I, Spy? (17 page)

“I don’t have a concussion. I feel fine.”

“Sophie, tell me your postcode.”

I opened my mouth, but I couldn’t even think of the first letter.

“Yeah,” Luke said. “Better get you to a doctor. Can you stand?”

I was sure I could, but no one had told my legs that and they buckled under me. Luke held me up, pulled the dress back over me and shoved himself into his clothes, then picked me up in his arms.

I was fuzzily impressed. I must have been dreaming. No man has been able to pick me up since I outweighed my mother. When I was fourteen. I’m tall, okay? My bones are heavy.

I’d thought he might be taking me inside so I could snuggle up in bed with him, but he put me in his car, locked the doors and told me he’d be back after he’d locked up my flat. How sweet. And car sex, too.

I must have dozed off again, because Luke kept shaking me and talking to me, asking me really stupid questions all the time instead of taking my clothes off. Actually, I got past feeling sexy quite quickly and just wanted to go to sleep. This time yesterday I was in Rome. Imagine that, a different time zone, only yesterday.

“…Which is the first episode Dawn turns up in?” Luke asked, having ascertained that
Buffy
trivia was my specialist subject.

“I dunno.” I yawned.

“Yes, you do. No one knows who she is. It’s when Buffy’s mum asks her to take Dawn out with her…”

“The Dracula one? Series five.”

“Yes. And what’s the one after that?”

“Dunno.”

“Come on, Soph, help me out here.”

“Wanna go to sleep.”

“Which episode?”

“Where Giles has his mid-life crisis car and the, the magic shop…”

He nodded and stopped the car. I hadn’t even realised he’d started it.

“Where are we?”

“Princess Alexandra Hospital. Casualty, sweetheart. Come on.”

He half carried me into the horribly bright room, full of pub brawlers and girls who’d walked on broken glass, and somehow got me to the front of the queue, x-rayed and checked over and sewn up. I think there was a cut on my shoulder. They kept me awake, the bastards, and I really wanted to sleep so much. But Luke was there, holding my hand, making me stay awake, stroking my hair and telling me he’d take care of me.

I wanted to tell him I could take care of myself, but the truth was it felt too nice to have him watching over me. Some feminist I am.

Then Luke took me back to the car and finally let me sleep. I drifted away, blissful, dreamless.

When I was seven my brother Chalker and I went around to the neighbours’ house to play with their kids. I walked and Chalker came a minute later, on his bike. It was only around the corner, close enough that our parents let us go alone. We only lived on a cul-de-sac. Safe as anything.

On the way back, running because—well, I don’t know why I was running. Because I was a kid and it was fun, I think. I haven’t really run properly in years. I was running back and Chalker was right behind me on his bike, and as I cut in front of him to jump onto the pavement and run across the lawn to our house, he clipped me with his bike.

At least, that’s what he says. All I remember is running up the road. I don’t remember him clipping me, I don’t remember falling, and I don’t remember hitting my head on the kerb. Of course, if you ask Chalker, it was my fault for getting in his way. It’s his word against mine. I don’t remember it at all. I just remember waking in my mum’s arms, inside the house, wondering how I’d got there and why everyone was looking so concerned and why on earth my head hurt so much.

I remember that look. The expression on my mother’s face. Like she was frightened and relieved and angry, all at the same time. I don’t remember her ever shouting at my brother for it. I don’t remember if blame was ever apportioned. No one told me off for it either. Everyone was so relieved that I didn’t have any serious brain damage (although Chalker still has his doubts) that the incident itself was largely forgotten.

But I remember the look. Luke had it too, when I opened my eyes in the rubble. At the time I thought I’d never seen someone look so frightened, but now I remember my mother.

Why was Luke so frightened? Because he thought it was his fault? Because he’d have to train a new partner? Because he cared for me?

He hardly knew me.

Maybe it was just normal concern for another human being. Maybe if I’d been a stranger he’d have looked the same.

Hopefully, he wouldn’t have shagged me, though.

In restless dreams, I walked alone. I was in London and I was supposed to be meeting someone. I can’t remember who. Only I got lost, I missed my train or something and the person I was with got whisked away, so I got on the next train and went to the wrong place. It was like being a child—I had no idea where I was supposed to be, and I was frightened, really frightened.

I walked around the streets, streets that looked like where I grew up, where I went to school. But it was dark, and there was no one around, and I had nothing—no money, no phone. I couldn’t even call a cab to take me somewhere, because I didn’t know where I was supposed to be going.

I felt like crying. I didn’t know where I was and I didn’t know where I was going, and even if I got there I didn’t know what I’d do.

And then I looked around, and there was Luke, rolling his eyes and asking what I’d got myself into now.

“They said you were gone,” he explained, coming closer, warm and solid and wonderful. “I came to find you.”

“I was lost,” I said, feeling helpless.

“I found you.” He smiled at me reassuringly, and I believed him. “I’ll always find you.”

He put his arm around me as we walked, a companionable gesture that made me want to snuggle closer. He felt safe, secure.

