STANDPOINT a gripping thriller full of suspense

by DEREK THOMPSON

  The husband laid a hand on his shoulder. “Children are a constant worry because they are our precious jewels.” He then started the car up and let Karl try out the driving seat.

  Karl managed to shave £50 off the asking price and insisted they shook hands on the deal. All very proper — minus the receipt — and in record time.

  They stood at the window and watched him back down the drive. He paused to wave and wondered, just out of devilment, how long they would wait there. By the look on their faces as he glanced up for the final wave they’d have waited forever, just to see him gone. He drove to the corner and flashed his lights for Thomas to follow him in his own car; mission accomplished.

  * * *

  Thomas had nurtured a faint hope that Karl would guide him to some secret bat-cave lair, but it was short-lived. After a twenty-minute drive through Saturday traffic, Karl led him instead to a supermarket car park. Tucked away in a far corner, a woman was waiting by a silver Ford. Karl parked a few spaces away and Thomas followed suit.

  “Tommo, you remember Teresa.”

  She smiled, as if she knew something about him that he hadn’t disclosed. He resolved to quiz Karl, some other time, about what that might be.

  “Good work Karl. Nice to see you again, Thomas.”

  And that was that. Karl handed over a package — Thomas figured it was the remainder of the money, plus the gloves and the jumper. Then they got into Karl’s car and left the scene. In the wing mirror he saw someone else get out of the Ford and walk around the red estate. Karl glanced towards him, not the slightest bit interested.

  “Not our problem, Tommo; our part is done.”

  “No point my asking who Teresa works for, I suppose?”

  “None at all!” Karl chuckled, and Thomas wondered if Karl even knew himself.

  Chapter 18

  Thomas pressed the intercom button and stared up at the CCTV camera. He hated being this side of the lens, always had. Too many childhood memories of his dad telling him to ‘stand up straight’ and ‘at least try to look like you’re enjoying yourself.’ It was probably why he’d got into photography in the first place — to regain a degree of control.

  “Why, Mr Bladen, what a pleasant surprise!” Sheryl’s nasal tones smacked of a cheesy New York cop series.

  He turned his face from the camera and listened hard for the steps down the back staircase. The fire door released and Sheryl stood before him, leaning against the doorframe, pop video style. She looked him up and down. “Great to see you, Thomas.”

  He rolled his shoulders self-consciously. Was she attractive? Absolutely. To use a Karl-ism: she could probably wake the dead in their trousers. And boy did she know it. She probably had an exclusion order from the mortuary. And the clincher, for ten points — was he interested? Not for a second.

  Maybe that’s why she played so easy to get. It didn’t help that his defence was to close down. That seemed to make her try even harder to get a reaction. He liked to think that Miranda put her up to it — for sport — but he worried, deep down, that it was just Sheryl. Male customers loved it of course. A little piece of authentic Brooklyn right before their eyes; and Sheryl was the little piece.

  He thought about the morning’s activities as he followed her upstairs, mainly to distract himself from her backside; the sucking and popping of Sheryl’s trademark chewing gum punctuated their journey up to the office. She had once told him that she chewed gum to keep her mouth moist and supple. He’d never felt the same way about spearmint again.

  * * *

  Miranda was busy looking at colour swatches. “Hey, you’re a man. What do you think of this?” She held up a colour card with a thumb across it.

  “It looks like lilac.”

  “What an insightful eye for detail. I can see why you’re drawn to the camera. Fancy a coffee?”

  Sheryl took her cue and slinked past him, timing a bubble pop by his face.

  “I don’t know why you get so uptight around Sheryl; she likes you.”

  “Maybe that’s what I’m uptight about.”

  “Lighten up, Thomas, and don’t flatter yourself; it’s just her way. I can see you find her attractive so what’s the big deal? Blimey, if I was a man, I’d fancy her.”

  “I never said I fancied her.”

  Out the corner of his eye he could see Sheryl’s jeans straining as she walked away.

  “Anyway, what have you been up to today?” She was still staring down at the mass of colour charts and strips of material. But Thomas had played this game before.

