One Fine Day in the Middle of the Night (34 page)

‘I …’ Simone breathed in then out, searching for an honest answer, searching for the truth. ‘I’d
like
to,’ she said.

Matthew nodded. ‘I’d like to as well. I suppose that’s why I came here today. Tryin’ to remind myself of who I used to be and what the road looked like from the startin’ point.’

Tell me about it, she thought.

‘I know you must be thinkin’ what does he need wi’ second chances, he’s the guy who got his dreams, but …’ Matthew closed his eyes again for a second, laughing sadly at himself.

‘I was Mr Nice Guy way back when,’ he said. ‘Always such a good boy at school. I was never
bad
, you know? Never answered back, always worked hard, didnae break the rules. Didnae smoke behind the dinner hall like the bad boys; didnae drink Woodpecker down the swing‐
park. I was pretty quiet, too, really. Too shy, too geeky to get any interest from girls.’

‘Can I dissent here?’

‘Thanks, but you know what I mean. Then bang, just a few years down the line I was suddenly the wean who got the key to the sweetie‐
shop. Fame, notoriety, money, acclaim, women, booze, drugs, whatever you like. But do you know what happens to the wean who gets the key to the sweetie‐
shop? He becomes a fat, bloated, selfish bastard, with his teeth rottin’ oot his head, and he’s always ill because he never gets any decent nourishment. An’ the worst part is that he’s no happier than when he was outside, starin’ in the window at all the things he couldnae have, because at least back then he knew what he wanted – or at least what he thought he wanted.

‘I had all this success, all this money, all this talent, and basically all I did with it was pamper myself. No,
compensate
myself, compensate some fifteen‐
year‐
old for all the things he never got because he had to be a good boy. I used, devoured and discarded, whether it be drink, drugs, friends or women. Especially women. They were all just sweeties in the window. Couldn’t have them back then, so I wanted as many as possible once I had the keys.’

‘In that case, maybe you deserve to come back as me. A sap married to a philanderer. Faithful to a cheat, with an over‐
developed sense of responsibility.’

‘Don’t knock the last part, Simone. I could seriously use some responsibility. I’ve been livin’ in the land of do‐
as‐
you‐
please for so long, I’m surprised nobody else has noticed the fuckin’ donkey ears growin’ oot the top o’ my head. Oot my box every night, pissin’ a fortune up the wall with the good‐
time crowd, so‐
called friends who’re off like an electric hare if your star falls and your money runs oot. But they’re the only friends I can find these days because I’ve alienated all the real ones. And as for my career …’ He laughed bitterly and looked away.

‘I started out tryin’ to be Lenny Bruce – and I was even getting there for a while – then ended up turnin’ into Dennis Leary. I’m supposed to be a comedian and it’s two years since I was on a stage in front of an audience. I’ve been sellin’ cheap notoriety instead, like I’m a Disney‐
animated version of myself. It looks like me, but you don’t have to worry about it sayin’ anythin’ controversial – or funny.’

He turned to look at her again, holding her hand tightly as though afraid she’d abandon him.

‘I blew it, Simone. Totally fuckin’ blew it. I woke up – must have been five, six days ago – on a beach in the Baja California. I couldnae remember who I’d been with the night before, and I mean I couldnae remember their
names
or their faces, even though they’d been the best friends in the world a few hours before. I realised I had nothin’. I mean, yeah, there was still a bank account with a few Gs – well, a lot o’ Gs, actually – to spend on more sweeties, but nothin’ else. No friends, no wife, no “significant other”, no kids – nobody who would miss me if I decided not to be there any more. And that included me. I realised
I
wouldnae miss me, the person I’d become. I hated his guts for what he’d done with my life, and I wanted to kill him for it.’

‘But you didn’t.’

‘No,’ he said with a sad smile. ‘I couldnae – I’m a pacifist.’

‘How close did you come?’ Simone asked.

The smile became that bit more self‐
deprecatory. ‘Probably no’ that close. I will admit that the feelin’ of wantin’ to die might have been somewhat exacerbated by the extent of my hangover. But I knew I didnae want the life I
had
any more, that was for certain. I wasnae ready for a monastery either, right enough. I do like bein’ a comedian. I
miss
bein’ a comedian. I do like gettin’ drunk, too, but I decided maybe once in a while would be spiritually and physically healthier than every night. I also decided I should probably lay off the unregulated pharmaceuticals as well: coke, I have come to realise, was just my version of Woodpecker down the swing‐
park.

