by Faye Brann
Vicky shrugged her shoulders and picked up her wine. ‘Well, I don’t know about anyone else, but all this talk of Russians and guns is making me thirsty.’ She raised her glass a little higher. ‘Cheers, everyone.’
‘Cheers!’
*
The white wines began to stack up and Vicky quickly forgot about Sacha. In fact, she forgot almost everything, including her own name, over the next couple of weeks. The autumn term began and organising the activities of three children of disparate ages and personalities pulled her in every conceivable direction, making Vicky feel like she’d picked up a job as an unpaid Uber.
On a sunny Thursday afternoon in late September, with Evie and Ollie at school and James safely ensconced in front of the TV, Vicky decided to have a bit of ‘me’ time and took herself and her phone off to the bathroom. The kids had long ago bought into the lie of ‘Mummy’s doing a poo’ and Chris knew better than to challenge her over it. So, it was right in the midst of enjoying the sanctity of the downstairs toilet, knowing that she had umpteen episodes of Peppa Pig (courtesy of Netflix) to keep James distracted, that she saw the email entitled ‘From a friend’ in her ancient and rarely used Hotmail inbox.
She stared for a second, wondering whether to open it. There was no ‘from’ address and Vicky briefly suffered from the dilemma of how to sate her curiosity versus inviting cyber-crime into her phone, before deciding to open the message anyway. To her relief, the screen didn’t dissolve Matrix-style, melting her phone and taking half the planet with it. Instead, the message read, simply:
WAKE UP
There was no signature, but it didn’t take more than a second for Vicky to realise it wasn’t spam. It was a message meant for her, and she knew exactly who it was from.
She heard a sound at the front door. James. Vicky hiked up her pants and jeans and rushed to check on him. To her relief, he was still sitting grinning at the TV, exactly where she had left him.
Except, in contrast to before her trip to the loo, a plain brown padded envelope lay on the floor by his feet.
‘What’s this, James?’ she said.
‘A man came,’ James said, preoccupied by muddy puddles.
Vicky’s stomach lurched. ‘Don’t. Move.’
She moved quickly to the kitchen to grab a knife, silently checking the ground floor for the intruder with the blade held outstretched and ready. Downstairs was clear. She made her way upstairs, watching for movement in the back garden from Evie’s bedroom window and in the street beyond their tiny front yard from hers while she checked the wardrobes, behind the doors and under the beds. She could see nothing and no one; whoever had paid them a visit was long gone. She breathed a sigh of relief and went back downstairs. The house was hardly Fort Knox, but she hated that someone had got in so quickly and with James at home too … if she hadn’t been in the bathroom when he arrived, if she’d had to defend herself in front of her son … it didn’t bear thinking about. Vicky replaced the knife into the block with shaky hands and ripped open the package. She pulled out a burner phone and instructions on a typed note, reading:
GILBERT HOUSE, MONDAY 10 A.M. RSVP.
Gilbert House was the official headquarters of a little-known branch of British intelligence, the Joint Operations Intelligence Services, or JOPS for short. Access was by invitation only, and the spies who worked there were the cream of the crop, skimmed from MI5 and MI6 to perform special ops across both foreign and domestic territories.
Vicky Turnbull was one of them.
Chapter Two
Fourteen years earlier, Vicky walked into her boss’s office at JOPS HQ clutching a small black-and-white image of her unborn son.
‘I have to say, Victoria,’ Jonathan Cornelieu crossed his arms and leant back in his plush leather chair. ‘I’m slightly surprised. You don’t exactly strike me as the maternal type.’
‘It surprised me too, sir. But it’s not going to change anything.’
Jonathan sighed. ‘I appreciate your intentions are good, but I know from experience that, for most women, things don’t always go according to plan when it comes to having children.’
Jonathan was a great boss, but could be a bit of an arse on occasions. This was one of them. Vicky tried to keep from sounding testy so he didn’t accuse her of being hormonal. ‘With respect, sir, I’m not most women.’
