by Max Thorn
She left the room and returned with a softer jacket in maroon corduroy and a broad belt with a gun holster. Threading the belt through her jeans she positioned the holster on her hip. Taking a black, square-muzzled pistol from the large side pocket of her outdoor jacket, she fastened it in the holster. Christmas smoothed her jacket over the weapon, checking the length in the hallway mirror.
“Aren’t handguns illegal in the UK?”
“It’s a personal protection weapon. I have a special license.”
“What?”
“Lots of people do. Mostly retired senior police officers. People at risk from armed villains. I’ve been a kidnap target before and my dad or his old business would get the ransom demand. The government doesn’t like its defense contractors to suffer extortion, so I’m allowed to arm myself.”
“Now I’m beginning to understand why your father wrote protect him. Do you always carry that thing?”
“Only when I think that I might have to shoot someone,” she said lightly. “Did my dad tell you that I’m the most lethal person he knows?”
“No, he didn’t mention that. So you don’t agree with the notion that violence solves nothing.”
“I don’t like violence. But in my experience, a well-placed bullet can often solve a lot of short-term issues.”
“How did that start?”
“It was Dad’s fault. When I was thirteen he dragged us—my mother and me—all around the world to lawless places while he was on his quest to trace human genome history. I always tried to keep a handgun for protection. I’d just buy them in the local market. Some people buy a headscarf or an urn. I’d look for the suspicious-looking middleman roaming aimlessly with nothing to sell, and buy a pistol. After taking away my third gun, Dad decided to stop arguing with me. Instead, he arranged for me to get weapons training with the army so that I’d at least shoot the right people if it ever came to it. You know he’s quite a big deal with the Ministry of Defence, right?”
“Battlefield drugs, super-soldiers and stuff. Yes, he told me.”
“So I spent six months, on and off, with the army as some sort of special cadet. By the end of that, I could shoot anything from a pistol to an anti-tank weapon and use knives, clubs, wire and rope if I didn’t have a gun.”
“And you’ve used these skills?”
“You really want to know?”
“This is a thing with your family, isn’t it? You say, ‘do you really want to know?’ and then something truly horrific comes out.” I paused. “Yes, I’d like to know.”
“I’m telling you because of the situation we’re in. I don’t talk to people about this stuff ordinarily.”
“I’m not writing it down.”
She stared at the floor collecting her thoughts. “When I was fifteen, Dad was collecting mitochondrial DNA from women in a tiny Kenyan village near the northern border. On our fourth night there, kidnappers came to our rented house. They shot my dog, tied up my mother and hit Dad so hard they broke his sternum. He was seventy-five.”
“What happened to you?”
“I think the kidnappers had either forgotten I was there or perhaps they didn’t know. When I heard all the shouting and shots, I got up, got dressed and went into the main room. There were three kidnappers with Kalashnikov rifles. My parents were tied up against the central roof post in the middle of the room. My dog was dead on the floor.”
“Were you scared?”
“No. I shot the kidnappers with my pistol. Three rounds, three headshots. Eventually their accomplices came in to see what was taking so long. So I shot them too.”
“I remember that. But in the news, it was your dad who’d killed them.”
“He decided it was better for a world-renowned septuagenarian scientist to have done the shooting, defending his family. Fewer questions from the authorities. We left the country soon after. Some people say those men were desperate people trying to provide for their families. I say they were ruthless villains in a well organized criminal network.”
“Did you come back to the UK after that?”
“We went to Madagascar. A man tried to kidnap me there, never imagining I was armed. He forced me into his car and drove me to a quiet spot. When he came round to drag me out and do who knows what, I shot him and buried him in a ditch. I told my dad and we left soon after.”
“Then you came home?”
“Then we went to Mongolia.”
“Are you kidding?”
“My family’s not easily deterred. My father was still determinedly tracing mankind’s lineage beyond antiquity. We got held up on the road by bandits. I shot three dead and wounded two others. After that, Dad decided that either the world was just too dangerous for a teenage girl like me, or I was too dangerous for the world. We came back to the UK and the flying saucer.”
“That sounds like a good decision all round.”
“I didn’t think so at the time. But that’s my confessional. What’s yours?”
“Not your kind of heroism. Just shame. My father bought me an air-rifle when I was twelve.”
“They can hurt.”
“Yeah, I know. My eight-year-old brother and his friend got hold of it while I was out.”
“You’ve got to keep them locked away, just like any weapon.”
I looked at her. “Your advice is unnecessary. It was a long time ago. My brother’s friend shot my little brother in the face.”
“Ouch.”
“Yeah.”
“What did—”
The phone rang. I didn’t mind the interruption. We both looked at the flashing handset on the small desk. Christmas picked it up and said nothing. She waited. After a minute she put the handset down.
“Silent caller. Could be a marketing company.”
We sat quietly for minute.
“Does anyone know you’re here, apart from my dad?”
“No.”
Christmas’s stomach growled audibly. “Let’s go and eat. We’ll take a look around on the way and see if anyone’s lurking.”
I sniffed inside my jacket. “I’ve been up to my knees in marshes and sheep dung. I smell like a peat bog right now.”
