On the eighth day, it amazed Astrid to receive another visitor. It was far too soon for her transportation, and from the sound of the footsteps coming down the corridor, it wasn’t Laurel. These feet were heavy and laboured, with a lopsided gait indicating someone at least two stone overweight.
As her unknown guest approached the door, a violent cough spurted from their lungs, showering the outside of the cell with what Astrid imagined were the contents of the Agency’s poorly provided canteen. They paused and sputtered for a minute with another violent expulsion from their chest. She recognised the sounds of a lifetime of heavy smoking all too familiar from her childhood. Added to the weight, it meant whoever walked through the door would be close to a heart attack.
The security clicked and the door swung open. Astrid lay on the bed, her bare feet touching the aged metal at the bottom. The room had become uncomfortably warm in the middle of the night, so she’d kicked the skimpy sheet onto the floor. Astrid was naked and peered at the emptiness of the ceiling. For two days, she’d contemplated how to reach the top of the cell and sketch something there. The pristine whiteness of the surface annoyed her.
He coughed again, his brooding presence cumbersome next to the bed, his cheap aftershave and deodorant doing a lousy job of covering his natural aroma.
‘You should put some clothes on, Snow.’
The words spluttered from his mouth, sending an enormous chunk of phlegm onto the floor. Astrid was unimpressed.
‘Make sure you clean that up before you leave.’
‘I don’t take orders from you, Snow.’ He didn’t bother with Agency formalities, the words falling out of his mouth like the dead scrambling from their graves, his breath reminiscent of fresh cadavers. She kept her eyes closed, imagining what to create on that ceiling. It would be her Sistine Chapel. ‘Get up.’
It wasn’t a shout, but he didn’t hide the aggression in his voice, two words heavy with anger. She wondered if the Agency had changed its techniques and inserted something new into a system that had worked so well.
She opened her eyes, body rooted in the bed, and turned to where he stood. He wore a faded black suit with food stains down one side, his legs trembling, his body reacting against the short physical activity he’d put it through. She didn’t need to look at him to know he had to be an Agency desk jockey, somebody with years of service, unhappy or resentful to be off active duty. Which meant it was somebody she knew.
Astrid rubbed her cheeks. ‘Did you bring a bottle of wine with you?’
‘I said, get up.’
She didn’t recognise the voice shredded through nicotine-scarred lungs. Astrid slid down the bed, enjoying the power in her chest and legs, strengthened by her new exercise regime, feeling happier than she should. She wished there’d been the luxury of a full-length mirror in the room. When she was younger, Astrid’s parents had taken great pleasure in reminding her how unhappy they were with their younger daughter.
Why can’t you be more like Courtney? What’s that muck on your face? Don’t twist your body so much.
They told her she had a horrible physique, and nobody would ever like her.
No man will kiss something so ugly. Who would want you as a wife?
Astrid believed their words, for how would anyone love you if your parents couldn’t? She spent years avoiding her appearance, covering up mirrors and turning away from anything with a reflection. Only when Astrid was free from home and living on the streets did she regain her self-confidence.
She got off the bed and ignored him, contemplating whether to stay naked and embarrass him, or use her apparent vulnerability for manipulation. One thing she’d learnt before joining the Agency was putting people off balance always helped her. As she considered this, the room's temperature dropped, forcing her to grab her top and trousers and get dressed.
Astrid didn’t recognise him, a tall man, about six feet four, with a bulk of muscle and fat fighting for control of his torso. His complexion was terrible, covered in red blotches, which might have come from too much alcohol or eczema. His eyes sparkled with life as if transplanted from someone much younger. His hair was thick, dark and styled like Elvis before he joined the army. It was also dyed. She guessed his age as early fifties; if he sorted out the obvious imperfections, he could be attractive. Not that Astrid was averse to physical shortcomings; flaws added to the desirability. He had a fiery exclamation of wrath and disdain, which marked him for some strange and mysterious doom.
‘There’s no wine, then?’
‘You don’t recognise me, do you?’ Astrid had to admit she didn’t. ‘I’ve changed a bit since we last met at Cara’s birthday party.’
