Pulling a Crawley
To the considerate reviewer, Shamwow:
I would have written back via a PM, but you weren't logged in (for reasons I can understand).
Thank you so much for taking the time to read and review – and not just review, but to give some detailed constructive criticism. I'm glad you like the idea :) I realise my characters lack depth… and I hope you bear with me while I try an deepen their motivations more. The minor characters, I'm afraid, will probably continue to lack depth, but when I bring in more major characters they should be more well rounded. Thank you once again for being so kind, and feel free to write again if you feel I still am not meeting your expectations :)
- Wolfern
Back in his flat, having been discharged from the hospital after lunch – he was still rather bemused as to how un-forcible the staff had been when he'd asked to go; usually they refused to let him leave – Alex made the final round of the rooms, checking that everything was in order.
Bed was made, fridge and bins emptied and state secrets carefully hidden in various locations. Anal retentivity satisfied, Alex walked to his bedroom.
He revelled in the soft carpet under his feet, mournfully acknowledging that, wherever he ended up next, it probably wouldn't be as nice as this flat. The sooner he could finish this, the sooner he could return to his carpet. And the likelier it'd be that he could excuse his absence to his coach.
Reaching the open door to his room, Alex paused. Something didn't feel right. Something... something he'd felt before. Flashes of memories sprang to mind. Snowboarding down a mountain, walking out of the Royal and General, exiting the park...
Just as he identified the common element, a bullet smashed through the window, as if to give him a clue. Huffing in indignation, Alex threw himself to the floor, narrowly avoiding a second bullet. He reached out a careful arm and felt around for his closest packed and waiting bag, pulling it towards himself.
As bullets systematically destroyed his beautiful flat, he crawled along on his belly, using the techniques he'd been taught way back in the FFSAS*. With his bag strap wrapped around his foot, he made it to the front door of his flat and very cautiously reached up to open it.
No bullets greeted him. Always a good sign.
A bit quicker now, he crawled commando-style out into the corridor, then slid on his stomach down the stairs. His body protested at the sharp jolts, but Alex reckoned that any pain was better than getting shot. Anyway, he was sure it looked very cool from the snipers' perspective. Surely.
Reaching the second floor from the bottom, Alex was surprised by a door opening. He quickly hurled himself awkwardly down the stairs, landing in a crumpled – but protective – crouch behind a conveniently placed potted plant on the landing. It wasn't the best hiding spot, but at least all those days of Madame Thornquist, his old drama teacher, telling him to 'be the tree' were coming into use.
Alex snatched up his bag as a figure stepped out onto the landing.
The man from Number 4 looked vaguely familiar, but Alex was hardly ever 'home' these days, spending his newfound freedom out and about, and would be hard-pressed to describe any of his neighbours in any detail. Really, it wasn't entirely his fault they didn't know each other.
Besides, Alex could remember a few times when he entered the front door, seeing piles of mail in Number 4's mail box. So he wasn't the only one. The man on the landing seemed to be away a lot too. So of course Alex couldn't place him.
Squinting, the man on the landing stooped to pick up a book lying on the floor, somehow balancing a mug of steaming tea and a plate of toast in the other.
Just as the man was about to turn around and do some more waking up (Alex was sure even he didn't have bags that big under his eyes), he froze, staring at the slightly scruffy boy. Miraculously, he managed to catch his toast on his plate again as he flipped it into the air.
Cheeks infusing with blood, Alex waved and smiled genially as if blissfully unaware of the odd position he was in. Be the tree, he repeated in his mind like a mantra. Be the tree.
The tree noticed a distinct lack of bullets, and, deciding to throw off its leafy endeavours, continued creeping down the stairs, studiously ignoring the man staring in bemused wonder.
As Alex reached the bottom, he looked up to see the figure on the landing still staring at him.
"I'll be back," he intoned solemnly, and gave a slightly awkward salute from where he lay on the floor.
Thankfully, the man only nodded mutely and went back inside, taking a slow bite of his toast. Alex, now on his own, continued his meandering crawl to the first floor – alternatively known as the basement, though that sounded creepy so he didn't use that word. Anyway.
