Run Rabbit Run

by Kate Johnson

  ‘I’ll put the kettle on,’ Luke said, and Docherty disconnected.

  ‘I don’t suppose your mummy told you where she was going, did she?’ Luke asked Tammy.

  The cat gave him a look of contempt.

  ‘No,’ he sighed, ‘I suppose not.’

  The TV in the camp bar was still showing the news in English, and I bought a beer while I stood and watched, heart in mouth, baseball cap pulled low over my face. But there was nothing about me or Sir Theodore. Not even one line about a man being found dead in his office, police are investigating. Which probably meant that the police weren’t investigating. Sir Theodore had been MI5. Clearly, they’d leapt on the story before it reached the ears of the public. I wasn’t sure if this was a good thing – after all, I didn’t want my face all over the news – or bad. The quicker MI5 picked up on my involvement, the quicker they’d trace me.

  I really ought to move on from here.

  It wasn’t really warm enough to sunbathe, being only April, but I am British and therefore if there’s sand and sea I have to at least take my shoes and socks off and paddle. I lounged around on a towel for a while, feeling rather chilly, reading one of the paperbacks I’d picked up on the ferry. It was rubbish, so I put my headphones on and listened to Skunk Anansie for strength.

  I bought an overpriced sandwich and a Coke from the beach café and read another book. The sun started to go down and I wondered what the hell was taking him so long. Was my phone broken? Out of signal? Had I got the number wrong? Misunderstood the French instructions? Or had he not understood the message? Deleted it as spam or just ignored it? Maybe he hadn’t even checked his emails today. Hell, if he went missing I think I’d have better things to do.

  But he’s a trained spy. He’s good at what he does. He’d check every angle. And he’d know that email was fake as soon as he saw it.

  I just hoped to hell no one else would.

  Just as I was gathering up my things to go back to the tent for the night, the phone rang. Number unknown. I took a breath, and answered.

  ‘Sophie?’

  Luke. I nearly broke down at the sound of his voice.

  ‘Luke,’ I said, and heard the catch in my own voice. I wanted to run into his arms like Melly and Ashley in Gone With The Wind. There ought to have been music swelling.

  ‘What the hell is going on? Where are you? Do you have my car?’

  I smiled. ‘Yes, I have your car. Have you … heard?’

  ‘Have I–?’ He made a sound of disbelief. ‘I got woken in the middle of the night with the news.’

  Middle of the night. I hoped he was exaggerating, otherwise I had less of a lead time than I thought.

  No. If that was the case they’d have found me already.

  ‘Who called you? Is it on the news?’

  ‘My boss called me, and no, it’s not. 5 seem to have jumped on it pretty fast. But inside the community, it’s all over. Either they’re pumping me for details or they’re pretending they don’t know me. Sophie, you’ve been accused of murder.’

  He sounded tense and worried. Good. If he’d been calm I’d have been heartbroken. Luke’s a damn good spy but he’s not as cool as he thinks he is. When I met Luke he seemed about as emotional as your average coffee machine, but I fear I’ve unlocked a door that can’t be shut again. He’d like you to think he doesn’t have any emotions, but lately it seems to me he’s been letting his heart dictate to his head, which is a dangerous thing in a spy. As I well know.

  ‘I didn’t kill him,’ I said in quiet tones. ‘I found him dead but I didn’t kill him. Luke, where are you calling from?’

  ‘Docherty’s phone.’

  ‘He’s there?’ I was surprised. Ever since I had a very brief liaison with Docherty, months ago now, when Luke and I were not together, Luke has hissed and spat at the mere mention of his name. They used to be friends well, acquaintances, really, but I didn’t think Docherty had even been in the country since that night. He’s a pretty shadowy character, and to be honest he scares the living daylights out of me.

  But I was touched that Luke had turned to him.

  ‘He’s been trying to find you all day.’

  ‘Any luck?’

  ‘You got on a ferry, or at least your passport did. How far are you from Calais?’

  I hesitated. Luke would never tell anyone where I was, but even so … ‘Quite a long way.’

  ‘You’re not going to tell me, are you?’ His voice was flat.

  ‘I can’t.’

