Balancing Act

by Rachel Churcher

  Lee shrugs. “There was a taxi, to Bracken’s place. A taxi back to Smith’s flat, later.”

  “He’s …” I can’t think of anything to say. He’s beyond drunk, in the footage. He needed Ketty to get him home. “Is this going to Franks?”

  Lee smiles. “I’m taking it to her myself.”

  Heard

  I don’t know what I expect to happen when Franks sees the footage, but it isn’t this. Ketty Smith, calmly drinking coffee in the waiting room at Belmarsh when I arrive with Lee. She stands up when we walk in, and gives us a smile. I know she can’t have had much sleep last night – Lee said the taxi didn’t drop her home until nearly one o’clock this morning. She’s not giving anything away, standing up and smiling as we walk in.

  “So, Corporal Smith.” Lee gives her a glance as he pours his coffee. “No Bracken this morning?”

  “No, Sir.” She sounds completely unconcerned. I have to hide my smile.

  “Does he have something better to do?” Lee turns to her, a look of amusement on his face.

  “Not sure, Sir,” she says, calmly. “I’ll check on that when we get back to HQ.”

  Lee’s smile is dangerous. “I’m sure you will,” he says.

  *****

  Back in the office, Lee sends me downstairs with papers for the Margaret Watson trial. He’s granted Ketty permission to use Enhanced Interrogation, and I’m the one who gets to bring her the good news.

  Her office is empty, and the door to Bracken’s office is closed. I’m about to leave the papers on her desk when I hear shouting. Bracken’s voice.

  I step closer to the door.

  “You decided my flat wasn’t clean enough for you. You decided to interfere.”

  I’m swearing under my breath. He’s shouting at her for helping him? After everything she’s done to keep him on his feet?

  “It’s not enough for you that you fetch my coffee and bring me sandwiches. It’s not enough that you hand out medicine, as if I need a constant supply.”

  I can hear footsteps. I step away from the door, but I can still hear everything he’s saying.

  “It’s not enough that you think you have to take care of me here. No! You had to come to my home, and stick your nose in there as well.”

  What happened last night? What did she do?

  There’s a pause. The footsteps stop.

  I haven’t heard anything from Ketty.

  I’m wondering whether I should knock on the door. Get her out of this situation. Be the hero.

  But then Bracken shouts again, and it’s obvious he’s furious.

  “You’re my assistant, Ketty. You’re not my mother!”

  I’m frozen, half way across her office. I could knock on the door – interrupt Bracken, and give her a chance to leave. Or I could leave the papers and walk away. Pretend I haven’t heard any of this.

  I hear footsteps again, and he says something I can’t make out.

  The door flies open, and Ketty walks into the room, head high, back straight, her hands shaking as she sits down at her desk. I’m relieved to see her – relieved that she’s got herself out of the argument without involving me. I can’t help laughing. She pushes her hands out of sight under the desk and looks up at me as Bracken’s door closes.

  “Something I can help you with, Corporal,” she says, her voice steady and her chin tilted up.

  I don’t know how to react. I’ve been caught, listening to their private soap opera. I could have stepped in – I could have helped – but I waited outside. I waited to see what she would do.

  There’s no good way to spin this.

  I’m smirking, looking between her and the door.

  “So – you’re not his mother, but you are his cleaner?” I’m thinking about telling Lee. The expression on his face. “Lots of empty bottles, were there? Plenty of brown paper bags?”

  She gives me an icy stare.

  “Did you come in here to insult me, David, or is there a useful reason why you’re standing in my office?”

  She’s in control. She’s handling this. I shouldn’t be laughing.

  “Papers from the brigadier.” I hold out the envelope. “Enhanced Interrogation forms for Margaret Watson.”

  She doesn’t move. I put the envelope on the desk in front of her.

  “Thank you,” she says.

  She’s not taking the envelope. She’s not showing me her hands.

  She’s shaking. Ketty Smith, iron fists and steel toe caps, is shaking. Bracken must have threatened her. He must have … I can’t imagine.

