by Kate Johnson
He was waiting for me when I came out, making me jump. “The dressing,” he said, holding up some gauze and scissors. I went and sat on the bed, clutching my towel very tightly, while Luke inspected the stitches and cut a clean piece of gauze to cover them. He was dressed, more’s the pity, and somehow managed to smell really good without having gone anywhere near the bathroom.
“Look at you, all serious,” I teased, trying to distract him from my rapidly rising pulse rate.
“Combat medical training. If you make a mistake early on, it can make for serious problems.” His face was grim, and I didn’t want to ask about it any more. Luke was scary when he went all professional.
Then he looked up, and his face was neutral again. “Breakfast?”
I found some clean knickers in my bag, but no bra and no other clothes, so it was either pyjamas again or Luke’s clothes.
He looked me over when I came out in joggers and a T-shirt, and his eyes fixed on my chest. “No bra?”
“Maria didn’t seem to think I’d need one.”
“I like Maria.”
I rolled my eyes. “I need to go home and pick some things up.”
“I’ll do it.”
“No, I need to go.”
“No, you don’t. Unlike some people in this room, I’m quite good at following instructions.”
I made a face. What I needed was to somehow get that revolver out from under my bed and back in Luke’s secret cupboard before he noticed it was missing.
“So, what are we doing today?” I asked as Luke handed me a plate of toast.
“I am going to see if I can find out who chucked a Molotov cocktail through your window. You are staying here.”
“Nice try.”
“I mean it, Sophie. You need to rest and stay away from people who want to firebomb you. That wasn’t an idle threat. If Maria hadn’t been there you could have been killed.”
If Maria hadn’t been there. “So, what, you think I’m totally helpless? You think I need to be locked away from danger? I’m a bloody secret agent, Luke, and you won’t even let me have a gun.”
“You need a licence—”
“So get me a fucking licence!” Aware that I was shouting, I tried to lower my voice. “How am I supposed to protect myself if all I have is a green dye defence spray?”
“You have the stun gun.”
“Maria didn’t pack it.” I drummed my fingers on the counter. “I mean it. I need weapons, not bubble wrap.”
“A weapon makes you a target,” Luke said calmly, finishing his coffee and rinsing out the cup. “You’re not getting one.”
I scowled at him as he sauntered away from me into the bathroom and locked the door.
“What if I just upped and left?” I said. “I did it yesterday. You can’t keep me here.”
“There’s a keypad alarm on the inside and outside of that door,” Luke said from inside the bathroom. “All the windows are laser-sensored. I couldn’t break into this place.”
“Doesn’t tell me much,” I grumbled. “You can’t keep me here,” I repeated in frustration.
“I can. I’m your superior and I can.”
“You’re such a bastard.” I kicked the door and flounced out to watch TV.
I was checking the news when he came back out, shaved and dressed and smelling even more divine.
“You’ll be fine on your own,” he said. “I have steak knives if you want self defence.”
“Thank you. Now I have something to attack you with.”
He sauntered over and pulled me to my feet. “Sophie,” he said, stroking my face, “don’t be mad at me. This is for your own safety. As soon as I have a handle on this, I’ll let you know.”
“I’m coming with you.”
“Out in public without a bra?” He traced the outline of my breast. “You wouldn’t.”
“Try me.”
He grinned and took my hands in his. “I’ll call you if I get anything,” he said, and pretty much before I’d realised what he was doing, he’d whipped out a pair of handcuffs and locked one bracelet around my wrist, and the other around the standard lamp by the chesterfield. “Stay where you are,” he added, stepping back quickly, and I lashed out at him, the lamp swaying alarmingly.
“You bloody, bloody bastard!”
Luke laughed and dropped the key in his pocket. He went over to the door and tapped in a code, shielding it with his hand so I couldn’t see, and slipped out. “See you later…”
“Wanker,” I yelled, and I could hear him laughing as he set the external alarm. “Bloody arsing bollocking fucking wanker.”
My phone was on the kitchen counter and I stretched as far as I could, but I couldn’t reach it. I glared at the lamp. The lamp stood there, looking heavy.
I picked it up, my aching body protesting, and carried it over to the kitchen. A modern ball and chain. I suppose he thought this was funny.
It took me most of the morning to free myself. The lamp was heavy and my back was killing me by the time I located a screwdriver in the cupboard by the door. I unscrewed the top and bottom sections of the lamp and presto! I was free.
“Stupid bloody lamp,” I glared at it, then put it back together. I didn’t want Luke to figure out how I’d got free so easily. I put the screwdriver away and made more coffee while I thought.
So. All the windows had laser sensors on them—he hadn’t been kidding, I could see the thin red lines. Good job he didn’t have a cat. There was the keypad inside the front door, and apparently one outside it as well. I could get one of his guns and shoot the damn things, but they were all unloaded, and I’d probably set the alarm off anyway.
I could get the phone book out, call the roofing place downstairs, and get them to break in for me. No. No broken windows. I didn’t want to leave this place vulnerable and then get chewed off for letting it get broken into.
I could call the fire brigade or the police, but that would bring me to the same place.
I could call Luke and beg.
I could try to disable the locks.
