Run Rabbit Run

by Kate Johnson

  ‘Just keeping a low profile,’ I said. I hesitated, glancing up at the trapdoor, which was barely visible in its dark corner. ‘You won’t tell anyone it’s there, will you?’

  I widened my eyes appealingly. He grinned back at me.

  ‘Not a soul.’

  I started towards the exit, then paused. ‘Uh, you haven’t seen a strange car outside, have you? Or anyone loitering around?’

  He shrugged. ‘Oi, Baz,’ he yelled, and a man carrying a dozen lengths of 2×4 as if they were matchsticks looked up. ‘Seen anyone watching the place?’

  ‘That Focus has been gone since the weekend.’ His eyes rested on me. ‘You hiding from someone?’

  I bit my lip. ‘Ex-boyfriend,’ I said. ‘He’s been following me around. It’s starting to get creepy.’

  Both men looked outraged. ‘Right,’ Baz said. ‘Come on, Tel.’

  He and Tel marched outside. I hovered around the entrance of the building, watching them as they glared around the yard and then started out into the street.

  Crap. There was a car parked there, a Mazda with a couple of shadowy figures inside. I hastily ducked back inside.

  I heard someone hammering on glass, and then raised voices.

  ‘… call the bloody police, mate –’

  ‘We’re just parked here!’

  ‘Yeah? Got a car full of food and drink, ’ave you? To just park there?’

  ‘Oi, Tel, he’s brought a mate along with him.’

  ‘Whatcha gonna do then, kidnap her? Is that it?’

  ‘I told you, I have no idea what you’re talking about …’

  I smiled and sidled out to hide behind one of the vans. It wasn’t long before one of the lads approached with a set of keys in his hand, looking surprised to see me.

  ‘Hi,’ I said. ‘I need to get out of this yard without those guys in the car over there seeing me. Ex-boyfriend,’ I added. ‘Baz and Tel are giving him what-for.’

  The roofer glanced over and nodded. ‘Baz’s wife got stalked last year by her ex,’ he said. ‘You want a lift somewhere?’

  I got him to drive me to the station, where I bought a ticket for the first train to London.

  But as I stood on the chilly platform, surrounded by yawning commuters, the adrenaline rush of my escape wore off.

  I huddled into my fleece, eyes leaking tears, wishing with everything I had that I could stay. Luke had begged me to. ‘I’ll hide you in the wardrobe when anyone comes round,’ he said, an uncharacteristic desperation in his eyes. ‘Smuggle food in. No one will know.’

  I held him close and kissed his hair. ‘You know I can’t.’

  ‘I don’t want you to go again.’

  ‘I’ll be fine.’

  ‘I want you here.’

  And God, how I wanted to be there, too. Leaving was so damn hard. Luke looks so beautiful when he sleeps, so warm, so easy to touch. Sometimes I can’t believe I’m allowed to touch him. He’s a thousand times more sexy than I’ll ever be. And he loves me. He told me so last night and I nearly stayed.

  But there are other things I have to do. If I gave in to temptation I’d never leave and someone would find me and I’d go off to jail without a single chance to prove my innocence. And I know I’m innocent, I know it. I just have to make sure MI5, and whoever the hell else is chasing me, know it too.

  I leaned my head against the window of the train as it pulled away. Around me, people read their papers and clattered on their laptops and started making important calls. I closed my eyes against it all, and saw –

  – the bright blue of his eyes, the sheen of sweat on golden skin, the fine lines bracketing his mouth when he laughed, the curve of muscle. Fingers curved reflexively with the sense-memory of his firm flesh against my palm. The heat of his skin. The fine crisp hairs against my fingertips. The scent of him. The taste –

  I should never have gone back.

  London was cold and busy. I shivered in the cool air as I went back into the little hotel and knocked on the door of the room I’d left Jack in last night.

  It opened in seconds, and Jack yanked me into the room, gun in hand.

  ‘Where the hell did you go?’

  ‘I had to see somebody.’

  ‘You didn’t answer your phone –’

  ‘You threw it out the window.’

  ‘Your new phone! Jesus, Sophie, I had no sodding idea where you were.’

  He looked frightened. He actually looked scared.

