Anything but Ordinary (2 page)

No, there was no doubt about it but … Five thousand
years
?
Five
thousand? Five
thousand
???

And she did not look a day over twenty.

* * *

Special Agent Dawber was trying to sleep. It was not easy. Even if he had been in a normal frame of mind, the motel beds seemed specially designed to be as uncomfortable as possible. He pondered about this for a while; it did not make sense, not if the place wanted any kind of repeat business. But then again, the proprietor had been the kind of hotelier who looks upon guests as a nuisance. Having stayed at a myriad of these places (he had forgotten what his own bed even
looked
like) he had met her type before.

His mind, despite his best efforts, swung back to the events of the day.

He remembered Rook driving like a maniac back to the house and … and … he remembered the debriefing in The Director’s office. He remembered
telling
The Director how they had followed her back and what she had done for the rest of the day. It was just that he could not remember any of it actually
happening
.

He had a feeling that there was something he had forgotten, something that had happened, something that had happened before, and that, when it happened, he
remembered
that it had happened before.  But then, afterwards, he did not.

What’s more, he was now certain that Rook
knew
. Knew
what
exactly he could not be sure, he could not remember; but knew anyway, just knew …
something
in a general way that
he
did not know. Only he
did
know it, or he should, if he could only remember it. 

This sort of thing can make a man extremely paranoid, particularly when that man worked for “The Agency”. 

No wonder he could not sleep.

Rook was on the radio to The Director’s office. ‘He’s getting suspicious sir,’ he was saying. ‘Perhaps we should let him in on it.’

There was a muffled sound from the other end in a tone of denial. 

‘Yes sir, but he’s a good man, I’m sure that … yes sir, but we can’t keep doing it to him is what I’m saying, it’s not right sir.

Crackle, crackle, mumble, mumble.

‘Yes sir,’ said Rook in a resigned tone. ‘I understand sir. But he’s a bright lad sir, he’ll figure it out eventually, he’s already… Sir? Sir?
Damn
!

‘And goodnight to you too sir … you bastard,’ he added once he was sure the connection had been broken. 

* * *

Tamar was painting her toenails in the kitchen. Denny watched her in bemusement from behind a magazine about fishing. He was not remotely interested in fishing, but he had needed something to hide behind, and it had been left behind by Finvarra whose interests were wide and varied. In fact, the man seemed fascinated by
everything
. Denny had once caught him reading an enormous tome entitled “Famous Dogs in Brothels in the 19
^th
Century” with every sign of enjoyment.  Perhaps there were pictures. 

The hiding was to appear as if he was occupied in something other than watching Tamar. He suspected that he was not fooling her, but ever since she had decided to be “normal”, he had felt an inexplicable need to “keep an eye on her”. In case of what, he had no idea, after all, she was still the same underneath, that is, well able to take care of herself in practicality any situation you could possibly think of and many others that no one (at least no one in a normal frame of mind) would
ever
think of in a million years.

She thrust a toe up under the magazine cover and nearly took his eye out. ‘What do you think?’ she said, ‘passion pink.’

‘I don’t like it,’ said Denny cruelly, ‘too bright.’

Tamar pouted. ‘Not like you then,’ she said acidly. ‘I mean who do you think you’re kidding? A
fishing
magazine? I don’t need a baby sitter you know.

‘Or a keeper,’ she added after a moment’s thought. ‘I’m not losing my mind you know.’

‘Depends on your point of view,’ muttered Denny. ‘Who do you think
you’re
kidding?’ he said louder.

‘Oh … shut up,’ snapped Tamar and flounced off leaving bright pink stains from her wet toenails on the kitchen floor.

Denny sighed. It was already happening, he thought. No sex and lots more arguments and they were not even married yet.

Stiles poked his head round the kitchen door. ‘You shouldn’t have criticised the nail polish mate,’ he advised.

Denny raised an eyebrow. ‘You heard?’ he said.

‘Yep,’ affirmed Stiles.

‘God save us from policemen,’ said Denny. ‘There’s no damn privacy around here.’ But he did not sound angry, just weary.