Of all my options, the last one seemed the most appealing. But I had not got a clue how to. I told you I’m anathema to computers. Just when I think I’m starting to understand them, they shut down or reboot or do something incomprehensible.
Then I had a brain wave. I got my phone, and dialled Five.
“Sophie Green?”
I took a deep breath. “Macbeth. I need a favour.”
He laughed when I told him I needed to break out of somewhere, and laughed even more when I told him where.
“So wait a minute. He’s got you locked inside his house without no clothes—”
“I have clothes, but they’re his.”
“Too bad it ain’t the other way round. I’d love to see him in a dress.”
“But can you do it?” I asked. “Can you disable those alarms?”
“Are they just alarms, or are they really locks too?”
I looked at the one inside. “I think this one’s just an alarm. I think the one outside is a lock, like the ones we have at the airport.”
“Windows?”
“Laser sensors. I don’t know if they’re triggered to an alarm or if I’ll get shutters clanging down on me.”
“Hmm. Where are you?”
I told him, and he said he’d be there in ten minutes.
I washed out my coffee cup, put all my things back in my bag and looked at the bunch of keys Maria had thrown in. There was Luke’s front door key—in duplicate—much good it had done me. I needed to learn the code from his front door before I could break in now.
Macbeth knocked on the door nine minutes later. “I think I got this one,” he said, and the door clicked open.
“I’m impressed. What did you do?”
He held up a little gadget. “Scanned it. You want the code?”
“Yes, please.”
I wrote it down in my little diary, then the inside code too. I taped Luke’s original key back inside th
e drawer where I’d found it, slapped a little note on the kitchen counter and beamed at Macbeth.
“I owe you big time,” I said. “Massive. Anything you want.”
He looked at me speculatively. “Take off your shirt.”
I gaped. “Anything but that.”
He grinned. “I ain’t gonna do anything, I just want to see you.”
“That’s all?”
“Then we’re even.”
He got me out of a securely locked house. Sure I could flash him.
Closing my eyes, I pulled off Luke’s T-shirt.
“Oh, baby,” Macbeth said.
I pulled it back on. “That’s your lot.”
“Honey, I’ll unlock a door for you any time.” He grinned. “You want me to set the alarm before we go?”
“Please.”
I waited at the top of the stairs. It was cold outside and I was glad I’d half-inched a sweater from Luke’s drawer.
“So what were you doing locked in there?”
I rolled my eyes. “He thinks it’s unsafe for me to go out.”
“Is it?”
“No! One firebomb doesn’t mean I’m not safe.”
Macbeth shook his head. “Maria told me. You gotta pick the right bottle for a Molotov cocktail.”
I’d bear that in mind.
He offered me a lift and led me to a blue Corsa. “Tell me this is not your car.”
“Course not. I’m undercover.”
I hated to tell him, but the only place he’d be convincing undercover is in a cell block.
“You got a bondage thing going on?” Macbeth glanced at the handcuffs I was still sporting.
“No. I think this is Luke’s idea of a joke.”
“So are you really not sleeping with him?” he asked, and he looked disappointed when I shook my head violently.
“Luke? No. I’m not nuts.”
Macbeth said nothing.
We pulled up at my flat and I stared at the kitchen window which had been broken yesterday but was now fixed. “You want me to check the place over for you?”
I started to say no, then I nodded. “Thanks.”
“No problem.” He got a gun out of his jacket and advanced on the door. “You gonna unlock it?”
I tried, and then I found that the key didn’t fit.
“Son of a bloody bitch changed my locks!”
Macbeth grinned. “No problem.” He aimed the gun at the door and shot the lock off. “I just changed them, too.”
I added “call locksmith” to my mental to-do list and followed Macbeth inside.
“No bodies,” he said, coming out of the bedroom. “Nothing broken. You got your TV and shit. You’re fine.”
“Thanks,” I said again. “For everything.”
“Hey, we’re comrades now. If I ever need to, you know…” he waved his hand as he apparently tried to think of something I could do better than him, “…accessorise or something, I’ll give you a call.”
I tried not to smile. “And I’ll be glad to help.”
He left, the Corsa trundling away, and I looked at my door in despair. Right. First clothes—I never thought I’d miss a bra that much. I put one on, revelling in the support, and then put a spare in my Ace bag.
Also on my to-do list: buy a Mary Poppins bag. I really couldn’t carry the Ace one around out of uniform without looking like an idiot.
I called an emergency locksmith. I checked on yesterday’s finger. It was there, but the other two, which had been in a different drawer (I had a lot of ice-cream to fit in that compartment, okay?) had gone. So Luke definitely had a key to my flat.
Or at least he’d had one before Macbeth shot the lock off.
I had to start looking up security firms in the Yellow Pages. I wanted Luke-style alarms on my front door and all my windows, especially since they were all on the ground floor. Maybe shutters, too. No more firebombs for me.
I needed to get Angel’s jewellery back to her—I was hoping quite desperately that Luke had locked it away somewhere safe—and see what sort of state her Ladyboat’s dress was in. I also needed to haul ass up to my parents’, get the leftover flooring from the garage, and replace the burnt floorboards in the living room.
