannah?”
As they passed through the door in single file, Savannah stopped and turned to the two men behind her, a look of annoyance on her face. “Keep up, boys, and all will be revealed.” John wished he felt as confident as Savannah acted.
*
The small square lounge was littered with beer cans, crisp packets and old celebrity magazines. Cigarette smoke engulfed the top third of the room. Wilson fanned the air with his hand as he walked in. He placed the two briefcases down by the side of the sofa. The old cathode ray tube television blared out tuneless music at a volume meant only for the hard of hearing. Wilson moved a box of Frosties to make room to sit on the sofa where the air was more breathable.
“What do you want?” Kate asked, opening a tin of strong Heineken lager and taking two large swigs. “I thought with Mum dead, I’d never have to see you again.”
Wilson was calm and impressed with himself. It had been six years since he’d been around his daughter and not wanted to slap her face. It convinced him that everything would work out for the best. He examined Kate as she looked back at him. She was thin and pale with a thick head of bright red hair just short of her shoulders. The face and tongue piercings had always offended him the most, but in reality they were just challenges to be overcome. There was some hard work for both of them ahead.
“I’m a changed man, Kate,” he said, shifting a t-shirt beside him to allow his daughter to sit down.
Kate slurped down another few swigs of lager from the tin and burped hard and long.
Wilson swallowed. “Why don’t you make us a cup of tea, and we’ll have a chat?” he suggested.
“Why don’t you just fuck off?” Kate said, walking over to the television, grabbing the remote control and turning the volume up.
The din was unbearable. Wilson jumped up and pulled the plug from the wall socket. The relief was instant. He could do this. He could make this work.
“Please, Kate. Let’s talk.” He placed his hand on her back and pressed gently, trying to edge her nearer the sofa. She recoiled from his touch.
“Get your fucking hands off me.”
“Kate, it’s all right. Everything’s going to be just fine.”
His daughter took a step towards the sofa and turned. Her eyes were bloodshot and her face gaunt.
“No, it’s not. Mum’s dead, and you didn’t even visit her.”
“I was in hospital. I was shot.”
“So fucking what? You were never there for either of us. The least you could have done was have her moved to a private room. You let her die in an NHS ward. You fucking bastard.”
Wilson moved slowly to his daughter, his arms outstretched. She backed away.
“I know that I let your mum down, and I know I haven’t been there for you. All of that has changed now. I’ve found God.”
Kate’s retreat abruptly ended. Her mouth opened registering an astonishment he had not witnessed from his daughter in many a year.
“Oh my God,” she said, covering her open mouth with a hand.
“Yes, it’s true. You and I can be a family again.” He moved forward and Kate remained still. She knew he was telling the truth. He raised his arms again and moved in to hold her. As he enclosed her into his grasp, her body began to shake. It was the first sign of real emotion. They were going to be fine. He thanked God, closed his eyes and squeezed lightly with his arms. It was the start of their salvation.
“I’m here, Kate,” he said. “We’re going to be fine.”
Kate’s shaking became more pronounced but the expected tears never surfaced. Instead of cries of anguish, the sound of laughter rang in his ears. Not the happy, cheerful sound of merriment but long, loud howls of ridicule with barely a breath in between. She pushed him away, and he saw the look of derision in her red eyes. It was unmistakable.
“You’re the devil,” he said, dropping his hands to his sides and stepping back. “You can’t be saved.”
His words drew more belly laughs from his daughter as she struggled to find the air to speak.
“Please no more,” she said, supporting herself with one hand against the wall.
Wilson charged forward and slapped her hard against the side of her head sending her halfway across the room. Only the wall stopped her falling to the floor.
Kate’s right cheek glowed red from the blow. She steadied herself against the wall. Her eyes flashed with anger as she stared at her father defiantly.
“Welcome back, Dad,” she said, through bared teeth.
Wilson was lost for a second. How could he have been so wrong? Why would God have lied to him? And then uncertainty vanished, and he knew exactly what was expected of him. He marched to the sofa and picked up the briefcase containing the latest prototype of the gun. Laying it flat on the sofa, he opened the case and pulled out the casing which housed the gun.
“What the fuck is that?” his daughter asked, eying the shiny chrome contents of the casing.
Ignoring her, Wilson spotted the watch immediately. He couldn’t help but smile before replacing the gun and casing back into the briefcase. Johnson was so predictable. Closing the case with a loud click, he turned to Kate.
“If my partner, Johnson, turns up, I want you to give him this case.”
Kate made her way to the sofa, rubbing her cheek as she neared. “Why can’t I keep it? That gun looks cool. A lot more fun than those Tasers you get for me.”
Wilson handed the case to his daughter.
“If you tamper with the case, it will blow up in your face. I want you to give Johnson a message.”
“Why the fuck should I after you hit me?”
Wilson raised his hand and Kate jumped back. He smiled.
“If you don’t, I’ll have you evicted from this expensive flat, and you can live on the streets where you belong.”
“All right. Keep your hair on. I’ll fucking do it.”
