His Good Samaritan work earlier today has left him in a good mood; his chest is overflowing with
inflated pride. Now this! Things are looking up.
He texts back. I’ll be there. D.
For once, he’s actually pleased to be having a night at home, to himself. The 74 miles to Elm
Gardens seems like a bridge too far tonight, especially when there’s no guarantee she’ll be there.
Maybe tomorrow, after his rendezvous with Elise he’d pay her another visit. Say hello.
With time on his hands he tips out the contents of his rucksack, looking for his camera. Perhaps he
was a little too eager to tear down his cork board. Those fading photos eased his solitude, helped him
keep his pledge to her, served as a reminder of what he’s holding out for. All he has left now are two
photographs; the one in his locker and the one in his wallet. He needs more.
The camera screen emerges and illuminates his face; eager anticipation fills his eyes but, with
every passing photograph, it fades like the embers of a camp fire. The camera light merely captures
his disappointment. There are so few photographs of her alone that the exercise is becoming a slap in
the face: a stark, technicoulor reminder of his failure. With his mood settling in a dark place his
thoughts wander, ‘How many hours have I spent at that fucking window, watching and waiting?’ His
question festers in his brain, unanswered until, that is, the reply occurs to him. ‘Too fucking long!’
Maybe he would go after all, have a look see. Hurriedly, he throws the contents back into his
rucksack. With long strides he heads for the door. Just then, the cat flap swings open and a tentative
cat places one foot after the other onto the kitchen floor, as if stepping onto an unpleasant surface out
of pure necessity.
“Oh, you’ve turned up, have you? About bloody time.” He grabs his coat from the sofa. “Well, you
can sing for your supper. If you can’t be bothered getting your furry arse in here to greet me when I
get home, then I can’t be arsed serving up your fucking diner. Go catch it Honey.” He slams the door
behind him.
“Don’t wait up.”
The ninety minute drive gives him the time he needs to clear his head. It’s not like him to be so
impulsive but needs must. When he sees the lights are on in 53a his heart almost leaps out of his chest.
He bangs on the steering wheel, feeling exuberant and optimistic. Unfortunately, that spark of
optimism soon fizzles when he sees a tall guy with a dark suit step out of the familiar silver Rolls: it’s
the chauffeur. Dan’s eyes are glued to the rear view mirror in anticipation of her timely arrival. He
waits in vain. Even Stone’s a no-show. He can do one of two things: wait and see what happens or
stroll inside to his apartment. After all, what’s wrong with that? He lives there.
Feeling brazen, he turns off the engine and makes his way towards the security door, whistling a
tune and bending his shoulders into the icy wind. As he opens the door the burly chauffeur is exiting
the building. He steps aside.
“Sorry… didn’t see you there.” He lets him leave and enters the building still whistling, still sure of
himself.
“Thank you,” a voice calls out behind him.
Feeling invincible he trots up the stairs but before he can reach the first landing, he hears knocking.
By the security door, the chauffeur is tapping on the glass to come in.
What the fuck?
“What’s the problem?” he asks, as if he doesn’t know.
The suited guy is mouthing something to him and holding up a large bagged parcel. Reluctantly,
Dan turns, descends and opens the door from the inside. “Got your hands full there mate,” he says,
holding open the door for him. “Whatever it is, it smells good.”
“Yes, it’s Italian food. Would you mind?” He rattles the new, shiny keys to 53a beneath his parcel.
“Could you open up?”
“Sure. Which key is it?” Dan turns the keys around in his fat fingers and, for a second, reveals the
bandage that is still wrapped around his left hand.
The door clicks open. “There you go. Enjoy your dinner.” He drops the keys on top of his food
parcel and heads off upstairs.
“It’s not for me,” the chauffeur states. “But thanks for your help. Do you live upstairs or are you
visiting?”
Dan is grateful to have his back to him, that way he can’t observe the creases forming around his
eyes as he flinches at the question. “Yeah,” he calls out. “Top floor, home sweet home.” He keeps
walking.
“Thanks again. Have a good night.”
“Sure you too.” He hears the door closing downstairs and is quick to close his own behind him. He
leans against it, feeling a slight increase in his heart rate. He bangs his head backwards against the
door. “You fucking idiot. You should have stayed in the car.” At his full height he touches the door
frame and, with his coat on, almost fills the door space. He’s an intimidating figure of a man but the
guy downstairs was his match in stature.
The distance from the door to the window takes only four long strides. Having left the light off, he
can see the full length and width of the cul-de-sac. He pulls back slightly when he hears the security
door close, anticipating a departure. He’s not wrong. The chauffeur returns to the car and collects
another parcel and a bag of something; probably just as pungent and just as awkward to carry as the
last one. He takes that one thought apart.
‘Then why the fuck did he call me back to open the door, if he can manage it now?’ That one
question hangs over his head like a noose.
