Chapter Thirty: "Do not wait to strike till the iron is hot; make it hot by striking." ~ William Butler Yeats
Knowing what you have to do and wanting to do it are two completely different things most of the time, and right now is no exception. This is serious shit I am contemplating. If I steal that code book, there is no going back. I'm going to be running for my life from both Mycroft and McCutcheon.
But what choice do I have? I might still be high or something, but I can't think of any other way out of this. I can't let McCutcheon get his hands on the book...but, if I take it, Mycroft is going to be convinced that I've turned on him...
As if it matters. That bastard was probably going to find some reason to terminate me eventually anyway. Like McCutcheon said, I'm too close, I know too much. I'm a risk, and someone as risk-averse as Mycroft has to have effective ways to manage risks; and what could be more effective than elimination?
I look my reflection in the eye. Get over it, Angelica: you're disposable. So. Fuck it.
I'll show them what disposable can do. I straighten my skirt, even out my tights, and adjust my bra, all the while visualising exactly what's going to happen next. I'm going to follow the little route that Leo so painstakingly laid out for me, I'm going to cut those stupid wires in that stupid cupboard...and then I'm going to pick up the blue route, Leo's route. I memorised it, I can see it clearly in my mind's eye. I'm going to go down to LL2 to that locked drawer in that locked office, and steal that bloody code book.
And then I'm going to make my way up to the rooftop, where Leo will be waiting, expecting Lena to text him with the all-clear...but he won't be expecting me. I'm going to have to take on one or the other of them, and Leo is the better target, since I know for a fact that Lena has a gun; besides, I have a feeling that she's the brawn to Leo's brain. I really hope that McCutcheon is consistently a minimalist when it comes to staff, and Leo is by himself...
After that, I don't know. I don't have time to think about it right now. I need to act while I still can, while I still have the element of surprise working for me.
But there's something I have to do first. Reluctantly, I pull my phone out, hefting the solid little slab in my hand. I really love my phone, it's sleek and fast, with an app for every bloody thing, and all my music and stuff on it...I put it carefully down on the floor, and, raising my knee up high, stamp the heel of my boot down again and again, until the glass face is shattered into a million bits, and the electronic guts are pulverised. Track that, Mycroft Holmes. I'd rather live without my mobile than have it used against me anymore.
No time to feel bereft, no time for anything. I stride out of the toilet and down the emergency stairs quickly, purposefully, confident. If anyone is watching, I don't want them to think I'm doing anything but going about my rightful business.
I feel focussed, like an arrow hissing though the air, on target. There's the supply cupboard, and once I'm inside and flick on the light, there's the little grey access panel way in the back. I have to shove aside the bulky floor-polishing machine to get to it, but no problem. I pull open the little door only to be confronted by a tangled mess of wires, all colours, going every-which-way; there's got to be at least five red ones! Shitshitshit. How am I supposed to...?
Right. Slow down, breathe. Leo probably installed this bloody thing, he's a techie of some sort, he knew what he was on about, so just slow down and look...I follow the red first, that's the first one I'm supposed to cut...around...under...that's a connector there... and it dawns on me that there aren't five red wires, it's only one. Sometimes I'm just a little dim.
It takes a lot more pressure to snip the wire than I thought, and I'm not sure that the clippers are going to be up to the job, but eventually the plastic sheathing gives and I am twisting the cutting edge through the thin copper core and poking through the rest of the electrical guts behind the panel for the next one, the red-and-white.
I clip that one, and nothing continues to happen, just like it's supposed to. I think I got it right. Now, onward.
I'm not sure why, but I take a few extra seconds to put the cupboard back to rights, closing the little grey door, moving the floor machine back to where it started out. Maybe it'll keep them wondering for a few precious extra minutes.
The blue route. I stop before going back out into the corridor, tracing it in my mind. I need to get down to LL2, then over to the loos on that level, where I can hopefully hop up into something that will get me over to the locked office. I'm not sure precisely what I'm looking for, but I am sure of the route I saw on those diagrams; it followed the ventilation ducts.
