Outcast (The Darkeningstone Series Book 2) (14 page)

Gemma sat back and puffed out her cheeks. “You stick to your guns.”

“But how?”

“That’s up to you. You put your fantastic brain into gear and you come up with something—a new angle. You make it work.”

Cally looked down and shook her head. “I don’t know,” she muttered. “It took me so long to come up with the last idea.” She sighed and rubbed her temples.

“Hey,” Gemma said, drumming the palms of her hands against the table top. “I know what you need. You need a break. Get away from it all.”

Cally looked up at her. “I haven’t got time. Especially now. And I’m shattered.”

“But that’s it,” Gemma insisted. “That’s exactly why you need a break. Get your head out of the books for few hours. Recharge your batteries. And then the answers will come to you.”

Cally tilted her head to one side and studied Gemma’s expression. It was hard not to get caught up in her enthusiasm. “So what are you suggesting—a wild night out?”

Gemma smirked. “Nothing so exciting. It’s just that a few of us are going on a march tomorrow—protesting about the education cutbacks. You could come along if you like.”

Cally pulled a face. “Are you kidding?
Me
, on a protest march?” She laughed, louder than she meant to. But when she saw the smile drop from Gemma’s face, she stopped laughing and bit her bottom lip. “I’m sorry. I’m just tired—like you said.”

“So, why wouldn’t you want to come with us?” Gemma demanded. “Are we not good enough company for you?”

“Oh, don’t say that,” Cally said. “You know I didn’t mean that. It’s just, I’ve never been into student politics.”

Gemma folded her arms. “Yeah. You toe the line. And look where it’s got you. It’s about time you stood up for yourself, and showed them all what you’re made of.”

Cally’s shoulders slumped. She hated to admit it, but Gemma had a point.

“We’ve got to make a stand,” Gemma said. “It’s not just for us, it’s for the next generation of students. If things carry on like this, people like us won’t even be able to afford to come to university in the first place.”

Cally hesitated and looked down at her hands.

“So are you coming tomorrow, or what?” Gemma said.

Cally looked up. “It won’t be violent or anything will it?”

Gemma snorted. “Of course not. It’s a peaceful protest—not a riot.” She smiled. “I dare say we’ll cause a traffic jam or two, and maybe we’ll annoy a few shoppers. But so what? We’ve got to get people to sit up and take notice somehow.”

“OK,” Cally said. “I’ll come along.”

“Great. It’ll get you out the house and get your mind off things. And you’ll be doing some good too.”

“But only for a few hours,” Cally said. “Then I must get back and get some work done.”

Gemma rolled her eyes. “Don’t worry. It’s an early start so you’ll be free by lunchtime.”

“Good. What time?”

“We’re meeting at nine—Northernhay Gardens. I’ll give you a shout about eight if you like.”

“Sure,” Cally said. “Eight.”

Gemma smiled and pushed herself up from her chair. “The dinner must almost be ready.” She crossed the kitchen to the stove and lifted the lid on the pan, picking up a long-handled spoon and giving the bubbling sauce a vigorous stir. “Yeah,” she said. “I’d better get the pasta on.” She busied herself at the counter and Cally took the opportunity to make her excuses and go up to her room.

As she shut her bedroom door behind her, she whispered, “Oh god. What have I done?” But it was too late to back out now. Gemma would never forgive her. Whatever happened in the morning, she’d have to go along with it.

***

In one of the smaller MI-5 offices within Thames House in the heart of London, Andrew yawned and stretched out his arms as wide as his cubicle would allow. The office was quiet today and he was bored. He glanced at the clock on his computer screen. Almost four o’clock. He’d go and get a cup of tea in minute, but in the meantime, he’d better get on with his work. He leaned his elbows on his desk and forced himself to concentrate on the screen. It had been a long day and the lines of the transcript wavered and wobbled each time he moved his head. He tutted to himself as he read. First there’d been a few pages of inane chatter: meaningless drivel about TV shows and pointless arguments over whose turn it was to buy some milk. Then there’d been some long silences. And now, there was all this stuff about some college project or other—what was that all about? It hardly seemed worth bothering with. He blinked and worked his jaw, trying unsuccessfully to stave off a yawn. Since joining the Technical Operations, Analysis and Surveillance Branch, he’d had a succession of low-level assignments: small-time criminal gangs, animal rights activists, that sort of thing. He’d thought those cases were fairly dull, but this was ridiculous. “Perhaps it’s a mistake,” he muttered. It wouldn’t be the first time.

