Exit Alpha (16 page)

‘Condition Red? For a doddle with three females and a poltergeist?’

‘Don’t assume it’s a doddle. Now we can’t spare surgeon backup for this number. Vanqua’s pushed for trained people as well, so you’re it. All hands to the pumps.
Tu comprends
?’

He spent the rest of the day in ops, absorbing detailed briefings, then took the lift to the bistro to meet Pat. Unlike the canteen, the place had candles, fabric tablecloths and its windows overlooked the valley wilderness. Couples mostly ate there, despite the nominal charge.

She was waiting in a corner booth. She’d put on lipstick, done her best, but nothing could disguise her worn-out look. She pointed to the cliff and dusk-smudged trees. ‘Isn’t that beautiful?’

He nodded, sat down, uneasy. Life was rough sailing and reunions definite shoals.

‘So how’s the pet food and tampons trade?’

‘Busy.’

‘Enjoy it?’

‘For a while. Now it feels a bit pointless. It’s such a small tight push. People vanishing up their bums.’

‘I told Rhonda you’d get jack of it.’ There was great tiredness behind her smile. ‘So . . . women?’

‘Just one. No intellectual giant but affectionate. Took a while to get my lies straight. It’s over now. She had a child in Noumea and went back to the father for the kid’s sake. So — how’s life with you?’

‘Ratshit.’ She fiddled with her bread knife. ‘I’ve had a double mastectomy.’

‘Cancer?’

‘I’ve been bald for a while.’

He took her hands. ‘Is it . . . ?’

‘Too bloody right. DEATH IS A FACT OF LIFE. But we’ve still got tonight — if you can stand me.’

He stared at her and tears began.

She said, ‘Don’t. You’ll wet the tablecloth.’

‘Jesus. Why are you still here?’

‘WORLD MAINTENANCE IS MORALITY. I want this outfit back on the rails. And I couldn’t let Ron down. She’s been in-bloody-credible — just plain heroic. You’ve no idea what we’ve been through.’

Their evening was all the more poignant because they didn’t know if they’d ever meet again. She left the bedside light on, took the padded bra off with her back to him, shy about the scars, then turned. ‘I look like a whore’s drawers.’

‘Those who matter don’t mind and those who mind don’t matter.’

He made love to her, surprised at the fierceness of her response. They cried a little, kissed a lot. Later, the peace on her face made him glad.

Sometime during the night they woke and he pressed her hand in the dark. ‘You two can’t carry this alone. You’re both exhausted. Please let me help.’

‘You’re helping, love. Honestly.’

‘By romancing two sisters in the sticks of New Zealand? Let me stay here and take the bastards out.’

‘It’s not that simple. But we’ve a counter-attack set up and getting you out of mothballs is a part of it.’

‘You mean this job’s a diversion?’

‘Don’t ask. And don’t fret. You’ll get your chance to spill blood.’

‘For God’s sake, Pat, fill me in.’

‘Nup. Ronnie’s right. Too dangerous.’

It often came to this. It was difficult sleeping with head office.

After a while she said, ‘Do you think there’s life after death?’

‘Was there before?’

‘I’ve had a fan-bloody-tastic life. Wouldn’t have missed it for quids. You’ve studied all this stuff. What do you reckon?’

He gave the comforting reply. ‘If there’s not, you won’t have a worry. If there is, it’s a bonus. Either way you’re in good shape.’

It pleased her. ‘Hadn’t thought of it like that.’

Soon he heard soft snores.

He stared for a long time into the dark.

R
honda stubbed out the butt on the bed-head and tossed the report on the floor. She rubbed her eyes, switched off the light and forlornly prayed for sleep.

But her mind still churned with the questions that had kept her so often awake. If they wanted to get rid of her, why hadn’t they attacked? If they knew enough to destroy EXIT projects, why hadn’t the place been exposed? She was physically strong but couldn’t take much more.