The corridors are completely deserted, the entire building is quiet as a morgue down here. I re-trace my steps to the stairwell, only realising as I pull open the door that the lift is right there beside. Huh. Either I'm getting better, or I don't have the resources to be terrified of two things at once. No time to contemplate it! I bound down the stairs.
Where I come out is still Level One clearance, judging from the narrow red stripe along the walls on both sides. That's good. The longer I'm able to go without looking suspicious, the better. I have seen a few CCTV cameras since I left the main lobby, but honestly not as many as I would have thought.
And there's certain not to be any in the loo. It's identical to the one upstairs, right down to the floor-plan and the chemical-sweet air freshener. I stand in the middle of the room, looking up. It's a standard dropped ceiling like I've seen everywhere all my life, big white rectangular tiles of fire-resistant fibrous something-or-other laid into a grid of metal strips, suspended from the true ceiling above. A retro-fit, Leo had said, meaning that the original ceiling was much higher, and it had been lowered to make room for modern ductwork and wiring and such.
The round ventilation grille set into the ceiling is hardly big enough for me to get my head into, so it's no good to even think about getting in there. But I'm certain that Leo's route to the locked room passed right overhead. Right here, beside the vent.
I step up onto the sinks, and push up one of the big white ceiling tiles out of its frame, sliding it over to stick my head up into the space above. It's dimly lit by the lights from down below, and it looks...surprisingly spacious. The old ceilings must be really high! I can see the fat round tube of the ventilation duct rambling along, and the stout support-wires that run from the true ceiling down to the suspended metal grid, holding it up. I push experimentally down on the metal grid, testing. It doesn't wobble, but will it hold me if I climb up there?
Only one way to find out. I pull myself up into the space, and find that the tiles are more robust than I thought, at least as long as I keep my weight evenly distributed on hands and knees. So far, so good, but how am I going to navigate up here? What I wouldn't give for a little torch right now. I bet Leo has one, lucky bastard.
And never mind about navigating...how am I going to get through solid walls? As my eyes adjust to the semi-darkness, I can see that the walls of the room below me extend up to the original ceiling, disappearing into the gloom overhead.
I don't know exactly how this is going to work, but I'm certain that the route followed the ductwork. So, follow the damn ductwork. I carefully crawl forward a few feet until I reach the wall where the big metal tube passes through it: and I discover that I can, too. The lathe-and-plaster wall has been cut with a pass-through wide enough to allow for the ductwork and various metal and plastic pipes and conduit...and me.
Right. Okay. I can do this.
Carefully, I crawl forward, keeping the air duct on my right by feeling for it every now and then. It's completely filthy up here, blanketed in dust; I can feel it under my hands, sticking to my palms, and even my slow, careful movements stir up a cloud of it that tickles my nose and makes it run a bit, keeping me on the verge of sneezing. To make things worse, within the first three seconds I feel my tights snag and ladder. Damn, I hate that! I hate ruining a perfectly good pair of tights, and the bloody dress is probably going to get destroyed as well. I wouldn't have worn it if I'd known how this evening was going to turn out!
Slowly, slowly I creep forward, keeping to the path I remember from the diagrams. As my eyes grow accustomed to it, I realise that it's not totally dark up here after all. Some light leaks up in slivers from down below where the panels don't quite meet the edge of their metal casements, and I can make out the shadow of the big metal duct beside me, as well as looming shadows of the occasional wall.
Once, twice, I feel a panel start to give under my weight, and I grab onto anything I can to keep it from collapsing under me. I don't go through, but the tiles bend a little, letting in a thicker stream of light. No help for it, keep on. I try to stay more on the metal grid than the tiles, but it's hard on my poor knees.
One crawl-step at a time eventually brings me to the downward vent outlet that marks the target room, the locked door with the locked drawer. Yes!
I pull up a tile out of the metal frame, and slide it wide enough to lean over and peer down.
The smallish room below me is not at all dark; there is a fair amount of greenish glow coming from a brightly-lit aquarium in the corner, its shoals of colourful fish darting around clumps of rock and driftwood. In the centre of the room is a big desk; stocked with the requisite computer and keyboard, it's also cluttered to overflowing with stacks of papers and folders, several boxes of tissues, mugs stuffed with pens and pencils, a raft of wife-and-the-kids photos in tacky frames, and a lot of other rubbish. Behind the desk is a comfy swivel chair, a big filing cabinet sits in the corner. No sign of anyone about.
