“Oh, I see. There’s more than one type? Right, what is there then?”
A collective moan emerged from the others in the tiny little shop. Those waiting for their orders frowned in his direction, the ones in the line behind him became visibly agitated.
A tiny smirk crept from the corner of Eva’s ruby red mouth. There was no way this guy could be so naïve, he must have had an angle. She had no time to find out what it was.
“Darlin’, we have so many we could be here all day. Long black, short black, mocha, ristretto, macchiato, affogato–”
He stared blankly at her.
“You look like a flat white kind of guy.”
“That would be fine.”
Raising an eyebrow, she asked, “Sugar?”
“Yes, Sweetie?”
“Okay, I see that you’re trying to be cute, I do, but look at these guys behind you. Most of them have to either get back to work before the boss finds out, or are in the later stages of some serious caffeine withdrawal. I think you’re about to be lynched.”
“Right you are. One please.”
“Alright then.” Eva made a squiggle on the paper cup only decipherable by her, placed it to one side. “Next!”
The not-jailbird character faded into the crowd as she took further orders. Anchor’s break was thankfully short and she returned to coffee making duties.
Orders were called. In accordance with a long-standing tradition the café had their own system of handing out orders. Regulars had their own nickname. Some obtained a moniker on their first visit that stuck for years. In quick succession Anchor called the names, ‘Tiny Pete’, ‘Dwarf Head’, ‘High Hair’, ‘Low Tie’ and ‘Nice Bum’. Each resulted in the recipient handing over cash to him and taking their coffee, except for the last one. Again, he called “Nice Bum” but nobody came forward.
Eva popped her head above the steaming La Marzocco coffee machine and nodded to the non-jailbird. “Oi, Sugar, you’re up.”
Chuckling, he paid for his coffee, tucked a note in the tip jar and walked away. She returned to the scorching silver beast and went to work. With a bit of luck they would clear the line in time for the next day’s shift.
Anchor tugged her coffee-soaked sleeve.
“Uh, Eva.”
Without raising her head, she said, “You just had a break, Anchor.”
“No. Not that. This.”
She slammed a double shot latte on the counter and glanced up. Anchor was holding up the tip jar. At first she shrugged. Then she saw it.
“Cock juggling thunder twats…”
“My thoughts are also similar,” Anchor replied.
Eva raced down the thin street, weaving around slow pedestrians. She squinted. The London sun was as bright as it was unfamiliar. Scanning the smattering of Londoners she clutched the paper in her hand.
Then she caught sight of him. If anything, he looked paler in the sunlight. She spied him about twenty metres away, several shops ahead. He took a sip of coffee and halted walking mid-stride. He took another sip and shuddered as though he was having an acid trip.
Eva called out, “Oi!” and he turned.
She marched towards him, certain steam was billowing from her ears.
“What the fuck is this shit?”
He reeled. “Excuse me?”
She waved a fifty-pound note he’d placed in the tip jar in his face. “Who the fuck pays fifty pounds for a fucking coffee?”
“You do swear a lot.”
She gave a slight shake of her head and issued an interrogative gaze.
He held up the coffee cup. “It’s very good coffee. Actually, this isn’t coffee, it’s bliss in a cup.”
“I know. It’s bloody marvellous. But you didn’t know that before you tipped me, so what gives?”
“Uh, I honestly don’t know. You think I have a nice bum?”
She smiled. He smiled. He had a lovely face. Warm and genuine.
“Me? Oh god no. That was Anchor.”
“And Anchor is?”
“The tall lanky bloke who looks like the Grim Reaper, if the Grim Reaper was a skateboarder and Swedish.”
It was a lie. Anchor wasn’t in the café when he’d ordered, but she wasn’t telling him that.
“I can genuinely say I hadn’t paid attention to the other staff in the café. Well, I’d like you to keep the money. If you or your staff don’t want it, you can give it to charity.”
“Do you normally go about issuing stupid tips to complete strangers? You one of those eccentrics the English are so fond of?”
“You’re Australian too? Thought so. What are the odds?”
