Yesterday's Hero

by Jonathan Wood

  “So,” Jasmine leans over from my other side, “like who has the KGB files?”

  I grimace. Not because I don’t know where they are, but because, a few days ago, I walked out of that building swearing never to return.

  “MI6,” I say.

  “Oh,” Jasmine says. “Like, shit.”

  “No chance you can hack into those files is there?” I ask Devon.

  “I can’t hack anything,” she says. “That’s Tabitha’s game. And Clyde’s.” She wrinkles her nose. “The sort of underhanded, unpleasant thing that dirty little people who can’t keep their hands out of the cookie jar would do if you ask me. Legitimate computing needs not good enough for them. Doesn’t matter how many years of good service the old computer may have given them. Once the odd part needs trading in, and there are new models on the showroom floor. So it’s time to trade in, apparently. No need to let the old computer know. It’ll figure it out. If its processing speed is up to it.”

  Air stewards are starting to look our way now.

  “It’s OK.” I pat her hand. I’m not sure what else to do. “It’s fine.”

  “You can’t just, like, ask one of the old MI37 folks to do it for you?” Jasmine asks.

  Devon almost spits into the aisle.

  “Relations were strained last time we spoke,” I say. “And there’s this whole thing with them needing to arrest us both. And we don’t know anyone at MI6. And I doubt anyone Malcolm knows is suicidal enough to want to break into Vauxhall Cross.”

  “Are you saying, Arthur,” Devon looks at me, “that we are, in the common parlance, screwed?”

  In front of me, Aiko’s pigtails bob. I pause. Because what I suppose I’m really doing is laying the groundwork for asking Devon to do something really unpleasant.

  “There is one person I can think of.”

  “Who?” Devon is watching me warily. She can see the shadow of the trap closing over her and is trying to work out if she has time to escape its clutches.

  “Kayla would do it,” I say. “If you asked her.”

  Devon is very quiet.

  “Who’s Kayla?” Jasmine asks. “Is she the grumpy goth one, or the one with the awesome sword?”

  “She’s the one,” Devon replies, “with the awesome sword and an alarming preponderance for treating me like a pre-pubescent child. You bloody ask her.” This last statement is stabbed in my direction.

  “She wouldn’t do it if I asked her. She’s not one hundred percent fond of me.”

  “I shouted at her a lot,” Devon protests.

  “She’s the forgiving sort.”

  “She’s the sort to stab people long before the forgiving process has a chance to begin,” Devon comes back.

  Which is a fair point, to be honest, but not one likely to get us closer to Devon begging this favor.

  “She’ll forgive you,” I say, as convincingly as I can, “precisely because she has an enormous affinity for you.”

  Devon regards me balefully as she is able. “You know,” she says, “I think I’m beginning to see why Kayla doesn’t like you.”

  London, 8:36 pm

  Bushy Park is not one of London’s better known royal parks. It’s a gem though. A beautiful ocean of green in the urban mix. That is, right up until sundown. At which point it become a bit large, and out of the way, and full of suspicious shadows.

  I fight monsters for a living, and I’m still enough of a city lad to jump at a deer crossing the path in front of us.

  Still, Devon informs us that one of the many things I don’t know about Kayla is her love of taking evening strolls in Bushy Park whenever she’s in the city.

  Aiko, Devon and I wait by the large fountain at the park’s heart. Aiko and I still haven’t really talked since the evening in Kiev. And yet it’s Devon who is the tense one. I think she’s starting to regret agreeing to this entire plan in fact.

  And then, around quarter to nine, I see a round-shouldered figure slouching towards us.

  “That’s—” I start.

  “Yes.” Devon nods. She swallows several times. I don’t know if her face is in the shadows by accident or design; I don’t know whatever emotions are brewing.

  She steps out into the pathway. The plan is for her to make first contact, and then, if she thinks it’s important or helpful, I’ll step up too. Patting her legs three times is the best signal we could come up with. Malcolm seemed to not think much of it, but he didn’t go as far as offering his own.