I swing myself down and drop lightly to the floor, finally letting loose with a few stifled, sloppy-wet sneezes. Agh! Flailing about, I grab a tissue from the desk to wipe up the mess on my face, and it comes away streaked with grey. Lord only knows what my face looks like, I don't want to think about it right now.
I toss the soiled tissue into a bin, and crouch down to examine the desk and its drawers in the eerie aquarium glow. All wooden, not terribly new, but not ancient. Kind of standard-issue government bleh. Drawers on both sides of the knee-hole; the ones on the right don't have locks, the two on the left do.
I don't doubt that Leo has all kinds of lock-picking tools in his kit. I don't have his kit, all I have is my brain, a little brawn, and a fuck-ton of smouldering anger. I am SO fed up with everyone and everything, I just want to get done and get out of here!
The code book has to be in one of the locked drawers, and I reckon it's the top one; the bottom drawer looks like it's for file folders. Although not Mycroft-worthy top-of-the-line, the desk is well-made; the drawer is tightly fitted and doesn't jiggle at all. I run my fingers over it, feeling the grain of the wood. Oak, white oak, to be exact. Auntie took me antique-hunting sometimes when we went travelling for her dog shows; she was delighted that I actually noticed the different types of furniture wood, so she taught me the basics. Oak is very hard and durable, but it's brittle, and prone to cleaving along the grain if a hard enough blow hits it just...like a blind man reading, I skim my fingertips over the face of the drawer...there. Right there. A dimpled furrow in the coarse wood-grain, like a fault-line. If I can hit it hard enough...Damn! What I wouldn't give for a chisel and hammer right now.
I rock back on my heels and sweep my gaze around the room, trying to imagine what I could use. I'm sure as hell not giving up now, not when I've come so far. I stand up, pawing through the clutter on the desk. This bloke, whoever has this office, he's not half messy. I sift through all sorts of flotsam and jetsam, including a brass-and-walnut desk sign that proclaims Dr. Andrew Sargent. Oops, sorry Dr. Sargent, hope you don't get sacked for this. And you maybe should clean off your desk once in a while, sir.
I don't find anything topside that is useful, so I slide out the shallow drawer in the middle above the knee-hole; that is a rubbish tip as well, stuffed with odds and ends: including a packet of condoms. Oh, my, Dr. Sargent. Bad boy.
Then, I hit jackpot! Way in the back of the drawer my fingers find something cold and metallic; it's a fancy letter-opener made to look like a miniature sword. Cast in heavy bronze, it seems like it could take enough of a beating to do for a chisel. Now, a hammer.
I prowl the room, biting nervously at a ragged thumbnail that broke in my crawl across the ceiling, peeling off and spitting out the pale pink nail varnish. Hammer, hammer, hammer, hammer...even a rock would do. A lump of something, anything hard. There's an assortment of paperweights on the desk, but they are all glass, and I don't fancy shredding my hand if the weight should shatter.
The aquarium. Peering into the glow, I can see that there are some interesting, weirdly-sculpted bits of driftwood...and a pile of water-worn rocks, some of them a little larger than my hand. Perfect.
Giving a silent thanks for Dr. Sargent's magpie habits, I flip back the lid on the tank and carefully claim a large piece of granite, flecked with gaudy pink and black. Shaking the water off the stone and my arm, I kneel down again in front of the drawer, balancing the point of the letter-opener against in the spot where the fault-line is deepest, and give it my best shot. The stone shocks painfully against my palm when it hits the butt of the letter-opener, but I wince more at the loud, dull thud it makes. At least the desk isn't metal, as that would reverberate like a drum, but it's loud enough to send my stomach clenching in fear. If there is anyone at all about on this floor right now, if they weren't deaf, they heard that. I've got to get that bloody buggery code book and get out of here!