Eventually he made it to the doorway into the first floor and poked his head out warily. Satisfied that no crazy gunmen were lying in wait, he crawled over to his battered Ford Prefect, which he'd bought from a strange man who kept looking into the sky at random intervals, and opened the door, dragging his poor, abused body in. Turning the key, he pressed the clutch, moving into first gear.
With a sense of triumph against the odds and a casual hair-flick, he drove off towards the airport.
xxx
The man from Number 4 walked back into his flat, closed the door, and stood a moment, thinking.
His younger neighbour had always been a bit strange, leaving the flat at odd intervals that didn't match up with any school calendar he knew, returning bedraggled and blank-faced, enshrouded with an air of tired triumph.
But this—! This was the icing on the cake. Crouching behind a pot plant? What kind of a person did that? Not even his one of his colleagues, a man he had often wished to dissect just to look at his brain, could match that.
Or could he? The man from Number 4 really didn't want to know. Blinking to clear his head, he set his cup, plate and book on the floor.
He took a deep breath, turned around, and opened the door again in the hopes of confirming that everything was normal. Namely, that there were no boys squatting next to any form of flora.
Sure enough, the landing was free of any human presence.
He shook his head, blinked again, and closed the door. Still preoccupied with thoughts of his odd neighbour, he took a step. And stopped.
Hot tea soaked into his socks. Drat. For a few moments, he simply stood there, watching the liquid seep slowly into his sock, reaching up, up for the pale of his leg. Then it started to burn. It hurt.
Hopping to the kitchen, the man hurriedly cleaned up the mess. Now he was awake. Pouring another cup of tea for himself, he frowned, pondering. He took a sip. Ouch. Way too hot.
Blowing persistently, he wandered over to the phone. He slumped carefully into his couch and placed the too-hot tea on the table beside it to cool. Hesitating only a few seconds, he dialled a number and sat, frowning.
Ring, ring.
Ring, ring.
"Come on, pick up," he muttered, tracing a pattern in the armrest. The phone stubbornly refused.
Ring, ring.
Ring, ring.
The man from Number 4 took a slow breath to calm himself.
Ring, ring.
Ring, ri—
"You rang?" His friend's voice rang out, deep and ominous. A pause. "You have reached the residence of the Ea—"
"Yes, yes, I know," the man from Number 4 snapped. He was having second thoughts. Would his story be believed? More importantly, would his eccentric colleague get any ideas to explore his more plant-like side after hearing his story?
"…There's no need to be rude." The man from Number 4 could hear the italics in his friend's affronted tone.
"You and I both know you're the rude one around here," he grumbled good-naturedly.
There was an even more indignant, "Well!" His friend clearly couldn't think of any response after his outburst and so remained in a long, sulky silence.
The man from Number 4 sighed. It was pointless to make this phone call without going through with his original intentions. "So, I called to tell you about this thing. The funniest thing just happened to me. I was—"
"You haven't been taking any more of those – vegetable shakes, have you? Don't lie to me, mate, I know you like the rack of my lamb."
"It's 'the back of my hand'," he corrected absentmindedly. "And if you hadn't interrupted me, you'd know I haven't… though they are good for you. Now be quiet and listen."
Silence. The man took that as an agreement, of sorts.
"As I was saying before you so rudely interrupted…" He waited in anticipation, but was met with more silence, and so continued, "I was getting my mail this morning, you know, after my toast. Well, after my toast and tea. Chrysanthemum, if you were interested. Supposed to be quite good for the eyes and such. I've changed from Earl Grey because having it so much at tra—"
"Get on with it, please!" came the inevitable response.
Honestly, his friend only had to wait while he set the scene. These things were important. "I am getting on with it," he said sternly. "Be a little patient. Did you see what I did th— oh, never mind. I was getting my mail when I saw my neighbour from Number 13 – young, blond, a little scruffy –crouching behind the pot plant."
"The plant on the landing outside your flat?"
