James Craig - What Dies Inside

Flat 113 was at the end of a long, dingy corridor that smelled only marginally better than the lobby downstairs. Contemplating the flimsy-looking door, Palmer considered the options. He had yet to be sent on the MI5 lock-picking course — it was in his diary for later in the year, sandwiched between a session entitled An Introduction to Phone-Tapping and a residential course on communication skills.

Now is no time for subtlety , he told himself. Looking around, he determined to his own satisfaction that no one was watching, before giving the door a swift kick with the polished toe of his Foster amp; Son boot. The door buckled slightly, but did not give way. After another quick glance down the corridor, Palmer gave it another kick, harder this time, grunting with the effort. This time, there was the satisfying sound of the lock splintering and the door flew open.

Stepping inside, Palmer found himself in an open plan living room with a small kitchen behind a breakfast bar in the far corner. Closing the broken front door carefully behind him, he took a cautious sniff and was pleased to discover that the air in here was relatively breathable. Indeed, the flat looked tidy and well cared for, if a little shabby. A poster for the Yul Brynner sci-fi movie Westworld had been taped to the far wall, next to a calendar that was still showing the dates for June. ‘A woman’s loving touch,’ Palmer mused aloud as he clocked a small bunch of flowers in a glass vase sitting on the coffee table. ‘Nice.’

Then he set about tossing the place.

Forty minutes later, there was precisely nothing to show for his efforts, other than a couple of small joints, some green pills secured in plastic wrap and a pair of soiled grey panties, all of which had been placed in his pocket for closer inspection at a later date. Stalking into the kitchen, Palmer opened the fridge and looked inside. Disappointed to find nothing to eat other than a Vesta boil-in-the-bag chicken curry, he helped himself to a can of Coke from the top shelf and shut the door.

Opening the can, the spook took a noisy slurp of cola, swallowed and let out a satisfied burp. Perching on a stool next to the breakfast bar, he considered his position. Time was running out in his search for Gerry Durkan and, so far, he had made precisely zero progress. A mood of self-pity overtook him as he let his gaze flit around the room. Stuck to the fridge door was a takeaway menu, a shopping list and a blurred photo of Murray and a guy who could have been Durkan laughing in a pub. In short, nothing that was going to get him very far. Wondering what to do next, Palmer finished his drink. Crushing the can in his hand, he dropped it into a bin under the sink and headed for the front door.

Just as he was about to reach for the handle, Palmer heard someone cursing in the hallway outside. Before he could react, the door flew open and smacked him in the face.

‘Ow!’ Holding his mouth, the agent stumbled backwards, to be confronted by an angry-looking woman waving something in her hand.

‘You fucker!’ By the time he recognised Rose Murray she was advancing towards him, arm outstretched. The next thing he knew, he was hit full blast in the face by a stinging spray.

‘Argh!’ Palmer tried to cover his tearing eyes and his mouth, but it was too late. The pain was intense, the acute burning sensation on his skin and the choking in his throat forcing him to his knees, making it easier for her to put him down properly with a smart blow to the head.

Forcing himself into a sitting position, Martin Palmer gingerly edged himself away from the pool of slowly congealing vomit on the floor beside him and waited for his head to clear. The smell was terrible, but he wasn’t quite ready to stand up yet. Instead, he concentrated on focusing on the tired-looking man sitting in an oversized armchair in a corner of the room. Wearing a pair of tatty jeans and a brown leather jacket over a khaki T-shirt, he dangled a leg over one arm of the chair, a Puma suede trainer hovering just above the carpet. Sporting a couple of days’ worth of stubble on his sharp chin, he was nursing a can of Harp Lager, an unlit cigarette dangling from his lips.

‘You better clear that up,’ Gerry Durkan grinned, his dark eyes sparkling with glee as he gestured towards the pool of sick, ‘or Rose will be really pissed off with you.’

‘She seemed pissed off enough already,’ Palmer grumbled, trying to ignore the sour taste in his mouth. He looked around nervously. ‘Where is she, by the way?’

‘Don’t worry,’ Durkan laughed, ‘she’s gone out.’

Thank God for that. Palmer relaxed slightly.

‘It was just as well I turned up when I did.’ Dropping the cigarette on to the coffee table, Durkan took a mouthful of lager. ‘God knows what Rose might have done while you were out for the count. You could have woken up with your balls in your mouth and your dick up your arse.’

Palmer shuddered at the thought. ‘What the hell did she use on me?’

‘Pepper spray,’ Durkan explained. ‘She thought you were a burglar.’

‘But that’s illegal!’ Palmer protested, recalling what he’d learned in Gower Street about the Firearms Act of 1968 which banned ‘any weapon of whatever description designed or adapted for the discharge of any noxious liquid, gas or other thing’. The only reason it had stuck in his porous mind was that there had been a demonstration of a pepper spray in action. Palmer had known better than to volunteer to take part and had been rewarded with the sight of Marchmain taking a shot in the face and rolling around on the floor, wailing like a baby.

‘Illegal, but very effective,’ Durkan said. ‘We got sent a job lot by sympathisers in Boston last year.’

We meaning the IRA.

‘Very handy little weapon,’ he concluded.

‘Not very clever if you get caught carrying one,’ Palmer groused, edging further away from the mess he had created.

Durkan gestured at the four walls surrounding them. ‘In this place you need all the protection you can get. The people in here are animals,’ he shook his head, disgusted, ‘complete and utter animals. Rose has been robbed three times in the last year alone. The stuff you find on the stairs. . it’s beyond belief. You people should spend your time sorting out the shite on your own doorstep, rather than trying to keep us under the cosh.’

‘Spare me the political sermon, Gerry, I’m not in the mood.’ Slowly, carefully, Palmer forced himself to his feet and tottered over to the stool by the breakfast bar.

‘You’ll find some cleaning equipment in one of those cupboards,’ Durkan said helpfully.

‘You’ve got to be kidding,’ said Palmer with the righteous tone of a man who had never done any domestic chores in his life.

Reaching into the pocket of his jacket, Durkan pulled out the spook’s semi-automatic and placed it on the coffee table. ‘I think you’d better get on with it. If Rose comes back and finds you still here, you might not get out alive.’

‘Fucking bitch,’ Palmer mumbled under his breath.

‘Apart from anything else,’ Durkan grinned, ‘she wasn’t very impressed about you stealing her dirty panties, you little pervert.’

Palmer patted his pockets. Empty.

‘She wasn’t for letting you keep them.’

‘Fair enough.’ Palmer shrugged.

‘But I was wondering. .’

‘Yes?’

‘Where did the other pair of knickers come from? Do you go round stealing women’s underwear to wank off in?’

The other pair? It took Palmer a second to recall the soiled undergarments that he had torn from the battered, lifeless body of Hilda Blair.

‘Don’t worry,’ the Irishman laughed. ‘Your sordid little secret is safe with me.’