Strangely, none of these thoughts slowed my feet. If anything, they quickened them. Because there was a strange feeling bubbling in my chest, a feeling that made me want to break into a sprint and run as fast as my legs could carry me. Freedom.
But I didn’t run. I just walked, a quick, clipped pace, and I let the streets fade by me without really thinking about where I was going. So I was surprised when I found myself at a standstill outside an old-fashioned red phone box, and even more surprised when I swung the door open and walked inside. I lifted the handle, stared at the display. Most of the coin-operated machines in the country were still set up to accept the Euro, and as the government didn’t have the money to change all of them back to the pound we were operating in a weird half-and-half system. The pound was the currency, there was no doubt about that, but when it came to coins, Euros were the handiest to carry around. I dug around in my pocket, pulled out a €2 coin. It was far too much, and I knew I wouldn’t get change, but I stuck it in the slot without hesitating.
Then I paused, took a deep breath, shut my eyes and tried to dredge up the image I was searching for: a scrap of paper with untidy, loopy writing in blue ink. I didn’t have a photographic memory, not quite, but I’d tried to memorise the number like I’d memorised Zane’s list, like I memorised the addresses of the various locations where Alexander wanted me to make drop-offs and pick-ups. I tapped out the digits like I saw them in my head, then waited. The phone began to ring in my ear, but that meant nothing. I could be calling anyone.
“Hello?” It was a male, a Londoner, but it was impossible to decide if it was the right voice over the white noise of the line.
“Mark?”
There was a brief pause.
“Yes.” He sounded unsure, suspicious. I realised I hadn’t identified myself.
“Mark, it’s Lizzie. You probably don’t remember me. We met a couple… a few weeks ago. On the train.”
“Oh. Right.” He sounded surprised, then he laughed. “Hi! I guess you changed your mind.”
“Yeah,” I breathed. “Sorry it took me so long. I lost your number.”
What the hell was I doing? I knew this was insanity, but my brain seemed strangely disconnected from my mouth.
“You don’t have to apologise. So… how are you doing? Does this mean you want to meet up sometime?”
“Sure. In fact,” I crossed my fingers. “What are you doing right now?”
“Now?” he squeaked. I waited. “Well, nothing I guess. Yeah, I can do now. Sure.”
“Where are you?” I asked. I couldn’t travel far.
“At home. I live on the south side of Hackney.”
Perfect.
“Well, I’m not far away. Could we meet in Bethnal Green? There’s a nice little coffee shop I know.”
I described it to him and he said he knew the place. It was a safe location for me to go to; I knew the owner was sympathetic to Celts. He’d given me a cup of tea a few times when I was on the streets, before I met Alexander. We agreed to meet there in twenty minutes, but walking quickly, I was there in fifteen.
It was a nice place, cosy, with small windows that made it hard to see in from the pavement outside. The tables were small and round, with little stools instead of chairs so they could squeeze a few extra customers in when it was busy. It wasn’t today, though, and I grabbed myself a seat over by the wall. I kept my hood up, knowing that if I sat right, and kept my face at a certain angle, most of my left cheek would be hidden. I didn’t have any of Samuel’s make-up on me today.
Mark arrived just a couple of minutes late. He gave me a wave before heading to the counter, bringing over a tray with two steaming cups of coffee and a monstersized muffin.
“I couldn’t resist,” he said, indicating the cake. “I thought we could share.”
“Thanks,” I smiled, trying not to look too eager as I reached for a large chunk. I hadn’t eaten since breakfast and I was starving.
“So,” he said, staring back at me. “I didn’t think you were going to call me. I kind of got the impression on the train that you weren’t interested.”
I shrugged. “I changed my mind.”
“Ladies’ prerogative, I guess,” he smirked, rolling his eyes.
“Right,” I laughed. This was so bizarre, sitting here, having a normal conversation with a normal person.
“Aren’t you going to take your hood off?” he asked me, wiping the smile off my face.
