by Chris Ryan
Alex arrived back at Sophie's flat shortly before seven, having arranged to meet Dawn Harding at nine the next morning. She'd pick him up, she told him, where she had dropped him off the night before outside the Duke of York's Headquarters in the King's Road.
He found Sophie changing.
"We're going out," she told him, swinging round so that he could zip up the fastening of her cocktail dress.
"One of my clients Corday is launching a new fragrance range and I've helped organise a little party for them. The perfume's called "Guillotine" and all the women have to wear a red velvet ribbon round their necks as if they've been beheaded."
"Do you mind if I give it a miss?" Alex asked wearily, loosening his tie.
"I'm not really in the mood."
"Oh, don't be boring, darling! I'm sure you've had a horrible day doing whatever secret things you've been doing but so have I. It's been impossibly grim at the PR coal face. Come and drink some champagne at Corday's expense, and then ..
"And then?"
"And then you can take charge of the evening. How's that?"
Alex agreed. If Five were going to leave him twiddling his thumbs while they pursued their investigation, then he might as well enjoy himself And he wanted to please Sophie who, after all, was putting him up. He didn't even have to drive the next morning Dawn would be doing that, presumably at her usual infuriating crawl.
So he might as well chill out.
"So where are we going?"
She raised her chin to tie her red velvet ribbon.
"Hoxton Square."
'~W~here's that?"
"Alex, sweetie, which planet have you been living on for the last few years?
Hoxton is only the most desirable quarrier in London. You can barely throw a stone without braining some famous artist, model or designer. It's celebrity city!"
"Right, well, just introduce me as a friend of your brother's. Say I work in security or something."
She frowned and pouted into the mirror, checking her makeup.
"Security's a bit dingy-sounding, darling. Can we manage something a bit more upscale?
Something dot. com perhaps?"
"OK. I'll have a think." He rubbed his eyes. Various subconscious worries were still nagging at him.
"I realised something dreadful today, that I'd left a rebel sentry a boy, can't have been much more than ten tied to a tree in the middle of the Sierra Leone jungle a couple of days ago."
Sophie wriggled her toes experimentally in her raw-silk shoes.
"I know. It's awful how forgetful one gets. Do you want to ring someone about it?"
Alex stared at her disbelievingly.
"He's probably dead by now, or at the very least missing an arm.
"Shall we go?"
As they swerved through the traffic in the silver Audi TT, with Sophie impatiently cutting up every vehicle that had the temerity to draw alongside her, Alex tried to improve his mood. Things could be worse, he told himself He was being paid to waste time in London an opportunity that most soldiers would give their eye-teeth for and he was sleeping with a rich, beautiful and highly sexed girl who gave every sign of thinking he was the cat's pyjamas. He was on his way to a party to drink champagne with said highly sexed girl, and in two or three hours they would tumble into bed and tear each other to pieces.
So what was pissing him off, exactly? Was it that he seemed to be spending his life being shuffled about by women? Alex had nothing against working with women but right now his life seemed to be run by them. In the past whenever girlfriends had started making noises about permanence and commitment, Alex had started making noises about the incompatibility of soldiering and married life.
And he had meant it. He had seen his colleagues go down like ninepins, their tiny independence skewered by the demands of ratty, frustrated wives. The wives hadn't started ratty and frustrated, but they soon got that way when they discovered that the system could only accommodate them and the kids as sideline players. As Stan Clayton had once explained to him: getting the trouble-and-strife up the duff before an overseas posting was like spitting in your beer before you went for a piss!
Seeing the results vengeful, careworn wives, fragged-out blokes worrying about money and their families' security from dawn till dusk Alex had sworn to have nothing to do with any of it. As far as he was concerned the deal was that you promised nothing that you weren't prepared to give, had a good time for as long as it lasted and got out before things turned nasty. He had a sort of honour system, which went something along the lines that if a woman made it plain from the start that she wanted marriage and kids then you didn't waste her time.
Otherwise, you went for it.
Something told him, though, that with Sophie it was going to be different. For a start he was not in control of things. He didn't automatically call the shots, as he'd always done before. She moved easily and fluently through a world in which, if he was honest, he felt insecure. And while she respected his skills and knew that there was another, darker world in which he moved with ease and fluency, she never allowed herself to be overimpressed by him.
Ultimately, he wasn't sure of her. This made things exciting, but it also made things .. . difficult.
As they swerved round a traffic island in the TT, tyres sc reaming, Alex told himself that he ought to take a train up to
Hereford and pick up his car. Behind the wheel of the KarmanChia he could at least pretend that he was in control of his life. For the time being, though... What the hell?
TWELVE.
When they reached Hoxton Square Sophie ignored the double yellow lines and parked right outside the venue. This was a former electricity showroom turned gallery, and paparazzi were already drawn up at either side of the entrance. As Alex and Sophie hurried in there was a brief burst of flash presumably in case they were celebrities whom no one yet recognised.
The party was on the first floor and the place was already crowded. On the far side of the room Alex caught sight of Stella laughing with a group of models. The sound system was playing Juliette Greco, two women in tri colore hats were spraying perfume at anyone not fast enough to get out of their way, and the sharp smell of "Guillotine' cut the air.
