Chapter Thirty-one: "And this mess is so big/ And so deep and so tall,/ We cannot pick it up. There is no way at all!" ~ Dr. Suess, The Cat in the Hat
Stepping away from the blue door and down to the pavement, I glance cautiously up and down the street. A few windows here and there are glowing with the flickering light of late-night telly, but there's not a soul in sight. I can hear the ever-present whoosh of traffic on the motorway, and somewhere a dog is barking. Taking a deep breath to steady myself, I start off into the warm August night.
And stop dead in my tracks. Something is wrong...this is the wrong way. Why is it the wrong way? I turned right, toward the park, toward the tube station, just like I usually do when I step out this door...just like I always do...
Right. Mycroft is clever, far more clever than I am –– but, someone that clever no doubt thinks he has me all figured out, thinks he knows exactly what I am going to do. I don't think I can outwit him, but at least I can keep him off-balance.
I go left.
Hitching the strap of my rucksack higher on my shoulder, I move at a quick jog toward the corner, aiming to get away from this place as quickly as I can. I don't even know if I have any hope of successfully eluding Mycroft and his people, but I refuse to just give up.
Besides, he's human, he's not infallible. I have a coin with a hole shot through the middle to prove it.
Just as I nearly reach the corner, the midnight silence is broken by a purring car engine, and headlights sweep along the narrow lane from somewhere behind me. Quickly, I dodge out of sight behind a big wheelie bin, praying that they didn't spot me. After a moment, the car engine stops and the lights go dark; I stay crouched in the shadows, hearing car doors slamming, voices murmuring.
I'm curious if that's Mycroft's people, or McCutcheon's, but it would be suicide to try and find out. When I hear the voices fade, I decide to chance ghosting from behind the bin and around the corner, ducking low and running like hell.
Adrenaline is a funny thing. It takes away your fine muscle coordination, making you shake like a leaf, but the large muscles eat it up like it was jet fuel. As tired as I think I am, as I know I am, my legs are going now like pistons, propelling me away from Ennismore Mews –– although I'm not sure to where. Instinctively, I'm hugging the back streets and alleys to avoid the dreaded CCTV cameras, heedless of any danger other than the one I can feel is right behind me.
When my brain snaps to focus again, I find I've stopped in a familiar spot. Oh, hallo, cash machine! It's a cashpoint for my bank, the one I've been using since I moved to Kensington. I actually smile at it, like a familiar face, then with a jolt I realise why I'm standing here; I need money, and I need to keep moving.
I paw my card out of my rucksack quickly, although it takes a few tries before I can get it in the slot –– fine motor control is not with me right now –– and it takes a distressingly long time to remember what my bloody PIN number is. The maximum I can withdraw is £300, so that's what I punch in, and then wait for the machine to do its thing.
I suddenly think about cameras, and look up; yep, there most certainly is a CCTV staring blankly down at me. Bloody hell. Well, Mycroft is going to know for sure that I went this way, can't be helped. I give the camera a big smile and a cheerful wave –– what else am I to do? Cringe and cry? –– then drum my fingers nervously, waiting for the stupid machine to give me my money.
It's taking too long.
The screen continues to command, "Processing...please wait..." So I wait, and every second my stomach sinks lower. It's taking far too long. Bloody Mycroft –– or one of his minions –– got to my accounts already. I'm locked out.
"Processing...please wait..." Every moment that I stand here hoping the machine will suddenly do what I want it to, they're closer to catching me. Buggerbuggerbugger! I slam my fist against the screen in frustration, and randomly pick a side street to lope down, hoping like hell that I'm not running in circles.
After a while, I notice that I'm steadily headed east. I still don't know what my destination is, but I still feel like I'll know it when I see it: I just have to keep moving in the right direction. The problem is, my legs are starting to get that jelly-wobbly feeling that means they're nearly done in. I'd take a cab if I knew where I was going, but I hesitate to spend the money without being sure.
Finally, I can't keep up the pace any longer, I have to slow down. There is a beneficial side effect, though: in slowing down, I calm down, and take in more of my surroundings consciously. I'm near...Soho? Maybe. I don't know, I don't have my phone to tell me where I am, and I've been running a long time. I'm knackered, I have to sit down for a bit.
I come across a tiny park, a greenspace that isn't much more than a bench, a bin, and a rose bush, but it's well-lit and out of sight of the cluster of CCTV cameras at the busy intersection up ahead, and the bench is vacant. I ease my tired bum onto it and sprawl out with a sigh. I could use a drink of water, but I didn't grab my bottle; next convenience store I pass that's open, I'm going to risk stopping to get myself something to drink, and a packet of cigarettes.
