Safe House

by Paul Starkey

  He added the magazine to the second pile, making sure it was face down so as to hide that damn dog. The back page featured an advert for a new horoscope magazine promising to; Reveal your future’s fortunes...

  He shook his head. Like everyone in his family he had no time for the supernatural. Family, hard work, following the rules; these were the things that mattered. Not ghosts and goblins.

  Of course his paternal grandmother claimed to have the second sight, but nobody paid much attention to her, even if she had said Alex would come to a sticky end. You didn’t need to be a fortune teller to predict that.

  He shook the thought away and returned to the initial pile. There were more newspapers— mostly right of centre— and a few more issues of the sailing magazine. Other than that it was more junk mail. No more satanic mutts, no more copies of Paranormal Insight.

  He wondered why the Carmichaels had only got the one issue eight months ago, and why they’d kept it so long? The rest of the pile was more recent, even the sailing magazines only going back three months.

  He was so distracted by this, that he didn’t realise Lucy was beside him until he caught a hint of her scent, moments before a shadow fell over him. He looked up quickly, eyes widening in surprise.

  “Sorry, Tommy.” She smiled. “Didn’t mean to startle you.”

  For once His instinctive reaction to being called Tommy didn’t kick in; he was too busy taking comfort in the warm smile that graced her lips.

  “That’s ok, Lucy,” he said. “Are you ok?” He regretted the question the moment it passed between his lips.

  “Of course I’m all right, Tommy. It’s been an hour since I was raped, plenty of time to get over it.”

  He winced as he imagined those words. Her actual response was kinder. “I’m fine, nice to keep busy though,” and she gestured towards the kettle rattling away on the nearby countertop. “Coffee ok with you?”

  He nodded. In truth he’d have accepted whatever she offered him; coffee, tea, orange juice, cyanide…

  “I’m sorry.” He winced as he said the words, because they were almost as hollow as “Are you ok?”

  He could tell she was struggling to maintain the smile, fighting dark thoughts that wanted to whisk it away. She was stronger than she looked though, and she won the battle, at least for now. “You don’t have anything to be sorry for, Thomas,” she said, and with that she stepped closer and leaned in to kiss him softly on the cheek, her hand gently squeezing his arm.

  He felt himself blush like a geeky schoolboy smiled at by the class beauty, and tried to ignore the guilty feeling as if he were somehow cheating on his fiancée. Sorry Nancy, but she is gorgeous, and she smells so lovely…

  What am I thinking? The woman was raped, abused, now I’m looking at her like Brendan did.

  She giggled. “You’ve gone all red,” she said.

  “Sorry,” he managed to stutter. He felt like a small child.

  Her smile faded.

  “What is it?” he asked, the words tumbling from his lips at speed.

  She said nothing, merely looked over her shoulder. When she looked back she was frowning. “Did you hear that?”

  He shook his head. “Nothing, only the kettle boiling.”

  “I definitely…” she glanced over her shoulder again, at the door that led to the main corridor. “I’m sure I heard something.” When she turned to face him again the smile had returned. “Probably nothing.”

  “I’ll go and check,” he said, eager to do whatever she asked of him, anything to alleviate his guilt, even a smidgen.

  “You don’t have to do that.”

  He shrugged his shoulders. “It’ll only take a second,’ he said. “What did it sound like?”

  Her nose wrinkled with concentration. “Not sure, footsteps maybe? It’s probably one of the others visiting the loo, that’s all.” She shook her head. “Seriously, don’t worry about it.”

  “It’s ok, it won’t exactly be a chore to go and check now, will it? And you never know.” He stepped around her and headed towards the door. He paused when he was still a stride away from it and turned back.

  Lucy was still smiling at him, though there was an intense look in her eyes now. “What?” he asked.

  “You’re really sweet, you know that, Tommy.”

  He felt his cheeks flushing again. “I’m only checking the corridor,” he said, adding a chuckle that was meant to lighten the mood but came out sounding like a strangled cat.