"The one and the same," the man from Number 4 agreed. "He even waved. And saluted. It was a pretty good salute, too. The big man would have been proud. But it was weird, don't you think? Oh, wait, it's you. Sorry."
His friend growled amiably. "And you do the apology so well. Sometimes I wonder—"
"Where you've been? I do too," he grinned. "Anyway, I thought you and the boys could come over today, seeing as we're all off work for now. Right?"
"Well, actually," his friend had the nerve to sound smug. "I know for a fact that our esteemed boss will be out all day today… with his girlfriend… doing you-know-what…"
"…You are so childish."
His friend sighed happily down the phone. "I know. Besides, a minute ago I got a call from what's-their-faces. We're going back to work today, buddy. It's urgent, apparently. So much for the break, eh?"
"What about 'our esteemed boss'? He can't come in to work. Isn't he going to be out with his girlfriend?"
"Oh, that's exactly why he's going out today." The smirk in his friend's voice became apparent. "Family matters."
"…Oh, no, really?"
"Yes, really. It's just you and I, mate. Together, forever!"
He could practically see the hearts travelling through the phone line. "Er, well, that's great. Bye."
"No, wait! Please! Don't leave me! I love you, Sn—"
He hurriedly slammed the phone back down, cutting off his friend's anguished cries. Taking a sip of his now too-cold tea, he sighed. The man from Number 4 was in for a long day.
xxx
As Alex drove, he glanced sideways, wondering which of his bags he'd grabbed. With a growing sense of horror, he took a second glance, and then a third.
Not daring to face the truth, he opened the bag with his free hand.
Yes, he knew which bag he'd taken, and his heart plummeted in response.
It was the smallest one, his 'manbag', as it had been once dubbed by Tom. The one with all his 'essentials'. Fat lot of use they were to him now.
All he had were his fake identification papers including passport and visa, his mobile, toiletries, a first-aid kit, and gum from Smithers. Yes, gum. Of the expansive kind. Not a knife, not a computer-hacking gadget or surveillance items. Nope, he'd lost all of those. He had only enough gum to bust a lock. A small lock. A small, relatively weak lock.
He'd hoped he could escape his terrible luck, but obviously not. Probably never. At least the first-aid kit was useful; Smithers had stocked it, and it contained detailed instructions as well as medicines not normally found in first-aid kits. It even contained bug repellent and suncream, though how they were related to 'first-aid' he would never know.
In resignation, he sighed. Perhaps he should just give himself in.
Instead, he drove on.
xxx
Driving down King's Road, Alex thought back to his escape from his flat. For some reason, he couldn't get his neighbour's face out of his mind. The man was so familiar to him… It was more than the usual neighbourly recognition, and Alex didn't know why.
Ah, well. He could figure it out later. For now, Alex was uncomfortable. Shifting in his seat, he turned on the car's air-conditioning. Despite the day's chilliness, he was sweating. Something was wrong. The back of his neck prickled. Someone was watching him.
Alex checked the rear-view mirror. Nothing. Normal traffic – a taxi, three cars and a motorbike – nothing unusual. He shook his head decisively, and turned his eyes back to the road. He had nothing to worry about.
But he felt no better. Something was still wrong. He looked down to see his bone white knuckles clutching the steering wheel in a grip of death. Taking a breath, he loosened his hold and was entirely unsurprised to feel the wheel slide under his now clammy hands.
Something was definitely wrong. His body was subconsciously reacting to something important. Indicating quickly, he turned left onto Chelsea Manor Street. As he drove past the shops lining the road, his eyes automatically flicked over to the reflective windows and checked for suspicious signs. Nothing, so far. Taking another deep breath, he licked his suddenly dry lips.
Turning the steering wheel, he looped right around Oakley Gardens. Barely pausing to look, he swung right into a U-turn, cutting in front of a lorry. Its horn blared at him angrily as he accelerated in front of it.
Alex looked backwards out the mirror. The taxi he'd spotted before had followed him, and was now behind the lorry. Coincidence? Alex saw conspiracy. He had to lose the taxi somehow.
