Balancing Act Page 9

  Back to power, and control.

  Back to Ketty.

  I should be happy. I should be ready. But I’m not sure how I feel.

  Emma is dangerous. She knows how to get what she wants from me, and as long as I am training the group, I know I can’t walk away. But there’s something about the challenge – keeping her on my side while keeping myself entertained. I’m going to miss this.

  And I’m going to miss waking up to blonde hair, blue eyes, and freckles. I’m blushing when I realise it’s not Emma’s face that comes to mind – that it’s not Emma waiting for me in London – and the thought makes me stumble.

  It’s late morning by the time I’m dressed. I’ve been drinking coffee and water and planning the deal I’m going to make for the boat. I treat myself to an all-day breakfast from one of the cafés on the seafront before heading back to the payphone and calling London again.

  A cheerful woman takes my password, and connects my call.

  “Corporal Conrad.” It’s a shock to hear Lee’s voice. I’m standing up straight and running a hand through my untamed hair before I realise what I’m doing.

  “Yes, Sir.”

  “You’re enjoying the delights of Kent?” Even over the phone I can hear the smirk in his voice.

  I try not to react. “Yes, Sir.”

  “So,” he says, and I can hear papers shuffling on his desk. “A trawler.”

  He’s waiting for me to explain.

  “It makes sense, Sir. They put everything together on the boat. That way any screw-ups are at the bottom of the sea, and not on a quiet street where the neighbours will talk.”

  “And they requested this?” His voice is cold. I hope the truth is the answer he’s looking for.

  “Yes, Sir. They suggested it themselves.”

  He makes me wait for his answer. I cradle the freezing handset against my ear, watching my breath cloud in front of me.

  “Good, Corporal. I’ll approve it.”

  “Thank you, Sir. And the crew?”

  “Approved,” he says, and I think I hear respect in his voice. “A lucky find, that one. Father and son will make a good addition to your team.”

  “So they passed the background checks?”

  “They passed.” He’s smiling, and so am I. “And Corporal? The father has a subscription to one of the underground resistance magazines.”

  I can’t help laughing. “He’s already on their side?”

  “It would appear so. Not a member of any cell, as far as we’re aware, but he’s definitely sympathetic.”

  “Thank you, Sir.” I’m grinning now. “I’ll make the deal today.”

  There’s a pause, and I wonder whether I’m supposed to hang up, but then Lee speaks again.

  “Get this done, Corporal,” he says, no trace of a smile in his voice.

  “Yes, Sir,” I say as he cuts the line.

  *****

  I sit, overlooking the harbour, and wait for the boats to come in. The Lindisfarne Lady moors up at the quayside, and I help to carry the catch to the warehouse. Father and son shake my hand over another beer at the makeshift bar, and a fat envelope of cash disappears quickly into the father’s pocket. His eyes widen as he checks the money, and he shakes my hand again as I leave. I’ve given him a day to prepare the boat, and then I’ll bring Kieran and Jen to meet their crew.

  On the way out of the warehouse I spot the corner of a poster on the wall next to the bar. The rest has been torn off the rough wooden boards, but I can still see the corner of a brightly coloured Union Jack. I’m smiling as I walk into the cold wind on the quayside. That’s a resistance poster – the one with Ketty’s recruit in RTS armour, under the waving flag.

  Someone else is taking risks for the resistance. I’m in the right place.

  I’ve spent the afternoon withdrawing cash for the boat from the bank. My fake ID didn’t raise any concerns, and the Terrorism Committee hasn’t let me down. The identity they’ve created is solid enough to pass background checks and bank security. No one can trace me back to the Home Forces, which means that what I do here, stays here. When I leave, my new friends will assume I’m helping some other cell, or checking in with the resistance. They’ll have no reason to suspect that they’ve been used.

