"Out with you, Freddy. I need to talk to my friend alone."
"Never mind. Ta-ta."
"Yeah," said Josh. "Cheers."
Once young Freddy was gone, Taff grinned at Josh.
"Did the ladies outside bring a lump to your throat? Or somewhere southwards?"
"How can you work here and not turn straight?"
"Dear Josh, you haven't seen the
boys'
dressingroom."
"Uh-huh." He looked around the shelves stacked with jars, the polystyrene heads on which rubber masks were draped, and empty gloves in the form of greyskinned hands bearing long, curved spurs. "From the show?"
"Of course. Demons, sort of. Makes for a rather nice dance number, their big fight in the first act."
"Er, right." Josh sometimes worked with the soundtrack of
Bladefight 7
pounding in his earbeads. That was the nearest he came to associating blood and pain with music. "So I was looking for something to change my appearance."
"That's the only reason you lovely lads ever invite me to Hereford, isn't it?"
"How could we resist you?"
"Excuse me, but what makes you think everyone there rejected me?"
"This, I don't want to know."
"Ah, well." Taff waved at the shelves. "What are we talking about? Meeting up close and personal? Or just smiling for the spycams?"
Josh rubbed his face, trying not to think of perfect breasts. From next door, female laughter sounded.
"Er, mainly cameras, but I'll be in view for some time. I'd like not to be recognised later."
Assuming he survived so there would be a
later.
"Are we talking lo-res from a distance? Or state of the art with close-ups?"
"The latter. Imagine I appeared on a webcast watched by millions, and wanted to be anonymous."
"Wouldn't that be a lovely thing? I don't suppose you could wear a demon mask? I could do you with or without horns."
"I'd rather look normal."
"My dear boy, normal? That sounds so boring."
"And I'll be taking the stuff away with me. I won't need it for days yet."
"So you remember all my lessons in artistry? How to layer it on so it's undetectable? Of course not. Now sit down in front of this mirror, and be a good boy."
"Yes, Taff."
"And pay attention, because I assume your taut arse will be on the line again."
"Isn't it always?"
It took over twenty minutes – interrupted when a bra-clad beauty poked her head around the door and called Taff out to help with something. If Josh hadn't been half made-up, he'd have offered to help – but finally he was staring at a different face in the mirror. It was like seeing a distant cousin for the first time.
"You're a genius, Taff."
"Aren't I, indeed."
"So…"
"The boy wants even more from me?"
"I was wondering if you could supply light disguise for up to seven, no, make it nine guys. Just in case. They'll be on the periphery as a distraction."
"Hmm. Skin colour?"
"Whites and browns" –Josh thought of Vikram – "quite dark, no orientals."
"I'll prepare a selection. Did you bring a bag of some sort with you?"
"Er, no."
"Aren't you supposed to be master planners, all of you?"
"With all those girls outside, master something springs to mind."
"Tsk, tsk. Well, let's see… Oh, why don't you pop next door, while I'm getting things together."
"You got some kind of secret setup going in here, Taff? Something I shouldn't see?"
"No, but it's almost curtains up. You want to catch the last few titties before they disappear, better take the opportunity now."
Josh looked at the door.
"If it's necessary for the mission," he said, "I guess I can manage it."
[ TWENTY-EIGHT ]
With his backpack slung over one shoulder, Josh got through the ground-level entrance, despite its being locked, climbed up to the top-floor hallway, and knocked on Suzanne's front door. Then he stood waiting, unable not to smile.
The door opened. Suzanne looked at him.
"Hello?"
He said nothing.
"Look, who are you and what do you–?
Josh
? My God, Josh."
"You're not supposed to recognise me."
"I almost didn't. That's so spooky."
"You want to make out with a stranger? We could switch the lights off."
"Come in. For God's sake, come in before Mrs Arrowsmith sees you."
After he was inside and Suzanne had locked the door, he said: "Who's Mrs Arrowsmith? The neighbour?"
"Yes, and I've got a reputation to uphold, Mr Cumberland. Strange men coming in and out at all hours would not be much help."
"Well, I'm certainly strange."
"You are, in fact. You weren't thinking of not taking that stuff off, were you?"
"I wasn't… Was that some kind of psych trick?"
"What do you mean?"
"The way you said something about what I wasn't thinking of."
"Ah, so you have been paying attention."
"To you, definitely."
"Then go in the bathroom and remove that disguise right now."
"Yes, ma'am."
Afterwards, he came out looking normal but smelling like turpentine. He went out to the kitchen.
"Hi," he said. "What are you doing?"
"Cooking us supper, because you're staying the night, in case you hadn't realised."
"Ah."
"So what have you been up to? And where did you get that disguise?"
"A friend of mine, works in an interesting place."
"What kind of interesting place?"
"Do you know" – he stared at her brown eyes – "I forget. Really. When I'm looking at you."
"Hmm. So why the disguise, if you won't tell me where?"
"So no one recognises me afterwards. After I confront Zebediah Tyndall on camera."
"In the middle of this knife-final thing?"
"In the middle of this thing" – Josh blew out a breath – "that millions of people will be watching in realtime, yes. On the day of the general election, when a large chunk of the population are expected to vote online in the evening."
"Right. And that will help how?"
"Well, you know, when people are watching sports events, they have all sorts of secondary panes popped up: fighter stats, you name it. Panes that could show any number of interesting things instead, to do with political corruption."
"And how many people will be with you?" asked Suzanne.
