As his bike drew level with their hiding places the boy brought his hand down in a chopping motion. Immediately his two playmates jumped into Eric's path. Both held their position, waiting for the other to lose his nerve. Though Eric's fingers had immediately snatched at the brakes, there was no way he could stop in time. Eric couldn't understand what they were doing: there was going to be a collision if they didn't move. With less than three metres to go, one of the boys leapt back on to the grass verge, and a micro second later, the other boy did the same.

  The third boy ran into the middle of the road shrieking, 'Chicken! Chicken! Chicken!' The winner quickly joined in the chant, pushing the loser over as he tried to get up.

  Then, to all three boys' surprise, the tall cyclist simply jumped backwards off his bike. Riderless it rolled onwards, veering lazily toward the curb. Fear, anxiety, frustration and stress: all the emotions that had been jostling for supremacy in Eric’s head were suddenly converted to rage. He spun round, and in three enormous strides, closed the distance between him and the two boys on the grass verge. The one lying on his back stood no chance of escape. Thin fingers grasped his collar and, as he was hauled to his feet, he found himself looking into a crazily grimacing face.

  'Who told you to play that game!'

  'M ... M ... Mark did!' answered the boy as Eric's bike crashed on to its side further down the road.

  'Who's Mark?' he shouted.

  'Him. Mark Endacott,' sobbed the boy, pointing to his mates watching from a safe distance in the middle of the road.

  But Eric was certain there was more to their chants of 'chicken' than a simple game. He began to shake the boy. 'Who really got you to jump out! Tell me! Tell me!'

  The boy grasped Eric's jacket, trying to stop his own body from being violently thrown about, but the man was using too much force. Fabric tore and, as the boy's head whipped back and forth, his reply came out in a series of disjointed syllables, 'No .. no ... no .. one ... did.'

  Abruptly he was flung to the ground, buttons spinning off across the tarmac. Eric stepped towards the other two youngsters, arms outstretched. But with his first movement towards them, the two of them raced, terrified, away.

  ‘What the hell's going on!' someone yelled from a first floor window.

  Eric's head spun around and he saw a youngish-looking man leaning out of a first floor window. 'Chris, are you all right?' he called down.

  Openly crying, the boy was trying to crawl away, 'Mr Elliot, help! He attacked me!'

  The man's head disappeared and the seriousness of the situation dawned on Eric. His long legs carried him back to his bike and, as the man came running out of his front door, Eric was pedalling furiously away down the street.

  Clare tried the door to the room holding the department's modest library but, as she expected, it was locked. Instead she headed to the row of pigeonholes for the academic staff and stopped at the one marked, Library. Pulling the three books from her bag, she was about to place them in the small space when she saw the tip of the red feather poking out of the pages of one.

  Scolding herself for such carelessness, she carefully took it out and then carried on to find her locker. After opening it up, she looked at the four thin folders and clear Perspex pencil-case inside. They were hardly worth coming back for. Unzipping the pencil case, she slipped the feather inside where it lay on top of a few biros and a pencil. Then she gathered her possessions up in her arms and made her way back to the lift.

  No one had called it down so the doors opened as soon as she pressed the button. Getting in, she looked at the stainless steel walls one more time, surprised to realise she would actually miss the trundling old contraption. At the ground floor, the doors slowly parted and she stepped out into the foyer. She had almost reached the exit before she remembered her posters for the protest march were still pinned-up in the coffee rooms. Not wanting to leave any trace of herself now her hopes for a position in the department had been dashed, she turned around just as the lift set off without her.

  'Oh dear, that'll cost you a five minute wait,' said the porter from behind his desk. 'Do you want a box for that stuff? I've got one here.'

  'Thanks,' said Clare, walking over to him. He placed the cardboard box on the counter and she put her things inside, pencil case on the top. Lifting it up, she stepped back over to the lift as the porter, whistling happily to himself, sauntered off down the corridor.

  Eric careered around the corner and raced along the main road, eventually stopping at a public telephone box. Inside, the line clicked a few times before the number started to ring. It was quickly answered.

