“I need Ids on an address. 8 Jesus Lane. Names and pictures of whoever lives there.” He heard the field support officer typing quickly into their keyboard, searching through databases, cross-referencing the electoral roll, finding the most likely match.
“Sending profiles now. Two girls listed. One medical student, one social anthropologist. House is owned by the University.” the voice on the other end of the phone said.
Ed watched as the first face appeared on his screen. Amanda Marshall, blond hair, laughing. It was her alright.
“Can you send a list of contacts for Amanda Marshall? Immediate family, close friends. Names and addresses. I think she might be about to move out with the target and I want a handle on where they might be going.”
Ed put the phone back in his pocket. He was watching the house intently. Amanda appeared briefly at the first floor window, she grinned, turning towards the shadowy male face behind her, then pulled the curtains shut. Too much of a blur for him to be 100 % positive, but he certainly resembled the photo of Jack. Ed checked his phone, read quickly through the additional data he’d been sent. He didn’t notice the British Gas van that had pulled up and parked on the other side of the road. He didn’t notice that nobody got out, that it had taken up, apparently by chance, the perfect position from which to watch the street. He was too busy reading the data and keeping an eye on his primary target, the house. Even experienced field operatives can make mistakes.
8
“Jack, Jack, where are you? How are you feeling?” Amanda called up the stairs, dropping her keys on the table in the hallway.
“Here,” he replied, “in here.” His voice was echoey, half-strangled by a series of ugly retches. She wrenched open the door, catching sight of him hunched over the toilet. “My God Jack, are you ok?”
“Been better Amanda, been better.” He managed to say, pulling himself slowly to his feet. He leant against the basin, took a deep breath and flushed his half-digested breakfast down the loo. Amanda looked concerned.
“I know that’s not my best side, but there’s no need to look quite so horrified,” he said. Humour. If in doubt make a dumb joke, he thought. Amanda laughed.
“I wasn’t horrified, just concerned you might not be ready for solid food. You’ve been on a drip for three weeks. I should’ve realised. Come here,” she pressed a hand to his forehead, felt his pulse, looked into his eyes. His pale skin had taken on a sepia tinge. Combined with the beard he looked like a 19th century convict. A rugged but not entirely unappealing look, she thought.
“I called my friend at the hospital. They have an old x-ray machine in the research lab. Might be able to run you through it, try and locate whatever’s inside you. See if there’s a way of removing it.” She made a snipping gesture in the air as she spoke. Jack winced. She might be a brilliant trainee surgeon, but she didn’t quite have a handle on the bedside manner yet.
Amanda had examined him before she left to get his clothes, pressing hard on his stomach, feeling the outline of his intestines through the skin, looking for anything that shouldn’t be there. She’d found the lump pretty quickly; it felt like a tumour, but softer. Not visible at the surface of the skin but she had a pretty good idea where it was. She had done her best not to look too incredulous when he told her what he’d seen fall to the floor at Marcon Pharmaceuticals. Privately she thought the drugs they’d used to keep him under and the stress of the situation might have distorted his perception, but she was perfectly willing to concede there was some kind of bio-mechanical implant being tested.
“Have a shower and wash up, I’ll fix you something to drink. Should keep you going for now.” He nodded, surprised at quite how effective she was at organising him, surprised that in this situation he didn’t seem to mind. On any other day of the week he’d have run a mile.
He showered quickly and headed upstairs to her room. He hadn’t bothered to shave, he wanted to get to Amanda’s doctor friend as soon as possible, get the x-ray, find out what was inside of him, and dig it out.
“Hey you, what clothes did you find for me?” He asked, opening the door.
“Just a few things from the cupboard. In the suitcase over there. Here, drink this,” he took the glass she handed him. Tasted like sugary, salty water. Unpleasant. “What is it?” he asked, grimacing.
“Glucose, water, bit of sugar and salt. Don’t be a baby and drink up.”
“Alright, alright. Are you this strict with all your patients?” He replied. “Only if they’re naughty.” She said. He raised his eyebrows, “and if memory serves, Mr. Hartman, you were a very naughty boy,” she smiled innocently and pulled the curtains closed.
Jack got the hint. Despite the tiredness he was still a red-blooded male and Amanda was still an exceptionally enticing proposition. Her clothes quickly discarded on the bedroom floor, the soft light from behind emphasising the discrete pertness of her full breasts, her narrow waist. She stood naked, teasing, head tilted coquettishly to one side, and watched with satisfaction as he stood to attention. A soft giggle, she reached out and touched his excitement, running her hands over its length. “Glad to know you’re pleased to see me,” she said.
Jack grunted and pulled her close, close enough to see her pupils dilate, to feel her breath quicken. Their lips met. His fingertips ran over her back, arched into him, down towards the soft, velvety cleft between her legs. She murmured at his caress. Sap roused, she pushed him away hard, enjoying the surprise in his eyes as he fell backwards onto the bed.
Straddled over his muscular body, she took him in carefully, up to the hilt, fulfilling the deep need inside of her. Three weeks. Three weeks since they’d last been together. She had missed him more than she’d known, been angrier at his unexplained absence than she was prepared to admit. Now she felt that anger assuaged in the thrusting rhythm of his hips. The physical memory of each other’s body flooding back, surging through them. A profound and instinctive pleasure. A shared satisfaction.
Jack watched the dust particles that danced in the light through the curtains, one hand stroking Amanda’s hair.
“Well, I can confirm that one part of you is still in perfect working order,” Amanda said, pulling him close.
“Sure you don’t need to double check?” he asked. She raised her eyebrows.
“As your doctor Jack, I think it advisable you rest, but I will be recommending you resume this course of treatment at least three times a day.” She stretched luxuriously, a subtle red glow in her cheeks.
“Come on, I told my friend we’d be at the lab at Addenbrookes at half ten. Should be a cab waiting.” She got up and pulled on a pair of jeans and an old hooded top. Jack watched, astonished at the way she made even old clothes look casually chic, as if they’d been designed specifically for her.
“That’s odd,” she said, opening the curtains.
“What is?” Jack replied, getting dressed.
“That man, standing there by the phone booth. I’m sure he was there earlier.” Jack shrugged.
“Really? Perhaps you have a secret admirer,” he said, heading downstairs. “Just going to grab myself something else to eat before we leave,” he called out over his shoulder.
His stomach was feeling better, but it wasn’t food he was after. Privately he was worried by what Amanda said. He opened the drawers, careful not to make too much noise. He was looking for a knife. Something easily concealed, practical in a closed fist. One thought still nagged at him, the fear he hadn’t shared, that they’d be after him. Whoever they were, whatever it was they wanted. He needed to be prepared, as prepared as he could be. He found a sturdy-looking kitchen knife with a short blade, wrapped the point in a jay cloth and stuffed it in his sock. A distant memory came back as he did so, childhood fears and the need to fend for himself.