To soothe herself into drowsiness she thought about past loves. It was 1959. She’d been twenty-two — and Etta a flaxen-haired sixteen.

First love, so strangely sweet. The body that she loved, so fair and lithe. The rapture of a female heart and body responding to her own.

Nothing, nothing, could equal those brief months. She’d felt like an Olympian struck from the sun. But the lifespan in ancient Greece was thirty years. And in this age of medical dexterity and emotional aridity she was two decades beyond that — ugly, fat.

And the beautiful Etta was dust.

Better dust than the thing she’d found hanging from the beam in the laundry, the blood pooled in the ankles, glory gone. An unmoving thing that turned slowly on the rope. A broken thing.

Her love, stronger than time, scourging her with regret. She turned in the bed and groaned.

Mockery feasting on despair.

Sleep. She had to sleep.

Love — the most dangerous thing in the world.

T
he house was a twenty-minute drive from the small township along a narrow road that wound between steep cliffs. Cain drove slowly in torrential rain, wipers on high. He crossed three wooden bridges — typical of this remote area — single lane with a caution sign each end. The rivers beneath the bridges thundered over jagged rocks and cascades sprayed from the high side of the road.

It was an ominous landscape, every turn revealing a new cloud-blurred peak gashed by thin waterfalls. He reached a cleared valley of tussocks and tree roots hacked from mossy beech forest.

The building commanded the valley, sat well back on the high side of the road. It looked more like a country hotel than the domain of a wrathful ghost. Behind it rose a precipitous backdrop of trees and sub-alpine scrub.

The curving drive was flanked by neat lawn and well-placed trees. He stopped the car beneath the entrance portico and the sound of rain on metal ceased. He’d expected a home this far south to have walls made mouldy by spring rains. But the ranch-style, two-storey building with its bay windows and elegant air was well maintained, its paintwork spick.

He got a bag out of the boot, crossed the terrace to the door and rang. A vacuum cleaner switched off. Through frosted-glass panels, someone coming.

‘Cain?’

The Great Stromlo matched the briefing photographs. Shabby clothes, clerical collar, thin frame, pouched face.

‘Mark West’s the agreed name.’

‘Yes of course, Mr West. Please come in.’

The tiled entranceway had stairs leading up.

He said, ‘Impressive place.’

Stromlo’s doleful look. ‘There should be a sign:
Lasciate ogni speranza
. . .’

Abandon hope?

A woman came down the stairs. The original was considerably better than the unfinished substitute. She wore tight black stretch-jeans and a woollen top open at the neck. She had a ripe curve to her hips and upper body, heavy breasts, soft lines to her shoulders and arms. The way it all moved was intriguing.

‘So the parcel’s arrived.’ Her voice sounded like Baileys Irish Cream gurgling through a warm bassoon.

‘This is Mark West, our new security man.’ Stromlo introduced the woman. ‘Eve Rinaldi.’

She stepped over the vacuum cleaner that Stromlo had apparently been using at the foot of the stairs, came forward to shake his hand. ‘You’re very handsome.’ Then to Stromlo, ‘I’ll take him up.’

As he followed her she said, ‘This used to be a conference centre. They couldn’t make it pay. Too far away from anywhere. We got it cheap.’

He lugged his bag up the second turn of stairs, watching her rounded but neat rear straining her jeans pleasantly as she climbed. They walked to a bedroom with en suite and view out over the valley. As he put down the bag, he spotted a movement sensor at the corner of the ceiling.

She said, ‘Father Roberto vacuumed in here this morning. He doesn’t have to do it but sees drudgery as penance. He’s a strange character — but a wonderful music teacher for Nina.’

She led him back down to the expansive lounge room that had been chalk-marks in the EXIT mock-up. It had a sprawl of comfortable furniture, a baby grand and a hooded central fire where logs smouldered in a pile of white ash.

‘Central heating,’ she said.