  “Oh, nothing much. I, er, went to help someone buy a car.”

  “Really? Terry and Sam could have got you a good deal. Anyone I know?”

  He paused for maybe a couple of seconds; a couple of seconds too long. “Just someone from work.”

  Miranda didn’t turn, but her back arched forward just that little bit more. Then she slapped a hand on the desk and Thomas felt the three-minute warning go off.

  “Why don’t you just ask, Miranda?”

  “Because I’m not sure I’d like the answer.”

  Sheryl returned and placed the coffee mugs beside Miranda. “Um, I hope this isn’t a bad time.” Sarcasm dripped off every syllable.

  Thomas could almost feel the heat from Miranda’s glare. Maybe that was why he was sweating. Miranda looked up at Sheryl, completely unfazed. “Just a few issues with trust.”

  “Miranda!” Sheryl raised her eyebrows and tut-tutted dramatically. “You can’t trust men, honey — you know that.”

  Thomas looked daggers at her as she left the arena. But she just winked at him again and mouthed: ‘she loves you really.’ At least, that’s what it looked like. It could have been ‘she loves you rarely.’

  “Jesus, Thomas, why did you have to take that bloody job?”

  He moved behind her, gazing at the back of her neck; that smooth, lightly tanned neck that he loved to run his lips over. He laid a finger on her skin and traced a river, enjoying the familiar tingle that ran up and down his spine and settled in his groin. Miranda shrugged free.

  “Knock it off; I’m not in the mood. I’m serious. Why would you want to go and do a job like that — and hide it from me?”

  Tread carefully, he told himself; don’t answer too quickly. This is an exam level question — and it’s pass or fail, with no retakes.

  “Do I need to remind you? I took the Civil Service job so we could work near each other. And not long after that you decided to call it quits.”

  They reached for their coffees and he noticed that her mug read ‘The Boss’ while his was ‘The Hired Hand.’ Nice one, Sheryl.

  “Be honest, Thomas; neither of us was happy with the way things were.”

  He drew back, cradling his mug. “I was happy.”

  She gave it a second’s consideration. “Bullshit. You just couldn’t stand the thought of me being with anyone else.” When she said it like that, it sounded like a bad thing. “And let’s not forget we’d split up at least once before then.”

  Ah yes, the infamous drought of ’97 to ’98. “So that’s why you went to Bermuda — for a whole year?”

  She didn’t flinch, didn’t even break her stride. “I needed breathing space — we both did. The only difference is, you used yours to get off with Christine at work.”

  ‘Get off with’ wasn’t the term she normally used. But hey, Sheryl was only next door, like as not listening to every word. Not that he cared too much what Sheryl thought.

  He resisted comment. Resisted mentioning that Miranda had hardly taken a vow of chastity over in Bermuda — or when she returned. Time to tone things down a bit. “Why are we having this conversation?”

  “Because you’re shutting me out, Thomas. Mum was in a real flap about you, that night at the house — I know you talked to Dad about something. You used to confide in me. Well, I thought you did — before I discovered your secret life.” She put her face right in front of his.

  Jesus; Sheryl must be lapping thi
s up.

  “And remember how we first got together? I trusted you. I told you about that scumbag, Butch Steddings; about the way he was coming on to me to do his dodgy photos.”

  “I know,” he felt his knuckles itching, partly from outrage and the lingering memory of lamping Butch. The haunted look in her eyes brought him back with a bump. He put a hand to her cheek. “But this is different, Miranda.”

  “No it’s not. You’re frightened, Thomas. I know you. Is it that Irish bloke?”

  “No,” he took a breath, tried it again more confidently. No, it’s not Karl.”

  “Well what then?”

  It could have been the reflection of the strip light, making her eyes glisten like that. He pressed his hand against her face, felt the warm flesh against his fingertips and wished she could understand by osmosis.

  “I’m not gonna leave this alone, Thomas. And don’t think I give a shit what Sheryl hears. So either you tell me now or we are going to have a major falling out.” She sighed, and leaned a little against his hand. “If you can’t be honest with me, then I’ve got no room for you in my life — it’s your call.”

