The Unseen

by James McKenna

  “No need. My bed is big enough for two.” She blew a kiss.

  Mark opened his eyes and listened, his body gripped by panic as a harsh exhalation of coarse breath disturbed the stillness. His mouth closed and the sound stopped. For moments he peered around the room, glad nobody was there to see his fear. Glad nobody was going to hurt him. He was alone. Always he found himself alone. Except today he had Cindy and tomorrow, Katherine. He saw her vision, her body cloaked in white, waiting.

  Mark rose from his bed, he had a mission. At 0500 hours precisely he began his daily training and worked up a heavy, grunting sweat. Twenty minutes were spent at martial arts, ten on muscle toning. Showered and towelled, he stood in his boxer shorts before a full-length mirror. He liked the mirror, he understood perfection. Beside him, open shelving held theatrical makeup, wigs, body padding, face distorters and coloured contact lenses. He prided himself on his ability to camouflage, to slide through the city jungle without visible recognition. That meant voice change too. The voice gave persona to image and misled people’s interpretation of whom they saw. During preparation he played speech tapes and practised the accents for his chosen character. He considered it essential to blend, to become a shadow within shadows.

  At 0815 hours, Mark presented a beer-gutted and balding man at the intercom shared with Cindy’s ground and basement flat. A male voice responded from above, clipped, impatient.

  “National Water,” Mark spoke into the speaker. “Bradshaw’s got a leak. Might ’ave to turn yer water off, OK mate?” He wore a black T-shirt under overalls. A plastic ID card around his neck identified him as authorised fitter 304. Mark believed in giving a justifiable presence. It eliminated chance discovery and satisfied inquisitive hostiles over noise and intrusion.

  “That’s inconvenient.” The voice became authoritative. “Do you have a key? Who gave you a key?”

  “The Bradshaw’s left ’em wiv the office.”

  “The main stopcock is under the basement steps but don’t turn anything off until my wife leaves for work. Is that understood?”

  “No problem, mate.” The intercom went dead. Arsehole, he thought. He returned to the pavement, went round the basement railings and down steps. Under the canopy formed by the main entrance, he set down his tool bag and switched on his head radio.

  “Commencing entry,” he spoke into his mind-radio and checked his watch.

  “Op time zero, eight, one eight,” the Colonel answered.

  Mark drew on surgical gloves, removed a short builder’s prop from the bag and dragged out its telescopic head. Using a block of wood to spread pressure over the three deadlocks, he wedged the base of the prop against the brickwork under the pavement and pushed home the retaining pin. With the flat steel plate against wood, he began winding the screwed shaft, expanding the telescopic length of the prop until he heard the first splintering of the inner frame. Careful not to cause too much external damage and cursing in case the door was bolted, he put a further four turns on the handle. A section of the weakened frame twisted sideways, snapping cleanly where the door-keeps had been cut into the wood. Forced simultaneously, all three locks and their steel retention-keeps came free from the splintered internal frame so the door swung open.

  Mark immediately released tension, folded the prop and returned it to his bag. “Entry accomplished,” he spoke into the head radio and again checked his watch.

  “Operation time two minutes thirty seconds, you’re on schedule,” the Colonel answered. “Fastest yet. You’re flying, Zoby.”

  Mark smiled, his confidence high. The Colonel always used his nickname on a mission. He re-twisted the splintered section of doorframe so at a glance it appeared undamaged.

  “Find it OK?”

  The voice cut Mark’s isolation and he jerked startled, recognising the nasal clip of the arsehole from upstairs. The idiot peered down over the railings, his face pumped up with class pretension. Mark relaxed, he could take him anytime. The man was nothing.

  He rubbed the padding of his belly. “Any chance of a cuppa before I graft?” He stared upwards. Would the prat comply? No chance.

  The man stared as if observing some incomprehensible idiot. “I think not. My wife will inform you when the water can be turned off.”

  “No problem, mate.” Mark carried his bag into the flat. When he looked back the man had gone. “No problem, I’m just too good for you shitheads.” He wondered what the wife looked like, wondered if she was worthy of special attention. He considered the possibility of paying a call. Maybe she had more to offer than tea. He closed the basement door and wedged it with his bag. For a few moments he stood imagining her submission.

  “Zoby! The purpose of this operation is acquisition of mission funds. Stick with priorities.”

  “Sorry, Colonel.” Mark smiled at the soft reprimand. “Operation proceeding.”

  The area gave access through to the back garden, the block floor narrowing where stairs descended from the front door and hallway above. The first room housed a small gymnasium containing a treadmill, weights and steam box. Mark stood on the threshold and allowed his mind to fill with images of Cindy pumping iron. He saw her legs spread either side of the bench. He sure hoped Cindy obeyed when he came to take her. He would hate it if she turned out to be a hostile, hate it if she deceived him. Standing there, thinking of her, he felt the mist come down and settle on his brain. He had no comprehension of how he got to the next room, but he was there, standing by French windows and looking out onto a neat garden. Light threw oblongs of sunshine and shadow over the floor and a giant, king-sized bed. The quilt and pillows were still rucked, the sheets smelling of her perfume, of her body. Her nightdress lay at the bottom. Black, long and gossamer thin. His penis swelled.