  Luke sighed, a long deep sigh. ‘Why did you run?’

  Sheer blind panic.

  ‘Because he was shot with a bullet from my gun and my fingerprints are all over his office and I was seen going back in there late at night.’

  ‘Why did you go back in?’

  ‘He offered to lock my valuables in his desk while we had dinner. I was going back to fetch my bag.’

  ‘Why did you take your SIG?’

  ‘I didn’t,’ I said wretchedly. ‘I thought I’d get into trouble – you know, with scanners and everything –’

  ‘Especially since you’re not supposed to have it any more,’ Luke supplied helpfully.

  ‘I don’t know how it got there. My revolver was still in the gun safe when I got back to my flat and there were no signs of a break in. But someone must have stolen my SIG and used it to frame me. Someone who knew where I was going to be.’

  Luke sighed, and I sensed monumental restraint in him not pointing out that the strongest security feature my home boasts is an irascible tabby cat.

  A thought occurred to me. Dammit, why didn’t I think of it before?

  Well, you try being framed for murder and tell me how clearly you think.

  ‘There wasn’t any CCTV in his office, was there?’

  ‘Disabled. Sophie, you shouldn’t have run, especially not with the gun. It doesn’t look good.’

  ‘Yeah?’ I snapped, my voice rising, ‘What would you have done? Hung around to be arrested?’

  ‘You didn’t do anything.’

  ‘Yeah, because they so often believe that line in court.’

  There was a bit of a silence, and then for the first time since I’d seen Theodore Chesshyre’s body, I felt hot tears bleed out from my eyes.

  ‘Sophie, where are you?’ Luke asked, and he sounded tired. Desperate.

  ‘I can’t tell you. I’m going to move on soon anyway.’

  ‘And then what? Keep on running?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ I wailed, dabbing at my eyes with my towel, filling my lids with sand and therefore crying harder.

  ‘Okay,’ he sighed. ‘Look, just – just keep in touch, okay? This is a safe number?’

  ‘Brand new today. My old phone is still at home. I knew they’d trace it.’

  ‘Good girl,’ Luke said. ‘Listen, they’ll be checking all ports for your passport. Probably checking for my car, too. If you want to move around I suggest you get a new passport.’

  Yeah, like they sell them at the supermarché. The whole reason I’d picked a campsite and not a hotel was the reduced likelihood of them looking at my passport when I checked in. ‘From?’

  ‘I’ll sort it out.’

  I gave him my fake name and told him to call me when he had it sorted. I didn’t yet have anywhere for him to send it, but I figured I’d cross that bridge later.

  Then there was a pause, while I tried to figure out a reason to keep him on the line a bit longer. I thought of Tammy, my poor sweet baby tabby cat, locked up in her travel box on Luke’s living-room floor.

  ‘Are you looking after Tammy?’

  ‘Yeah, she’s fine. I tell you, Sophie, I am not looking forward to explaining this to your parents.’

  Oh, Christ. My parents don’t even know I used to be a spy.

  Yes, don’t laugh too hard.

  ‘Tell them an alien entity has taken over my body.’

  ‘Ha ha.’

  ‘They watch too much Star Trek anyway.’

 
Another pause.

  ‘I miss you,’ I said quietly.

  There was a pause. I love you. Say it, Luke.

  ‘Keep safe, Sophie.’

  I sighed. He does love me, I’m pretty sure he does, it’s just – well, Luke’s about as comfortable having emotions as most people are with having stomach flu.

  ‘Don’t do anything stupid,’ he added, and there was a note of pleading in his voice that made me smile.

  ‘What, like leave the country?’

  ‘Or leave bloody fingerprints everywhere. Okay. Docherty needs his phone back. I’m going to try and find another number I can call you on. I’ll let you know about the passport.’

  ‘Bye,’ I sniffed, and ended the call before we got into an endless round of ‘No, you hang up,’ and I started bawling. I really didn’t want to draw attention to myself.

  At the camp shop I got some bread and cheese for tea. And some wine. I was feeling sorry for myself, not least because I was really hungry and there wasn’t much I could cook on a two-ring hob. I don’t eat meat, which should make a stay in France quite interesting.

