by Jan Swick
He opened the message he'd sent her. In the years since he and Lisa had split up, he'd dated a number of girls, but none had had the intrigue and magnetism of Lisa. And none had really liked his deeply introspective periods, his long bouts of silence when they could be forgiven for thinking he had some kind of mental issue, so had quickly moved on. But Lisa, his only long-term girlfriend (if mere months could be called long-term), had never left his mind. Not always at the forefront, but never far back. The split had been amicable, having come about only because he was leaving the army and thus the country where they were both stationed. They had kept in touch by text for the first three months, until Matt had decided to become an urban gypsy. After that things had quickly petered out. Seven years ago now.
But twice since the split, the last occasion over three years ago, he'd gotten drunk and moody and had sent her silly late-night messages in which he'd mentioned how he missed her, how good they had been together, how they should maybe try again. The next morning there was always a reply waiting for him, sent not long after six a.m. A gentle shrug-off. She knew it was alcohol talking. His heart fluttered now with nervous terror. What manner of cheesy crudeness had his intoxicated brain made his fingers type this time?
He relaxed. The message was docile. "Hey, sexy, Matt here. You over me yet? Want to test that techno brain of yours. Guess the object. XX" A photo was attached. He opened it.
A photo taken on his phone. He recognised it as the little sliver of plastic he'd found in the bag of crap. A close-up. The camera was good, 8 megapixels. It had captured some kind of mark on the little slip of black plastic. A debossed symbol: ZH, but with the H slightly overlapping the Z. At the edge of the sliver was part of another debossed symbol. Part of another Z, it looked like, as if the same symbol was imprinted numerous times across whatever item the fragment had come from.
Radio camera, Lisa had said. Seven minutes after waking. Half a minute to open and read the message, half a minute to compose and send her reply. Six minutes of research. A wizard at research, a genius knowledge of electronics: that was the Lisa he remembered. That was why the army had snapped her up. Although it had been her tits that Matt first noticed.
He sat up now, mind back on track. He raced upstairs so abruptly that Mum called out to him, asking what was wrong. Nothing, he told her. In his room, head banging from the explosive run, he hunted on his hands and knees until he found the fragment of plastic. He held it close to his eye.
The sliver was smooth except for the sharp edge where it had broken off, and the tiny debossed ZH. The size of a little finger's nail.
Camera, Lisa had said.
It could have lain in that old station for years, he knew. Maybe some punter had the camera slapped out of his hand when he tried to photograph a girl, or maybe the fragment got trampled inside, stuck in the tread of a shoe. Maybe it had no significance at all. But Matt saw opportunity where others did not. He now knew that a camera might have been at the same spot where his sister might have been murdered. And now he could move forward.
"You can't know what their personality's like in one night," Bert had said. "She might be a fucking werewolf. And faces are deceptive. Tonight she might be Helen of Troy in all that make-up, but tomorrow morning she'll look like Medusa."
"So what you saying?" Matt said.
"Go for tits," Bert said, nodding as if relaying some little-known fact. "Don't look up at her face and don't say a word until you've chosen the tits."
Make sipped his drink and thought about this. He thought it didn't sound like the worst idea in history – close, maybe - so he decided to go with it. "Done," he said. He put his drink on the table. "Don't let a barman take this and don't drink it. And don't drink it and say a barman took it."
Bert held his own drink up. "I'm good, you see."
Matt cruised the bar. He kept his eyes low, avoiding heads. Tunnel vision on chests. He pushed his way through the throng, seeing a lot of pairs of tits and rejecting them all. Not that he was finding fault. He just wasn't finding himself captivated by any single set. But the urge to look up at the faces of their owners was overwhelming. Bert was an animal, tits and ass being his thing. But Matt liked a cute face, and he worried that he was dismissing girls he might enjoy looking at every morning. He was pretty sure he could spot a Medusa beneath Helen of Troy's make-up.
His eyes were cast left when he bumped into someone. He backed off, apologising. His eyes faced front again, and nearly came up but didn't. They stayed low, on the chest. He was looking at combat fatigues, so she was a soldier, but the top few buttons were undone, revealing a black top. And adequate tits.
"Sorry," he said. He of course meant the bump, but feared it had sounded like he was apologising for staring at her chest.
"No worries," came a voice from above his line of sight. Slightly husky, like that of a girl who smoked too much. There was a moment's pause and then a pair of hands came up and squeezed those breasts. "You're staring at my boobs."
*
"You're staring at my boobs again," she said.
"No!" Matt almost shrieked, but he didn't know if he had been, because his mind had been sent back eight years, to an army base in Cyprus, and a crowded bar.
"That's the first thing you noticed about me, and it seems you aren't bored of them yet."
Eight years later, thousands of miles away. This time a greasy spoon in London. And yes, her tits were still nice. He had probably had them in his hands for a total of three solid hours, but he found himself wanting them again. He stared at her face, willing himself not to look down. Eight years. Doubtless she'd had other partners since then, might even be married. She'd come here to help him and might be offended if he showed sexual interest, despite their history as lovers. So he got off the tits subject quickly.
"You got out too, then?"