His voice, thick with nicotine, was irritable and bitter. And then it hit her: the party two days before they broke up. Her mind went into reverse: the birthday party in Soho; the bar where a group of them were celebrating; Astrid smiling even though it was over, but she didn’t want to tell her then. Perhaps it might have been easier there; somewhere Cara might have had more self-control than on the bridge in Berlin. The tears and the begging which came later were embarrassing. At the party, Cara had introduced her to an older man, a tall, dark, handsome bloke with a physique to shame Atlas. His tone was deep, masculine and pulled at the heartstrings.
‘This is my brother, Frank.’
Astrid had shaken his hand and ignored the spark between them. Now she sensed sparks coming from him once more. Only these were different; angrier, but just as dangerous.
‘Hello, Frank; you’re looking good.’
She grabbed a pen from the table and considered stabbing him through the eye with it.
‘Did you kill her?’
He hadn’t noticed his sister’s portrait on the wall, that short bobbed black hair and the mahogany brown eyes that appeared alive even when drawn into emotionless stone. Astrid took the red pen and doodled something underneath it. The hatred and loathing dripped from him in waves.
‘Are you part of the investigation, Frank?’
She filled her words with saccharine and drew a bunch of roses on the wall. She’d given some to Cara on her birthday; that last birthday they’d shared, a tumultuous one of contrasting emotions.
‘Director Davis gave me a special dispensation to visit you, considering what you’ve done.’ He coughed again, even louder this time.
‘What have I done exactly, Frank?’
Astrid stood back a little to get a better view of what she’d drawn, unhappy with what she saw, his foul breath hot on her neck.
‘You’re a murderer; you’ve killed people.’
She held the pen in front of her, trying to get a perspective on the canvas she was creating. ‘That’s old news, Frank. I’ve been killing people for the Agency the best part of ten years.’
She recognised what she’d missed; something needed adding to the petals. She didn’t look at him and took the yellow and black pens for the next part.
‘That’s different; you were defending your country. What you’ve done now; they were innocent people.’
He’d regained a semblance of calm, but didn’t hide the anger in his voice. It was the same ‘it’s for the Agency’ defence Agent Lee had used earlier. Astrid didn’t believe it, had never thought it, but many in the organisation did, including the bloated man with her. She took the black pen first and attacked the wall again.
‘Don’t be so naïve, Frank; the Agency kills innocents all the time. They just invent ways to excuse their actions; excuse our actions.’ She finished with the black and started on the yellow.
‘The five people you killed were innocent. Cara was innocent. Why did you kill them?’
Astrid completed her additions and stepped back. Getting close enough to Frank, she smelt the ripples of sweat swimming down his cheeks and dripping onto the floor. She ignored him and peered at her handiwork: a bee and a wasp staring at each other across the roses. She liked the extra colour it added to the scene, and turned to him.
‘I’m sorry for what happened to Cara, Frank, but I didn’t kill any of them, and there are no innocents in the Agency.’
His accusations didn’t upset her. There was no bitterness in her voice, just genuine sympathy for his loss. She’d never loved Cara, even though she’d foolishly told her she did many times, but she cared for her. Astrid appreciated that now.
‘Are you sorry you broke her heart? Sorry you tore her to shreds and dumped her like a used rag?’
Beneath the icy light of his desolate stare, his anger rose again, fists clenched. Her mind worked at a thousand miles a second, seeing a way out.
If I goad him into attacking me, let him injure me enough so they take me outside for medical help, then anything would be possible. Perhaps I could sneak a few of these pens into my pockets for weapons.
A map unfurled inside her head, and she plotted her next manoeuvre. ‘Relationships end all the time, Frank; people survive and move on instead of sitting in the corner, crying.’
She resurrected those memories of his sister at her emotional nadir: Cara sending Astrid videos of herself sitting in the dark and pleading for another chance. She’d watched the first two before deleting all the others unseen.
‘You killed her years ago, Snow, not last month, and I’ll watch you rot away inside a cell for the rest of your miserable life.’
