Watching You Chapters Twenty One and Twenty Two

Chapter Twenty-One

 

Kelly slipped into her dressing gown and glanced at the clock. Events of the previous day and night had returned to haunt her the moment she’d awoke, though, in truth, her night’s sleep had been continually interrupted by the knowledge that a confrontation with Joe was both inevitable and imminent.

It was no longer a case of if they split, but when, sooner rather than later, was how it seemed, the whole business had blown up too quickly for her senses to be able to cope. A few hours’ breathing space hadn’t helped; in fact, she’d awoken more exhausted than when she’d gone to bed.

But was breathing space the short-term solution? She had it from McCain, even though, in truth, she didn’t really want it, but in retrospect, it might be the best thing. Before things went any further, she wanted time to work them out. It meant being on her own.

Question one: where would she go? Her parents’ house in Surrey was out of bounds; the demands of her job saw to that. McCain would be off, two of the staff were on sick leave, and besides, she started another run of four nights at eight that evening; nobody ever wanted to cover for those. So she’d find a guesthouse, she could afford a few days, leave the house to Joe. Decide what she was going to do.

Question two: How was Joe going to take it? Anyone’s guess, he was unpredictable sometimes; he certainly wasn’t going to be pleased, and she’d probably get a rough ride. But it was the right course, the only one.

She slipped into the bathroom, noticing the door to their bedroom was open. Joe was up, the thrown-back bedsheets told her that, and then that persistent smoker’s cough announced he was downstairs.

Crunch time just a few minutes away –

She washed, brushed her teeth, did what she had to do, and then went downstairs. Joe was sitting on the edge of an armchair, head bowed, arms on his knees. There were bags under his eyes, and he hadn’t shaven, though neither of those things was unusual. He raised his head as she reached the bottom stair. ‘So, what’s this about, Kelly? You going to tell me now?’ His voice was throaty. It always was first thing in the morning; he drank and smoked too much.

There were tears, plenty gathering just inside, just waiting to roll out. Suddenly, the resolution she’d been building was on the verge of crumbling. She walked to the couch opposite, sat, and lowered her head.

‘You might think I’m stupid, Kelly, but don’t take me for that much of a fool. You’ve been playing away.’ He gave a short, cynical laugh. ‘No, it’s more than that. I reckon you’ve been playing at home – why don’t you just open up and admit it?’

There was bitterness in his voice and condemnation in his eyes, but no sign of any temper; it was time to face facts, but her emotions were all topsy-turvy and at boiling point.

Then the tears came, dampening her cheeks. She rubbed them away with the back of her hand as if that would stem the flow. The words stayed locked in her head; gone was her plan, shattered into fragments.

‘For Christ’s sake, what is the matter with you? What’s happened to turn you like this?’

‘You Joe, we haven’t been getting on,’ she said. Simplicity itself, but through tear-clouded eyes, that was all she could think of saying.

‘So you lay with another bloke – what kind of fucking solution is that?’

How do you explain to someone that you’re only human and expect them to understand it?

‘That’s what happened, isn’t it?’

She felt his eyes boring into her; she couldn’t meet them.

‘That’s what happened, isn’t it?’

It was like being in a dentist’s chair, waiting for the needle –

‘In our bed?’

Don’t push me – that was what she wanted to say – don’t rub it in.

Joe was on his feet, pacing the room from corner to corner, hands thrust in his pockets, eyes fixed on her like a condemning attorney in jeans. ‘Cat caught your tongue, has it, or have I struck a cord somewhere …’

Please, Joe, it’s not like you think …’ A deep breath and then a sigh; she managed to level her voice, to focus on him, meet that glare.

‘And what do I think, Miss know-all?’

‘Probably that I’ve been having an affair behind your back for years.’

He smiled, but the sound that came with it was more of a vicious cough. ‘Not an affair, Kelly, affairs – so who’s the latest one, eh?’

‘I’m not answering to that crap, Joe …’ Funny how anger could replace guilt, now she was admitting to nothing; a few seconds ago, she’d been on the verge of admitting to one evening of indiscretion. I’m not facing a bloody firing squad, Joe, don’t make it seem like I am …’

‘I want to know what happened, Kelly, and where it leaves us.’

She shook her head so fiercely she felt a nerve jar. ‘Not now; we’ll only go round in circles.’ Tears had dried as quickly as they’d come. The prosecution was overstating the case – it presented her with the opportunity to stiffen her resolve.

‘I need a few days’ break from you, Joe.

‘Just like that!’ Joe slapped his forehead, turned away from her, then turned back, familiar derisive smile visible. ‘And where will you go, to lover boy?’

‘There is no lover boy …’ and just at that moment, it was true. McCain was still there, but way out in the backwaters of her mind, forced there by the turmoil of the last twelve hours.

As for Joe, she could have expected worse; he was still in his prosecuting mode, but she wasn’t listening any longer. She needed space.