*
Johnson screeched through the traffic lights at the crossroads that led onto Wellington Road at Hampton Hill. He was less than two miles away from Twickenham and the weapon. He no longer cared that several police cars followed him. He glanced at the watch for a new proximity reading. Smith and the briefcase carrying the weapon were less than a quarter of a mile apart.
An old couple leapt out of his path as he mounted the kerb, his hand pressing down hard on the horn as if it would help them react faster. Other pedestrians further along cleared a path for the oncoming vehicle but not the green rubbish bin which flew into the air and over the bonnet sending tins, bottles and other debris over the windscreen. Johnson stamped his foot on the accelerator, and the V8 engine roared with approval.
*
Belying his physique, Wilson smoothly came up behind Fisher and thrust his Glock pistol into the man’s back.
“Hold it right there, gentlemen and lady,” Wilson said, turning to a bench on platform four. “Let’s take a seat over there shall we? No trains departing from platform four today, so I’m told. We won’t be disturbed.”
Fisher looked back over his shoulder. “Earthguard. I told you we couldn’t trust her, Varushkin. Women are all deceitful bitches.”
“Watch your language in front of the lady, Fisher. Let’s keep it polite, shall we?”
“Meet the man with the gun,” Savannah said, as Wilson relieved Fisher of his Beretta 92. “Or should I now say, two guns and a super weapon?”
Wilson admired the Berr
etta for a few seconds in the concealed space between himself and Fisher’s back before tucking the gun into his trousers beneath his coat and shoving Fisher in the back.
“Move it tough guy,” he said, reckoning that while Smith had a bit of the hero in him, Fisher was the only threat to his control of the situation. The group of four, who had been thrown together by Fisher’s actions, sat side by side on the bench with Wilson between Savannah and Fisher and Smith on the far right next to Fisher. Nobody said a word until Wilson turned to his right and broke the silence.
“Tell me how you plan to take revenge against the bureaucrats that put you out of work.”
Fisher stared back into Wilson’s eyes as he reached inside his jacket. Wilson directed the gun, which was now held under his coat, at Fisher.
“Hands away from your pockets.”
Fisher ignored Wilson, pulled out a packet of Marlboro Reds and proceeded to remove and light one.
No smoking signs were everywhere. Fisher could attract unwanted attention. The disobedience could not be tolerated. Wilson stood up and turned around to face Fisher. With his unarmed hand, he pulled the cigarette from Fisher’s mouth, dropped it to the floor, and demolished it beneath the sole of his shiny black boot. “Hand them over,” he demanded.
Fisher looked up. “I don’t think so.”
Wilson pulled the Glock from under his coat and pistol whipped Fisher on the side of the head. In a flash, the gun was back under cover. “Give me the cigarettes, or I make a call and your sister dies.”
The pale seated figure smiled in a strange misshapen ‘v’ as he wiped blood from his temple area. It gave Wilson the creeps. Fisher wasn’t all there. Wilson edged forward and held out his hand. This time Fisher handed the packet over. Thank God.
“So tell me about your revenge plan.”
Smith interrupted. “Are you fucking crazy?” he said, a spray of spittle joining the condensation on his breath. “This guy plans to blow up the whole of Whitehall.”
Wilson didn’t look at Smith when he spoke. “Keep it down, Smith. You’re the only one here expendable at present. Fisher, did you speak to your sister recently?”
Fisher was staring at Smith like he was an age-old enemy he knew existed but had never met before. His feet were twitching as if he was about to launch himself. Wilson grabbed Fisher’s left shoulder and spun him around with force.
“Fisher, what’s going on with you two?”
“He told me that his name was Varushkin, a Russian Secret Services operative. I’m going to snap his neck.”
“The kid’s quite a character, I’ll give him that,” Wilson said, looking at Savannah. She looked pale but otherwise none the worse for wear. “Try John Smith, Junior Clerk at Walker’s Imports.”
Savannah never would have guessed Smith’s job was quite that menial.
Smith threw his hands in the air. “I’m thirty-two so will you please stop calling me kid?” Smith shrugged apologetically although Fisher was facing Wilson. “In all fairness, I think you made the assumption that I was Varushkin,” he said.
Fisher pulled free of Wilson’s grip and turned to face Smith again.
“But I saw you at the agency.” He regarded John with narrowed eyes. “You killed Christos with a broken piece of toothbrush.”
Smith shrugged again. “It was in self-defence, and I got lucky.”
Fisher was in a trance. Then the ex-SAS soldier’s face began to twitch like he had been struck with a sudden nervous disorder. His face went crimson, and he grabbed Smith by the front of his shirt, pulling him close with little effort.
“Hey!” Smith protested, several shirt buttons flying loose as he attempted to pull back.
“You’re scruffy anorak man,” Fisher said in sudden realisation, blinking and twitching as he snarled into Smith’s face.
Smith snarled back, “You’re psychopath killer man and no bloody fashion icon yourself.”
Wilson was impressed. The kid had come a long way in a few days, and he could see why Johnson and Savannah were so enamoured with him. The agent rose from the bench and turned to face the other three, letting his coat fall open to display Fisher’s gun.
