A Girl Called Mercy

A Girl Called Mercy

Holland was happy. He brushed his way past the tourists onto the platform, and onto the escalator. What were the bloody Japanese doing here at eight in the morning? He squeezed his way up the left side of the escalator, letting his briefcase bang against the legs of the fat bitch that got in his way at the bottom. The vibrations he felt in his hand were so satisfying he let his briefcase hit the legs of everyone he passed. The briefcase was sturdy enough. The person ahead of him at the barrier was having trouble. Holland pretended not to notice, and walked straight through him, briefcase first. On the other side of the barrier Holland paused. The man was on his knees, swearing in some foreign language. Oh yes. Holland was happy.
It was Monday morning. Holland was happy because he was free again from the twin duties of husband and father, the roles he played for about twenty-four hours every week. Now he was back where he belonged. Away from the stiflingly fresh country air and oppressive silence of his village home. Away from the loving adoration of his children and the overt flirtatiousness of his wife. Away from the stress of having to fill those long, empty weekend evenings after the kids have gone to bed.
He walked through the crowd in his way at the crossing. They'd wait forever if the lights didn't change. The traffic was gridlocked anyway. A driver sounded his horn making Holland turn his head. Where did he think he was going? Holland tried not to laugh at the man's impotent anger. He gave a shrug and walked on. The light changed when he reached the other side, and the driver was stuck on the wrong side of it. He raised two fingers in Holland's direction, but Holland had already won.
When Holland reached his office block, there was a scruffy bastard standing outside selling the Big Issue. Holland paused for long enough to catch the man's attention, then gave a sneer and entered the building. He wouldn't lower himself to speaking to rubbish like that. It's just a shame they couldn't sweep it away like the fast food wrappers that polluted the rest of the streets. The thought made him smile. That would do for now.
He signed in at reception, and was pleased he was the first to arrive. He didn't like anyone to be in his office when he wasn't there. It made him feel uncomfortable. He didn't even like the thought of the cleaner and caretaker being in there unsupervised. He reassured himself with the thought that even if they stumbled across his private documents, they wouldn't understand them. He'd be surprised if they could read. He had no control over the building's maintenance personnel. And as long as they were doing an acceptable job, he didn't need to let it worry him. The less contact he had with them, the better.
Holland stepped out of the lift and breathed in the air of his company's offices. There was something pure and invigorating in the air on a Monday morning. He punched in the code on the door and headed straight for his room. Inside he locked the door and sat down behind his desk. He reached over to switch on his computer and stretched out. The best part of the week, and he was going to savour it. The sense of anticipation was exhilarating. Almost as good as the sense of achievement he felt when another of his deals succeeded, when the profits took another leap, when he watched his personal wealth reach staggering new highs. The thrill didn't come purely from financial gain, though it was a major factor. He had power, too, to satisfy him on those rare days when money wasn't behaving as such a compliant mistress as he would like. Most days he could choose which of the two he could use to satisfy himself. Or have both. He licked his lips and took a deep, calming breath. Time to get to work.
The weekend's news was good. The suggestion was coming from Brazil that they would get the go-ahead for their project. The government there said there may be protests, but they agreed that business should take precedence, and the arrangement they had come to would be satisfactory. The Thailand factories were running at full capacity, too, and so within the next few weeks they should have doubled their output. Which meant more money to divert into his personal investments. The news of instability in Central Asia was even better. He would have to look into the markets there. The news said that the revolutionaries were splitting into several factions. If he played it right he could make money from all sides. These muddled revolutions offered some of the richest pickings, along with drug wars and 'military operations'. If there was a government involved, then it was guaranteed that he could bribe his way to a handsome profit. If the government in question was using euphemisms to describe their actions, then those profits could be assumed to be even more significant.
There were so many options open for him today, he didn't know where to start. He knew he had an hour before the first of his pathetic employees would turn up and pretend to work. After two days off it always seemed to take them two days to build up to full working speed. It was a good job he didn't have to trust them with anything important.
His real love were his business interests outside of this company. His heart wasn't really in this company, that had been the brainchild of his former partner. But Holland was the one with the business brain. That business brain had told him that the company would be a success. His business brain had planned the route to that success. And his business brain had told Holland that he would be a fool to share his success. What had happened to Little had been a shame, not to mention messy. But it was unavoidable once it became apparent that his life would live down to his name.