He moved his mouse wheel to scroll down to the case notes at the bottom of the document, and what he saw made him jerk his head back in surprise. This case had been assigned to him by Crawford himself. He was to analyse, summarise and report directly to the section chief in person. “Bloody hell,” Andrew whispered. He’d better get this right. He took a deep breath and scrolled back to the place he’d left off. This time, as he read, he paid considerably more attention, and soon, he found exactly what he was looking for. “Yes,” he hissed. “This will be it.” He turned to his second screen and opened a new document. His fingers flicked quickly over the keyboard as he typed. Keeping his sentences short and to the point, he made it clear that Subject A was to attend a protest rally the following day. There was a clearly stated intention to cause disruption. He paused. Should he say that violence had been mentioned? He sniffed and glanced back over the transcript on his other screen. No. That was going a bit too far beyond the evidence. He resumed typing and made it clear that the protest would probably be peaceful. Even so, the woman’s house was bugged and that wouldn’t have happened without good reason.

Andrew scratched his chin. With his report going straight to Crawford, he’d better show some initiative. He continued typing and recommended they make full use of CCTV along the route, and assign an undercover field agent to monitor Subject A more closely in case she left the march. He paused. What if he was being too cautious? What if the women knew they were being monitored and their whole conversation was a decoy? Andrew let out a loud breath and hit the backspace key. He retyped the last line and this time, he suggested that a watch team be assigned to Subject A. They could pick her up outside her house and follow her from there. That was better. Of course, with resources being increasingly stretched, there was a good chance his recommendations wouldn’t be followed. But that wasn’t his decision. He’d done his part. He gave his report a quick read-through and sent it to the printer. When it came to paperwork, Crawford was distinctly old school; if he couldn’t hold it in his hand, he wouldn’t read it.

Andrew logged off from his workstation and checked his watch. If he walked quickly, he’d have his report on Crawford’s desk within minutes. Andrew smiled. This could be a great chance for his hard work to be noticed. A chance for him to be noticed. He grabbed the sheet of paper as it fed out from the printer, then, smiling to himself, he headed for the door.

Chapter 12

2014

TOM LAID HIS CHEESE SANDWICH ASIDE and leaned his elbows on the table. He sighed heavily and closed his eyes. “What a morning,” he moaned, and immediately felt self-conscious. He opened his eyes and scanned the staff room, checking it was still empty apart from him. Everyone else had finished their lunch ages ago. He checked his watch. He’d better be getting back to work. He had reports to write and they’d never been his strong point. He picked up his mug of coffee. It was almost empty, though he couldn’t recall drinking any of it. He swilled the dregs around the mug three times then raised the mug to his lips and swallowed the coffee in one go. It was lukewarm and bitter. His stomach gurgled and a belch brought the unpleasant taste of acid to his mouth.
Oh man
,
how many coffees have I had this morning?
He shook his head. Was it four or five? Whatever. It was too damned many. Especially when he wasn’t supposed to have too much caffeine. It gave him headaches and it stopped him sleeping.
Not a chance
, he thought bitterly. After the horrendous time he’d had last night, he’d have no trouble sleeping tonight. He’d be out like a light as soon as his head hit the pillow. He shook his head, muttering under his breath, “Out like a light.”