A night bus pulls up to the stop over at the nearby corner, air brakes hissing and motor chugging noisily as a man in a bright blue shirt gets out and pauses under a street-lamp to light a cig. I remind myself to avoid buses; the bloody things have CCTV mounted on them. So do the bus stops, the tube stations and platforms, and so very, very many other places –– damn them. I've taken it on myself to learn a bit about surveillance since I tried to run from Mycroft that first time, when he tried to intimidate me and I ran to the police...first about how easily and precisely most mobile phones can be tracked, then about surveillance in general. Fact is, I'm in the worst possible city in the world to want to disappear in; it's completely mad to even try.
I lean my head back over the back of the bench with a laugh that's only slightly hysterical. Yes, mad to even try. So, obviously, I have to.
My loud laugh attracts the attention of the bloke who got off the bus; he's walking past the little park, and stops to look at me curiously. I feel my cheeks heat up with embarrassment, and I look away, but he steps a little closer, the red ember on the end of his cigarette flaring as he draws in. I can tell he's taking in my dishevelled hair, my rucksack, my exhausted slump.
"You okay, miss?" he asks, exhaling fragrant smoke. "You need anything?"
"I could do with that cigarette right about now!" I blurt out.
He takes it out of his mouth and looks at it with a smile, a nice smile, and reaches into his trouser pocket to pull out the packet, holding it out to me like a tourist offering crumbs to a squirrel. I should know better, but I take one and let him light it for me, murmuring my thanks.
He asks if he can sit down, and I shrug, quickly sizing him up for dangerous or not. He has the appropriate mix of interest and disinterest in a stranger; no weird vibe there. Well-groomed, wearing some kind of uniform of blue shirt and black trousers. He looks a little weary, like someone at the end of a long late shift at work. Harmless, I decide, as he sits down a respectable distance away.
Convinced that he's pulled me, the bloke is off and running. I listen with half an ear as he tells me his name is Nathan, he's a porter at the hospital, he's studying to be a nurse, and all the rest of his life story. I stay silent, so he starts plying me with questions: I tersely reply that I'm from Norwich, that I'm here on holiday to see the sights. Where am I staying? Here and there, I say vaguely, and he leans closer, protectively, listing for me the shelters and youth hostels that are nearby, ending with, "Are you hungry? I know a Korean place that's open even this late. Do you like Korean food?"
This Nathan is not exactly repulsive, and I can tell it would only take a little reassurance that I'm a Nice Girl and that I like him for me to be going home with him tonight. I could stay just the one night with him, shouldn't think it would put him in too much danger...maybe get a bit of cash out of him in the morning...he obviously fancies me, he could prove really useful...people in the helping professions like to help...
For fuck's sake, what am I thinking! I'm in trouble, so I start looking for some sorry-arsed bloke to hide behind? Pathetic. I'm completely pathetic. He's a genuinely nice person, he doesn't deserve to get dragged into whatever maelstrom I have at my heels.
I know what will make him to go away, although it's not pleasant. "Look," I sigh, looking him directly in the eyes, "If you want me to go home with you, my fee is eight hundred an hour, cash up-front. Vanilla sex only, no bareback, no hard kink, anal is an extra two hundred quid." I toss my cigarette butt down on the pavement and grind it out under my toe, looking down and side-eying him. "No offence, but I really don't think you can afford my services. Thanks for the cig anyway."
Nathan just stares at me for a minute, his mouth working around a little in surprise, then his eyes narrow with the look of a man who has just been told that he's expected to pay up-front for the privilege of fucking a woman he fancies. I've taken a social transaction and made it a blatantly financial one, and his self-esteem is wounded; even a nice bloke has his pride. He vehemently growls that he wouldn't go dipping his dick in a diseased bin like me if I were to pay HIM, and stalks off, muttering.
Funny how his helpfulness vanished once I wasn't a Nice Girl anymore; happens nearly every time. I stretch my legs out, kneading my tired quads and calves. I should get a move on, but I can tell I'm not done resting up yet for the next push.
Something catches my eye on the brick wall across the street from the little park; it's a large, colourful poster advertising a new exhibit opening at the Whitechapel Gallery. I lived in Whitechapel for a bit, before I dropped out of school, with an artist who had a dodgy flat in a dodgy part of the district that the gentrifiers hadn't "discovered" yet.