“You can shower here.”
She led me to the bathroom. “Be quick. I’m hungry.”
I showered the remaining woodland, sweat, blood and fear from my body. While I was under the steaming water I saw Christmas indistinctly through the shower glass.
“There are clean towels here,” she shouted over the noise of the shower spray, putting them on a square wicker linen basket.
I thanked her.
She hovered in the bathroom doorway for a few seconds before disappearing.
I finished showering, dried myself and dressed quickly.
Back in the living room, Christmas was poring over the chess set. Her concentration divided, she put her hand on the gun holster and asked without turning, “Are you ready to go?”
“Yes, but if the food’s not great, you know we can complain in a civilized way—no need to shoot anyone right?”
“Goodness, you’re annoying!” She turned around.
I put my hands up in surrender.
“The shootings that I told you about were a response to imminent life-threatening danger. Deadly force was the best option.” She put on a jacket. “Not just my life in danger, but the lives of my ancient parents and in a couple of cases, some of our local helpers. And I didn’t tell you about my darker secrets so that you could make jokes. I told you so that you could feel reassured that I can shoot straight and won’t hesitate when bullets are needed.”
“I’m sorry. I won’t mention it again. Don’t shoot me.”
She narrowed her eyes at me. “You know I punch well too.” Looking in the mirror again she said lightly, “I need something longer to cover this.” She changed the jacket for a thin, dark-red, half-coat.
I watched her check her outline in the mirror again. On one side the coat curved into her waist, over her hip and down to mid-th
igh in smooth contours. The curve on the other side was interrupted by a lump at the holster.
She watched my gaze. “Don’t worry,” she said, “no one expects any girl in London to be carrying a gun. And if our silent caller is waiting outside, they’ll get an unpleasant surprise.”
Outside, the street lights were flickering on. We walked to the end of the road, looking for movement in any of the parked cars and doorways. The road was quiet. Just a handful of people and Christmas recognized them all.
We hailed a taxi at the coffee shop on the corner.
Ten minutes later we were in St Martin’s Lane. Christmas checked to see that the taxi had driven out of sight before we walked back twenty yards and entered the restaurant.
The frontage was narrow, but inside the building a labyrinth of rooms and mezzanine floors created the impression of privacy and seclusion for over a hundred people. A waiter led us upstairs to a small dining room with four tables. Two were already occupied. We sat at the back by the window.
As soon as the waiter left us to study the menu, Christmas tried the window. It hinged at the side with a lower edge at table height, opening wide enough to let us through. The gust flapped the curtain. Other diners looked over. She looked outside briefly and closed the window quickly.
“Sloping tiled roof, down to a flat roof and then a short drop to the access alley.” She nodded to the plain fire escape door on the next wall. “That leads to a stairway down to a yard and the same alley. Three ways out. We’re more or less out of sight. And these people seem harmless.”
I looked at the husband and wife with their two children on the next table and the women chatting over wine in the corner. None of them had a rifle or a dog, so I wasn’t immediately worried.
A pretty waitress arrived, wearing a skirt that seemed a little too tight for all the stairs. We ordered quickly. Steaks, vegetables, red wine. No starter, just bread with butter. And tap water.
“So what exactly do you do, when you’re not chasing spiders or getting hunted by dogs?”
I gave her my card. “I’m staying away from home for a while and my phone is smashed, so those numbers aren’t any use right now, but eventually I’ll be back there.”
Reading from the card she said, “And what exactly does equity research look like when it gets up in the morning?”
“It works in its pajamas assessing financial reports on companies and sectors, looks at business plans, compares one company with another, and economies in general. That sort of thing. About lunchtime it gets dressed and sometimes goes to meet a client or look at a business in the flesh.”
“Sounds dull.”
“I like it. They’re all human stories. Corporate in scale but often one person can make a difference. What about you?”
“Political scientist.”
“Is that a real job?”
“Is equity research a real job?”
“Not really. When I was a kid I wanted to be a coal miner.”
She laughed. “What changed your level of ambition?”
“They closed the coal mines.”
“Luckily for you,” she smiled. “Well my dad says I’m not a scientist at all—which hurts, because it’s hard to argue with him—but that’s what I’ve been calling myself for six years.”
“And what does political science look like when it gets up in the morning?”
“Rather alluring I think. It gets dressed nice and early and, depending on the client, it goes off doing all sorts of things, surveying opinions, measuring changes and trends, maybe even a little testing. Sometimes I work with groups who’ll influence the political temperature with little campaigns. Perhaps a series of planned news stories, viral videos, coordinated speeches, and then I measure the effect and produce predictive scenarios. I contract out the large-number crunching to data specialists.”
“Is this like a press story on an immigrant robbing an old lady and knocking her to the ground; video of Romanian beggars squatting in a city center; a report showing most jobs going to foreigners; and then soundbites from a politician saying British school-leavers can’t get jobs and the country’s schools are overcrowded with people who can’t speak English?”
“How about a press story on a Syrian café worker saving a man from drowning in the Thames; video of a Latvian cleaner confronting a robber in the street; a South African entrepreneur bringing factory jobs to the Midlands; and a speech from captains of industry saying that we’re running out of working-age people.”