I sat back a little.
“I have hood hair.”
“C’mon, it’s hiding half your face.”
He leaned forward as if he was going to knock it off, but I jerked backwards. The movement shifted the fabric to the side for just a second or so, but it was enough. His face dropped.
“Oh, shit,” he hissed, staring at me. I stared back. He’d seen it. Now what? Was he going to run, start screaming, call the police, the GE? This had been such a stupid idea. What was I thinking?
He broke eye contact, gazing frantically around the place, then back to me.
“You’re… you’re a Celt,” he mouthed the last word, then glanced around the room again. I wished he wouldn’t; his jerking, wide-eyed movements were attracting far more notice than my face. “Have, have they only just caught you? Is that why you didn’t call? I thought they took you back across the border once you’d been tattooed?”
Well at least he wasn’t running and screaming. I wasn’t in any danger, but he was gawping at me like I was a live grenade, and I hated it. My experiment in being normal was over.
“I haven’t just been caught,” I said quietly.
But,” he blinked, confused. “But you didn’t have that tattoo,” – more mouthing – “on the train. I would have noticed. I definitely would have noticed.”
“It was there,” I said. “Just hidden.”
I was disappointed. I’d wanted… well I’d wanted him not to find out, but that had been idiotic. I’d wanted him not to care, to see that it was just a tattoo, nothing more, but he was acting like I was an alien from outer space. What did I expect? He didn’t know me from Adam. I sighed.
“I’ll leave,” I said, scraping my stool back to stand.
“No… wait!” He reached out and grabbed my hand where it leaned on the table. “Don’t go just yet. I’m sorry. It… it was just a shock, y’know? I wasn’t expecting it. I’ve never even seen one of those up close before, only on the news.” His eyes were pinned on my cheek, one hand lifting, seemingly of its own accord. “Can I touch it?”
I wet my lips with my tongue nervously, didn’t answer. Mark took my silence for assent, which I guess it was, because I made no move to stop him as his fingers continued to reach for my face. He ran the tip of his index finger twice round the circle, eyes following the movement while I stared at him, counting the seconds, waiting for him to look at me. Me. It took a while, but then he did, and when he caught my eye, he smiled. “So I guess you’re not really a school pupil, huh?”
“No.”
“Right. I guess I should have picked up on your accent too,” I was hopeless at disguising it. “Anyway, why were you wearing the outfit? You’re not…” he leaned in closer dropped his voice. “You’re not a prostitute are you?”
“No, of course not!” I snapped back, outraged.
“Sorry.”
I glared at him, not quite sure if he was forgiven.
“It was a disguise,” I said coldly. “People don’t ask so many questions when you’re dressed like something they recognise.”
“I see.” He quite clearly didn’t, but he sensed it was time to change the subject. “Well, I’m afraid I wasn’t wearing a disguise. I’m just a plain old, boring office worker. I work in HR and Payroll for the Defence Department. It’s the least exciting job in the entire defence unit, but it’s a start,” he grinned.
I could see that he was making an effort to make up for his reaction, to force the conversation back into the realms of normality. I appreciated it. What would be a n
ormal response?
“So, you live in Hackney?” I asked hesitantly.
“Yeah,” he brightened. “It’s not much, a little one-bed flat, but it’s mine. Well, rented. No parents, though. Finally! You could,” he dropped his voice, then his head, and blushed. “You could come and see it sometime, if you wanted?”
I raised my eyebrows, and his blush doubled.
“Nothing like that! Just, I don’t know. I could cook you dinner or something.”
“That sounds nice,” I said, but I didn’t smile. Because it did sound nice, and I knew I’d never get to experience it. I took a gulp of my coffee to cover the awkward moment, then looked off to the right, over his shoulder. Someone, an old man, was staring at me, frowning. Automatically I yanked at my hood, pulling it further forward. The old man’s frown deepened.