  “Are you OK, Ketty?” I’ve asked the question before I’ve thought this through. She doesn’t react. I wave my hand at Bracken’s door. “Did he …?” And I throw a gentle punch at the air.

  I think she might burst into flames.

  “Why?” She demands, blue eyes flashing with anger. “Are you offering to defend me?”

  I do my best to smother a laugh. She’s angry with me.

  “I can handle Bracken, David,” she says. “I’ve dealt with worse, and I really don’t need help from anyone else.”

  From the look on her face, I believe her. I hold my hands up, appealing for calm.

  “OK, OK. Just asking.”

  She reaches for the envelope, a slight tremor in her fingers.

  “Don’t you have work to do?”

  She’s back in control. She can’t shout at Bracken, but I’m in her space, and she can direct her anger at me. I want to ask her what happened. I want to see this strength – I want to know what she did, behind that door. How she dealt with Bracken’s onslaught.

  But she’s made it clear she doesn’t want to talk to me.

  I nod, and head for the corridor, turning back to look at Bracken’s door, and at her, before I leave.

  Bracken is the butt of everyone’s jokes, and Ketty is a target for Lee and the committee. She can’t fight Bracken, and she can’t report him – he’s the only reason she’s here. She helped him last night. She took him home, and she cleaned his flat. She must have been working past midnight.

  And this is how he responds.

  Whatever I think of Ketty – whatever I think of Bracken – I can see how unfair this is.

  Of course I want to know what happened. This is someone else’s drama, and the next episode in Ketty’s personal soap opera. Of course I want all the details.

  But as I walk up the stairs, replaying Bracken’s words in my head, I’m surprised to realise that I care.

  Prey

  “Tonight, Corporal. I’m done waiting. You, and Corporal Smith. I want secrets, I want answers, and I want them by morning. Understood?”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  I was expecting anger from Lee when he stormed through my office, slamming the door to the corridor, but this ice-cold calm is far more frightening. I know how to control his anger – I know how to listen, when to speak, and when to let him shout. But this?

  I have no idea.

  Ketty has crossed a line. Or maybe Franks has – I’m not sure who he is most upset with. He caught Ketty leaving a meeting with the Major General. Ketty and Franks – and no one else. And Ketty was smiling.

  I stand in front of his desk, waiting while he hammers a finger onto the papers in front of him, his voice hushed.

  “I want to know what she was doing in a meeting with Franks. I want to know how often she is a guest in the Major General’s office. I want to know why she was smiling when she walked out.” He points at me. “I want to know everything, Corporal. I want her sidetracked and distracted and spilling her secrets.” He narrows his eyes. “Can you do that for me?”

  My mouth is dry. I feel as if the floor is tilting. I have to clear my throat before I can speak.

  “Yes, Sir.”

  He doesn’t sound angry. He sounds disappointed. In me, in Franks – in a world where Ketty knows more than he does. Where the RTS Corporal has meetings with the Major General, and walks out looking happy.

  I’ve let him down. I hav
en’t found a way to make Smith spill her secrets. She’s not Penny – hungry for attention and eager to please someone who outranks her. She’s not Emma – the person who made it her job to get close to me.

  She’s a predator. Iron fists and steel toe caps.

  If I’m going to get anywhere, I need to learn how to let her win. I need to figure out how to become her prey.

  *****

  I sit in the coffee room, cradling my empty mug in my hands. I haven’t seen Ketty today. I haven’t seen her since yesterday, and Bracken’s outburst. I think about her anger – her outrage at the idea of me defending her against the Colonel. Her shaking hands, hidden under the desk.

  Whatever she’s lived through, whatever she’s survived, it’s made her strong. It’s made her independent and untouchable.

  It’s isolated her.

  She doesn’t hang out in the basement coffee room. She doesn’t chat to other members of staff. She spends all her time keeping Bracken on his feet, and manipulating confessions from prisoners.

  The idea of Ketty Smith making small talk over coffee makes me laugh out loud.