Dark-skinned, handsome, tall, fingers always stained with paint...he adored oral sex, was always joking that his favourite number was 69, hint, hint... Barry, that was his name. Pretty full of himself, but not a bad sort. He lived for the summers when he'd take off for the coast –– overseas, even, if he managed to save enough money from his restaurant job. He'd pack up his artist's kit and camp out on the beach, painting the birds...he was always gone for a solid month, every August...
A slow smile spreads across my face. I don't remember the exact address of his flat, but I know the street, and I'll recognise the place when I get there –– and I do believe I still have the keys. Of course, Barry might have changed the locks since I lived with him, but I doubt that he would have fixed that tiny window in the toilet that doesn't quite latch. Definitely do-able. The flat is in a frankly bad neighbourhood that I don't remember ever seeing a CCTV camera in; why would there be? Nobody cares about those places.
It's not a foolproof plan, but it feels good to have an objective, and it feels like the right one; next item is a cab to get me there. It takes some time, but I find a stretch of roadway that seems to be unmonitored, and I watch the sparse night traffic slip by until, eventually, a cab cruises by looking for a fare. The cabbie raises an eyebrow at me when I tell him where to go, but he doesn't ask any questions, and I certainly don't volunteer any conversation. I'm not certain what time it is, but it feels late, late, late, and I am so very tired.
My memory is better than I think it is, because once we get in the district I know exactly where I'm going. I have the driver let me out a short ways from my destination, and give him a charming smile instead of a tip when I pay the fare.
The entrance to Barry's flat lies in a frankly nasty side street, lined with rubbish; there are more abandoned buildings around than I remembered, and more sad hulks of human beings curled up in the doorways, asleep or unconscious. I was right about no cameras; why would they bother?
There's no-one sleeping in this doorway, and no other wanderers in the night, which I am grateful for as I dig into my rucksack for my fistful of keys. I have no idea which ones will work, so I resort to trying one key after another in the two locks. It would be so nice if he hasn't changed the locks! He was a lazy sod, so there might be hope...
Yes. The door finally creaks open to my touch, and I quickly close and secure it behind me. The flat is dark and silent. Boldly, I switch on the light and call out, "Barry? Hallo? Anyone home?" There's no answer –– thank goodness!
The flat hasn't changed, and I imagine the bloke who lives here hasn't, either. It's a high-ceilinged, single room, taller than it is wide, with high windows that make the place impossible to heat in the winter, but on sunny days stream with light filtered by decades of dirt. A bedroom and ensuite are partitioned off in one of the corners; right beside that is a simple kitchen setup with a bench, sink, cooker and fridge. All the comforts of home, even though it looks and feels more like a workshop.
There are a couple of easels set up with various works in progress, and every vertical surface is covered with intense, colourful paintings, mostly of birds. Standing there, swaying slightly, I realise that I need to lie down before I fall down! I make my way to the little bedroom, dropping my rucksack on the floor beside the bed and kicking off my shoes, collapsing face-down on the bed with a groan.
What am I going to do? I am in so much trouble...I try to evaluate my situation, to formulate a plan, but my brain just keeps fuzzing in and out like a radio station with poor reception...
Suddenly, loud and close, I hear snoring! Who––?
Oh. I wake up enough to realise, that it was me.
###
Assets: A rucksack full of clothes, a fistful of keys, some few odds and ends, a hundred or so quid, and a code book that people are willing to kill me over.
Liabilities: A code book that people are willing to kill me over. Oh, and probably the most dangerous man in Britain now has a personal vendetta against me, and so do a slew of petty criminals as well.
I wake up thinking about my predicament, and rub a hand over my face, feeling grime and sweat and stale makeup grit under my fingers. It must be a sunny morning out there; the loft is filled with light, and it's streaming in through the open door of the little bedroom cubicle.
I palm my eyes to shut out the bright light, then give it up as useless. I have no idea what time it is or how long I was asleep. I still feel tired, but I'm too awake to sleep anymore. I ache all over, and I'm positively gritty with dirt. My priority right now is a long, hot shower. I strip off my clothes and hunt down a towel.
Slumped against the tiled wall, I let the hot water trickle over my body and ease my sore muscles, and I try to think about what I'm going to do now –– but my thoughts just skitter this way and that. Why won't my brain cooperate? Maybe I'm just overwhelmed. It's too big, the whole thing, just too bloody big. Well, as Mummy used to say, How do you eat an elephant?