“Pretty bloody likely in London, mate. We’re a bit less popular than we used to be because of, you know–”
He paused, losing his confidence. “That Lancing guy?”
“Yeah, that guy. If you’re an Aussie and a bloke, most wonder if you’re him or if you’re a chick, you know him. Kind of puts people off, yeah?”
His face softened. “Yes, he seems to be ruffling a few feathers of late, doesn’t he? Do you like what he’s doing?”
“What do I give a crap? I don’t know much about it, to be honest.”
But she wasn’t being honest, again. She must be on a roll. In fact Lancing was a bit of a hero of hers. A modern day Robin Hood. A man that gave the middle finger to the establishment, always a way to her heart. She, like everyone else in her generation, had tried to hunt for his true identity but, like everyone else, she’d come up short. He remained a faceless man. The only personal information people had was that he was Australian.
Eva shrugged. “As far as I know he’s a rich white guy giving away his cash and bullying others into not being gits. Not exactly up there with genocide or a Limp Biskit reunion.”
She realised she’d lapsed into a civil discourse and glanced back towards the coffee shop. “Look, I have to go. You sure you–?”
“Keep it, please.”
“Alright. Um, thanks. Enjoy the coffee.”
“Would you like to go out some time? With me?”
He seemed as shocked as she was by the question, as if it had burst from his mouth without his knowledge.
Coldly she, said, “We are out.”
“Right. Of course – I just thought – yes. Hmm.”
She threw him a sympathy smirk. “You’re not really my type. Sorry.” Her face turned to stone and asked, “Is that what the tip was about? Coz if it was, you can shove–”
“No, no, I didn’t…I wasn’t… This isn’t going well. Actually, my whole day’s been terrible, to be honest. Sorry.” He squeezed the bridge of his nose with his free hand. “Today was meant to be about the people. To see what was happening that wasn’t filtered through reports, statistics or spin. I was meant to be familiarising myself with the area…”
“Familiarising?”
He continued on, “…it’s the first time I’ve left the compound in, I don’t know, years?”
“Compound? You in a cult?”
Again, no reaction. “It started when I missed my tube stop because the train was so packed. I couldn’t move anywhere near the doors for another three stations. I’m almost certain I was mildly sexually assaulted by an old woman rubbing up against me. The term may be frotting, I’m not sure. What I am certain of, however, was she seemed to have crocheted a hat out of garbage bags. Her parting gift was to cough phlegm in my face. It was all downhill from there. So, you see, your coffee and unconventional customer relations were an island in an ocean of shit.”
“Wow, way to flatter the girl.”
“No, I mean…”
“Listen, I hope your day improves. This has been…interesting…but, like I said, you’re not my type. I tend to go for the more dangerous kind.”
He laughed. Was he mocking her? Fuck you buddy.
“I’m Harry by the way.”
“I really don’t care.”
With that she swivelled on the spot and marched away. Eva was angry, but more at her
self than the guy. She should dislike him based on her dealing with him, but against her better judgement was oddly attracted to him. She silently repeated to herself. Not my type, not my type. She wondered how he’d gotten under her skin so quickly. Not that she really had to worry. She was certain she’d never see him again.
“And that was your first meeting with Mr Lancing?” Commander Decker asked.
“My introduction to Lancing came later. Like I was saying to your mate Cole here, I’m supplying context.”
“Supplying a waste of time,” Cole muttered under his breath.
Decker ignored him. “Hardly Romeo and Juliet.”
“I will concede that,” Eva replied. “There was a distinct lack of teenage angst, suicide and codpieces. So I guess you’re right on the money there.”
She was still trying to figure the two out. Their interruptions and questions told her more than she was telling them. Cole was more officious, worried about the here and now. Decker wanted everything in detail, for her to paint a picture. Eva didn’t know if that picture was for the CIA or late night stories in the officers’ quarters.
Regardless, Eva needed to work them. They were her only means of getting back to the island. Guilt was a powerful motivator. Was it already too late? Was he already dead?