  Having eaten, I read a bit more of my book, got into my pyjamas and slid my SIG under my pillow.

  Then I put it under the bed, because I didn’t want to accidentally blow my brains out.

  Then I moved it from there, because it looked slightly obvious. Where could I put it?

  Eventually I settled with it in one of the deep canvas pockets that lined the wall of the tent bedroom, and drank some more wine to calm my nerves. I brushed my teeth with bottled water and lay back on the bed, eyes open, brain swirling.

  Chapter Two

  I have been woken in many different ways in the last year or so, some of them very pleasant, some quite nasty, some too dirty to repeat, but I don’t recall ever having been woken by someone pressing a warm gun to my head and saying, ‘Be very quiet or I’ll blow your fucking brains out. Savvy?’

  Wow, someone’s been watching too much Pirates of the Caribbean, I thought, but I opened my eyes and looked up at my assailant. I couldn’t see a lot in the dark, but I could see that he had longish, darkish hair, concealing his face. English accent, no particular region.

  Oh, and a silencer on his gun.

  ‘What do you want?’ I asked as quietly as I could.

  ‘Unzip that sleeping bag.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’m not going to do anything. Just unzip it. I need to hide out.’

  I considered the alternatives. I could yell, and then he’d shoot me. I could go for my gun, and then he’d shoot me. I could let him get into my sleeping bag, and then he’d shoot me. Maybe.

  Maybe getting shot was a better alternative than definitely getting shot, so I unzipped it a little way, and he gestured with the gun.

  ‘All the way.’

  ‘I’m not that kind of girl.’

  He didn’t seem to think this was funny. ‘Open it all the way.’

  I unzipped the bag all the way down and he reached out with one hand to pull it out from under me, making a blanket of it. Then he lay down on the camp bed with me, under the sleeping bag blanket, and wrapped his arms around me. He had my back to his chest so I couldn’t look at his face, and the gun pressed against my stomach.

  Silence, then I asked, ‘Who are you hiding from?’

  ‘Everyone.’

  ‘Who are you?’

  ‘Shut up.’ The gun nudged my ribs.

  ‘How long –’

  But I didn’t get to ask any more, because voices came from outside.

  ‘Ouvrir! Attention, ouvrir!’

  I guess it’s hard to knock on canvas.

  I hesitated, then I moved to get up.

  ‘Stay right where you are,’ said the man with the gun, pressing it tighter into my belly. For possibly the first time in my life, I was glad of my substantial build. Maybe all that fat I never got around to getting rid of might slow down a bullet.

  Allow me my delusions, all right?

  ‘They want me to open up. It could be the police.’

  ‘You think? Don’t move.’ He climbed over me, wriggling down under the sleeping bag, his head against my breasts.

  ‘Hey!’

  ‘Stay here or I’ll shoot,’ he threatened, head under the covers. I heard the front zip opening, footsteps on the ground sheet. Low French voices.

  I needed to do something.

  ‘Oh,’ I gasped, quickly shoving the sleeping bag aside and yanking down my pyjama top, ‘oh, don’t stop …’

  It was hard to see in the dark, but I could feel his incredulity.

  ‘Oh yes!’

  Hesitation, then the zip on the bedroom compartment came open one inch. Perverts.

  Speaking of which, my assailant was getting in on the action. One hand cupped my breast while the other, the one with the gun, burrowed down inside my pyjama bottoms.

  I began to get distinctly nervous. ‘No! No, er, don’t stop! Oh, er, Joe, that’s so good!’

  A face looked in through the gap at the top of the door. I screamed and yanked the sleeping bag over us both. The face looked shocked, then a flurry of French apologies ensued, the zip was closed, the tent emptied.

  A dark head appeared from under the sleeping bag blanket.

  ‘Very convincing.’

  ‘Well, you weren’t doing anything.’ I shoved at his hand and he removed it and the gun from the region of my crotch. ‘I mean, you weren’t – I had to – look, who are you?’

  He pushed my pyjamas back into place and his lips brushed my shoulder. ‘Joe, apparently.’

  I scowled.

  ‘I’m someone you never saw. Savvy?’