“What’s your game?” he wonders, catching sight of his sombre reflection in the glass. The welcome
twinge that usually comes with the prospect of seeing his girl has been replaced by self-doubt; it eats
away at his insides like an ulcer, causing acid reflux to stick in his throat.
Putting two and two together he knows who the food is for, but does it make for good mathematics
to include himself in an already irrational equation? ‘Two’s company and four’s a fucking disaster,’
he reflects ruefully.
He locks his door behind him and walks quietly out of the building, careful not to let the security
door slam shut behind him. Dispirited, he makes the long journey home to his empty, ground floor
apartment with no more to show for a night’s work than a headache and a bad dose of indigestion.
Come tomorrow that will have gone and he’ll be able to set his sights on Plan B. He has Elise in his
corner, or is it the other way round?
15
Out of the darkness two silhouettes appear, one almost obscured by the other. The sign by the door
reads Stone Heath.
Elise pauses. “Make sure you’re quiet. The chauffeur and his daughter live next door.”
Dan nods, says nothing.
With the turn of a key, the front door opens and there is a high pitched hum of a tripped alarm. In a
single, well-rehearsed stroke, Elise scuttles off over to the box and deactivates it while Dan remains
poised several feet away in the shadows by the door physically readying himself for a swift get away.
“Well done. You were right,” Dan announces, slipping on a pair of latex gloves. “These are for
you.”
“No thanks. I’ve brought my own. Besides, my fingerprints are all over this pla
ce.” Leaving him
behind, she leads the way. Along the hallway there are single white lights built into the tiled floor,
making it stretch out before them like a runway, pointing them in the right direction. “We’ll take the
stairs, I don’t know if the lift’s working. Be quiet.” A heavy fire door creaks as she opens it onto a set
of stairs. “This way.”
The upper door opens out into the lounge area and, for some reason, they both pause half expecting
the resident to greet them, but that’s unlikely. Elise had already checked: “Ayden Stone is overseas.”
That’s what his secretary said.
“I’ll take a look around.” Dan pushes past her, his brain firing on all cylinders; he has his own
agenda and he’s not about to share it with his co-conspirator. Even though it’s unfamiliar territory,
past experience tells him to keep moving, it’s the boxer’s way: never stay in one spot for too long or
you’ll end up getting caught. He has no intentions of letting that happen. He by-passes the kitchen and
takes off into the bedroom at the far right hand side. Something tells him he’ll find what he’s looking
for in there.
The curtains are drawn and there’s a familiar fragrance that triggers a response. “Frances,” he
whispers. On the bed there’s a discarded piece of ivory coloured clothing and a towel. Spontaneously
he reaches for the satin night gown and crushes it in his right hand. It finds its way to his nose and he
closes his eyes and breathes her in. Hearing Elise’s footsteps he quickly opens his rucksack and stuffs
it inside. He has his scented souvenir, one to give him hours of enjoyment The accustomed tingling
sensation tickles his groin but, hearing Elise approaching, he shelves it for later.
“Make sure you don’t take anything or she might notice it’s missing,” she instructs.
He nods and tucks his rucksack under his arm, out of sight.
“What is it we’re looking for?”
“Nothing. We’re dropping off not picking up.” With long, assertive strides she exits the bedroom,
expecting him to follow. “This is only the guest bedroom we don’t need to be in here.”
“We don’t?”
“No. His bedroom’s downstairs. That’s where he’ll be fucking her on a daily basis now.”
“Right.” He accepts her explanation and follows at a reasonable distance, not wanting to look too
much like an obedient dog but enjoying the fact she’s not on her best behaviour. She’s dropped the
façade.
Having made up the couple of yards between them, they enter the master bedroom together. He
eyes her and watches the softness leave her face; she has transformed into a cold, vindictive bitch with
a mind to cause mayhem. It’s a good look for her.
“Like I said, don’t take anything. It will be missed and they’ll suspect someone’s been here.” Out of
the pocket of her long black coat she lifts out a small object; he cannot make out what it is. She scans
the room and her focus rests on a small, expensive looking bedside cabinet. She walks around the
enormous four poster bed and pulls out the empty drawer. Inside it she places her mystery object.
“What are you doing?”
“Leaving a souvenir for little Miss Perfect.”
Dan sniggers at her words. “What is it?”
“Oh just an insurance policy I’ve put together.”
Realising she’s only feeding him bullshit, he loses interest. “It’s a nice place. Stone has done pretty
well for himself.”
She spins around and glares at him, her eyes fierce and cruel. “You don’t know him.”
“So it seems. But I know one thing…”
She waits impatiently to hear the rest of the sentence.
