The Mayfly: The chilling thriller that will get under your skin

by James Hazel

  Eva made a noise as if she understood, but didn’t move. He turned to look at her. She was staring at him.

  ‘Where were you going, Colonel Ruck?’

  Even in her bedraggled state, she looked beautiful. He tried not to think about that.

  ‘To the town down the road. A warm pub, if I can find one. Anywhere as long as it’s away from this detestable place.’

  ‘Sounds wonderful. Although I imagine anywhere other than here would seem wonderful.’

  ‘There could be worse places.’

  ‘Perhaps it is the proximity to Schneider that disturbs me?’ Eva smiled a wonderful, radiant smile. With her eyes, too.

  In Ruck’s experience, people never did anything without some reason. Especially smiling. He turned to face her and found himself tensing up again. She was still staring at him with those big, green eyes.

  ‘I agree this is not the most pleasant of assignments,’ he said. ‘But it is an important one, nonetheless.’

  ‘You have a charming way of understating things, Colonel Ruck. Now let’s go to this pub of yours, shall we?’

  *

  They drove in silence down the miles of waterlogged roads that wound through the valley. The Austin bumped along, the suspension shuddering and the frame rattling over every pothole. After a while they saw houses. Little red-brick cottages set back from the road, boundaries marked with low walls made from moss-covered stone, and tall trees dancing in the wind. There was a sign marking the entrance to a village. Ruck didn’t catch the name. It wasn’t what he was expecting but it would suffice.

  He should have thrown her out of the car back at the farm. Dragged her out in the rain if necessary. She had no right, demanding to be taken to a bloody pub. He hadn’t, though. The green eyes. The way her rain-sodden blouse clung to her chest after she had removed her coat.

  Ruck gripped the Austin’s wheel tighter.

  A few more corners and they saw a larger building – an old mill converted into a public house. The sails had been removed and an extension had been bolted on.

  The rain had eased to a gentle patter, although as they got out of the car there was a low rumble of thunder in the distance. Inside, the pub was pleasant enough. A fire burned in the corner and a black Labrador dozed on the hearth. Hops hung from the low ceiling above wooden beams and tired chairs. The only other customers were an old man apparently asleep at the bar and a gentleman engrossed in The Times sitting in the corner.

  ‘Not seen you before,’ remarked the barman, a man so wide that he took up a good proportion of the bar. He eyed them suspiciously, his gaze falling on Eva for longer than Ruck found acceptable.

  ‘A whisky,’ Ruck ordered. ‘Miss Miller?’

  ‘We don’t allow women in the public bar, I’m afraid, sir. We have no lounge bar, either.’

  Ruck felt a flush of annoyance. A quiet night away from the farm, that was all he wanted.

  ‘I feel sure that an exception will not bring the walls caving in on their foundations,’ he said dangerously.

  ‘A gin, please,’ said Eva.

  ‘Some tonic water to accompany it?’ asked Ruck, ignoring the barman’s disapproving stare.

  ‘No. Straight. On the rocks. Please.’

  ‘I’m sorry, sir,’ growled the barman. ‘I can’t serve her.’ He stood, rubbing the pint glass with a cloth.

  Ruck glanced around. No one was paying attention. He leant across the bar, grabbed the barman by his collar and pulled the man’s head down so it was level with his. The barman uttered a strangled protest but Ruck’s grip was immovable.

  ‘Will you pour the lady a drink, or shall I do it for you?’ Ruck hissed.

  A few minutes later, Ruck placed the gin on the table in front of Eva. She took it and swallowed a surprisingly large mouthful. Taking off his wet coat, Ruck sat down next to her and took a sip of his own drink. The whisky was single malt, cheap and musty, but it did the job.

  ‘How did you get this assignment?’ Ruck asked, studying her. Her movements were purposeful. Everything Eva Miller did seemed to be calculated for effect. The way she touched her cheek when his eyes were upon her suggested an understanding of the world far beyond her years.

  ‘I was a secretary to General Warrington. When the war was over I thought, like many others, that I would have to leave. But then a man came, a man like you. There were ten of us girls. He said that one of us would be selected for a very important assignment. That the pay was good but it was subject to extreme secrecy.’