‘I went back to LA, gave up the place I was rentin’, plus what was in it. Told the landlord he could keep the stuff or sell it. I decided I was startin’ again from scratch. I flew in yesterday with just the clothes on my back and some spare Ys in my bag. Spent the night in a hotel at Heathrow, then this mornin’ I took the shuttle up to Glasgow and hired a car. I figured if there
was
such a thing as second chances, then this thing tonight was as good a place as any to look for them. Hasnae quite gone to plan so far, but some parts have been no’ bad.’

He gave her hand a squeeze. The platonic, near‐
fraternal gesture felt like an affection between some old married couple who’d been through it all together; their earlier kisses now a mere memory of distant, frivolous youth.

‘I was going to start again tonight too,’ Simone said, Matthew’s silence having denoted that his own confession was over. ‘I was going to tell Gavin I’m leaving him. I wanted a second chance: a chance to find something better than the life I’ve got with him. I felt I deserved it. I felt my daughters deserved it too. Oh God. Rachel and Patricia. Oh Jesus Christ.’

At last the brutal reality that Matthew had found in another man’s blood struck Simone, right to the heart, the womb, the once‐
suckling breast. Maybe it was the sheer impossibility of what was unfolding, maybe it was a psychological self‐
defence mechanism, but either way, the danger to her own life had so far seemed at a remove, almost theoretical. Now she saw Rachel and Patricia bereft: their tears, their pain, their clouded future. That was the moment when the threat became immediate, tangible. That was the moment when the guns in front of her were transformed from mere objects to instruments of murder. But the weirdest part was, it was also the moment when she ceased to feel fear. The need to protect her daughters became paramount, and the desire for
all
of them to have that second chance became something she was prepared to fight for.

To the death.

Simone took hold of the shotgun and got to her feet. The weapon was very similar to the one Timothy Vale had taught her to use at some hellish outdoor event where there was a clay‐
pigeon range. She’d been abandoned by Gavin, as usual, and had put her respectable score that day down less to beginner’s luck than to imagining his face on the flying targets.

‘What you doin’?’ Matthew asked.

‘I’m not prepared to let my twins grow up without a mother. I’ve been outside that sweet‐
shop myself, Matthew, being a good wee girl, behaving myself, lying down and taking all the shit. But now I want the key, and I’d rather die trying to get it than cowering in this bedroom. You say the bad guys don’t know we’re here, right? They think this Booth person’s guarding the place?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Well, if they don’t know we’re here, they’re not gonna miss us if we leave. Let’s see if we can’t get off of this thing, get to shore, raise the alarm.’

‘How?’

‘These guys must have come here on boats, and if so they’ll be moored on the central jetty. We can get down there through the sub‐
levels.’

‘You’re right,’ Matthew said. He pulled his jacket on over his naked shoulders and reached down for the machine gun. ‘Better than waitin’ in here like Vladimir and Estragon. Your gory bed or to victory. Live forever or die in the attempt.’

Simone knelt on one knee and began slotting shells into the breech, picking them from a scattered pile on the carpet in front of her. The barrel rested on her thigh, cool through the fine material of her dress. The physical sensation of it was dulled by more than lycra and nylons, however: there was a numbness blunting all feelings, all emotions. She was way past fear and into a place of cold resolution beyond, where she was already dead but her life was there to be won back if she battled hard enough.

The shotgun had been almost full, only accepting three more cartridges. Simone gathered the spares into a disposable drawstring bag for ‘feminine hygiene items’ that she’d found in the bathroom. She slung the bag around her wrist and stood up again, pumping the shotgun to chamber the first shell.

Matthew slipped a finger around the Uzi’s trigger‐
guard, spare mags bulging his jacket pockets. With his chest bare underneath, he looked like some under‐
developed Chippendale.

‘You all right with this, morally, Mr Pacifist?’ she asked him.

‘Oh, I think all normal morality has been suspended for at least the next hour and a half.’

‘Good. Shall we?’

‘You askin’?’

‘I’m askin’.’

‘Then I’m dancin’.’

Whistling in the dark, laughter in the trenches.