Her story was reeling in Decker. She needed him on side. She needed him to stay in the room.
Cole rubbed his wrist and shook his pen. “This still isn’t relevant to the last twenty-four hours. The bombs, the UN crisis meeting, the whole mess…”
Decker frowned. “I guess you’re right, Lieutenant Commander.” He turned to Eva. “So, this man keeps buying coffee, leaves big tips, buys you expensive gifts, you fall for him, end up on the island…so, what I want to know is–”
“It didn’t entirely shake out like that.” Eva rolled her neck. “Of course there was the assassination attempt, terrorist attack and riot.”
They both sat bolt upright.
She coughed. She didn’t have something in her throat. It was subterfuge. A cover. With a pleasing click, Eva managed to free herself from one of the handcuffs.
“Right. Where was I?”
Chapter Six
“Buzzcut, you’re up.” Eva held up a half-shot soy latte, heavy on the chocolate sprinkles, doing her best to stifle a snigger.
To her relief the line had cleared out some. “Anchor, I’m taking five, can you handle the orders?”
“Yar, no problem for me.” Or at least that’s what she thought he said. The lovable Swede always sounded like he had a mouthful of marbles coated in molasses. Oddly, he tended to become easier to understand the more booze he consumed. She still hadn’t figured that one out.
Eva emptied the bins into a garbage bag and realised there was still more rubbish to go, a two-trip deal. Lugging the heavier of the bags she headed out the back to the alley. She arched her back, stretched and let out a thankful sigh. It had been a busy day, good for her business, but she hadn’t had a break since they’d opened at six. That wasn’t entirely true. She had had a whole five minutes while off yelling at the bastard who’d given her the fifty-pound tip. What exactly was his issue?
The background noise from the nearby hub of Trafalgar Square provided a constant hum in the small dank alley. As she lobbed the garbage into the skip she heard noises closer by in the labyrinthine cobblestoned laneway. She nearly ignored them, but didn’t want to return to work so soon. Eva had given up smoking a painful six years earlier and had tossed her latest book into the bin in disgust at the Charing Cross station that morning, so didn’t have an excuse to stay outside. Now she’d found one.
Muffled footfalls echoed on the timeworn brickwork, making it difficult to determine where they were coming from, but they were in a hurry. The running stopped and was followed by voices. Unable to work out the exact words, she could tell someone wasn’t happy. Livid in fact. This could be fun.
There were two voices. One was raised, angry, the other was barely audible. Poking her head tentatively around the corner she froze. This wasn’t the amusing domestic chav stoush she was looking for. As the smile drained from her face, she lost all humour. Perhaps it was the gun.
Both men were regaining their composure. The nearest of the two had his back to her and stood tall while the other held a handgun aimed at his forehead. The gun wielder was virtually manic in whatever he was saying. His accent was thick, he could have been Russian or from somewhere in the Baltic. His tracksuit and penchant for gaudy jewellery backed up the assumption. Her ear guessed Bulgarian based on the smattering of words she’d heard. Either way, he wasn’t happy about something.
The tracksuit wearer panted, having exhausted himself with the run and subsequent rant. The man with the gun to his head remained unyielding and spoke evenly, almost kindly. Unable to see his face, she didn’t know if it showed the panic absent from his voice. Did he not know a man with crazy eyes was holding a gun to his head?
“They are all very good points, really, they are. But I’m pretty sure you don’t want to shoot me. Killing a man, any man, is not easy, no matter what they’ve done. I’m not going to beg, I think we both know that. But I can see you’re having second thoughts, that’s a rational reaction. Human. I can help you. I can get you out of whatever situation you’ve got yourself into. You know I can. Let me help you.”
Mr Tracksuit thumped his temple as if the ideas hurt his brainpan. He retracted the gun to rub both temples. Eva wasn’t the only one to notice. The head of the man who’d been talking followed the gun’s arc, but he made no move to grab it. Mr Tracksuit took a step to his left and the two circled each other like prize fighters.