“I should probably go,” I said, flicking my gaze back to Mark. I was pushing my luck staying here so long. If the old man was the type to call the GE they could come crashing in the door any second.
Mark looked over his shoulder, caught the gaze of the old man, who finally looked away.
“You reckon?” he said.
I nodded. Definitely.
“Will I get to see you again?” he asked.
“I don’t know.”
“I guess it’s still pointless to ask for your number?” He looked up at me hopefully as I stood, reaching into my pocket for change to cover my half of the bill. “Don’t worry,” he held his hand out. “I’ll get this.”
“Thanks.” I looked down at him, grimaced. “I don’t have a phone. Not one I could use to call on anyway.”
I saw that my cryptic answer made little sense to him, but he didn’t push me on it.
“But I’ve got your number,” I tapped my forehead, where I had it stored. “If I can, I’ll call you.”
“I hope so,” he said softly. I repressed a shiver, remembering when Alexander had said those exact words to me, right after he asked if he could trust me. If he found out about this, I was in serious trouble.
“Bye, Mark,” I smiled at him, at his young, innocent face, knowing I’d probably never see him again. On a whim, I reached out. He matched the motion and our hands clasped, his engulfing mine. I let myself revel in the uncomplicated, unfettered warmth of his touch for the briefest of moments. Then I walked out of the coffee shop, marching right past the old man, who kept his eyes firmly fixed on his cup of tea until I was gone.
On the way back I was torn between the desire to run, knowing I’d been gone longer than I should, and the desire to slow to a funereal march, aware of the sort of reception that was likely to await me. I was annoyed at myself now. A five-minute date, a hot drink and a bit of cake were not worth the trouble I was likely to get into if anyone – i.e. Alexander – ever found out about it. I still couldn’t even work out why I’d done it.
I’d no idea how long I’d been gone: maybe an hour, maybe more. If the meeting was still happening, there was a chance no one would have missed me. If not, well I’d make some excuse. If I got really desperate I’d tell Alexander I had to go out and buy some tampons. I ducked into a shop as I neared Bancroft Road to grab some, just in case, firming up my alibi. They weren’t the make I liked, but it was hard to get anything now that was made in the States. Not unless you went through Alexander or one of his competitors.
When I got back the same man was watching the front door. I noticed Zane was no longer in the room through the back. Did that mean they’d finished upstairs?
“Can I go up now?” I asked, trying not to seem petulant, although nerves made my voice sound defensive.
“Knock yourself out,” he said, gesturing to the staircase.
I made a face as I turned my back on him. What a strange thing to say.
At the top of the stairs I noticed the door to Alexander’s office was wide open, which was unusual. I walked slowly towards it, the nerves from downstairs magnifying with each step. Before I could reach the doorway, Zane appeared in it, looking out to see who the quiet footsteps belonged to. He looked me up and down, then disappeared.
“It’s Lizzie, sir,” I heard him say.
“Elizabeth?” Perversely, I stopped, still in the darkness of the hallway. I didn’t like the way he sounded. Soft and low, as always, but there was something else. Swallowing against my tightening throat, I started forward. It wasn’t wise to keep him waiting.
Did he know? My eyes darted around the room as I entered, searching for signs. Zane stood just behind the door, against the wall. That was a weird position. He only stood there when… when Alexander was meeting with people and there was a chance it could get ugly. An obvious show of muscle, an in-your-face physical threat. Alexander was in the office area, his back to me, reading over something.
I waited, wondering if I should clear my throat or something to let him know I was there, but some inner sense told me to keep quiet. He knew I was waiting, he was just making me sweat it out.
He knew.
“Where have you been?”
He spoke before he turned, but then he did face me, fixing me with his eyes like a cobra, and I was held, hypnotised.
“What? I… nowhere.”
“Nowhere,” he echoed.
Then he looked to the left, to his bodyguard.
Zane pushed off from his position by the kitchenette and approached me. He was smiling, blue eyes for once alight when they looked at me. A foot away, he stopped, and his fist shot out. My legs buckled.
