I scanned the notes I’d made, let all the data saturate, pumped the Mossberg to keep me hyped, then after fifteen, twenty minutes, I said,
“Stewart, they’re going to hit a special needs school.”
He was appalled, hadn’t got that far in his own musings, asked,
“What are we going to do?”
I knew, beyond a shadow, said,
“Keep with the bait gig.”
Course, he had to ask, sooner or later, ever since I’d suggested he establish a routine,
“You think of me as bait?”
Had to defuse it a bit, said,
“Truth to tell, I rarely think of you at all.”
To soften it, I added,
“I’ll be there in the shadows, and if… if we can just grab one of the bastards…”
My whole history of, let’s say, reliability was not a great recommendation, and I could see it flit across his face, so he had to ask, “What if you’re not… not able to intervene effectively?”
I told the truth, said,
“Then you’re seriously fucked.”
When he was leaving, he’d admitted,
“I’m a little spooked Jack.”
I lied, said,
“Spooked is good, keeps you alert.”
I sat on the sofa, drenching myself in all that had happened, thought, a Judas goat? Is that what I was doing to Stewart?
Fucked if I could deny it.
Then told myself, I’d better get in the routine my own self. Start shadowing Stewart as I’d promised.
I got my coat and the Mossberg, and headed out.
Checked my watch. Stewart wouldn’t be at the head shop yet so I figured on a fast pint.
No.
I owed it to him to at least appear to be together. I went to the tiny cafe at the bottom of Quay Street. It was quiet and I ordered a double espresso. Was on the first sip when a stunning woman came in, looked round, and caught me looking at her.
She walked over, asked,
“Mr. Taylor?”
“Jack, but yes.”
“May I sit?”
Was she kidding? She could sit forever and I wouldn’t stir. The truly beautiful are almost painful to see. You know that such a gift has to bring a price of some kind, if only age alone. Sure enough, she seemed to carry an aura of sadness. She had that French elegance, effortless, compelling, and utterly fascinating.
And she knew it and was not at ease with the knowledge. Before I could catch my breath or offer a coffee, she said,
“I’m Irini.”
And I knew, deep down, with a sense of dread, this was not going to make me feel good. I said,
“Kosta.”
She nodded and began to speak.
One meeting, can it change your life? Maybe. It can certainly twist and forge your whole previous way of thinking.
When she left, I knew what I’d have to do and hated it. No ducking this bullet. It had my name on it, in neon.
Stewart and I had met again after the first day of his laying down his routine, going over our respective roles and what would go down after-if there was an after. Finally, when all had been gone over so many times, he reached in his jacket, handed me over a syringe. I said,
“You think we need this?”
He was edgy, snapped,
“You’ll need it. This is your half-arsed plan.”
I took it and was about to enquire what it contained but he was way ahead, said,
“You don’t want to know. Try to jab it in the neck. Works faster and I’m thinking we won’t have a whole lot of time.”
I’d set up my kitchen, in the optimistic wish that we would actually grab one of them and could haul the crazy body back here.
Day four, I was beginning to think I was as nuts as Stewart implied. Standing across the street from the head shop, the syringe in my right pocket, way back in the shadow of a doorway, and forcing the talk with Irini out of my mind. I nearly missed the movement.
Then
Jesus, the girl, Bethany, setting up camp in the alley next to the shop. I fumbled for the mobile, got Stewart, rushed,
“She’s here, right next to you.”