Chapter 19

JACK

Six months earlier, Fulham Road,

Chelsea, London, UK

He had to get out, no matter the late hour, no matter the heavy downpour, or that her beautifully prepared supper would be cold.

When he had bound down the stairs in his jogging gear and muttered apologies about a hard day at the office, she’d said nothing. She just quietly watched him exit the front door into the howling wind and rain.

He knew she knew, that she searched his things, had found images, found the letter. He also knew she would never say anything about it, because that would mean facing an imperfection, and she didn’t do imperfect. He had to grow some balls and put an end to the sham. If only he had the spirit left in him to do so.

He turned right at the end of his street, crossed the road, and headed for the gates of the Grade II listed Brompton Row Cemetery—his haven. The black, heavy, twelve-foot-high iron gate stood locked for the night, but he had a secret way of clambering over the back of a neighbouring wall to gain entrance. He had the place to himself, a magical oasis of stone, trees, and grass; his breathing space in the heart of London.

A beautiful tourist attraction by day, with its glorious trees, large black crows, pigeons, squirrels, and a cruising spot for gays (headphones on and eyes straight, he could happily leave them to it). At night, the cemetery became his private forty acres of magnificent solitude.

He plugged his earpieces in, pulled a few stretches, and started the hour slog of circuits around the graveyard’s circumference. Dressed in black, with the half-moon in cloudy darkness, his figure took on an invisible aura.

Heavy rock music blasted in his ears, providing a base rhythm for his legs to keep a steady pace. His heart pumped as each step emptied his lungs and mind. Wind and rain stung his face as he weaved through tombstones, colonnades, and catacombs, pounding the ground of loved ones, buried and long forgotten. Wild flowers grew over graves where fresh ones had once decorated deceased souls’ resting places, their memories having dwindled in friends’ and families’ hearts.

He never feared the dark of night. Occasionally, he’d come across a random homeless person huddled against lofty colonnade columns or hunched in catacomb doorways, but in the main they kept to themselves. If anyone ever did approach him, he’d rely on his ingrained training, the instinctive skills gleaned from his army days.

A complete circuit took 11 minutes. Each time he passed her home, he looked over the fence to check if her light pushed the darkness away. The willing and waiting egged him on to the next circuit, until he was dead on his feet, empty, drained of emotion, and time to go home.

About to pass her, he glimpsed up at her window, expectantly, longingly. But nothing. His face turned away in disappointment, the building bathed in darkness, indicating she wasn’t home. He decided to jog around again, dragging his pace, just in case. He defied the icy rain despite his running trainers growing heavier with water.

When he’d discover her padding about her home, all cosy and alone, he’d covertly hide behind trees for hours, just admiring her and soaking in her beautiful face and smile. He’d anointed himself her secret guardian. He’d once shadowed her home from the tube station. He’d caught a pickpocket lining her up in his sights, and before the thief could strike, he’d wrapped his hands around his pathetic neck and dragged him into an alleyway. He promptly dealt with him, supplying a kicking that put him out of business for months.

When circumstances allowed, he would snap pictures of her, something to hold near when she wasn’t around. He hadn’t meant to, but he’d fallen in love with this girl. She consumed his thoughts, leaving room for nothing else. His relationship with Mara had deteriorated into a sad sham. Loving Amy added to his guilt.

His work offered him an escape; a stifling security consultancy office job, after years of frontline service. But it kept him away from home, until he figured out what to do. He didn’t miss the killing of frontline work, but he did miss the comradery, the banter, the feeling of family, of belonging. He’d given his all to the army, but he’d been chucked out due to injury, a bullet lodged in his head, too dangerous to remove.

He hadn’t meant to fall in love. He’d only meant to find her and make sure she was all right. Now, knowing she existed and wasn’t his, made his life hollow. He didn’t care if he lived or died. He sometimes willed that bullet to move and put him out of his misery.

Cloud 9

“We’ve had a complaint.”

Maggie stood at the window, looking out over a stunning sea of white clouds, her eyes followed the dips and troughs of mountainous slopes. The deep monotone voice resonated in her head.

“And?”

“Your flock is asking questions.”

Hands in her pockets, she closed her eyes and rolled her head back.

“What questions?”

“Questions.”

“Bollocks.”

“You are well aware of the consequences.”

“It’s a lie. Who reported it?” She snapped.

Looking over her shoulder, she saw a concerned Pyke peering around a screen, looking at her. He’d heard the anger in her voice. She waved him a quick reassuring smile, put her hand up, and mouthed ‘it’s OK.’ He went back to work.

Calm and seemingly in control, she strutted elegantly across the office towards the exit, giving a quick wink to Pyke as she passed.

“A reliable source.”

“They’re wrong.”

As she hit the hallway, she turned left into a door marked ‘Washroom.’

“My team members are bloody good workers. We have the best figures in the northern hemisphere,” she hissed.

“You are losing control. They’re going it alone,” the monotone voice continued.

She slammed the door behind her.

“For fuck’s sake, this is bollocks. Who’s telling you this shit? I demand to know,” she bellowed, punching the nearest thing to her—a wall-mounted hand drier.

“Shepherd them in or lose them.”

“Who’s your source? They’re lying to you, and you’re falling for it.” She stared at herself in the mirror, eyes ablaze, hands on hips, fuming. “It’s jealousy.”

“Consider this a warning.”

“Who told you this crap?” she demanded. “Tell me! Is it Gregori? Gregori Duval?”

Click!

The voice drifted into oblivion.

She slapped her ear, trying to reconnect.

“Tell me. Tell me.” She slapped the side of her head again, hard, dishevelling her perfectly groomed hair.

Silence.

She picked up a heavy metal rubbish bin; with a howling growl, she flung it across the room. It crashed into the wall-mounted mirror hanging above the sterile line of white sinks with a loud crack before falling to the ground and rolling slowly back across the room to her stilettoed feet.

Taking a deep breath, she stood in front of the sinks and checked herself in the fractured mirror. She brushed down her suit, neatened her hair, and smoothed imaginary smudged lipstick from the corners of her mouth. Calm, sophisticated, butter wouldn’t melt.

“I’m not going to let this happen again,” she whispered.

Grabbing the sides of a sink, she leaned in close to her reflection, eyeball to eyeball. Her warm breath hazed the glass.

“No fucking way.”