Chapter 24: Familiarity
The Ford rumbled on the outskirts of London, shaded under the cover of arched oak trees. Arthur sat in the warm leather of the driver's seat methodically inspecting his Glock. Mentally, he ran through the floorplan of Iris' cottage, fingers systematically brushing over the nylon-based polymer of the gun. Points of entry: front door, side door, windows. Small kitchen, sequestered living room…
Best case scenario, Iris is fine. Worst case, David tipped someone off and -
Arthur shut off the engine.
He padded quickly to the front of Iris' property, shirt collar chafing uncomfortably around his neck. His steps paralleled the driveway. Arthur angled his course to the front of the walk, intending to swipe the spare key -
The gnome is out of place. Shifted.
Arthur exhaled sharply.
A breeze came up from behind him, ruffling his too-long hair. He followed the motion across the grass, blades rippling as the current swept across the front yard. And then - subtle. A tiny fragment out of place.
One of the curtains had moved. And if it could move -
Someone opened and partially closed the window. Carelessly. Hurriedly. Arthur waited a second more, and he spotted motion inside the house. The cottage is compromised.
Arthur was gripped by a sense of déjà vu as Eames' padlock fell into his waiting hand. For a second, he rewinded, wondering, thinking - Eames could always do this faster, why did he let me lockpick the shed before - and then more memories, hurried, jumbled, smears across the fabric of his eyelids - "Call me Eames" , Eames' righteous anger as he stood over 'Hans' in Eddie's cafe, full lips curled into a soft smirk out the Land Rover's window, the scent of faint aftershave, hotel soap and sweat -
Arthur's eyes fluttered open. Get yourself together. Time is ticking away. He swiftly stepped into the shed's interior, Oxfords clicking against the slats of the wooden floor. Blinking rapidly, Arthur leaned over a workbench, willing his eyes to adjust faster to the dim light. Slowly, shapes of scattered tools came into being in front of him. He evaluated his options, snagging a dusty sack out from underneath the workbench. Pick your poison, a voice drawled in Arthur's ear.
For a second, Arthur was surrounded by the scorching sand of Egypt.
He straightened up, bag in hand, and forced himself to relax his grip on his Glock.
Camera one. Two. Three. From his vantage point in the tree line, Arthur tallied the various cameras surrounding the first floor of the cottage. He had noticed them before. Long before. It seemed like ages ago he was doing pushups by the back door, dripping with sweat, and Iris had called him inside -
Arthur shook his head. Focus. Although the cameras were installed, he couldn't spot a single one in working operation. Moreover, Arthur didn't see a single heat sensor on the trim of the windows, and zero tint or reinforced glass in the panes themselves. Breaking in would be laughably easy, Arthur thought.
As he sized up the house's structural integrity, a scene formed in Arthur's mind, unbidden - Eames, slightly younger, a trademark patterned shirt, overlong hair. Iris, framed in the light of the small kitchen, apron on and glasses resting around her neck. Both were heated, eyes flashing, mirrored images as they argued over modifications to the cottage.
"I'm afraid Eames didn't tell me we would have a visitor." Iris' initial defiance had never abated in Arthur's presence. Maybe Iris has more sway than even she thinks. This place is undoubtedly unlike any other of Eames' safehouses. It would be a wonder to see Eames and Iris interact, given -
You never will see them together if you don't get in there and fix the situation, his subconscious snapped.
Arthur dropped the sack onto the grass beside him and got to work.
He pulled two wrenches from the bag's depths, crossing them perpendicular before securing them tight with twine. Placing them to the side, Arthur extracted a tow rope, frown increasing as he inspected the mold growing along its surface. He paused to push up his sleeves, fabric sticking over the healing, shiny skin from the forearm burn. Arthur hissed, annoyed.
A faint but noticeable thump sounded from somewhere inside the cottage, and Arthur gave up on his sleeves to finish the connection between the rope and the wrenches.
Love, that is the most rubbish grappling hook I've ever had the misfortune of laying my eyes on.
Arthur thought back to the time when the only voice occupying his mind was his own.
My life is composed of making entrances in and out of windows, Arthur mused.
He threw the makeshift grappling hook onto the shingles of the cottage, eyes tracking the progress of the projectile as the rope wrapped itself around the stones of the chimney. Arthur pulled once, twice, making sure the hook held. He looked down at himself, checking to confirm his gun and the sack were secure. His eyes flickered back to the tree line, inspecting for any evidence of disturbance. Light filtered lazily through the gaps in the leaves, and in a constellation of sunlight, Arthur saw Orion's Belt.
He blinked twice and centered his focus on the tow rope in front of him.
Oxfords were not Arthur's first choice of climbing shoe. Really, he had a lot of experience scaling buildings to make up his mind. Any amount of practice couldn't compensate for the way the Oxford's slick soles slipped on the grooves of the cottage's walls. Arthur was a fall away from revealing his presence, and he knew it well.
Yet Arthur was loathe to breach the cottage from any other angle than the second floor. Higher ground - where they least expect me.
So he continued to climb, muscles straining beneath his tight dress shirt and hands perspiring on the coarse fibers of the rope. It reminded Arthur too much of simulations he had run with his men, and real life missions scaling the faces of Afghan mountains.
This is just a house, Arthur told himself. One realistic nightmare and you can't devolve into irrationality.
His fingers edged over the slope of the roof in front of him and his shoulder muscles strained as he pulled the rest of his body onto the shingles.