The one whack made enough of a dent to sink my improvised chisel into the wood, but there's no sign that the wood is splitting just yet. It's going to take a much harder hit. I stand, angling my body so I can give the full swing of my arm and all the force I can muster into it.
The next hit resounds louder than the first did, and although it drives the bronze point far enough in to stick, still the wood won't split. I'm nearly shaking now with anxiety, afraid that there's a security team on it's way to arrest me this minute... Fuck it. Holding the stone in both hands, I pound furiously at the bronze letter-opener, slamming with the rock again and again as the point quivers into the reluctant wood: then, with a pop, a crack spreads from one side of the drawer to the other!
I drop the chunk of granite and wriggle the blade of the letter-opener back and forth, the wood splintering with sharp, satisfying crackles as I work it, wedging and destroying the front of the drawer. A few more bashes with the heavy stone don't hurt, either.
Finally it gives way enough for me to reach in and claw out the contents of the drawer through the shattered splinters. I quickly look over my haul, finding several plain cardboard boxes containing dark glass vials, a small stack of computer floppy disks-does anyone still use those?-and several black plastic zip-sealed pouches.
I have no idea what I am looking for. Just because everybody has been calling it a "code book" doesn't mean that it's a book. It's a key to deciphering the chemical codes, and will likely be at least several pages of information: but these days, that doesn't have to be in a literal book, does it?
I frown at the jumble in front of me. The boxes and vials definitely aren't it, and I shove those back into the remains of the drawer. The floppies...I look them over, squinting a little in the dim light, and I can make out that they're cryptically labelled things like "Ajax/Red98" and "Perseus/Yellow97." I doubt it. I shove those back in as well. The pouches...I look them over. Opening one, I find it half-full of some granular white powder; it looks vaguely drug-like, but I'm not interested in finding out what. Back in the drawer. That leaves two more pouches, one large and one small.
I pick up the smaller one and slide the top open, and nearly shout with relief. Inside is a little black note book, one of those posh leather-bound ones; it's a smaller version of the notebook that Mycroft carries around, the one he uses as a prop so that everyone will think he needs to write things down like a normal person...
Whatever. Bugger him. I slide the little notebook out onto my palm. Opening it, I can tell that the writing inside is cyrillic, and I can make out a few words in Russian; that's enough for me. I slip the book back into its pouch and stash the whole thing securely in my boot. Hell, yeah!
I pick up the big pouch to shove it back into the drawer, but hesitate. It feels...familiar. Curious, I slide the top open. Bloody hell, it's stuffed with money. Cash. A thick packet of PS50 notes, to be specific. I let out a long, slow breath.
So, am I a criminal now? I mean, I just broke into a classified area to steal a top-secret document. That makes me a crim, and if I get caught-unless Mycroft just quietly does away with me, that is-if I get caught, I'll be treated like a criminal; it doesn't matter why I'm doing it. So. Might as well be hung for a wolf as a sheep. I look at the money, mentally counting by 50's to...maybe twenty thousand. Maybe quite a lot more.
I'm not broke and desperate, not anymore. I've worked hard, escorting pretty much full-time, and been able to pay off the student debt from my unfinished degree and build up a tidy nest-egg besides. But if I'm going to have to go on the run now, how long is that few grand I have in the bank going to last me? I'm saving my country here, I should be entitled to some compensation.
I start to reach into the bag, but I can't quite do it. For fuck's sake, I don't have time for moral dilemmas! I have to get out of here, now. Either do it or don't do it, Angelica. With a snarl, I zip the pouch shut and shove the bloody thing back into the hole it came from, standing up quickly before I change my mind. I'm no thief. Even though I have to admit that I would steal if I were in dire straits, that still doesn't mean I'm a thief. Besides, those notes are probably marked or poisoned or something.
Time to get the hell out of here. Standing directly under the panel that I pushed aside to drop down into this room, I jump up to reach the opening, catching it with my fingers. Legs pedalling in the air, I manage to haul myself back up and in, pushing the tile back into place, and crawling as fast as I can back to the ladies' room on LL2, then down and out of the ceiling, landing on top of the sinks once more. I take a second to ease that ceiling panel back into place, then jump down and...oh, my god!
