Darkest Thoughts Read online

  I shake my head.

  ‘Nothing else you’d like to say? No detail you might have missed?’

  I shake my head again. ‘Can I go now? My flight leaves in just over an hour.’

  ‘I need to check with my colleague first.’

  ‘But my flight…’

  ‘Mr McIntyre, the cabin director is in hospital with multiple facial wounds. Until I’m satisfied you’re not involved then you’re going nowhere.’

  ‘I want to see someone from my embassy.’

  ‘That I can do – once they have finished with Mr Cameron.’

  ‘Someone from the embassy’s already here?’

  ‘They were here in a flash – for your friend. You obviously fall somewhat down the food chain. I’ll pass on the message that you want to see someone. The constable here will keep you company.’

  Once my interrogator leaves I try to strike up a conversation with my new guard but I’d get more out of the wall. So we sit in silence.

  Twenty minutes later the door opens and in walks a dark suit. Not embassy. Agency. Squat, with a bodybuilder’s physique, he adjusts his tie. A dark mole dominates a solid face. Definitely agency. I’m beginning to be able to smell them.

  ‘Good afternoon, Mr McIntyre. Please don’t get up.’

  I have no intention of getting up.

  ‘Trouble just follows you around.’

  ‘Who are you?’

  ‘A friend.’

  ‘I don’t need friends. I need answers. I’ve done nothing wrong.’

  ‘So you say and so you said in Iraq but there are two dead people, a mutilated cabin director and a stewardess who seems to have no memory of her workout on her boss. The only common link in all of this is you.’

  ‘And? I was out for the count in Iraq when the lovebirds killed each other. I was trying to calm your boy down when the airline staff decided to settle a dispute.’

  ‘Still doesn’t look good. So here’s how it’s going to go down. We’ll see you safely home. Mr Cameron won’t be joining you. He is in need of a little, eh, love and attention.’

  ‘Rehab would be more appropriate.’

  ‘As you say. I think our British cousins are happy to release you into my custody. Your plane leaves in forty minutes.’

  ‘Custody? I’ve done nothing WRONG.’

  ‘For your own safety, Mr McIntyre. We only have your best interests at heart.’

  Ten minutes later and I am being trailed through the back end of the airport to be deposited at my gate, with none of the nastiness that comes with passport control.

  My bodybuilder friend hands me an envelope. ‘Your tickets.’

  ‘You wouldn’t have anything for a headache?’

  He smiles and points to the plane. ‘Try sleep.’

  As I collapse into the airplane seat I seem to have acquired two more minders. Both have standard-issue dark suits. Both are about five feet ten with identical haircuts – buzz with a hint of a fringe. Buzz 1 is on my left and Buzz 2 on my right. We are coach class again. I down a couple of JD and Cokes with three Tylenols acquired from Buzz 1. A minor Mickey Finn.

  New York is still deep in night when we land and the transfer to the LA flight is simple enough. Buzz 1 and 2 keep a respectful distance before placing me as the meat between their sandwich for the last leg.

  A new JD and Coke/Tylenol mix doesn’t work. The pounding in my head grows as the plane crawls across the Midwest.

  I try to distract myself with the events of the last forty-eight hours. Pulling them apart. Piecing them together. Looking for something I may have missed. Trying to makes some sense of the nonsensical.

  I fail. Around me the passengers are head down. All trying to get through the flight.

  My headache builds. A slow dull pounding that eclipses everything else. Rooted at the back of my skull. Buried. A series of explosions going off, releasing a stream of hot poison that’s spreading through my head. Building in waves. Peaks and troughs. Each peak slightly higher. Each trough deeper.

  Nausea wells up. I try to focus on the small graphic on the seat screen that indicates where we are. It’s frozen over Kansas. As far to go as we have come. I place my head between my knees, gagging as the movement pumps up the pain.

  My vision begins to tunnel. The drone from the engines, the few people who are chatting and the odd clink of the drinks trolley are sore noises. Hard noises. Penetrating noises. I’m going to be sick.

  I grab for the vomit bag.

