“Deliberately I’d say, forcing him to try to stand. Oh, Stanton, one more thing. Whoever you send here, include someone from Bomb Disposal. Baxter’s little friend left a surprise for unwary visitors in the bathroom.”
“What sort of surprise?”
“The lavatory’s wired. Lift the lid and you’d be taking some vital parts to the hospital in a bag.”
“Ruthless little minx, isn’t she…”
“On the strength of what I’ve seen in the last hour or so, I’d say that on a scale of one to ten, ‘ruthless’ clocks in at about a three.”
“You’re leaving Baxter for us?”
“Yes, if you move fast, you should be able to rescue what’s left. But if you want anything useful out of him, I wouldn’t leave it too long if I were you.”
A sigh whispers over the speaker. “Perhaps I was wrong about you, Klempner. Perhaps you have some mercy in you.”
“Mercy? If I was feeling merciful, commissioner, I’d have given Baxter a bullet in the forehead. In fact, I find it rather appealing, the idea of Baxter spending the rest of his life in a cell, needing someone else’s help to get his dick out of his pants when he needs to piss.”
Baxter moans and screams. “God… Oh, God…”
*****
Klempner
My phone…
Quickly, I power down, remove the SIM, snap it in two, then four, and drop plastic-and-metal shards in my pocket. Julia’s hammer serves a useful purpose smashing the phone itself, but that’s hardly enough.
A quick search of the kitchenette produces a roll of aluminium foil. Several layers wrapped around produce an effective Faraday cage and make the phone effectively invisible.
And now, I need to hole up for a few days. Get out of sight. And… I need to make a call.
A cheap hotel. Somewhere inconspicuous. Somewhere with internet. Somewhere they don’t pay the staff too much.
Out on the street, a morning north-easterly whistles around me, nipping at face and fingers. My stomach growls and belatedly, I realise I’m hungry.
The aroma of the food of the gods wafts by and I follow my nose to a street-vendor. Swathed in layers of woollens and with a scarf pulled over his face to the nose, he could come from some Dickensian image of London. But his stall consists of one of those mobile oven arrangements: burning firewood, glowing ashes and walnut-sized baked potatoes.
He doesn’t even wait for me to ask, simply scooping potatoes into a brown paper bag, grunting a nod at me as I slip him a couple of coins, then jerking a thumb at salt and butter.
You said I looked like a potato…
My hands are white and numb, but simply cradling the bag for a few seconds helps. Then I have to blow on my fingers as the heat scalds through the paper.
“Cold weather,” I say. “Not much fun for working, but good for business, eh?”
Behind his layer of muffle, the vendor’s eyes crinkle, then he moves to serve a young woman with a couple of kids in tow. As his back turns, I quickly unwrap the phone, scrape the remains of the SIM from my pocket and toss the lot into the oven.
Tipping salt over my potatoes, slapping on a thick wedge of butter, I watch the red glow of wood ash briefly flare green and blue, then die down.
Picking out a scalding potato, I bite down, blowing off steam, then suck salt and melted butter from my fingers. It is quite delicious.
*****
My backwater hotel room is cheap, cell-like and well past its glory days. But it’s clean and quiet, which is all I want. The carpets are a little threadbare and the shower fitting doesn’t work. I try for a bath instead and after a short struggle with the faucet, it produces a thin stream of lukewarm water. Just in case, I set the cold water running too, full-on, to produce a satisfactory gush and splash in the background.
Then, on my cheap disposable phone, I tap through, wait and with a click, it connects.
“Dakho?”
The replying voice is tinged with caution. “Yes?”
“Dakho, you must know my voice by now.”
A pause, then a scuffling noise and the sound of a door banging. Then, “Larry? Is that you? I was beginning to think I’d lost my best customer. That past sins had caught up with you at last.”
“No, I’m very much alive, although my sins, while not caught up, are certainly giving chase.”
“This isn’t a social call, then. What can I do for you, Larry? And make it quick. I can’t talk for long.”
