Sabina behind him, Alex set off down the corridor. He heard the security guard getting closer. He quickened his pace, searching for a way up.
He slammed through the double doors.
And stopped.
He was in a banking hall. It was huge, with a domed ceiling and advertisements on the walls for mortgages, savings schemes and personal loans. There were seven or eight glass windows arranged along one side, with cashiers stamping documents and cashing cheques, while about a dozen customers – ordinary people off the street – waited in line. Two personal advisers, young men in smart suits, sat behind desks in the open-plan area. One of them was discussing pension schemes with an elderly couple. Alex heard the other answer his phone.
“Hello. This is the Royal & General Bank, Liverpool Street. Adam speaking. How may I help?”
A light flashed on above one of the windows. Number four. A man in a pinstripe suit went over to it and the queue shuffled forward.
Alex took all this in with one glance. He looked at Sabina. She was staring with a mixture of emotions on her face.
And then the security guard was there. “You’re not meant to come into the bank this way,” he said. “This is a staff entrance. Now, I want you to leave before you get yourself into real trouble. I mean it! I don’t want to have to call the police, but that’s my job.”
“We’re going.” Sabina had stepped in and her voice was cold, definite.
“Sab—”
“We’re going now.”
“You ought to look after your friend,” the security guard said. “He may think this sort of thing is funny, but it isn’t.”
Alex left – or rather allowed Sabina to lead him out. They went through a revolving door and out onto the street. Alex wondered what had happened. Why had he never seen the bank before? Then he realized. The building was actually sandwiched between two streets with a quite separate front and back. He had always entered from the other side.
“Listen—” he began.
“No. You listen! I don’t know what’s going on inside your head. Maybe it’s because you don’t have parents. You have to draw attention to yourself by creating this … fantasy! But just listen to yourself, Alex! I mean, it’s pretty sick. Schoolboy spies and Russian assassins and all the rest of it…”
“It’s got nothing to do with my parents,” Alex said, feeling anger well up inside him.
“But it’s got everything to do with mine. My dad gets hurt in an accident—”
“It wasn’t an accident, Sab.” He couldn’t stop himself. “Are you really so stupid that you think I’d make all this up?”
“Stupid? Are you calling me stupid?”
“I’m just saying that I thought we were friends. I thought you knew me…”
“Yes! I thought I knew you. But now I see I was wrong. I’ll tell you what’s stupid. Listening to you in the first place was stupid. Coming to see you was stupid. Ever getting to know you … that was the most stupid thing of all.”
She turned and walked away in the direction of the station. In seconds she had gone, disappearing into the crowd.
“Alex…” a voice said behind him. It was a voice that he knew.
Mrs Jones was standing on the pavement. She had seen and heard everything that had taken place.
“Let her go,” she said. “I think we need to talk.”
SAINT OR SINGER?
T he office was the same as it had always been. The same ordinary, modern furniture, the same view, the same man behind the same desk. Not for the first time, Alex found himself wondering about Alan Blunt, head of MI6 Special Operations. What had his journey to work been like today? Was there a suburban house with a nice, smiling wife and two children waving goodbye as he left to catch the tube? Did his family know the truth about him? Had he ever told them that he wasn’t working for a bank or an insurance company or anything like that, and that he carried with him – perhaps in a smart leather case, given to him for his birthday – files and
He slammed through the double doors.
And stopped.
He was in a banking hall. It was huge, with a domed ceiling and advertisements on the walls for mortgages, savings schemes and personal loans. There were seven or eight glass windows arranged along one side, with cashiers stamping documents and cashing cheques, while about a dozen customers – ordinary people off the street – waited in line. Two personal advisers, young men in smart suits, sat behind desks in the open-plan area. One of them was discussing pension schemes with an elderly couple. Alex heard the other answer his phone.
“Hello. This is the Royal & General Bank, Liverpool Street. Adam speaking. How may I help?”
A light flashed on above one of the windows. Number four. A man in a pinstripe suit went over to it and the queue shuffled forward.
Alex took all this in with one glance. He looked at Sabina. She was staring with a mixture of emotions on her face.
And then the security guard was there. “You’re not meant to come into the bank this way,” he said. “This is a staff entrance. Now, I want you to leave before you get yourself into real trouble. I mean it! I don’t want to have to call the police, but that’s my job.”
“We’re going.” Sabina had stepped in and her voice was cold, definite.
“Sab—”
“We’re going now.”
“You ought to look after your friend,” the security guard said. “He may think this sort of thing is funny, but it isn’t.”
Alex left – or rather allowed Sabina to lead him out. They went through a revolving door and out onto the street. Alex wondered what had happened. Why had he never seen the bank before? Then he realized. The building was actually sandwiched between two streets with a quite separate front and back. He had always entered from the other side.
“Listen—” he began.
“No. You listen! I don’t know what’s going on inside your head. Maybe it’s because you don’t have parents. You have to draw attention to yourself by creating this … fantasy! But just listen to yourself, Alex! I mean, it’s pretty sick. Schoolboy spies and Russian assassins and all the rest of it…”
“It’s got nothing to do with my parents,” Alex said, feeling anger well up inside him.
“But it’s got everything to do with mine. My dad gets hurt in an accident—”
“It wasn’t an accident, Sab.” He couldn’t stop himself. “Are you really so stupid that you think I’d make all this up?”
“Stupid? Are you calling me stupid?”
“I’m just saying that I thought we were friends. I thought you knew me…”
“Yes! I thought I knew you. But now I see I was wrong. I’ll tell you what’s stupid. Listening to you in the first place was stupid. Coming to see you was stupid. Ever getting to know you … that was the most stupid thing of all.”
She turned and walked away in the direction of the station. In seconds she had gone, disappearing into the crowd.
“Alex…” a voice said behind him. It was a voice that he knew.
Mrs Jones was standing on the pavement. She had seen and heard everything that had taken place.
“Let her go,” she said. “I think we need to talk.”
SAINT OR SINGER?
T he office was the same as it had always been. The same ordinary, modern furniture, the same view, the same man behind the same desk. Not for the first time, Alex found himself wondering about Alan Blunt, head of MI6 Special Operations. What had his journey to work been like today? Was there a suburban house with a nice, smiling wife and two children waving goodbye as he left to catch the tube? Did his family know the truth about him? Had he ever told them that he wasn’t working for a bank or an insurance company or anything like that, and that he carried with him – perhaps in a smart leather case, given to him for his birthday – files and
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