He gazed at the sweeping sodden view. The windows, true to the briefing, had security strips. ‘A beautiful place.’

‘It’s converted well. Jane and I have made lairs of some of the upstairs suites. She has her workroom. I have my sewing room and materials storeroom. My doll studio’s downstairs in what used to be a conference room. Then there’s the pool, gym, sauna. We don’t lack much. We have four garages in a separate building at the back with staff accommodation above them.’

‘Cosy.’

‘So you’re here to protect us from the Russians?’

‘I understand they paid you a visit.’

‘Two of them. We said “no”.’

‘The next time you mightn’t have a choice.’

‘If you do your job properly we will. Coffee?’

‘Thanks.’

‘Follow me. Cook’s off today. Jane’s at work. You’ll meet her later.’ They entered a commercial kitchen. ‘We haven’t remodelled this yet. Too hard.’ She fiddled with a mini espresso machine.

‘Powdered stuff’s fine.’

‘In that case . . .’ She spooned some crystals into a mug and filled it from a steaming electric urn. ‘Milk?’

‘Thanks.’

‘Cow’s milk’s bad for humans. Ideal for calves of course.’ She went to a fridge as big as a walk-in cupboard.

The sound of the rain and the hollow tick of a reproduction railway wall-clock.

‘You’ve brought guns, I suppose?’

He nodded.

‘We won’t leave, you know.’

As he took the cup, the girl walked in. She wore a floppy jumper and jeans. Long fair hair hung down her back. Her sulkily beautiful face and slim frame made her classic jail-bait.

Eve said, ‘Nina. This is our new security man, Mr West.’

‘You going to screw him?’ She spat the words.

‘Behave yourself.’

‘Suck eggs.’ She grabbed a biscuit from a canister.

Eve shrugged. ‘They’re angels at two, contentious at five, savages at ten and demons at thirteen.’

Her daughter threw the canister to the floor. Biscuits scattered over the tiles.

Her mother ordered, ‘Out. Now.’

The girl stood her ground, legs apart, holding her breath. Her eyes bulged slightly and she made a small grunting noise. The room, for no clear reason, became cold.

‘No!’ her mother cried. She clapped once and pointed at the door. ‘Out.’

The girl glared a moment longer then flounced from sight.

Eve frowned. ‘She’s so destructive. I need to go and talk to her. Excuse me.’

As he stood in the empty kitchen, sipping coffee, he noticed the ticking had stopped and glanced up at the clock. The minute hand had bent until it was touching the glass. As he watched it bent further. He stared at it, incredulous, cold sweat starting down his spine.

Stromlo came into the room, squatted stiffly, began to pick up biscuits.

Cain pointed. ‘The — clock.’

He glanced at it. ‘Yes. Like Lazarus, we are trapped in the sepulchre of time.’

‘The hands, I mean. They’re bending.’

He looked again. ‘Devil’s child. I suggest we go back to the lounge room.’

‘Why?’

‘You never know.’

‘Know what?’

The priest reached for the canister but it rolled as if retreating from his hand yet there was no draught in the room. He growled, ‘Jesus Christ rebukes you oh demon, oh deceiver,’ then lunged, caught the canister and dropped the biscuits back inside. He slammed the lid on it, stood and placed it back on a bench top. ‘Come on.’

Cain was staring again at the clock. The hour hand had fallen off and now lay against the glass.

As they moved back to the lounge, there was a crash behind them. It sounded as if the tin had fallen and the biscuits were back on the floor.

‘What’s that?’

‘The devil’s work.’

‘Shouldn’t we . . .’

‘Best to ignore it.’

‘How?’

‘The trouble with evil is there’s nothing easier to get used to.’ The priest hunched into a chair by the fire and stared morosely at the rain.

Cain reluctantly sat, still churning at what he’d seen. ‘How does she — do it?’

‘I doubt she knows. I’ve talked to her but our relationship’s mortified — a conversation with the dead.’