  And after the bombs? We’ll wait, and see whether the group follows the rules. If they do, we’ll keep them under surveillance. If not, we’ll have troops on standby, waiting to drag them out of bed and throw them into prison vans. We’ll plaster their faces all over PIN, and we’ll turn their trials into must-watch TV. Their firing squads, too.

  I’m not new to this job. I’ve been running resistance cells since Lee recruited me to the Terrorism Committee, and I’ve sent plenty of rebels to the execution platform, so I’m surprised when the thought of Emma in handcuffs steals the breath from my lungs.

  I’m not supposed to get involved. I’m not supposed to have feelings. For a moment I’m angry with her – angry at her blue eyes and athletic curves. At the way she’s made me feel. At the challenge of keeping her happy while making sure she does everything I need her to do.

  She’s like a happier, warmer version of Ketty. She’s tough and determined, but she’s not fighting me. She’s fighting for the resistance, and she thinks I’m on her side. She likes me. She’s useful.

  I’ve got a week until I have to leave. A week to guarantee her compliance with the plan, and a week of waking up beside her.

  She’s disposable, but I haven’t disposed of her yet. I might as well enjoy the nights I have left.

  *****

  Emma is waiting on the doorstep when I walk up to the cottage, two bags of groceries on the path beside her. She demands a kiss before I open the door, and when she picks up the bags I can hear the clanking of glass bottles.

  I hold the door open and follow her into the kitchen. She lifts the bags onto the worksurface, and pulls out bottles and cartons – vodka, gin, rum, and fruit juices, followed by packets of fresh ingredients. I raise an eyebrow, and she grins.

  “Cocktails, and dinner!” Her enthusiasm makes me smile.

  “What’s the occasion?”

  She steps closer, and slides her hands round my waist. “Did you get the boat?”

  I wrap my arms round her shoulders and plant a kiss on her forehead. “I got the boat.”

  “Then we’re ready?” She sounds nervous. I kiss her again.

  “You’re ready.”

  She shivers in my arms, and I pull her closer, breathing in the vanilla scent of her hair.

  “You’re ready,” I whisper in her ear.

  She’s just understanding what she has volunteered to do, and I need to keep her focused. I need to convince her she can go through with the bombing.

  This is what I’m here for.

  “This is your chance, Emma.” I say, pulling back to look into her eyes. “You and your friends? You’re making history. You’re making a difference.”

  It’s the line I always use, but it works. She stands up straight, her gaze locked on mine.

  “We’re fighting back,” she says, breathless.

  “You’re fighting back.”

  And she smiles.

  She’s going to do this. She’s going to follow the plan, and plant the bombs. She’s going to take Home Forces technology and use it to make a statement, with no idea who she’s working for. She’s going to make it easy for us to stay in power, all the time believing that she’s working for the resistance. And she’s going to take her friends with her.

  This is going to work.

  “So are we celebrating?” I glance at the bottles behind her.

  “Why not? This deserves a party!”

  We mix our first drink, and she presents me with a chopping board and a knife, grinning.

  “You showed me your idea of a romantic dinner. I’m going to show you mine.”

  I look at the knife. “So I’m …?

  “You’re the sous chef.” She leans in to kiss me. “Do as I say, and we
’ll get along fine.”

  “Yes, Sir,” I say, and she grins.

  *****

  We eat a beautiful Thai-style stir fry – heavy on the salt, but we’re not short of cocktails. We take it in turns to mix drinks, and I’m aware that I’m slurring my words. I should stop. I should sober up, but I feel like celebrating. I’ve rented the boat, I’ve guided Emma through her doubts. This job is nearly done, just as Lee wanted.

  I deserve a celebration.

  And when Emma pulls a pack of cards from her pocket, I have to smother a laugh.

  “Want to make this more interesting?” She asks, eyebrows raised.

  I know this move. This is my move. My way to keep things exciting with the Home Forces girls.

  She’s using my move against me – she actually wants to play – and I realise I love it. She thinks she’s in control. She thinks she’s manipulating me.

  “Strip poker?” I’m grinning. “We’re going to need more drinks.”