  But she spoke to me over a beer, the alcohol loosening her tongue. She told me about Camp Bishop, and the raid on the coach. She talked about Lee, and Bracken. She let me past her armour, for the briefest moment.

  She’s lonely, in London. She left everyone she knew at Camp Bishop, and followed Bracken here. Looking after Bracken and tracking down her recruits – that takes everything she has, and she never takes a break. Her recruits are out of reach in Scotland. She’s the only reason the drunk Colonel is still working. Elizabeth Ellman is her key to controlling the kids she’s supposed to be bringing home, so that’s where she spends her time. Belmarsh, and Bracken.

  What if I offer her a break? No strings, no manipulation – just a friendly face. A few hours away from the drunk boss and the missing kids. Will she take the bait? Will she drop her armour, just for one night?

  No tricks. No power. No steering the evening the way I want it to happen. Let her decide what we do. Where we go.

  Let her be the predator.

  I think about the first time we met, at Belmarsh. The blush on her cheeks as we stood together in the observation room. Her discomfort as I moved into her space.

  She dressed up for me, the night in the bar. She made an effort. Her hair falling in waves past her shoulders. Her necklace, flashing under the streetlights. Her blouse, falling away from her skin as she shouted over the music.

  If I step back, if I give her control, this might work. If I give the night to her – if I give her space to forget her recruits, forget Bracken – if I’m the one waiting when she lets go …

  This might work.

  I take a breath.

  I might not spend tonight alone. I might have Ketty in my arms.

  Curves, scars, and attitude. A predator, taking what she wants from me.

  Ice rises in my spine, and I can’t tell whether it’s fear, or pleasure.

  Or both.

  *****

  “I’ve been thinking, Ketty.”

  I haven’t given myself the chance to change my mind. I’m standing in front of her desk, and I can’t believe how nervous I’m feeling.

  This is usually easy. Flash the girl a smile, show off my weaponised good looks, and tell her what time she’s meeting me. I know the script, I know the moves, and I know she’ll be waking up in my bed. Easy.

  But this? This is terrifying. I have no idea what happens next.

  Ketty looks up at me, an impatient frown on her face.

  “We should go out,” I say, flashing her a smile. “Party. Drinking. Dancing.”

  Her shoulders slump, and turns back to her paperwork.

  “You must be joking,” she says, as if I’ve just asked her to clean my office, or polish my boots.

  I can’t let her turn me down. Lee wants results, and he wants them now.

  “Oh, come on, Ketty. You could use some fun.” She glares at me for a moment, watching as I glance at Bracken’s office door, then back at her. She drops her eyes and keeps working.

  I’m in trouble. I need to offer her something she wants. Something she needs.

  “Come on. You need to get out of here. You need to do more than work.” I nod towards the door again and lower my voice. “Get away from Bracken.”

  I’m holding my breath as she stops writing, her fingers gripping the pen.

  She’s thinking about it. She hasn’t turned me down.

  There’s a smile, playing on her face. I can’t tell whether she’s going to accept, or laugh at my invitation.

  My heart is racing. I imagine the scars on her knee. My hands on her skin. A night where she makes all the decisions.

  She sits back in her chair, smiling, and shrugs.

  “OK. Sure,” she says, and I can’t keep the grin from my face. “But no politics this time. No mysterious warnings. No cryptic messages.”

  She said yes. She said yes.

  I step back, hands held up in front of me. I can’t screw this up now. “No politics,” I say, nodding. “Absolutely. Just you, me, and dancing on the tables.”

  That makes her laugh.

  You, me, and dancing on the tables. I’ll have to remember that.

  “Sure,” she says, still smiling. “Meet you at seven?”

  She’s given me a smile, and she’s told me what time I’m meeting her. She’s in control already, using my moves against me. All I have to do is follow her lead.

  “Seven,” I say, tapping both hands on her desk.

  I’m terrified.

  Dancing

  I have one hour. Half an hour to work out and clean the flat, and half an hour to get ready.

