David E Balaam - Nothing Is Sacrosanct

Marcus was suddenly awake. Adrenaline pounded through his veins - survival instincts kicking in, just as he had been trained by MI5. “Slip it under the door,” he whispered. Marcus knew that Barbara was the only person in the world who knew where he was, and the name he used. “I need a signature, sir.” Came the whispered reply. Marcus silently reached for his holdall and grasped the cattle-prod, hoping the batteries had not run-out.

“OK, just a second,” Marcus replied, as casually as he could in a life-threatening situation. Marcus turned the key in the latch with his right hand, then the door handle. Kershaw burst in with all his strength as soon as he saw the door move an inch, pinning his prey behind the door.

Marcus's left arm was aloft with the cattle-prod and came down swiftly onto Kershaw's right hand causing him to drop the gun he was holding. Kershaw squealed in agony as Marcus grabbed his arm and dragged him into the bedroom, closing the door as quickly as possible, before kicking the weapon across the room.

Kershaw's next mistake was to turn towards Marcus, clutching his arm which was throbbing with an electrifying pain. With one direct fist to the chin, Kershaw collapsed onto the floor. He woke to find he was gagged, and tied to the bed, with no sign of Marcus. Kershaw struggled with his bindings to no avail and eventually collapsed back on the pillow wondering his fate. As soon as Marcus had secured Kershaw he had wiped the room of fingerprints and packed his overnight case, toiletries and holdall. Satisfied everything had been removed and cleaned, he switched off the lights and closed the door behind him, leaving a Do Not Disturb sign hanging on the door handle.

On the M1 motorway, Marcus stopped at the Watford Gap service station and made a quick telephone call. “Dyke, there is a package for you in room 305 Best Western Hotel, Dunstall, Wolverhampton.” He had considered killing Kershaw but preferred him now to serve his sentence, probably now without remission which gave Marcus some satisfaction. He realised too they had not exchanged one word. Perhaps that was for the good, he thought. A conversation could have led to raised voices and the outcome would have been a lot different. He sat in his car pondering the night's events, wondering if Kershaw's intervention would have any long-term consequences on his dealings with Searle. He was sure Dyke would not document his name regarding the tip-off, and the hotel did not have his real name - he drove south earlier than intended, but happy in the knowledge that he had not left any incriminating evidence.

*

From the Watford Gap service area, Marcus headed south on the A5, working his way eastwards and then south. It took him just over four hours to reach Tunbridge Wells, stopping once more for petrol and coffee.

He parked two streets away from his destination and finally knocked on the front door of the secluded terrace house at eight-fifteen. Simone opened the door gingerly. “You look awful,” she said truthfully, and pulled him into her arms, closing the door before the neighbours spotted her visitor.

Marcus slept until early afternoon. “Hello,” Simone said, as he entered the cosy kitchen/diner area. “Hungry?”

“Starving, actually,” he said, kissing Simone on the cheek as if they were in a domestic husband and wife scenario. Simone knew better than to ask probing questions. She sat and watched him eat, reading the newspaper as he did. “Anything in here I should be looking for?” she asked, hesitantly, looking over the top of the tabloid. Marcus looked at her and frowned. “Why should there be?” he asked, finishing his brunch. Simone had no idea why Marcus had visited her at short notice, although his visit was a welcome diversion from her mundane life. Since leaving Chaucer's Boarding School for Girls, Simone had survived teaching French privately, and some translation work for a London publisher. Truth was, however, her life was a contradiction. She had embraced free love and sensual pleasures with both men and women, but she had never had a long-lasting meaningful relationship, with either sex. She was, if she had to admit it, jealous of Barbara, her one-time student, now living with a man more her age; a man whom she could commit to and devote her life to.

“Sorry, Marcus, just joking with you.” Simone folded the paper and sipped her coffee. “That's the problem, is it not, with us, Marcus, being European?” Marcus looked confused. “What problem?” he asked with interest.

“Us . . . me . . . you . . . being foreigners here in England. I have been here for nearly twenty years, Marcus, and I still yearn to return to France. I have never felt at home here. Don't you feel the same, coming from Austria?” Simone asked, hoping she could get closer to this mysterious man.

Marcus thought of Simone as intelligent, charming and sensual, and without inhabitations. So what was worrying her? “I don't understand, Simone. I thought you were happy here. Why all this talk of returning to France.” Simone shook her head and forced a smile. “You and Barbara have a wonderful relationship, and I suppose I am looking for my Marcus , but I have left it too late.”

She stood to turn, not wanting Marcus to see her cry, but the sobbing could not be hidden. Marcus stood behind her holding her shoulders. “You could always come and live with us if you wanted to,” he said, sincerely. Simone turned to face him but looked down, blinking away a tear. “ Je suis juste être stupide .”

Marcus tipped her chin upwards to look into her watery eyes. “No, you are not. I mean what I said. At least think about it, please. Besides, Barbara needs taking in hand, sometimes.” Simone choked a laugh. “She does not,” she said, playfully slapping his arm, then hugging him tightly. “Thank you, Marcus. I will think about it,” she said sounding brighter, moving her arms around his neck, pulling him down to her moist and needy mouth, knowing she could never share him, with anyone.

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