  “You take care; I don’t want anybody taking advantage of your sweet nature.”

  “Don’t worry, my parents didn’t raise no fool,” he said, affecting an American accent similar to Ibex’s. As he opened the door and stepped out into the corridor he was sure he heard her giggling.

  Not exactly therapy, but better she’s smiling than sobbing, he thought.

  The corridor was empty, as he’d known it would be. Still he let the kitchen door gently shut behind him, and he slid his right hand under his jacket, just in case. His fingers brushed the pistol, but he didn’t draw it. He hadn’t expected there to be anyone out here, and was pretty certain he’d have heard footsteps as well if there had been any, even over the sound of the kettle, even while distracted by Lucy’s beauty.

  Given that the others were in the drawing room that was to the right, he first went left, walking down the lonely corridor towards the base of the back staircase. Every light along the corridor was lit, yet it still seemed an oppressive thoroughfare. There were windows, but only darkest night beyond the glass, and the mahogany panelling was almost black. Even the deep red carpet beneath his feet did little to alleviate the feeling. If there had been bare boards beneath his feet at least the echo would have made the corridor seem bigger.

  Instead the carpet swallowed up his footsteps. It felt like he was walking on a forest floor of damp leaves, each footfall sinking a few centimetres before finding purchase.

  At the base of the stairs he paused. Wooden treads led upwards towards a sharp turn to the left, where a truncated second set of steps led the rest of the way to the first floor. Left hand on the wooden banister he put his right foot on the first step, intending to climb them.

  Then he remembered Chalice’s words. Nobody was to go upstairs.

  He wouldn’t put it past her to have reset the alarm so that anyone going upstairs would set it off. He reclaimed his foot from the step.

  She’d said nothing about not exploring downstairs though, so he opened the door to his left, to the utility room.

  The room was cloaked in shadows, but still he made out several nebulous, pale forms standing static in the darkness; the washing machine and its ilk. He flicked the lights on but nothing new was revealed by the illumination. No Ninja assassins or rabid hellhounds leapt out from behind the tumble drier.

  He smiled, but if he was honest with himself he did it to try and shake the silly feeling that there was someone there in the room, even though there was nowhere for them to be hiding. The feeling was so strong that it took some effort to pluck up the courage to turn the lights off again, and until the door was shut he kept a tight grip on his SIG, drawing the pistol ever so slightly out of the holster.

  “You ok?”

  The voice made him jump, made him jerk the pistol free of the holster. He didn’t have a firm enough grip on it though, and it almost slipped from his grasp before his left hand caught hold of the barrel and eased it back into his right palm. He turned to find Lucy grinning. “Butterfingers.”

  He couldn’t help himself, as flustered and embarrassed as he was he laughed at his own klutziness. “And for my next trick I’ll pull a table cloth out from under some crockery,” he joked.

  She nodded sagely. “Hmm. Well before that how about you take the tray of drinks back in,” and she nodded her head towards the now open again kitchen door behind her.

  “I have to carry the drinks?”

  “Well of course, I’ll be carrying the biscuits.” And she winked.

 
; Chapter twenty seven

  This awakening was gentler. He wasn’t dragged away from a nightmare by the thunderclap of a bullet this time. No, on this occasion he was drawn back from a deep blackness by a gentle rocking. He opened his eyes to find Chalice Knight smiling down at him like a friendly angel. Behind her he caught a glimpse of the bookcase that looked like the gap toothed smile of a small boy.

  “You ok, John?” she said softly.

  He blinked, then nodded. In fact he felt better than ok, he felt rested, calm, almost like his old self. The void he’d slept within had not been terrifying; it had been utterly peaceful. Was it Poe who’d described sleep as tiny slices of death? If so Tyrell might almost welcome oblivion if it proved to be so serene.