  ‘This man picked you.’

  ‘He picked Rose. Not me.’

  ‘And you’re here because . . .?’

  ‘Because Rose is dead.’

  Ruck took another sip of the whisky. Out of the corner of his eye he could see the barman leaning on the corner of the bar nearest to them, straining to eavesdrop. He was about to ask how Rose had died, but Eva put her hand up.

  ‘Colonel Ruck,’ she said. ‘The doctor you are interrogating . . .’

  ‘Lower your voice, girl.’

  ‘Of course. I’m sorry.’

  Eva shuffled along the bench so she could speak in barely a whisper. Her shoulder brushed against his and he could smell the perfume Schneider had noticed. He stiffened, unsure. He felt as though he should shift to make an appropriate distance between them but he let her touch him.

  She continued, ‘Schneider said that he saw God.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Do you think that is true?’

  Ruck thought about it. ‘No. Not for one minute.’

  ‘What if you are wrong? I mean . . . there has to be a reason for it all, doesn’t there? I mean what happened in Europe.’

  Ruck put the whisky glass down slowly, not taking his eyes off her. ‘The reason was not God.’ He found the words sticking to the back of his throat. The hairs on the back of his neck were rising but he couldn’t explain why – other than it was her doing. Somehow he could feel her, underneath his skin.

  ‘No,’ she whispered. ‘You’re right. How silly of me.’

  Ruck swallowed the last of the whisky.

  ‘We ought to be getting back,’ he announced, standing.

  ‘Yes. Of course.’ Eva drank down the rest of the gin and stood up.

  Ruck made his way across to the bar. As he opened the door, a gust of icy wind greeted him.

  ‘Your coat!’ Eva called. She picked it up from the bench and walked over to him, holding it out. It had been surprisingly easy to lift the piece of paper from the inside pocket. As easy as dropping the cyanide capsules into Rose’s tea.

  20

  It was her flatmate’s birthday, but Georgie Someday hadn’t felt like going out. Not that this was unusual – she rarely felt like going out. In fact, she never felt like going out, least of all with her flatmates, of whom there were four – Mira, the birthday girl, Li, Fergus and Martin. However, in a moment of poor judgement, she had agreed to come along, having mistaken Mira’s invitation to come to ‘the theatre’ as the prospect of an evening of civilised culture, whereas Mira had actually been referring to The Theatre, a sticky-floored bar downtown.

  Georgie looked around her. It was freezing cold outside and every time the door opened to allow another scantily clad patron to stumble in, she was blasted by cold air that Captain Scott would have winced at. So why was she the only one who had brought a coat, gloves, scarf and hat? Were they all crazy?

  Earlier that evening, she had watched Mira knock back another small glass of something that resembled washing-up liquid, so perhaps she should have guessed that her birthday wasn’t going to be spent watching the RSC’s interpretation of Don Quixote. Equally, Mira might have known that, given Georgie’s love of Wagner, she might not enjoy an evening listening to Pearl Jam, but then despite the fact that they had all been at Oxford together, with the exception of Li, whom Georgie found tolerable, she didn’t really know her flatmates all that well.

  Martin was now shuffling up closer to Mira. He put his mouth to he
r ear, and she burst out in flirtatious fits of laughter. Georgie registered the look he had cast her, and the little smile playing at the corners of his mouth. He liked her watching him, she noticed. Liked her wariness of him, her embarrassment at what had happened. She wore her shame like a coat that only he could see.

  Georgie pulled that coat tightly around her and looked away. Something knotted in her stomach.

  They were huddled around the bar. Fergus was negotiating a round of drinks. They’d have one more, he had said, then head to Dojos, a dark, smoky and seedy local club. She planned to slip off home before they joined the queue. She’d shown her face. That was enough.

  Fergus returned with a tray of shots. He placed the tray on the table and collapsed next to Georgie, then took one of the drinks and offered it to her. It was an unappealing shade of bright blue.

  ‘How’s work going?’ he enquired in his deep Irish brogue.