For the first time she could see who was talking. In quick succession she let out two tiny yelps. His arm was a mass of blood. His upper sleeve was a ripped and meaty mess, the rest of his arm was crimson red. That wasn’t what made her eyes go so wide she was sure they’d spill from their sockets. This was the bastard who’d given her the ridiculous tip. That’s why the voice had sounded familiar. Who is this guy?
Unaffected by the flesh bursting through his attire, the big tipper addressed his increasingly erratic companion, his back rigid and his words unaffected by the wound. What was his name, Harry?
“So I have made, what I believe is a fair and reasonable offer. Now comes the stick–”
From behind came a crashing sound. Eva leapt backwards, ensuring she wasn’t seen by those she was spying on. She twisted and observed Anchor emptying the other garbage bag into the skip. He issued a friendly wave and returned inside.
Steadying herself with a few quiet breaths, she slowly inched her head around the corner. What she saw made her gasp, and considering the last few minutes that was saying something. Mr Tracksuit was positioned before Harry, all colour drained from his face. His arms dangled uselessly beside his body, he barely held onto the gun. His pale features a mixture of confusion and abject fear. Harry stood stiffly, silently watching the man with all the power crumble before him. He made no move to advance, just watched.
The silence ate away at Eva until it was unbearable. The two men stared at each other. One a disintegrating mess, the other a monolith of composure. Harry slowly raised his good hand, palm up, and held it in mid-air, unshaking.
“You have one hour. You know I keep my word. If I were in your shoes, I would start running. Don’t stop until you reach the end of the world and, when you do, leap into the abyss. You don’t want to be found. This is your one chance. The clock has started.”
Eva didn’t wait to see which way he ran. She scurried back towards her café, aware every footfall sounded like clashing symbols. Staggering through the back door, Eva attempted to lock it, but her hands refused to cooperate and became useless squids at the end of her arms.
“You right, Missy?” Anchor asked and she jumped.
He leaned over her and locked the door. Taking a step back, concern was etched across his Swedish mug. “You sweating?”
Unable to answer, s
he waved him away. She had to compose herself. Not entirely sure what she’d witnessed, it was none of her business. The locked door helped. It was a barrier from whatever it was that she’d seen. And if anything was going to make her feel better, it was distance from Harry.
How did an unarmed man unnerve a bigger, stronger bloke who held all the firepower and advantage? But he wasn’t JUST unnerved, he was terrified. Shitting bricks, run-away-screaming terrified. How did that even happen?
Eva shook her head. Getting back to work would stop any further cloudy thoughts dead. A line had formed towards the door and her lumbering assistant would have no chance of clearing it himself. Clapping her hands together she stepped into the shop, picked up a pen and asked, “Who’s next?”
After a few minutes she came to believe she’d imagined the worst parts of the confrontation in the laneway. The Baltic guy wasn’t that frightened. The wound on Harry’s arm obviously wasn’t bad if he was still standing. No, her imagination was getting the better of her. Must have been a prop or a gag shirt. Maybe they were filming the whole thing gorilla-style and she’d see it turn up on ITV in a few weeks. She slapped a cap on a latte and felt better.
Well, she did right up until she saw Harry stagger through her front door, bloodied and pale.
He slipped past the crowd by the door and wandered unsteadily into the café. Holding his arm, his pasty face scanned the room until he found Eva. He smirked weakly. “I wonder if I could bother you for another coffee, and perhaps a napkin or two?” Nodding to his arm, “Lacrosse accident.”
Eva grabbed a pile of serviettes and handed them over. In a voice sounding far more confident than she was, “Dangerous game. You should be careful. I’m a bit out of the loop with the latest rules and all, what’s the regulation calibre size these days?”
He raised an eyebrow. “Clever gi–” His eyes rolled back and he collapsed backwards. Two latte-sipping suited regulars stepped back and cleared a path. A Gen Y copyboy dived to cradle Harry’s head just before it hit the polished concrete floor.
For the first time, the room noticed Harry’s bloody arm.
The Barista’s Guide to Espionage Page 6