  Suicide was a thought that had occupied his mind from time to time during his recovery, but never seriously. Until tonight he wouldn’t have been able to explain what kept him tethered to half a life, but now he understood. It was fear, not fear that death would be nothingness, but terror that what waited beyond the veil was a never-ending nightmare of violence, pain and suffering.

  “Penny for them?”

  He smiled up at her, and took pleasure in the smile that returned.

  “You know, if I was ten years younger, and had all my faculties back, you’d be in trouble.”

  Almost from the moment the last of the words had left his mouth he regretted them. What the hell was I thinking? Stupid, sleep addled brain, a few minutes peace and you think you’re cured, think…

  Chalice was laughing, but it wasn’t the laughter of derision. “Yeah, and if I was ten years older and had started to go batty you’d be in trouble too.”

  He chuckled. “Probably a lucky escape for both of us.”

  She nodded sagely “Probably.”

  He’d slumped down in the leather chair as he’d slept, and now he drew himself up to sit properly. Chalice had been leaning with her hands on the arms of the chair, and she now stood, not from distaste at his approach, merely to give him room.

  He licked his lips. “My mouth feels drier than a desert,” he said, and unbidden a memory of the arid room from his dream wafted across his mind.

  “Oh I know how that goes,” she said. “Luckily for you Lucy’s just brewed so you should have a drink waiting for you.” She checked her watch. “Almost midnight. With a bit of luck we can finish the debrief and maybe get a few hours’ sleep before we have to fold up our tents.”

  “Sounds good to me.”

  But that nagging little voice had returned to the back of his mind. Something…he’d seen something, and Chalice had reminded him.

  Chalice checking her watch had reminded him.

  Checking her watch.

  Her watch.

  Watch!

  Chalice had moved out of view now, gone to re-join the others. Tyrell willed himself out of the chair. His legs almost didn’t respond, they’d been idle too long, and he almost fell, had to grab the side of the chair to stop himself, but with each passing second sensation retuned to them.

  Still holding the chair he faced the back end of the room. Ibex was at the table, Lucy too. Chalice had her back to him and was walking towards the others. That left Cheung who was stood sideways on; eyes glued to the CCTV feeds. He had a mug in his hands and was gently blowing across the surface in a prelude to drinking.

  What if I’m wrong, Tyrell thought, and yet again doubt assailed him. For once he fought it back, held it at bay just long enough to launch himself at Cheung.

  I’m not wrong!

  * * *

  Given her profession, Chalice was used to expecting the unexpected, but even she was taken by surprise when the quiet, if somewhat strained calm that had descended upon the drawing room was blown wide open as Tyrell attacked Thomas Cheung.

  She was walking back to the table to retake her place, to resume questioning the American, when she detected something. Maybe it was a shadow in the periphery of her vision; maybe it was the sound of quick, furtive movement, maybe it was just her sixth sense for danger. Whatever it was she sensed the storm coming and turned.

  Tyrell was staggering towards Cheung. He moved sluggishly, and at another time he wouldn’t have caught Cheung off guard. Right now though the young man was still distracted by the events of earlier, and his own unbidden part in that crime. He didn’t see the threat until it was late.

  Luckily for him Tyrell was obviously too unsteady to make a dedicated assault. He swung for the younger man but missed, instead catching the mug in his hand with a glancing blow.

  The mug spun out of Cheung’s hand, cartwheeling towards the floor, hot coffee or tea spiralling out as it tumbled, making it look like a liquid Catherine wheel. Finally Cheung’s reactions kicked in. He stepped back and let Tyrell’s momentum carry him forwards. The effort of striking out had unbalanced him, and the old man lost his footing and fell to the floor.

  He hit the carpet about the same time as the mug did. The china didn’t shatter on impact, but she had no obvious confirmation that Tyrell’s bones had been that fortunate. For a few heartbeats the chaos was gone, replaced by a startled silence as everyone was too dumbfounded to move or speak.