Arthur ran a hand over his hair and placed the slack rope at his feet, breathing elevated. He edged his way down the slant of the roof, feet digging in just above the jut of an upstairs window. Eames' childhood room.
Arthur dropped down to crouch on the sill in one smooth motion, Glock at the ready. The bedroom seemed empty through the pane of glass, bedcovers unruffled. Arthur's eyes trailed along the frame of the window critically. No tripwires. He felt around along the window's edges, unsurprised to find it locked. Arthur untucked the brown sack from his belt and rifled through the contents. A credit card would be better, but…
Seconds later, the spring bolts around the edges of the frame popped open from the pressure of the screwdriver. Here we go, Arthur thought, and slid the window open silently. Seconds later his feet connected with the floorboards of Eames' childhood room.
The house was quiet as Arthur closed the window behind him. Too quiet. Iris had to be here, but there was no sound of feet on floorboards, tea on the kettle, or even her beloved evening program. Everything was still.
Arthur cleared the second floor fairly rapidly. He was in his element, staying close to the walls, slinking around every threshold and checking every corner and closet. His gut pulled him downstairs, but Arthur knew he couldn't rush. Slow is smooth, smooth is fast.
He was just cracking open the last bedroom door when an undeniably human gasp echoed up the stairway, feminine and pained. Arthur twitched. It helps no one if you get clubbed from behind while descending the stairway. He continued forward into Iris' bedroom.
Arthur scanned the bedroom through the sights of his Glock. No tripwires over the door, closet, windows. Clear corners, dresser - but the covers of Iris' bed were thrown back, tangled. Arthur knew for a fact Iris made her bed every morning. No signs of struggle, but deviation from habit -
Threat. Distance weapons, Arthur thought. Firearms.
It was time to descend the stairway.
Arthur couldn't claim to defuse hostage situations for a living, but he was in no way a stranger to them. It made sense that as soon as he took in the scene in the kitchen, Arthur's brain clicked into action.
Analyze the victim, attacker if possible. catalogue the weapons, the trauma inflicted on the victim. Go through points of exit, signs of struggle.
It was all rudimentary. Familiar.
What wasn't familiar was the connection Arthur felt to the victim. Around his cover, he could clearly make out the person tied to the wooden chair. Mid sixties, floral dress, downcast face and greying brown hair falling in chunks from a bun. Iris.
A gag hung loosely around her throat, contrary to the rope stretched tight across her waist, wrists, and shins. Deep bruises lingered near her legs, and Arthur could see one pink shoe dislodged from Iris' foot - kicked off, Arthur's brain supplied. Even from his cover behind the wall and a dresser, Arthur could see red rope burns near her tied wrists. Iris has been here for awhile, Arthur thought. Or struggled. Arthur thought about what he knew of Iris and revised - definitely struggled.
Arthur pulled his focus away from Iris' state, cognizant of her blatant presence as bait. And still no sign of her captors. There hadn't been any signs of life in the upstairs rooms, nothing out of -
"They'll probably never come," a voice drawled cheerfully to Arthur's right, identity shielded by the wall in front of him. "You're expendable," the voice continued. "Unimportant."
Iris coughed once, her eyes flickering up briefly. Arthur could hear sound pass weakly from her lips, but couldn't make out the sound.
"What was that, you bitch? Going to try and kick me again?" Familiar cadence. Female.
"I said," Iris paused a moment to swallow painfully, voice hoarse but determined, "I said, you would've killed me by now if I was expendable."
"Ah, but you're not the person who I'm waiting on." I'm - Iris' captor is one person? "As you would have figured out by now, you're just enticement - and if Arthur returns because of you, you'll be worth it. If he doesn't…" She uses my name like she knows me. Intuition skittered down Arthur's spine, cold and putrescent. He began to run through scenarios, mindful of probable firearms. But now I know one attacker - things have changed. Arthur decided to monitor the situation a bit longer. I need to collect information - interrogate her, if possible.
"Of course, do you know what would be a bonus?" Arthur found himself resisting the urge to sigh. He always clashed with the chatty ones. If a captor decides to put a hostage in plain sight near the back entrance, they'll be expecting a entry from -
"Your son would be a wonderful add-on, you know?" Iris' features noticeably tightened at the mention of Eames. "Yes, your son," the assailant continued. "Arthur's the big trophy in this calculation, but your son - " Footsteps sounded across the linoleum and a figure appeared in the corner of Arthur's vision.
" - is nearly as useful."
Everything happened at once. Iris, straining against the rope looped around her thighs, managed to fling her second shoe off in the direction of attacker. Presumably, the assailant kicked the object, where it crashed into the wall next to Arthur. He shifted out of instinct, closer to the dresser. Close enough that, as the aggressor stepped forward to topple Iris' chair with an angry jerk, Arthur received a full view of Iris banging jarringly against the floor, helpless to brace herself as her head slammed into the tiles.
The momentum from the captor's motion had Iris skidding, dazed, her back contacting with the wall across from Arthur's. Iris blinked, eyes unfocused, a cut dripping blood at her hairline. Arthur didn't move.
And yet, now they were in direct sight of each other. In seconds, Iris' eyes widened as she took in another person's presence, and then grew wider in recognition as the presence registered as Arthur himself - but Arthur wasn't returning her gaze.
He was peering past her calculatingly, towards the former location of her chair, towards the center of the chaos - where her captor now stood.
A captor Arthur recognized all too well.
Sandy.