  This has to be perfect. I can’t give her a reason to change her mind, once she’s come home with me. I tidy everywhere – living room, kitchen, bedroom. I scrub the bathroom until the surfaces shine, and lay out everything she might need next to the basin.

  I know what I’m doing.

  I change the sheets on the bed and clear the bedside tables. I’m aiming for hotel chic, and clearing away the ghosts of all the girls who’ve come before.

  This isn’t about them. This is about Ketty. About dropping her armour, and her clothes. About letting her write the script.

  I’m inviting a predator into my bed. I’m giving her the power to do … anything.

  I’m learning how to be prey.

  I take a shower, and search through the wardrobe for something to wear. Shirt? Jeans? Smart? Casual?

  I can’t believe how nervous I am. I don’t know how this story ends, and everything I do could frighten her away.

  I’m not used to feeling this vulnerable. I imagine her laughing at my clothes. Mocking what I’m wearing.

  I take a moment to style my hair, and I can’t help laughing at my face in the mirror.

  I’m making the effort, here. I’m the one dressing up. The one tidying the flat, and worrying about rejection.

  Is this how Penny felt, every time we went out? Rosalind? Jules?

  Emma?

  Blonde hair, blue eyes, freckles – a Ketty lookalike, my fingers tracing her curves.

  I have to reach out and steady myself as I stand in front of the mirror.

  Tonight I’ll be holding the real Ketty Smith in my arms. Exploring her curves, tracing the scars I left on her body.

  Setting the ice queen on fire.

  *****

  She looks stunning, crossing the road towards me. Blonde hair in waves around her shoulders, skinny jeans defining the muscles in her legs, and an olive blouse skimming her hips under her winter coat. Flat shoes, perfect for dancing on tables. The ghost of a limp as she walks.

  Curves, scars, attitude. Blonde, blue eyes, and freckles, just visible under the streetlights.

  I’m flashing back to Emma. Black dress, heels, lipstick, and the night we spent lost in each other’s arms.

  I push back my nerves, and give Ketty a smile.

  �
��David,” she says, smiling back.

  This is nothing like our last night out. Her shoulders are relaxed, her hands pushed into the pockets of her coat. She looks confident. Softer, out of uniform, but still strong. Still determined. She lets her eyes wander over my outfit – jeans, a heavyweight navy shirt, and a long black coat that matches hers – and I imagine undoing the buttons on her blouse. Lifting her necklace to run my fingertips along her collarbone.

  Later.

  “Ready to dance?” She says, and I realise I’m blushing.

  “Lead the way,” I say, dragging my attention back to the evening ahead. We walk towards the river together.

  *****

  “I needed this.” She smiles, and holds up her drink. “Thank you, David.” I click my glass against hers and watch as she downs another shot. I’m waving a waiter over before she’s recovered, holding up two fingers and pointing at her empty glass. Her cheeks are pink, flushed with warmth and alcohol, and she’s smiling. I line up the shots in front of her and take another sip of my coke. I don’t think she’s noticed she’s the only one drinking. I don’t think she cares.

  “So,” she says, swinging another empty glass between her fingers. “Where’s the dancing?” She points a finger at my chest. “You said there’d be dancing.”

  I nod, and lean towards her across the tiny table.

  “I know a place …” I whisper, and she shrugs.

  “So take me there, Corporal.” She blinks at me, and then stands up, pulling her coat over her blouse. I wave at the waiter and pay the bill while she holds herself up, one hand on the back of her chair. She takes my arm as we head out into the cold, her fingers gripping the sleeve of my coat. She’s unsteady as she walks, but I can’t tell whether it’s her knee, or the alcohol.

  As long as she can dance.

  We’re sidetracked before we make it to the club. There’s a late-night tourist market at Somerset House, and we wander through the stalls sipping mulled cider and eating hot dogs. We stop for a beer at an outdoor bar, joining the other customers under the electric patio heaters and enjoying a moment of warmth in the cold air. Her eyes are shining as she looks around the market, watching the stalls and the crowds and the fairy lights.