The Lost Chapters
Part 1
'But surely, Dr Moltolovich, the Russians could not hold the keys to the Omega Drive?'
'Very much so, I'm afraid, Agent Brown. And the activation codes to the Delta Initiative.'
'Good Lord! Not the codes that will allow the Illuminati to finally secure the Alpha Stone?'
'No, you cretin. The codes that will allow my beloved mother Russia to defeat you puny Westerners! Die, capitalist pig!'
'Have at you, you twice-defecting bastard!'
'I'm a double-agent, you twat! Pay attention!'
Someone says something indistinct over the tannoy. I don't pay any attention, either way. I was too absorbed in the dashing Agent Brown's daring struggle against a surprisingly athletic 80-year old neuroscientist wielding a phial of something on the business end of the Ph Scale.
It's only when I feel the weight shift off' the bench that I look up and listen. Again, the monotone drone:
'...City. Again, this is the last call for the six-oh-five to Liberty City, boarding at...'
Once again, Mister Archer, your engrossing, yet shitty prose has put me at odd with my schedule.
I swear before I can mind myself, flashing an apologetic smile at the mother sat opposite, already cradling the heads of her children in her hands. Hooking bags on my arms, slinging my backpack across my shoulders, I break into a dead run - not a great idea in boots, but needs must.
Strange, actually, that I didn't get stopped. Anyone rushing around a crowded airport with a backpack on would undoubtedly find themselves with a boot on their neck and the barrel of a gun between their eyes. Then again, with the momentum I was building, anyone who tried to stop me would've been flattened, cartoon-style under my squealing hard-rubber soles.
Flying past two armed guards poring over the contents of a Mexican mother of five's makeup bag, I found the automatic walkway leading to my gate and slowed. Three Liverpudlian tourists, with tan-lines like bicycle paths, were arguing with the check-in crew. Why were they going to Liberty City in the height of summer? Were all scousers secretly masochists? Possibly.
As carefully as I could, I waved my tickets at one attendant trying to restrain several hundred pounds of indignantly cursing cellulite, who politely dropped everything, annoying the cellulite further, took my stub and waved me in. Almost on auto-pilot, I wandered into economy, only for an attendant to carefully scoop me away from the familiar smell of recycled farts, sweat and boredom, towards hallowed ground. Business class.
'I think there's been a mist-'
I never noticed until then how flight attendants, the really good ones, came pre-packed with a handful of catch-all phrases. The 'Brandi' model I was currently with shook her head and said:
'On-board staff are always informed of every passenger's seat and requirements, sir/madam. Please, allow me to show you to your seat(s).'
A word to the wise, never fuck with someone who can pronounce brackets. She moved off on concealed greased bearings, taking my arm with her if I liked it or not. Guiding me to a bed that I later realised could also be a seat, I dumped my bags in the overhead when I heard a slight intake of breath - either a hiccup or someone trying not to sound as shocked as they are.
In the row next to me, some old guy in a silk suit all but crossed himself with rosary beads, popping a couple of capsules from a silver case and chasing it with a little Pepto-Bismol. It took me a second to catch on, then I shucked off my jacket, the dense black leather, worn soft through a lifetime of wear. Sitting cross legged on the bed, I closed the plastic partition around the cubicle and draped the jacket over it, the back facing him so through the whole journey he could read the patches:
The Lost
MC
Liberty City Chapter
With my back to the window, I opened up the paperback, found my place and continued my voyeuristic Commie-bashing escapades. Agent Brown was going to win - that much I knew, but I was more interested in the how.
The good guys always win.
I keep telling myself that.
-
I'd just like to make something clear. I'm a woman, a femme, and although an upbringing in a household full of brothers, uncles, cousins and bikers of all shapes and sizes has inured me to the majority of what a man can achieve, some things are just hard-wired into my mind to make me either run away screaming or beat the offender senseless with a length of cable.
But considering I couldn't run more than a few dozen feet, nor whip out said cable and deal out a good thrashing, I had to put up with it.
The old codger, topped up with half a dozen double whiskeys, was sprawled in his chair, snoring like a lumber mill, periodically farting as he wriggled around his seat. If you thought old people smelt funny on the outside, believe me, nothing prepares you for what lies beneath. He must've been unblocking gas pockets from the late 1960's.
To occupy myself, I opened up my notebook and re-read the note taped to the inside cover.
Rebecca, There's no easy way to break this to you, but all the evidence points to what the police said. It's no bad thing to say against your father, I know, he was a good man, a good friend. But you have to move on - no amount of cloak and dagger work is going to bring him back. All I ask is that you walk away, right now. Don't contact me again. Let him rest. God knows he earned it. Best Wishes, Ricky
Cheap, thin paper, stinking of motor oil and cigarette smoke, torn and frayed around all the corners at it was transferred from hand to hand, envelope and notebook. The eponymous Ricky, my window into the world my father disappeared into so long ago. No real names, no photographs, just words, taken as honest value.
Finding him was easy enough, the patches on my father's jacket and a brief trip into Google, a matter of hours. Penetrating the club's network of nicknames, contacts and trusted circles was much harder. I'd all but given up hope when I got a phone call at two in the morning. Ricky, asking who the fuck I was. I gave him my name, my full name, and he hung up.
Two minutes later, another call, a quick introduction, then he hung up again.
Then, the letters. If I kept him in beer, smokes and the odd Heart-Stopper, he'd scratch around and find where my dad was. Sure, it might've been a scam, but I was too desperate to care. But when he gave me the final answer, well, I couldn't just let it stop there.
So, that's why I'm here. On a 747 bound for Liberty City, breathing a 1/4 mix of methane and oxygen, praying that no-one realises my name isn't the one on the ticket. Or the passenger manifest.
Oh, Agent Brown, take me away from all this.