I catch an unexpected glimpse of myself in the mirror, and it is shocking. I look like a nightmare! I have grey dust streaking my face and tousled hair, my hands are grimy, my slinky black dress clotted with grey dust-bunnies... Without thinking, I reach to run the taps, grab some towels, tidy up... NO TIME! ACK!
It's not easy, but I turn from the mirror and dash out of the ladies' room; the conviction that I have to hurry, to get up to the roof and away from here as fast as I can overwhelms even my fabled vanity. I don't know if it's panic or intuition, but in any case I'm not going to argue with it. Heading for the stairwell, I'm trying to calculate how long it'll take me to run up six flights of stairs; longer than I'd like, and I'll be huffing and puffing when I'm trying to sneak up on Leo...
Hand on the stairwell door, I glance over at the lift right beside. The doors are wide open. I could just...step into the lift. And get there faster. Six floors. Go!
Not giving myself a chance to think too much, I swerve into the lift, push the button for the fifth floor, and watch the doors close in front of me, feeling...nothing. I gingerly poke around the space where my anxiety used to be, like when you lose a tooth and your mouth is strange again.
There's nothing. Not covered-up nothing, but nothing-nothing. I vaguely wonder if the anxiety will come back when I'm not running on adrenaline, but in the meantime, I'm grateful. I don't even startle when the doors ding and rumble open again.
Exiting calmly and without my usual gazelle leap, I pause to orient myself, visualising the route that I'm following. There's a sign facing the lift doors, so you cannot avoid seeing it: "Level 3 Security Clearance Only" it says in large yellow lettering, and I can also see the narrow yellow stripes running down either side of the bright, wide corridors. Glancing down at my pitiful little red Level 1 badge still clipped to the low neckline of my dress, I tuck it inside so nothing shows but the metal clip. There, if someone wants to see it, they'll have to ask. I strike out for the rooftop exit, following the route I can see in my head, blue lines on a computer screen.
I'm halfway there when I hear footsteps from the hall ahead, clomping toward me. Fear claws up my thighs, urging me to turn and run, but I force myself to keep going forward. If I keep calm, I might be able to pull this off. Panic makes people stupid. Don't be stupid.
Ignoring the fact that I look like a refugee from a horror film, I lift my chin and keep steady on. The heavy footsteps come nearer and nearer, I'm moving toward them even though I really don't want to. I turn the next corner, and there he is, the Foot-stepper, clomping along in scuffed brown brogues. Middle-aged, balding, thick glasses; a classic aging nerd, he's wearing an unbuttoned suit jacket with a white lab-coat open over it, no tie. Clever but messy, bit of a slob, just like Dr. Sargent down in LL2. I stay properly to the left as we pass each other, neither wavering nor hesitating in my brisk, queenly progress, although I give him a pleasantly disinterested look and a nod.
Foot-stepper smiles at me absently, then frowns as he takes in the state of my appearance. He opens his mouth to say something, but I keep moving steadily onward. Behind me, the footsteps stop, and I hear a polite clearing of the throat. Shit. "Miss?" he calls out tentatively. "Miss?"
Steeling myself, I turn around with genuine barely-concealed impatience. "Yes? Can I help you?"
He steps forward uncertainly to close the gap between us, but stops well away from me. "Ah, is everything, ah, all right?" His eyes take in the state of my dress and ruined tights again.
Best to show a little embarrassment. I run my hands self-consciously over my hair, give a little laugh. "I do look a sight, don't I? Had to go down and rummage around in the storage archives...have you ever been down there?" He shakes his head, No: He's quite the type to avoid anything not involving a computer keyboard. "It's a mess, just a filthy mess. Dust everywhere. We need some maintenance down there!"
"I suppose we do." He is looking at me very suspiciously, his eyes narrowing at either my tucked-in security tag, or my breasts. I'm not overly endowed, so it's probably the tag. "Whose department do you work for? I don't seem to recall seeing you before, Miss..ah?..."
