I, Spy? (18 page)

His parents. Tears pricked my eyes, and I blamed the medication for my unstable emotional state. They looked so proud with their baby. Was it him, or did he have a brother or sister? I couldn’t tell. There were no more photos of anyone with a baby, although there were a few of a very cute little blond boy messing with paddling pools and a black Labrador. Damn Luke, he’d been irresistible even then.

The family photos stopped when the little boy was about five or six. No more pictures of his parents—not even a graduation photo. Surely being in the RAF involved some sort of graduation, ceremony—something?

I frowned, and carefully put the photos back in their box, in the order I’d found them, and turned my attention to the other things in the cupboard. A few trophies and badges, all rather dusty. Hmm, a military medal, although I didn’t know what it was for or even if it was Luke’s. It might have been his dad’s or something.

The RAF cap with its little silver wings was cool. The teddy bear was downright adorable. The guns…

Oh, baby. The guns.

The thing was, I had no idea what ammo went with what piece. There were boxes and boxes of bullets, all labelled, but the labels meant nothing to me. What did .40 Smith & Wesson mean, anyway?

Eventually I opened up the magazine of a revolver and found five little bullets nestling in place. The sixth, a dredged-up memory told me, was a safety chamber.

I found a shoulder holster and eventually figured out how to strap myself into it (I was on really strong painkillers, okay?), slotted the pistol in, and felt very, very cool.

I zipped up the hoody, concealing the gun completely, and felt even cooler.

As well as pretty scared. Knowing me I’d probably manage to shoot myself.

Two more pairs of socks made walking more bearable and also meant I fitted into Luke’s trainers. I found a spare key taped inside a kitchen drawer—slack, Luke, really not good at all—and locked up after myself.

The door opened straight onto the outside world, on a metal staircase climbing the outside of what looked like a barn. There were vans and things parked in the concrete yard and piles of roof tiles all over the place.

Curiouser and curiouser. I ventured across the yard to the driveway and the main road, saw a sign announcing Pearce Roofing, and laughed out loud. I’d driven by this place pretty much every day on my way to my parents’ house. It was maybe half a mile from where I lived. I didn’t have to worry about dodging train fares or hitching lifts or anything.

Fantastic.

On my way back home, feeling much lighter than I had all morning, I passed the village cobbler’s. It was completely irresistible. The cobbler was slightly surprised to be presented with a credit card by means of payment for one key copy, but I had no cash on me.

I found my flat, my lovely flat, intact at least from the outside, with Ted standing guard and a pile of rubble on the other side of the car park.

Actually, you could hardly tell it was rubble. Building sites sort of all look the same, don’t they?

That’s my story, and I’m sticking to it. Boy, I have a lot of stories.

I was slightly nervous when I walked in, especially since I’d had to climb over a large box outside that had apparently been delivered in my absence. I’d open it later, when I knew my flat was okay. I dreaded to think what was inside. Internal organs?

The flat was as I’d left it—chaotic, with clothes and make-up all over the place. It looked better to my eyes than it ever ever had. I only wished Tammy was here with me.

Yesterday’s post was still on the floor and I didn’t need to look inside the bulkiest envelope to know I’d got another finger. The freezer drawer with the other two fingers was full of ice cream, so I put the new arrival on its own with the chips. It was well wrapped. I hadn’t even opened it.

There was a voice mail on my Siemens phone. “Hey, Soph, it’s Angel. Says in the book you’ve got flu, poor baby! I’ll try and drop round on my way in—I’m on nine-five overtime…”

That girl was mad.

“…don’t worry if you can’t get to the door, flu sucks. Drink lots of water and have some chicken soup. Damn, I mean golden veg or something. See you!”

Ahh. Lovely, lovely Angel. And lovely Luke, too, for coming up with a plausible excuse. Not that I’d never used the flu one before. Ahem.

I got a knife from the kitchen and stood in my doorway, feeling cold, staring at the cardboard box. It was all taped up and my name had been scrawled on it. It couldn’t be a delivery, I thought, there was no address or invoice. Besides, I hadn’t ordered anything.

Feeling slightly sick, I crouched down and slit the tape, expecting something vile to leap out at me. Nothing did. Instead, I found myself looking at seven gorgeous boxed sets of
Buffy
DVDs.