  ‘Fine,’ said Georgie, inspecting the drink. It was a reply that was designed to discourage conversation.

  As it happened, the last six months at Priest & Co had been the best of her life. She had finally found a place, a sense of worth, and an escape route from the people she had sat next to in law lectures. Mira was a paralegal at a high-street practice in Sutton. She claimed she was in the tax department but in reality she was making tea and taking minutes. Fergus was a bum. Li was temping, probably through an agency. Martin had achieved nothing.

  Georgie was one of the most successful students in her year at Oxford, and the only one out of her flatmates not to have squandered the opportunities that had been set out for her. And she had done it without Mummy and Daddy’s help, too, unlike Mira, whose mother was the CEO of some trade body and whose father was a GP. Together, they were an interest-free bank. Georgie had a far humbler background. Her mother had had Georgie late and was now retired. Her father had died when she was twelve. They had known poverty – Georgie had negotiated with bailiffs on the doorstep on more than one occasion – but her mother had had a stroke of good luck last year. She had won a competition – fifteen hundred pounds per month for the rest of her life, increasing with inflation each year. Not much, but enough to sustain her when added to a couple of modest pensions.

  Georgie’s mother had never entered a competition in her life, something she had apparently put to the back of her mind. The reference on the direct debit was Competition UK – Congratulations! Georgie had not seen her mother so excited since her graduation. Georgie had set up a separate account so her mother couldn’t trace the money back to her and she fed part of her wages through each month on a standing order. She didn’t miss the money.

  ‘It’s a Blended Smurf,’ Fergus explained.

  ‘I’m sorry?’ said Georgie, coming back to the present.

  ‘The drink. It’s called Blended Smurf.’

  ‘Because it’s blue or because it tastes like a mutilated ferret?’

  Fergus laughed and downed his drink.

  Georgie stared out across the bar to where a group of underdressed girls were giggling stupidly over a phone, the glow of the screen throwing a faint artificial light on their feigned grins. She was vaguely aware that Fergus was attempting to tell her a joke – something about a vicar and a dildo – but she wasn’t listening. She had noticed a broad-shouldered man near the door who, in designer jeans and a suit jacket, looked almost as out of place as she did. He was saying goodbye to an attractive blonde. She said something as she turned to leave and he smiled in return. She didn’t think she had ever seen Charlie Priest smile like that. His whole face changed – he radiated affection for this woman. Who can she be? She was slim, stylish and she kissed him on the cheek with absolute self-assurance and confident familiarity, too. Georgie had understood – from Okoro – that Priest was single, but now she wasn’t so sure.

  She looked over at Martin. He had his arm around Mira. How ordinary he looked. How pathetic. Strange how he seemed so unthreatening; how relaxed Mira was. Did she know what he was really like?

  Martin was a fraud. Not half the man her boss was. As Priest turned back towards the bar, their eyes met. Georgie held up her hand and waved awkwardly. To her delight, he smiled. Not the smile he had shared with the mysterious blonde woman, but a nice smile nonetheless.

  ‘Hi, Georgie,’ Priest breathed in her ear after making his way through the crowd. Martin had decided that now was a good time to show some interest in her and was leaning across the table. Fergus looked crestfallen but took the hint and slid away to talk to Li.

  ‘This doesn’t seem like your kind of place,’ Georgie said.

  ‘What kind of place would you expect to see me in?’ Priest replied, cocking his head to one side.

  She blushed. He had this infuriating habit of forcing her to say stupid things. I have to think before I open my mouth. He seemed to find her amusing.

  ‘Well, you know . . . somewhere a bit more –’

  ‘Quiet?’ he suggested.

  She grimaced, trying to find the right description. ‘Less studenty.’

  ‘Ah. I see. You’re right. This isn’t the sort of place for an old man,’ said Priest with a mischievous smile.

  ‘No, I didn’t mean that!’ Georgie could feel another blush rising.

  ‘Georgie, relax. And you’re right – this isn’t my kind of place. The music I recognise involves a lot of heavily distorted synthesisers. The music I don’t recognise appears to be just bass and devoid of any identifiable tune.’