ARGH! I don't have time for this! "Miss Drake. I'm new. Andrew- I mean, Dr. Sargent brought me onto his team only a few days ago to work on...that new cryptography project." I smirk just enough to give Foot-stepper the wrong idea, based on what I imagine Dr. Sargent's reputation to be. Faithful men don't keep photos of their wife on top of the desk, and condoms in the drawers.
"Ah." Foot-stepper looks slightly uncomfortable, shuffles his worn brogues with a frown. "Well, Andrew does have all the luck, doesn't he?" he clears his throat slightly. "Fascinating project!"
"It certainly is," I agree pleasantly, adding, "Such a pleasure meeting you!" with a hearty smile-then I abruptly turn and walk away, calling over my shoulder, "Good night!" Fairly rude, I know, but I can tell I've hit the right buttons; he's unlikely to report the encounter any time soon, since the whole thing clearly made him uncomfortable.
After a moment, the clomping footfalls start again, this time receding behind me, and a minute later I'm at the door marked Emergency Exit Only - Alarm Will Sound!- and fervently hoping that it won't.
I cautiously push open the door (no alarm sounds) and slip though, gliding up the final flight of steps out onto the roof. The night is still warm, although up here there is a light, fresh breeze. I smell cigarette smoke, wisping around the outline of a tall, very thin man looking over the parapet, holding a lit cigarette in one hand and a mobile in the other. It's Leo, watching for me to leave the building down below, and fortunately, he seems to be working alone. I move toward him, silent as a shadow.
I made the right choice in deciding to take on Leo instead of Lena; it's almost ridiculously easy for me to silently grapple my arm around his skinny neck in a rear choke-hold, and ten seconds later he is out cold. I don't bother being too gentle when I let him drop onto the gravel roof-top; he'll wake up in just a few minutes with only a headache and a few bruises, which is better than he deserves.
I pat down his pockets to find a small torch, and use it to suss out how I am going to get down from here. There ought to be a fire escape on the outside of the building...and there is. A little more exposed than I would like, but at least I'm wearing black, and with all the grime smearing my face and hands, I'm completely camouflaged. I knew there had to be a good use for all this dirt.
The touchscreen of Leo's mobile phone is still glowing on the gravel where it fell from his hand. For the second time that night, I bring the stacked leather heel of my boot down with a crunch, and this is much easier than the first one. Actually, it feels pretty good. Severing the communication between Leo and his colleagues will only give me a few minutes head start here, but I'm hoping it will be enough.
I really don't remember going down the fire escape, but I must have, since the next thing I know, I'm on the ground and running. I don't have a conscious plan at all, not yet. For the moment, I'm just letting the animal in me do what it knows to do: run. Alert but not panicked, I run at an easy lope down back streets and dark alleys.
Gradually my legs begin to tire, and I slow down to a brisk walk, coming out onto a busy street...no idea which one, of course. I let my feet carry me where they will, and I realise after a while that I'm pointed towards home. To Knightsbridge, that is, which may or may not be a great idea at the moment. It's not safe anymore. I guess it never really was. Like so many things in the past few months, that was just an illusion.
But there are things there that I need. I need to pack a bag, grab a few of my essentials. Like, my wallet. My fistful of keys. An idea is starting to form, but I'm still afraid to look at it objectively yet. First, I need to go home, so I can leave home. The pull to get there is visceral.
A taxi will get me there faster. I stop by the kerb, hold out my arm, and it doesn't take long for a black cab to stop. The driver watches me get in, his face a puzzled blend of amusement and concern. "Are you all right, Miss? Are you...all right?"
I smile toothily at him in the rearview, my grime-streaked face almost blending with the shadows. "I'm fine. But you should see the other bloke!"
His eyebrows go up. "Okay, then. Okay. Where to?"
"1113 Ennismore Mews."
"Knightsbridge, then." He sounds a little surprised, disappointed. "That's just a skip and a jump."
"Then start skipping, please!" I feel in my boot for my phone, but find the little leather book instead, and my money clip. It really is a short hop to Knightsbridge, especially at this time of night when the traffic is lighter. When I pay the cabbie his fare, I tip him almost as much again before I get out.