"Come and meet Charlotte," said Sophie, taking Alex's hand and sidling purposefully towards a slight, dark-haired woman who seemed to be dressed in 1970s wallpaper.
"She's the oldest of the Corday sisters. You've heard of the Corday fashion house, haven't you?"
"Why don't I go and find us a drink?" Alex suggested, disengaging his hand.
Within moments he had been swallowed up by the crowd. Around him brief snatches of conversation and shrieks of laughter rose like waves above the music and were inaudible again. A gravel-voiced broadcaster whom he vaguely recognised but had never met threw her arms round his neck, kissed him on the mouth and asked how the new restaurant was going. He told her that it was still serving human flesh and moved on, leaving her open-mouthed.
People pushed past, flickered a glance at him in passing to establish for certain that he was not someone that they needed to know and vanished. Alex wanted to speak to none of them -he simply couldn't summon up the interest. Over the months that he'd been seeing Sophie he'd attended quite a few of these occasions and he'd come to the conclusion that London society was peopled almost entirely by fuck wits From the outside it looked glamorous, all late-night restaurants and beautiful girls and champagne, but in truth, he had discovered, it was very, very dull. For every genuine achiever there were a hundred style journalists, fashion parasites and cokehead aristocrats desperately jockeying for recognition. None of them seemed to have any awareness of a world beyond their own tiny circuit, and listening to the endless loop tape of their conversation about clothes, accessories, drugs and parties bored him out of his mind.
There were exceptions. He liked Stella and of course he liked Sophie more than liked her, in fact.
But why was it, he wondered, that the whole scene that she was in
volved with made him feel so dead inside? And equally importantly why was it that situations involving real death made him feel so acutely alive? How was he supposed to square those facts with the idea of- one day, at least settling down?
"Bloody Mary?"
Alex looked down to see a tiny, large-busted girl in a tri colore cap, holding a tray. She giggled.
"Or Bloody Marie-Antoinette, I suppose I should say."
Alex took one of the glasses and drank. It was almost fifty per cent pure vodka and fiery with tabasco.
"Bloody strong, whichever."
She laughed.
"I know. I thought I'd loosen this lot up a bit. Come the revolution, they'll all be for the chop."
"They certainly need culling," said Alex morosely, taking a deep hit of his drink. It occurred to him a few seconds later that he was feeling rather over-sorry for himself. These people weren't so bad. He threw back the remains of the drink, helped himself to another and took a deep swig. He began to feel very much more cheerful. Get a life, Temple, he told himself Have some fun for a change!
"Shall I just stay here?" she asked.
"Let you help yourself?"
He smiled. Small girl plus big tits equals hard-on.
"You could do worse," he said.
"Are you one of the caterers?"
"Sort of. Part-time. I'm actually trying to get into the fashion business."
"You should speak to Sophie Wells. She's over by the entrance, or was when I last saw her."
"She's a right snotty cunt," said the girl, as Alex took a third glass.
"D'you know her?"
"Mm. A bit."
"Which bit?"
"Go on." He smiled.
"Piss off before we're all in trouble!"
"Hey, Alex from Clacton!"
"Stella! How's it going?"
She gave him an uneven grin.
"All right, apart from the smell of this perfume.
It's like fish guts at low tide."
"I guess the original guillotine wasn't too fresh," said Alex.
"What have you been up to?" she asked.
"I haven't seen you for a bit."
"I've been in Africa," said Alex.
"Yeah? How was that?"
He shrugged.
"Tell me something, Stella."
"OK."
"If you wanted to hide if you absolutely had to hide, life or death where would you go?"
"I'd go where I always go," she said, as if the question were the most normal one in the world.
"The past."
He stared at her. Heard someone calling her name.
She smiled and the crowd drew her away.
"Believe me," she said, fluttering her fingers.
"There's nowhere like it."
He found Sophie again and was just about to hand her her drink when something irregular registered at the edge of his vision.
At the entrance, by the glass doors, two tall heavy-set figures were forcing their way past the security guards. The guards were doing their best, but they were no match for the red-faced, guffawing newcomers. One of them, a beef-fed, tiny-eyed giant of at least six foot two inches in height, was wearing a rugby shirt while the other, city-suited, was only a shade shorter. The crowd backed away from them uneasily.
"Shit!" said Sophie quietly at Alex's side.
"Gatecrashers."
She stepped with confidence into the path of the two men.
"Look, guys..." she began.
"This is a private... "Charlie," roared the taller man, throwing a massive arm round Sophie's shoulders.
"Take a look at what I've..
But the other was forcibly slapping a passing guest on the back.
"You, sir!" he brayed.
"Are you by any chance an arsebandido?"
Both gatecrashers had public-school accents, Alex noted. Everything about them spelt money and arrogance. Well, they were about to get what was coming to them.
"So, my darling'." The bigger of the two reached drunkenly for Sophie.
"You were saying... A split second before his hand reached Sophie's chest, a fist crunched into his nose. The blow carried with it every ounce of resentment that Alex had ever felt towards the privileged classes.
"Alex!" he heard Sophie scream.