Little had been as close as Holland had ever had to a friend. He was the only person in the world to whom Holland had confessed all his ambitions. The only person who had been there at Holland's side when his quest had started. The only person that Holland had spoken to on a personal level since the early days of primary school. Even back then, Holland had realised that the minds of the people around him were obsessed with childish, trivial matters. And they had the nerve to laugh at him. Well, who was laughing now? Even Holland's family had been cruel to him as a child. His sisters had picked on him, even his father had wondered why he wasn't out playing sports or throwing stones at windows like all the other kids. He supposed that his sisters were less successful than he was now. He vaguely remembered their ambitions to be nurses or teachers. The kind of people that Holland bought and sold on a daily basis now. Perhaps he had even closed down his sister's school. That would be something to look up if he got any spare time.
The only member of his family that had shown any real interest in Holland growing up was his grandmother. She always found him polite and well-mannered, not like all those boys she came across in town. They could talk about politics and society without getting into an argument like she would with Holland's father. She knew what was best for the country. She'd lived through two world wars, and she knew the dangers that were posed to this country by outsiders, and they agreed on the need for a strong country, and the ways to keep it strong.
They both wanted the same thing, even if they were both coming from different directions. She longed for a return to the values of the past, and he wanted to bring them back to modern society. He didn't have her advantage of being old and slightly senile. If she acted like it was 1940, people thought it was just old age. When he did it, people thought he was crazy. In the end, Holland's grandmother was put in a home, where she started speaking German in preparation for the Nazi invasion.
Holland had still gone to visit her on regular occasions. She stopped giving him pocket money when he was eighteen, but he could still make money off her. Whenever new coins and notes were issued, his grandmother would complain about them being too small, or looking like plastic, or monopoly money. She was only too happy to swap these new notes that "looked worthless for any old ones Holland could find that actually were. The older she got, the older money she wanted, and Holland could make a nice profit by calling into an old coin and note market on the way to visit his grandmother.
Holland didn't know where she was she was buried. She had saved up a lot of money to pay for a decent funeral. The fact that most of his inheritance had been used up to pay for a big box to bury her in had hurt Holland. She was dead. Why did they have to abide by her wishes for such an extravagant funeral? What would she know about it? His protests had been ignored, and all he had inherited was a collection of old notes and coins, that when he had them valued turned out to be worth less than their face value. And since then his contact with any member of his family had been a Christmas card he had received from his mother three years ago to inform him that she and his father were moving to Australia, and left no forwarding address.
The sun was shining in behind him, and onto his computer screen. It happened every day, when the sun was at a position in the sky to reflect off the glass building behind his office. It was an irritation that had often made him think about moving offices, but this was otherwise the best office on the floor. He wasn't about to invest in air-conditioning for another office while someone moved into the comfort of this one. The problem was easily solved. He closed the blind and turned on the light. He could leave it like that for the rest of the day. He wanted to leave it like that all the time, but every night the cleaners came round, opening the blinds and turning off the lights.
He had some phone calls to make while the Far East markets were still open. The North Korean army was having a sale on some of its nuclear warheads. Who said peace wasn't as profitable as war? Now that North Korea was making friends with most of its neighbours, they had huge stocks of nuclear weapons that they would sell of fairly cheaply to get money for food and books. There was always a market for that kind of technology, and unless you needed the money, it was a sellers market. This wasn't a sure deal, but it was an area he was looking into, and he wanted at least to make some contacts. He had been told about a group of Georgians who were keen to develop their own nuclear defences. Inquiring further he was surprised to find that it was Georgia, USA. That could be fun.
He had other, official, business to attend to today. He was hoping to get the contract to build ornithological lookout towers in three English National Parks. If he could it would be excellent business for the company, especially as they would be able to combine those structures with the mobile telephone masts that they had so far failed to get planning permission for. They would get paid twice for doing the same work, and as one would be paid for by central government, they could take as long as they wanted and demand exaggerated expenses. As his were the only two companies bidding for the contract, he was pretty confident of getting the go-ahead.

At the end of a frustrating day that hadn't fulfilled its early promise, Holland sat back in his chair. He hadn't managed to get through to the North Koreans, and had ended up yelling at some stupid woman that couldn't speak a word of English. The wheels were moving on the bird-watching towers, but as slowly as he would expect when dealing with the government. He had considered oiling the wheels slightly, but he had already used enough financial grease in order to get his offers considered. He would have to show some patience on this.