  Then a cool wave washes down the metal tube. Ice-cold – filling the space around me. Crashing over me. Menthol fresh. I breathe deeply and my lungs shiver as the ice-tinged gas expands into my tissue. I open my eyes. The air is blue. A cobalt haze fills the cabin.

  The spitting fire in my head is extinguished. Snuffed out at the source. Forced into a tiny, tight ball. A neutron star forming at the top of my backbone. Wrapped in a blanket of ice. Still there but trapped.

  I lift my head. The light-headedness that accompanies the movement momentarily blurs this new, surreal world. I press my eyelids down and wait. Floating in the lack of pain.

  I reopen my eyes and smile. The blue is pulsing – a soft, gentle action – between light and dark. Morphing from one to the other.

  I turn to look at Buzz 1 but he’s iPod-bound, and if he can see the color or sense the chill he’s giving no indication. Buzz 2 is reading. He turns to catch my eye. I smile and his forehead creases in confusion. The wrinkles in his skin are the color of a sunny Caribbean bay – the peaks a mountain-high sky blue. He shakes his head as I keep up the smile. I’m on my own in my new blue world.

  ‘Drink, sir?’ The stewardess’s voice has a light tinkle attached to it. Then she seems to jump forward and her words tumble out with the speed of a DVD on Skip. ‘Drink, sir?’

  I catch the words – but only just. ‘Jack Daniels and Coke,’ I reply.

  She pours on fast-forward, then hands me a midnight-blue version of my favorite fix of alcohol. A jump in time. Now she’s all slowmo as she asks my minders if they want a drink. Buzz 1 and 2 decline. I take a sip.

  The blue wave washes clear of me: the new world vanishes. My headache has gone but I can still feel the kernel rooted to my brain stem. Waiting.

  I contemplate the moment. Trying to figure out what the hell has just happened. There’s still the faintest tinge of blue to the world. A hangover from the full effect. It’s not unpleasant but it’s also something that feels wrong. In the way that a snort of cocaine is both good and bad at the same time. A feeling of elation earned through a substance that will destroy you.

  I view the plane’s progress on the small screen. We are nearly out of Colorado. An immense leap in distance in a few minutes. I wonder if the system is broken and tap it with my forefinger. Nothing.

  I watch as the plane leaves Colorado and, catching the corner of Utah and New Mexico, we enter Arizona. No great leap forward, just a slow progression. How long did the blue world gone on for? Minutes? An hour? It felt like seconds.

  The JD is spreading through my system. I suddenly have an irrational fear that the warm alcohol will somehow melt the coating around the headache ball that’s squatting in my skull. I clench my teeth waiting for it to explode. An ice cube dropped in a hot-fat fryer. Spitting. But the headache stays buried.

  I lean back in the seat and glance at Buzz 1 and 2. Both are still in music- or word-land.

  My thoughts turn to home and the conversation with Lorraine that lies ahead. I dump the thought to slug some more JD. I’ll deal with it when the time comes.

  I close my eyes, bathing in what’s left of the blue world.

  Chapter 8

  I should be shattered. It’s been over a day since I wasn’t on a flight or waiting for one. LAX was the usual. Too busy. Too noisy. Too everything.

  I’m now sitting in my apartment. The theme is white with more white and the only thing that isn’t white is Lorraine in a red gingham dress. A little under six feet tall, she could have cut it as a
model. Dark, shoulder-length hair, a round face, green eyes – she can stop a bus with her smile. She’s showing it off now but it’s not warm. She’s already ahead of the curve, knowing my early return is not good news. When she saw the bandages on my head the smile faded. She has brewed up some industrial-strength coffee and is sitting, hands between her legs, waiting. The pose she takes when bad news is on the horizon.

  She leans forward. ‘Well?’

  I take a breath and offload. I start with the brothel. I work my way through the events. I’m selective. Some of the story isn’t for telling today. I skip the blue world. I keep up my sleeve my suspicions that the agency isn’t finished with me. I don’t share the feeling that I’m not as innocent in all this as I’d like to believe.

  I love Lorraine. I should trust her. That’s the way it should be. But it isn’t. And that hurts.

