The killing house, p.26
The Killing House, page 26
part #1 of The Big Shilling Series
‘Make yourself at home, kid,’ said the Big Shilling, ironically. ‘Make yourself at home.’
The jet began to move, inching forwards, then swiftly gathering speed as it taxied towards the runway. American Troy sank down at random in one of the cream leather seats. He’d seen video of biz jet interiors, but never expected he’d experience one in real life. The shakes subsided. He dried his eyes and his face, and violently sneezed once. The gleaming woodwork had recently been polished and the scent of lavender irritated his nose. With trembling hands, he fastened his seat belt and glanced out the oval window: cop cars.
The Big Shilling had seen them too.
‘Amateurs,’ he said, getting comfortable across the aisle. ‘Rank amateurs, eh? Too little, too late.’
‘We’re through,’ said American Troy as the jet hurtled down the runway. ‘Are we through?’
The Big Shilling did not reply. He was looking out the window at the flashing blue and red lights of the police vehicles converging on the airport.
The 125 left the ground and ramped up into the sky. The Big Shilling sighed. It was over. He’d always said it would be difficult to get off the island, and he’d been right. Hell, believing was seeing, wasn’t it? Of course it was. He giggled, stupidly.
When the jet had levelled off, he sent American Troy to the galley. He watched the kid search the cupboards and drawers, saw the look of sad satisfaction when he discovered the box of Havanas and a lighter, and the bottle of tequila in the fridge.
‘We’ll have a drink, eh, you and me,’ said the Big Shilling, ‘a celebratory drink and a smoke.’
‘No,’ said American Troy.
‘I am what I am,’ said the Big Shilling in explanation.
‘Yeah,’ agreed the kid.
Then the Big Shilling began to talk. He couldn’t help himself, he loved to talk and he loved a captive audience.
He said, ‘Georgii Georgiades must have been one of the most remarkable men ever to have lived, eh, one of the most remarkable men ever to have lived. He was extraordinary: so said Peter Demianovich, his errant disciple, who ended his days disappointed and pessimistic, haunted by Time and the notion of recurrence. He’d wasted his life teaching the System, a system he no longer believed in and that did not work. Why? Because he’d asked the wrong questions of the sly man, eh, he’d misunderstood, hadn’t stuck around long enough to see the way forward. But you can hardly blame him, can you, hey? No, ‘Sly Man’ George was an ogre, he had the devil in him all right. Peter believed George had only two I’s, one very good and one very, very bad. Now . . .’
On and on he talked, the Big Shilling, on and on and on, and the jet cruised through the night skies over the Mediterranean Sea.
EPILOGUE
It was August and London was suffering a heatwave. A record-breaking temperature of 41 degrees Celsius had been monitored at Heathrow airport, and the city was blanketed by a lethal smog composed not only of vehicle exhaust fumes but of smoke from burning buildings as well, for there had been three nights of rioting and arson. Urban youth and trust fund anarchists had with disquieting ease driven the police from the streets, and only now had an uneasy peace been restored.
Petronella Plumleigh-Gorse looked around the dining room of the National Liberal Club in Whitehall, at the shiny ceramic columns and pilasters, and the impressive portraits of dead Liberal statesmen and politicians on the walls. The air conditioning had failed, and the portable fans that had been placed around the room by an apologetic management weren’t fit for purpose. Petronella might have been perspiring, but inside she felt empty, and as cold as marble. She fingered the clammy collar of her shirt.
‘So,’ she said, ‘you understand exactly what you are to do?’
‘Yes,’ said Sam, rather meekly.
Petra laid down her dessert spoon. She’d ordered the lemon sorbet. It was rapidly melting on the plate. The bitch troll from hell had ordered nothing, having hardly touched her main course of poached salmon and samphire. She was well into her second white wine spritzer, however. Drinking alcohol and hardly eating, this was a new Sam. Had she changed? She’d damn well better have.
‘I want to make it absolutely clear, Sameerah,’ Petra continued, ‘what will happen to you if you let us down. You will be tried at the Old Bailey, in camera. That means there will be no media reporting of the case. You will be sentenced to at least ten years, if you are lucky. I’d do my damnedest to make sure it is double that. You know our reach. Prison won’t be some holiday camp with an open gate, we’ll make sure you serve hard time.’