“I need a new ID that will take me down to South America, preferably without needing a visa or any other complications.”
A keyboard clicks in the background. “Where in South America? It’s a big place.”
“Brazil. São Paulo to be exact.”
“São Paulo? I hardly dare ask why you’re going there.” The keyboard continues to click.
“Well, don’t then. Also, I need a new phone.”
“Okay… What’s wrong with the old one? Is it broken?”
“I… ”
Oh, Crap…
Even in the isolation of my hotel cell, I colour up at what I let slip past me… “… I let someone in with a trojan. Uploaded what was supposed to be just a photo. It carried a tracer.”
Laughter bubbles out from the speaker. “You stupid fucker, Larry! Be more careful next time. But yes, I’ll get you a new one set up. What have you done with the old one? You need me to zap out the files?”
“I wiped everything off…”
“Which will achieve precisely zip if anyone gets hold of it that knows what they’re doing…”
“Then I smashed it up and dropped what was left into a fire.”
“Fine, that should do it.” There’s a muttering… “Brazil… Brazil… Larry, the local language is Portuguese. You speak Portuguese as I recall. How well?”
“Not well enough to pass as a local if that’s what you’re asking. I’d always have an accent.”
“Okay… That scuppers that idea…”
More clicking. “…
How d’you feel about being Swedish?”
“Swedish is fine for the flight. I’ll be dropping it the minute I’m through. It needs to be native English for when I’m there.”
“English or Canadian then? I can do either with what I have here.”
“English.”
“Done. So, where d’you want me to send all this? And when?”
“ASAP. The first ID, you can courier it here. Let me have the name and I’ll set up a box number to receive it. The second ID and the phone, you can have waiting for me at São Paulo, in the airport if possible.”
More keyboard clicking… “Fine… I’ll see if they have a business centre in there for a pickup…”
“How long?”
“Pretty much overnight. Like I said, I’ve been waiting to hear from you again. I’ve got it all on hand.”
*****
At the airport, I check my phone for messages.
Nothing yet.
Damn!
The queues are longer than I expected, perhaps people looking for an escape to the southern hemisphere summer and warmer climes. I adopt the same bored expression most of them are wearing as I make my way through check-in…
I fell for her, Larry. I trusted her. Don’t you do that. Don’t ever trust anyone…
He’s wrong…
… Isn’t he?
Emerald eyes…
Mitch…
Can I trust her?
Can I trust anyone?
Dakho I suppose. If I have to trust someone, it might as well be the man who knows most of the faces I’ve ever worn and most of the places I’ve ever been.
Don’t be ridiculous…
If there is anyone, any group of people in the world I can trust, it is Mitch and my daughter and the strange family they have made for themselves.
All for one… And one for all…
How on earth did that happen?
But I could bring disaster down on them, and myself, if I maintain the connection.
James was right…
I could leave… should leave… for good…
Gone forever. Move on with my life. Just as I’ve always done.
I know how to disappear. They’d never find me if I didn’t want them to.
No-one would.
Perhaps that should be my plan. Track down Psycho-Girl. Take her out. Then vanish. Buy a villa by the beach somewhere warm and…
Never see Mitch again?
Or Jenny?
Inside me, something shrivels.
…
…
My phone pings.
A quick tap in.
Package couriered as discussed. Will forward pick-up details shortly. D
Good… That’s everything dropping nicely into place… I can always rely on Dakho…
Or his taste for my money at least…
I tap in a brief reply.
Gr8. Payment forwarding now as discussed. K
A couple more taps and the wonders of the internet forwards the funds to pay for two new IDs and a mobile phone customised to my specifications, half-way across the world in less time than it takes me to travel the remainder of the queue for the scanner.
Click off the phone and place it in the tray with my briefcase, a pocket full of change…
The security guard nods down
… and belt…
I step through the scanner and the freakin’ thing goes into cardiac arrest, flashing and beeping…
… and shoes…
Still, it flashes like a fucking Christmas Tree on acid…
… and the spectacles in my top pocket…
I bite down on my urge to snap…
I have a loose filling. Should I place it in the tray?