  My lack of trust is my own insecurity playing out. I’m scared of losing her. When we met I never thought she would show any interest in me. It’s not that I’m bad looking. I can turn on the charm if need be, but, when we met, I was frazzled from my experience in the army. Mentally in a bad place. I felt Lorraine was too good a thing to be happening to me. The result: I was scared to open up to her. Still am. Scared I’ll chase her off. That she will see me for what I am. A burnt-out shell that’s struggling to keep things going.

  So things that should be shared, husband to wife, are quietly buried. Not a recipe that has much future.

  She sits in silence and when I finish she starts to take it all apart – bit by bit. She has a disarming way of asking the most awkward questions. Working with kids has given her an insight into interrogation. Ask the easy questions first. Work up to the hard ones. Keep a few of the easier ones in the background, ready to use, in case things get bogged down. Open questions. ‘How did that make you feel?’ ‘Why do you think that happened?’ Or, in this case, ‘So what do you want to do now?’

  It is the question I’ve been avoiding.

  ‘I don’t know. Something will come along. Won’t it? I’ll contact Steel Trap. This is their problem to sort out.’

  ‘Craig…’

  I let my head fall. Her tone says it all. We’ve been here so often. She met me as a wreck. An ex mental-ward case who had frittered away the last of his parents’ inheritance.

  She reaches out and touches my hair. ‘Craig, this is insane. Murder. Secret agencies. What the…?’

  I keep my head down. ‘You knew that the job wasn’t great. Iraq. Bodyguard. And I did fuck up. Two dead bodies and I was the point man. I got mugged by a man twice my age. It all happened on my watch.’

  I lift to find her face is close. She’s stunningly pretty. I’m still amazed that she chose me. Amazed and grateful. She once told me that there was something special about me. An energy that she found intoxicating. In the right moment, when we’re together, she’ll brush my hair and whisper ‘I love you’ so often that I wonder who she’s trying to convince. Me or her.

  She strokes me. ‘We need to fix this.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Phone Steel Trap. See what they say first.’

  ‘Now?’

  ‘Now!’

  ‘Can’t we do that later?’

  ‘Will that make the call better?’

  She’s right.

  I pick up the phone and dial the number. It’s answered on the second ring.

  ‘Dan, it’s Craig.’

  ‘Hi Craig.’ Cold.

  ‘I take it you’ve heard about Iraq.’

  ‘No. I never hear when employees fuck up.’

  ‘Funny. What did you hear?’

  ‘You screwed up. Your boy is dead and our name is being trashed. Lot of money to be made in Iraq. So let’s make this easy. You’re history.’

  ‘And that’s it?’

  ‘That’s it.’

  ‘Come on. I got kicked out by some black ops agency. Don’t you care?’

  ‘Craig you fucked up with the wrong people. They pay well and they don’t want you around. What can I say? Most of our work is through them at the moment. They want you out – you’re out.’

  ‘That’s bull. I’m an employee.’

  ‘Were an employee. We’ll pay you a month’s salary. And you can count yourself lucky on that.’

  ‘I want to meet.’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘To discuss this.’

  ‘We’ve been doing that.’

  I can see him. Sitting in the tiny room that Steel Trap call their head office. His back to a window that looks on to a grubby alley. Cheap rent area.

  ‘Come on, Dan. It wasn’t my fault.’

  ‘Taylor’s dead. The client’s pissed off and I’m probably not going to see any work from them in the near future. What’s not your fault?’

  ‘A coffee. That’s all I ask.’

  ‘Craig, it’s done. You’re out.’

  ‘Just a coffee.’

  Silence.

  ‘Fuck you.’ I throw the handset onto the sofa.

  Lorraine shakes her head. She picks up the phone, killing the call. ‘That went well.’

  ‘He’s a tosser.’

  ‘Can’t you sue?’

  ‘Maybe, but it’ll cost money and we aren’t exactly floating in cash. I’ll ask Gerry in the morning. I need a drink.’

  Gerry is an old lawyer friend but I know I’m not going to ask him anything. It’s over.

  Lorraine leans closer. ‘Craig, we need to talk.’

  ‘And we can, but I need out of here.’

  ‘Craig…’

  ‘Michael’s.’

  ‘A bar? You want to go to a bar?’