As he drove through an intersection, the motorbike from before – with its distinctive numberplate, A555 HOL – came out from his blind spot, driving along his left side. He let his foot rest a little heavier on the accelerator, and watched as the lorry turned away.
Speeding down Royal Hospital Road, he passed the National Army Museum, noting with some slight hysteria the cannons across the road. If only he could somehow shoot them–!
Switching to 6th gear, he glanced behind again. Yep, the taxi was still there. But – was that? – it was. The white car he'd noted before – a cabriolet, and Alex recognised the bald driver – was two cars in front of him.
Not watching where he was going, Alex veered dangerously right and hurriedly corrected. The boxy blue car on his right swerved to avoid Alex and drove onto the footpath, scattering pedestrians. Looking behind him, Alex saw the car hit the fence of the post office. There was a sickening scraping as the metal crumpled, the smell of burnt rubber filling the air. Guilt settled into his stomach like an old friend.
Alex continued on, not daring to stop. The lorry from before was behind him, but Alex decided it wasn't chasing him. It had turned away, right? It was probably making deliveries or something. Nothing to worry about.
At 60mph, Alex was way above the speed limit, but he accelerated further, trying to get ahead of the motorbike. To his surprise and dismay, the lorry also accelerated. Of course. It had to be following him, too. He turned left sharply, almost running over the motorbike, but managed to miss it by inches.
Soon, he came to a roundabout. As quickly as he could without rolling the car, Alex turned into it, slowly accelerating, faster and faster with handbrake turns, until no other cars could enter without fear of hitting him or his pursuers. Horns honked, anxious to get through Sloane Square and past Alex, the cabriolet, taxi, motorbike and lorry. What was this, some kind of flash mob?
Concentrating fiercely, Alex passed the King's Road exit, then performed a screeching 180 degree turn to swing back and turn into it, narrowly missing a bus waiting at the stop on the side of the road. The cabriolet, going too fast, continued past the exit, but the lorry tried to follow him. Not quite managing to slow down enough, it skimmed the black fence separating the lanes of traffic, and continued into a shop.
Keeping his eyes on the road, Alex heard, rather than saw, the crash. Not even the thick 'sound-proof' glass of the Ford could quite block out the screams and the concluding crunch.
He kept driving, though, nervously checking his wing mirrors. The cabriolet was still in hot pursuit, as were the taxi and motorbike. Thinking quickly, he turned right onto Sloane Avenue again.
Tyres screeching, he turned left, made a sharp right and finally swung around to the highway heading in the opposite direction. The two cars followed him easily, but the motorbike, going a little too fast, was forced to stop and slowly turn around.
Alex smiled. A little bit here, a little bit there… Eventually he'd shake off his pursuers.
Not for a while, though, as the cars in front of him slowed. He looked ahead. A red traffic light stared stonily back at him. Guiltily, he turned onto the empty right hand lane, driving in the wrong direction. Predictably, his followers copied him.
Taking a very sharp left, Alex narrowly missed another lorry, forcing it onto the footpath. A sightseeing 'Tour of London' bus in the left hand lane erupted into cheers at his daring, passengers snapping away with their iPhones and cameras. Once particularly enthusiastic blond tourist on the lower level stuck his head out of the window, flashing his camera in the motorbike rider's face.
Alex held his breath, not daring to hope, but after a little wobble, the rider regained his balance. However, not fully watching where it was going, the motorbike then smashed into a green cab shelter in the middle of the road. The rider didn't look as though he would get up.
A little relieved, Alex continued down the A4. The taxi and cabriolet were still behind him, but seemed content with just following him for the time being.
He tapped his fingers on the steering wheel, thinking.
Flying past a Tesco, Alex veered into the right lane, in a vain attempt to shake of his tails, which followed without hesitation. He sped through the traffic lights, navigating around a Double Decker bus heading parallel to them. The taxi, not so lucky, was hit by the swerving bus. It came to a screeching stop at the edge of the footpath. The cabriolet drove around it and continued the chase.