For a moment I couldn’t speak. Darling sweet Angel, who shares my obsession. These are her prized possessions! If her house was on fire this would be all she’d save. This and her father’s guitar, which is worth millions. And has sentimental value, of course.

I dragged the box inside, heated up some soup, grabbed a bottle of water, and curled up with my duvet on the sofa to watch endless hours of Californian vampires.

Several hours later, I’d watched the entire first series of
Buffy
, complete with commentaries and featurettes, six episodes of
Sex and the City
, last night’s
Friends
and twenty minutes of
Alias
. And I’d cried endlessly. I cried when Buffy and her friends had to kill that vamped mate of Xander’s in the first episode. I cried when Carrie cheated on Aidan. I cried when Monica thought Chandler didn’t want to have a baby with her. I cried because Michael Vartan is gorgeous.

I don’t know what was wrong with me. I must have really been in shock. How could Luke let me come home on my own like that? Why didn’t he lock me in? I felt so unsafe, and unloved—because it was dark already and he hadn’t called or come by or anything. Not even a text. I even went online to see if he’d somehow got my e-mail address and messaged me that way, but no. There was nothing.

Maybe Maria was right. Maybe he totally separated sex from emotion. Maybe I truly meant absolutely nothing to him. My memories of the night before were hazy, to say the least—especially after all my painkillers—but I couldn’t remember any cuddling or nice, sweet words.

The bastard used me. I was concussed and he seduced me. He’s an arsehole!

Eventually, at about eight-thirty, the phone rang, and I ignored it. I hardly ever pick up anyway—that’s what the answer phone is for. And I was supposed to have flu, which, as I remember, traps you in bed for a week with a body that feels like a building has fallen down on it.

Hmm.

The message rang out, clear and pissed off. “Sophie Green, you had better not be sitting there listening to this. I thought someone had fucking kidnapped you. I’m going to try your mobile and so help me, if you don’t answer in thirty seconds, I’ll blow your bloody apartment up myself.”

Uh-oh. Did I forget to lock the door or something? Had he found out about the gun?

Quickly—well, as quickly as my crippled body would allow—I ran to the bedroom and shoved the revolver under the mattress. Then I hobbled back into the living room and picked up the Nokia, which was shrieking madly.

Is it my imagination, or does it sound more frantic when the call is important?

“Where the hell are you?” Luke snarled.

“At home.”

“Why the hell are you at home?”

I recoiled from the phone. I sure was glad Luke was on my side.

“I—I didn’t feel safe at your house. I like my flat.”

“My house is significantly bloody safer than yours! Jesus, Sophie, whoever it is that’s been sending you those fingers knows where you live. They were there yesterday. They’ll probably be back tonight. They will probably try to kill you. And I for one am half inclined to let them.”

I glared at the phone. “What did I do?”

“How did you even get home?”

“I walked. It’s not far.”

“How did you—”

“I’ve lived in this bloody village since I was two, Luke, I know where things are.”

He was silent for a few seconds, but I could hear him fuming.

“I’m sending Maria over to keep an eye on you. I have things to do,” he said eventually, and then clicked off before I could reply.

I stared at the phone in my hand. What was all that about? He’d have mentioned the gun if he knew that was missing. Why was he so mad?

Maria turned up ten minutes later, looking as perfect as always, dressed down in gym clothes, her hair shiny and perky. I shuffled back to let her in, feeling like the Hunchback of Notre Dame.

“Bloody hell,” she shook her head at me, “he wasn’t kidding.”

“What?”

“You look like shit,” she said frankly. “Sorry, but you do.”

“I’m fine,” I said. “Just bruised. I’ll be fine. Really, you don’t need to be here.”

“Either me or Macbeth,” she said, slinging her bag off her shoulder, “take your pick.”

Maria was looking like the better option. Nothing against Macbeth, but he didn’t look like he’d appreciate Ben & Jerry’s and angry girl music.

“Do you know why Luke’s in such a bad mood with me?” I ventured as she kicked off her sparkling trainers.

She shrugged. “I guess because he’s worried about you. He’s been at the office all day looking up stuff on Wright and some American guy, bugging the hell out of his FBI contacts and all. He said he was going back there later. I’m surprised he didn’t come here himself…”

I was beginning to get the feeling Luke hadn’t come in person because he didn’t want to have to fill in all the paperwork that would follow killing me.