  The spell was broken when Tyrell started to clamber to his feet. Barely had he got up onto his hands and knees when Cheung took another step back and drew his gun. He held it tight in a Weaver stance, left arm bent, right arm straight. His hands were gripping so tight that his fingers had gone white, and several veins had risen up in anger. “Don’t move, you bastard!” he shrieked, voice on the edge of the hysteria she had tried to draw him back from. “What the hell did you do that for?”

  Tyrell obeyed and stopped moving. Chalice saw genuine terror in his eyes as they focused on the gaping maw of Cheung’s 9mm staring back at them. He opened his mouth to try and speak but only a strangled gurgle seemed to emerge. He was breathing heavily, on the verge of hyperventilating she thought. His face was going red, and whether it was from fear or exertion was almost moot.

  She stepped next to Cheung and drew her own weapon. She didn’t aim it at Tyrell though; she held it tight in her right fist but kept it flush against her hip, ready to swing into play if needed, but not as threatening as Cheung’s.

  “Tom, lower the gun,” she said, keeping her voice as soft as possible. With her left hand she very slowly reached out to rest her fingers upon his rigid right arm, wary of moving too fast, of prompting him to fire.

  Tyrell continued to gaze upwards. Cheeks still flush, breathing ever quicker. His body was shaking and she wondered how long it would be before his arms gave way and he tumbled back down to the floor.

  “Tom, I need you to lower your weapon.” This time her tone was a touch sharper, more insistent.

  He ignored her. “What did you do that for?” he asked again, voice cracking slightly as he spoke.

  Again Tyrell tried to answer, and again his infirmity stopped him making sense.

  Chalice was about to ask Cheung once more to drop the gun, pondering how long to leave it before she took more direct action, when she noticed that, despite the speed with which he’d drawn the weapon, despite the look of steely determination in his eyes, Thomas Cheung hadn’t actually flicked the safety off.

  She didn’t bother to ask him again. Instead she gripped his arm tight and shoved it down so that the gun was pointing at the floor. Tyrell jerked, imagining that Cheung was about to fire, but then relief flared in his eyes as he realised he was safe, for the moment.

  Cheung’s head snapped towards her, rage in his eyes.

  “Don’t look at me like that. If you’re going to draw your weapon you could at least take the safety off. Lucky for you John doesn’t have a gun, he could have blown your stupid head off before you even realised why your gun wasn’t firing when you pulled the damn trigger.” The rant flooded out before she could stop it. She was angry, angry at him, at Tyrell, and at Brendan bloody Fox. She was angry at Ibex, at Lucy, at Sir George, even at her own mother. Above all of this however, she was ang
ry with herself. The mission was going to shit and it was her fault. Same as it had been her fault when…

  “Wasn’t…after…Tom,” Tyrell finally managed to gasp. He was fighting to control his breathing. It was a hell of a battle by the looks of it, but he was slowly but surely winning it.

  She sensed movement behind her but ignored it. Likely Lucy or Ibex—or both of them—were putting themselves behind the two people with guns. That made sense.

  Cheung was staring down at his gun like it was a foreign object, as if trying to figure out where the safety was, trying to work out how to deactivate it. He didn’t even seem to have registered Tyrell’s words.

  But Chalice had. “You weren’t after Tom? Then what were you after?” She knew though, realised what the target must have been if it wasn’t Cheung. It made no sense of course, unless…no, that couldn’t be right.

  “The mug…poisoned.”

  Finally Cheung did hear what Tyrell was saying. His reaction was to laugh. “The coffee’s poisoned?” he practically sneering the words, sounding to her ears uncannily like Fox. “And how do you come to that conclusion when you’ve been snoring the last half an hour, when you weren’t even there when it was made like I…” Cheung’s façade cracked, just a little. She wasn’t sure what made him pause, but it didn’t last. “Was…Like I was.” He didn’t sound certain of that.

  Tyrell was shaking his head. “I don’t know, but it fits.” His breathing had returned to almost normal now. He looked at her for the first time. “Can I get up? I’ll move slowly.”