Дэвид Уоллес - Island of Fog and Death

And then a young woman walked in. Tash’s interest was immediate and intense.

“What is it, Tash?” he asked, without words.

“I don’t know,” Tash answered, inside Gus’s head where nobody else could listen. “Now, I’ve got to say, she is interesting.”

Gus studied the woman as she put Jim Dilby, rather sharply, in his place. She was average height, he supposed, and quite slender. Her skin was olive-toned, not the snow-white of the Anglo-Saxon, and her hair was black and frizzy, and pulled back into a rough pony tail. She was dressed completely in black, and her face and clothes had that crumpled, baggy look of someone who has travelled a long way and is close to exhausted.

“She glows,” said Tash. “I don’t suppose anyone but me can see it, though.”

“No,” replied Gus. “I don’t suppose so. I certainly can’t see anything odd about her.”

They watched as she sat down with the two soldiers.

“Ah, that’s what they were waiting for,” thought Gus.

“You don’t mind,” said the young woman, and sat down opposite the two men. She yanked a clip out of her and ran her fingers through it, making it stand up like an out-of-control Afro. She said nothing else until Maura Dilby had set a mug in front of her, and filled it with coffee. When Maura moved away, she leaned forward. “Morning, boys,” she said softly. “I’m Peri. Did Tommy let you know I was on my way?”

They glanced at each, and then the one she judged was a little older, and probably senior, said, equally softly, “I feel we should saying things like, ‘The geese fly south for the winter’. You know. Some kind of password?”

“How about ‘buckthorn red’?”

“That’s a start,” he said. “We were told you were on your way last night.”

“Jet lag,” she tersely. “I was on my way last night, but I had to stop.”

The other man snorted. “Jet lag, from London to Wales? What’s the time difference, then?”

She held out her wrist, where her watch read 4:20. “That’s home time,” she said. The two laughed. “OK, twenty-four hours ago I was hauled out of bed in the middle of the fucking night in New York, given a quick briefing, a new job, and shoved on a plane to London with a pile of buckthorn homework so I could come here and put up with your so-called wit. I’m shagged out, irritated, disgruntled, out of my depth, fucking annoyed that they gave away my room, irritated, and if that wasn’t bad enough I’ve broken a fucking nail.”

“You said ‘irritated’ twice.”

“I’m twice as irritated. And I can’t stand fucking smart-arses who count things. Right?”

The older of the two grinned broadly. “I think you’ve established your identity. Tommy said to expect a mad woman with crazy hair and a tongue that could strip wallpaper.”

“You got me on a good day. And what do you mean by ‘crazy hair’? That Tommy – he’s nothing but a gangrenous haemorrhoid in the slimy, stinking arse-crack of the fucking universe. He’ll be sorry, believe me.”

“Whew! How much coffee have you had?”

“Not nearly enough. Right. You know who I am, I’m crazy hair woman, also known as Peri Carlton. Who are you?”

“I’m Steve Taylor, and he’s Troy Marks.”

“Not ‘Tempest’? And doesn’t that make your sidekick ‘Phones’?”

Troy groaned. Steve said, “Hang on, isn’t it obvious? He’s the sidekick.”

Peri grinned. “Were your parents big fans of ‘Stingray’ then?”

“Nope. Shakespeare. It’s short for Troilus. But it could have been worse!”

She laughed. “It certainly could. I bet you’re glad it wasn’t Pandarus,”

He laughed in turn. “You know the play, then. I think Thersites would have been worse.”

“Listen, I can sympathise with the problems of growing up with an exotic name. Children can be right little bastards, can’t they?” She pulled her passport out of her bag and handed it across to Troy. His eyes widened.

“Bloody hell, what were your parents thinking?”

“Don’t say it out loud,” she said quickly.

“My lips are sealed, ma’am.”

She turned to Steve. “So. ‘Steve’ is it? Don’t you feel odd having such a mundane name?”

“It might be short for something unbelievably strange. Tell you what, I’ll show you mine if you show me yours.”

She waggled her eyebrows and teasingly started to lift the hem of her tee shirt. She let it drop and stuck out her tongue at him.

“Very elegant,” Steve said, laughing.

“What can I say? I’m a linguist.”

“But are you a cunning one?”

“Enough of this,” said Peri. “What’s new?”

“Ah, Okay,” said Steve. “Nothing much. We’ve been watching the comings and goings. Quite honestly, Tommy wasn’t sure what was going on, so his advice was to wait for you to brief us.”

Peri noted that they now had the room to themselves. She sighed. “Guys, I’m an observer from the United Nations, that’s all. Tommy is your event manager.”

“Really,” Steve looked shocked. “I thought you were…” He looked round and dropped his voice to a whisper. “- one of Tommy’s people. You know, London North.”

Peri leaned in and lowered her voice too. “Between you and me, I’m not with North, I’m not with South. I’m with West. I’m an analyst stroke translator. I don’t do field work. And honest, no kidding, I was asked to check out Chen’s death on behalf of the UN.”

“Well, me and Troy, we’re just guns and muscles. Tommy said you’re here to do the thinking.”

“Then we’re fucked. And I don’t buy that. I’ve worked with Hereford people before, I know that’s not true.”

“Hereford?” Troy looked offended. “Have you seen that big greyish bluish thing out there? That’s called the sea, that is. Hereford don’t like getting their feet wet.”

“All right, I’ve worked with Poole people, yadda, yadda.”

“So, boss, ” said Steve. “What do we do?”

Peri sighed with more than a hint of irritation. “What do we know about what happened to Chen? That’s what us what do the thinking call a rhetorical question, by the way. The answer is that we know close to the square root of sod all. So what would a guns and muscles specialist do to improve our knowledge?”

The looked at her, expectantly.

“That wasn’t rhetorical.”

“Oh, right,” said Troy. “Well, go and look, obviously.”

“Obviously,” said Peri, dryly. “So, first order of business is reconnaissance. When do we get a ferry?”

“Ah,” Steve said. “That’s a more difficult question than you know. Let me see, it must be close to slack water now, and we need a bit of a tidal flow, so I think we need to wait…”

“Fuck! Do I need to know the phases of the bloody moon to get on a boat?” snapped Peri. “What is this fucking ferry – pre-menstrual?”

“…half an hour,” Steve finished. “We can get kitted out…” He made a finger gun and mimed shooting. “… and stroll across to the get the ferry.”

“So you boys have weapons handy, besides your devastating wit, I mean.”

“We not only have guns, we also have muscles,” said Troy with a suggestive leer.

Peri stood. “I’m going to ignore that one,” she said. “Right. I’m popping down to see the village bobby. I’ll meet you by the ferry in half an hour, fully kitted out with my deadly bad temper, and god help anything that gets in my way.” She put her shoulder bag on the table. “Put that in your secure storage. If it gets lost then I get shat on from on high, and we all know which way shit flows. Right. I’m off.” She waved her hand roughly southward as she spoke, then noticed that both men were pointing in the opposite direction. “I knew that,” she grumbled, and headed out the door.