‘Well, that’s true, but—’
‘I’m trained to expect the unexpected. I got this job because I can keep things under control in the most extreme of circumstances. I’m smart, I’m driven and I’m an excellent intelligence officer and there’s no reason for that to change just because I’m having a baby.’
‘You trained hard and you’re an asset to the team, Victoria. Officers as good as you don’t come along often. But the unfortunate incident with the Russian tells me that you aren’t always in control of your emotions, and when a baby comes along—’
‘I’ve learnt my lesson about letting feelings get in the way of work, sir.’ Vicky cursed herself for the millionth time. The past year, she’d been on a case building evidence against a Russian crime ring suspected of people trafficking. She’d gotten involved romantically with an asset and convinced herself and everyone else that he would do anything for her, including betray his own countrymen. She was wrong.
Her love life cost the actual life of one of their own – Adam, an undercover operative, shot dead in the back alley of a Moscow casino acting on bad intel she’d been the one to gather. The case fell apart, leaving Jonathan facing the wrath of Number 10 and Vicky babysitting diplomats at the Foreign Office for the best part of six months. And now here she was, standing in front of him with yet another piece of bad news and Vicky could see the irritation written all over his face.
‘I’ll be back as soon as I’m cleared for duty, sir. The doctor said six weeks, eight if it’s a c-section.’
‘Well, I was planning to reinstate you at JOPS now the dust has settled, but you can’t be on active duty now. You may as well stay with the FCO until you go on maternity leave.’ Jonathan shuffled some paperwork on his desk unnecessarily. ‘We’ll sub in Gemma to take your place here, effective immediately.’
‘Gemma? The one from MI5?’ She failed to keep the jealousy out of her voice. Their most recent recruit had the makings of an outstanding JOPS officer, but Vicky didn’t like the idea of a young, ambitious spook getting comfortable with her caseload while she was desk-bound for another six months.
‘She’s young, but with a bit of guidance she’ll be fine. And she hasn’t pissed off the boss lately, either.’
Vicky didn’t reply. Jonathan’s scowl was replaced by a look of horror as a new thought occurred to him.
‘It’s not … his?’
She felt herself redden. ‘No, sir. It’s … well, I met someone else, not long after … it put things into perspective, sir. We’re very happy.’
‘Does he know, the new chap? About what you do?’
‘No. He thinks I’m an art appraiser. And I’m happy to keep it that way.’
‘Are you sure? If you really are planning on returning to work after the baby’s born, it might be better for you if you had a bit of support at home.’
When would he understand that she wasn’t some fragile flower in danger of being squashed underfoot by the prospect of having a child? ‘Thank you, sir, but I’m fine. If I decide differently at any point, I’ll let you know.’
Jonathan nodded and stood to signal that the meeting was over. ‘Well, good luck.’
She stood to leave. ‘Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.’
He stared at her belly. ‘An art dealer, you say?’
‘Appraiser.’
‘Hmm.’ Jonathan scratched his chin. ‘Second thoughts, maybe we should find you a real job, as one of these appraisers, so you can stay below the radar altogether. Especially once you, you know, have a—’ He made the shape of a bump with his arms. ‘If anyone catches a whiff that you’re expecting it might make life very difficult in t
he future.’
‘I don’t see why it would. It’s only a bloody baby.’ Vicky wondered if he’d be saying the same thing if she was a man.
‘I just thought you might be concerned about the safety of your new family, Victoria,’ Jonathan said dryly. ‘The information gets into the wrong hands, you never know how they’ll use it.’
She worried for a moment that he might be right, but dismissed the notion. She couldn’t be the only spy to ever have a baby; there had to be protocols in place. She just had to read up on it, maybe take some time to go and see HR. But what she wasn’t going to do was give her boss the satisfaction of thinking he’d rankled her.
‘I think I’ll be fine, sir.’
Jonathan shrugged. ‘Well then, stay at the FCO. And if – or rather when – we go live again with the Russians, we’ll have to consider how to integrate you back onto the case.’
‘Thank you, sir. I’ll be ready.’
