Ducking back down, he loosened his grip on the bag and tried to settle his breathing. Who? Shit. What if this was Teresa, and Miranda turned up? He went for broke and sprinted the remaining distance, dropping the sports bag and grabbing her shoulders in one fluid movement. “Right!”
Miranda gave a short yelp and turned her head. “Jesus, Thomas! You frightened the life out of me.”
His heart was beating so fast that he struggled to find the words. “Don’t ever stand in the street like that again.”
Miranda paused, as if weighing up whether to slap him. “You arse!”
Somewhere, a bugler sounded the retreat. His head began to clear. “Sorry,” he held up a hand, “I just got a bit freaked. Let’s go inside.”
“Well,” Miranda headed on up the steps. “As long as you’re not worried that people will see us.”
She used her keys before he could object. He let it pass and carried on into the kitchen. Listening hard, he heard Miranda close the front door and then bolt it. So far, so salvageable.
She slumped into a chair and dumped her bag on the table. “I did bring you a present, but I’m not sure if you deserve it now.”
When he returned, he was carrying two glasses of wine — his own only half-full — and the bottle tucked under one armpit; one hundred per cent style.
“What’s this — are you cutting back?”
He smiled sheepishly and handed her the grown-up glass. “Can’t overdo it —I’m working tomorrow, remember.”
She took a sip and pursed her lips, although he knew it was a good wine.
“Look, about earlier; I know I was a dick but I’m only thinking of you, okay?”
She didn’t skip a beat. “Then tell me . . .”
He shook his head. “The less I tell you, the less you have to worry about.”
“Is this the way we’re going to live now?” She pulled a DVD case from her bag, tapping it rhythmically against her arm. “Still not sure if you deserve this . . .” The tone was playful and when he looked at her all ‘puppy-dog,’ she seemed to melt.
“It’s not porn, is it?” Hardly likely. That one time they’d watched a porn flick together he’d sat in mute embarrassment, feeling a mix of betrayal and arousal. Getting turned on by other nubile women on the go, while your girlfriend was in the room with you, was hardly a declaration of love and devotion. And besides, those guys on screen were a lot to live up to.
“It’s The Thirty-Nine Steps. And before you say anything, yes — it’s the original. Seemed appropriate, what with your new life as a spy.”
That lit the whole box of fireworks. “Let’s get one thing straight, shall we?” he clunked his glass down hard. “I’m not a bloody spy.”
She leaned back in silence, and he felt really stupid. Like the time in Leeds when he’d got drunk, taken a leak in the park and soaked his own shoes. It was time for a tactical withdrawal. “I’ll go sort out the grub and then we can watch Robert Donat kick arse. Help yourself to the telly.” A polite way of saying: end of round one and back to your corners.
* * *
The bolognaise was already prepared — real stuff, no crap. Made to a recipe of Pat’s and freshly dug out of the freezer the night before. He kept the kitchen door open and listened as the TV erupted into life; a comedy, by the sounds of it and so sharp that a laughter track had been added. “Shouldn’t be long,” he called out.
There was silence from Miranda. Either the comedy was more riveting than it sounded or she still had the hump, big time. Or both. Not much else he could do, other than watch the pasta simmering, and think. Why were he and Karl going to Suffolk? He jabbed at the frothing pan with a fork, submerging the strands. How far did he want this work with Karl to go? So what if Peterson was bent? He grabbed the fork from the saucepan and held on to it until the heat reddened his fingers. No, Bob Peterson had lied to him; and Sir Peter Carroll had tried to set him up. He deserved some answers.
The TV volume rose — advert time. He smacked his lips appreciatively as the garlic and beef flirted with his nostrils. The way to a man’s heart and all that — and hopefully a woman’s too. “Pasta’s almost done,” he relayed the news. “I’ll come in for a bit.”
“You’ve Been Framed, I think,” Miranda stared at the TV, deadpan.
He perched on the edge of the sofa and sipped his wine. He saw right away that she’d topped it up, but he let it pass. On TV, a child ran into a transparent patio door and bounced back two feet. The studio audience laughed and winced; Western Civilisation — coming soon.