“Do you work with people you disagree with politically?”
“In terms of taking sides, I’m virtually apolitical. Few people accept that though. Loyalty’s a big thing. Everyone’s worried about people sharing secrets. I’m interested in cause and effect. And then from a social perspective, issues and outcomes. Right now I’m between projects. So…speaking of loyalty, is there a Mrs Fox waiting for you back at the pajama den?”
The pretty waitress returned with bread, wine and water.
“Nope. If there was, I’d have sent her to her mother’s by now. And you?”
“No, I don’t have a Mrs Fox waiting for me either,” she said wryly. “You’ve seen my apartment. Not a shared space, was it?”
“I’m surprised.”
“So am I. I think I must move in the wrong circles. I meet lots of huge egos, flexible principles, self-obsession and overweening ambition. I’ve not come across anyone who ticks the kind, intelligent, courageous and handsome boxes. And I suppose I’m a bit picky.”
“You’re entitled to be.”
She glanced at me. Slowly she said, “So why’re all the vixens avoiding you?”
“I’ve no idea. Presumably I’m not ticking those boxes either.”
“And no nice waitresses in your neck of the woods then?”
I looked back at Christmas’s mocking smile. “You can’t depend on waitresses. One minute they’re expressing undying love, the next they’re irretrievably homesick and flying back to Brazil.”
The food arrived. We talked while we ate.
“Do your parents know what you’re mixed up in?”
“We’re not terribly close if I’m honest. My parents divorced when I left school. Dad remarried eventually. We like each other well enough, but he has to focus his energies on a new young family.”
“And your mother?”
“We haven’t spoken in a while. She’s not the maternal type and things have been hard for her. We’ve never been really close. I take after my dad.”
“She’s closer to your younger brother?”
“Yeah, you could say that.”
Christmas eyed me carefully but could see that I wasn’t comfortable talking about it. So we talked about movies and books and I told Christmas my theory that western culture was responsible for unrealistic expectations in partnerships by perpetuating the myth that true love is eternal and can overcome all obstacles. She said I was needlessly cynical.
We split the bill.
* * *
Christmas insisted that I stay with her. She had a spare room and sofas. So we took a taxi back to her apartment.
The spare room turned out to be full of equipment, hanging from the wall, suspended from the ceiling and stacked one thing on top of another. I saw skis, a snowboard, ski-boots, a huge archery butt with a target roundel perforated in the red center, a recurve bow and a quiver of arrows, a rolled-up tent, bicycles, helmets of all types for rock-climbing, cycling, and motorcycling, scuba equipment, a wetsuit, rolled-up sleeping bags, rucksacks, stepladders and an empty bookcase. Apparently, under this Aladdin’s cave of outdoor excitement there was a bed, table and a chair.
She closed the door. “I’d forgotten how long it’s been since that bed was last used. It’s probably very dusty and full of creatures. The other room’s my study. Let’s look at the sofa.”
Back in the living room she measured me on the sofas. The longest one was just long enough. My head touched the armrest at one end and my feet reached the other end
, legs very nearly straight. It was almost wide enough too. She brought a quilt from her linen closet. It would do. She wasn’t happy that it wasn’t perfect. Maybe a hotel tomorrow.
“You don’t need to go to this kind of trouble. I can go to a hotel tonight.”
“I’d prefer to keep an eye on you. My dad likes it if people follow his instructions.”
We sat up talking and drinking wine for another hour, but I was struggling to keep my eyes open. So we took turns in the bathroom, and then wearing a tee-shirt and boxer shorts, I settled under the quilt.
“You’re not comfortable, are you?”
“I’m really tired. I could probably fall asleep in a shop doorway on a piece of cardboard.”
Christmas went to her room. I was almost asleep when she returned minutes later.
“My bed is huge. You can sleep on one side if you behave yourself.” She took me by the hand and half-asleep, I went with her to her room, crawled under the quilt on one side of an emperor-size bed and let my head sink into a cloud-sized pillow.
“No monkey business,” she said.
“Monkey business?” I asked sleepily. “I spend most of my time reading company accounts and writing analyses on businesses. Having genius maverick scientists tell me stories of genetic engineering gone wrong, getting hunted across wild moors and shot at, and then inexplicably ending up in the bed of a beautiful heiress is not a normal day for me.”
The last few words were strung out in a yawn that I couldn’t stifle. I might’ve misunderstood her due to fatigue or maybe I was just reading her face instead, but I rambled on, “I’m exhausted from fear and exertion and I’m just trying to get my bearings.” Eyes closed I murmured, “I don’t want to disappoint you, but I think I’m just going to go to sleep. I hope that’s alright.”
I’m not even sure that I got the last words out, but I think they were in my mind, ready to utter if my voice could find the energy to say them. A fog enveloped me and I went into a deep sleep.
I awoke in the morning to the crackle and smell of eggs and bacon cooking in the kitchen. Finding my clothes in the living room, I dressed quickly and joined Christmas. We ate and then drank orange juice and water.