The only real high-point of the day had been yelling at the sandwich man who came round mid-morning. He had come into Holland's office without waiting to be asked, and had been told to leave so forcefully he had fallen over himself on the way out. Holland had then phoned the man's company to make a formal complaint, which would hopefully have the man fired, or at least severely reprimanded and put on slicing and buttering duties. He had considered cancelling the deliveries altogether but he didn't want to upset his staff too much. He had very little to do with any of them on a daily basis, restricting himself to weekly conferences with the departmental managers. If he could he conducted these meetings through memos.
The day over, and the office empty, he made his way out onto the street. It was after eight, and the evening rush-hour was coming to an end. He had asked his secretary to order some shopping for him, and have it delivered to his house at nine. He hoped this secretary would get the order right. The last one had ordered the delivery for nine in the morning, and he had arrived home to find all his frozen food in a wet puddle outside his door. Needless to say he had taken the cost of the goods out of her final pay packet. And the cost of the replacement shopping.
He wasn't hungry this evening. The day's frustrations had taken away his appetite. There was a bottle of Scotch in his flat, and that would provide enough nourishment for the evening. He had left work earlier than usual tonight, and felt he would be able to think a little more clearly at home. He needed to double his efforts tomorrow to make up for the work that didn't happen today.
It was late evening and just getting dark when he arrived at his flat. In this area of London he didn't have to fear being mugged. There were security cameras on all the streets and a private security firm patrolled the streets after dark. There hadn't been a mugging, or any violence or vandalism, in over a year now. Occasionally he spotted some of London's less desirable minorities in the streets, but never more than two of them together, and they were usually there on business. It was nice to be able to walk safely down the city streets near your own home.
And once he was inside his building he knew he wouldn't see anybody else. The security guard at the door never spoke, and his neighbours were usually too busy to exchange more than the basic pleasantries. And that was on the rare occasions that he saw any of them. The lift was empty, which avoided the awkward few moments of breathing the same air as someone you saw often, but never spoke to. And then he was on his corridor, and had a free run to his door.
The door opened with its usual reassuring heaviness, and Holland closed and locked it behind himself. He had taken his coat off and hung it up before he noticed that there was a light on somewhere in the flat. It was unusual. He didn't need the light in the morning, so he couldn't have left it switched on. He was going to switch it off until he realised that it was dark enough now to need it switched on, and when he turned around he almost had a heart attack.
There was somebody sitting on his sofa. She was facing him and speaking, but he couldn't hear what she was saying. He was shaking, half through fear, half through indignation, and his brain wasn't left with space to process the sounds she was making. Slowly, as he realised that whoever she was she probably wasn't going to attack him, at least not immediately, he came to his senses and started to hear what she was saying to him.
"Are you okay? she asked. "Can you hear me?
Holland could hear, but he couldn't form the words to make an answer. He moved his head up and down in a jerky movement that hopefully conveyed that he could hear her. He couldn't stop the nodding. He was waiting for a list of demands, or threats, but they never came.
"Do you want a drink? You look like you need one. The nodding slowed, but didn't stop. She was right. He needed a drink. He coughed out "Scotch, but it wasn't necessary. She had already filled two glasses and added ice to one. She held out the straight one to him. "Ice? she asked, and he finally managed to stop the nodding and transform it into a sideways movement and finally to stop his head moving altogether.
He meant to sip his drink, to try to achieve an outer show of calm, but he took a huge gulp. The whisky burned in his throat and made him cough. When he tried to control it, he found he couldn't breathe. Trying to maintain his composure while choking was difficult, and he failed miserably, having to bend double and support himself on the back of the sofa. His uninvited guest stood and watched him, a faint smile appearing across her face when he finally managed to stand up straight.
"Do you feel better now? she asked.
"Did you think that was funny? Holland had finally found his angry voice.
"Yes, actually I did.
"I could have died.
"I don't think so. Sit down. Her voice was so confident it gave her the upper hand, and he did as she told him. "My name is Mercy. She held out a hand to him, and he half rose from the sofa and shook it. He was about to introduce himself when he reconsidered the situation.
"What are you doing here?
"I came to see you. Holland?