Nothing more to be said, he nipped off, returning with a bowl of salad; quite the little Jamie Oliver. Try something new today. Yeah, like not having another argument.
The bolognaise was good when they got there; even Miranda said so. They ate and relaxed — or at least, relaxed hostilities. Onscreen, Robert Donat grappled with conspiracy, paranoia and false accusations. Thomas knew just how he felt.
Miranda nudged him, mid-film. “Bet you didn’t know that in the book, there’s no female lead at all.”
“Maybe it needed improving.”
She patted his leg: good answer.
By the end of the first bottle of wine, they’d moved past the talking stage. She sat close and ran a finger up and down his arm; he could feel the tremors in faraway places. As they watched the dying minutes of the mystery, Robert Donat finally figured out his enemies’ plan and how to stop them. As the credits rolled, Thomas grabbed the remote and peered at the screen, checking through names mostly forgotten. He wasn’t a film buff particularly, but sometimes, when he spotted a cameraman in a really enjoyable old film, he’d search them out on the net and see what else they’d done.
“That was champion,” he sat back.
Miranda squeezed the arm she’d been teasing. “What shall we do for a second feature?” It sounded like a come-on. Then again, everything Miranda said sounded like a come-on.
“Well . . .” he stretched the word out like bait. She didn’t respond; she wasn’t biting. Jeez, he’d have to ask. “Are you stopping tonight? He cringed at the words — about as romantic as a six-pack of lager.
“Maybe,” she smiled, and chuckled.
He turned to her and her eyes sparkled in the reflected glare of the TV. There was a heavy pause — the tipping point of desire — then his lips found hers. He was greedy for her and she seemed eager to follow his lead. He moved a hand under her buttock and tilted her towards him. He felt the shape of her mouth change and slid his left hand behind her, to the small of her back.
Her fingers burrowed beneath his shirt, ranging over his torso. An idea came to him, but he killed it dead. Since Leeds, there had been one unwritten rule. No talking — during sex or foreplay or canoodling. No declarations of love, no verbal requests.
He levered her on to one buttock and she took the hint, rolling with him in one uneven lollop. He shifted down the cushions by about a foot and she swung one leg over his, pinning him to the sofa. Now, as they kissed, they moved in rhythm, their pubic bones rising and falling against each other. He lifted her t-shirt and circle kissed her navel and stomach, enjoying the no-man’s land between two leisure parks.
He could feel waves of pleasure rippling between them. She moved faster, taking control, as he’d wanted her to. He started to unbutton her jeans as she rocked, and he tried to shut out the calls of despair from his bladder: bad timing ‘R’ us. She bore down on him, her out-breaths reduced to faltering gasps. He gave up on her jeans, thrusting with his hips, willing her to climax before his bladder burst. He drew her closer as she came, drawing her head towards his and moving his tongue around hers as the last shudders freed themselves from her glorious body. “Now you,” she said breathlessly, shifting back on to the sofa.
The relief from his bladder was like a gift from God. As he turned to her, she was undoing the last of her jeans buttons. “Hold that thought — I really need to pee.” He heaved himself up with difficulty and staggered to the bathroom.
&n
bsp; He heard her grumbling in the other room, but the call of nature would not be ignored. His body took a while to respond, as if it resented the unused hard-on. At last, everything flowed, and flowed; and flowed.
He finished up and washed his hands. His reflection looked flushed. He grinned at himself; he felt like a teenager again, copping off with Miranda on the bedsit put-you-up in Leeds. As he opened the unlocked door he repeated her words to himself — now it was his turn. By the time he’d taken half a dozen steps, he was back at full mast.
Miranda was standing in the living room. Her jeans were fully fastened and she was putting on her coat. He did a double take — twilight zone style — staring at her crotch as if he could hypnotise it back into action.
“What’s going on?” His question slammed against her granite expression.
“Your boyfriend called. He’ll be over in an hour. Thanks for everything.”