“How do you know where we’re going?” I asked.

“What makes you think I do?”

“You seem so sure.”

“I’m working it out.”

We walked a bit further. The streets all looked the same—leafy, pleasant, a bit blurry. It was like walking into a blue screen.

“I’m sorry,” I said.

“What for?”

“Causing so much trouble.”

“You’re not trouble.”

“Got lost, didn’t I?”

Luke’s hand rubbed my shoulder, and it tingled. I had a feeling that meant something, but I wasn’t sure what. Everything felt sort of fuzzy.

“You weren’t really lost,” he said. “I found you.”

He kept saying that. He found me. But how? And where were we going?

“I’m causing so much trouble,” I said.

“No. You’re doing fine.”

“Where are we even going?” I tried to remember but it felt like my head was full of pudding.

“You don’t know?”

“I…”

“I thought you knew.” Luke looked at me in surprise. “You’re leading the way.”

“No, I…”

“I’m walking with you, Sophie. You know where you’re going.”

I stopped and looked up at him. “Luke, will you kiss me?”

He smiled and stroked my face. My cheek tingled, just the way my shoulder had when he’d touched it there. “I already have.”

“Kiss me again. I don’t remember.”

Luke sighed, a soft sound, and I closed my eyes. But when I opened them, he wasn’t there and I was alone again.

For a second I was lost, frightened again. What was I doing? Where was I going?

Why wasn’t he there to show me?

I looked up the street, looked down it. I didn’t know which way we’d even come. But I wasn’t going to get anywhere just standing here.

I turned left and started walking. Surely I’d end up somewhere.

I didn’t feel so lost any more.

I woke in a strange place, comfortable and white, and for a second was truly frightened. I’d died. I’d been shot—it was like in
Ghost
, where Patrick Swayze runs down the road and doesn’t realise his body has been left behind. I had never had sex with Luke. I’d not been to the hospital or anything. That’s why I was in this marvellous white cocoon, with a high, dark-beamed ceiling…

Heaven is a loft apartment?

I managed to move my head to the accompaniment of severe pain from the unlikeliest of sources. I was in a big white bed between high-thread-count sheets. There were pieces of dark oak furniture around the pale walls. A door. A window with heavy linen curtains drawn.

Heaven had good taste. Stark, but not bad.

I tried to sit up and immediately realised this was not a good idea. I felt like a building had fallen down on me.

And then I remembered that it had.

The Nokia was charging up on the night stand, next to my little evening bag. There was a note propped by the phone, addressed to me.

I used up most of my strength stretching over to get it, and lay there for a while, exhausted, aching. Then I managed to roll back on my back, and unfolded the sheet of paper.

Sophie, These are your painkillers.
I looked over and realised they’d been behind the note.
Take two every four hours and no more or you’ll pass out. Didn’t seem like such a bad idea to me. Take a shower but don’t get the dressing wet.
What dressing? Oh, yes, the dreadful pain in my shoulder. Stitches or something. Great.
Don’t go outside, I really don’t think it’s safe for you. Rest and sleep. Drink some water. Make yourself at home, I’ll be back this afternoon. There’s a video for you on the coffee table. Call me if you need anything. Luke.

That was it. Not
love Luke
, not
dear Sophie
. No kisses.

Had I imagined the sex? No. I couldn’t have.

No power on heaven or earth could have imagined that sex. Oh, boy. I licked my dry lips. I’d be carrying the memory of that to my grave. I frowned. Maybe thinking about graves when I hurt this much wasn’t a good idea. Still. It was a bit of a foggy memory, but it was still a good one.

Imagine what it’d be like if I wasn’t concussed.

Oh,
boy
.

I put a painkiller in my mouth and realised I couldn’t swallow it. The pill was huge and my mouth was totally dry.

Gagging, I stumbled out of bed and shoved through the door into a large open plan living room with a clean, shiny chrome kitchen. I stuck my head under the tap and chugged a load of water, and the pill went down.

Breathing deeply, every nerve in my body wailing in pain, I leaned back against the kitchen counter and looked around. Luke’s flat was a big loft with high, apexed ceilings filled with lovely old beams. He had oak panelled floors—real oak, not the fake stuff I have in my flat—and a lovely leather chesterfield that I coveted immediately. His kitchen was new and shiny but all the other furniture looked old and loved. Faded rugs on the floor. A punch-bag hanging from the high beams.

The place was spacious and lightsome. I hadn’t really pictured Luke’s flat in my head, apart from figuring it’d be full of complicated locks and timers and alarms and red beams criss-crossing the floor. But this was a really cool place.

I stood looking around for quite a while before I realised I was completely naked.

Oh. Hope he doesn’t have any flatmates.

As far as I could tell, there was only one bedroom, simply the smaller half of the loft, with a bathroom attached. I hobbled back through, looked at the bed which was streaked with dust and crusts of dried blood—eurgh—and at myself.