  'Is that Agent Orange?' The same awkward voice, overflowing with enthusiasm.

  'Yes it is,' answered Eric, trying to regain his breath. 'Agent White, I have reason to believe you have mentioned your missions to another person.'

  No reply.

  Eric couldn't tell if the connection had been broken. 'Have you mentioned your work with me to anyone?'

  Rubble shut his eyes and drew in a deep breath. He was just about to admit everything when Eric added impatiently, 'Someone on the farm?'

  At the other end of the line Rubble opened his eyes and raised his head. He hadn't told anyone on the farm. 'No,' he answered.

  'Not any of the part-time workers? Or the owner?'

  ‘No, I haven't,' he replied more confidently.

  'Then someone in the village then? That man in the post office - Mr Williams?'

  Rubble decided that, unless asked about talking to someone over the phone, he could deny everything. 'No,' he repeated.

  'You must have told someone,' Eric insisted, resisting the urge to smash the handset against the glass. 'Someone you bumped into on the village green? Maybe someone you went to school with?'

  ‘I never.'

  From what Eric knew of Rubble's limited existence, there was no-one else he could have spoken with. Fresh doubts entered his head; perhaps he hadn't said anything after all. A wave of helplessness surged through him as he racked his brains for another solution.

  After a few moments’ silence the pips sounded.

  Rubble tentatively asked, 'Do you know when my next mission will be?'

  It was Eric's turn to deliver an abrupt answer. 'No.'

  'Oh, because ...' The line went dead.

  After Eric had replaced the receiver, he stood with his head bowed. A few seconds later something metallic rapped on the window.

  ‘Are you finished in there?' a wavering voice asked from outside.

  Eric glowered at the little old lady as she gestured with her twenty pence towards the phone. He pushed his way out, not bothering to hold the door open for the woman as she struggled to wheel her shopping bag in before her. Back on his bike, he completed the journey to the department, barely aware of the traffic and pedestrians around him. After chaining his bike up outside, he removed his leather satchel and stepped into the foyer. Waiting at the lift doors, a cardboard box cradled in her arms, stood Clare Silver. The door banged shut behind him and she turned around.

  Their eyes met then Clare instantly looked back at the lift, her posture now rigid. As Eric walked slowly over she hugged the box closer to her chest. She couldn't believe how deranged he looked. His hair, messed up by the wind, stood out in all directions. His jacket hung open, buttons missing and ripped at the lapel. His cheekbones jutted out even more than usual and the rest of his face seemed to have withered slightly. But what shocked her most were his eyes. They made him look - she searched her mind for a second before finding the right word: hunted. He was now at her side.

  ‘Just come to clear out my stuff,' she said.

  He made no reply.

  She stared at the metal doors, willing the ancient lift to speed up. His presence next to her was creating a tension she was certain must be palpable to both of them; she could certainly feel it down the entire left-hand side of her body. With each creak of the lift's mechanism, the urge to back away from him was growing stronger.

  Next to her, Eric's mind went over and over the words his tormentor was using to describe him. Scum. Scum. Scum.

  Desperately, Clare searched her mind for something to say, his stony silence unnerving her more and more. After what seemed like hours, the panel above the lift doors finally pinged. Letting her breath out in relief, Clare whispered almost to herself, "s come.'

  Next to her Eric clearly heard the word, Scum.

  His head rotated to its side and he leaned slightly forwards like a preying mantis preparing to strike. 'I beg your pardon?'

  Clare repeated herself more clearly, 'It's come: the lift.' Unable to break the intensity of his stare, she nodded at the doors in front of them as they slowly started to open.

  Eric looked into her eyes, registered for the first time the anxiety flaring in them. He then glanced at the box she was holding. Clearly visible in the Perspex pencil-case on top of the files was a single red fettler.

  He knew.

  'I've forgotten to lock my bike,' he said, stepping backwards and walking out of the main doors.

