by Mark Burnell
Mirqas began to turn his head but both her hands were already ramming into his back. He didn’t even have time to scream. Clawing at the air, he tumbled. Petra had turned away by the time the train hit him and she was already at the foot of the steps when she heard the first scream.
* * *
Emotions suspended, Petra walked along Oxford Street. The rush-hour was beginning, for which she was grateful; the pavements were filling. Above, daylight was fading. Another plus. Behind her, sirens made themselves heard over the grumble of traffic.
Analysis, analysis. She saw now that some subconscious part of her had known that it would end this way the moment Dean West had identified her as Stephanie. There were no alternatives. She’d been careless, emptying the gun into West when one clean shot would have brought down Mirqas before he was out of the door. Three months ago, she would never have made such an error. A year ago, however, she would not have coped at all. She didn’t know whether that was good or bad.
Walking helped her to stay calm, allowing her to process her thoughts. Gradually, a strategy formed. She found a vacant phone-box and dialled a number, hoping she could remember the sequence correctly. A recorded message greeted her. ‘You have reached the offices of Adelphi Travel. We are sorry that there is no one available to take your call. If would like to leave a message, please speak clearly after the tone.’
‘Market-East-one-one-six-four-R-P.’
There was a five-second wait. ‘Go ahead. You’re clear.’
‘I need to speak to Mr Alexander.’
‘Where are you?’
‘Oxford Street. A pay-phone.’
‘Please hold.’
She extracted the envelope from her pocket, removed the rubber band and opened it. Three air-tickets. She found her own. Elizabeth Shepherd, as she had been in New York. British Airways flight BA283 to Los Angeles, leaving the day after tomorrow from Heathrow’s Terminal Four at quarter-past-midday. There were no connections. She checked the envelope. Mirqas and Yousef had been booked on to the same flight. Neither of their tickets displayed any connections, either.
Alexander was as blunt as usual. ‘Yes?’
‘I’ve got a serious problem.’
‘How serious?’
‘Four dead. Three in Wardour Street, one on the Underground at Tottenham Court Road.’
For once, Petra had robbed Alexander of breath. Eventually, he asked, ‘Are you hurt?’
‘No.’
‘Under threat?’
‘I’m fine. But I need some damage control.’
‘What kind of control?’
Despite every instinct within her, Petra found herself admiring Alexander’s composure. He listened to her revised version of events and to her request, and then said he’d see what he could do, before asking Petra what she intended to do.
‘I don’t know. I’ll contact Serra and see what happens.’
She heard him light a Rothmans, heard the deep sigh of the first inhale. ‘Perhaps it’s time we brought you out,’ he suggested. ‘Perhaps it’s time to look at another angle.’
‘No.’
‘This is messy enough already and it’s liable to get worse.’
‘I know. But I’ll go with it for as long as I can.’
Another pregnant pause ended with: ‘All right. But I want you to keep me fully informed.’
Petra moved to another phone-box to make her call to Serra. There was no reply. She continued walking. At Marble Arch, she tried again and, this time, got an answer.
‘Yousef is dead and Mirqas has disappeared.’
‘What happened?’
‘I met them as planned. We went to get the tickets. As we were leaving, we were intercepted by two men. One of them started arguing with Mirqas—they seemed to know each other—and then the other one pulled a gun. He shot Yousef and then turned it on me, but I disarmed him. And by the time I’d dealt with him and the other man, Mirqas was gone.’
‘Were you seen?’
‘Not properly. We were still inside the building.’
‘Where are the tickets?’
‘Yousef was carrying them but I have them now.’
‘Did any of you look at them before this happened?’
‘No. He put them in his pocket straight away.’
‘Have you looked at them yet?’
‘I have now.’
‘You said that Mirqas seemed to know the man who shot Yousef?’
‘No. It was the other man who shot Yousef. The smaller man was the one who seemed to know Mirqas. He started asking Mirqas where he had been, saying that it was a long time since they had seen each other. Mirqas tried to look blank but Yousef and I could see that he knew who this man was. But it never got further than that.’
