Friends, Romans, Countrymen! Lend me your... er... eyes.
Hi. Again. I'm already addicted to this plot, so I'm afraid you lot are going to have to put up with another chapter. Hey, it beats French, Spanish and English coursework, none of which I have done yet. I am so dead.
Anyway, please continue to be wonderful people, and keep reviewing.
I love you all. Really, I do.
Xari xxx
Alex yawned, and slumped down further in his chair. Was it possible to be this bored on a Thursday afternoon? Actually, locked in double Geography with no means of escape, listening to the impossibly elderly teacher drone on about the economical development in MEDC countries, he supposed it was. Tom was sitting on the other side of the classroom, looking just as worse for wear as Alex. They had been separated for talking earlier, and with no other means of distraction, were both staring at the clock.
It had been two days since the memorial service, and nothing untoward had happened, unless you counted Jack being asked out by the travel agent. Yet a persistent feeling of uneasiness had dogged Alex, and, in his experience, that feeling never boded well. The last time he had felt this way, he had ended up trapped in a tank with a jellyfish.
The bell rang, and the pupils scrambled to their feet as the teacher determinedly continued to talk. Finally released into the cold November air, Alex and Tom left the school and headed homeward, clutching bags full of GCSE literature. Tom, excitable as ever, was chattering without stopping, not noticing the curious silence of his friend, who had barely uttered a word since they had walked out of the school gates. Alex was still uncomfortable. Not worried, exactly, just – uncomfortable. The feeling of alien eyes upon him made his skin crawl. He glanced sideways at Tom, who was even now talking nineteen to the dozen, and mentally shook his head. He couldn't very well say to his friend, 'Hey, could you, y'know, just keep it down for a second? I think we're being followed, possibly by some lunatic with a gun.'
He couldn't say that to Tom, who was, after all convinced that Alex's nightmare days with MI6 were over.
He'd been pretty convinced, himself.
Waving goodbye to his friend at the street-corner, Alex suddenly felt very, utterly exposed. An overwhelming panic that he hadn't felt in two years flooded up to swamp him. With that panic, the old MI6 training kicked into gear. Come on, he told himself, you've been in far more dangerous situations that this. Hell, you don't even know if this is a dangerous situation yet.
He schooled himself not to break into a run, but kept himself to a steady walk. If the person following you doesn't kill you, panic almost certainly will. If you panic and run, you become prey. You alert the follower to the fact that you know they are there. By running, you risk your own life. But this suicidal tendency is strong, and Alex had to fight hard to keep control over the powerful instinct.
At last, he reached his house. Fumbling for his keys, forcing himself to behave as nonchalantly as possible, he pushed open the door, and shut it behind him, fast, leaning back against it, breathing his heart-rate slow again. Snapping back into gear, he locked and bolted the door, drawing the chain across. It wouldn't keep out someone very single-minded, but it would halt your average burglar.
"Jack!" he yelled, "I'm home!"
"Hi, honey," her voice came from the sitting room. "How was your day?"
"All right, I suppose," he called back, dumping his bag and joining her. "What's up, you look sad?"
Jack grimaced.
"Oh, it's nothing. There's just been a murder today. It's in the papers; take a look."
Taking the paper from her, Alex scanned the article. A man, accountant, 29, killed in North London, bullet wounds to the chest and head, leaves behind a wife and five-year-old-daughter, full police investigation to follow, Resquiecat In Pace.
Alex went to put on the kettle, the tense feeling in his stomach growing. It was ridiculous. This murder and him being followed were not connected. They could not be connected. He wasn't part of that world any more. He looked out of the window. It was dark outside. Feeling foolish, Alex went back to double-check the front door. Sliding the dead-lock back and then forth again, Alex drew the curtains, and went back into the sitting room with Jack.
Outside the house, a safe distance away, a girl watched from the shadows, her face impassive. Hearing the lock clack into place, she looked at the watch on her wrist, turned, and melted back into the night.
The next morning, Jack received a massive shock. Alex woke her up. Alex woke her up. Alex never woke her up. He'd never had to. Jack would usually wake Alex up. Not today. Alex hadn't woken her up in two years. Not since he could sleep through the night without prowling the house, or checking that she was alive. Not since MI6 had left him alone with his nightmares. Today, Alex had woken her up with that same look of worry, and the same questions. Are you all right? Did you sleep well? You didn't hear anything in the night? No, nothing's wrong, really.
On the way to school, Alex cursed himself repeatedly. What the hell had made him do that? He hadn't needed to do that. Nothing had happened. Now he'd got Jack worried, and over absolutely nothing. An instinct, a feeling, if that. God, he felt stupid.
Tom was standing at the street-corner, waiting for him. Alex grinned, feeling better.
"French this morning," Tom announced, smugly, as Alex reached him. "You done your homework?"
"Of course," Alex replied, waving the sheet in front of his friend. "Double Biology, too. You done your homework?"