  Oblivious to what he'd seen, Clare whispered to herself, 'Thank God for that.' As soon as he was round the corner she fled down the corridor, leaving the building by its rear exit.

  After standing at the side of the door for a few seconds, Eric walked back into the foyer and climbed the stairs two at a time. In his office he removed a manila file and then walked rapidly to a callbox in the city centre where he dialled Rubble's number once again. As soon as the phone was answered he said, 'Agent White, have you ever mentioned your missions to a female?'

  Silence again.

  'Answer me, Agent White or I'll have you arrested!'

  'Yes,' came the weak reply. 'But she's only a fortune-teller on a chat line! And I've only phoned her a few times.'

  'And you've described me to this person?

  'Yes.'

  'What exactly did you tell her?'

  'That you have a beard, and that you're tall and wear glasses.'

  'And what have you told her about our missions?'

  'Just that I'd put the old man and woman to sleep. I told her the third one was already dead in her bath.'

  ‘You told her that?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Did you describe the third one to her?’

  ‘Just that she was small, that she was under the water, all wrinkly.’

  'And has this woman tried to get more information out of you?'

  Rubble thought for a moment. 'Yes, last time she wanted to know my name, where I was phoning from. But my money ran out.'

  Eric opened the manila file and slid Clare's CV out. Looking at her address at the top he said, 'OK Agent White. You've committed a gross breach of discipline.' He paused for effect. 'However, there is a way you can make up for your mistake.'

  ‘How?' asked Rubble, a pathetic note of hope in his voice.

  'By undertaking a special mission for me tonight. It will be slightly different to your other ones, but if you complete it successfully, I won't report you for breaking the Official Secrets Act. I'll pick you up after midnight. And Agent White?'

  'Yes, Sir?'

  'You must have no further contact with this fortune-teller. None. Is that understood?'

  His answer was barely audible. 'Yes Sir.' A world of misery was packed into the two words.

  Once the conversation was over, Rubble walked slowly into his bedroom. With tears welling in his eyes, he removed the picture of Sylvie from his bedroom wall and ripped it into little pieces.

  After Eric had hung up the phone, he strode straight to the park bordering the edge of the campus. Making his way to the clearing between the rhododendron bushes where he'd encountered Bert Aldy, he sat down on the bench and waited as a young couple ambled past, arms wrapped around each other. Once alone, he stepped over to the cast-iron bin where he'd dumped the last of his syringes and Euthanol a couple of days earlier. Looking in, he saw the same bottles, cans and ice-cream wrappers that had been there before. He began rummaging around, but quickly it became obvious the syringes were no longer there. Salvaged by some desperate addict. He began delving about with more urgency, now dreading the possibility that the last precious bottle of Euthanol had been taken, too.

  The same couple re-entered the clearing, both now holding choc-ices. Eric heard their footsteps but carried on anyway. They looked at the old man, head and shoulders right inside the bin, skinny backside pointing up at the sky and listened to the clink of bottles and cans as he ferreted around.

  ‘Aaaah that's so sad,' said the woman, reaching for her purse.

  'Leave him love, he'll only spend it on booze,' said the man, leading her away to look for a bench elsewhere.

  Eric's hands scrabbled about, sticky with the remnants of old ice-lollies and dribbles of soft drinks. Finally, wedged in the fold of a crushed can, he found the phial. Thankfully he stood up, wincing slightly at the ache in his lower back.

  Syringes. He needed syringes. Shoving the tiny bottle in his pocket, he set off for the spot by the multi-storey car park where he used to help with the soup run many years before. He shouldered open the graffiti-covered door, flinching at the sharp reek of urine. Quickly he made his way up bare concrete stairs to the roof.

  Some things, he concluded with a twisted smile, never change. In a corner by a junction box that now supported several mobile phone masts, lay the detritus of heroin users. Blackened wraps of foil, numerous cigarette butts, crushed boxes of matches, empty bic lighters and several discarded syringes. He crouched down and prodded about, looking for a couple whose needles weren't too rusty. He soon found two that would suffice, one with a smear of blood crusting the inner surface of the barrel.

