Close protection is about trusting your own paranoia. See something, say something becomes the rule. You let yourself believe the worst can happen because then you’re prepared when it actually does.
I went to the front room, kept myself to the side of the windows. Looked out at the street. Grey BMW. Four men climbing out. Didn’t look like business types. They opened the front gate. I went back to the kitchen, hustled Mary into moving. She did so reluctantly. Not understanding my sudden change in attitude.
‘My coat,’ she said.
‘We’ll get it later,’ I said. ‘Just move …’
The knock came at the front door as I was opening the back. We bolted into the back garden. The space was blocked off, the only way out through the garage or back the way we came.
The second rule of close protection is preparation: always know your space. Always know the exits. I fished the garage keys from my pocket. Found myself wishing I’d taken up Burns on his offer of a weapon.
But what good would that do? Last time I’d used a gun, a man had died. I’d never really got past that, despite my posturing.
The key stuck in the lock. I twisted and rattled. Paused. Took a breath. Turned and clicked.
‘Out the back!’
I didn’t even look round to see how close the voice was. Just shoved Mary in ahead of me, and then locked the door behind us.
The front door of the garage led out into an alley between the houses. Burns’s pride and joy – a restored Bentley with walnut panelling and burnt red bodywork – sat inside the small brick structure, covered up with a white cloth. No keys, of course. The old man wouldn’t trust just anyone with this car.
Only one thing to do. I opened the front door, pulled the roller up. ‘We’re going to run,’ I said. ‘Next door. We’re going to lock ourselves in and we’re going to call someone I know.’
‘Who?’
I had a few ideas.
We dashed down the alley. Way I figured it, the intruders were behind us, in the back yard. It would take them a few moments to work out what we’d done and by then we’d be barricaded in someone else’s house. These guys didn’t want to make a scene or hang around too long. Someone would call the police. Or worse.
I pushed Mary in front, to make sure that I had my eyes on her at all times. She was slow and unsteady. Not just age but fright. I moved just behind her, urging her forward. Conscious of how slow we were; certain that we weren’t fast enough, that at any moment a hand would land on my shoulder, a blade would pierce my kidneys.
I’d been stabbed before. Had the scars to prove it. Not an experience I was eager to repeat.
We made it to the next house down, hammered hard. I shouldered the door when it started to open, pushing aside a man in his fifties. He protested in half-words and syllables that made no sense.
‘Lock the door,’ I told him. He did so, then looked at me with his eyes wide and his jaw dropped.
I ignored his hurt pride, and walked quickly to the rear of the house, pulling out my phone and swapping sim cards.
Susan answered in three rings.
‘Unmarked,’ I said. ‘Safe house. Now.’ I rattled off the address.
‘Just you?’
‘Mary Burns.’
‘Oh, Jesus, Steed. What the fuck have you done?’
‘You’re not the one who’s going to have to explain this to the old man.’
I was through with being somebody else’s pawn.
I was ready to change the rules.