  ‘I know what you mean.’ Martin was leaning in, trying to eavesdrop. ‘Did you have any luck with the Attorney General?’

  ‘No. He’s dead.’

  ‘Dead?’ Georgie put her hand to her mouth. ‘The Attorney General is dead?’

  ‘Yes. Dead.’

  She leant towards him. Maybe it was the bass, but she suddenly became aware that her heart was pounding in her chest.

  ‘What happened?’ she asked. ‘This is a major thing, isn’t it?’

  ‘Not really. They’ll just hire a new one.’

  ‘No. I mean for you. My goodness! Did you find the computer data he sent you? He said it was sent to your home. When does your post come? I can’t believe this is happening and we’re just here in this awful place. Did you know this drink is called a Blended Smurf?’

  ‘Georgie,’ he held out his hands to slow her down. ‘You need to breathe in more when you speak.’

  ‘I’m sorry. I get ahead of myself when I’m . . . you know . . . nervous.’ She paused. ‘Was he impaled, like Miles Ellinder?’

  ‘He hanged himself.’

  ‘Oh – really? Why? I bet there’s foul play. This is so extraordinary!’ She stopped, realising that perhaps her enthusiasm might be coming across as insensitive. ‘I mean – you know . . .’ she tailed off.

  ‘Don’t worry, Georgie.’

  Priest was looking at her sideways the way a parent might watch an overexcitable child. She wasn’t sure that was a good thing. ‘Listen, I’ve got an early start.’

  ‘Oh, of course! Actually, we were just going to Dojos.’ When he looked at her blankly, she explained, ‘It’s a club down the road. It’s awful but you’re welcome to come.’

  ‘You’re inviting me to an awful place?’

  ‘Yes. No. I mean, yes.’

  The party was indeed moving on to Dojos. Fergus was fiddling with the zip of his jacket and the others were standing up and collecting bags and phones from around the table.

  ‘We’re going, Georgie,’ Li shouted across the table. ‘You can bring your friend with you!’ She winked and laughed. Beside her, Martin stood watching Georgie, straight-faced. Perhaps her chance to slip away quietly had been squandered.

  ‘It’s a very kind offer,’ Priest was talking in her ear just to be heard, touching her shoulder with his hand. ‘But I do have an early start in the morning. I’m going to head back.’

  She knew there was no possibility that he would have agreed to join them, but she felt disappointed nonetheles
s.

  They got up awkwardly at the same time. The others were starting to move towards the door; Mira was already staggering out into the maelstrom of night-time London. Georgie looked at Priest. He had the most extraordinary blue eyes, like crystals. She kissed him on the cheek and, by the look on his face he was as surprised as she was. Perhaps it was the spontaneity of the moment, or the fact that she hadn’t caught his cheek square on and their lips had touched lightly; either way, it was clumsy. But clumsy as it was, by the time her flatmates had drunkenly marched her to the door of Dojos, the taste of Charlie Priest’s kiss was still with her.

  *

  Priest watched Georgie disappear into the crowd of people meandering past the bar. When he looked a second time to make sure she was all right, she had already vanished into the street. He liked Georgie – he liked her abrasiveness, her lack of tact, her innocence. It reminded him of himself, a long time ago.

  The bar was getting noisier. The social-drinking students were beginning to be replaced with hordes of locals with their own agenda. Priest was about to leave his empty glass on the table where Georgie and her friends had gathered but there was a reasonable prospect it would be swept on the floor by some overenthusiastic dancer or, worse, smashed across somebody’s skull. So he made his way through the ruckus to put his glass on the bar. The gril behind the bar looked over as he deposited the glass by the sink and smiled. Then he heard a familiar voice in his ear and his heart sank. Oh, this isn’t my night.

  ‘Didn’t know you drank in these sorts of places, Charlie,’ said the familiar voice. ‘Come to think of it, didn’t know you drank at all.’

  Priest turned around. His brother-in-law, Ryan, was staring straight ahead, his fingers wrapped around an empty shot glass, an inane grin notched into his face. It was the chin that did it, Priest had decided a long time ago. A chin that jutted out so far you could sunbathe on it.