Sam had bowed her head. Her long dark hair was uncovered, and she was wearing a summer frock and make-up. She’d lost quite a bit of weight as well.
‘I won’t let you down, ma’am,’ said the traitress.
Petra leaned across the table, and hissed, ‘You’d better fucking not.’
The bitch troll from hell began quietly to weep. After a few seconds, Petra, relenting, found a paper tissue and passed it to the girl.
‘Ta,’ she said, her accent that of any Londoner.
Petra was experiencing mixed emotions. Part of her was icily calculating how to play Sam back against the Turks, while another part, the compassionate, motherly part, felt a responsibility for the young woman’s choices, as though she’d been let down, both by Petra herself, and by society as a whole. The nation too appeared to undergoing a similar soul-searching.
That morning, Petra had breakfasted alone, with the papers and BBC Radio 4. The question everyone was asking was what had gone wrong? No less than fourteen people had been killed and more than ninety injured, some seriously. Whatever it was, everyone was agreed that it was society’s fault for failing the marginalised and the maligned, that much was certain. On the radio, a woman barrister had averred that criminals were made and not born, and it followed therefore that since a good citizen is one who is raised correctly and is properly educated, better education and earlier, more effective intervention were called for.
If only I’d spotted the signs, Petra chided herself, then perhaps Sameerah might have been brought back on track and this whole disastrous business could have been avoided.
‘You’ll be all right, dear,’ Petra now said. ‘Dry your eyes.’
Sam managed a smile, dabbing at her mascara with the tissue. ‘Thank you, ma’am,’ she said.
She was quite a pretty girl, really, what with her hair down and having lost some of that puppy fat.
‘Well, I think I’ll get the bill,’ said Petronella, feeling better.
She signalled to the waiter. One had to look to the positives. For instance, the news that the police officer and his father killed in the massacre at Paphos were both awaiting trial for bribery and corruption had drawn the sting somewhat. The death of dear old Frankie had also put an end to the child custody business. Yes, and there might yet be glory to be had from triple agent Sameerah Behgum.
While she waited for the bill, Petra turned on her phone and checked her texts and messages. There was nothing of much importance. A tweet caught her eye, some kind of spat amongst the chattering classes. Dreadful, horse-faced woman, thought Petra, branding community leaders ‘rent-seekers.’ Oh and what was this? ‘Hand-wringing from authoritarian liberals who created the problem in the first place’? Delete your account, dear, that’s quite out of order.
Bloody populists.
The waiter brought the bill, and Petra paid with her company card. She’d just put away her purse when the phone rang. When she saw it was Sir Mike, she experienced a frisson of alarm. The DG had gone away for weekend, to the Cotswolds. He’d said they’d speak on Monday, about how best to employ Sam.
‘Hello, Michael,’ she said, calmly.
‘Petra? Can you talk?’
‘We’ve just finished lunch, Sam and I.’
‘Oh, I’d hoped to catch you alone.’
That sounded ominous. ‘I’ll call you back in two minutes, shall I?’
‘No, don’t do that. There’s nothing to discuss. I’ve been speaking to my opposite number, Sir Tim.’
Petra’s mouth had gone dry. Sir Tim was director general of MI5.
‘He’s very keen to have you as assistant director,’ Mike continued, ‘in charge of administration.’
Petronella swallowed hard. ‘He’s what?’
‘It’s for the best, Petra.’
‘But I thought . . .’
‘I’m afraid you thought wrong. Don’t come in tomorrow morning. I’ll have your things brought round to your house. Tim will be in touch. Sorry to do this by phone, but I thought it was best to make it short and sweet. You’ve been very loyal, and we shall miss you. I’ve spoken to HR, pay grade’s the same and the transfer won’t affect your pension.’
Petra didn’t know what to say.
‘Well, goodbye,’ said Sir Mike, and ended the call.
‘Bad news?’ asked Sam.
It was only with a tremendous effort of will that Petronella did not start shouting.
Gomery Kimber, The Killing House