  There was steel behind those blue eyes. He picked up the reference straight away. When she’d returned from Bermuda, he’d told her about Christine. Then Miranda had got involved with some city trader, probably just to piss him off — which it had. Worse, the stockbroker believed in spreading his options. As soon as Miranda found out, she’d dropped him like a lead weight. Once Thomas had showed her evidence of a wife.

  He felt ashamed that it had come to this. Miranda was probably bluffing — she’d come around in a few days or a week or so. But . . . but he’d have to tell her sometime. He took another deep breath. “Two blokes turned my flat over while I was at your parents’ place. They were hardcore — after some money they thought I had. They smashed my door and they came tooled up.”

  Miranda paled. “Is this to do with Karl?”

  “Not like that! Karl took care of it; he was looking out for me.”

  Miranda brushed his hand away. “Maybe I should speak to Karl, then.”

  “No, don’t do that.” Too quick, too edgy; he knew she’d pick up on it.

  “So what do I do, then, Tom?” She never called him Tom, not since Leeds and Butch Steddings.

  “Just be yourself. The same loveable pain in the arse you always are.”

  “Flattery’ll get you nowhere.”

  He didn’t believe that.

  She put her arms around him. He leaned in and squeezed her back towards him, as if he could dissolve her flesh into his.

  “Well you better not make any more enemies, Thomas Bladen. Because if anyone messes with you, they’ll answer to me.”

  He didn’t doubt that for a second.

  He finished his coffee and pretended to be interested in her colour schemes. Then he made his excuses and headed for home, alone — probably for the best. He picked up a Chinese on the way, and a carton of milk — company for the old one seeking asylum in his fridge. He wondered if Karl had similar relationship problems? Was there even anyone special in his life? Special — Karl would piss himself at that.

  The TV had little to offer so he dived back into the pile of DVDs towering on the floor. Something edifying and life-affirming — Shaun of the Dead, the perfect accompaniment to prawn chow mein and special fried rice. Miranda had long since educated him on the perils of factory-farmed chicken, but he figured it would be pretty hard to do much to a prawn other than catch and eat it.

  It was a great film; he’d seen it before at the cinema with Miranda. But the joy of DVDs — for him, anyway — was the extra features. How it was done, deleted scenes, notes on cinematography and special effects. Sometimes all that was better than the actual film.

  Some time after ten, he gave up the ghost and turned off the DVD. The TV channel kicked back into life at way past a reasonable volume. He dropped it down a few notches on the level and did a double take. Sir Peter Carroll was on screen — large as twenty-two-inch life — pontificating about some political debacle.

  It was too good a chance to pass up on. He reached over and dialled Karl.

  “Hello?”

  “Karl, it’s Thomas. Quick, turn on the TV — our beloved leader’s doing a turn.”

  “I know; I’m watching it already. How sad is that!” There was a pause. “Is everything okay, Tommo? Only you’ve rung me on your landline — you’ve never done that before. Are you going all touchy-feely on me?”

  He took a breath, remembering he was number withheld on all his calls. They watched Sir Peter run rings around the other guests on the late night current affairs programme. Even the presenter was no match for the double-talk, counter-pointing and justifications. It was like seeing Freddie the Fox perform a gig at the henhouse.

  Karl, who followed politics more closely — i.e. more than almost no interest whatsoever — offered his own comments and managed to predict a couple of Sir Peter’s responses.

  Thomas had only caught the tail end of the programme and after fifteen minutes, Karl was humming the national anthem tunelessly as the studio lights dimmed.

  “So, Tommo, what’s on your mind?”

  “I dunno, Karl. These last weeks; I’m starting to lose the plot.”

  “Now that I don’t believe for a second! What’s really bothering you?”

  “How do you cope with it, Karl?” he eased his shoes off and flexed his feet. “All the secrecy and the pretence and the—”

  “Lies,” Karl chipped in. “That’s would be the word you’re looking for. It’s the price you pay for knowing. And once you know, things are never the same again.”