  She jumps up and takes both glasses to the kitchen. “I’ve got this!” She calls, even though I’m sure it’s my turn.

  *****

  I’m bad at this game. I’m confused. I should be winning.

  No – I should be letting her win, and making sure she’s drinking more than me, but I’ve forgotten whose turn it is to make the drinks, and the kitchen feels so far away.

  She brings me another cocktail. Something with rum, I think, and then she wins another hand.

  How is she doing this?

  I tug my T-shirt over my head. It takes longer than it should, but that’s what she asked for. The sleeves are tangled round my wrists, so she leans over and gently pulls the bunched fabric away, adding the shirt to her pile of my clothes.

  I blink. Apart from her shoes, she’s still dressed.

  But there’s another drink in my hand, and she’s dealing the cards again and it’s time to play.

  I remember giving her my belt. I don’t remember giving her my trousers. I vaguely remember her helping me walk to the bedroom. The way she pulled the duvet over me and turned out the light.

  I’m warm, and comfortable, and the room is quietly spinning.

  Good party, I think, as I fall asleep.

  Headache

  I don’t know what time it is when I wake up, but the room is dark. I’m trying to remember where I am. Who else is here. Who else should be in my bed.

  And then I hear voices from the living room.

  Emma.

  I nearly get up. I could use a glass of water, and if she’s still up, maybe I can distract her.

  But there are two voices. Emma is talking to someone.

  Someone else is in my house.

  I lie still, ignoring the headache creeping through my skull. I focus on the voices.

  And I nearly laugh out loud when I realise the other person is Jen.

  I’ve been played. All those drinks – I bet Emma was drinking fruit juice every time she mixed something stronger for me.

  They’re searching for something. I can hear rustling as they look through my pockets. As they empty the rucksack in the hall.

  I remember the strip poker. She played on purpose to make sure my clothes would be in the living room. Clothes, wallet, and keys.

  I rub my hands over my face, smiling. She’s good.

  But I’m better. I know they won’t find anything. There is nothing in this cottage to connect me to the Home Forces. Everything in my wallet is in my false name, with a fake address in Birmingham. They can’t link me to London, or Lee.

  So I let them search, fragments of conversation reaching me as I lie still.

  “You’re the one who begged to be the tempting girlfriend!” Jen says, laughing.

  “Have you looked at him?” Emma’s voice. Jen laughs again, and I’m smiling at the ceiling. Lydia was right about my looks. Emma might have been playing me this whole time, but she’s enjoying herself. She’s enjoying me.

  Mission accomplished.

  “Anyway,” Emma says, quietly. “No offence, but I don’t think you’re his type.”

  I’m laughing properly now, one hand over my mouth to stifle the sound.

  “Oh – and you are?” I can hear the smile in Jen’s voice.

  All the noises stop. I’m biting my knuckles, waiting for Emma’s response.

  “Yeah,” she says, sounding serious. “I think I am.”

  Blonde hair, blue eyes, curves, and freckles. She has no idea how true that is.

  “Well, lucky you.” There’s a mocking edge to Jen’s comment. “Don’t get too used to it. He’s going back at the end of the week.”

  The rustling begins again, and something hard hits the floor. Emma swears.

  “How sleepy is he?” Jen’s whispering, and I’m straining to catch her words.

  “Probably in a coma, the amount he’s had to drink.” And they’re both laughing.

  Let them laugh. Let them turn the cottage upside down. They’ve committed to the plan, and they’re ready to fight for the resistance.

  I have the power here.

  They’re ready to fight for me.

  *****

  By the morning, my headache is truly brutal. I have no idea how much Emma gave me to drink last night, but she’s right – I should have been in a coma.

  But if I deserve painkillers and sympathy, she deserves an Oscar. She lies next to me, groaning as I crawl out of bed and stumble to the bathroom.

  My face in the mirror is grey, and my eyes are bloodshot. I feel horrific.