And when I’d done all that, I needed to work out who had caused the wood to be burnt and who had shot at me the night before last.
The first thing I did was make some more coffee and take some more painkillers. I brushed my hair and put some make-up on, grimacing at the bruise that had come up on my temple. My whole body was a collection of bruises and grazes but they were all covered up. No wonder Luke hadn’t made a move on me this morning.
Then I got out my toolbox (yes, I have a toolbox. I am a Modern Woman. Look upon me and tremble) and sawed off the dangling bracelet from Luke’s handcuffs. I was stuck with the other one for now, but maybe I could pretend it was a new line in jewellery.
The locksmith turned up, frowning. “I already came out here once today,” he said.
“Yes. Erm. Well, you see, my friend thought it would be great fun to get the locks changed on my flat. So I couldn’t get in.”
“So you shot the lock off? You’ve been watching too many American cop shows.”
“Can you repair it?”
“You’ll probably need a new door.”
“If I get a new door can you fit a damn lock?”
He appeared taken aback by this. “Well, yes, but—”
“But?”
“I can’t wait here while you go—”
“Yes,” I said, “you can. And you will. Because I still have the gun that made that hole and I’ve been having a really bad couple of days. So either you sit here and wait while I fetch a new door, or—”
He held up a hand. “I’ll wait! Only fifteen minutes to get to Homebase, anyway,” he added with a weak smile.
I was glad he’d interrupted, because I had a feeling if I’d finished that sentence, I might have called the police on me.
“Make yourself at home,” I mumbled, and rushed out to Ted. Lovely, solid, dependable Ted.
When I got to Homebase, I realised that there were a million different kinds of door and a million different sizes. Swearing, I called my home number and snarled at the answer phone until the locksmith picked up and told me what size I’d need.
I grabbed a solid wood door and commandeered an assistant to take it to the check-out and put it in my car. This spy stuff was costing me a fortune.
When I got back the locksmith was watching Sky News, but he hurriedly leapt to his feet and started to fit my new door.
“What happened to your floor?” he asked.
“What? Oh, firebomb,” I said, glancing at the TV and then double-taking. They were showing the Ace desks at Stansted. Ooh, Sven looking hot. I turned the volume up.
“…a massive dip in confidence for this airline, which has been steadily losing business since November. Passenger numbers are down and many people are trying to cancel their flights. But Ace’s policy, like that of most low-cost airlines, is not to offer refunds, which is further angering many worried passengers.”
I stared. What the hell had happened?
“You want the handle on th—” the locksmith began, and I waved a hand for him to shut up.
Then the TV started showing pictures of plane wreckage. Numbers scrolled across the screen—missing, injured, trapped. Dead. Times and places. Weeping relatives. Cardboardy executives.
Ace flight 128 to Glasgow had crashed in North Yorkshire, destroying a primary school and instantly killing seventy-eight children, five teachers, two pilots, three crew, and fifty-five passengers.
I watched it scroll across my TV. A hundred and forty-three people are dead, and it’s all your fault, Sophie Green.
“You got a letter box?” the locksmith called out, and I marched into the bedroom, retrieved the revolver and aimed it at him.
“Shut the fuck up,” I said. “This is important.”
I tried to digest the det
ails but I couldn’t take it all in. Flight recorders, safety checks, radio transmissions. There were half a dozen survivors, all in ICU. I was finding it hard to breathe.
Eventually I managed to pick up my mobile, one hand still aiming the gun somewhere in the vicinity of the door, and dialled Luke.
“Have you seen the news?”
“Sophie?”
“Have you seen the news?”
“What? No, I’ve been—”
“Switch on the TV, or a radio or something. Go online.”
“What’s happened?”
I told him.
“Shit,” Luke whispered. “Seriously?”
“Yes, Luke, seriously. A hundred and forty-three people.”
“Jesus.”
“I know.”
Both of us were silent for a bit. Then Luke asked, “What the hell is that noise?”
The locksmith was drilling. Luke thought I was still at his place.
“I don't know,” I said sweetly, “if I look out of the window I’ll set off the lasers.”
“Sophie—”
“It’s okay. I’m all right. But, Luke, this crash. Don’t you think it’s suspicious?”
“You think Wright’s desperate enough to make a plane crash? You think he’s bright enough?”
“I think Wright is being manipulated,” I said. “I think he has someone very nasty in partnership.”
“Your friend Harvey?”
“Why do you think it’s Harvey?”
“He’s been wherever Wright’s been. Do you know his name isn’t even Harvey? It’s James Harvard.”
“How do you even know it’s the same person?” I asked incredulously.
“I Googled him. Found a picture.”
Bloody hell. I can Google for hours and get nothing. I bloody hate people who can get precisely what they want from the Internet.
“I think you’re clutching at straws,” I told him. “And I don’t think it’s Harvey.”
“Why the hell not?”
I sighed. I didn’t really want to tell him. It sounded like an excuse.
“This partner? Wright said it was a woman.”
“That doesn’t mean—”
“He’s not bright enough to do that on purpose,” I said. “And besides, Luke, think of all the most vicious people you know. I bet most of them are female.”