by Ian Black
She shakes her head, “What is it?”
He shrugs, “It’s supposed to be some phantom creature; a bit like Bigfoot or the Loch Ness monster.”
She’s never heard of it, and shakes her head.
He explains, “It’s supposed to be a big black wildcat, like a panther, that’s seen occasionally and gets blamed for mutilating farmers’ livestock… It must be big though; someone reckoned it ripped a cow’s throat out!”
Millie shakes her head contemptuously.
“What?” he’s confused.
Her face pleads for understanding, “Ripped its throat out?”
Two fatal faux pas in less than one hour; he shrugs, shaking his head, “Oh shit, didn’t think, again!” annoyed she’s picked him up again.
Millie’s not impressed, “I keep telling you… you never think!” shaking her head. “Don’t you realise what’s going through my mind?”
James defends himself, “I’ve held my tongue. I’m not pussyfooting around anymore… I know, exactly what’s going through your mind… it’s all I’ve heard about… for weeks!”
She’s shocked, “It’s my job!” flabbergasted. “You just don’t get it!”
“NO!” he fumes. “YOU DON’T GET IT! You don’t realise what you’re doing is a job; a fucking job. You’re obsessed, totally obsessed. A job’s for earning money to pay bills… You treat yours like a quest… as if it’s life or death!”
Her face shows utter contempt, “Life or death!”
“Well, fuck me I’ve done it again. What a bastard I am! Get used to it, Mill, I can’t tread on eggshells anymore. If you really want to get close to tramps and terrorists, shit’s going to happen… then I get dragged into your shit! I’ve got a life too you know.”
“I can’t believe… you know how important this is to me.”
“Yeah, I do… more important than me!”
She turns away from him again.
James rants at the back of her head, “And another thing, you reckon interviewing this lunatic will be the end of your story… Fucking right it will, coz you won’t ask questions once he’s cut your head off!”
Millie bites her lip, holds back the tears, and stares out the window.
While James is satisfied that he’s said, finally, what he’s been thinking for weeks, and focuses firmly on the road ahead.
•
In the fractious car, no words are spoken during the remaining journey home.
Reaching London in the early hours of the morning, after parking in the underground car park they take the lift up to Millie’s apartment, in continued silence; only when she enters the apartment does James speak, and sounds a little awkward, “Listen, Mill… I know you’ve got a lot on your plate right now, and… well, I reckon I’m just complicating things… I don’t deliberately mean to wind you up, I promise. It’s just the way I am, and I can’t keep analysing every word I’m going to say before I open my mouth… So, I’ve been thinking, during the drive, and… I’ve decided to give you some space… I think we need some time apart.”
Her jaw drops, in disbelief, “What?”
He continues, “You need to sort your head out, before we can move on with our relationship. That job… is consuming you… and now you want to interview a maniac!” James fidgets. “I can’t handle it, Mill… I’m shitting myself all the time that something’s going to happen to you.”
Millie answers frankly, “James, you’ve always known I’m passionate about my job, and I know I’ve been distant lately, but I’m in touching distance of getting the interview I’ve craved for, for years… This is what I do, James…” she pauses, “and this is what I want!”
“Well, it’s not what I want… not for you, or us.” He angles his body towards the lift. “I can’t keep worrying and watching your head spinning as you torment yourself… Let me know, when, and if, you want to get on with our lives as a couple.”
She watches in silence as James walks slowly along the corridor, into the open lift, the doors close behind him… and he’s gone.
•
After a long-distance phone call to her mother, and some chocolate comfort eating in bed, Millie sheds a few tears on her pillow then attempts to sleep, but with the same repetitive thoughts finds it difficult. Eventually after hours of tossing, turning, soul searching and counting sheep, Millie finally dozes off… but not for long.
It’s still dark when her slumber is broken by the shrill ring of her mobile. She wakes, startled, fumbles, and finds it on the bedside table beneath her glowing digital alarm clock, displaying the time 4.58am. Snatching the squealing phone with tired eyes she inspects the backlit screen which reads number withheld, and then answers in a croaky, awakening voice, “Hello.”