…
Be ordinary…
Fade…
But I can let myself be grouchy. That’s normal enough. “Anything else?”
The security officer says nothing, wielding the hand-scanner with the air of one about to don latex gloves and ask me to cough…
Calm down…
The scanner gets bored with beeping and lapses into sulky silence. The guard sniffs, apparently disappointed, then gives me a saccharine smile. “Thank you, sir, for your co-operation. Have a nice day.”
My returning smile drips syrup. “And you.”
And I walk on, following the travelators to the departure gates.
My daughter.
You called me Dad…
My grand-daughter… Cara.
Cara Deanna…
You did that for me…
You didn’t have to.
Nobody asked you to…
But you did that for me…
At the entrance to the gates corridor, a quick check of the boards, and not even an indication of my departing gate.
The airport, as is so often the case with the larger cities of the world, is almost a small enclosed city in its own right, with rank upon rank of stores and bars and restaurants, all competing to painlessly part the bored and the stupid from their cash. Carefully considered lighting and soft music combine to offer a soothing and relaxing travel experience for the discerning tourist.
It makes my teeth itch and gives me a raging headache.
Over-priced beer and burgers compete with designer bags, scarves and knick-knacks. The stores are bright with colour and glass and brass and bling. I stroll along, killing time, the scent of coffee swirling together with designer perfume.
With half an eye on the boards, I let my mind roam.
She wants to separate you from anyone who means anything to you. Said that you took it all from her. Why should you have family and friends?
I’ve spent my life alone.
I always survived.
But who wants to simply survive?
Another check on the boards… Still nothing.
Growing bored, I pace the floors, my mind spiralling.
And abruptly, the realisation stops me in mid-stride, it comes to me. I know what to do…
What I need to do…
What I want to do.
Scanning the Departures area, I look for…
… for it…
Bound to find it here…
Scanning the ranks of storefronts: souvenirs, high-priced luggage and travel accessories, electronic gizmos, duty-free spirits, pricey chocolates and exorbitant snacks…
Ah…
There we go…
…The storefront I was looking for, its goods lying displayed under the lighting.
I would have preferred more to choose from, more time to choose, but right now, the important point is the message I need to send.
I step inside to a world of long polished counters and locked display cases. Cheap bling fills most of the displays; those little crystal figurines that look expensive on the displays but turn into tasteless tat the moment they’re taken away from the shop lighting.
Clocks fill many of the walls, displaying enough polished hardwood to threaten a rain-forest, and sporting those revolving brass balls that for some reason, are considered restful.
Mirrors hang beside them, my reflection once more unfamiliar: hair mousy-brown, combed back to suggest a thinness on top which I do not, in fact, have. Whatever else one says about the family hair, there’s plenty of it. My eyes are perhaps a little light, but contacts drive me nuts and the petrol-sheened rainbow of the reflective coat on the spectacles is enough of a distraction.
The store assistant wears a grey skirt-suit and a badge. My Name Is Candy. She looks up from where she looks to be checking through a spiked heap of receipts. “Can I help you, sir?”
“Just looking for now.”
“That’s fine. Just call me if I can help.” She returns to her work on the receipts.
I drift from one counter to another.
Ah…
I aim a finger. “I’d like a closer look at that, please.”
My Name Is Candy perks up when she sees where I am pointing. “Ah, yes, sir. Part of our premium range.” Her smile broadens. “A very discerning choice if you don’t mind my saying so.”
Of course it is. With a price to match.
All attention and efficiency, doubtless responding to the call of her inner-commission-counting-fairy, she opens the display counter for me.