  I’m not sure how into subterfuge Malcolm is. I get the impression he’d rather kick in the doors at 85 Vauxhall Cross and see how things went from there.

  Devon walks slowly towards Kayla, mirroring her shuffling gait. Neither of them seem anxious to get very far very quickly. Then Kayla looks up and abruptly stops. I can see her looking at Devon. Devon catches the change and stops too. They stand looking at each other.

  Then Kayla moves. I barely catch it. The barest suggestion of movement, and then she’s fifteen feet from where she started, standing tight behind Devon’s back.

  SIXTY

  “Oh shit.” Aiko fumbles in her waistband for another of Malcolm’s illicit guns.

  I put my hand on her arm. Then I hesitate for a moment because I’ve had the audacity to physically touch her. And then I get over myself a little.

  “That’s not necessarily aggression,” I say. Then I think about it. This is Kayla after all. “Well, it’s probably aggression. Everything’s pretty much on a sliding scale with Kayla. But this isn’t so bad for her.”

  “But if it turns bad…?” Aiko tries to pull her arm out of my grasp.

  “Then we’ll all be dead before you get the gun up,” I say.

  Aiko doesn’t look exactly happy about that. But it’s hard to be happy when confronted with the fact that if Kayla wants to kill you, she just will. On the plus side, it does add a frisson of danger to staff meetings that is usually inherently lacking.

  Kayla and Devon remain a frozen tableau for a few seconds more. Fortunately Kayla seems to decide against impaling Devon, so it’s good I read Kayla correctly on that one.

  Then Devon reaches out her hand and slaps her thigh three times.

  Personally I’d imagine it would happen a little more naturally, and not like a moment of jazz hands in the middle of something that resembles a hostage negotiation.

  Still, I pick myself up off the bench, give Aiko a hopeful smile, and head in their direction.

  “Hello, Kayla,” I say.

  She barely even looks at me. Devon gives me a look that is less than encouraging.

  “Will you help us?” I ask Kayla.

  The shrug is a bare flicker of movement.

  I’m honestly not sure what that means. I wait for further information but it doesn’t come. “I…” I say.

  “No.” Kayla’s monosyllable is barely audible.

  Right then…

  “Will you tell Coleman you saw us?”

  Another minimalist shrug.

  “Come on, Kayla,” I say. “Please.”

  Not even a glimmer of anger from her. Not even a spark. She stands there as near to lifeless as she can be.

  “No,” she says eventually.

  I let out a breath of relief. Now this is just useless, not actually hazardous.

  “Why not?” Devon asks. She’s still standing with Kayla behind her. I wonder if Kayla bothered drawing her sword. I doubt it. I don’t know what she’d fight for right now. It’s as if everything has been taken away from her, out of her.

  “You don’t want my help.” I have to lean in to catch the words.

  “Well of course I do,” Devon snaps. “I’m here bloody asking for it.”

  Not quite the gently-gently approach I’d have taken. Kayla doesn’t even respond to it, though. Just stands there staring over my shoulder.

  I just need to snap her out of it, to…

  Sometimes words come into my head and I wish that they didn’t. Because they’re usually not awesome for m
y chances of survival. But… Hell, it’s been a good week for stupid things.

  “What would Ophelia want?”

  Finally Kayla makes eye contact. It’s like staring at an event horizon.

  “To be alive,” she says. Each word is a tombstone falling. And I have nothing to come back against that with. I know it’s not my fault Kayla’s daughter is gone, but it doesn’t make the unspoken accusation any easier to deal with.

  Kayla stares at me a moment longer, then drops her eyes. We all stand for a few moments longer. A frozen tableau.

  “Come on,” I finally say to Devon. “Let’s go.”

  Devon hesitates then steps away from Kayla. Kayla makes no move. We walk away. We’re almost back to the bench when Devon looks over her shoulder. Kayla is still standing there, frozen.

  “You couldn’t save your daughter,” Devon calls, “but now you have the chance to save the whole world.” She stands and watches for any effect the words have. If they have one, I don’t catch it.