After a moment’s silence, Ruparela speaks, “Now.”
“Pardon?”
“I’m ready to be interviewed.”
She’s taken aback, “Now?”
“Check the text message I’m sending,” he instructs her, “now,” and hangs up.
Millie turns on the bedside light as his SMS comes in from an unknown number; it reads: LONDON POST OFFICE CENTRAL DEPOT – DARTFORD – DA1 5PR – LOADING BAY 12 – AT 6.00AM TODAY – ONE HOUR FROM NOW – COME ALONE.
As she absorbs the text, thoughts bombard her: He wants to meet, NOW! Shit! What shall I ask him? Will it be safe? What would Dad do? Must tell Larry and Williams. Do I tell James? Will they kill me? Shit! Dartford Post Office… never heard of it. I’ll need the sat nav. Ring Larry. What do I wear? I’m scared, excited… scared!
Millie leaps from bed, glancing at the clock, which reads 5.00am. Thoughts continue as she enters the bathroom: Must be there in time. Where is it? Will he have a camera? Don’t chop my head off. What will I ask? What am I doing?
She hits Larry’s speed dial number, switches to speaker and places the phone on the sink edge, while splashing water on her face.
Larry’s croaky voice answers, “It’d better be good.”
Towelling her face Millie announces, “I’m meeting Ruparela in one hour!”
“WHAT?” he explodes, “Where?”
She yanks a pair of black suit pants on, “Check your texts, Larry. I just sent the meet details.”
He’s very concerned, “I’m not sure, Millie. I’m not happy about—”
“I’ve got to, Larry,” she interrupts, while putting the suit jacket on, “I’ll finish what I started. I owe it to George.”
“You owe George nothing!” he retorts. “That wasn’t your fault, this man’s a monster; you know what he’s capable of.”
“All the more reason to do this,” she replies. “People keep telling me you can’t reason with unreason, which is why nothing ever changes… This is my destiny, Larry.”
“Destiny!” he mocks angrily. “With bells ringing and angels singing? You’re not in a movie, girl, this is serious shit!”
“This is a defining moment, Larry, for me. If I pass it up, I’ll regret it for ever.”
Now Larry’s voice becomes noticeably calmer, to emphasise the importance of what he’s about to say, “Millie.”
“Yes?”
“You know you said Ruparela was watching you in St Ives?”
“Yes.”
“MI5 were there too, watching them, watching you. You’ve been under 24/7 surveillance by British Secret Service for weeks. MI5 think Ruparela sees you as a possible asset… to him. He may want to piggy-back off your current kudos to somehow add clout to his cause.”
“Are MI5 watching now?”
“And listening yes, so if you’re really going to do this… they’ve assured me, they’ve got your back.”
She sounds relieved, “Make sure they’ve got the address.”
“I will,” he assures her. “Now for the last time, are you sure you want to do this?”
Now fully dressed, Millie knows she faces a monumental task, especially in her current fragile state of mind with emotions all over the place. Her eyes water a little as she gl
ances at a framed photograph of her and James, arm-in-arm, smiling.
She takes a deep extended breath, checks the time, and then replies nervously into the phone, “Wish me luck, Larry!”
•
Once in the car, as daylight dawns, Millie punches the postcode into her satellite navigation device and watches the sand grains filter through the hour glass as it formats the fastest route. During this pause in proceedings, she becomes aware of her morning breath. Running her tongue across unclean front teeth confirms she’s left without brushing, so pops chewing gum into her mouth as the navigational lady’s calm digital voice announces, “Estimated travel time twenty-four minutes.”
Millie’s well aware that her body is performing in a just-about-controlled state of petrified hysteria, and her chewing confirms that, as she chomps emphatically like a madman on gum, rams the Mini into gear and kangaroos away.
Checking behind in her rear view mirror, she catches a glimpse of her own wide excited eyes and over-chewing mouth. Nodding at the sat nav, she comments to the lady’s voice, “You sound a lot calmer than I am, dear.”