"Yes. She knew his name. This worried him. This wasn't some kind of random intrusion. This was starting to look increasingly like a premeditated visit. And nobody ever paid him friendly visits. Mercy was the first person apart from himself to set foot inside this flat since he had bought it. Her apparent friendliness was a warning. Nobody was nice to Holland without some kind of motive. The fact that she hadn't smashed his head in with a blunt instrument was a positive sign, though one tempered by all the potentially worse things that she could be about to do.
"Do you want another drink? asked Mercy.
"Yes, said Holland, hesitatingly. "Yes please. He held out his glass and she filled it again and returned it to him. "Thank you. He shouldn't get drunk. He had to maintain control. But right now he needed the alcohol to restore him to some kind of equilibrium. He managed to sip this time, and slowly his head cleared.
"You're drinking that fast. Are you nervous?
"No, said Holland, nervously.
"Do you want something to eat?
"I'm not hungry just now.
"You'll have to eat something if you're going to drink like that. He was sipping, but constantly. He had nearly finished the second glass already. "Do you want me to make something? Holland just shook his head. "I'll do something later.
"What are you doing here?
"I told you, I came to see you.
"What for.
"Just to talk.
"Talk? About what? Holland wondered if he was missing some hint or euphemism. He decided to play it straight and let Mercy play her cards first.
"Whatever you like, really. I'm quite a good conversationalist. What do you like? Politics? Business? Religion?
"Christ! exclaimed Holland. The irony was unintentional. "You're not a Jehovah's Witness? They normally stopped at the door.
"God no, laughed Mercy, fully aware of the irony. "I'm an atheist.
"Well, that's something. For a moment, Holland fell for her smile and relaxed, forgetting the situation he found himself in. "So, do you follow the cricket?
"No. That's more my brother's thing. He never stops talking sport. I find it all a bit boring myself.
"Yes, but I follow the results.
"I don't mind rugby. I played a bit at university.
"You don't look the type. To play rugby? Or go to university? Holland left the ambiguity.
"I'm stronger than I look. Mercy meant the words to sound slightly threatening. Holland shifted uneasily in the chair. Mercy was still standing over him. She was standing so close that he wouldn't be able to stand up without her moving back. And she wasn't moving. From Holland's viewpoint she looked taller than she was, and quite intimidating. That was just the way she wanted it. Holland felt strange that he was being intimidated by someone who was little more than a girl. She was wearing a sleeveless top which showed admittedly strong-looking upper arms, but she was still a woman, and Holland knew he must be stronger. At the moment, though, it wasn't a fight. Holland had to find some way of getting the upper hand.
"How did you get in here? Didn't security stop you?
"If a young lady says she has an appointment with a lonely businessman, nobody asks too many questions.
"Who said I was lonely?
"Just an assumption. Sorry if you're not.
"Who says it's a bad thing if I am?
"Well, are you?
"No. Mercy left the denial alone. Holland knew if it was true.
"Do you mind if I sit down?
"Be my guest. Holland supposed he had no choice, and he was right. Mercy moved from close-up into better focus. He could see all of her at once. He could see why the man downstairs might believe she was a prostitute. She was dressed cheaply, and suggestively. Her hair looked dyed, the curls held back simply with clips. Her eyes were highlighted with make-up, her lips dark red. The distance gave him more confidence.
"What if I asked you to leave?
"I wouldn't go.
"What if I had you removed?
"Nice story. Young woman visiting a wealthy businessman. His wife back at their country home. He's alone in the city. Do I have to carry on?
"Are you trying to blackmail me?
"No.
"Are you a prostitute?
"No. Mercy wasn't shocked at the suggestion. After all, she had made it first.
"Are you here to rob me?
"No. I told you. I'm here to see you. That's all.
"Are you going to kidnap me?
"No. Who'd pay a ransom for you? Your wife?
"So you know my wife?
"No. Why do you think I'm here after some kind of financial reward?
"What other reason would there be?
"I wouldn't expect you to understand.
"Try me.
"Maybe I will.
Holland started searching in his pockets. He took out his wallet. "Look, he started. "I'm busy. I've got a lot of work to do tonight. I'll give you all the cash I've got. He opened his wallet. "There's ninety pounds. He held the notes out to Mercy.
"I don't need money. I don't want your money. Keep it.
"Are you sure? It's not bad for a night's work.
"I'm not going to sleep with you. Not for all the money in the world.
"Thank God for that. Holland was embarrassed by the misunderstanding. "I have enough at the weekend with my wife forcing herself on me constantly.