“… He’s ruffled your feathers.” With that, he turns and leaves the room. A couple of yards along
the hallway is an enormous office. Along one wall are six screens, all black and lifeless. Stretched out
along another wall are shelves full of books of varying colours and sizes. With a cream coloured digit
he fingers the spines and tips his head to one side, trying to catch a couple of titles. On the top shelf
are books on media, marketing, investment, communications and commercial law. On the shelf below
are leather bound books with gold leaf titles etched onto their spines. He takes hold of one,
“Don’t touch his books or he’ll notice if you put it back in the wrong place,” Elise calls out from
the doorway. “Anyway, when did you turn into a purveyor of poetry?”
Dan gives her an indignant stare hard enough to crack a walnut. “Watch your fucking mouth Elise.
I’m not one of your office lackeys checking out the square footage on a fucking town house.”
She looks back at him apologetically. “Sorry. This cloak and dagger stuff has me on edge. Let’s get
out of here. I need a drink.”
He accepts her explanation and takes his hand from the shelf, and proceeds to scan the room. The
dark, wooden desk takes pride of place by the window; he walks over to it, flicks through some of the
documents. When he sees ‘shipment.’ ‘Saudi Arabia’ and ‘MOD,’ his interest is piqued.
“Are you coming?” Elise asks from the doorway, drumming her fingernail on the door frame and
becoming more impatient by the second.
“Not yet. Hold your horses.” He reads the first page and moves on to the second sheet. With his feet
rooted to the spot he turns his head to Elise. “What is it Stone does exactly?”
“What?”
“Your big shot boyfriend, Stone. What does he do?”
She’s unwilling to consider the question. “I don’t know, communications or something like that.
Why?”
He shrugs his shoulders. “I might not be a poetic prick Elise but I can fucking read; looks like he’s
been getting into bed with the M.O.D.”
She lowers her hand and strolls over to him. “You can’t be serious?”
Dan simply taps his finger on the documents. “Take a look.”
With her curiosity roused she scans the sheets. “This is a shipment document. He pays people to
handle this kind of thing. What’s it doing here?”
“I don’t know but I think we just got ourselves another insurance policy. Take a couple of photos
with your fancy phone.”
Without another word she does just that and he stands next to her, flicking over the pages and then
settling them back in their place.
“I think I’m ready for that drink now,” he says, with a smug grin. “Get your purse out Elise. It’s
your round.”
Feeling elated by the night’s proceedings, Dan settles into a discreet corner, leaving Elise by the bar
to order their drinks. His choice of venue couldn’t be more unlike the wine bar she chose. A mix-and-
match set of high backed chairs have been arranged around circular tables, so dark and so overly
varnished glasses reflect in them. There is no room for candles and cushions here. Accessories come
in one shape and one size only: square. Torn and tattered beer mats adhere to the tables, daring
inquisitive visitors to read them. There’s a proverb for every occasion. Dan slides one over:
Actions speak louder than words.
He sniggers at the appropriateness of the statement and takes out his phone. There is only one
person who he can speak to about acting on the information he has acquired and that’s Jack Simpson,
or Jack the Lad as he was known in Iraq. You wanted something, he could get it. I
f anyone can arrange
to have a shipment intercepted in the Far East, he’s your man. After all, it’s not like he hasn’t done it
before.
He clears his throat and prepares to break the good news.
“Evening Jack. Captain Cautious here. I’ve got some information for you that’ll have you throwing
your arms around my neck and asking me to marry you.” He laughs at Jack’s response which clearly
must be punctuated with four letter words.
“Forget the fucking money I owe you for the info on the Rolls. I’m about to send something your
way that will make us some serious money. You’re about to hit the jackpot my friend.”
Jack seems unconvinced.
“No. It’s not dodgy. Not for us. it isn’t.” He takes an impatient breath. “So … do you want to shut
the fuck up and listen or should I take my info elsewhere? I didn’t think so. Now, let’s get down to
business. Have you got contacts in the Far East?”
He listens intently to Jack’s reply and nods his head,
“Specifically? King Khalid International Airport in Riyadh. Is that specific enough for you?” He’s
nodding his head at his response.
“Yeah. That’s right, an interception. I like the way your mind works, my man. Now I’ve got some
info that will blow your socks off but you’ve got to move sharpish with it.”
He listens and scans the room for unwanted eavesdroppers.
“Yeah … it’s time sensitive. Call it what you want but get your arse in gear and get it to those
contacts of yours out there. This, they will want to get their hands on.” He’s shaking his head. “No, I
can’t tell you over the phone what’s in the consignment. But what I will do is send you pictures of the
shipping documents. Believe me, when you get a whiff of them you’ll drop whatever you’re doing and
get yourself to a computer sharpish.”
A wolfish grin forms slowly and remains as he listens “Never mind where I got it from. Just get the
job done. I tell you Jack we’ll be sitting pretty after this. I’m sending them over now.”
Noticing Elise approaching, he winds down the call. “Look. I’ve got to go but you stay sharp Jack.
The info’s on its way. Call me when you get it.” He ends the call abruptly and slips the phone into the
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