‘And where are you now?’
‘On the street.’
‘Are you safe?’
‘Safe enough.’
‘I’m going to come over.’
‘When? Tonight?’
‘No. I can’t come now. But I’ll be there tomorrow.’
It was Petra’s turn to pause. ‘So what happens now?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Meaning?’
‘Meaning we wait to see if anything develops. But even if it does, we still proceed. It’s too late to stop anything now. The others have dispersed. Not even I know where they are.’
‘But the team is reduced by two. Can they cope with that?’
‘They’ll have to.’
* * *
I am back in my flat. I am in the bathroom. The door is locked. It’s two hours since I pushed Mirqas beneath the train. I stand naked in front of the mirror and watch myself shaking. I can barely bring myself to look at the monster in the glass and yet I cannot tear my gaze away.
Who am I?
I feel like a schizophrenic. I am one person and then another. The ice is thawing and those things that were instinctive and automatic are now subject to scrutiny. The part of me that is Stephanie sits in judgement on the part of me that is Petra.
I cannot live like this. I killed three people today.
I whisper it to myself. Hello, darling, how was your day? How was the office? I killed three people today. What shall we eat for dinner? Shall we get pizza? I pushed a man beneath a train and shot one through the top of the head. Let’s watch TV. Perhaps we should get out of London this weekend. Just another day at the office, I killed three people today.
The person who is staring at me volunteered for this. It was an informed choice. The consequences lie here and I will have to accept them for as long—or as short?—as I live. How will I end this? How will I end? Where is Stephanie? Does she even exist any more or has Petra killed her too? And who is Marina now? I am constantly evolving. I am never one thing, I’m always a compound.
Frank is knocking on the door and trying the handle. He’s asking me if I’m all right. My clothes are on the floor. My black jeans are splattered with Dean West’s blood.
* * *
There were fresh flowers at the centre of the table in a clear glass vase. Also on the table there were wine glasses, bottles that were mostly empty, plates, a board of cheeses that had been attacked with relish, a bowl of fruit, candle-holders and candle-wax, two ashtrays, cutlery, elbows. Around the table, they sat eight. Frank and Petra, and six others. A social occasion to celebrate a thirty-ninth birthday. Frank had cooked and now everyone was purring in appreciation. A bottle of brandy appeared. Murmurs of approval all round. The lamps were dimmed allowing the candles to cast their liquid light over the gathered faces. There were tired smiles and sleepy eyes. It was half-past-midnight.
Petra remained as taut as a violin string. She smiled when required and was as welcoming as her state of mind allowed. She managed an occasional laugh and hoped it didn’t sound too much like a cough. Internally, there was no turmoil. There was no activity at all. Everything was frozen solid, trapped in the ice, and she could feel how brittle she was. One tiny chip and she would shatter, she was sure
of it. Even once the last of their guests had left, there was no release.
They began to clear glasses and plates into the kitchen. She sensed Frank behind her but when his hand touched her shoulder, she jumped. It was a reflex she couldn’t prevent. Frank withdrew the hand.
‘Are you okay?’
‘I’m fine.’
‘You seem a little tense. In fact, you’ve seemed tense all night.’
‘I told you, I’m fine.’
‘And I’m telling you that you’re not.’
The tone of his voice startled her. She turned round. ‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean, there’s something wrong.’
‘What is it?’
‘Why don’t you tell me?’
Petra looked as confused as she felt. The killings in Wardour Street had been on the news. It had been a topic of conversation during dinner. Had he somehow discovered that she was involved? It seemed so improbable. ‘What is it, Frank?’
‘John Fletcher called me today.’
The name came out of nowhere. ‘Who?’
‘John Fletcher. Who’s married to Mary.’
Petra pictured mousy Mary. And then John. ‘So?’
‘You remember when we went out to dinner with them and he thought you were evasive?’
Petra did, without fondness. ‘Yes.’