  And then he was gone.

  I woke in the morning to a mobile phone chirping out the Marseillaise and wondered who the hell was insensitive enough to have their phone turned up so loudly.

  Then I realised it was mine.

  Swearing, I reached out of my deliciously warm sleeping bag into the chill of the morning air, picked it up and checked the display. I didn’t recognise the number, but then, why would I?

  I pressed the Answer button and tried a Gallic, ‘llo?’

  ‘Sophie? Docherty.’

  I felt a shiver run through me. I hadn’t seen or spoken to Docherty since our night together – must be seven, eight months ago now. He was gone when I woke up, leaving only his scent on the pillow to assure me I hadn’t imagined it all.

  ‘Hi,’ I said. ‘What time is it?’

  ‘Eight, where I am. Nine, where you are. Did I wake you?’

  He sounded amused. I made a face. ‘I’m sorry I slept late,’ I said with as much sarcasm as I could at such short notice, ‘but I’ve been having a slightly traumatic few days and – how do you know where I am?’

  He laughed, a deep sound. ‘I know you got on a boat to France and I know you haven’t left the country.’

  ‘You can’t know that.’ Pretty much every country bordering France was in the Schengen zone – that is, a borderless state. Passports not required to pass from one country to the next. No records.

  ‘Plus, you answered your phone in French.’

  I made another face. Docherty was probably triangulating my location as we spoke. Probably he could do it in his sleep.

  I wondered if Luke had tried using my phone to find me. He could do it easily through official channels, but then why would MI6 let him? I was hardly an official concern to them. I was 5’s problem. I doubted anyone in Luke’s department gave a damn about me, except probably as a way of knocking Luke off his golden-boy perch.

  ‘How do you know I got on the ferry?’

  ‘I know everything.’

  ‘Do you know who killed Sir Theodore?’

  A pause. ‘How grateful would you be if I found out?’

  I swallowed. Docherty’s idea of gratitude was probably pretty similar to his idea of an apology. ‘Grateful enough not to tell my boyfriend you’re still propositioning me.’

  He gave a low laugh. ‘Do yo
u know all the security tapes got mysteriously wiped? Somehow the system failed to record anything.’

  ‘Didn’t anyone see it?’

  ‘Security guard. AWOL.’

  ‘Why doesn’t that surprise me?’

  ‘The man on the door says he saw you go back in an hour after Sir Theodore.’

  ‘Half-an-hour,’ I corrected, then kicked myself. A normal, sane person wouldn’t get as far as the Tube entrance barrier before she realised she’d left her handbag elsewhere. ‘I thought he’d gone AWOL?’

  ‘No, just the man in the monitor room. Why did you go back in?’

  ‘I left some stuff there.’

  ‘Did you see Chesshyre?’

  I closed my eyes and remembered. I’d been remembering it a lot lately.

  ‘I saw him.’

  ‘Alive?’

  ‘Quite the opposite.’

  ‘But you didn’t call for help?’

  ‘He was a little bit beyond help by then.’

  ‘But going off and leaving him does look a bit suspicious,’ Docherty said.

  ‘What was I supposed to do? Hang around and explain that although my fingerprints were everywhere and he was killed with my gun, I wasn’t the one who did it?’

  ‘By running away all you did was confirm your guilt.’

  ‘I am not guilty!’

  Docherty paused and I could picture him holding the phone away from his ear.

  ‘Do you still want that passport?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Please.’

  ‘Have you changed your appearance …?’

  ‘I have short brown hair,’ I said, running my hands through it. Ulk, it stopped so suddenly. I haven’t had hair this short since … well, since I’ve had hair. ‘And brown eyes.’

  ‘How short?’ Docherty wanted to know. ‘For the photo.’

  ‘Meg Ryan. Addicted To Love.’

  Another pause. ‘That’s a film?’

  ‘No, Docherty, it’s how I feel about you.’

  A pause. I winced.

  ‘Just Google it.’

  ‘That I will. Are you keeping your scars covered up?’

  I frowned. How did he know about them? He hadn’t seen me naked since I’d got them.

  That is, unless he had some surveillance I really didn’t want to think about.