STANDPOINT a gripping thriller full of suspense (17 page)

He couldn’t answer, didn’t feel anything but shame. He couldn’t pretend that he didn’t care. And caring meant doing something. “Here,” he wrote out a mobile number on the newspaper by his feet and ripped it off. “This is
my
number. Just in case.”

His hand wavered and his stomach churned with raw emotion. “I have to go now,” he stood up carefully as if his balance might be off; in a sense it was.

Alexandra lifted little Lukas aside and saw him to the door. Thomas followed her gaze to the crucifix. He blushed, caught in the act. “Bless you, Thomas Bladen,” she kissed him on the cheek and then closed the door behind him.

It didn’t feel cold outside, but a couple of tears gathered in his eye. He flicked them away casually, as if they were nothing. And as each step took him further from the house, he felt a growing sense of exhilaration.

He got back into the car and Karl started up the engine without a word. He ventured nothing and withstood their scrutiny; decided he’d sit this one out. Karl lasted until they’d cleared the Thames.

“How did it go?”

He took a breath and kept things simple. “They seemed pleased to have a contact number; I think they’ll be in touch.”

Teresa tapped Karl on the shoulder. “Anywhere around here is fine.” Karl nodded and checked his mirror, pulling in along Queen Victoria Street.

Thomas watched them, saw the way Karl looked at her and how she avoided him. No goodbyes, not even a thank you. If he had to guess, there’d been
words
in the car while he’d been delivering a lifeline. But did that mean . . . nah, couldn’t be. Surely Karl was smarter than that?

He watched with Karl as Teresa disappeared up the cut through to St Paul’s. They sat for a while, the grumbling engine and indicator clicks marking off the seconds. Finally, Karl tore his gaze away from the side street. “Fancy a drink?”

“Sounds like a plan,” Thomas parodied him.

Karl didn’t react. He gazed out the windscreen, dull eyes watching the crowd in vain. Thomas could almost feel his longing.

“Yeah, a pub would be great,” he emphasised, spurring Karl into activity. Jeez, what a pair of fuck-ups they were. Karl had fallen for Teresa, and Thomas, in his day, had all but set up house with Christine Gerrard. Women and power — it was like mixing your drinks: no good would ever come of it.

In a pub in Stratford they found a quiet table; Karl sat facing the door as usual. Thomas did the honours and got half a pint for himself and a pint of shandy for Karl, along with crisps; last of the big spenders.

Karl took a sip and smacked his lips theatrically. “Tell you what, Tommo. I’ll do another little magic trick. Are you ready?”

He felt dread creeping through him.

“You gave them your own number, didn’t you?”

Thomas coughed into his drink and kept his head down.

“It’s okay, Tommo, I understand. It’s an obvious rookie mistake — you felt sorry for them, right? I’d have done the same, at the beginning. I won’t mention it to Teresa, but I need you to let me know if they ever do contact you. Deal?”

He wondered what else Karl had deduced about him.

Karl leaned back and stretched; he seemed to have cheered up no end. “You see, Tommo, we’re not so different, you and I.”

Chapter 20

Miranda had arrived early. Every night on the phone since Sunday, she’d been trying to talk Thomas out of this mysterious weekend job, the one he still hadn’t explained. Maybe face-to-face she stood a chance of getting through to him.

She sat in the car, two streets away, flicking through a professional catering magazine that she’d already littered with notes and doodles. Thomas figured in a good few of those scribbles, not that he’d have known. She was the princess — naturally — and Thomas the face in the corner, sometimes just a pair of eyes, watching from a distance. Blimey, how accurate had that turned out to be!

More flicking, to a feature: a stylish eatery in Berkshire. She nearly drooled over the décor and the fancy name:
panache
. Thomas had suggested she call
her
club Miranda’s — a talent for the obvious. But Caliban’s was her private joke. At school, she’d loved
The Tempest
, ever since she’d caught her name in it, and had weathered the piss-taking of the other girls. The boys of course were more malleable — not for nothing did Miranda translate as ‘the admired one.’
Rough times, though.

She doodled some more. Whatever Thomas was mixed up in, it would be a stroll in the park compared to a gaggle of spiteful, hormone-addled bitches.
Addled
— she smiled at that; one of Thomas’s words that had crept into her vocabulary. She fingered her neck-chain, following it round to her name, shaped in gold, and tapped it distractedly. Yeah, the only time that name had lost a little of its sheen was when her mum had told her about a chain-smoking casino croupier — the one she'd been named after.

This was bloody silly. She had emergency keys to the flat —
new
keys at that — just as he had to hers. But ever since the heavies had busted in while he was away, Thomas had cranked up his paranoia a notch or four and passed it on. “Sod it,” she stuffed the magazine in the glove compartment; she’d take a walk past — what harm could it do?