‘Well, yesterday, he’s at work and has to look into something or other and the name Brillex-Martins comes up. He recalls that you work for them and so he decides to give you a call to see if you can help him out. And guess what?’
Petra knew what, but shrugged ignorance. ‘You tell me.’
‘No one in their London office knows you. They’ve heard of you but none of them have met you.’
Frank offered her an opportunity to say something but she stayed silent because she couldn’t form a coherent sentence. At least, not one that was going to be an answer.
‘Anyway, if nothing else, John’s tenacious. He remembers that you told him that you were something of a trouble-shooter for the company, so he thinks that perhaps you’re more of a roving employee, going from one office to the next, sorting out trouble wherever trouble occurs, in which case maybe you’re registered at the head office in Brussels. He checks with them and discovers that your name does indeed appear on the company pay-roll. So the mystery is partly solved. Or so he thinks. But then it turns out that it isn’t because further enquiries with Brussels reveal that no one there has ever met you either, and that although you’re on the pay-roll, you’re not being paid. Not only that, but recorded information about you is non-existent; there are no photographs of you, no one knows your address, or your age, or how long your name has been on that list.’
Somewhere deep within Petra, there was a hint of relief. Closer to the surface, there was anger. I can’t deal with this now. Not after today. She held open her hands. ‘So what do you want me to say?’
‘Look, you know that I know there’s been some strange stuff going on and I’ve never pushed it. But don’t you think now might be a good time to come clean?’
‘You have no idea what you’re talking about.’
‘I know. That’s exactly the point. I can’t help you if I don’t know what’s–’
‘You can’t help me anyway.’
‘How do you know?’
‘Because if I thought you could, I’d have already let you in.’
‘I thought maybe after last night, a little more openness–’
‘Then you thought wrong.’
‘For God’s sake, Marina, I’m trying to help!’
‘Aren’t you listening? You can’t!’
‘Well, we can’t go on like this.’
Petra felt her spine stiffening. ‘What are you saying?’
‘I’m saying that this is absurd. You’re not telling me anything and I’m going crazy trying to decide what’s a lie and what isn’t.’
She didn’t want to resort to attack as a means of defence but felt herself being dragged in that direction by some invisible and familiar force. ‘Do you think I enjoy having to be like this?’
‘I don’t know. I mean, if you say you don’t, how do I know if you’re telling the truth?’
‘That’s hilarious, Frank,’ Petra retorted, unhappy at being reduced to sarcasm. ‘Really bloody funny. Brilliant.’
‘Actually, it’s the truth.’
The reason in his tone only made it worse.
‘Then this whole thing between us is completely pointless. I mean, if you can’t trust me–’
‘For Christ’s sake, Marina! Listen to yourself. How am I supposed to trust you when I know you’re lying to me?’
* * *
Ten past six on a cold grey morning and I’m on the verge of a nervous breakdown. At least, that’s what it feels like but how can I tell? In the past, I never reached moments like this. Drugs and drink replaced the decline with chemical oblivion. What I face now, however, is naked oblivion. Everything has been stripped to the bone.
Marina versus Petra versus Stephanie.
I wonder now whether storming out of Frank’s flat was the right thing to do. We needed to talk. I wanted to talk. But I would still have been forced to lie to him. So perhaps it was for the best. I wonder whether he’s awake and find myself hoping that he is, hoping that it matters too much to him to allow him to sleep. And then I’m disgusted with myself for being so selfish and hope that he’s asleep. This was my doing. There’s no reason he should suffer any more than he already has.
No longer able to care about avenging the dead, no longer motivated to seek justice and retribution for an unpunished crime, I just want to sleep now. I am twenty-three years old and tired of life.
27
At half-past-eight, Petra knocked on Frank’s door but there was no answer. She returned to her flat and dialled his number. The answer-machine asked her to leave a message but she couldn’t find the right words to express what she felt, so she replaced the receiver without speaking. She tried again at nine and there was still no answer. Then she went out and bought an identical Sony Walkman to the one that Serra had given her.