“Enough of the chit chat. I’ll do the talking. Fisher, when did you last talk to your sister?”
Fisher’s eyes still burned holes into Smith. Wilson gave him a hard kick in the shin with his steel toecaps. Fisher’s attention was returned.
“Did Sasha ring you during the night?”
“What? No, I spoke with her this morning in Varush ... Smith’s office.”
“Did she pass on a message to you?”
“No,” Fisher said, his jaws clenching and the muscles in his neck tensing. “We just argued.”
The man was fragile. It was obvious to Wilson that his sister never had any intention of passing on his message giving Fisher the coded gun location.
“I wasn’t expecting you in Twickenham this morning. Seems you and your sister have a few issues. Is it true what Smith said about Whitehall?”
“I’ve other things to do first.” There was madness in Fisher’s lopsided smile.
“What things?”
Fisher’s face drooped, and his smile evaporated. His hands reached for his head as he doubled over. His body started to shake. This wasn’t going to be easy.
“I’m going to kill the social workers responsible for making me like my father,” he said.
“What are you talking about?”
“I’m a monster like my father. I’m going to kill the people that made me like this, and then I’m going to end my own life.”
Wilson looked down at Fisher who now sobbed openly, tears dripping onto the floor between his feet. He caught Smith and Savannah sharing a moment of understanding. It would be one of their last. Only Savannah was going to leave the station alive.
“Pull yourself together, Soldier,” boomed Wilson, attempting to reach the soldier inside the broken shell of a man. “Have you forgotten your training?”
Somewhere deep down in the man’s core was a battle-hardened warrior who fought the good fight and sought the right cause. Wilson needed to bring that person out.
“Stop snivelling like a little girl, and pull yourself together. You are not your father!” Wilson shouted, slapping the side of Fisher’s face with enough power to rock the man’s head to one side. “Can you hear me, Soldier?”
Savannah and Smith looked at each other again. Wilson sensed the strong bond they had formed. It was a bond that would soon be broken for eternity. He caught her glancing up at him, and he smiled back apologetically. She didn’t understand because she didn’t realise he was saving her from a huge mistake. Time would heal everything. He was sure of it. The sobs continued from Fisher, and Wilson repeated the blow to the side of his head even harder than before.
“Can you hear me, Soldier?”
Fisher didn’t look up, but his sobs petered out, and he said, “I hear you, sir.”
“Good, Soldier,” Wilson said, nodding to Savannah. His control over a man who had caused her fear would make Savannah feel protected by him. This was good.
“Savannah, you can go now. Find a taxi and get out of here.”
Savannah’s brow furrowed in an expression of pure befuddlement. Wilson half expected her to look behind the bench and across the station before turning back, and say, ‘who me?’. What was wrong with her? Surely she wanted to be away from this madness, to be protected, safe? He pushed her for an answer with his eyes.
“I’m staying, thanks,” she said, reaching to her left and taking hold of Smith’s hand. Smith accepted the hand like the uncaring bastard that he was.
“Don’t you understand, Savannah? I’m trying to get you away from this. I’m not like Johnson who risked your life to capture Fisher or this loser who dragged you into all of this in the first place.”
Savannah looked at Smith as she spoke, her eyes almost caressing the useless excuse for a human.
“He’s been trying get me out of this
from the start.” She turned her head back to Wilson. “I’m staying.”
It was hopeless to argue with her. She was strong, and he admired that in her. If he antagonised her, it would only make her resist more. If she stayed a while longer, he could prove he was protecting her from the likes of Fisher and Smith, and she would remember him with affection. Perhaps even weep at his death?
“Okay, but just stay close to me, okay?”
She looked back at him, but there was no answer clear in her big eyes, just uncertainty, which would do for now. Wilson lifted Fisher’s head up by his chin and knelt down so that their faces were inches apart.
“Are you ready to do whatever it takes, Soldier?”
Fisher’s eyes were still uncertain and distant, but the soldier at the very centre of his being was surfacing. “Yes, sir,” he said. There was little conviction but the hardest part was already over.
Wilson reached under the bench where he had been sitting only minutes before and tugged free the briefcase containing the weapon. Smith gasped and Savannah’s mouth opened. She was impressed, Wilson was sure of it. Placing the heavy briefcase flat on the bench between Fisher and Savannah, Wilson popped open the two catches and lifted the top of the case.
A chrome-plated tube gleamed in the glass-filtered light from the overcast sky. There was no slide or hammer, like a normal semi-automatic gun, just a sixteen inch long, fat, cylindrical barrel with a two inch square box underneath, two thirds of the way along, from which the trigger and its circular guard protruded. The grip of the gun, which housed the nuclear material, was in a separate sunken enclosure away from the main body of the gun and had two small dials one directly above the other. The top white dial read ‘beam’ and the red one below read ‘level’ in small black letters.
All eyes were fixed on the briefcase. Wilson pulled out the two separate pieces and snapped them together, making the weapon appear more like a regular handgun, only bigger. Power hummed through his hand and arm. He turned to Smith.