She continues glancing into the mirror, wondering: I can’t see anyone following. Larry said MI5 are watching. Where are they?
Millie follows the directions precisely. Fortunately, the early morning streets are relatively clear so Millie makes good time, and finally at 5.52am arrives at a sign reading Dartford. After several more twists and turns the digital device announces, “Destination ahead”, then moments later as Millie slows down, “You have reached your destination”.
A short distance ahead, Millie sees a stream of red Post Office vans arriving and departing from wide-open gates to the: London Post Office – Central Depot. She filters in and follows through the gates.
Inside the compound Millie’s eyes register the huge sprawling warehouse and office building. While wondering where to park the navigational lady reminds, “You have reached your destination.”
“I know, I know,” Millie replies, finding a space to squeeze into. After turning off the ignition she twists the mirror around and takes a quick peek at herself, then after a deep breath fishes the gum from her mouth, sticks it onto the screen of the sat nav and tells it, “See you later… I hope!”
Millie cross-checks the time on her phone against the car clock; both read nearly six. She clenches and relaxes her fists several times, summoning up courage. With heart pounding, she leaves the safety of her Mini, locks the car, pockets the keys, and grasping her mobile firmly, heads nervously across the yard towards the loading bays.
Spread right across the length of the depot on the ground floor are a dozen loading bays, with open roller-shutter doors, all teeming with activity as hoards of Post Office employees load and unload a perpetual succession of mail vans arriving and departing.
Millie’s head spins as she sidesteps and dodges red vans and forklifts while crossing the busy yard. Nearing the bays she sees a row of signs with large numbers above each doorway, designating which bay is which. Bay 12 is at the very end to the right.
Once beneath the Bay 12 sign, standing on the expansive concrete loading bay, wearing a black trouser suit, she blends in with the crowded army of black-uniformed postal workers, loading and unloading a continuous train of mail as vans arrive and depart. For Millie, it’s like being an ant, amongst a swarming ants’ nest and she’s the only one stood still; but not for long, for fear of being barged, which nearly happens, “Watch out, love!” shouts a cockney forklift driver trundling past.
As Millie steps clear she obstructs another worker carrying parcels, who barges her accidentally. He apologises, just as the phone held tightly in her palm vibrates and beeps. She checks the text: GO TO BAY 8.
She immediately heads in that direction. Her heart was pounding before, now it’s bouncing as she dodges workers along the way until standing directly beneath the BAY 8 sign. Accelerating and decelerating engine noise and squealing brakes add to the industrious atmosphere. As vans come and go their rear doors are thrown open and slammed shut, while instructions are yelled constantly.
She receives another SMS reading: GO TO BAY 11 and heads back that way. While sidestepping staff Millie can’t help hoping that MI5 are there watching, and wonders how they’ll track her amongst so many wearing black.
Reaching Bay 11 she stands still, listening to heartbeats pumping through her ears. Another text comes in: GO TO BAY 4; but after taking a dozen steps the mobile beeps again: GO TO BAY 11. She turns and battles back until stood at Bay 11, as a loud bang rings out from Bay 1, and a commotion begins as a forklift truck drives into the back of a van with its doors closed. The crash, and uproar of voices, echoes across the yard, drawing attention; all heads turn that way.
Millie peers over too, until her telephone rings, she looks down to answer it, unaware the crash was staged, a diversion, as she’s surrounded totally by a huddle of six masquerading male workers… who engulf her.
By the time she realises, it’s too late; a gag is forced across her mouth as she’s lifted unceremoniously off her feet, while simultaneously the rear doors of a red van fly open as it reverses into Bay 11. Millie is literally thrown into the van, the doors slam, it accelerates away, and six workers disperse as quickly as they appeared.
The van filters into a line of identical red vehicles streaming towards the exit; it blends in immediately.
In the back of the van, stunned by the speed of her abduction, Millie struggles valiantly against Binda and Imran, who ties her wrists behind her back, while Binda sits across her legs pinning her to the floor, applying duct tape to her mouth. Binda’s bulbous eyes bulge with concentration. Millie’s wide eyes pulse with terror, as they force a black hood over her head.