Speeding over the Hammersmith Flyover, Alex ended up on the Great West Road. Absently, his gaze turned to the Furnivall Gardens, where Jack had once taken him. To his horror, the motorbike – he'd thought it was a goner – raced towards him through the Gardens. As he watched, it came closer and closer, until…
After attempting to jump, the bike caught on the fence, stopping instantly. The driver, not attached, flew over the handlebars, hitting the windscreen of the cabriolet and rolling into the back seat. The white car swerved, overcorrected, and turned into the brick wall of a building on the left.
Alex slumped, relieved and exhausted. Taking his foot off the accelerator slightly, he slowed back down to below the speed limit, the late afternoon sun glinting off the bonnet. Onwards to the airport.
xxx
"BABY YOU'RE A FI-REWORK! COME ON LET YOUR CO-LOURS BURST!"
The students surrounding Alex on the plane seemed almost manic in their elation. Really, it was almost midnight, by his reckoning, and they still hadn't gone through the entire song list in their various iPhones.
"MAKE 'EM GO 'OH, OH, OH'! YOU'RE GONNA LEAVE 'EM ALL IN AWE, AWE, AWE!"
He would have been all right if they hadn't decided that every single song had to be belted out for the rest of the plane to hear. It didn't help that they had absolutely no idea of pitch.
"WOOOO!" yelled the girl next to him when the song finished, and he resisted the urge to punch her.
"I… know a place… where the grass is really greener," sang Katy Perry, oblivious to the young British spy lurching closer and closer to madness. "Warm, wet and wild…"
"I LOVE THIS SONG!" screeched the girl sitting in front of Alex. Reaching around to tap Alex's neighbour, she exulted, "OH MY GAWD! TURN IT UP, SOPH!"
Alex sent mental death threats to 'Soph'. He was blissfully ignored.
"YOU COULD TRAVEL THE WO-ORLD!"
He could, but he wished these girls didn't have to travel it with him. Sighing, he defiantly pushed his own earphones into his ears in a vain attempt to block out the sound. Apparently, they were 'noise-cancelling'.
"You'll be falling in love! Oh, whoa-oh-oh!"
Well, at least the earphones made it a little quieter—
"CA-LI-FOR-NIA GURLS, WE'RE UNFORGETTABLE!"
…or not. He wanted his money back. Deep breaths. In and out. In and out.
"DAI-SY DUKES, BIKINIS ON TOP!"
This wasn't working. Time for some active protestation.
"SUN-KISSED SKIN, SO—"
"Excuse me, Sophie, was it?" he smiled winningly at the girl beside him.
She stared, open-mouthed. "WHAT?" And turned back to her friends.
"WE'LL MELT YOUR PO—"
"SOPHIE!" he shouted.
No response.
Well, it wasn't like he hadn't warned her. Before she could react, he had claimed her iPhone and lowered the volume drastically. He knew he wasn't imagining the collective sigh of relief from the other passengers.
Sophie was horrified. "What did you do that for?"
He smiled again, a little forced. "Er, I'm sorry, but it was getting a little loud."
She stared some more. Slowly, she turned the music back to its original volume.
"…don't mind sand in our stilettos," Katy continued, unaware of her short quietening.
Alex sighed. Perhaps the toilets would be quieter. Abruptly, he stood up and pushed past Sophie, who rolled her eyes at her friends as she drew up her legs to let him through.
Arriving at the toilets, he found that the music was little more than background noise. At last, some peace and quiet. Gleefully, he locked himself in a stall and sat down on the toilet after closing the lid.
Shutting his eyes, he imagined clouds. Soft, white, fluffy clouds. Horizontal clouds. Lying down on a nice, comfortable mattress.
Very slowly, he drifted off to the sweet sound of silence. Well, almost.
"Californiaaa… California gu-urls…"
*FFSAS: See the profile of control of chaos (formerly SamayouTamashi).
Also guys, feel free to start reviewing with references spotted. If you review while logged in or use a consistent review-name, I'll collate the references spotted by each person. You don't have to remember all the references and add them up and then give them in one huge review at the end :)