James Craig - What Dies Inside

‘Dom!’

‘Coming!’ Dom put a hand on Carlyle’s shoulder as he ushered him out of the living room. ‘By the way, want any blow?’

‘Nah.’ Dope simply wasn’t his thing. ‘Got any speed?’

‘Sure thing.’ Dom turned on his heels and disappeared back down the hall. ‘Gimme a sec.’ Moments later, he returned holding a small wrap of paper that looked like it had been ripped from a schoolboy’s exercise book. In his other hand, Carlyle couldn’t help but notice, was a packet of three condoms.

Dom handed him the wrap. ‘There you go — half a gram. That should be enough to get you through the rest of the weekend.’

Or the next week at work, Carlyle thought. ‘Thanks.’ He slipped the amphetamine sulphate into the front pocket of his jeans. ‘How much do I owe you?’

‘Don’t be daft,’ Dom chuckled. ‘Now go on, get out of here.’

Whatever was the world coming to when you were being dragged into the office on a Sunday morning? After a most agreeable night on the tiles with Ryder, Flyte and Marchmain, Palmer had only slipped into bed just after two. What seemed like mere minutes later, he was being shaken awake by his mother and told he had to get up. The old biddy hadn’t even brought him a cup of tea. She seemed to take a malicious pleasure in her son being called into Gower Street at the weekend. You’d better watch it mummy, he thought grimly, closing his eyes for a moment, or you could go the way of. . well, the others.

Palmer felt a hand on his shoulder, shaking him awake. ‘Were you sleeping?’

Yawning, he opened his eyes and blinked. ‘No, no.’

‘You are?’

‘Er. .’ Slowly he focused on the stern-looking woman sitting behind the Commander’s desk. She was maybe in her late thirties, wearing a Harris tweed jacket over a white blouse, with black hair pulled back into a ponytail. Her cheekbones were striking, but not as striking as her dark green eyes, which drilled into him with a mixture of suspicion and irritation. ‘Palmer — Martin Palmer.’

The faintest of smiles crept across her lips. The youngster noted the ruby lipstick with approval. As of right now, she wasn’t his type. But in, say, thirty years, who could tell? ‘Ah, yes, Mr Palmer.’ Flipping open a thin file on the desk, she dropped her gaze to the pages inside.

Clasping his hands in his lap, Palmer looked around the room. Nothing seemed to have changed since his last visit, other than the fact that the picture-frame with the stupid quote had gone. And the person behind the desk had changed. ‘Where is Commander Sorensen?’ he asked.

‘Reassigned.’

‘I see.’

The woman looked up from the papers and gave the novice spy a hard look. ‘I am his replacement. Commander Camilla Brewster.’

‘Nice to meet you, sir. . er, ma’am.’

‘I’m not one to beat around the bush, Palmer. Tim has paid the price for the recent shocking failures in this department.’

Tim? ‘I see,’ Palmer repeated. She had his full attention now.

The hard look was replaced by a malicious grin. ‘As I understand it, he has been sent to the Falkland Islands as a Liaison Officer to the Governor.’

Good God! ‘The Falklands?’

Brewster nodded. ‘This is the 1980s. We have to become a performance-driven organisation and the penalties for failure can be very severe indeed.’

‘I’m sure,’ he gulped.

‘According to the latest lists,’ she continued, ‘there are a number of other posts in Port Stanley still to be filled. And after recent events, more redeployments are, frankly, inevitable.’

He was about to mumble another ‘I see’, but managed to stop himself just in time. Taking a deep breath, he tried to compose himself. ‘Gerry Durkan.’

‘What about him?’ Brewster frowned.

‘He is — was my asset. While I am actively looking to recover him for the, er. . benefit of the department, the opportunities for a move abroad must be quite limited.’

‘I’ll be the judge of that,’ Brewster said tightly. Closing the folder, she sat back in her chair. ‘But tell me how your search for Durkan is going.’

‘Yes, well-’

‘In particular, I would be extremely grateful if you could explain to me exactly how Gerry Durkan managed to shoot dead a member of Special Branch using your weapon?’

Bruised by his encounter with his new boss, Palmer retreated across the road to the Brideshead cafe. Relieved to find it open on a Sunday morning, he promptly ordered a full English breakfast, toast and a mug of builder’s tea. The toast had just arrived when Freddie Flyte appeared, as if from nowhere, and slid into the booth beside him.

‘How did it go with the wicked witch of the west?’ he whispered, keeping his voice low even though there were no other customers in the place.

Original moniker , Palmer thought morosely, licking a glob of margarine from his toast and nibbling daintily at a crust. ‘Wicked witch of the west?’ he grunted. ‘Is she from Fulham then?’

‘No idea,’ Flyte replied, clearly bemused. ‘That’s just what they’re calling her.’

‘I see,’ Palmer replied, eyeing the kitchen impatiently.

‘So,’ Flyte persisted, ‘how did it go?’

Palmer looked at his colleague suspiciously. Short and thin, he was too small for the Savile Row suit that enclosed his puny frame like a shroud. With a weak chin, small mouth and eyes that were too large for his face, Palmer had often wondered if he might not be somehow the bastard offspring of Marty Feldman. His hairline was rapidly receding, even though he had just turned twenty-three the month before. His only redeeming quality was that his actual father owned half of Gloucestershire. The good half, apparently, if there was such a thing.

‘Well?’

Palmer sighed. ‘It was fine.’ He hoped that was true. Brewster had seemed to accept his fictitious account of how Durkan had relieved him of the Browning, which he had written up in a report, leaving out any mention of Rose Murray and her pepper spray. There had been no reference to Hilda Blair in the discussion. Looking ahead, Palmer was reasonably confident that he would not be reassigned while Gerry Durkan was still in the wind. Hopefully, by the time the little Irish shit was caught, all the job vacancies in the South Atlantic would be well and truly filled.

Flyte checked over his shoulder before lowering his voice still further. ‘Did Brewster mention the Falklands?’

Palmer frowned. ‘No, not that I recall,’ he lied. ‘We were talking about Durkan. Why?’

‘Well,’ Flyte’s voice was now so low that Palmer had to strain to hear, ‘the word is that people are being sent down there on some kind of special assignment.’

‘That could be interesting.’

‘Are you kidding?’ Flyte spluttered. ‘It’s a total hole. Nothing to do — no clubs. .’

Only the Penguin fucking Society, Palmer mused. He glanced again towards the kitchen, annoyed to see no evidence of any frantic activity going on. He could feel his blood-sugar levels plummeting with every passing second. Where was his fucking breakfast? ‘Did you want something, Freddie?’

‘Ah, yes, right.’ Rummaging around in his jacket, Flyte pulled out a scrap of paper and placed it on the table. Palmer looked at it but didn’t pick it up.

‘What is this?’

‘You know that illegal tap you got us to run on Rose Murray’s phone?’

‘No, no, no,’ Palmer wagged a finger at his colleague, ‘not illegal .’

Flyte looked confused. ‘So you got a warrant then?’

Gritting his teeth, Palmer resisted the temptation to reach across and throttle the pedantic little shit. He was a spy, for God’s sake! Working on the streets; keeping them safe for ordinary, law-abiding citizens. The day he had to go and beg a judge to be allowed to listen to some damn terrorist bitch’s phone calls was the day that the job ceased to be worth a fig. ‘What have you got?’