  ‘I ran out of notepaper, okay, or I’d have left you a note,’ I said, pushing past and locking myself in the bathroom. I showered quickly, washing the gunk out of my hair, trying to make myself look presentable. But I just looked sad.

  My phone rang just as I came out of the bathroom, and Jack snatched it up before I could get there.

  ‘Hey!’

  ‘No one else should have this number,’ he snarled. ‘Who the hell are you?’ he snapped at the phone, and I winced, waiting.

  Jack’s nostrils flared as he listened.

  ‘I’m the one she abandoned yesterday to go see you. Oh, she told you all about me? Did she tell you I didn’t have a fucking clue where she was, if she’d been caught or killed or gone to the fucking cops about me? … Yeah, well, I didn’t know that. Hope she was bloody worth it, mate.’

  He held the phone out to me and I took it, murmuring, ‘So kind. Luke?’

  ‘Young Jack seems like a pleasant fellow.’

  ‘He’s just annoyed because I didn’t tell him I was leaving.’

  Jack scowled at me and stormed into the bathroom, slamming the door as he went.

  ‘You’re making a habit of this. Sophie, tell me why I woke up this morning with just a phone number to remember you by?’

  The remembrance hit me again, of Luke’s hands on my body, his lips caressing my skin, the heat of him, the sound of my name on his lips. It smacked into me like a train on a track, leaving me breathless.

  I gulped in air. ‘I had to leave.’

  ‘So early?’

  ‘Got an appointment this morning.’

  ‘An appointment? Please tell me it’s for hair extensions.’

  A shaky breath that was the closest I’d get to a laugh that morning escaped my lips. ‘Could you be any more shallow? “Oh God, help, my girlfriend isn’t a bimbo any more.’’’

  ‘Did I ever call you a bimbo?’

  ‘Oh, everyone calls me a bimbo.’

  There was silence for a while. Neither of us were making a very decent attempt at levity here.

  ‘What happened to your old phone?’

  ‘Threw it out the window.’

  ‘Why?’ Luke asked patiently.

  ‘Thought someone might have bugged it. They managed to find us to blow the car up.’

  ‘Oh, my poor car.’

  ‘Luke, it was a boring car. Don’t mourn for it. Tell the insurance people your fugitive girlfriend stole it and trashed it. You’ll get a new one.’

  ‘You’re not a fugitive.’

  ‘Define that for me. I’m on the run from the law. In fact, I’m in the city where the crime was perpetrated. I really shouldn’t be here.’

  ‘You should be here,’ Luke said, as Jack came out of the bathroom.

  ‘Luke –’

  ‘I’m serious. Come home, turn yourself in and get them to do the legwork.’

  ‘While I sit in prison awaiting a trial that I’ll never get? No, Luke, no. What, are you working for this Harrington guy?’

  Jack’s head swung in my direction.

  ‘Harrington?’

  I waved a hand for him to shut up.

  ‘Look, I just want you safe,’ Luke said. ‘I don’t like you running around with that psycho.’

  ‘‘‘Running around”’? I’m not a bloody headless chicken. I can take care of myself.’

  ‘As your kid-glove treatment of my car and your interesting collection of scars so amply show.’

  ‘Oh, sod off,’ I snarled, and cancelled the call, throwing th
e phone on the bed.

  ‘He seems nice,’ Jack said. ‘Really.’

  ‘Sod off,’ I said, fighting an acutely sudden and painful urge to cry.

  ‘Yeah,’ Jack said, as someone knocked on the door. He answered it and took an iron from the woman in hotel uniform who was waiting there. Shutting her out, he spread out yesterday’s shirt on the desk and plugged in the iron. ‘Harrington?’

  ‘Some guy MI5 sent after me.’ I rubbed my temples wearily. ‘Sounds like a bit of an arsehole.’

  ‘He is.’

  ‘You know him?’

  ‘Ran into him once or twice. He won’t stop until he has you.’

  ‘Excellent.’

  ‘They must be worried about you if they sent him after you.’

  ‘Nice to know I concern them so.’ I closed my eyes. Everything seemed so far away. Maybe if I just went to sleep I’d wake up and it would all be over …

  ‘Sophie? Sophie, wake up. We have to be going.’

  I blinked, and looked up at Luke.

  Except it wasn’t Luke. Another man was waking me up, another man was looking concernedly into my eyes.