  From amongst the rest of the debris he picked two protective caps, placed them carefully over the needles and then set off back down to the street.

  Chapter 52

  Clare surveyed the living room, looking confused. The only change since she'd left was a pile of boxes in one corner, the uppermost one full of old newspapers that had built up around the flat. Shaking her head, she dumped the box with her things from the department in the armchair and was heading straight back out of the door when she saw Zoe's post-it note stuck to the top of the TV.

  'In town having my interview at Shout-About-It Design. Should be back around six. Keep your fingers crossed!'

  Clare found a pen by the telephone and scrawled on the bottom of the note, 'Zoe, am at the call centre. I'll ring to see how it went. Keep your fingers crossed Rubble phones!'

  Then she picked up her canvas bag, slipped out the front door and set off for the centre of town.

  The afternoon and evening crawled by. She'd completed all the crosswords in her women's magazines by nine-thirty and had resorted to filling in people's eyes with red biro, giving everyone a grinning, sadistic appearance. One romantic photo story about a handsome man walking his dog in the park, and passing a woman just as her high heel snapped, was transformed into a demonic tale of evil.

  'Here let me help you,' leered the man, bloody eyes glowing.

  Clare was just adding a row of gore-dripping fangs to the docile Labrador when the phone beeped three times.

  'Good evening caller,' said Clare hopefully. 'My name is Sylvie ...'

  'It's me. Rubble.'

  'Rubble!' She tried to temper the excitement in her voice. 'How good to hear your voice again. How are you my child?' She waited anxiously for a reply and thought she could hear a slight sniffing sound. 'Rubble, are you there?'

  When he spoke, his voice was low and fractured with emotion. 'I can never speak to you again.'

  'I'm sorry my child?'

  ‘The man knows I told someone about our missions.'

  Clare thought of the eggs and chicken feet. She hadn't thought about the consequences for Rubble.

  ‘I had to tell him that I'd spoken to you. He was going to throw me off the project. Then he said I could stay if I do another, special, job.'

  ‘Another job?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘What kind of a job?’

  ‘Don't know. He said it would be different from the others.’

  ‘Did he say where it would be?’

  ‘No. But I wanted you to know you were right about everything. And I wish I could speak to you more...' A pause as he gathered his courage. 'Sylvie...' Saying her name made the lump in his throat swell suddenly. Tears sprang into his eyes for the second time that day. He knew that he couldn't say goodbye without starting to sob. Horrified at the prospect, he slammed the receiver down and bent his head over the handset, eyes tightly shut.

  'Shit!' Clare yelled, ripping her headset off and jumping up from her seat. Jayne's head appeared over a partition screen a few feet away. 'Clare, you all right?'

  'It was him again,' she replied, mouth tight with frustration.

  Jayne's face hardened in response, 'You've hit, call-wrap-up?’

  'No!' said Clare, instantly pressing the button.

  'Right - into Brian's office. And what number line are you on?'

  'Twenty-six! '

  Jayne marched up the narrow aisle, walking sticks thudding on the carpet, buttocks wobbling with each stride. Clare ran to catch up with her and they burst into Brian's office together.

  'Brian, Clare's line, number twenty-six. We need the last caller's number.'

  ‘Jayne,' said Brian. 'It's against ICTIS regulations to give you that.'

  'Bollocks to those regulations,' she advanced towards his desk. 'We need to know where this sick bastard is calling from.'

  Craning his neck to look past her bulk, Brian asked Clare, 'Is it really important?'

  She nodded just once.

  He sighed. 'OK, hang on.’ He highlighted the box on his monitor for line twenty-six and maximised it. Six columns filled the screen. Extension: 26. Operator name: Clare Silver. Operator activity:

  Horoscopes / Tarot readings. Activity time: 27 minutes, 46 seconds. Total number of calls: 6. Last call duration: 22 seconds.

  Brian right-clicked on the last call and an inner box came up.

 

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