 

 

Chapter Twenty-Two

 

Main Man sat outside a pub, on a patio bordering a golf course. Reclining in a chair, he watched a couple of golfers, one wearing blue slacks, the other clad all in white, approaching the eighteenth hole. The day was warm but lacked the humidity of late, the sky blue with just scuffs of high-level white cloud. He felt relaxed.

He’d discovered a fly in the house and crushed it in his hand in one swoop – that was what it felt like.

Black had been a naughty boy. He hadn’t been what he appeared at all. He’d been suspicious of a ‘plant’ for some time and then tipped off by the same source that had advised him of the facts the previous afternoon. His action had been swift and decisive; the blot had been erased. He expected confirmation of that any moment now.

Just how much damage had been done? Main Man allowed himself a satisfied smile, his trusted source reckoning not much information had been fed back to the establishment. Black had been biding his time, accumulating evidence, but the fucker had been squashed before his assignment was completed.

It was good to have contacts in the right places. No, more than that, it was essential, even if it did make him feel insubordinate, something he hated. He took a long sip of beer, lowered his glass to the table, threw the fag butt onto the paving, ignoring the disapproving eye of the old bloke opposite.

Somebody clapped at the shot the golfer in whites had made. He squinted in the sunlight, couldn’t see what the applause was for – the ball had barely made the green, lying about thirty feet from the hole. The bloke would be lucky to triple putt from there.

He glanced at his watch; ten minutes past midday, they were taking their time, though it didn’t affect his relaxed air. Why should it? They were tried and tested men, hand-picked for the job, all three of them. He didn’t envisage any problems.

He took another drink of beer, more of a gulp this time, lit up another fag. What could be done to stop the situation happening again? His source, dammit his boss, might not be able to help him worm out the fuckers another time, and then what? He supervised a major operation, sweated blood to build it up the way he had, and Black had come close to nailing him, close to fooling him too. But of course, that had been the object of the fucker’s mission – he’d set out to do just that. The fact that MI5 was involved proved the point. The word was that several towns and cities around the country had been targeted in a government drive to crack down on drugs. Government agents were infiltrating the ranks of the barons with increasing signs of success. Well, not in his domain they weren’t.

But any new vagrant who just happened to show up, no matter how filthy or pathetic they might seem, needed watching. He couldn’t be everywhere, couldn’t see everything, though he might try. He needed fresh sets of eyes. Paid, trusted help.

He considered whether a street warden might be corruptible, able to be manipulated; he’d tracked them around town for some time. They didn’t seem to do a lot, but they saw plenty. The soft swish of a club against ball disturbed his thoughts; he looked up as the golfer made another hash of his shot. Street wardens … the idea was tempting but way too risky.

Main Man watched the golfer in white slacks finally make the hole, then, along with his partner, head for the clubhouse. In the warm summer sunshine, his thoughts returned to Black; he rubbed the palm of his hand across his chin and sighed. He’d taken Black for just another dosser he could use, as long as he was supplied enough crack to satisfy his habit. But Black had proved more resourceful in his methods than the others, more aware of the activities of the pushers and dossers around him. The funny thing was, he’d miss him in a way, in much the same way as further down the line he’d miss someone else. But that was another story, first things first, as they said.

When he’d learned of Black’s true identity, it hadn’t just been anger but disappointment he’d felt. Betrayal, he loathed more than anything else; it was the one thing he’d never come to terms with. But the single, positive feature was that because of this contact, his whole operation had been saved. Main Man drained his glass, considered replenishing it. The morning had been productive one way and another.

He drummed his fingers on the table and checked his watch; a slight edge was beginning to intrude into his relaxed state. Time had crept along while he’d been reflecting. Thirty minutes had passed, still no call.

Why the delay? Surely there hadn’t been problems? Black was resourceful, he’d admitted as much to himself, but the copper had had no inkling of what was to happen. But then, Black had seemed strangely reluctant to be sent on the supposed mission; could he, after all, have had some inclination?

That possibility dug deeper into his state of mind. He would have dealt with Black himself but for the consignment that had arrived that morning, requiring his personal attention. But in any case, there was no way that three of his best men couldn’t handle the situation.

Main Man held the empty glass between his hands for a moment then slammed it on the table; conversation on the patio stopped, and eyes turned his way, but he wasn’t vaguely aware of them. He pulled his mobile from his belt and dialled Reilly’s number, pacing out onto the greenery of the course perimeter. No answer.

He scratched the hairs on the back of his neck; they were beginning to bristle. Both of the others had a mobile, so his mind racing, he thumbed through the phone memory. It was Winter, of course.

He rapped out the number, his breath catching in his throat when the hoarse voice on the other end finally answered. Heat flushed his cheeks; acid seemed to rise from his stomach and scorch his chest. Yards away, a golf ball overran the green. He swung his boot at it, sent it crashing towards the patio.