Ax was cooking when the T.V report came on. They normally watched the news, not because there was anything interesting, or real, but just so there was something to fill the silence. He knew there was something wrong with this silence but he did not know how to deal with it, or even if he wanted to. But he did want this meal to be perfect. Not because of Lucy. Although it was for her, too. Rather, it was for the pleasure of creating things, beautiful things that would later be enjoyed, eaten and washed down with a superb bottle of red wine. It was something he was working on. A simple pleasure, so different from killing people. The endless hours of watching and waiting before pulling the trigger or pushing the switch. He wanted this meal to be perfect after the endless hours of thought and preparation, the different kind of waiting and by God it would be! Spaghetti Vongolé, lots of garlic and Parmesan cheese! Italian perfection splashed with vodka burnt off at the last minute. A pleasure he would share with his Lucy. He reached over to a bowl and grabbed some mushrooms for chopping into slices. The sharp knife felt at home in his hand as he chopped. He did not know who he was anymore.
Lucy was chopping next to him while they watched Channel 4 on the little T.V. in the kitchen. It was the scale of the damage that alerted Ax. You could see it even on this tiny T.V. This, he knew, was not something the international world would, or could, ignore. Shit.
Lucy stopped chopping tomatoes. She was making a salad. She put her hand to her mouth. “Oh, God,” she said. She kept her hand over her mouth as she turned to face Ax. Ax half turned and looked at the woman in his life. She looked shocked, her eyes large and wide. She was still so affected by world events. Ax shook his head and told himself he felt nothing, he had seen far worse. He had stopped feeling things years ago, or so he thought. But Lucy reminded him of what it was to be human and that was part of why he loved her. She was his unexpected surprise, beautiful inside and out. But not today. Today she looked like someone who had just been told that over 2000 people were
dead in a bomb attack by terrorists in central London. Her face was a white mask, a living question and statement of horror, of disbelief.
Ax turned away from her face and back to the T.V. He shook his head, felt that anger again. At the unfairness of it all. Why was the world so unfair? His eyes crunched up as he pursed his lips into a thin line. The little people always suffered. The rich and powerful always got away free.
Lucy leaned in and turned up the volume.
It was a massive explosion, they said. Experts thought there were at least three, massive bombs used. This one in St. Pancreas station in London. Latest estimates said at least two thousand had died immediately and perhaps as many as four thousand injured. Everyone in the station at the time had been killed, so large were the bombs. Everyone. Women. Children. Everyone. It was like Omagh all over again, said one English commentator, but this time? With English lives.
Lucy jumped as the phone rang and even Ax’s heart jumped into his mouth. He bunched his fingers into fists as he let the knife fall onto the chopping board. He clenched his teeth, looked down, then lifted his head and walked to the phone.
He picked up the receiver and put it to his ear but he did not speak. “You’ll have seen the news?” A female voice he recognized immediately. “Yes, not my problem.”
“Oh, I think I disagree. We all think it is your problem, and we really would like you to visit us, soon.” The voice was cold. No humour. No life. Just like her, he thought.
“Really? That was quick,” said Ax, a bitter half-smile on his face. She had basically just told him they knew, or thought they knew, who had been responsible for the bombings and that it was related to something he had done in the past. His line was not secure so she was limited in what she could say. It even quickly crossed his mind to ask how the fuck they had this number, but, well, they could always get what they wanted, so he did not.
“Yes, really,” said Anne. She was a very, very powerful woman, and one not to be trifled with. Anne Pembleton was the head of MI6 in London, England.
“Anyone I know?”, he said.
“Don’t get smart, Rain. This one is your fucking fault, so don’t get fucking smart. We need you here, a.s.a.p. We don’t think you have a choice. Just get here as soon as you can. This is about you. You killed the kid. Now they want you. “
Silence. Then.
Ax’s thoughts were racing through his head. “They want me?” he thought? Who are they? Him? He looked over at Lucy. She was just standing there. Listening to every word he said, her arms folded across her chest.
“I told you. I’m out. Get someone else.”
Ax put the phone down. Lucy was watching him carefully.
“Fuck,” he said.
“Who was that?” she asked. It was the way she asked it. Not like “who was that,” question. It was “who was that?” as if she knew.
Nothing, he said.
“But, you knew who that was,” said Lucy.
“Wrong number,” he said. I was a lie and she knew it. Fuck.
He turned and walked out of the kitchen. He needed space, needed time. He walked out the door. It banged shut behind him. He needed to think. And maybe he needed a drink, he thought. He knew, deep down he knew he would have to go to London.
In the back of his mind was what on earth he would have to tell Lucy. Lucy still had her arms folded as she stared at the door.
Anne Pembleton sat back in her office chair and offered tea. She was tired and not looking forward to the discussions that would follow. She did not like any of the men here. They were full of themselves and their power. Anne sighed a deep sigh. She knew they all despised women, despised her and her power but she needed them to agree to the second part of her plan. She needed Ax to be involved, to be captured and killed. She needed their money, their influence. She needed their power. She needed the people and forces they would mobilize. She needed them to approve of her plan. Yes. She needed them to get what she wanted. So she smiled at them. They were greedy. All of them. That is why her plan would work. It had to work. Soon she would soon be free, free of it all, free of them and she would never need to see any of them again. Ever.
They were all high-profile people. None of them should have been here. None of them could be seen here, and certainly not together. All had entered the building at different times by a hidden entrance at the back. Any chance sighting would be put down to coincidence and the sheeple would eat their grass and bleat. Their “newspapers” would feed them more grass. They would eat it and forget.