"Like I said, millions of folk watch the–"
"No, how many people are helping you to carry out this insanity?"
"I'm still ironing out details. Six to nine, probably."
"Is that enough?"
"The tighter the perimeter, the fewer people you use to infiltrate."
"All right." Suzanne placed peppers and an onion atop a chopping-board, then picked up a kitchen knife. "And no one's going to stick one of these in anyone?"
"I hope not."
"Does that mean you'll have guns?"
"Probably not. Gunpowder gives off a detectable signature when you–"
"And you'll have nine men with you. They are men, I'm guessing. No women?"
"Women are far too sensible." Josh stared into space for a moment. "Apart from my friend Hannah, maybe. She's probably up for it."
"They'll be inside with you all the way?"
"Er… Inside, it'll just be me."
"No." She put down the knife. "No, Josh Cumberland, that's not good enough. You cannot go in there by yourself. I won't allow you to."
The obvious response was:
How can you stop me?
But she looked serious.
And she was pulling up her sleeve. Beneath the kitchen lights, the long scars were white-and-silver, and very bright, with a near-liquid sheen.
"That's what happens when someone leaves me alone."
"Suzanne…"
"My brother Gérard went out to check the banging sounds from outside, thinking the neighbourhood toughs were setting light to cars again, and he was supposed to come right back but he never did. I never saw him again, only his coffin which they kept sealed. They wouldn't let us look at him. Not after what had been done to him."
"Oh, Suzanne. But if you never… What happened?"
"You mean these?" She stared down at the scars, her mouth turned down. "They're all about fighting back, cutting deep, causing hurt because it's the only way to be alive."
"Who cut you? Who were you fighting?"
Because if they still lived, he would hunt them down; and they would suffer slowly.
"Don't you get it, Josh?"
Things turned inside his mind.
"Oh, shit."
I should've seen it.
"Right. When you're helpless, there's only one enemy you can turn on, and that's your own weakness. Only one person who's soft and weak enough to deserve the way it cuts into your muscle, the skin stinging but the insides feeling weird, more than anything, and the little globules of grey fat soaking in your own red blood."
It happens in prisons, among prisoners who lack the ability to fight the others off.
"You cut yourself?"
"It was the only thing I could do."
"Oh, my dear Suzanne."
"I'm sorry." She sniffed back tears. "I'm really sorry. But that's why I'm going in with you. Why I can't let you walk out, promising you'll come back, when maybe you won't. And I couldn't stand that, Josh Cumberland. I could not stand that."
He didn't know what to tell her. Observation posts were not made to be comfortable, and few people could remain still and undetected for days on end.
Once, he had set up an OP in the loft of a family home, keeping watch on a house across the street, while using plastic scent-absorbing containers for bodily waste, spending most of his time holding still. And all during the five-day op, a boisterous family went on with their lives in the house underneath, never once suspecting the presence of Josh Cumberland in their attic.
Was this the kind of person Suzanne wanted in her life? The kind of person she could act like, even for a short time?
"You'll need to remain a non-combatant. They set the thing up as a sort of street scene, the final. A bit of urban chaos. Women don't fight if they're not carrying, and don't have to fight even if they are. Carrying a knife, I mean."
"What happens when you make your move?"
"Once it kicks off… it'll get crazy."
"So. In that case" – she looked at the inside of her forearms, then at him – "I may need to protect myself, once you kick over the rules. How long do we have before going inside?"
"Twenty-two days."
"That long?" Her smile was like a child's, shining from inside. "You've heard of accelerated learning?"
"Training is my business, and it's a large part of what the Regiment does: teach élite groups around the world."
"So you use intensive techniques?"
"Sure we–"
"Josh, my lover. You ain't seen nuthin' yet."
On the first day of preparation, Josh cleared the lounge floor as he had with Richard, then he faced Suzanne in the centre of the room, and told her to put her hands out in front of her, keeping elbows bent. Placing his wrists against hers, he pressed gently.
"So, here's the game. As I move my hands, you keep your wrists pressed against mine."
"You said you were going to teach me how to fight."
"Trust me. Here we go."
He began moving his hands independently of each other, in slow motion at first. An observer would have seen a kind of tai-chi waltz, initially with feet static, then with slow footwork as he began to move and Suzanne reacted. There was no need to tell her to pivot rather than backstep: with this low intensity, the reaction was natural, coming from a place of calmness.
"This doesn't seem much like–"
"Let me up the pace a little."
His hand pressure became harder as well as faster, increasing by increments so she kept pace. And then his hand motion became more directed, left and right still moving independently, but occasionally curving or thrusting toward her face or ribs, liver or spleen. All the while, her wrists remained glued to his, absorbing and redirecting the force vectors, protecting the vulnerable parts of her anatomy.
Finally, he called a break.
"That's amazing." Suzanne was breathing. "Suddenly, it clicked, and I understood what we were doing."
"Wax on, wax off."
"I beg your pardon?"
"Never mind. Do you do much dancing? Because you handle your bodyweight pretty well."
"Yoga," she said. "I do a bit of yoga."
"Hmm. You know the Salute to the Sun?"
"Of course, but I'm surprised you do, Josh Cumberland."
"All right, we'll stretch and get warm with that, followed by some Indian wrestling exercises that sort of come from yoga. Then we'll
chi sao
a bit more."
"
Chi sao
?"
"With the wrists, sticking 'em together. Chinese term. The Okinawans call it
kakie
."
"All right. What else are we doing today?"
"How about I show you how to break a person's neck?"