Huh. No wonder the bed was a mess. No wonder Luke told me to have a shower.

Briefly, I wondered where he’d slept. On the chesterfield? That leather probably wasn’t too comfy. And there were no spare sheets or anything lying around. In the bed with me? That figured. I finally have sex with someone as delicious as Luke, and I’m concussed; I get into bed with him, and I’m unconscious.

Ha.

I hauled myself into the bathroom and looked longingly at the shower. Then an idea struck me and I found myself in the kitchen, wrapping cling-film around my shoulder. Genius.

I spent hours in the shower, half wishing it was a long, hot bath with scented bubbles, but it felt good to pummel my skin with the jets of water. When I moved into my flat my nannan had had one of those scary hose attachments on the bath, no proper shower. That was the first thing I bought. A big, throbbing power shower. Yeah.

I washed my hair, which left khaki streaks all over the bath, and soaped myself all over several times. When I eventually stepped out, I peeled off the cling-film—the dressing was slightly damp but okay—and carefully washed the skin there. I nicked Luke’s razor and made myself presentable. I even found some Molton Brown moisturiser and slapped it on, making a mental note to tease Luke about it later.

I looked utterly dreadful, bruised and perplexingly pasty, like a battered wife. My dark hair made me look white and frightening. I couldn’t believe nothing was broken and all I’d needed was a few stitches on my shoulder. There was a big bruise on my cheek and the back of my head had hurt when I washed my hair, in fact there was not very much of me that didn’t hurt, but under the circumstances I reckoned I’d got off pretty well.

Next I started looking for clothes. Mine appeared to have run away—oh, Christ, her Ladyboat’s dress!—so I borrowed some of Luke’s, feeling very kinky in his underwear. I wrapped up my poor abused feet in layers of plasters and thick sports socks and cuddled into joggers, T-shirt and a hooded sweater. I had no bra—first time for everything—but that was the least of my problems. I looked like a homeless person as it was.

He’d said something about a video on the coffee table, and when I went out looking for it, half hoping for something cool about special agent training, I found a tape labelled
SOPHIE—Buffy
, and was more touched than I think I’ve ever been.

I used his phone to call home and check my messages. There was one: “Sophie, you’d better be listening to this from my house. It’s not safe for you to go home. Three fingers and one bullet do not a happy house make. Stay in my flat and don’t go outside until I get back, okay? I’ll be back in the afternoon.”

Git.

I looked at the clock on the state-of-the-art sound system (living with someone like Chalker you get to recognise quality audio equipment). It was just after ten.

Which gave me a couple of hours to look for a spare gun, figure out how to use it, get my bearings and—somehow—get home.

I know, I know. How stupid was I? There were so many things wrong with that plan. But I was on severe painkillers, in some kind of shock, tired and hurt and in a very confused state about Luke, and I really had to go and check that Ted and the flat were okay.

I was so glad Tammy was at my parents’ house. When this was all over, she was getting a whole tin of tuna to herself. No, stuff that, a whole actual tuna.

And then I caught myself. This might never be over. I had to get used to the fact that Tammy was never going to be safe. That people might try to kill me all the time. And I had to get used to the fact that I might never figure out who they were.

Too fuzzy to try and think of anything sensible about who it might have been, I started looking around the living room. The bedroom I’d searched quite comprehensively when I was looking for clothes. I found
Top Gear
magazines, ski goggles, condoms and a copy of
The Count of Monte Cristo
(in English, thank God—I don’t think I could have coped if he was smart enough to read it in French) by his bed, but no gun and no bullets. He had to keep that box of .40 Smith & Wesson rounds somewhere.

He had CDs and DVDs and videos in oak furniture by the TV and under the coffee table. He had books in large quantity and great variety on shelves that covered the wall by the bedroom. He had fairly decent taste—I mean, there had to be some horribly embarrassing Christmas singles or self-help books somewhere, but he’d hidden them well. There were skis and a bike and walking boots and what looked like diving equipment in a large walk-in cupboard by the kitchen, but no bullets.

And then I saw it, almost hidden in the panelling of the wall behind the big TV. A secret cupboard. I’d found some keys in the kitchen—not very well hidden, Luke—and one of them fit.

Hey presto, who da man?

I da man
.

Well, you know.

I opened the cupboard, almost afraid of what I’d find, and stared for quite a while at the things I saw. An ancient, scruffy teddy bear, shoe boxes full of photos, an RAF cap, and lots and
lots
of guns.

Hello.

I felt like I’d opened the Pandora’s box of Luke’s personality. I itched to look through the photos, but after one or two I realised they weren’t going to mean anything to me. Family, maybe. Friends. Comrades, even. All strangers. Although there were a few of Luke in RAF uniform, looking completely one hundred percent edible, that I thought I might like copies of. And one, very old and rather faded, of a man and woman with Seventies hair. She was sitting up in bed, holding a tiny baby, and he was beaming like the top of his head was going to fall off. She was gorgeous, blonde model good looks, and he was the spit of Luke, with darker hair.