*****
Common sense tells me it’s fourteen hours later. My mobile is jammed onto a setting from half a world away. I’ve no idea what the time-zone tells me it should be. And my body clock says it’s wayyyy too long since breakfast…
A dour-faced customs guard examines my passport with the air of one poising the nib over a death warrant, “Your purpose in visiting our country, sir? Business or pleasure?”
“I’m hoping for a little of both.”
He sniffs, trying to find some fault with this reply, then flips the passport closed.
My package awaits as promised with the courier’s office.
“Thank you very much. A very efficient service, as I was promised. I wonder, can I arrange another delivery from here?”
A smiling girl reaches for a booking sheet. “Of course you can, sir. How can I help you?”
*****
James
Mitch is dull-eyed, teary at the drop of a hat. Her usually glorious hair hangs lank and unwashed.
I feel terrible…
“It’s not your fault, James,” she insists. “He’d already made up his decision. You just reinforced it.”
Then she starts crying again.
Mitch and Klempner…
Who would have believed she’d fall in love with him?
Will he ever come back to her?
Charlotte seems nonplussed by the change in her mother. Even when she first came to us, when Michael rescued her from the battering Conners was about to inflict, Mitch has always displayed the same fighting spirit as her daughter. It’s been easy to see where Charlotte inherited her sometimes martial attitude.
And I’m treading water with Charlotte too. I’ve moved Georgie to the hotel for a few days to keep her close by, but… How the hell am I going to handle this one? After the events of the last few years, I’d not expected to have to introduce my daughter…
My other daughter…
… to my family.
Richard folds up his paper, injecting cheerfulness into his voice. “How are you doing coming up with a price for that work for the Vandervoorts, Mitch? The whole house… I should think you’ll earn a pretty penny from that? Not to mention all the knock-on work you’ll get from their wealthy friends.”
“Oh, yes. I suppose.” Even Mitch’s voice is listless. “I need to make a few sketches first. Come up with some ideas.”
And she falls silent.
After a short wait, Richard unfolds his newspaper and appears to start reading again.
The front door Bing-Bongs.
“I’ll go.” Michael swings up from his seat and out to the hall. Clicking footsteps echo away, the door clunks. Footsteps echo louder again, then Michael comes back in. “Delivery for you, Mitch.” He offers out a small package.
She lifts her head, blinking. “What is it?”
“No idea. Some more of your art supplies maybe?”
Mitch frowns, turning the package over in her hand. “I wasn’t expecting anything.”
The packet is taped tight, resisting her efforts to pick it open with a long fingernail. Richard, his attention really on his newspaper, reaches out for a letter-knife, passing it across with a distracted air.
Carefully, Mitch slides the tip of the blade under the tape and then cuts into the brown paper underneath. The wrapping falls away…
It’s a jewellery case.
A ring box.
Mitch holds it in her palm, biting at her bottom lip.
Richard’s paper drops and he stares.
Charlotte stands by her. “Mom?”
Michael grins. “Aren’t you going to open it?”
Mitch’s throat ripples and she sucks in her lips. Then taking in a deep breath, she lifts the lid.
It’s beautiful.
Set in platinum, emeralds glow, their facets fracturing the light into green rainbows. The ring has been chosen to match the collar Klempner gave her so many years ago. And the combs he gave her at Christmas. The colours match her complexion: her alabaster skin, her red hair, her jade eyes.
Charlotte raises fingers to her mouth. She breathes the word. “Mom…”
“Looks like he wants to make an honest woman of you,” chuckles Richard.
Michael clicks his tongue. “Can’t fault his taste, can you.”
Mitch simply shakes her head, her long hair swaying loosely over her hand.
“Are you going to put it on?” I ask.
Her chest shudders. Tears stream down her cheeks.
“Mom?”
I squeeze her hand. “Charlotte, find something else to say, will you.”
“Sorry, Master.” She lays the hand on her mother’s.
Mitch huffs a breath. “Right!” And through her tears, a broad smile dawns. “Right,” she repeats.
Left hand, fourth finger, she slips on the ring.
*****
The Story Continues In
Fatale