Stiles patted him awkwardly on the shoulder. ‘It’s just cold feet,’ he said. ‘Best to let her get it out of her system. It’ll be all right after the wedding. They all act like this, you know, weird. Things’ll settle down, you’ll see.’

‘
I
haven’t got cold feet,’ said Denny. ‘Why has
she
? I mean we’ve lived together for five years …’

‘Yeah, but you … You’re more laid back than she is, you never let anything bother you much. And besides …’

‘That’s not true,’ objected Denny. ‘I get wound up too. This whole “being normal” thing is really pissing me off.’

‘Have you told
her
that?’

‘We-ell, no not exactly. I mean I thought, like you said, that she’d get over it. Anyway, what’s that got to do with her having cold feet?’

‘It’s just her way of dealing with it.’ said Stiles. ‘I wonder why it bothers you so much,’ he added.

Denny shrugged. ‘She
isn’t
normal, why pretend?’

‘You’d have to ask her that,’ said Stiles, getting a beer for Denny from the fridge.

‘Do you think she’s changed her mind, you know, about getting married?’ said Denny hesitantly.

‘
God
no,’ said Stiles emphatically. ‘She wouldn’t be so damn nervous if she had. She’d just
say
so. You know Tamar.’

‘I
thought
I did,’ said Denny sadly.

* * *

Tamar was upset too. She did not cry when she was upset – she shouted. Cindy wished she had earplugs; it was not as if she would not still be able to hear her.

‘I mean, what’s the
matter
with him?’ ranted Tamar. ‘I thought he
wanted
a normal life, and there was no need for him to be so horrible to me,
was
there?’ she demanded, glaring at Cindy, who nodded sympathetically.

‘I mean, I never knew he could be such a … maybe I’ve made a mistake. I should never have said “yes” not if it’s going to be like
this
.’ she stopped. ‘No, I didn’t mean that,’ she said seriously.

Then she grinned impishly at Cindy, as her sense of humour reasserted itself. ‘You can’t have him,’ she said.

They both laughed. Cindy’s laughter sounded a little forced. She sometimes wondered how much Tamar knew about her feelings for Denny. Not that she was not over it now of course. But there had been a time … not now, she thought giving herself a mental shake. She had to help Tamar fix this. If she did not, it would be like admitting that
she
wanted Denny; and she did not, not any more. Definitely not!

Tamar watched the expressions flit over Cindy’s face, shrewdly. She knew very well what was going on in Cindy’s head. ‘I expect you think I should be grateful to have him,’ she observed.

‘You are I think,’ said Cindy, ‘really. It’s just that … Well, it’s not that easy sometimes. If he’s acting like a prat, why don’t you just tell him?’

Tamar shrugged. ‘More arguments,’ she said.

‘Or possibly less,’ suggested Cindy.

Tamar looked thoughtful. 

~ Chapter Two ~

T
here was a gentle scratching on the bedroom door; both women’s heads turned instinctively. Cindy raised her eyebrows; it was not like Denny to knock on his own door, but who else could it be?  The same thought had obviously occurred to Tamar; she looked at the door in a puzzled fashion. Cindy shrugged, and Tamar went and opened the door. It was Stiles, looking extremely embarrassed. 

He coughed self-consciously. ‘Er, sorry,’ he began. ‘I just thought … never mind eh, I’ll come back later.’

‘Did Denny send you?’ demanded Tamar sharply, but Stiles detected a hint of hope in her voice. 

‘Not exactly,’ he admitted. ‘He’s pretty upset,’ he added. ‘I thought maybe … probably not though.’ he shrugged helplessly. ‘Women are better at this sort of thing,’ he ended, looking at Cindy.

Tamar made a decision. ‘I think I’ll go and talk to him,’ she said to the relief of both Stiles and Cindy. 

* * *

Agent Dawber shaved carefully in the tiny mirror and stared unwillingly at his own reflection.  What he saw, so he believed, was a sucker, a pawn, a pigeon, a fool, a sap and a dupe.  But no more, he decided. Today he was going to tackle Rook about what was really going on.  He squared his chin and immediately regretted it; it not being a good idea to do this when holding a blade against your face.  However, the cut was not deep, and Dawber dealt calmly enough with it then he dressed and stood before the tiny mirror again to straighten his tie and square his shoulders determinedly.