* * *

Thomas found a parking space at the end of the street. He waited a minute, checking front and back; nothing much was happening. He reached for the sports bag on the passenger seat, containing a waterproof bodysuit, a torch so bright it could almost illuminate Karl’s cryptic messages, a length of rope and a pair of walkie-talkies. He checked again — all quiet on the Western Front. Time to move.

He clocked the figure in the distance almost as soon as he closed the car door, watching as the loner crossed the street towards his flat then stopped still. He hugged the bag close and picked up the pace, moving from car to car, crouching low. Closer, and he could make out a woman in a long coat; she had her back to him and her hair was either short or tucked under a beret. She looked like she was auditioning for a French Resistance tribute act.

He used the trees for cover; good solid forest trees that some planner had approved decades before and which now bulged up tarmac and pavement in the struggle for existence.
That’s it, keep looking away from me; stay like that.
He cantered across the road and snaked behind a delivery van; the woman still hadn’t moved.

Ducking back down, he loosened his grip on the bag and tried to settle his breathing. Who?
Shit.
What if this was Teresa, and Miranda turned up? He went for broke and sprinted the remaining distance, dropping the sports bag and grabbing her shoulders in one fluid movement. “Right!”

Miranda gave a short yelp and turned her head. “Jesus, Thomas! You frightened the life out of me.”

His heart was beating so fast that he struggled to find the words. “Don’t ever stand in the street like that again.”

Miranda paused, as if weighing up whether to slap him. “You arse!”

Somewhere, a bugler sounded the retreat. His head began to clear. “Sorry,” he held up a hand, “I just got a bit freaked. Let’s go inside.”

“Well,” Miranda headed on up the steps. “As long as you’re not worried that people will see us.”

She used her keys before he could object. He let it pass and carried on into the kitchen. Listening hard, he heard Miranda close the front door and then bolt it. So far, so salvageable.

She slumped into a chair and dumped her bag on the table. “I did bring you a present, but I’m not sure if you deserve it now.”

When he returned, he was carrying two glasses of wine — his own only half-full — and the bottle tucked under one armpit; one hundred per cent style.

“What’s this — are you cutting back?”

He smiled sheepishly and handed her the grown-up glass. “Can’t overdo it —I’m working tomorrow, remember.”

She took a sip and pursed her lips, although he knew it was a good wine.

“Look, about earlier; I know I was a dick but I’m only thinking of you, okay?”

She didn’t skip a beat. “Then tell me . . .”

He shook his head. “The less I tell you, the less you have to worry about.”

“Is this the way we’re going to live now?” She pulled a DVD case from her bag, tapping it rhythmically against her arm. “Still not sure if you deserve this . . .” The tone was playful and when he looked at her all ‘puppy-dog,’ she seemed to melt.

“It’s not porn, is it?” Hardly likely. That one time they’d watched a porn flick together he’d sat in mute embarrassment, feeling a mix of betrayal and arousal. Getting turned on by other nubile women on the go, while your girlfriend was in the room with you, was hardly a declaration of love and devotion. And besides, those guys on screen were a lot to live up to.

“It’s
The
Thirty-Nine Steps
. And before you say anything, yes — it’s the
original
. Seemed appropriate, what with your new life as a spy.”

That lit the whole box of fireworks. “Let’s get one thing straight, shall we?” he clunked his glass down hard. “I’m not a bloody spy.”

She leaned back in silence, and he felt really stupid. Like the time in Leeds when he’d got drunk, taken a leak in the park and soaked his own shoes. It was time for a tactical withdrawal. “I’ll go sort out the grub and then we can watch Robert Donat kick arse. Help yourself to the telly.” A polite way of saying: end of round one and back to your corners.

* * *

The bolognaise was already prepared — real stuff, no crap. Made to a recipe of Pat’s and freshly dug out of the freezer the night before. He kept the kitchen door open and listened as the TV erupted into life; a comedy, by the sounds of it and so sharp that a laughter track had been added. “Shouldn’t be long,” he called out.

There was silence from Miranda. Either the comedy was more riveting than it sounded or she still had the hump, big time. Or both. Not much else he could do, other than watch the pasta simmering, and think. Why were he and Karl going to Suffolk? He jabbed at the frothing pan with a fork, submerging the strands. How far did he want this work with Karl to go? So what if Peterson was bent? He grabbed the fork from the saucepan and held on to it until the heat reddened his fingers. No, Bob Peterson had lied to him; and Sir Peter Carroll had tried to set him up. He deserved some answers.

The TV volume rose — advert time. He smacked his lips appreciatively as the garlic and beef flirted with his nostrils. The way to a man’s heart and all that — and hopefully a woman’s too. “Pasta’s almost done,” he relayed the news. “I’ll come in for a bit.”

“
You’ve Been Framed
, I think,” Miranda stared at the TV, deadpan.

He perched on the edge of the sofa and sipped his wine. He saw right away that she’d topped it up, but he let it pass. On TV, a child ran into a transparent patio door and bounced back two feet. The studio audience laughed and winced; Western Civilisation — coming soon.