Later, she had a cup of coffee in a cafe. She watched the rain slither down the window and thought about tomorrow and the day after tomorrow. Tomorrow, she would try to foil the Sons of Sabah and ruin the plan devised by Khalil and organized by Serra. She didn’t yet know how she might achieve this or if it was even possible, but she knew that she had to try. So far, Petra had kept Alexander in the dark and in order to retain control and protect herself, she intended to keep it that way until the moment of her choosing. But what of the day after tomorrow? Khalil would remain as elusive as ever and she would remain bound to Alexander and Magenta House. Had it not been for Christopher and Jane, and their children, she would have taken a chance and gone on the run, with or without Frank. Petra didn’t actually believe that Alexander would harm the remains of her family but she also knew that she couldn’t take the risk. And she knew that Alexander knew that too. Every time she was inclined to dismiss the threat and disappear, she thought about Leon Giler and his family, and saw the smoking remains of his car on the Queensboro Bridge. Tomorrow there would be chaos. But what would the day after tomorrow bring?
At eleven, she called Serra on his mobile and they agreed to meet at midday.
* * *
The Clarendon on Jermyn Street would have been easy to miss. There was no sign outside the entrance, which was a door between a tailor and a shop selling over-priced shirts. Petra entered a narrow corridor that led to a small lobby towards the rear of the building. Behind her, the door closed slowly, shutting out the noise of the street, shutting out modernity. There were armchairs and a sofa in the lobby. Years of wear had polished the leather to a sheen. Wooden panels formed the walls and from them hung prints of hand-drawn maps on paper that had turned yellow. Behind the reception desk sat a man who was at one with his surroundings; dressed like an Edwardian butler, he creaked with age and manners.
‘May I help you?’
‘I’m here to meet one of your guests. Preben Olsen.’
‘Is he expecting you?’
‘Yes.’
He consulted the register. ‘Room nine. It’s on the second floor.’
Petra was alone in the cage-lift, which rattled as it rose. She smelt polish coming off the wood and saw herself reflected in the brass. The tension she felt was not visible. The same could not be said for Serra, whose anxiety existed on the surface, in the greyness of his skin, in the smudges beneath his eyes, in the restlessness of his hands.
‘Sleepless night?’ Petra asked.
He nodded. ‘You?’
‘Of course.’
She shut the door and surveyed the room, which was not a bedroom, but a small reception room. The bedroom was through a door on the right. In front of her, there was an oval table with a china vase at its centre. There were lilies in it. A silver tray of sandwiches sat next to the vase. By the window, there was a sofa and a pair of armchairs. On a small lacquered side-table sat Serra’s constant companion, his lap-top. The oil paintings on the walls were mostly country landscapes and stately homes, their parklands peppered with horses and cattle.
‘Nice place,’ she said.
Serra pointed at the tray of sandwiches. ‘I ordered those for us.’
‘I haven’t got much of an appetite at the moment.’
They sat down and Serra asked Petra to repeat her version of the previous day’s events. He cross-examined every detail and when Petra had finished he asked her to relay it to him once more. He referred to the Evening Standard coverage of the Wardour Street killings, pointing out that one of the victims—a man called Dean West—had been a notorious local criminal. What kind of connection would such a man have had with someone like Mirqas? Petra said she had no idea, since she knew neither of them. The report told of two people fleeing from the scene and said that the police were anxious to trace both of them. Petra said she didn’t know which direction Mirqas had taken; by the time she’d reached the street, he’d vanished.
Several pages on, a smaller article reported the unfortunate suicide of a Kuwaiti student who had thrown himself in front of a Central Line train at Tottenham Court Road. There had been a witness to the tragedy, a middle-aged woman on her way home after shopping in Oxford Street. She explained how the young man had walked to the edge of the platform and how she had thought that he was too close but had not called out to him because, as she said, ‘I never thought he’d jump.’ Petra recognized Magenta House’s handiwork.