He frowned at his reflection. ‘No more mister nice guy,’ he asserted and marched from the room stiffly, like a cat when facing a particularly large dog.

Rook was also facing himself in the mirror.  He had, if Dawber had only known it, made a decision of his own during the night. He had had enough. Enough of the Agency’s underhanded tactics and habitual mistrust of its own recruits. Enough of lying to Agents less senior to himself, and enough of the puzzled look on Agent Dawber’s face after every briefing with The Director. 

Agent Dawber was not a fool and Agent Rook was sick and tired of treating him like one. 

Agent Dawber came into the room at that moment looking determined. Rook had seen that look before. Usually he would have handled this situation differently. He had had years of practice at making a rookie agent calm down and eventually admit that maybe he was getting a little paranoid. That not everybody was cut out for the Agency, the long hours took a toll on the mind and perhaps he
should
take a little holiday, etc. etc.

This time he merely said. ‘You want to know what’s going on?’

Agent Dawber, who had not even had time to open his mouth, gaped for a second. Then he recovered sufficiently to stammer. ‘Y-you’re damned right I w-want to know what’s going on.’

‘Sit down,’ commanded Rook, ‘and get ready for the weirdest story you ever heard – I guarantee it.’

* * *

The argument could be heard all over the house. Cindy held the boys on her bed, an arm around each of them, they were crying.  Finvarra had gone out as soon as it began and Stiles and Hecaté were debating whether or not to interfere before they killed each other.

Tamar had not meant to start a fight. She had descended the stairs calmly, and had been rationally marshalling her thoughts, when she noticed a newspaper on the mat as she passed. Automatically, she picked it up and read the headline.  In a normal frame of mind, she would have been amused by it – even now, anger and humour were combating for possession of her features – it was, after all, only a rag sheet, a supermarket gossipy thing.  She ought to have wondered who had delivered it, and why. But it never crossed her mind. 

Denny was still in the kitchen. Tamar stormed in and slapped the paper down in front of him knocking over his beer. ‘Have you seen this?’ she demanded.

Denny looked down bemusedly at the paper. His eyes widened as he saw…

THE ENQUIRER

Is Denny Sanger the sexiest man in the world?

‘How did they get a picture of you?’ snapped Tamar. ‘You were supposed to be being careful.’

‘I’m not sure they did,’ said Denny diffidently, examining the tiny blurry and pixelated image. ‘This could be of anyone.’

‘It’s you all right,’ snapped Tamar. Then she conceded. ‘Or perhaps David Beckham,’

‘Or anyone else with blond hair,’ supplied Denny. ‘Such is fame.’ He grinned. ‘I don’t look anything like David Beckham,’ he added.

‘I suppose it could have been worse,’ said Tamar not bothering to mention that that had been her point. ‘It could have been me.’

‘You don’t look anything like me either,’ said Denny with another grin.

‘I never imagined that we would end up practically famous,’ said Tamar, ignoring this. Sometimes Denny’s sense of humour annoyed her, at least at times like this when she considered it inappropriate. 

‘Just as long as you don’t bring out a fitness video,’ said Denny. ‘That really would be false advertising. Nobody in the world could ever look like you, no matter how many crunches they did.’

This time Tamar did smile. And it might have all ended peacefully there if Tamar had not walked over to the sink and started rattling dishes.

Denny snapped. He clicked his fingers and the dishes vanished.

‘What did you do that for?’ Tamar turned on him.

‘Because I
can
!’ said Denny angrily. ‘And so can you. If you must know, I’m bloody sick of all this pretending to be ordinary. You are
anything
but ordinary, and I like you that way.’

‘And if I
had
no powers?’

‘That’d be different.’

‘How exactly?’ she asked sardonically.

‘You wouldn’t be pretending. It’s all a game to you, a bloody silly, boring game. I’m getting really fed up with it.’

‘Fed up with
me,
you mean?’

That had been half an hour ago and now the fur was really flying. The house was shaking as they threw lightning bolts at the furniture and Tamar screamed. ‘How do you like me now? Nothing ordinary about
that
was there?’