In the end, things had happened just as differently as Jonathan predicted. After a difficult first few months of motherhood, Vicky finally returned to Gilbert House when Ollie was six months old, cleared for duty again by the JOPS doctor as well as their psych evaluator and PT officer. She’d made sure she was ready to go straight back into the field; she’d worked her job at the FCO up until she went on maternity leave and knew already that she couldn’t handle the idea of sitting at a desk all day when she went back. The drudge of it was so depressing; she’d rather be at home with the baby. But it quickly became obvious that a return to full-time operational duty wasn’t on the cards. Trying to juggle agent handling, covert surveillance or sniper duty with looking after a baby was completely impossible; and besides, she got the distinct feeling she wasn’t welcome. She’d hoped that time would heal the sick feeling she got every time she thought about Adam being shot in the back of the head, and she’d assumed, a year and a half down the road, that everyone else at JOPS would have forgiven, if not forgotten, what happened. It was the nature of the job, after all; you lost people – people you liked, people you trusted, good people – and you made your peace with it. But from the way people looked at her, the stilted conversations and sideways glances, it was clear she hadn’t been forgiven for letting her personal feelings cloud her professional judgement. People didn’t trust her. And you couldn’t do this job if people didn’t trust you.
She needed to talk to someone desperately. Not Jonathan: he would be unlikely to show any sympathy over the set of circumstances she’d got herself into, and consider it a sign of weakness if she admitted it was upsetting her. Vicky toyed with telling Chris the truth about her job, just to relieve some of the pressure, but she couldn’t bring herself to do it. There’d never been a right time; they met not long after the Russian case collapsed and everything had been so raw that she’d found the lie easier than the truth: that she’d got a man killed because of her own selfish stupidity. Later, when they knew each other better, she could never find the right moment and after a while she convinced herself it didn’t matter. So what if Chris thought she spent her life studying fusty old bits of canvas? It was a cover story, sure, but she’d graduated in Art History before she was recruited to MI6 and then JOPS, so, in that sense, she wasn’t really lying … and now, with a small child in tow, she was even less inclined to reveal her real job and risk Chris loving her less because of it. Besides, whatever Jonathan said, it was easier for her to protect him and the baby this way. The less Chris knew, the less interesting he would be to anyone wanting to harm her.
She thought about resigning from the service altogether. It was, really, the best solution: she wouldn’t have to lie anymore, her family would be safe, and it seemed like no one wanted her around anyway. But it was hard to imagine walking away from a career she loved and had worked so hard for. She really did want to be back in the field, where she belonged. In the end, she decided that she simply needed more time. Ollie needed her too much at the moment, but one day he’d be older and at school and leaving him would be easier … and, eventually, she could make things right with her team. She met with Jonathan who was surprisingly helpful, and they agreed she would go on indefinite leave and return to JOPS properly, as and when she was ready and able. It was with a certain amount of sadness that she saw the relief in his eyes as she left.
She hadn’t counted on having more kids. Or on the fact that they needed her more, not less, as they got older. And she hadn’t even considered just how much she would love them, or how much fear would sit in the pit of her stomach every time she thought of not being there for them. She stuffed the burner phone into her handbag and headed to the kitchen to torch the note over the gas hob. Even though she knew that there was always the risk of being recalled from inactive service in response to a direct operational requirement, she’d convinced herself years ago that it would never happen. But maybe she’d been kept buoyant by the idea that it might … She held the note until the flames reached her fingers and then dropped it onto the metal surface. It was frightening and thrilling at the same time, to notice how automatic the action was. It had been so long since Vicky had thought about being a spy.
JOPS wanted her back. And the temptation was enormous, to say yes, to feel like she was back where she belonged again and to be truly herself for the first time in so many years. But what did ‘being herself’ even mean? She wasn’t the same person she used to be. Having a family had meant she was forced to make changes, but she’d got used to them, and, these days, found comfort in the rhythm and security of family life. Everything about her had softened around the edges in the past fourteen years – her body, her mind, and her soul. Going back to a job where everything was so … critical … the idea of starting over again with fake back stories, stakeouts, and clandestine meetings left her feeling excited but exhausted, and while her pulse quickened just thinking about the thrill of the chase, she wasn’t sure she had either the time or the energy to resume living life as a split personality. It was hard enough these days remembering not to swear in front of the kids.