Once her ankles are tied, Imran peels Millie’s fingers back, prising the phone from her grasp, and passes it through a small open hatch to the driver, Hazma. He manoeuvres the van out through the exit onto the road, where the stream of red vans becomes diluted slightly by regular morning traffic.
Hazma yells instructions, “Strip her!”
The men tear at her clothes. Though tied up tightly she does her best to hinder them, wriggling, rolling and growling, until Binda clenches a fist, retracts his arm, and punches her straight in the face, through the hood. The clean punch knocks her spark-out… Millie’s limp unconscious body slumps to the floor.
Through the hatch Hazma shouts a reminder, “Take all her clothes off, she may be bugged!” as he follows a line of Post Office vans filtering onto the main road, where traffic speed accelerates to join faster-moving vehicles heading towards Dartford Tunnel (an underground roadway running beneath the River Thames).
Approaching the tunnel entrance, the ratio of red vans to normal vehicles is greatly reduced now, though there’s still plenty of them; all fast moving, changing lanes and overtaking, making it extremely difficult to keep track of one particular van.
Once inside the tunnel Hazma hurls Millie’s iPhone out the window; it shatters against the wall. Her items of clothing follow, as they’re stripped from her body, passed to Hazma and tossed from the van. Within minutes of being kidnapped Millie lies naked, except for the hood, and unconscious on the cold red-metal floor.
As they drive, Imran inches open the rear door slightly, and with a long screwdriver pokes off the van’s false rear number plate, which had been taped across another false plate earlier. The same on the front, which Hazma yanks off via a long string threaded through the grill.
Minutes later the van leaves the tunnel wearing different registration plates; one of several identical red vans mingled amongst three lanes of fast-moving traffic.
•
Meanwhile back at CNN, anxious-looking Larry sits at his desk gorging on double sausage and egg McMuffins while sipping coffee from a large disposable cup.
He’s involved in discussion with Agent Williams on speakerphone, who’s briefing him on surveillance of Millie.
With a mouthful of food Larry enquires, “What’s hap
pening?”
“Well…” Williams is hesitant and guarded with his reply. “I… well actually…” It’s blindingly obvious he’s beating around the bush.
Which riles Larry; he spits food and spills coffee while demanding a straight answer, “Stop waffling, IS SHE OKAY? You blithering idiot!”
A moment’s silence follows, until the agent admits, “I’m sorry… we’ve lost her.”
Larry spits fury, “WHAT DO YOU MEAN, YOU’VE LOST HER?”
The agent confirms with embarrassment, “She’s… gone!”
Larry drops his coffee cup. His face contorts, as if he’s going to cry, and blurts, “SHE’S DEAD?”
“No, no,” Williams corrects him, “we’ve lost track of her!”
Turning hostile, blood-rush reddens his face, Larry fumes, “YOU USELESS ASSHOLE!” then repeats himself, spitting words out one at a time, “YOU… USELESS… FUCKING… ASSHOLE!”
“I’m sorry,” he tries to apologise.
“Sorry, my fucking ass,” Larry splashes coffee thumping his fist in the spilt pool. “You said you’d take care of her!”
“We had six agents tailing her, and—”
“You useless bastard!” he snaps.
“Now hang on a minute—” retorts Williams.
“Now you hang on a minute, you posh Limey fuck. You just listen to me…” Larry stoops over, gets his mouth right up close to the desk phone’s microphone and yells, “FUCKING FIND HER, NOW!”
An awkward silence follows as Larry slumps back in his chair, exhausted from the stress and exertion. Eventually Williams replies, subserviently, “I can assure you, sir… we’re exploring all avenues, and doing everything we possibly can.”
“Which is?”
“We have locations and targets under observation, and are monitoring activity on phones and vehicles. There will be movement… When there is… we’ll find it.”
Larry jumps right down his throat, “Fucking right you will, and listen to me, James Bond… If you DON’T find my girl… there’ll be serious shit going down, DO YOU HEAR? I want to know what’s happening on the hour, every fucking hour… COMPRENDE?”