Simone opened the door and out they went.

It was a few moments before Connor could speak. He stood facing the gaping expanse of the room, outraged and incredulous at the bare‐
faced, impudent emptiness of it. He gasped. He spluttered. He snorted. He blinked. He shut his eyes for a few seconds to see whether the disappearance of upwards of fifty people was perhaps merely a trick of the light. He opened them again. It wasn’t. The desertedness proved chronic.

‘—’

‘I mea—’

‘but—‘

‘Kkk—’

He dropped to his knees, feeling the closest he had been to tears since he was twelve. It just wasn’t
fair
. It just wasn’t fucking fair. All his work, all his strategy, his precision, his resolution. It had been going fine, it had been going absolutely bloody fine. Incursion undetected, communication links controlled, hostages taken.
All bloody fine.
Then he turns his back to sort out one other thing, and, and—

‘Oh, fuck,’ he moaned, deflatedly, remembering that Dawson would be back any moment, and would be expecting to find him in possession of
all
the hostages, including Gavin Hutchison. That he was now in control of none whatsoever was something Dawson was unlikely to let by without comment.

Maybe he could just shoot him, Connor thought. Yes. That would be the simplest thing. Blow him away before he could open that smug fucking mouth of his. Or even wait until he’d come out with whatever withering indictment he chose to pass upon poor, pathetic William’s latest failure, then unload a full clip into his face to finally shut him up and, for once, have the last word.

Raising his head, he noticed from his lowered perspective that the bodies of two of his men were lying motionless under the buffet table. They still had their ski‐
masks on, but he didn’t need to see their faces to know who they were – or rather who they weren’t.

Jackson.

All that shit on the boat, and then his hesitancy downstairs in Hotel B when they were spotted by that kid. It all added up. The treacherous swine had turned fifth column on him. Connor looked at the holes expertly drilled in the centre of the two corpses’ foreheads. It was well seeing the bastard’s gun hadn’t ‘jammed’
that
time. The fucking overgrown boy‐
scout had decided to be a hero, had he? Well, in that case, there was a full clip with his name on it too.

‘Unit Leader, come in Unit Leader,’ came a voice from Connor’s radio. He grabbed it hurriedly from his belt, desperate for information.

‘This is Connor,’ he responded. ‘Who’s this?’

‘Harris, sir. Look‐
out team one. I’ve got a vessel leaving the rig, heading south‐
east away from us.

‘One of ours?’

‘Well, the boat isn’t, but I think the driver is. It’s the small motor launch that was moored below, and I’m pretty sure the occupant is Mr Dawson. He’s in fatigues but no mask. I’ve had a decent look at his face through the binoculars and I’m fairly certain it’s him. Is everything still on‐
track, sir?’

Connor stared into space, digesting the news. How very Dawson, he thought, miserably. How bloody quintessentially Dawson. The one time he decides to shoot the bugger rather than listen to his sneering disgust, the self‐
satisfied toss pot communicates it all the more humiliatingly by walking out without a word. He’d even taken the spare boat rather than one of their own dinghies, a gesture that he wanted nothing more to do with them.

Connor looked at his watch, which told him he’d wasted the best part of an hour chasing around upstairs. Dawson had returned to find the embarrassment of the empty ballroom and – again, typical of the pompous prick – decided that retrieving the situation was less worthwhile than taking the opportunity to convey his total disdain for Connor and his set‐
up.

Well, fuck him and fuck Jackson too. Connor still had the bank codes, he still had control of communications, and he still had several hours of darkness. The situation was eminently retrievable, he’d show Dawson. It’s not only about plans and contingencies: it’s about adapting and improvising, and it’s the end result that matters. They’d still get their money and they’d still get away clean to spend it. Then he’d see how superior that stuck‐
up bastard was feeling after being told he could whistle for his share.

‘Sir? Is everything still on‐
track?’ the voice on the radio repeated.

‘Yes, Harris. Everything is still on‐
track. But if you see any more vessels leaving this place, blow them the fuck out of the water.’

‘Yes, sir.’

The situation
was
retrievable, but the game had changed, and tactics were now crucial. Despite talking the rest of them up, Connor knew that, apart from himself, there had been only three soldiers here tonight worthy of the name. Now one had fled, one was dead and the other had become the enemy.