“Hey,” Maria said. “I like your hair like that.”

I touched it, remembering that it was dark. “Disguise,” I mumbled. “You want to watch some TV?”

She nodded and looked over the mess of videos and DVDs on the floor. “Whatever you want.”

As always in times of emotional insecurity, I turned to
Buffy
. Series four, that glorious episode where you get Angel and Riley and Spike all in one juicy bunch. Man, I want to live in Sunnydale, land of fit men and perfect hair.

“So…” Maria said after a while, digging into the ice cream with her spoon, “this is after Angel’s left, right?”

“Yeah. But he comes back for a visit.”

“Right. And Spike’s been chipped…?”

“Yes. And Buffy’s sleeping with Riley.”

“Which one do you prefer?”

I considered it. “Well, Buffy’s really not my type. Too short.”

Maria laughed. “I think I’d go for Riley.”

“Really?” He reminded me of Harvey, all shiny hair and nice teeth. Oh God, Harvey. I’d forgotten about that part of last night. “I’d have to go with Spike. I need a certain amount of sarcasm in my life.”

Maria went after a cow-shaped chunk of chocolate. “Hmm. Bad accent. If we’re talking sharp teeth, I’d go for Angel. I like ‘em dark and brooding.”

“Well, I’m not saying I’d kick him out of bed,” I took the ice cream from her and chased a white chocolate cow, “but I like blonds. Even peroxide blonds.”

“He does have good cheekbones,” Maria conceded, licking her spoon.

“Mmm.”

We watched Spike strut around in some caves, all black leather and sexy sneer.

“He looks sort of like Luke,” Maria said after a while.

I said nothing.

“Don’t you think? With the cheekbones and the smirk?”

Luke looked better. “I guess,” I shrugged.

Maria took the ice cream off me and gave me a sly look. “Sophie, what are you not telling me?”

I stared at the screen. “Nothing.”

“Why is Luke so concerned about you? What happened last night?”

“Someone fired a shot at me and the building site collapsed on me. He probably just doesn’t want to find another partner.”

She had her head on one side and was considering me carefully. “Sophie,” she said seriously, and I looked up at her guiltily. “When we were talking about Luke on Wednesday and you said he’d made a pass at you, that’s all, right? He hasn’t been trying it on since then?”

I said nothing.

“Oh Jesus,” Maria sighed, putting down the Ben & Jerry’s. “What happened?”

I mumbled it very quietly.

“What?”

“We sort of had sex.”

She stared. “Sort of?”

“Well, sort of properly. Orgasm and everything.”

She was shaking her head. “When did this happen?”

“Last night.”

“Before or after the building fell down?”

“After.”

“Bloody hell.” We stared at the end credits of
Buffy
. “Well, no wonder he’s angry.”

I frowned. “What do you mean?”

“He’s feeling guilty. He totally took advantage of you, Sophie, don’t you see? God, I thought he had a bit more self control than that.”

I felt compelled to defend him a little. After all, he taped
Buffy
for me. “Well, I didn’t exactly protest too much.”

“Well, no, you wouldn’t. I mean, it’s Luke. Who’d protest?”

I had to ask. “Did you?”

“Did I what?”

“Did you and Luke… You know. Were you ever…”

“Ever more than just professional?” Maria’s eyes went distant, and her perfect mouth curved into a smile. “I’ll never tell,” she said serenely.

Bloody hell.

I eventually crawled off to bed, painkillers and exhaustion overwhelming me, while Maria curled up on the sofa under my sleeping bag. But I couldn’t sleep. I kept thinking about what she’d said. If a building falls down on someone you fancy, you get them off to the A&E pretty sharpish. You check for concussion straight away. You don’t stop for a quick shag.

God, now I felt like one of those Victorian heroines in the sort of melodramatic novels I have always despised, like they used to make us read at school. Marianne Dashwood. Tess of the d’Urbervilles. “Taken advantage of.” Jesus.

I was a modern woman. I could take care of myself. I could go out and have sex with whoever I want. In theory, anyway. People did not take advantage of me.

Right, when I saw Luke I was going to kick him in the head. Hard. With stilettos.

When I wasn’t so crippled, obviously.