  ‘I wasn’t asleep.’

  ‘Sure you weren’t.’ Jack buttoned his shirt. ‘We have to go or we’ll be late.’

  I stood up and looked around for my clothes. Skirt, jacket, check. Tights, check, have a spare pair in my bag. Shoes, check. Shirt?

  ‘Dammit,’ I said, looking at my creased shirt. ‘Is there time to iron it?’

  ‘Nope. Especially as I just took the iron back.’

  I scrunched up my face. ‘Okay, just give me twenty seconds.’

  Jack looked sceptical, especially when he saw me extract nothing more than a bra from my case, but he said nothing as I went into the bathroom, put on the tights and the heels and the skirt and the bra, hoiked my breasts into a bigger, brighter cleavage, and fastened the jacket over the top. Yeah, that looked okay. Slutty, but professional.

  ‘Very nice,’ Jack said as I came out and sorted my essentials – guns, wallet, passport and make-up – into my bag. ‘Like a high-class hooker.’

  I flinched. Hot skin and the clench of muscle, his heartbeat against mine, the taste of him –

  ‘Not today,’ I said, my voice brittle. ‘I really don’t need that from you today.’

  Jack said nothing.

  ‘Are you taking the laptop?’ I asked, trying to be businesslike.

  ‘Erm –’

  ‘Looks more official.’

  ‘Boy, you play dress-up a lot, huh?’

  ‘Just doing my job.’

  ‘Doing your job so well you forgot about these.’ He reached out and traced the criss-crossed red lines on my chest.

  Dammit.

  ‘It’s okay,’ I said, ‘it’ll be okay. Get us a cab and I’ll sort it out.’

  Jack looked dubious, but he hailed a taxi outside and when we got in, I took out my make-up and a mirror, and started to cover up the scars. Last month, when Angel got married, I was her maid of honour and my dress had a low, on-the-shoulder neckline. I nearly made the make-up girl weep with frustration, but she covered my scars reasonably well, dashing over after the ceremony, before the photos, and in the middle of the wedding breakfast to touch me up. The men of the bridal party had enjoyed it immensely.

  ‘So was it worth it?’ Jack asked as I put my make-up away, having tried my best to recreate the glossy look the Selfridges girl had given me yesterday.

  ‘Was what worth it?’

  ‘Scaring the hell out of me to go see your boyfriend.’

  ‘You were scared?’

  ‘You could have gone to Harrington. I don’t know, you still could have. Just ’cos you got him to call you up –’

  ‘You really are paranoid, aren’t you?’

  ‘With good reason.’

  ‘It was worth it,’ I said, and Jack looked out the window.

  ‘Just because you don’t have time for a girlfriend.’

  Silence.

  ‘Or is it that you’d rather have a boyfriend?’ Jack gave me a dead look.

  ‘Just thought I’d ask. You never know, maybe it runs in the family.’

  A longer look this time. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘Nothing. Just me messing around. I don’t really think you’re gay.’ If he was, there was no God.

  ‘Are you saying Maria is? What, she’s a dyke ’cos she used to be in the Navy?’

  ‘No, I’m saying she’s gay because she’s gay.’

  Jack stared at me.

  ‘That’s not funny.’

  ‘It’s true.’ I peered at him. ‘I’ve met her girlfriend. Did you really not know?’

  Jack looked furious. ‘My sister is not gay.’

  ‘Uh, can you spell denial?’

  He snatched up his phone and started stabbing a number in. While I was impressed he knew it by heart – I don’t know my brother’s – I was also alarmed.

  ‘You want them to trace your number?’

  He lowered the phone, still glaring at me.

  ‘You’re making this up.’

  ‘I swear I’m not.’

  ‘Prove it.’

  I rolled my eyes. ‘How?’

  Jack looked mutinous. Fine, if he didn’t want to believe me that was his problem.

  ‘This is it, mate,’ the driver said, pulling up outside BBC&H, and I started looking through my bag for my purse. And then Jack gripped my wrist, hard, and started shaking his head.

  ‘No,’ he said, ‘don’t stop. Just keep going.’

  ‘But you wanted BBC&H –’

  ‘Keep going,’ Jack said, and the driver pulled back out into the traffic, scowling.

