Reconnaissance
"Just explain to me one more time why we're doing this," Moran says.
Saying this, Moran is seriously starting to get on my wick. Well, no, he started a while ago and right now he's burning it down very close to a fuse. "What did I do wrong the other ten times I explained it to you?"
"Just one more time. Bullet points. Really quick. I won't ask again after this, I swear."
So I take a deep breath, and being a man of infinite patience, slow to anger, untouched by the myriad passions that drag the human soul this way and that, I give it to Moran one more time in brief bullet points. For the benefit of those who weren't here, however, I shall recap the full arguments, because I am, honest to God I am, it's not just a mantra I repeat to keep from killing certain people, a man of infinite patience, slow to anger, untouched by the myriad passions that drag the human soul this way and that…
"One: intelligence." Approaching Molly Hooper, the favoured coroner of the great detective, in any way, shape or form, is always going to lead to a frank and honest exchange of information. And it has been my decision (and I am the boss, in charge, who makes the decisions, after all) that we'll catch more big juicy flies with honey than with kidnap and torture.
"Two: rehearsal." Come the end of this whole Greenwich job, I'm going to have to show my face to aforementioned detective. It will be the first time. It'll be the first time with either Holmes, actually. It will be a moment of great exposure for me, after a long time working very hard to avoid exposure. And since Sherlock will probably be setting the agenda for that one, I won't even be fully in control of it. Stepping out for one quick turn with Miss Hooper is just a little eency-weency bit of practice for all that spontaneous, unscripted social interaction. Nothing wrong with that, is there?
"Three: the psychological element." So that he'll have seen me. That's all. So that he'll have seen me and not known it was me. And then when he sees me again and we're both of us at the height of our glory, he'll know that I was there. That I got to him first and that I did it through his friends and I am everywhere and insidious and he can't get away from me until one of us is destroyed entirely. This is the big one. All the reasons are important, but this is my favourite. This is the reason that I lie thinking about when I can't sleep and it sends me off softer and easier than counting whole flocks of sheep ever could.
I want him to look me in the eye and not even know what he's seeing. In fact, dreaming of that puts me into such a warm, comforting reverie, the only thing that brings me down is the fact that Moran is smiling. Not in a comprehending, light-bulb moment, Now I Know sort of a way, but in a smirking sort of a way I do not like.
"Four: what's fecking funny?"
"I'm sorry," he says, and with the very act of speaking the laughter breaks out of him. "I can't take you seriously with that accent on."
I'm doing my Brit voice. Trying to stay with it, these couple of days, so I don't forget. It's a very important voice. Why is he laughing? "What's wrong with it?"
"Nothing. Nothing at all, no, it's just it's not you, that's all it is. Can't take you seriously."
I would question him further, but at that moment the door of the flat is slammed open so hard I hear it shake coats down from the rack. My first thought is what's hanging up out there, and if it's anything I care about. My second is that if the wall behind the door has been marked, there'll be trouble. My third is that my preliminary scout has arrived back.
My preliminary scout storms right past the living room door until I whistle her back. You have to understand my concern. This is Danielle, a friend of mine (which should tell you something straight off), a thief and seducer who, when she isn't looking up from between the legs of half of London, is looking down the barrel of a gun. So when she's stood there with no thought for her usual posture and composure, teeth slightly bared, eyes wide, I get worried. She's chewing about three pieces of gum, so strong I can smell it from here, like she'll never get some awful taste out of her mouth.
"I only sent you to meet her," I say. But her eyes come down on me, burning. Pale and silent, and those eyes looking like they could move things, the image that keeps coming up in my mind is of Carrie at the prom… Might be best not to laugh at her right now.
Her hands flap like she's trying to form words with them. But in the end she just ignores everything else and says, impossibly softly, "You know all that chat about the banality of evil? Do they chat about the evil of banality? Because I've just found Hitler. I need to rethink the whole approach. And a drink, need a drink, yes, good plan…" And with that she walks out of the doorway, still flapping, still muttering about a drink.
Moran sits forward over his knees, and there's more hands again as he holds his out, like one calming a barking dog and says, "That probably wasn't as bad as it sounded."
"No, it's fine. I should have known better. She just finds real people traumatic." She'll have a drink, she'll gnaw an unlit cigarette, and then we'll talk. It'll be fine. It'll be fine. I will be fine. "Right," and I clap my hands so we'll all snap out of it, "Sebby, get your gun. Go and hurry that hacker along; I start work in the morning and I don't even know if they're expecting me."
He gets up, with new purpose, and starts to go about it. And I get up too, a bit slower, a bit more cautious, and go to find Dani at the kitchen table. She hears me coming, opens with, "You need to get on iPlayer. Catch up a week's Eastenders. You'll have to play it like a guilty pleasure, but it'll work. Holby City too. Silent Witness…" She's sitting with her head on her hand, keeps running her fingers through her hair, over her face, like she's checking she's still real.
"You were bored, then?"
"Bored doesn't… I… It was… It was how I imagine non-existence would be. Oh, give me your phone." She holds out her hand. I do it while she's hissing for the cat. It's a sound McLeod associates with food, so he comes wandering through right and sharpish. There's no food, he can see that much, but he still investigates. Food could be hidden. Food could be on its way. So he walks over to Dani's feet, and when she leans down, crooks her hand under his chin, he poses quietly and thoughtfully for the photograph she takes. Then jumps up into her lap while she sets it as my wallpaper. "Woman likes cats. Can't keep one. Landlord won't allow it. Don't make a big deal out of it, but she'll like if you if you like animals."