One bite at a time. Clean again, I wrap my hair in the towel and, naked, comb through the kitchen in search of something to eat. My stomach is pinching with hunger! The fridge is empty, naturally, but there's some tinned food in the cupboard that will do.
I can't be bothered to heat anything, so I perch on a paint-spattered chair and feast on cold spaghetti from the tin, gazing idly around at the paintings on the walls, and wilfully avoiding thinking about What Am I Going to Do.
I'd forgotten how really talented Barry is, although his obsession with birds is a little strange. My attention is captivated by one big canvas in particular, of a gannet flying underwater. It's a stunning piece. Gannets are these sea-birds that dive-bomb into the water to catch fish; they stoop from more than 100 feet in the air and going 60 miles an hour. Once they're in the water, they keep flapping their wings to 'fly' as they hunt, going deeper than any other bird. Daddy used to call me a gannet when I was a teenager and always hungry; gannets supposedly are very greedy.
I can't stop looking at this painting: the gannet's brilliant white form sinuously mingling with a shoal of fishes against murky green waters; the incongruity of the sleek bird with its long, sharp beak flying amid startled prey, their fishy eyes and mouths wide with astonishment...the effect is surreal. Kind of the opposite of a fish-out-of-water, gannet-in-the-water is supremely at home, master of both water and air.
The painting reminds me of Mycroft, actually; gracefully out-of-place, masterfully incongruous. He shouldn't be able to do what he does, and yet, there he goes... He's quite simply the most extraordinary person I've ever known. So odd, and yet...all that power, that wealth, that self-assurance...I was mesmerised by it. I wanted to be part of it.
Well, for a brief and shining moment, I was. I was his mistress. Now I'm just a fugitive.
But at least I'm not a pawn anymore. I toss the empty spaghetti tin into the overflowing rubbish and take down another to open; I'm certainly eating like a gannet right now, I can't remember the last time I was this hungry.
So, let's evaluate this rationally, Angelica; how big is this mess you're in? The answer is: pretty big. It certainly looks as if I used my security clearance to steal a dangerous, classified document. It certainly looks as if I utterly betrayed Mycroft's trust, and made him look like a fool for trusting me in the first place.
The hell of it is, those things are true, but there's more to it than just the facts. The reason for things –– the context –– changes everything. But will Mycroft see it that way? When he and I started out a month ago, he informed me in no uncertain terms that acting against him would land me in prison for the rest of my life. Shit, now prison is the least of my worries... the image of him casually offering to 'terminate' me is permanently burned into my brain...I can't forget that, to him, I'm completely disposable. Just like Steen... just like everyone, probably. Except for Sherlock, that is. Mycroft cares about his family, because they're HIS. I look after what's mine, he said.
Of course, it's not just Mycroft I have to worry about, there's also McCutcheon and his merry band. Lena was bloody scary, and she and Leo have good reason to hunt me down. As long as McCutcheon thinks I have the book, I know that locating me and getting his hands on it will be his number one obsession.
I could just douse the bloody thing in petrol and light a match; that way nobody has it. But, what if there are other copies of it floating around? The lab notes existed in more than one form, so why not the key to deciphering them? If someone manages to put the two together and cook up some of that nasty shit, it might save lives if the authorities know what it is, what to look for.
I need to get the book back into Mycroft's hands, and somehow make him understand why I took it. Then I need to get the hell away from this city, this country.
There is probably a huge man-hunt (woman-hunt?) going on for me right now, both by Mycroft's people and McCutcheon's, and there's nobody I can trust to help, not really...I can't get Sara involved. Lestrade is a good man, but he's a cop, he can't afford to go against orders. John is sympathetic, but too close to Sherlock, and Sherlock utterly despises me. I have other friends, like Tina and Joye, but they aren't close enough to risk themselves for me. Steen...Well, he's gone. It's just me.
The last time I felt like this, like it was just me, I was hell-bent on self-destruction; this time, I'm hell-bent on surviving, no matter what.
At least I have this bolt-hole; I'm reasonably sure that nobody knows I'm here, and that Barry won't be returning for another three weeks. If I'm willing to live on tinned beans and spaghetti, there's food enough for a while, too. I can pay Barry back later for the room and board. If I have a later... God, I wish I had taken that pouch of bank notes from the desk where I got the code book! Twenty grand in there, at least. I could get myself smuggled out of country with that, buy a fake passport and start over somewhere. As it is, well, a hundred quid doesn't go very far in London these days. Sooner or later I'm going to have to think about making more money.