“You don’t have to go . . .” he paused, wondering if he could possibly steer the sentence towards: ‘we could still have a quickie before Karl turns up.’
“What, hide in the bedroom? I don’t think so, Thomas. I’m not the hiding type.”
He caught sight of his mobile phone on the table. “You didn’t . . .”
“Relax Thomas. I didn’t speak to him and break your little code. He sent a text.”
Yeah, a text that you read. “Look, I’ll call you over the weekend.”
“We’ll see,” she didn’t look convinced.
He followed her to the door. “Look, Karl wasn’t supposed to be coming over until tomorrow evening.”
“Careful Thomas,” she faced him down. “You’re giving away your secrets.”
As he went to kiss her, she turned her face away. “Sam’ll pick me up. I’ll come back for my car tomorrow sometime.”
There was nothing left to be said. He settled for “I’ll make it up to you,” but she was already down the steps and away. She didn’t look back.
Back inside, he rechecked the sports bag, tidied up and waited for the call.
“Tommo, it’s Karl. Are you free to talk?”
I am now, thanks to you, you bastard. “Yeah, all packed and ready to go.”
“Great — everything’s gone haywire. Bring a decent sweater; they say it’s gonna be a cold night.”
Chapter 21
Karl had given precise instructions for the pick-up: on a corner, three streets away, in twenty minutes. His timing was exact, stopping just long enough for Thomas to get in the car and jam the bag behind him.
Karl seemed to be in a chipper mood. “We’re driving to Minsmere Bird Reserve, like proper wildlife photographers. And no shag jokes,” he grinned. “Now sit back, pick an album and enjoy the ride. Status Quo or Queen?”
Thomas slept for most of the journey. Karl wasn’t saying a lot and there were only so many times he could hear Karl singing about ‘Having a good time.’ He dreamt that he and Miranda were back in the flat, arguing. Then she’d slapped him and walked out. He followed her to the street, to find Karl, Christine, Bob Peterson and Sir Peter Carroll, all slow clapping as if they’d caught him out at something.
He shuddered awake and tried to clear his head. “Are we there yet?” he tried his best child-in-car voice.
Karl glanced sideways, didn’t reply.
Fair enough, he’d stick to questions. “Have you been here before, Karl?”
“Aye — once; it’s a good drop off point.”
Karl was true to his word; it had taken two and a half hours non-stop. The car slowed to a halt, facing a metal gate. Thomas waited; maybe this was the pick-up point and all the gear in the bag was just precautionary.
Karl got out and unlocked the gate, waving Thomas through so he could close it behind them. A more inquisitive person might have asked where Karl had got the key from, but Thomas was just about up to his limit with curiosity.
Karl reclaimed the driving seat; he sounded edgy. “Okay, here’s how it works. I lead and you follow. We wait for the drop, retrieve what we came for then hightail it out of here, lickety-split.”
“So if this is so easy-peasy why am I here as well?”
“Hold on there, Tommy Boy,” Karl manoeuvred the car up the dirt track. “Nobody mentioned the ‘e’ word. And it’s standard procedure to have two bodies for night-time retrievals.”
Thomas checked his watch and chewed his lip. “How long are we waiting for?”
A cloud drifted across the moon, edging silver as it crowded out their only natural light source. No music now and no conversation, as Thomas watched Karl staring through the windscreen, checking the wetland for who knew what.
“You’ll never get a submarine through that.”
Karl smiled, but didn’t respond. As he’d managed two cold pies, a large bag of crisps and taken a dump somewhere in the swamps, perhaps he was considering his next activity.
Thomas sat beside him, wearing the wetsuit. He felt like a mascot for safe sex. “I still don’t see . . .”
Karl raised a finger then tapped his watch. “Sshhh. Any time soon.”
Thomas released the car door on command and swung himself out. The water lapped gently, close by — water he would have to get into. Karl seemed very calm now, with a night-scope strapped to his head, like a malevolent cyborg.