He stepped towards the door without taking his eyes from her, getting ready to leave her alone again.
‘I’m innocent, Frank, and everyone here knows it. I don’t understand why the Agency is desperate for this, but the consequences will be on their heads. Don’t be foolish enough to get involved with their destructive games.’
Her words didn’t affect him. ‘What happens when you run out of space, Snow? That hyperactive mind of yours will crack. All you’ll have left are the memories of the terrible things you’ve done.’
Frank glared at her, waiting for her to crumble, waiting for her to answer. She supplied him with one, but not the one he wanted.
‘Wasp or bee?’ she said.
‘What?’ Confusion covered his puffed cheeks as he spoke.
‘Do you know the difference?’ Astrid wasn’t looking at him anymore, fixed on what she’d drawn. He had one hand on the door, ready to leave. ‘Wasps are aggressive; bees are mild-mannered unless attacked. Which one do you think I am, Frank?’
Frank Delaney stood in the doorway and ignored her question while she waited for him to leave. He lingered there, seemingly with something else on his mind. Then he reached into his jacket and removed something. She stared at him as he threw the bits of paper at her. Astrid didn’t attempt to catch them, letting them hit her in the face and fall to the floor.
‘Maybe they’ll help your brain overload.’
He closed the door, and she listened to his feet shuffling down the corridor, hearing the wheeze in his chest and a lifetime of service on his shoulders. Only when he’d gone did she peer at what he’d left at her feet, surprised to see the images staring at her.
She bent her knees and picked up the first postcard, smiling at the image of the Beatles’ statues near the Cavern Club in Liverpool. She turned it over and read the short message Cara had written for her brother.
The Fab Four for your collection.
Astrid left the other postcards on the bed, glancing at the photos of the places she and Cara had visited. Liverpool was their first operation together, searching for a suspected spy working in a music venue.
‘We get to work and go to gigs simultaneously,’ Cara had said to her. ‘It can be our first official date together.’
Astrid ran her finger across Cara’s naked back. After Newcastle, they’d spent every night together in Astrid’s one-bedroom dump of a flat.
‘Doesn’t this count?’
Cara laughed at her. ‘I don’t know what you were like with your previous paramours, Ms Snow, but I expect to be wined, dined and shown a good time if you want to hang on to me.’
Astrid stared across the room at her small collection of CDs, with the Bowie next to James Brown and Kate Bush up against Nina Simone.
‘You haven’t told me much about you, Cara. What music do you like?’
‘Well, we’ve been quite busy, haven’t we?’ She sat up in bed. ‘I’m fairly eclectic in my tastes; some days, I prefer a quiet, contemplative tune in a language I don’t understand, perhaps some Sigur Rós, and others it has to be hot and heavy, with Prince breathing hard into a microphone.’
‘You won’t be seeing Prince in Liverpool, not the real one anyway.’
Cara got her phone and flicked through the screen. ‘We have to go to the Cavern so I can get some photos for my brother.’
Astrid nodded. It was still that time when she’d do anything Cara asked.
Liverpool had been great, but they never found any spies.
Frank Delaney had done her a favour with the postcards. She reached down and grabbed the others, hoping they’d ignite the memories to keep her mind occupied.
The second one was of a giant replica King Kong standing next to a town hall. Leeds. It was their first time away that wasn’t work.
‘I want to go to the Brudenell Social Club,’ Cara said.
‘I saw The Fall there,’ Astrid said. ‘It was packed, and the sweat dripped from the walls. Some bloke tried to grope me, so I squeezed his balls until his face turned orange.’
Cara laughed. ‘He probably enjoyed it.’ She sipped at her raspberry gin and tonic as they sat in the pub around the corner from Astrid’s place. ‘I met Mark E. Smith once in a bar.’
Astrid bit through a cheese and onion crisp. ‘Did he sing to you?’
‘No. He challenged me to a game of pool.’
‘Did you win?’
‘Of course. He was pissed out of his bonce. But he did tell some funny stories.’
They spent that night swapping war stories of famous people they’d met. Two days later, they were in Leeds for the weekend, dodging football supporters and hanging on to various Hen parties.