Mercy laughed. "What's the matter? Are you gay?
"Absolutely not. Holland hoped that he wasn't turning red. He didn't want his anger to be mistaken for an admission. Mercy just laughed. There was a silence.
"Let me make you something to eat. Sit back. Watch TV. Mercy turned on the television with the remote control, which she then threw into Holland's lap. "Enjoy, she said, smiling, before disappearing into the kitchen.
"I should be getting some more food delivered soon, Holland called through after her. "I'll eat then.
"No, I cancelled your order. I picked up some stuff on my way here. You eat some crap.
"It fills me up.
"It'll kill you. I'll make you something you'll enjoy. It's better for you.
Holland turned his attention to the television. He checked his watch when he saw that the news was still on BBC1. It should have finished by now. They were showing pictures of a stock exchange that looked American. It took him a few moments to start to take in the words being spoken by the reporter. He was at a disadvantage, having switched on in the middle of the report, but slowly he began to piece together what they were talking about. Then his brain started to freeze at the thought of the news that was starting to unfold in front of him. They were reporting a huge stock market crash that was starting across the Atlantic, and showing no sign of slowing. They were talking about Black Monday, but from what Holland was hearing, Black wasn't dark enough a colour. This was huge. It was off the scale. Nobody had seen this coming. Suspicion fell on some South American country that Holland didn't think he had heard of. They were blaming a currency crisis sparked by a civil war, combined with, or perhaps triggering, a Communist upsurge in a neighbouring republic. Holland's head was spinning. He didn't want to know the reasons, he wanted to know the effects. What was this going to do to his investments? The European stock markets were closed, of course, but the early assumptions were that they were going to go the same way. They might as well have announced that the end of the world was nigh. Holland was trembling.
"It's ready, called Mercy from the kitchen. Holland said nothing. "Are you going to come and eat? Mercy had set the table for two. She sat and waited for a minute, expecting Holland to walk through the door. She didn't expect him to be impressed, although she had done a pretty good job. She did expect him to at least come and try it. When he didn't respond she thought she should go and see what he was doing.
She found him transfixed in front of the television, watching a sit-com. "Are you coming to eat? As she approached she noticed him shaking. He was white. "Stock market crash? asked Mercy. Holland turned to look at her. She was smiling. "Great, isn't it? Holland's face spoke for him. His mouth opened and closed. "Come on. Eat something.
"Not hungry. Holland finally forced out some words.
"I think you should eat. You look as if you've had quite a shock.
"Everything.
"What?
"Lost.
"Excuse me?
"Venezuela.
"Yes, I know. Come on.
"Scotch.
"Not on an empty stomach. Come on. Mercy took his hand and pulled him up from his chair and led him through to the kitchen. She sat him down at the kitchen table and put a plate of food in front of him. Mercy sat down opposite him and started to eat. Holland wasn't eating.
"How could you? said Holland, tears welling up in his eyes. He wasn't addressing her, but Mercy didn't know who he was talking to. "After all I've done. Mercy stopped eating and looked at him. She looked at him with an expression of slight amusement. A patronising smile that the sane used with those who they suspected you weren't one of them. One that suggested Mercy was enjoying Holland's show of grief, and didn't feel he was deserving of any sympathy. "I wouldn't expect you to understand, sneered Holland.
"Try me, said Mercy, cheerfully, not the adverb Holland was looking for.
Holland took a breath, then let it out. He realised she didn't mean it. It wasn't worth the effort. Where would he begin? She knew what it meant, and she was enjoying it. "It's only money, she smiled. Holland didn't expect sympathy, but he didn't need her gloating. It made him angry.
"Money, he stated with the certainty of a drunk, "makes the world go round.
"Gravity, said Mercy, shaking her head. "The sun, that's what makes the world go round. The world is still going round. She held up her hands to invite argument. None came. "Life goes on. Money isn't everything.
A sudden revelation seemed to come over Holland. "Shit! You're one of them, aren't you? One of those anti-capitalist green terrorist bastards. Couldn't you have just planted some dope in my bathroom and be done with it? Why did you have to destroy everything? Why this? I hope you're happy now. Holland looked on the verge of getting really angry, but his depression took over again, and he gave up.
"I'm flattered, began Mercy, slightly bemused, "that you could think me capable of bringing down the world's financial markets. But I can assure you, I'm not responsible. I didn't do it.