I let myself into the flat without hesitation, knowing that I'm still ahead of the hunters. Not for long, but long enough. The flat glows when I flip on the lights, a tiny gem of well-appointed oak furniture and polished trim. Part of me longs to hide under a blanket on the sofa, phone my sister, have her tell me that it's going to be okay.
But it's not, and I've got no time for bedtime stories. Now is the time for something larger, and much, much more dangerous. My eye falls on the closed lid of my laptop, where I left it after tea. Might as well take care of things as I think of them.
I could just smash the whole thing, but targeted destruction is more effective; I loosen the little screw on the bottom and pull out the hard drive. It goes on the floor and under my boot, the metal case flattening and the fragile disk inside making a lovely crunching noise as my data, passwords, history, and former life are definitively pulverised.
Upstairs, I pull my old rucksack down from the top shelf of the mahogany wardrobe, and stuff it with whatever occurs to me to grab. Some clothing for a walkabout, but a few simple, attractive working outfits as well. My trainers, and a pair of strappy heels. Basic makeup, and my Swiss army knife. I shove my handbag into there as well, making sure I have all my keys and identification, my Oyster card, cash, everything. My e-reader, as it takes up almost no room. I contemplate my second phone, the one I had Sarah get for me. It was in Mycroft's possession, so I don't doubt that it's also tracked now, but what's the point in stomping it as well? I toss it inside the nightstand drawer with a shrug, and while I'm at it, pull out my stash of condoms to stuff in the bottom of my rucksack. Working essentials, and the brand I like is expensive.
No time for a shower, but I do take a minute to wash my hands and face, brush some of the dust out of my hair. I change clothes, donning nondescript jeans and a t-shirt, stuffing my dirty dress and tights down into the deeps of my rucksack (no evidence, don't leave evidence) for disposal later.
I glance around the bedroom one last time. My toybox, my small foot-locker of sex toys and tools of the trade, sits demurely beside the silent valet in the corner. Sighing, I open it for a quick last look. There are some very expensive and beloved toys in there, but I can't justify dragging any of them along, no matter how it pains me. Stainless-steel dildoes and medical-grade silicon g-spot vibes aren't exactly survival equipment.
The dark, sharp scent of leather catches my nose, and with it a whiff of expensive men's cologne, and soap...bloody hell, how can that harness still reek of Mycroft? You would think that he had worn it, not me. I lift it out, the brass rings jangling softly, and the sound recalls late afternoons of green-gold light spilling across this room, his smell so close, the feel of his stupid pants and undershirt, then finally, his skin on mine, the length of him against and inside me, the frenzy, the urgency...almost inhuman intensity, god the intensity of the man!
Well, that's done and over with. Never again.
I snuffle, my nose suddenly stuffed with the tears that I swallowed down in McCutcheon's office, and a few more besides. There's a dark wave of pain building that threatens to swamp me: Betrayal, grief, rage; I'm disposable, abandoned again...
Oh, for fuck's sake! The most pathetic thing a whore can do is to give her heart away to a customer. And there I am. Was, anyway. There I was, because I sure as hell am not in love with him now. Now, I don't know what I feel. It's not hatred, but it bloody well isn't affection, either. It's...something else. He warned me; it doesn't excuse him, but he warned me. "You shouldn't trust me." I thought he was being overly dramatic, but it was simply good advice.
I shove the harness back inside the box, close the lid with a snap, and get to my feet. This is no time or place for emotional processing. I can do that later...if I have a later. I feel a shiver of urgency building: It's time I got out of here. I don't know if it's Mycroft's men or McCutcheon's that are on the way, but regardless, the first place hunters look for their quarry is in old haunts, so that's what I have to avoid.
I feel tattered with exhaustion; I need a place to bed down and get some rest, even if it's just for a few hours. Where, I don't know, but I have a feeling that it will come to me once I put my feet on the pavement. Trying not to think about all the things I'm leaving behind, I turn off the lights and go downstairs quickly. I pause in the sitting room just long enough to place my key on the bare coffee table, right in the middle where he can't miss it, then I flick off the lights and let the snug little flat disappear into darkness once more. The blue door closes behind me with a soft click as I sling my rucksack over my shoulder and step down into the warm summer night.