Cara pointed at a group of women walking down the street, carrying giant inflatable penises. ‘I’m surprised they can get away with that in public.’
Astrid laughed. ‘At least they found a good use for them.’
She shook the image from her head and admired the front of the next postcard, a photo of Proserpine by Dante Gabriel Rossetti taken inside Birmingham Museum and Art Gallery. Their shared love of art was one more thing that cemented their attraction to each other.
‘Why is the middle of the country classed as England’s second city?’ Cara had asked as they stood in front of Tony Hancock’s statue.
‘Because they have the best football team,’ Astrid replied.
Cara stared at her with wide-open eyes. ‘You like football? That’s grounds for divorce.’ Her grin warmed Astrid’s heart, though it was warmth which would melt into nothing over time. ‘At least support a proper team like Manchester Athletic or whatever they’re called instead of Birmingham.’
‘Aston Villa.’
‘What?’
‘Aston Villa. That’s who I support.’
‘Never heard of them.’ Cara dragged her away from the statue. ‘Now you can buy me a drink.’
It surprised Astrid how quickly the memories returned. She’d had other lovers since then, but Cara was the only one she’d loved; or thought she’d loved until she realised love was beyond her.
And then she’d seen Olivia. But that was a different kind of love. One that pulled at the heart when she least expected it: a love that couldn’t be abandoned.
Or could it?
Thinking about it made her head throb, so she studied the remaining postcards.
Edinburgh, where they’d got into a fight with a group of drunken kilted Scotsmen.
‘At least it’s easier to kick them in the balls when they’re wearing skirts,’ Cara had said after leaving two of them on the floor.
Astrid laughed as she wiped the blood from her knuckles. ‘You’ll upset them even more, calling them skirts.’
As police sirens approached, Cara wiped away Astrid’s blood and kissed her bruised fingers. Then she examined the wounded they’d left on the ground.
‘I don’t know about you, but I found that strangely erotic.’
They laughed together as they ran from the sirens and back to the hotel.
Cambridge. It was a working trip, protecting a Russian emigre from possible retribution, so there wasn’t much time for sightseeing. Astrid read the back of the card.
Because I know you like university towns, brother.
Astrid put it with the other postcards and stared at the last one, unsurprised to see it was from Berlin.
Berlin. Where dreams go to die.
Or at least where she’d told Cara it was all over between them.
‘Why?’ It was all Cara said for ten minutes.
Astrid had kept her reply simple. ‘It’s run its course, Cara.’
Then it was, ‘It’s not you; it’s me.’
Until Astrid ran out of patience. ‘I don’t love you, Cara.’ And to make it worse, ‘I never did.’
She left her sobbing on that German bridge, never to see her again in the flesh.
Astrid threw the postcards onto the floor of her jail.
And now I can’t get those murder photos out of my head.
Getting in and out of the buildings, moving around the different cities, without being seen was impossible. A virus of video cameras and surveillance systems infected even the smallest of towns. Luckily, I’m an expert in deception. And I’ve always enjoyed dressing up, so simple disguises such as hats or glasses were easy to utilise while I moved around the heart of Europe.
Manchester was cold and wet, a typical British summer. The homeless and the needy paved its streets. I hadn’t been there for some time, but its stern visage was a welcome sight to my eager eyes. Before my appointment with Agent Storm, I’d been apprehensive, wandering through the city, nervous about what I was about to do; anxious that everything would go wrong. But death gave me a new life and resurrected my broken soul. The buzz of adrenaline which surged through me when I choked him didn’t abate once he’d breathed his last, staying with me even when I met up with my new love.
‘You look nervous,’ she said to me on the plane to Berlin, believing it was because of our forthcoming illicit assignation. In reality, my body shook because I needed to take her life as soon as possible. The journey from the airport to the train station was an eternal agony for me, worrying if this newfound desire for entropy would make me reckless; perturbed that the yearning would sabotage my long-held plans.
‘It won’t be long now,’ she said as she grabbed my hand while the lift took us to our hotel room.
‘No,’ I said. ‘It won’t be long.’