The droning engine cut into the night with increasing fervour as it approached. Thomas moved to the water’s edge and waited for Karl’s signal. The red and green wing lights flickered through the clouds as the plane circled over and released its cargo. Soon a small, white parachute glistened silver as it spiralled down towards the water. Karl twitched like a cat, tracking the parachute’s descent in jerky movements. Out on the water there was a muted splosh as the package landed.
“Now,” Karl hissed.
Thomas slipped into the water, forcing through the mud and weeds that conspired to strangle every step. Soon he was in up to his thighs, half-wading half-floating in the cold gloom, gliding towards the quarry. He couldn’t hear Karl anymore; it was just him, the water and each laboured gasp as he closed on the box — the parachute and cords lifeless as a dead jellyfish.
As he laid a hand on one corner, he heard a popping sound and water kicked up about a foot in front of him. By the third shot, he was rooted to the spot in panic. He did the only thing he could think of, pulling himself underwater, letting the roar of pressure in his ears drown out the screams in his head. In the murky half-light of his torch, he saw the strands of cord and dragged the box towards him.
Bad idea; the impacts in the water increased. And they were getting closer. Ice chilled his veins. Christ, he was going to die. He thought about Miranda, thought about what a shit he’d been to her. Saw his father and mother sitting in the living room in Pickering, curtains drawn; imagined his father gazing into a glass: ‘I knew he’d come to no good when he went to London.’
He held on to a breath past the point of reason, heart pounding, eyes bulging, raging against the injustice of it all. Finally, as his senses started to fade, he thrust through the surface, fighting for breath.
“Get your fucking head down!” Karl bellowed.
As he plunged below again, he heard returning gunfire. At least Karl was looking out for him — a reassuring thought that only lasted while the pressure intensified in his chest. Until the heavy heat stretched out across his collarbone, numbing his arms, choking him. Despair quickly filled his lungs as the oxygen ran out; the abject no-win terror of being shot above the water or drowning beneath it. “Argh!” he surfaced again, flailing his arms to get balance. Only now did he realise that he’d become disorientated and was a good ten feet from the package. It bobbed further away with every second, taunting him to choose between safety and failure. With a great gulp of air, he made his choice, propelling himself towards it, closing his mind to the chaos around him as he hit the water like an ironing board. He clawed blindly at the box, swearing at the strain of keeping hold.
Then he felt it, the smouldering poker against
his arm; a fire even the water could not cool. White-hot light blinded him, skewering his brain awake. This was pain he’d never known before. But, then, he’d never been shot before.
His legs buckled and the mud slammed into him. He grabbed the package with his good arm as he went down, kicking wildly to make for the reed bank. Birds scattered in the commotion, but he stayed put, keeping low, clasping the package between his knees. He forced himself to breathe through his nose, gritting his teeth to try and block out the pain. He felt like his arm was hanging off — he didn’t want to look, didn’t want to know.
He could hear Karl, blazing away with one, no two weapons. Round after round; he lost count of the relentless rhythm — the sound seemed to fade in and out of his head. Then he heard the sound of glass shattering and the shooting stopped.
The water seemed to swirl around him. He felt his pulse go into overdrive; his hands were shaking. He wished that he were armed, so he could track those fuckers down and stick a bullet in them. But he was trapped. He couldn’t let Karl know he was okay without giving away his own position; couldn’t leave the cold, cloying water for fear of being shot again. As Karl might have said: he was properly fucked.
A hollow thom broke the silence then the sky high above the water lit up like magnesium. Karl’s flare arced down and faded on the far side of the water.
“It’s clear!” Karl called out plaintively. “Are you there?”
He turned in Karl’s direction, but all he saw were blotches of light. Lesson four in how to be a spy: never look directly at the flare. He waited a few seconds, still terrified of the enemy in the dark.
“Come on, Tommo; we don’t have time for this — do you have it?”
He dragged his limbs from the mud’s grasp, suppressing a scream as his injured arm brushed against the reeds. Just before he clambered out, he dipped his hand into the water and washed the tears from his face.
Karl stashed the package behind the driver’s seat then handed him a bath towel. “Right then, let’s get a look at you.”
STANDPOINT a gripping thriller full of suspense Page 16