  “Zoby, proceed with operation objectives,” the voice sounded dry, without compromise.

  Oh, oh. Colonel’s getting edgy. “Yes sir.” Mark dropped the nightdress underfoot and went to the bedside cupboard nearest the door. “Search commencing, sir.” He rifled with practised skill, his latex-gloved fingers shuffling the contents and searching between layers. He found no money, no cards. Disappointed he started on the adjacent drawers, working from the lowest upwards, always returning everything to position. He ignored all items of value, a gold watch, cufflinks, ID bracelet. He wanted only cash or cards. Nothing.

  “Shitheads.” Mark fought his growing irritation and tried to dislodge the black void pushing into his mind. Where did they put their credit cards? The first cupboard he tried held Cindy’s clothes, so did the second. On the third he smiled at a row of suits. Starting one end, he frisked each garment with dextrous speed, finding a wallet in the seventh jacket. The contents were a clutter of assorted dockets and scraps, but it also held thirty-five pounds cash, two credit cards and a photo of Cindy on a beach. She stood naked, immodest with hands held high, her expression one of mock surprise. He felt shocked. He did not like her posing nude in public. He would punish her for that. He tried to console himself. Maybe she had left the photo for him to find, letting him know what was rightly his. He placed the photo into an inner pocket along with the money and cards, then went back to searching.

  Her dressing table came next, the top clustered with bottles either side of an oval mirror. When he pulled a side drawer, his breath slid over his tongue, catching at the back of his throat so it sounded like escaping gas. His hands hovered, then closed amidst a jumble of panties, bras and suspender belts. He shivered, fingers pushing down into the perfumed cluster, touching, testing, selecting white shorts with lace front and back.

  “Told you Cindy, told you I’d get my hands into your knickers.” He fondled the gusset, testing between thumb and forefinger, his tongue extended, fanning hot breath over the material pressed to his face. A small sound quavered in his throat, his groin ached so he could barely stand. Leaning forward, he clutched her underwear against his erection, his breath forming clouded circles on her makeup mirror. He wanted her so badly, wanted to enjoy her now
. At that moment she came behind him and reached around to undo his zip. Her breath coiled with his own and he felt her hand in his trousers pulling him out. Her mouth had formed a scarlet O, bright with lipstick, a ready and willing mouth. She fondled him, slowly at first, then more vigorously until he saw her face, saw her laughing, and realised she was a hostile. She was trying to distract him, jeopardise the mission.

  In the clear, stark silence, the sound of a key in the door and the opening latch sliced into his brain. Cindy’s image vanished and he was suddenly alone. In the bright, sunny bedroom he shuddered the result of his ejaculation into the white lace held between his fingers. Twitching, he couldn’t stop twitching. Hell, he was exposed, vulnerable. They had tricked him. They had returned deliberately to catch him. He threw the underwear aside and extracted an eight-inch folding serrated knife. This was his opportunity. He would kill the husband, interrogate the whore. Both were now proven hostiles, it was his duty. He tidied himself then went quickly to the stairs, the blade behind his back.

  “There you are,” a female voice spoke down at him. It was not Cindy. This one was stout, blonde, her hair held by an Alice band, her skirt pleated, her figure full. From the low angle, he looked upwards to the underside of her breasts. Good breasts, breasts he could do things with. “You can turn the water off now. Did you find the main stopcock under the entrance steps?”

  Zoby mounted the stairs without hurry, trying to smile, trying not to frighten her. She was solidly built, she would be strong and would struggle. He needed to get her down on the floor, get her naked quick as possible.

  “Mum, taxi’s here.” A boy of perhaps ten appeared at the flat door which had stayed open onto the common entrance hall. He stared at Zoby in silence. Zoby could see him staring. Children unnerved him, they were aliens from his past. Before becoming a soldier, he had been one of them. He knew the boy could see inside him, see him hiding inside, knowing he was there. Zoby hesitated.

  “Well, did you?” The woman insisted. The boy ran off. Now Zoby was uncertain. If he stripped the woman the boy might come back, snitch on him, tell everyone where he was hiding and jeopardise the whole mission.

  “Yes,” Zoby answered. “Leak’s in the bathroom.”

  “We look after each other’s flats. Cindy never said you were coming. I suppose she was in such a rush with the holiday.”

  “Only called us yesterday.” He moved closer to the last step turning the knife in his hand. “While I’m here, perhaps I can do something for you?”

  “Mum! The taxi’s waiting.” The boy’s voice carried from outside.

  The woman was stupid, he could see it, deserved what was coming. He came onto the landing.

  “Leave a card on the hall table. A reliable plumber is difficult to find. And make sure you lock up.” She turned away from him, closing the door as she left.

  Zoby waited till the building grew silent and hollow, then refolded his knife. When he re-entered the bedroom, Cindy had still not returned. He slid the drawer shut and looked around him. The room seemed oppressive. Everything weighed in on him, hating him, telling him to go. He kicked the bed. Next time, she wouldn’t get away so easy. Next time he would keep her for a week.