This is all good information. This is what I sent her out for. Hopefully there'll be a whole night of this. But she still looks, from the way she's hugging my cat, a little bit disturbed. I'm actually not sure McLeod's coming out of this intact. Better do a bit of maintenance before the full debrief…
"So what are we talking about? Like Watson?" I could deal with that. Cope with that for a couple of weeks, easy. Watsonish would be fine.
"Worse."
"What?!"
"Yeah," she says, and starts to explain that Ms Hooper has neither the traumatic background nor the casual, everyday proximity to Sherlock that make Watson bearable. But then she stops. Looks up at me. The awful rage dies under her sudden confusion. "Wait, say that again."
"Say what?"
"Anything."
"Dani, what're you talking about?"
"Where are you supposed to be from again?"
"Oh, for Christ's sake… There is nothing wrong with my accent. Moran even said so." Moran is edging past the door on the balls of his feet, trying to flee. He just wants to go out and threaten somebody, and there's nothing wrong with that. I'm happy enough to let that go ahead. But he's creeping along and Dani gets up, hauls him in by the back of his jacket.
She stares and stares and he breaks, "What was I supposed to say to him? It's too late to do anything about it now."
"And when he meets Holmes?" She points at me, so I'm 'he'. Stands with her hands on her hips, "When it's too bloody obvious there's something going on and he has to sniff at it? We're going after the man's friend; we can do without his attention. You do him no favours being kind, y'know."
"I am still in the room," I tell them. It doesn't seem to make a difference.
Moran looks edgy. "You're thinking Plan B then, our kid?" She nods. Whatever it is they're discussing like I don't exist, he knows it will work, but only if they can pull it off. He thinks and thinks harder, furrowing his brow. But he can't make it stick, shakes his head at her. "It's too risky. And it's too big a job this close to the wire."
"I have a girl on standby," Dani says, "to take care of the cosmetic detailing."
Which is the… well, certainly one of the most bizarre things I've ever heard out of her mouth. It begs that I try to interrupt again, to make some sense of this conversation. Being a man of infinite patience and all that shite I can't make myself believe right now, I do it in a soft voice, standing up, edging between them. "Excuse me? What are we talking about?"
"Don't worry, love," is how she responds, and I suppose it's a comfort that she's finally addressing me, "We'll get you a couple of Valium, you'll not even feel it. Or there's still some Rohypnol back at mine if you'd rather miss it entirely."
Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, I defy you to think of a single situation in the whole awful breadth and spectrum of human experience where what she just said to me (prefaced, if you remember, with the words 'Don't worry, love') could ever constitute any sort of comfort. Honestly. Answers on a postcard. Prove me wrong, please, before I strangle one or both of them.
I don't know, though; maybe it works in context, because Moran seems to be rethinking his reticence. Something about cosmetic detailing and Rohypnol is working for him. "It'd be a good one to keep in the back pocket, wouldn't it?"
"It's a safety net," she says, really very convincing when she turns it on. Looks at me directly and says, "You don't want to go swinging without a net, do you? Not first time out."
Moran finds the word 'swinging' amusing. He tries to cover it with the old throat-clearing technique. I pardon him. Once you get to know him you realize that, for all the murder and the military precision, he's been a small child since roughly the time he was a small child.
To answer Dani's question, no, I don't really want to go swinging without a net. I just didn't think I needed one. My accent is fine. I can hear nothing wrong with it myself. Personally, for my money, it's just that they're so used to me being Irish. They're listening for it. But then again, they are natives. Anyway, it doesn't matter what I think of it anymore; the doubt is there. So yeah, angel, I'd love a safety net, a plan B, a fall-back, something in the back pocket. But I'm not sure I want one that requires, and forgive me for repeating myself but it's important to me, cosmetic detailing and Rohypnol.
"What exactly is this safety net?" is how I eventually phrase it.
They look at each other. Moran thinks about explaining honestly, Dani says no. This is all without words and no quieter for it. "Do you trust us?" Dani says.
I say, "Ask me one on current affairs." She bristles, like I'm being childish. "And it's only a Plan B, yes?"
"Yeah, but Plan A's your accent," Moran mutters, shrugs, "So…"
"You've changed your tune!" I shouldn't shout, but I can't help myself. He was on my side ten minutes ago. He looks down in shame, but they're both still just waiting. "No drugs and if I feel like something's not right I want a full and cogent explanation."
Moran sighs like I just got his head off the block. Dani steps around and puts me in front of her, holding me by the shoulders. "Not so fast, Sebastian, don't run off just yet. I need one more thing from you."
"Oh, Dani, don't make me stay and watch this."
"No, you're off with your gun in mere moments, my love, but tell me first – as one who understands these things, these signs and signals, give me one, just one, that says it all."
He studies me the same way I've seen him study a target's house, looking for the right window, the cleanest shot. And I'm not ashamed to tell you that I turn cold, from the insides to the skin, under that searching gaze. Then, with the same care and precision he would afford that bullet, he utters the single word, "Underwear."
There is a moment's absolute silence.
Dani breaks it, grinning, "Seb, you're a genius."
All he wants, "Can I go?"
She waves him on. He escapes and I want him to take me with him. All of a sudden I don't want to be alone with her, not on a night of Eastenders, cosmetic detailing, Rohypnol and now underwear. Can you blame me? Does that sound good to you? Does that ever sound good?
"Dani-" I begin. Then stop and swallow because my throat is too dry to talk properly, "Dani, the feck is going on?"
Still holding my shoulders, she puts me back down in my chair, slides what had been her drink over to me. I turn the glass around, away from the print of her lipstick. "Let's just say," and her voice is nursery-soft, "that behind every great man is his gay best mate and a woman begging him to reconsider on the drugs."
"I can't," I tell her, "I've got work in the morning." Then, as an afterthought, I knock back the alcohol anyway.