car?”
“Tommy, you’re bleeding.” She reached forward to his ear but he yanked his head away, cupping his hand over it. Cold wet dampened his palm. He had scratched too hard.
“Where’s your luggage?”
Captain Jack climbed back in and found his duffel bag in the back, behind the seats. He handed it down and Mary made a big show of getting it for him. Thomas watched her reach up, look into Captain Jack’s face—though she had made jokes about him many times behind his back—and smile a snaky smile.
She carried the bag to the car for him, holding the weight easily, swinging it into her outside hand at one point, making him panic. Afraid she would take his hand, he tucked both deep into his trouser pockets until he could feel the hole forming in the bottom of the lining and a patch of stiffness from a burst biro.
Jamie, his mother’s favorite driver, was standing by the car, rubbing his hands to keep warm. She had sent Jamie and he hoped for a moment that it was out of affection, an attempt to give him a warm welcome, but it wasn’t. Jamie was only here because she didn’t need him. She was indoors, in the warm, with Ella.
Jamie smiled nervously, nodded and opened the door. Thomas said, “All right?” and got in before Jamie answered. Mary climbed in after him. Behind them the boot popped and Jamie put the bag in, slamming it shut, jogged around to the front and got in.
She had set it out before she came to the hangar: two Starbucks’ cups, plastic not paper, sat in the cupholders between the two seats. Steam rose from the sip hole, the smell of chocolate. She pointed to them as Jamie started the car and pulled out.
“Hot chocolate.”
Thomas looked out of the window next to him. “No.”
She smiled and picked hers up, wrapping her big hands around it. “Thought you might be cold.”
“I’m fine.” He could see her reflection in the dark window, saw her eyes stray to his belly and his groin. He had a shuddering need for her and felt sick. “Don’t want anything.”
She looked away. “You’re still bleeding.”
He caught his own eye in the smoked glass window. “Shut the fuck up, Mary.”
ELEVEN
Cold rain speckled Morrow’s face. The top step was exposed and the soft shower swirled around her, engulfing, wind tugging at the hem of her coat like a child, making her smile as she listened to Bannerman shouting through the phone, “Turn that off! Turn it off and listen to me!”
The phone was inches from her ear but she could still hear a woman’s voice in the background, talking slowly, sounding medicated: “Follow the course of the road.”
Bannerman shouted, “Turn the fucking thing off!”
It was out of character for him to swear. He was desperate to get here. It was the lure of the money, unknown quantities, unimaginable provenance, a sea of pink possibilities.
“Turn around, right now .”
They trained them to be impervious though, the drivers of the armored vehicles, trained them not to respond to shouting or threats, just to ignore, stay calm and get to the assigned destination. Some officers were easier to train than others. She could hear the driver answer in monosyllables, no, yes, here, not here, while the GPS lady sounded her gentle course and the wipers shrieked across the glass.
“Morrow? Morrow!” Bannerman was shouting at her.
She considered hanging up and claiming afterwards that the signal had been lost but he would only phone back, shouting more requests for directions that the driver wouldn’t follow.
“Still here, sir.”
“Right. We’re coming. Slowly, but we’re coming.”
Looking out from the top step Morrow thought about Sarah Erroll. Younger than her and living here alone. Strange to have always lived in one place. The house must have been so familiar that she didn’t see it anymore, the stones and grass and steps and walls superseded by the cumulative memories of her life, small incidents, vignettes, images retained in forensic detail for
“Tommy, you’re bleeding.” She reached forward to his ear but he yanked his head away, cupping his hand over it. Cold wet dampened his palm. He had scratched too hard.
“Where’s your luggage?”
Captain Jack climbed back in and found his duffel bag in the back, behind the seats. He handed it down and Mary made a big show of getting it for him. Thomas watched her reach up, look into Captain Jack’s face—though she had made jokes about him many times behind his back—and smile a snaky smile.
She carried the bag to the car for him, holding the weight easily, swinging it into her outside hand at one point, making him panic. Afraid she would take his hand, he tucked both deep into his trouser pockets until he could feel the hole forming in the bottom of the lining and a patch of stiffness from a burst biro.
Jamie, his mother’s favorite driver, was standing by the car, rubbing his hands to keep warm. She had sent Jamie and he hoped for a moment that it was out of affection, an attempt to give him a warm welcome, but it wasn’t. Jamie was only here because she didn’t need him. She was indoors, in the warm, with Ella.
Jamie smiled nervously, nodded and opened the door. Thomas said, “All right?” and got in before Jamie answered. Mary climbed in after him. Behind them the boot popped and Jamie put the bag in, slamming it shut, jogged around to the front and got in.
She had set it out before she came to the hangar: two Starbucks’ cups, plastic not paper, sat in the cupholders between the two seats. Steam rose from the sip hole, the smell of chocolate. She pointed to them as Jamie started the car and pulled out.
“Hot chocolate.”
Thomas looked out of the window next to him. “No.”
She smiled and picked hers up, wrapping her big hands around it. “Thought you might be cold.”
“I’m fine.” He could see her reflection in the dark window, saw her eyes stray to his belly and his groin. He had a shuddering need for her and felt sick. “Don’t want anything.”
She looked away. “You’re still bleeding.”
He caught his own eye in the smoked glass window. “Shut the fuck up, Mary.”
ELEVEN
Cold rain speckled Morrow’s face. The top step was exposed and the soft shower swirled around her, engulfing, wind tugging at the hem of her coat like a child, making her smile as she listened to Bannerman shouting through the phone, “Turn that off! Turn it off and listen to me!”
The phone was inches from her ear but she could still hear a woman’s voice in the background, talking slowly, sounding medicated: “Follow the course of the road.”
Bannerman shouted, “Turn the fucking thing off!”
It was out of character for him to swear. He was desperate to get here. It was the lure of the money, unknown quantities, unimaginable provenance, a sea of pink possibilities.
“Turn around, right now .”
They trained them to be impervious though, the drivers of the armored vehicles, trained them not to respond to shouting or threats, just to ignore, stay calm and get to the assigned destination. Some officers were easier to train than others. She could hear the driver answer in monosyllables, no, yes, here, not here, while the GPS lady sounded her gentle course and the wipers shrieked across the glass.
“Morrow? Morrow!” Bannerman was shouting at her.
She considered hanging up and claiming afterwards that the signal had been lost but he would only phone back, shouting more requests for directions that the driver wouldn’t follow.
“Still here, sir.”
“Right. We’re coming. Slowly, but we’re coming.”
Looking out from the top step Morrow thought about Sarah Erroll. Younger than her and living here alone. Strange to have always lived in one place. The house must have been so familiar that she didn’t see it anymore, the stones and grass and steps and walls superseded by the cumulative memories of her life, small incidents, vignettes, images retained in forensic detail for
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