  Tool bag in hand he left, ensuring the outer door stayed wedged back into the splintered frame with no obvious sign of entry from outside.

  “Operation accomplished, cards secured. Exit achieved,” he reported into his head, confident the burglary would remain undiscovered until Cindy’s return. He wondered if she would find his little gift, wondered if she would wear them. He couldn’t wait to put a gift inside her. He whistled as he walked away.

  “Operation time, zero, eight, three, eight. Return to base,” the Colonel ordered.

  Thirty minutes later Zoby entered a cyber café and using Darley’s credit cards and the Darley e-mail address, he booked car hire and return flight from Luton to Dublin, using the three digit number on the back for security. He kept the Bradshaw card for emergency.

  Zoby packed with careful consideration for his mission, particularly in camouflage and disguise. To him Ireland remained hostile territory. On a mission deep behind enemy lines, concealment within the indigenous population was imperative.

  After using Darley’s passport to check in, Mark spent an hour in the airport’s departure lounge familiarising himself with mission requirements. Other than to destroy her files on flash drive, he found no word of what to do with Katherine, but it wasn’t necessary, the whole scenario seemed as a film set laid out in his brain. How it came there he had no idea, but the vision always materialised after playing one of the Colonel’s games. He guessed it was transmitted secretly over the combat radio in his head. Probably covert, Special Forces equipment, the best. Mouth open he watched people pass his seat. Families, business people, a group of girls all dressed in pink heading for some hen night. Under the floating noise of tannoys, crowd chatter and clinking cutlery he considered joining them. Fucking nine girls would be fun.

  In the gents’ toilet, he flushed torn instructions down a WC pan and then examined himself in the mirror while washing his hands. He saw another man there, Darley, but Mark knew he was hiding behind the face, hiding in the shadows.

  I’m the strongest, he thought, because I can make you do anything I want. I could even make you kill your own wife, Bunny. Yeah, he nodded and Darley nodded back in agreement. I might just do that, after I’ve dealt with Cindy.

  He used Darley’s passport to check himself on to the plane, huddled in amongst others on the economy flight. Who would guess, he thought, looking round him. Who would guess I’m on a mission? During time spent flying he went through the facilities of his digital video camera. The Colonel would require photographs, close-ups of every detail. Zoby always enjoyed the photo session.

  Zoby observed the small, square-shaped girl at the car hire company and felt the claw of nerves which came with first enemy encounter. He watched as she tapped computer keys with adept skill. He handed over Jez Darley’s driving licence and passport taken from the Kennington flat. The transactions were precarious. Should Darley’s credit card be full, then the driving licence would be useless. Both had to be valid or it meant drawing cash and starting again. Even worse, she might tip off security and that would mean a fast exit. She took notes from the driving licence and handed it back.

  “Do you want additional insurance to cover excess and theft, Mr Darley?”

  “No,” he said, his accent county Irish. Excess would require additional use of the card.

  She continued to tap, then swiped Darley’s card through the machine. “If you fill up the tank before returning you won’t be charged.” She checked her watch then stared dreamily from the office window, waiting for the hire document to clatter out of the printer. When it stopped halfway, Zoby picked up his bag. In minutes he could be back in the terminal, mixing with crowds.

  The girl opened the printer drawer, slammed it shut and watched it restart. Seconds later she twisted the document for him to sign.

  In squiggled loops, he executed a perfect replica of Darley’s signature. It could have been any name. She checked briefly with the back of the card, then placed hire agreement documents and keys on the counter.

  “Blue Honda Civic, bay 43,” she told him. “Have a nice day and thanks a million.”

  “And yourself,” he said, letting her realise he looked at her breasts, letting her know his power. These cluck heads were as dumb as the dipsos back home.

  Thirty minutes later he drove into the underground car park of Tomlins hotel, Dublin Central. He let them take a swipe of Bradshaw’s card and then retired to his room. Alone, he switched on his head radio.

  “Enemy lines penetrated, safe haven secure,” he said into his mind.

  “Roger, Zoby. Acquisition of ordnance to commence ASAP.”

  “Will do, Colonel. Over and out.”

  The room was basic, bed, cupboard, utility bathroom. Two pictures on the wall showed old Dublin. Zoby unpacked
and hung equipment in neat order, surgical rubber boots below the overalls. Once all was stowed he checked the list of ordnance still needed. He decided to start with meat slicing requirements, then preparations to secure a quality car for the operation.

  Forty minutes later he drove on the outskirts of Dublin, his imagination on the tailoring scissors just purchased. He saw them cutting soft fabric, revealing delicate white skin for his new knives. He thought maybe he would leave the veil, leave the vision of purity as he fucked her. “Fuck a nun,” he said aloud, and began to laugh. He couldn’t stop laughing and knew it was the boy inside having his joke. Soldiers did not laugh, they only killed.

  He picked St Julian’s Golf Club from a magazine, primarily because it looked expensive. The car park stood full of Jaguars, Mercedes and BMWs. The place had wealth. No recession here.

  Wearing a blond wig, dark glasses and golfing gloves, Zoby sought out the pro in his shop. The pro looked pure designer with everything and anything for money.