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Authors: James Craig
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bedroom door opened and out popped the head of Sam Hudson. Clocking Carlyle on the sofa, she scowled. ‘You coming back to bed, or what?’ Without waiting for an answer, she slammed the door shut and retreated back into the bedroom.
‘Just coming,’ Dom called after her. Getting to his feet, he gave Carlyle an apologetic shrug as he gestured towards the hallway. ‘Sorry, sunshine,’ he quipped. ‘Duty calls.’
Carlyle jumped up. ‘No worries. I need to get going anyway.’
‘Off to the Cottage this afternoon?’
Carlyle nodded. In reality, Fulham were playing at Grimsby and he had no plans.
‘Dom!’
‘Coming!’ Dom put a hand on Carlyle’s shoulder as he ushered him out of the living room. ‘By the way, want any blow?’
‘Nah.’ Dope simply wasn’t his thing. ‘Got any speed?’
‘Sure thing.’ Dom turned on his heels and disappeared back down the hall. ‘Gimme a sec.’ Moments later, he returned holding a small wrap of paper that looked like it had been ripped from a schoolboy’s exercise book. In his other hand, Carlyle couldn’t help but notice, was a packet of three condoms.
Dom handed him the wrap. ‘There you go – half a gram. That should be enough to get you through the rest of the weekend.’
Or the next week at work,
Carlyle thought. ‘Thanks.’ He slipped the amphetamine sulphate into the front pocket of his jeans. ‘How much do I owe you?’
‘Don’t be daft,’ Dom chuckled. ‘Now go on, get out of here.’
12
Whatever was the world coming to when you were being dragged into the office on a Sunday morning? After a most agreeable night on the tiles with Ryder, Flyte and Marchmain, Palmer had only slipped into bed just after two. What seemed like mere minutes later, he was being shaken awake by his mother and told he had to get up. The old biddy hadn’t even brought him a cup of tea. She seemed to take a malicious pleasure in her son being called into Gower Street at the weekend.
You’d better watch it mummy,
he thought grimly, closing his eyes for a moment,
or you could go the way of . . . well, the others.
Palmer felt a hand on his shoulder, shaking him awake. ‘Were you sleeping?’
Yawning, he opened his eyes and blinked. ‘No, no.’
‘You are?’
‘Er . . .’ Slowly he focused on the stern-looking woman sitting behind the Commander’s desk. She was maybe in her late thirties, wearing a Harris tweed jacket over a white blouse, with black hair pulled back into a ponytail. Her cheekbones were striking, but not as striking as her dark green eyes, which drilled into him with a mixture of suspicion and irritation. ‘Palmer – Martin Palmer.’
The faintest of smiles crept across her lips. The youngster noted the ruby lipstick with approval. As of right now, she wasn’t his type. But in, say, thirty years, who could tell? ‘Ah, yes, Mr Palmer.’ Flipping open a thin file on the desk, she dropped her gaze to the pages inside.
Clasping his hands in his lap, Palmer looked around the room. Nothing seemed to have changed since his last visit, other than the fact that the picture-frame with the stupid quote had gone. And the person behind the desk had changed. ‘Where is Commander Sorensen?’ he asked.
‘Reassigned.’
‘I see.’
The woman looked up from the papers and gave the novice spy a hard look. ‘I am his replacement. Commander Camilla Brewster.’
‘Nice to meet you, sir . . . er, ma’am.’
‘I’m not one to beat around the bush, Palmer. Tim has paid the price for the recent shocking failures in this department.’
Tim?
‘I see,’ Palmer repeated. She had his full attention now.
The hard look was replaced by a malicious grin. ‘As I understand it, he has been sent to the Falkland Islands as a Liaison Officer to the Governor.’
Good God!
‘The Falklands?’
Brewster nodded. ‘This is the 1980s. We have to become a performance-driven organisation and the penalties for failure can be very severe indeed.’
‘I’m sure,’
‘Just coming,’ Dom called after her. Getting to his feet, he gave Carlyle an apologetic shrug as he gestured towards the hallway. ‘Sorry, sunshine,’ he quipped. ‘Duty calls.’
Carlyle jumped up. ‘No worries. I need to get going anyway.’
‘Off to the Cottage this afternoon?’
Carlyle nodded. In reality, Fulham were playing at Grimsby and he had no plans.
‘Dom!’
‘Coming!’ Dom put a hand on Carlyle’s shoulder as he ushered him out of the living room. ‘By the way, want any blow?’
‘Nah.’ Dope simply wasn’t his thing. ‘Got any speed?’
‘Sure thing.’ Dom turned on his heels and disappeared back down the hall. ‘Gimme a sec.’ Moments later, he returned holding a small wrap of paper that looked like it had been ripped from a schoolboy’s exercise book. In his other hand, Carlyle couldn’t help but notice, was a packet of three condoms.
Dom handed him the wrap. ‘There you go – half a gram. That should be enough to get you through the rest of the weekend.’
Or the next week at work,
Carlyle thought. ‘Thanks.’ He slipped the amphetamine sulphate into the front pocket of his jeans. ‘How much do I owe you?’
‘Don’t be daft,’ Dom chuckled. ‘Now go on, get out of here.’
12
Whatever was the world coming to when you were being dragged into the office on a Sunday morning? After a most agreeable night on the tiles with Ryder, Flyte and Marchmain, Palmer had only slipped into bed just after two. What seemed like mere minutes later, he was being shaken awake by his mother and told he had to get up. The old biddy hadn’t even brought him a cup of tea. She seemed to take a malicious pleasure in her son being called into Gower Street at the weekend.
You’d better watch it mummy,
he thought grimly, closing his eyes for a moment,
or you could go the way of . . . well, the others.
Palmer felt a hand on his shoulder, shaking him awake. ‘Were you sleeping?’
Yawning, he opened his eyes and blinked. ‘No, no.’
‘You are?’
‘Er . . .’ Slowly he focused on the stern-looking woman sitting behind the Commander’s desk. She was maybe in her late thirties, wearing a Harris tweed jacket over a white blouse, with black hair pulled back into a ponytail. Her cheekbones were striking, but not as striking as her dark green eyes, which drilled into him with a mixture of suspicion and irritation. ‘Palmer – Martin Palmer.’
The faintest of smiles crept across her lips. The youngster noted the ruby lipstick with approval. As of right now, she wasn’t his type. But in, say, thirty years, who could tell? ‘Ah, yes, Mr Palmer.’ Flipping open a thin file on the desk, she dropped her gaze to the pages inside.
Clasping his hands in his lap, Palmer looked around the room. Nothing seemed to have changed since his last visit, other than the fact that the picture-frame with the stupid quote had gone. And the person behind the desk had changed. ‘Where is Commander Sorensen?’ he asked.
‘Reassigned.’
‘I see.’
The woman looked up from the papers and gave the novice spy a hard look. ‘I am his replacement. Commander Camilla Brewster.’
‘Nice to meet you, sir . . . er, ma’am.’
‘I’m not one to beat around the bush, Palmer. Tim has paid the price for the recent shocking failures in this department.’
Tim?
‘I see,’ Palmer repeated. She had his full attention now.
The hard look was replaced by a malicious grin. ‘As I understand it, he has been sent to the Falkland Islands as a Liaison Officer to the Governor.’
Good God!
‘The Falklands?’
Brewster nodded. ‘This is the 1980s. We have to become a performance-driven organisation and the penalties for failure can be very severe indeed.’
‘I’m sure,’
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