He noted the hair, long and now blonde. The colour looked fresh, the long strands split at the ends. He got the impression of a woman letting loose with her appearance after a long period being forced to adopt a certain look. He figured her exit from the army was probably a recent one. Judging by the hair, untrimmed - perhaps because she was loathe to let scissors near it after enduring a cut every few weeks - he guessed eighteen months.
"Sixteen months now," she said. "They cut staff. Automated shit taking jobs away in every sector. I went to the supermarket and saw one girl running six automated tills. The army will have that next. One guy with a keypad, controlling six tanks." She stopped, as if realising a rant might be brewing. "I don't mind, really. A change is good. I miss the beaches, though. At night."
Matt grinned. Couldn't help it. Their affair had begun physically four days after that first meeting at the bar. On a beach, at night. He'd been drunk, because he'd never been with a girl before, even though he was in his mid-twenties. Even though he had hit bars aplenty with his randy army mates. Up close and personal with a naked woman had been a scarier thought than up close and personal with an enemy wielding a gun, and he'd slugged a good portion of a bottle of vodka in preparation. The alcohol put holes in his memory and doubtless his imagination had filled in those gaps favourably, but he didn't care. It was still one of his greatest memories and he was glad he'd waited so long for his first time.
They'd been stationed at RAF Tikroni, a Sovereign Area Base in Cyprus. The most sought after post in the British Army. Matt found it to be like a holiday resort, with hot beaches and skiing and tennis and rowdy bars. Lots of families, but lots of single men and women, too. The base was home to the No. 84 Squadron, part of the Royal Air Force's search and rescue unit, but Matt had not been part of that squadron and everyone knew it. So they had called him "The Spy."
*
"The spy," she had said. "You're here to pump me."
Matt had been called that name before, but never with a cheeky grin. More often with a sneer. He knew his presence here puzzled people, threw them off. He wore 84 Squadron's dress but it was common knowledge he was 3 Para.3 Para was light infant
ry, not search and rescue, yet here he was on their island, in their base. To watch and assess and report was what they all thought, and he knew it.
"I'm no spy. I'm here for training," he said, probably for the hundredth time. In corridors, at urinals, and especially in bars, people often threw that accusation at him and those two sentences were all he ever gave in return. Some of the guys here he got on well with. They played sports and they drank together. But no matter how much camaraderie they had, even those guys got the form response if the question was asked. Bert had asked him at least ten times, and he never gave in. But he did now. She hadn't asked, but her eyes were hypnotic, and although he knew nothing about her, he felt it would be wrong to keep a secret from her. That would be like telling a lie, and he couldn't bring himself to lie to her. So, barely a second after he'd finished his form statement, he said,
"I've got four months left before I ship out to Civvies Street. I'm here to get my European Computer Driving Licence, that's all."
Two drunk men in uniform staggered past their table and banged it. She must have seen it coming because she lifted her drink an inch off the table, which saved a spillage. Matt grabbed a napkin and soaked up the beer pooled around his own glass.
"So why come here? Why look like one of us?"
He ignored the first question. "I wear the uniform out of respect. Because this is your base, your island. I like to help out. Those bell Griffin helicopters are cool, so I help the maintenance crew with heavy lifting and stuff."
"Ah. Pumping them for information as well."
Matt glugged his drink. He was sobering up. This conversation had gone on longer than he'd expected. In fact, he had expected no conversation at all. He'd expected a swift telling off for staring at her tits, but this was looking like it might go somewhere.
He looked round at Bert. Bert was over there, staring. He made a rude gesture along the lines of "get in there." When Matt turned back to his guest, she was shaking her head. But she didn't look angry. Just amused.
"Army boys and their games. What's your name, then, spy?"
"Bond. James Bond." The joke was out of his mouth before his brain could tell him how cheesy and daft it was. Too late. To snare back a modicum of pride, he quickly said, "I'm Matt. Matt Armstrong. I'm with 3 Para and I decided to quit the army. My commanding officer was helpful. He offered to call some group, Career Transition Partnership, I think it was called. He said he'd talk to friends about a possible job for me back in England. He said he'd get me a computer training course to help. And then he said he'd make sure my last six months were cushy. So he got me sent here. He's a good man."
"He'd have to be bloody Santa Claus to do that for someone."
"Either that, or just alive."
She frowned. "I know you Paras saw heavy action a few years back." She was referring to the Middle East, where 3 Para had served in 2003.But that was before Matt's time. "Did you save your C.O.'s life?"
Matt nodded. "Don't get imagining a firefight and old Matt here dragging a legless guy out of harm's way. It was downtime, drink time. My boss was in his billet, drunk. He threw up while unconscious and I cleared his throat."
She seemed shocked. "That's it? That was all you did?"
"All? If you're dead, you're dead."
"I meant, he's done a lot for someone who saved his life. In an army sense, I mean." She seemed flustered, but he understood why.
"I get you. In the field, it's wrong not to back up your brothers. Saving lives is kind of a standard operating procedure. All part of the job. That's work. Fail to do that, it's wrong. But saving someone from choking to death on his own vomit while he's shirtless and chilling in his bunk, that's different. He clearly saw it that way. I was his best friend after that."