  ‘What’s that about?’ I said, peering out the back window.

  ‘You see the guy in the black suit? Grey hair?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Harrington.’

  ‘Shit!’ I ducked down in my seat. ‘You’re sure?’

  ‘Yep. Someone must have tipped him off. Still think your boyfriend’s trustworthy?’

  I slapped him for that, but I was more frightened that he was right than angry that he was wrong.

  There was a punchbag hanging from the rafters in Luke’s flat. He’d bought it to keep in shape, but lately it had been functioning as a substitute for beating seven kinds of hell out of an actual person.

  He didn’t even bother to put his gloves on. The hard canvas grated against his knuckles with every blow, but he punched it harder and harder.

  Like a thief in the night. He’d never known Sophie be so subtle before. Sure, she’d broken in – and out – of his flat a time or two, which pissed him off mightily, but never while he was actually there.

  A quiet, expert escape. Didn’t even stop for coffee. He’d fallen asleep in her arms last night, face tucked against her neck as she stroked his hair. That was new, too. Usually it was Sophie snuggling up to him. Usually she was the vulnerable one.

  She’d been so … different. Quieter. Withdrawn. Troubled. All right, so a woman accused of murder, on the run from MI5 and some unknown pursuer – a person not above risking untold lives by blowing up a car in a public place – was allowed to be troubled. But through all the things Sophie had experienced since he met her, she’d never looked so haunted.

  He’d watched her kill for the first time. He’d held her in his arms after someone threw a Molotov cocktail through her window. He’d seen her quite literally fight for her life. She’d been shot at, blown up, stabbed, injected with dirty needles, half-drowned, contracted blood poisoning and nearly faced the death of her cat, which traumatised her more than anything else. But she always came out fighting. He knew her. She was a swimmer, not a drowner.

  Last night she’d pushed him down onto the mattress and kissed him with a dark intensity he’d never felt before. She’d taken off her clothes and pushed him, over and over, for more. She’d made love to him like a desperate woman. A woman who didn’t expect to repeat the experience any time soon. Or
at all.

  She’d made love to him as if she was saying goodbye.

  Luke slammed his fists into the punchbag, his heart breaking.

  There were policemen outside the hotel, so we didn’t stop there, either. This was turning out to be an expensive taxi ride, and I could see the driver getting curious. He looked at the policemen, then at us, and his hand strayed towards his radio.

  ‘You do that,’ Jack said, and I suddenly realised he had a gun on the driver, ‘and you’ll regret it. Savvy?’

  The driver put his hand back on the wheel.

  ‘Heathrow airport,’ Jack said, and the driver nodded, clearly terrified now.

  ‘Are you crazy?’ I said. ‘We can’t afford to keep spending all this money on taxis –’

  ‘You’re assuming we’re going to pay him, then?’ Jack said calmly, and I shut up.

  ‘Where are we going to go when we get to Heathrow?’

  ‘Out of the country. You have your passport, right?’

  I nodded. ‘But all my stuff –’

  ‘Unless you have anything back there that is vital to your health, then we leave it. You’ll get it back.’

  ‘The hell I will.’ It was on the tip of my tongue to say that there were many things in my suitcase that were vital to my health, but I really didn’t want to risk going back there for the sake of hair gel.

  We got to Heathrow, and Jack told the driver to pull up in the covered car park. He directed him to a dark corner, and Jack got out and opened the driver’s door.

  Then he knocked him over the head with the back of his gun. The driver slumped forwards onto the wheel, and Jack fumbled for a moment with something I realised was the guy’s cash belt.

  ‘I can’t believe you just did that,’ I said, still sitting on the back seat, frozen with shock.

  ‘Believe it,’ Jack said, then swung his gun on me through the open door.

  I stared, transfixed by the gaping black muzzle of the gun. Dark, shiny, deadly. Visions swam before me of my slumped white body in the back of the cab, bits of spattered brain dripping off the seats.

  No! I made myself focus.

  ‘What are you doing?’ I asked Jack. All right, strictly speaking I was addressing the gun.

  ‘Where were you last night?’

  ‘I told you. I went to see my boyfriend.’

  ‘Right. Your boyfriend who’s MI6.’

  ‘6 aren’t after us,’ I told the gun.