It'll have to be later, because I have other priorities right now. I cram the second empty tin into the bin, and stand up to stretch my still-weary legs. I may be reasonably safe here, but I can't just sit in this little flat with windows so high up I can't even see out of them. I need to be able to go out and get information, do things...I need a disguise.
There's a full-length mirror in the tiny bedroom, and I go to contemplate my options. I've done a little bit of theatre, I've always loved make-up and costuming and make-believe; this is the first time I've ever thought my life might depend on it, though.
Pulling the damp towel off my hair, I study the naked young woman in the mirror. A pale, fair blonde, tall and athletic. Beautiful face, although it's all cheekbones and strong angles. Big feet. Small breasts, but nice muscles. I check out the rear view, thoughtfully. Not much padding there, either. With the right clothes and hair, I reckon...
A bit later, I'm surveying myself again in the same mirror, surprised at who is looking back at me. I went through every article of clothing that I brought with me and found nothing suitable, so I raided Barry's wardrobe; fortunately, his clothes are a near-enough fit, although a little sloppy, which is actually a bonus. I've scrounged a pair of well-worn jeans, a plain black t-shirt, and a lightweight navy hoodie. My unisex trainers look right at home with the ensemble.
I still can't quite bring myself to look at my hair, though. It's... almost too much. I poked around until I found the electric hair clippers I recalled Barry using to keep his afro tidy, and did myself a bit of freestyle hair-chopping –– long on top, very, very short on the sides and back, like most every young bloke wears it now. It looks bloody strange on me. Androgynous. I've never in my life worn my hair shorter than shoulder-length, so this is quite a shock.
I run my fingers through the spiky pouf on top, grimacing; I need some product, to get the fringe to hang properly over my forehead, and I need to change the colour, as my natural light blond is probably too noticeable.
This is an artists' flat, there's tons of paint around, so maybe I could thin down some paint or something...no, that would be a horrible mess. Although, I remember Barry mucking about with mixing his own paints sometimes; there might still be a box of mineral pigments around here.
I find the box in the very bottom of the supply cupboard, filled with small glass vials of coloured powder, crushed minerals that are used to make oil paints. I know some of them are pretty toxic, so I limit myself to two that I know are safe, both oxides. The umber and ochre powders, mixed with water, make a very dark reddish-brown mud that looks like what I had in mind. I use a stiff artist's brush to work it into my hair, wrapping the mess in a rag and settling in to wipe the pink lacquer from my nails with some acetone, and then chew them down to a more bloke-ish length.
When I'm bored of waiting, I rinse the pigments out of my hair and towel it dry, looking expectantly in the mirror to see that I'm now...
Ginger. Bright ginger. Painfully bright ginger. Obviously, the red ochre is better than the brown umber at staining hair. Well, that's just SO much less noticeable than bright blond, isn't it? I pull a face and toss the towel into the dirty clothes bin. I'll get some proper hair dye today, and fix it tonight.
Right, what other details do I need to tend to? I don't know much about trying to pass for a bloke; joking aside, I've never actually tried it before. I know to pitch my voice a little lower, walk and sit like I'm allowed to take up as much space as I please...
I scrutinise my look in the mirror again, flinching once more at my hair. I look...not much like me, which is the point, I guess. I don't think for one minute that this disguise will fool anyone up-close who knows me; my main objective is to fool the CCTV cameras and anyone trying to pick me out of a crowd. I pull the thick fringe of orange hair down further over my forehead, until it brushes past my eyebrows; obscuring the brow and bridge of the nose is supposed to confuse the facial-recognition software.
I notice that I'll need to keep the hoodie on, no matter how hot it gets today; the t-shirt is sloppy, but my breasts still show just a little, so I'll have to get an elastic bandage to bind them with. My jeans are shapeless enough to hide any traces of female hips I have, but there is still something missing...ah. With a grin, I grab a pair of rolled-up socks and stuff them into the front of my knickers. The discreet bulge completes the outfit, I hope.
I need a cup of tea to steady my nerves, and fortunately Barry has a few tea-bags left in the cupboard; alas, there is not a drop of milk, but I'll make do. Tea without is better than none. I could also do bodily harm to someone in order to get a cigarette right now, but I'm out of luck. It's a pity, because I seem to have started biting my nails again instead.