She scooped up the ashes of the note from the hob and rinsed them down the sink before heading to the living room. On the TV, Peppa’s family jumped in muddy puddles and giggled to the strains of the familiar theme tune. As she watched James leaping about with delight along with the characters on the screen, her decision was made. To just expect her to drop everything and come running was typical of the JOPS, but a hell of a presumption. Pursue the objective, outsmart everyone, and take control. Well, two could play that game.
‘Come on, James, time to go and get Evie,’ she said, ignoring his protests as she swept him up from his spot. She grabbed her handbag, hoped he didn’t need the toilet, and left the house.
‘Mummy, where are we going?’ James asked from the back seat as she turned on to Putney High Street and headed out of town. ‘Where’s Evie?’
‘Mummy’s just got to run a little errand first,’ Vicky said, glancing back in the mirror. James smiled at her and she smiled back, although really she’d been looking to check she wasn’t being followed. It occurred to her that the JOPS must have had tabs on her for a while before they made contact. What had they seen, where had they been, and how much of her life had they dug into, to make their decision to recall her? Was it weeks, or months, or years? They’d been in her home. A wave of resentment boiled up inside her. They could have rung the bloody doorbell.
She drove a short way down the A3, swung into the car park behind the big Asda, and pulled up by the recycling bins. Leaving the engine running, she removed the SIM card from the burner phone and cut it in half with a pair of nail scissors from her bag, threw the pieces in a couple of drink cans and stuck them in one of the bins. Then she placed the phone under the wheel of the car and, to James’s amusement, pulled forward a few inches to crush it, then backed up and buried the remains deep in one of the trainers Chris had worn for paintballing. She opened the hatch of the clothes bank and dropped them in, along with a set of Evie’s outgrown dresses and he
r own grotty black vest top, still splattered with yellow paint. She hesitated slightly before grabbing the combat pants, then stuffed them in as well. There would be no need for combat pants, none at all. Half a dozen wine bottles and a stack of pizza boxes later and they were on their way, back up the A3 to pick up Evie. And that, she decided, was that.
It was Laura’s birthday and the girls were going out for a drink that night, so when Chris got home from work the handover took place with the usual chaotic haste.
‘Evie needs to do some piano practice before she goes to bed, James needs a bath and Ollie’s due home at eight,’ Vicky shouted over the hairdryer.
Chris gave her a peck on the cheek. ‘Leave it with me,’ he said. ‘Just go and have a good time with the girls.’
She stopped the dryer for a minute and smiled at him.
‘You’re a good man, Charlie Brown,’ she said.
‘I know.’
‘You know I love you, right?’
‘Of course.’
‘Good. Just checking.’
Evie’s voice floated up the stairs. ‘Mum, James just did a poo.’
James appeared at the foot of the stairs.
‘Wipe my bottom please, Mummy.’
‘Just get out of here,’ Chris said, heading to the rescue. Vicky smiled gratefully and put the finishing touches to her hair. She eased her wedges on, and then stopped mid-second foot … maybe it would be better to swap them for flats in case she needed to move quickly. She growled, annoyed at herself again for slipping so quickly into old patterns of thinking. What would she need to run from? She shoved her heel inside the wedge, turned out the bedroom light and trod carefully through the debris of toys, books, and clothes scattered liberally on the stairs.
It was a gorgeous September evening; a cool breeze blew as the sun went down in a blaze of autumnal glory. She slipped on a red mac she’d bought years ago at a Top Shop pop-up party, before pop-ups were even a thing. On the back of a younger woman, it used to draw a fair bit of attention in a city teeming with stock colours of black, navy, and grey, but these days she could be naked under it and no one would notice. Just as well she wasn’t though, given it was a little on the snug side now. She decided against doing the buttons up and grabbed her keys.