It was a move I had seen a dozen times: a short jab to the stomach and grown men fell to their knees.
I had never felt it before.
My stomach exploded with pain, shock waves ricocheting out to my intestines, my kidneys, the muscles of my abdomen. My lungs went into spasm and I couldn’t breathe, my legs just folded under me.
I couldn’t hold myself up and gravity toppled my upper body forward, arms stretched out to cushion my fall, but Zane had a hold of my hair and he wrenched my head back, kept me upright. I stared forward, into the muzzle of a gun. Alexander rested it gently on my forehead, right between my eyes.
“Where have you been Elizabeth?”
Refuse to tell him and die? Tell him and die?
Which one would be the quickest, the least painful? My head throbbed as I went cross-eyed, trying to keep the barrel of the gun in sight as I deliberated.
“I… I went out.”
“Yes, I know that. Where did you go?”
He looked down at me, not a trace of anger or hate in his face, just calm composure.
I licked my lips, trying to eek some life back into them. “I went to Bethnal Green, to a coffee shop.”
I was willing to bet he knew that, too. He also knew I’d met a twenty-year-old boy, and that I’d drunk a coffee and eaten half a muffin. He didn’t know who the boy was. Once he had that information there would be nothing left to stop him pulling the trigger and blowing my brains out. He’d have to get a new carpet – a minor irritation, but I knew how attached he was to the luxurious, thick white shag – but that was a price he seemed willing to pay for the chance to deal with my misbehaviour personally. Having Zane take me downstairs to the basement wouldn’t give him the same satisfaction.
“And who did you meet there?”
I hesitated, hanging on to my last few seconds of life. Zane adjusted his grip on my hair, pulling me up a few inches, taking the weight off my knees. Reminding me he was there. I swallowed, shifting my gaze from Alexander to the gun, to Alexander. He smiled at me, pushed the muzzle harder against my skin. He was waiting.
“Who. Did. You. Meet. There?”
“I… it was…”
I should have known. I had known. What the hell had I been thinking? Was my five minutes of ordinary life worth dying for?
Oh God. Make it quick. Please make it quick.
But he wouldn’t. Alexander wasn’t into doing merciful things like that.
“What’s going on?”
I swivelled my eyes to
the left, caught sight of a figure lingering in the doorway. It was Samuel; it had to be. No one else would have walked in without permission.
“What’s Lizzie done?” Samuel stepped into the room, approaching the three of us: me kneeling on the carpet; Zane behind, holding me up; Alexander in front, holding a gun to my head.
“Elizabeth,” Alexander said, taking care to roll my name around his mouth like a caress, “has been secretly meeting up with somebody in Bethnal Green. Behind my back.”
“Oh, that.”
I tried to look at Samuel, to see the expression on his face, but Zane held me too tightly. What did he mean by that? His tone was flat, unsurprised. How could he possibly have known? How had Alexander known?
“You knew?” Alexander whispered, anger for the first time creeping into his voice.
“Yeah. She was on a job for me.”
My eyes widened. What was Samuel doing?
“A job for you?”
“Yes. I told her to keep it quiet. I didn’t mean from you, but obviously she misunderstood.”
Alexander stared down at me, his eyes thoughtful. I stared back, knowing my life depended on whether or not he believed his brother. I was too frightened to construct a look of innocence, or even hide my shock at Samuel’s lies. Why was he covering for me?
“Is that true, Elizabeth?” he asked.
I tried to nod, but my head was jammed between Zane’s hand and the end of the gun, still pressed hard enough into my forehead to leave a dent.
“Yes,” I whispered, my throat choked with fear.
“Who is he?” Alexander was still looking down at me, but he wasn’t talking to me.
Out of the corner of my eye I saw Samuel shrug.
“Just someone I thought might be a useful informer; his dad has connections. But it didn’t work out. The boy hasn’t got the balls for it.”
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