  I head to the kitchen and fill two pint glasses with water, then stagger back to bed, leaning over her to leave a glass on her bedside table. She screws up her eyes and pulls the duvet over her head. I’m smiling, in spite of the drums playing in my skull.

  There’s no way she feels as bad as I do. She sounded sober last night, with Jen. This is all to make sure I don’t suspect anything.

  I think about what she’s done. Manipulated me. Incapacitated me. Worse – she helped me to incapacitate myself.

  She’s done what I do. She made sure I drank more than she did. She kept her mind sharp while mine dissolved.

  And she used my blackout to check my identity. She used it to protect her friends. To protect the cell.

  Like Kieran, watching over Jen on the seafront during our first meeting. Jen’s car on my street, the other night. They’re looking out for each other. They’re taking care of each other. They’re being careful, and they understand the risks.

  I have to respect what they’ve done. Choosing someone to get close to me. Checking me out, even while they’re working with me. And the trawler – it was their idea to hire a boat, and Emma’s manipulation that persuaded me to agree.

  They’ve proved that I am who I say I am. They’ve satisfied themselves that I represent the resistance, and they’ve got themselves a boat, paid for by Lee’s funds.

  I drain my glass of water and sit back against the pillows. Emma groans again, and I’m trying not to laugh. However bad I’m feeling, she’s the one who has to fake it.

  I’m going to enjoy this.

  *****

  It’s late when I finally drag myself out of bed. I need another drink, and I desperately need a shower. I find the painkillers in the kitchen drawer, and swallow two with another pint of water. Emma grumbles and pulls the duvet close around her shoulders when I try to wake her, but I know she’s fine.

  The shower helps to clear the fog in my head. I turn the temperature down until I’m standing under icy water, hissing and shivering with every breath. I make myself stay, letting the cold restart my body.

  Our clothes are all over the living room floor, and the cards are heaped on the coffee table along with two empty glasses. I don’t remember how this looked last night, but I do remember Emma winning almost all the rounds we played. There’s no way she left her clothes in here while we were playing, but the piles of Lycra tell a different story. She’s set up the room to cover her tracks.

  I’m impr
essed.

  I pull coffee and mugs from the kitchen cupboard and set the coffee maker running. I hang my dressing gown in the bathroom and wrap a towel round my hips, styling my hair in the mirror. There’s nothing I can do about the bags under my eyes, but the rest is good enough.

  Time to wake the fake hangover.

  I carry a mug of coffee into the bedroom and hold it close to her nose.

  “Wake up,” I whisper, letting the scent fill the room. She pushes back the duvet and blinks at me.

  “Coffee?” I say, as brightly as I can. “Naked man?”

  She grunts. “Coffee?” I say again, holding out the mug. “Naked man?” I wave a hand at my sculpted chest. It’s painful, being this cheerful with the headache that’s splitting my skull, but I want to see her performance.

  She covers her eyes and sits up slowly under the duvet, taking the mug and placing it on the bedside table. She rubs her face and pushes her fingers through her hair, giving a very convincing yawn. Then she peers at me.

  “How are you so perky this morning?” She covers another yawn with her hand. “Don’t you have a sore head?”

  I give her a wide smile. “Nothing I haven’t dealt with before.”

  She nods, and picks up her coffee. “Go away, naked man,” she says. “You’re too happy.”

  I’m laughing as I walk out.

  She’s good. Her performance is good. But I’m better.

  *****

  There’s nothing in the cottage for breakfast, so we walk along the seafront, hoods up against a cold winter rainstorm. By the time we reach the café, we’re both frozen, our noses red from the wind. We sit at a table by the window and pick at our all-day breakfasts. I really don’t want to eat anything – even the smell is turning my stomach – but I can’t let her see how bad I’m feeling. She must be hungry, but she picks at her food, and orders extra coffee and orange juice.

  “Will you show me, David?” She asks, her hands bunched inside the sleeves of one of my hoodies.

  “Show you what?”