I sip my bitter, black tea and distil the elephant-sized predicament I'm in down to the immediate problem: I need to let Mycroft know why I took the book, then I need to get the book to him as quickly as possible, all the while staying out of both his and McCutcheon's clutches.
Maybe I could just post the book to Mycroft? Nice and easy, but it doesn't seem right to trust something that important to the post; too many things could go wrong along the way. Go up to him and slip it in his pocket? I'd hardly get within arm's reach of the man before Anthea or Davies took me down.
I sigh and bite my nails some more. I need to be able to explain things to him first, and then arrange a drop-off for him to recover the book. That means two-way communication, which is a dangerous affair. I'm no tech genius, but I know how to do research, and all my research has pointed to the fact that surveillance –– and countering it –– is a constantly-evolving battle of technology. There are loads of ways to thwart having your communications tracked –– and most of them cost loads of money, which I don't have, or take geek-skills which I don't have, either.
Fortunately, there are a few low-tech methods that work, too. At least, I hope they do. What I need is an ultra-cheap pay-as-you-go phone, the cheaper the better, so no GPS to be tracked. Purchase it cash-only, then leave the bloody thing turned off and the battery out of it except when I'm using it, only use it when I'm far away from my bolt-hole here, and only for short bursts of data, like texts. After a few days of use, throw it in the river and buy another.
He'll know I'm in London, but the lack of a GPS means that the phone will only betray my general location to within a few square miles; they won't be able to pinpoint me at all. And, there are eight and a half million people to hide amongst here in the city. Thinking about that makes me feel just a teeny bit better.
Packing up the rucksack just with what I'll need for the day, I hesitate over the code book; the little black leather notebook would easily fit into my pocket, but I don't think I should carry it with me. I decide to hide it here in the flat, and wander around deliberating what would make the best hiding place. Finally, taking some sturdy cloth tape, I fasten the book inside the frame of the gannet painting, centred on top so it won't affect how the painting hangs.
With one last look in the mirror to check my look, I'm out the door, locking it carefully behind me.
The street is a little less scary in the light of day, but not by much. I hunch down a little into myself, trying not to be seen, and skulk down the pavement.
Trying not to be seen doesn't seem to work very well for me. I haven't even got to the corner before two big, rough blokes come walking at me from the other direction, both wearing a nasty smirk. I know they are up to something, and I tense myself to face whatever it is.
They both do the classic shoulder-slam into me at the same time, and one tries to snatch my rucksack whilst the other clumsily fumbles at my pocket, looking for a wallet or a phone to lift.
I'm too shaken for any fancy moves, all I can do is clutch the strap of my rucksack to me and violently twist my body away from them, running as fast as I can to get away. I hear harsh laughter behind me, but they don't bother to give chase; I don't suppose that was an earnest mugging, more like opportunistic viciousness.
I slow down, looking behind, then continue toward the high street, calming myself down by analysing what just happened: How is it that last night I ran for miles and miles across the city, down dingy side streets and back alleys in the wee small hours, and not once got harassed? I saw people, faces flashing by; some surprised, some curious, but nobody at all tried to stop me or interfere with me, not once.
But now, in the middle of the day, I'm buffeted around by a couple of punks as an entertainment; I have no doubt that if I had proved unable to get away, they would have gleefully relieved me of my wallet and rucksack, and probably given me a beating besides.
Well, last night I was fleeing for my life, and more than ready to fight if I couldn't run. Today, I'm skulking, trying to make myself small, not be seen...I'm acting frightened. Right now, I'm walking like a frightened person, all hunched up and my head pulled in like a tortoise.
That's easy enough to fix. I take a deep breath, straighten my back, lift my head, and put the tiniest bit of swagger in my steps, like a young cock who wouldn't mind trying his spurs. I hope I don't look as silly as I feel, but nobody laughs as I pass them, so that's something. In fact, I notice that now some passersby seem to give me a wider berth on the pavement. It's an odd feeling.
The district hasn't changed all that much, so I remember my way around fairly well; actually, once I get going, I find that it's no problem at all to navigate to the business centre. Leaving behind the dodgier parts of town, though, means that I have to contend with knowing that the bloody CCTV is recording nearly my every move, and those recordings are going to be searched by a computer looking to match my face. I nervously fluff my fringe and pull it further down over my eyes. Fortunately, although it's sunny, it's not too warm yet for me to be wearing the hoodie, and there is plenty of other foot-traffic to mingle with and lose myself in.