  “Waste of time.” Devon shakes her head.

  The Lamb and Flag, 9:17 pm

  “Well now we’re proper fucked, aren’t we?” Aiko counts off the ways on her fingertips. “Can’t get into MI6. Can’t get the aliases. Can’t find the Russians. Can’t stop them.”

  At least she didn’t have to use both hands.

  “What if we gave the files to Shaw?” Devon asks.

  “No.” Aiko slaps her hand down on the table. She looks around the rest of the group, eyes coming to rest on me. “No, right?”

  I want to agree with her.

  I want to disagree with her.

  I…

  “We still can’t trust them,” I say. In the end, that’s the heart of the problem. “Not to do the right thing. And not to do the right thing right.”

  I put my head in my hands. “No one will let us into MI6.” I talk at the table. “So we have to break in to MI6.” It’s an absurd thing to say.

  “Well that’s just being plain silly,” Devon points out.

  Except, God, I don’t know another way. I think it’s what we have to do.

  We have to break into MI6. A mad plan. God, I don’t even know where to start. We’d need… An ID badge. A disguise, probably.

  Wait… Is that it?

  Balls, I suppose. We’ll need really big ones of those.

  I look up. Nobody is looking as if a lightbulb has gone bright in their mind.

  “Who could we steal an MI6 ID from?” I ask.

  Aiko’s eyebrows perform a quite athletic leap up her forehead. “Seriously?”

  “Our timeline runs out at 6pm tomorrow. That’s less than twenty-four hours. At this point I’m willing to try anything.”

  “What about, like, your girlfriend?” Jasmine says. “Couldn’t you go, be all like, ‘take me back’ and swipe the ID out of her pocketbook while—”

  “—she’s calling for back-up?” I complete. I shrug, trying to ignore the fact that Aiko is giving Jasmine dirty looks. “I mean, maybe. But she’s pretty sharp. And I don’t know if any of us could really pass for Felicity even with a disguise.” I scan the table. “Wrong body types.”

  “Disguise?” Malcolm contemplates this.

  “What about that unutterable shit, Clyde?” Devon asks. “Just put on a mask and try to shag every little whore that comes within six feet of you and nobody should be able to tell the difference.”

  “Clyde’s seven feet tall,” I point out, “and capable of hiding behind broomsticks.”

  More silence. More contemplation of the wood grain.

  “You’re about Coleman’s height,” Devon says into that silence.

  “I’m nothing like that arsehole.” It’s a knee-jerk verbal response, but I’ll stand by it.

  “No.” Devon apparently won’t. “You’re actually fairly similar builds. I mean he’s got a bit of a paunch on you, and that godawful mustache, but it’s fairly obvious Shaw has a definite ‘type.’ Like me and men who look exactly like Patrick Swayze. Except I’m never their type it seems.”

  A type? Coleman and I are the same type? Felicity’s type? Even Devon’s waffling at the end didn’t take the sting out of that one.

  I take a drink and try to let the red drain from my vision.

  Flop, flop, flop.

  I take a few more sips for good measure.

  “But,” Aiko says to me, “don’t you and Coleman sort of despise each other from the bottoms of your souls? He’s not going to just give you his ID.”

  Which is very true. Except…

  I look at Devon.

  “Oh no,” she says. “Me and my bloody mouth.”

  “What?” Jasmine looks from me to Devon and back.

  “Coleman doesn’t hate everyone in MI37,” I say.

  Aiko’s eyebrows bounce back up. Jasmine’s join them.

  “I won’t do it.” Devon is shaking her head, waving her hands, physically leaning away from the suggestion. “I can’t. There is no way on earth.”

  “The greater good, Devon,” I say. “The fate of the very world.”

  “You made me sacrifice my headphones,” Jasmine adds, apparently unafraid of the more personal guilt trip. And more power to her for it, I say.

  “All you have to do is flirt a little bit with him.” I emphasize the word “little,” try to make the pill easier to swallow.