Holland appeared satisfied with her denial and looked down. He seemed to see the plate in front of him for the first time. He lowered the fork slowly into the pasta and ate a tiny mouthful. He chewed for a long time, and then swallowed heavily. He gathered up a second forkful and put it into his mouth. After he had swallowed this he said, "This is good. Thank you.
"Wine? asked Mercy. She had opened a bottle of red wine and placed it on the table. She didn't wait for an answer before pouring out a glass for each of them. She watched him wash down some pasta with the wine, and said, "There, isn't that better? Holland nodded. The storm had passed, everything was calm again. They ate for a while in silence.
Holland finished eating and sat back. "Thank you, he said, trying hard not to sound too grateful. Mercy just sipped her wine and looked at him. She didn't acknowledge his thanks. If she was waiting for more, it didn't come. "You can leave the dishes, she said, although Holland hadn't considered doing otherwise. "Can we talk now? she asked him.
"I'm tired. He put his head in his hands to illustrate just how tired he was. It had been a stressful evening. "I have to be up early tomorrow.
"I wouldn't bother. You've got nothing to get up for. Unless they repossess your bed. Mercy obviously had a better understanding of the situation than Holland had initially given her credit for. "Take a day off. Everyone will think you've topped yourself.
"No-one would care if I did.
"Now we're getting somewhere. Care to elaborate on that?
"What are you? A shrink?
"We're talking about you.
"You don't look like a psychiatrist.
"No, I look like a prostitute, don't I? But I'm not. You look like a wealthy businessman. But you're not. Anymore.
"Thanks. Is that what you came for? To tell me not to judge books by their covers?
"No need to be sarcastic. I'm only trying to help.
Holland was caught in two minds over whether to pursue the argument or apologise, but was stopped from doing either by the telephone. He reacted too slowly and Mercy got to it first and answered. "It's for you, she said.
Holland sneered. "Were you expecting a call? He took the receiver from Mercy. It was his wife. Mercy stood as near as Holland would let her, but she couldn't make out what Holland's wife was saying. Her voice was either too quiet, or too distorted when she shouted.
"Her name's Mercy. I don't know. She was here when I got in. Sarah. Come on. I know. Don't you think I would make up a better excuse than that? There was a long pause. "Sarah? Wait¦ Sarah. Holland lowered the receiver, but he didn't hang up. "She says she's leaving me. He wasn't looking at Mercy, but had to be speaking to her. "She called me a worthless piece of shit.
"Well, I have to admire her perception. I'm just surprised it took so long.
Holland didn't react. "She's right. I'm worthless. I'm worse than worthless. If I've got anything left after this, she'll take it.
"She's not going to get much.
Holland let a weak smile form on his face. "At least there's that. I'm sure she only stayed with me for the money. I overhear men talking about how their wives do nothing but spend their pay cheques. That's all my wife had. She'd have been unbearable if she didn't have all that money to keep her happy. She seemed to think I needed fucking in return. She never left me alone.
"Maybe she fancied you.
"No, she's been looking for an excuse to leave me for years now. There were always three of us in the relationship. Me, her, and my money. And I know which she loved more. Me, too. It was the perfect love triangle. Money doesn't get jealous.
"Money doesn't have any emotion at all. It amazes me how much emotion people can invest in money and get nothing back. Was it a fulfilling relationship?
"It did me well.
"And now it's over?
"I've still got something to show for it. He looked around the flat and Mercy followed his gaze.
"Not much. And what the bailiffs don't get, your wife will. Holland picked up a small vase and looked at it tenderly. Suddenly he dropped it. Mercy jumped, and Holland smiled. "Are you okay?
"Never better, he said, looking around him. "Let her have that. He was searching for something else to break, but the flat was so sparsely decorated that there was nothing else to hand. Dropping the vase was to be the extent of his destruction.
Mercy led him, shaking, to the sofa. "I think you ought to go to bed now, she told him. "Sleep on it. I'm going to go, but I'll come back in the morning.
"What about work? He sounded like a child who was too ill to go to school.
"You don't have to go to work tomorrow. I'll come and see you in the morning. She rested her hand on his head and watched him close his eyes. She left the flat quietly and headed downstairs. The security guard didn't see her leave, and she skipped down the street. She headed for the river. It was a nice place to take a walk and to reflect on another good night's work. Ninety pounds for that? Easy money.