It takes a lot of walking and several stops to find everything I need, but I manage. The last thing on my list to find is hair dye, but, as I look over all the boxes and bottles of hair colourings, I decide that maybe outrageous ginger is a good disguise after all –– hiding in plain sight, as it were. Trying not to be seen doesn't work too well for me; perhaps I should stick with being seen for what I'm not.
I pause for a surreptitious look at myself in a mirrored display for sunglasses, and it's bizarre to see a handsome ginger youth peering back at me. I look like someone else...I look...
Bloody hell, I'm a ringer for that Russian gangster, Dimitri, only without the dashing scar. I give myself a lopsided, devil-may-care grin and admire the effect. Good grief, I've become my own ideal bloke. Shaking my head, I move on.
It's about tea time when I complete my shopping expedition, and my stomach lets me know it, loudly. I duck into a greasy little cafe to grab something cheap and filling before going on to the next stage of my plan, which involves a very long ride on public transport. Rummaging around in my pockets as I slide into a booth seat, I find that I've got £64.70 left to my name, and I cast an eye grimly over the menu, calculating what will give me the most nutrition for the money and order accordingly; I really can't afford to eat out, but I also know that my brain doesn't work well when I'm hungry.
While I'm waiting for the waitress to bring my burger, chips, and slaw, I open the box for my new phone and plug it in to start charging. It's not all the way topped up by the time I finish eating, but that can't be helped. I force myself to finish the last of the soggy chips and slimy slaw on my plate and push it away from me with a sigh. That might be the last cooked meal I have for a while, and it wasn't very good; however, calories are calories.
I settle up my bill and, before leaving the cafe, make a stop at the toilet. I have to wait for a minute, since someone is already in there, and when she comes out, the middle-aged matron gives me a dirty look as I slide by her to go in. What the hell is her problem? I do my business, but whilst I'm washing up I glance in the mirror and get a shock. Shit, I'm supposed to be a bloke! I completely forgot. I went into the bloody wrong toilet.
The greasy chips congeal in my stomach as it contracts with dread. I am going to get myself killed if I do shit like this, forgetting for even a moment who I am, who I am supposed to be, and what I am doing. There is no room in the budget for error. Any mistake could be my last.
Resolving to stay more focussed, I tidy up, taking the opportunity to unpack the hair gel that I bought and fix my fringe in place over my brows and the bridge of my nose, as well as put the compression bandage around my chest to hold my breasts in more closely. It's not comfortable, but I won't be going about in it all day.
I open the door just a crack and peer out, not wanting to get told off by that old lady, but there's nobody in sight. I scarper off and ease myself into the flow of after-work pedestrians hurrying this way and that, feeling my energy revived by a solid meal.
When I get to the tube station, my intent is to take the first available train going anywhere; I almost, almost screw up again by unthinkingly whipping out my Oyster card –– I don't know for sure that Mycroft put a trace on the RFID in my card, but I do know that any use of anyone's card is tracked as a matter of course; that's how you can tell what trips you've taken and how much money is still left on it. I look at the card in my hand, and can only think what a huge pain in the arse this disappearing thing is. I dare not use the card for any trip that would point toward my bolthole in Whitechapel, but that means more money out of my dwindling pocket. I have to pony up the £4 for a single fare, and I try like hell to avoid the CCTV cameras that seem to be bristling every bloody place I look around the underground station. I can't afford to ride cabs everywhere, so I have to take my chances with being identified by the cameras.
The very next train out is for Epping, which sounds far enough away. Standing in the crowded train, jostled by the crowd on their way home from work, I feel acutely self-conscious. I'm convinced that everyone around me knows that I'm a woman awkwardly trying to pass as a man, that I'm a ridiculous person with ridiculous hair, and I can feel my cheeks flaming with embarrassment. I'm being scrutinised, I can tell...
My eyes dart over to a woman seated a few feet away from me; I can sense that she's the one watching me. She's dressed very nicely, conservatively, like a sales person in an upscale shop, perhaps. Her brunette hair is swept back into a tidy bun, her makeup very appropriate for a lady her age...our eyes meet, and she gives me a flicker of a grin, a subtle salute with one of the manicured hands demurely clasped around the handbag in her lap before she looks away...what is that about?
In a sudden twist of perception, I can see from the structure of her face that the brunette probably wasn't born a woman any more than I was born a man; takes one to know one, I suppose. At least, that's what I hope, that she's the only one who notices. It dawns on me that nobody else gives a good goddamn about my gender; they are all just trying to get home, get by, get along. Nobody is giving the brunette a second glance, and from her gentle smile at me, I wonder if maybe she is recalling her own first forays into the world, nostalgic at my embarrassment and uncertainty.