  ‘I need to think, and Michael’s is a good place.’

  ‘No it’s not. It’s a dump with a leech for an owner.’

  ‘Well I’m going. You can come if you want, but I need a shower first.’

  ‘What’s stopping you?’

  I tap the bandage.

  She shakes her head and walks into the bedroom to reappear with a shower cap.

  ‘Try this.’ She throws it at me.

  *

  We walk down North Cahuenga. Lorraine has changed into fitted jeans, a tight white T-shirt and a pair of wedges to show off her legs. She’s topped it off with a lightweight jacket. I sigh. I’m going to watch guys watch my girl for the next few hours.

  We leave a residential stretch and enter low-rise commercial territory. Around us sits the edge of Hollywood. Production companies, agents, marketing companies. We pass the art deco front of the studio that Lorraine pulls extra bucks from. We hit the corner of Melrose where a small shopping mall, a car dealer, a loan shop and a shuttered strip of stores sit. We turn right.

  Lorraine keeps her distance. Her hands are rammed into her jean pockets. Her head is down. A sure sign that I’m not Mr Popular at the moment.

  To our left, trees hide apartment blocks. We keep to the sidewalk that bounds the shops. We cross Stewart Street, pass the Latin restaurant that sits on the corner and enter Michael’s.

  It claims to be an Irish pub but it’s really a typical downtown, randomly-decorated bar with paraphernalia that might be able to claim some tangential connection to the Emerald Isle.

  The bar itself stretches the length of the premises. A platform made of fifty per cent alcohol and fifty per cent wood. The A/C is wound up and the cool air is welcome. Booths sit opposite the bar. The place is dotted with a few customers.

  Charlie, the owner (there’s no Michael that I’m aware of), is pouring a Bass Ale and smiles when he sees us. Or rather when he sees Lorraine. Weighing in at two-fifty pounds he’s a bodybuilder when not juicing people up. Clean-shaven, bald, always on the edge of bursting out of one of his many T-shirts. This one says I’m Free.

  Charlie is cheer personified.

  ‘One thousand dollars?’ he shouts over.

  ‘One thousand and one,’ replies Lorraine with little humor.

  ‘Too expensive,’ he replies.

  I shake my head. Char
lie has been offering Lorraine a thousand dollars to sleep with him since the first night we found his place. He refuses to pay more so Lorraine always insists on a dollar extra.

  ‘Are our chairs free?’ I ask.

  ‘A little late for the alley.’

  ‘Won’t be dark for another hour.’

  ‘Give me five minutes to set it up but don’t let me forget you’re out there.’

  ‘We won’t,’ says Lorraine.

  ‘What can I get you both?’ He’s already pouring our drinks. Me a JD and Coke, Lorraine a white wine spritzer. He places the drinks on the bar and makes for the back door to set up our spot.

  I sip at my drink. Lorraine plays with hers. She’s not a drinker and one spritzer can last all night if she has a mind.

  ‘I need to pick up something from the library,’ she says.

  ‘What. Now?’

  The John Freemont Library is just across the road.

  ‘You dragged me out.’

  ‘We need to talk.’

  ‘We will, but Mary Little’s doing the Civil War with her kids and wants a book our regular supplier doesn’t stock.’

  ‘What’s wrong with her legs?’

  ‘Funny.’

  ‘Is she being a nuisance?’

  Charlie comes back and stops her from replying. ‘Your thrones await.’

  We follow the signs for the washrooms and push out the emergency exit into the alley behind. Charlie has placed two folding chairs and a small plastic table against one wall. The alley is deserted and, since it wraps round the block, you can’t be seen from the street. On a Sunday there can be ten or twelve people out here, but this late on a Saturday there’s no one else.

  ‘Mary?’ I say as I sit down.

  Lorraine also sits down. ‘A real pain. She thinks we owe her big time for letting us stay in Carl’s place. Now it’s got worse.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘The school principal is looking for a new number two. Mary should be a ringer but the PTA are against it. She’s rubbed them up all the wrong way this term. I tried to tell her to ease off. But she doesn’t like the chair. They have history.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘The PTA hold a lot of sway. The school was short on funds and the PTA dug us out big time last year.’