Her eyes bore into him. "There's something intriguing about you, Matt Armstrong of 3 Para. You're not exactly the soul of the party, but I see something deeper. Some people give themselves up in ten minutes. Ten minutes, you know who they are. Not you. To get to know you would take more than one night. I might be willing to learn more."
*
"I want to learn more. Tell me more about what's going on. If you remember what I was like, you'll remember I'm the nosiest person alive. Tell, tell, tell. Explain what's going on with this camera thing. And what do I win for guessing what it was?"
"You win dinner," he said, and immediately regretted it. He felt he should avoid any comments of a romantic and especially a sexual nature. In fact, any remark that pertained to their past.
But all Lisa did was slap the menu and say, "Full Monty Big Breakfast, then. She waved at the guy behind the counter. He was as big and as greasy as one of his breakfasts and looked annoyed that some customer had dared to assume there was a waiter service. But he came over and took their orders and wrote them on the back of his hand and vanished.
"So when did you become a secret agent?"
Matt was good at reading the meaning behind a vague comment. "So it's a surveillance camera? Tell me more." Then that word stuck in his head… surveillance. His mind started to fragment like a cracked window, each tendril snaking towards a theory. He snatched at the most obvious: in a den of prostitutes, no woman was going to allow a punter to film them having sex, so any guy wanting to record the event would need to do so in secret.
"So where did you find this camera piece?"
"In a den of prostitutes," he said instantly, recalling his earlier imagined term.
"She couldn't have been that good if you were distracted by a bit of plastic on the ground."
The greasy cafe owner returned with two plates of food. He slapped them down hard and tossed a bill on the table. Lisa flicked her hand to wave him away.
"Tell me," she said, boring her eyes into his. "I know something bad has happened. I know you. I want to help. It's why I came all the way from Manchester at the drop of a hat. I took a week off work to help you, even if it takes that long. Has something bad happened?"
Lisa was onto him. Her intelligence didn't surprise Matt, but it warmed him.
"Something bad has happened," he said.
Lisa nodded. She reached down and took something from her pocket. Carefully, as if it were fragile. A small black box, half the size of a matchbox.
Matt stared, surprised. Not content with simply discovering what kind of item shed the plastic sliver, she had gone and gotten herself one. Matt reached out to take it. She let him. He twirled it in his fingers, up close to his eye. Scratched at the debossed ZH pattern with a nail, because he got a better feel that way. He stared at the tiny lens, nothing more than a pinprick. Like a little eye. What had the eye of this one's brother seen? Had it seen his sister's murder?
He caught Lisa looking at him. Her eyes had a pitying quality. His own eyes read something else in hers. He knew she was ahead of him already, and her next words confirmed that.
"The Matt I knew wasn't into trivial stuff. He wouldn't ask me to find out what some piece of plastic was just because he was curious. And that thing is a camera. I can't work it out, but it has to be something bad. If you want to tell me, tell me. I will help you. Has something bad happened to someone?"
He wanted to lean in and kiss her. Matt loved smart people. Not people who could run off complex mathematics or people with vast knowledge. But people who could skip a whole bunch of dots and still see the picture. And Lisa was certainly that kind. Instead of leaning forward to kiss her, he leaned back. He leaned back and told her everything across a table of food that went cold and untouched.
*
They found two free computers in the library. Each was on a separate table and they had to sit with their backs facing, but that was okay. Each needed time to work.
Lisa got straight down to business. She called up Google and started typing. Matt sat in front of his machine and wondered where to begin. The young girl in the seat to his left was listening to YouTube music videos through headphones. The middle-aged guy to his right was reading about ectopic pregnancy. Matt didn't li
ke the lack of privacy.
He looked round at Lisa, at the back of her head. Her elbows jerked as she typed. He faced his screen again, but she was still in his head.
Lisa was still the only person he had ever truly felt comfortable around. Everyone else got the cautious Matt, the Matt who didn't fully trust them, who watched what he said, as if always expecting some kind of betrayal. Not so with Lisa. He was glad she was here. He wished he'd gotten back in touch earlier, under different circumstances. But maybe a reunion had needed these circumstances.
He put his fingers over the keyboard, ready to type. Forget the past, he told himself. Forget what they once had together. She had a boyfriend now, she'd said. Some sheet metal worker back in Manchester. She had a job she liked, she claimed. He wasn't sure about that part: answering calls about mobile phone tariffs was beneath her. There was a lot beneath her. But she said she was happy, and he had to accept that and forget the fact that they had once been together. They were friends, and friends helped each other, and that was what she had travelled here to do. She was doing it now, researching on the Internet while he sat here and tried to fool himself that he wasn't wondering if they could relight a long-dead flame.
He looked round at her again. Past her head, he saw the screen. Saw some newspaper title: Haiti Times. She was quick. No, she was just focussed, as he should be.
Research, he told himself. He got back on track. He typed: ZWEIG-HOFMANN.
Top of the list that displayed. Zweig-Hofmann, securities experts. He clicked on their link. The website was in German. He sighed. Tried to find a link that might mean "products." Then he spotted a row of icons near the top. Flags. He clicked the British one and the page refreshed, this time in English.