  “For a second there, you almost went into The Matrix.”

  “Aye, it’s not a bad analogy. Only it’s debatable whether we’re the dudes in black vinyl, or Agent Smith. Listen, do you fancy getting together tomorrow — I’ll meet you at midday, same tube station.”

  “Yeah, that’s sounds good. Thanks mate.”

  “No problem. By the way, I’m glad you rang actually. Don’t make plans for next weekend — we’re working. I’ll tell you all about it when I see you.”

  “What?” he sat bolt upright on the settee. “No, tell me now.”

  “I don’t think so; phones have ears. Good night, Thomas.”

  * * *

  Sir Peter Carroll’s Daimler glided away from Television Centre. The roar of the traffic seemed to echo the applause of the studio audience. Even his opponents had congratulated him on his mastery of the subtleties of the situation.

  He swirled his whisky glass and let the aroma pervade his senses. Outside, the streetlights and car lights prismed against the tinted windows. He checked his watch and smiled.

  As soon as he reached for the phone, his chauffeur raised the glass screen. Sir Peter waited until the screen sealed him off before he dialled the first number, even though Trevor had been with him for years.

  “Ah, good evening. I wish to get a message to Yorgi. Ask him to ring me tomorrow on the office number. He’ll know who it is.”

  The woman sounded fearful at the mention of Yorgi’s name. In the background he heard a man’s voice — it could have been Yorgi, but he doubted it. No matter, he had no interest in Yorgi’s personal life. He closed the call and settled his glass. Then, phone still in hand, he lifted an address book from his blazer pocket: ‘P’ for Peterson.

  “Robert? Oh, yes, if you would, thank you. Ah, Robert, it’s Sir Peter. You did? Why, thank you! Now, Robert, I’m ringing for an update on the Harwich consignment. Yes, I saw that you’d put Crossley on to it. Good, definitely a step in the right direction. I think we’ll be ready to move soon, now that we’ve got the full team on board. Long time coming — indeed! Have Crossley get an update, first thing Monday. Capital! Now, what’s the latest on the poor driver?” He scrawled down some notes and put an asterisk against Ann Crossley’s name.

  “Right. Send Crossley to my office Monday morning — she can update me there.
” He ended the call and tucked the address book back in his blazer. He signalled to Trevor that the screen could be lowered. Then, he dialled home.

  “Yes, hello darling. Really? It was good of you to watch. No, don’t wait up; you know how these things work. The PM likes us seniors to take every opportunity to make friends with the media. I’ll be back late — I’ll use the spare room. Night, night.” He stared out at the blurred lights of London and his smile reflected back in the glass like a malign crescent. “Trevor, I think I’ll drop in to The Victory Club.”

  The chauffeur nodded; Sir Peter enjoyed the deferential bob of his head. It was the little touches that made Trevor such a treasure. Their eyes met in the mirror. “Very good, Sir Peter.”

  He reached for his whisky and smiled again. If tonight’s girl at The Victory was anything like the last one Yorgi had provided, it would be.

  Chapter 19

  “You’ve got to be able to trust your instincts, Tommo,” Karl swivelled left and right at the first click of the target turning face on. “Do you want a go — it’s not so different from taking high-speed photos. Okay, maybe with nine mills instead of a data-card. But the principle’s the same.”

  There’s a comfort. All those years that Thomas thought he’d been honing his camera skills he’d actually been secretly training to be Super Shooter. The idea played in his head like a disturbing version of The Karate Kid: wax on, wax off, and reload.

  Karl laid his pistol down. “So, I’ll save you the trouble of avoiding the topic of next weekend. We’re away to Suffolk for a pick-up.”

  “And is this for our side or their side, or doesn’t it matter?”

  “See, Tommo, I told you that you’d get the hang of it eventually!” Karl grinned like an idiot. “But seeing as you’ve asked, this is a special request from our beloved leader.”

  “Dress code: casual?” Thomas straightened an imaginary tie.