Just that little acknowledgement, that little bit of compassion, makes me feel a thousand percent better. I'm not alone. Well, I am, and I'm not, both at the same time. The brunette pauses beside me before getting off the train at her stop; leaning close to me, she softly whispers, "Your package has shifted, dear," as she gives me another kind smile, and pops off the train.
I glance down. Shit, the roll of socks in my knickers has migrated, and if I were really a bloke, I would be having some definite problems down there! Embarrassed again, I pull my hoodie around the front of me to hide it, and grab an empty seat, chivalry be damned.
It's a long way to Epping, and by the time the train gets there I've had it with being crammed into the tube. I use the men's loo at the station to fix my "package" and push onward, finding a secluded bench in the commons near the station. The shadows are getting longer, and the sky is beginning to drift with heavier clouds as the breeze freshens a bit. It feels like it could rain later; I suppose I'll be walking home in the rain, since I didn't pack my umbrella, but that hardly matters right now.
I pull out the cheap little phone, turn it on, activate it, and add the top up I purchased. Then, I experimentally push buttons to figure out how it works. Very basic, but what do you expect for tenner? There's no keyboard for texting, only the numerical keys that you have to push over and over again to get different letters and punctuation marks. Hideously slow, but I don't expect to carry on heavy conversations via text, so it doesn't matter too much. I only have to be able to communicate basic information to one person. I put his number in from memory.
So...There's no point in delaying any longer. I pull out the packet of cheap cigarettes I bought earlier this afternoon and allow myself the luxury of one cig before I text Mycroft. The smoke is harsh and heavy in my mouth, not smooth like my usual, very expensive, brand. Better this way, though, right? I have to keep everything mixed up and out of character –– or what Mycroft is likely to think of as my character.
I deliberate. What do I say? What is there to say? Should I say hello, how was your trip, did you bring that creep, Cobb, back with you? And oh, by the way Mycroft, while you were away I did something that you might think a bit not good...
I don't bloody know. The keypad is awkward as hell to use, but I manage to get a start on a message; then I get stalled out. Sucking more acrid smoke from the cig in my fingers, I lean back on the hard park bench, staring at the tiny screen. I just don't know what to say to him. I guess it'll get easier, if he actually answers me. I'll have to come up with another plan if he doesn't.
I stare some more at the screen, as if looking at it is going to make what I wrote more brilliant or something:
Hey, it's Angel.
I can't think of what else to say, I really can't, so eventually I toss my head back and hit the green 'send' button. I hold the phone nervously in one hand, my cigarette in the other, waiting. I'll wait half an hour, no more, then turn off the phone and go. Maybe I should have said more? Maybe he has a new number...maybe–– then my phone chirps a text alert noise.
Angel. Where are you? MH
Here and there
Don't be childish, this is no time for hide-and-seek. Tell me where you are, I will send a car immediately. MH
No i don't think so
Running away will only make it worse. MH
I stare at that for a moment, reading the implied threat. Is there an implied threat? Feels like one. Before I can tap out a response on this wretched phone, Mycroft has responded again:
You have something of mine, I would like it back. MH
I can't resist answering, You should take better care of your things
There is a long pause then; that was a little shitty of me.
So you have already gotten your thirty pieces of silver? MH
So he does think I'm a traitor. I didn't take the book to sell. I still have it
Then why did you do it, Angel? MH
Text is so hard to judge sometimes, but that sounded kind of anguished.
Mccutcheon had plans to sell it to terrorists! I had to get to it first. Have him brought in and make him tell you
That can be arranged. However, I should like you to come in voluntarily. MH
No
I start to add about a dozen things to that NO, and after tapping them out and deleting them over and over, I just send the one word. He responds immediately.
Why not? MH
Ask Mccutcheon. Im sure he will be happy to tell you
Which is an understatement. I know that little creep will positively rejoice in telling Mycroft what videos he showed me.
What are your terms for returning the book? MH
No terms i just want to return it
Then tell me where you are. MH
No
You are being very foolish! MH
I dont trust you. At. All.
There is a long pause then, and into the silence I add, Ask Mccutcheon
And as an afterthought, I add a final text, Laters
When I turn the phone over and slide open the cover to remove the battery, my hands are shaking only a little, but my stomach is doing somersaults.