  “He keeps his ID in his pants pocket.” Devon can’t keep the horror out of her voice. “How am I meant to get that?”

  I try to suppress any sort of visible blanching at that thought, but I’m not sure how successful I am, because Devon throws up her hands and says, “See!”

  “The greater good,” I say weakly.

  Devon looks at me. “First Kayla. Now this? You know, Arthur, I think there’s a chance you’re no better than Clyde.”

  SIXTY-ONE

  One hour later

  As unrealistic as it may be, I did sort of imagine that Coleman would live in some sort of fetid swamp alone with other bottom feeders and amphibious scum.

  On the other hand, a flat in Knightsbridge seems relatively close.

  I was a little worried we’d have to go through the phone book looking up every Coleman in London, but fortunately the arrogant arsehole had given Devon his card. On it he wrote, “Any time. Any position. xxx.” I am again reminded of my loathing for this man.

  “I hate you all,” Devon tells us. Which seems a little unfair considering we splurged on a new dress for her along with new shoes and a bottle of dubious champagne.

  Jasmine picks a rogue tag free from the dress.

  “OK.” Aiko holds Devon by her newly bared shoulders. “Remember. Get the key card, get the card out of the apartment, however you can. Dropping it out of a window is preferential.”

  “You do realize you’re asking me to remove his pants.”

  Aiko shakes her head. “Not necessarily, no.”

  “You want me to reach into his pants pocket while he’s still in them?”

  I throw up a little in my mouth.

  “Yeah,” Aiko nods, “get him to take them off.”

  “Then leg it,” Jasmine adds.

  “If I end up having to Bobbitt him,” Devon says, “I want you all to swear you’ll defend me in court.”

  “To the ends of the earth,” I promise.

  “I still hate you.”

  She steps out of the car and marches toward the door as purposefully as her new heels will let her.

  We sit tensely across the street, watching as she rings the bell. She speaks to a grate. She pushes the door open.

  “Must have buzzed her up,” Aiko says.

  None of us say a word.

  Devon disappears through the door. Extra lights come on brightening the third floor. Coleman’s floor. The lights having flared, dim but do not go out.

  “I feel like we’ve done something awful.” Jasmine is squeezed into the back seat between Aiko and Malcolm.

  “Me too,” I say.

  “Me too,”
Malcolm rumbles.

  We all turn to stare at him.

  “What?” He shrugs. “I do.”

  I look at the three of them cramped together in the back of the car.

  “Does one of you want to sit up here in the front? We could be some time.”

  There are some very rapidly exchanged looks. The amount of subtext to seemingly everyday interactions is getting out of hand.

  “It can be Aiko,” I say, because it’s easier to just do that at this point.

  Jasmine arches one eyebrow very high indeed. “Did you two—?”

  “No,” Aiko and I say at the same time.

  “You didn’t know what I was going to say.” Jasmine looks forlorn.

  “Yes they did,” Malcolm rumbles as Aiko gets out of the car and comes up to sit beside me.

  “You know she likes you though, right?” Jasmine says.

  “Jasmine,” Malcolm rumbles.

  “Jaz!” Aiko snaps.

  I close my eyes. The more things change…

  “Yes,” I say. “I know.”

  “And what?” Jasmine asks. “You don’t like her back?”

  My eyes stay closed. “No,” I say. “I like her very much.”

  “So what’s the problem?” she asks. “Why haven’t you—”

  “Jasmine.”

  “Jaz!”

  “I have…” And how do I put it into words? “I have a… prior commitment.” That doesn’t sound right.

  “To the ice queen?” Jasmine is incredulous.

  “Let it go, Jaz.” At least Aiko sounds as embarrassed as I feel.

  And why won’t I let Felicity go? What is the problem? Even if I don’t have an answer for Jasmine, or even one for Aiko, shouldn’t I have one for myself?

  I miss her.

  That’s it. In a nutshell. I miss Felicity Shaw. She made me happy. Making her happy made me happy. I miss that.

  God, I didn’t just leave because she was making me unhappy, but because I was making her unhappy too, and it was killing me.