Nothing more to be said, he nipped off, returning with a bowl of salad; quite the little Jamie Oliver.
Try something new today
. Yeah, like not having another argument.

The bolognaise was good when they got there; even Miranda said so. They ate and relaxed — or at least, relaxed hostilities. Onscreen, Robert Donat grappled with conspiracy, paranoia and false accusations. Thomas knew just how he felt.

Miranda nudged him, mid-film. “Bet you didn’t know that in the book, there’s no female lead at all.”

“Maybe it needed improving.”

She patted his leg: good answer.

By the end of the first bottle of wine, they’d moved past the talking stage. She sat close and ran a finger up and down his arm; he could feel the tremors in faraway places. As they watched the dying minutes of the mystery, Robert Donat finally figured out his enemies’ plan and how to stop them. As the credits rolled, Thomas grabbed the remote and peered at the screen, checking through names mostly forgotten. He wasn’t a film buff particularly, but sometimes, when he spotted a cameraman in a really enjoyable old film, he’d search them out on the net and see what else they’d done.

“That was champion,” he sat back.

Miranda squeezed the arm she’d been teasing. “What shall we do for a second feature?” It sounded like a come-on. Then again, everything Miranda said sounded like a come-on.

“Well . . .” he stretched the word out like bait. She didn’t respond; she wasn’t biting. Jeez, he’d have to ask. “Are you stopping tonight? He cringed at the words — about as romantic as a six-pack of lager.

“Maybe,” she smiled, and chuckled.

He turned to her and her eyes sparkled in the reflected glare of the TV. There was a heavy pause — the tipping point of desire — then his lips found hers. He was greedy for her and she seemed eager to follow his lead. He moved a hand under her buttock and tilted her towards him. He felt the shape of her mouth change and slid his left hand behind her, to the small of her back.

Her fingers burrowed beneath his shirt, ranging over his torso. An idea came to him, but he killed it dead. Since Leeds, there had been one unwritten rule. No talking — during sex or foreplay or canoodling. No declarations of love, no verbal requests.

He levered her on to one buttock and she took the hint, rolling with him in one uneven lollop. He shifted down the cushions by about a foot and she swung one leg over his, pinning him to the sofa. Now, as they kissed, they moved in rhythm, their pubic bones rising and falling against each other. He lifted her t-shirt and circle kissed her navel and stomach, enjoying the no-man’s land between two leisure parks.

He could feel waves of pleasure rippling between them. She moved faster, taking control, as he’d wanted her to. He started to unbutton her jeans as she rocked, and he tried to shut out the calls of despair from his bladder: bad timing ‘R’ us. She bore down on him, her out-breaths reduced to faltering gasps. He gave up on her jeans, thrusting with his hips, willing her to climax before his bladder burst. He drew her closer as she came, drawing her head towards his and moving his tongue around hers as the last shudders freed themselves from her glorious body. “Now you,” she said breathlessly, shifting back on to the sofa.

The relief from his bladder was like a gift from God. As he turned to her, she was undoing the last of her jeans buttons. “Hold that thought — I really need to pee.” He heaved himself up with difficulty and staggered to the bathroom.

He heard her grumbling in the other room, but the call of nature would not be ignored. His body took a while to respond, as if it resented the unused hard-on. At last, everything flowed, and flowed; and flowed.

He finished up and washed his hands. His reflection looked flushed. He grinned at himself; he felt like a teenager again, copping off with Miranda on the bedsit put-you-up in Leeds. As he opened the unlocked door he repeated her words to himself — now it was his turn. By the time he’d taken half a dozen steps, he was back at full mast.

Miranda was standing in the living room. Her jeans were fully fastened and she was putting on her coat. He did a double take — twilight zone style — staring at her crotch as if he could hypnotise it back into action.

“What’s going on?” His question slammed against her granite expression.

“Your boyfriend called. He’ll be over in an hour. Thanks for everything.”

“You don’t have to go . . .” he paused, wondering if he could possibly steer the sentence towards: ‘we could still have a quickie before Karl turns up.’

“What, hide in the bedroom? I don’t think so, Thomas. I’m not the hiding type.”

He caught sight of his mobile phone on the table. “You didn’t . . .”

“Relax Thomas. I didn’t speak to him and break your little code. He sent a text.”

Yeah, a text that you read
. “Look, I’ll call you over the weekend.”

“We’ll see,” she didn’t look convinced.

He followed her to the door. “Look, Karl wasn’t supposed to be coming over until tomorrow evening.”

“Careful Thomas,” she faced him down. “You’re giving away your secrets.”

As he went to kiss her, she turned her face away. “Sam’ll pick me up. I’ll come back for my car tomorrow sometime.”

There was nothing left to be said. He settled for “I’ll make it up to you,” but she was already down the steps and away. She didn’t look back.

Back inside, he rechecked the sports bag, tidied up and waited for the call.