Tom winced.
"Shit, no! Here, let me see yours."
They continued to school, Tom frantically trying to scribble the answers down, using any available flat surface, and telling Alex about the regional final of 'Dungeons and Dragons' at the same time. Alex listened, laughing, but always conscious of the feeling of someone else, lurking, just behind a corner.
On Friday afternoons, Brooklands stopped school half an hour early. Tom was staying behind for an extra hour. Having completed his Biology homework, he had, nevertheless, forgotten about his Chemistry, History and English Language homework, and had so been 'invited' by the teacher to remain at school to complete as much of it as he could. Alex left school alone.
It was November, and already starting to get dark by three o'clock. It was also bitterly cold. Alex huddled in his jacket, and headed off down the road. Three turnings later, he felt it. Eyes on his back, just out of sight and reach. Strangely, fury swept over him. He didn't know whether this was MI6 checking up on him, but if it was... Swiftly darting into a small path leading to the park, he waited. There was silence. And still silence. Then – the soft, almost inaudible 'pad, pad, pad' of soft shoes on tarmac. The footsteps stopped. Inching closer to the road, Alex stayed hidden in his alleyway. One more step... The follower stepped forward, and Alex lunged. He felt his body collide with something, and automatically forced it downwards. There was a thud as the girl hit the ground, Alex's weight on her chest.
Alex stared. In the half-light, she was tiny. Long, dark hair, plaited out of the way. Dark clothes and shoes made for silence. Brown eyes looked into black ones. Alex could think of nothing else to say than:
"Well, I hadn't expected that."
Nor had he expected feet to power into his stomach, sending him sprawling backwards about a foot. The girl picked herself up quickly, and prepared to run. Alex threw himself forward, grabbed her ankle, and yanked. She fell, slapping her hands to the ground as she did so, and rolling onto the balls of her feet. Alex stood up, circling her, warily. Not warily enough, he would reflect later, as the girl's ankles locked around his own, and pulled his feet from under him. He fell. Before he could collect himself, his opponent kicked him in the stomach, winding him, turned and ran. Drawing as much breath as his crushed lungs could take, Alex yelled after her:
"What the fuck do you want from me?"
No answer, as the girl vanished into thin air under the orange glow of the street-lights.
"I'm home," he called to Jack, locking the door behind him.
"I'm in the kitchen," was the response. "You're late. Where have you been? I was worried."
Alex looked slightly sheepish. There was no way in hell he was going to say that he'd tried to follow a seemingly non-existent girl, just as much as he wasn't going to mention that he'd been beaten up by someone half his size. He had his pride, and he didn't want to worry Jack further.
He needn't have bothered.
"What have you been doing, rolling in mud?" Jack cried, gesturing to his filthy school uniform.
"Nothing," he muttered, opening the fridge. "What's for supper?"
"Don't change the subject," snapped Jack. "This is to do with MI6, isn't it?"
Alex avoided her eyes.
"I – don't know, exactly. It might be. I didn't want to worry you," he added, defensively.
"Worry me?" Jack repeated, her voice cracking, "Worry me? Alex, you've been as tense as the proverbial piece of wood, you've been secretive, you've been bolting the doors as if we were under siege, and now, you're covered in mud. How could I not worry?"
"I'm sorry," said Alex. "I thought I might be able to sort it out for myself."
"You're not getting involved," Jack told him, firmly. "What's wrong with your left side? Come here."
Obediently, Alex hopped onto the island in the middle of the kitchen, just as he had done when he was nine, and let Jack inspect the damage. She whistled, quietly, and glared at him.
"I suppose I was a bit late when I said 'don't get involved', right?" she sighed. "This needs Arnica."
Alex looked down and smiled in spite of himself. Although old for his age, he still had a boyish pride in bruises, and this one was a whopper. Where the mini-ninja had kicked him, there was a growing stain of blue, purple and yellow.
Jack came back with the bruise-cream, humming to herself. Now they both knew they were in trouble, she felt better. Turning towards the television, she casually flicked on the six o'clock news as she smeared cream onto a flinching Alex.
Suddenly, as one announcement came up, she froze, and exhaled, slowly.
"What?" asked Alex, who, twisted away from the TV, couldn't see.
"Another day, another murder," she replied, softly. "Exactly the same as before. Bullets to the head and chest."
Abruptly fierce, she whirled around to face Alex.
"Don't you dare interfere! Don't you dare! I've already lost Ian to that dreadful organisation; I'm not losing you as well. Promise me you won't get involved! Promise me!"
Alex swallowed, staring at the screen, as pictures of the victim were shown. Had that man – businessman, 46, living by himself in Lewisham – known that he was going to die? This morning, had he known, would he have stayed indoors instead of opening his front door to a hail of bullets?
Alex didn't know.
"I promise," he answered, not meeting Jack's eyes.