The staffroom door opened and Mr. Cox, the detention centre’s director, swept into the room. Tom sat up straight.
Here we go
, he thought. The director didn’t venture into the staffroom often, and when he did, it was usually to foist an extra task on some poor devil. Tom glanced around the room quickly, though he knew there was no one else to take the flak, and when he looked back at the director, his last hope faded. It was clear from Cox’s cold smile that he’d already found just the man he was looking for.

“Tom,” the director said. “Glad I’ve tracked you down at last.”

Tom managed a weak smile. Mr. Cox liked people to call him by his first name, but suddenly, Tom couldn’t for the life of him remember what the man’s first name actually was. “I was just finishing my lunch,” he said. He started to rise from his chair. “I’d better get back to—”

But the director held up a hand to stop him. “No need for that.”

“But, my reports—I’m a bit behind and I thought…” But when he caught the director’s eye, he knew there was no point in finishing his sentence.

“I need a word, Tom. In my office.”

Tom nodded. “Of course.” The director turned and strode down the corridor and Tom followed, trying desperately to get his thoughts in order.

The director stopped outside his door and tapped a code into the keypad. He gave Tom the briefest of smiles then led the way into the room. As he swung himself into his seat, he gestured to the chairs on the opposite side of the desk. “Have a seat, Tom.”

Tom sat. He tried not to perch on the edge of the seat, but he couldn’t just relax back into the chair either. He fidgeted then settled for sitting upright, his hands in his lap. He looked nervously around the room, but he didn’t take anything in. All he could think of was what the director
hadn’t
said, such as, “Nothing to worry about,” or “This will only take a minute.”

The director put his hands together on the table in front of him and crossed his fingers. He looked down for a moment then raised his head and looked Tom in the eye. “Tom,” he said, “how do
you
think everything’s going?”

Oh hell
, Tom thought. Now he
knew
he was in trouble. He swallowed. “Erm, fine. I think so anyway. Fine.”

The director looked doubtful. “Are you sure about that? I mean—and don’t take this the wrong way—but you look dreadful.”

“Oh, it’s nothing,” Tom said. “I just had a bit of trouble sleeping last night. That’s all.”

The director didn’t take his eyes off him. He reached out with his right hand and slid a sheet of paper across the desk, lining it up perfectly in front of him. “Yes. That might explain it. Have you had a lot of sleepless nights lately? Stress?”

“No,” Tom said, “it was just the one night. I’ll be right as rain in the morning.”

“Hmm. I’m not sure. Is there something you’re not telling me?”

Images of the blue Renault flared across Tom’s vision: the pale-faced man behind the wheel; the baseball bat crashing down onto the metal; his own half-dressed sprint down the street in the middle of the night. Sitting here in the director’s neat office, the whole episode seemed completely surreal. The idea of confessing everything was ridiculous but clearly the director was expecting something from him. Tom moved his lips wordlessly, and in the heavy silence, his blood roared in his ears. He stared at the director. “No,” he said. “Nothing.” He sat back and folded his arms, then unfolded them. He took a breath, hesitated. “Look, if it’s about the car—”

But the director was frowning. “Car? What car do you mean?”

Tom froze in mid-sentence, his mouth hanging open.
He doesn’t know
. Tom’s mind raced. What was he doing? He’d almost blurted the whole thing out. “It doesn’t matter,” he said. “Sorry. I was just a bit confused about…” He glanced down at the sheet of paper on the director’s desk. “What did you want to see me about? Was it something urgent? It’s just, like I said, I’ve got a lot of reports to write.”

The director raised his left eyebrow. “OK, Tom, I’ll get to the point. There’s been a complaint.”

Tom tilted his head to one side. “About one of the lads?” He tutted under his breath. “Was it Steve? What’s he done this time?”

“I’m sorry, I’m not being clear,” the director said. He paused. “The complaint is about you.”

Tom stared at the director. “About me?”

“I’m afraid so. It’s probably just a mischievous allegation.”

The blood drained from Tom’s face. “Allegation? Of what?”

“As I said, it’s probably just someone stirring up trouble. But we’ve got to investigate it—you know that.”