"No!"
The man turned to Alex, amazed. Blood poured from his flattened nose as if from a tap and streamed down the front of his rugby shirt. The other man stood there, swaying. There was a moment of absolute silence, then the bleeding man drew back a fist the size of a bowling ball.
Alex swerved, felt the wind of the blow pass his cheek and, half turning, seized the oncoming arm by the wrist. Forcing his shoulder into his attacker's armpit, and using the Hooray's own weight and momentum, he threw him hard on to his back.
The giant frame seemed to pinwheel in the air for a moment and then crashed down over a crate of champagne bottles.
"Alex!" screamed Sophie again.
He sensed rather than saw the second man's rush. Grabbing a Bollinger bottle by the neck he turned and swung it with all his strength. The bottle smashed against the man's skull with a crunching, gassy sigh and in a white explosion of foam. With spectacular effect his head turned blood-red, his eyes rolled upwards and he crashed to the floor. Screams joined the spatter of broken glass and the groans of the first attacker who was writhing beneath one of the caterers' trestle tables.
The pushing started, then, and the panic. A drinks table went over, then another, and within seconds the floor was covered in spilled champagne, canapes and broken glass. Someone activated the fire alarm. Hanging over everything was the acrid stench of "Guillotine'.
"Alex!" Sophie screamed for a third time, waving her fists at him.
"What do you think you're doing?" Around them, people were jostling for the exit.
"What do you mean?" asked Alex, dropping the smashed bottleneck.
"Did you really want those pissed-up yobs grabbing at you?"
"They were two boys who'd had too much to drink, that's all. It's you who's ruined the party!" She stared despairingly at the departing guests and then down at the fallen men.
"Could someone please ring an ambulance?" she pleaded.
"Boys?" asked Alex, amazed.
"Look at the fucking size of them. I can't believe you're siding with them." He turned to her thoughtfully and smiled.
"But then I suppose they're your type, aren't they?"
"Don't be so stupid. You totally overreacted and you know it. You could have .. ."
She shook her head, incoherent with anger. Beside her, one of the caterers was dialling 999.
"Killed them?" Alex regarded the fallen and bloodied figures dispassionately.
The first man, still groaning, appeared to have badly injured his back and the second was unmoving and bleeding copiously from the head.
"No such luck, I'm afraid. I'd say your perfume got its publicity, though." He sniffed the air.
"Stella was right, it is a bit fishy."
She rounded on him, eyes blazing.
"And what the hell would you know, you... you psychopathic hoohgan?"
Alex began to laugh. He couldn't help himself.
"I'm sorry!" he managed eventually.
"Really, Sophie, I'm sorry."
Drawing back her hand she slapped him as hard as she could across the face and marched furiously off.
Alex caught up with her.
"Please," he said.
"I'm sorry, Sophie. Really I am. I wasn't laughing at you. It's just the whole thing."
She shrugged him off. Her voice was shaking with anger.
"The whole thing, as you call it, has turned to shit. I open up my life to you, introduce you to my friends, and you just .. . just crap all over them. You can make your own fucking way home and you needn't bother to call me again. Find someone else's life to smash up."
At this moment, as they stood there facing each other, speechless, the little waitress with the b
ig bust appeared at the foot of the stairs.
"So, is this a good moment to talk about work?" she asked Sophie brightly.
Sophie glanced at her uncomprehendingly.
"No," she said quietly.
"It isn't."
The waitress shrugged.
"Told you she was a cunt!"
Alex watched Sophie slam the door of the silver Audi. When the snarl of her exhaust had died away he reached into his suit pocket. The safe-house key was still there.
THIRTEEN.
The first hour of the drive up to Goring in Dawn Harding's Honda was conducted in near silence. Alex had a mild hangover and was feeling a bit guilty about the way the previous evening had turned out. He shouldn't have laughed, he told himself.
The trouble was, the row had exposed all the differences that existed between them. He couldn't be bothered with most of her friends, when all was said and done, and he couldn't be bothered to obey the rules that people obeyed in her world. She considered him an unreconstructed macho dinosaur, and in return he found her spoilt, shallow and over privileged. They brought out the worst in each other.
And yet they wanted each other. Often.
The night in the Pimlico flat had been a cheerless one. A 1970s Bulgarian defector might have felt at home in the place, with its stained orange carpet and fusty, boarding-house smell, but Alex could have done with something a little less Cold War.
He should get some flowers, he told him seW present himself at Sophie's front door that evening with an apologetic face and a big bunch of roses. Would roses do the trick? They were supposed to, but then in Sophie's picky and obsessive circle roses might be considered naff.
"Do you like roses?" he asked Dawn.
She looked at him suspiciously.
"Why?"
"If someone gave you roses, what would you think?"
"A man, you mean?" she asked.
"For the sake of argument, yes.
"I'd think either he was trying to get something from me, or he was apologising."
"Right."
"If they were really special, though.. . I mean if they weren't just those boring, limp, half-frozen things you buy at the tube station in a twist of cellophane but properly scented old English roses grown in a garden, well, I might at least listen to what he had to say." She glanced at him shrewdly from the driving seat.