Kathleen!”
“Don’t you dare.”
She’d turned right round in her seat to eye the road
behind her, when a bullet sizzled an inch above her head and out through the
front windscreen, shattering the glass. She hardly seemed to clock it. Still she reversed, inexorably, until she was upon the gunman. His goggled face leapt into the back window,
like a picture in a frame, and then it was gone. If she hadn’t put paid to him altogether,
she’d certainly given him a few nasty bruises. As for the other two, they’d driven onto the pavement, turned 360
degrees and were on their way back to the Tate. Which was just as well, because I don’t know what odds I’d have given
them if they’d chosen to stick around.
We reversed round the corner and sailed back towards
the river and I didn’t breathe out until we were crossing Vauxhall Bridge and
had started to slow down. I was rather
lost for words, actually. My wife was
moaning quietly, I noticed, and her headscarf had fallen off. Wisps of yellow hair stuck to her cheeks and
she looked a mite crazed. She didn’t
appear to have noticed that she couldn’t see a thing out of her windscreen,
criss-crossed, as it was, with a thousand tiny fractures.
“Allow me,” I said and punched the glass out (my hand
was already bleeding from it’s encounter with her engagement ring and the
windscreen glass made minimal difference).
And then Kathleen gave a small whimper and took her
foot off the gas and her eye off the ball. Because we rolled off the end of Vauxhall Bridge, gathering momentum,
and then straight up a ramp and through the open back doors of a large, black
van, shuddering to a standstill a second before we hit the cab. Kathleen pitched forward onto the steering
wheel, the doors slammed shut and we were plunged into darkness.
5. HQ
Kathleen was dead to the world. She felt warm in my arms, yet I couldn’t
discern any breathing. I put my lips to
hers, but there was no rush of air from her mouth, or nostrils. I pushed her back on the seat - but not too
far to obstruct her windpipe - and felt for the pulse on her neck. It beat, hard and strong. I rolled her lovely hair around my fist and
kissed her there, on her neck, where that drum beat. She stirred a fraction, but I let her lie in
her own darkness; soon enough she’d wake to this other obscurity. (She might be frightened and I didn’t want to
see Kathleen frightened.) So I held her
lightly and I waited for whatever would happen next. Whatever that was, there was no use in
fretting about it. As it turned out, I
hadn’t long to wait.
I estimated the van had driven for no more than ten
minutes before it stopped. By that time
Kathleen was beginning to come to, shuddering in my arms and finally drawing a
decent breath.
“It’s alright, darling,” I whispered into her
ear. “Nothing to worry about.”
After which, nothing much happened. We waited and we waited and it felt like an
absolute age had limped past before the clang and clash of doors opening made
us jump in our seats. The beam of a
powerful torch temporarily blinded us.
“Mr Upshott,” came a mild, not particularly
authoritative voice, “would you please reverse the car out of the van.”
The murmur of another voice came and went.
“I beg your pardon,” the first man continued, “Mrs
Upshott, I see you are at the wheel. Would you please reverse the car out of the van, Mrs Upshott.”
I grinned, squeezing Kathleen’s hand.
“You’d better do as the old man says, darling. It seems we’re back at HQ. I’m sure you’re dying to meet the man who
signs my paycheques.”
“You mean . .?” She was still rather dazed.
“Safe as houses,” I replied.
Sir Godfrey Hutchcraft was head of both
Services in 1955, an unsurpassed achievement for anybody, never mind a retiring
chap with a singular lack of charisma. In fact, the lack of
“Don’t you dare.”
She’d turned right round in her seat to eye the road
behind her, when a bullet sizzled an inch above her head and out through the
front windscreen, shattering the glass. She hardly seemed to clock it. Still she reversed, inexorably, until she was upon the gunman. His goggled face leapt into the back window,
like a picture in a frame, and then it was gone. If she hadn’t put paid to him altogether,
she’d certainly given him a few nasty bruises. As for the other two, they’d driven onto the pavement, turned 360
degrees and were on their way back to the Tate. Which was just as well, because I don’t know what odds I’d have given
them if they’d chosen to stick around.
We reversed round the corner and sailed back towards
the river and I didn’t breathe out until we were crossing Vauxhall Bridge and
had started to slow down. I was rather
lost for words, actually. My wife was
moaning quietly, I noticed, and her headscarf had fallen off. Wisps of yellow hair stuck to her cheeks and
she looked a mite crazed. She didn’t
appear to have noticed that she couldn’t see a thing out of her windscreen,
criss-crossed, as it was, with a thousand tiny fractures.
“Allow me,” I said and punched the glass out (my hand
was already bleeding from it’s encounter with her engagement ring and the
windscreen glass made minimal difference).
And then Kathleen gave a small whimper and took her
foot off the gas and her eye off the ball. Because we rolled off the end of Vauxhall Bridge, gathering momentum,
and then straight up a ramp and through the open back doors of a large, black
van, shuddering to a standstill a second before we hit the cab. Kathleen pitched forward onto the steering
wheel, the doors slammed shut and we were plunged into darkness.
5. HQ
Kathleen was dead to the world. She felt warm in my arms, yet I couldn’t
discern any breathing. I put my lips to
hers, but there was no rush of air from her mouth, or nostrils. I pushed her back on the seat - but not too
far to obstruct her windpipe - and felt for the pulse on her neck. It beat, hard and strong. I rolled her lovely hair around my fist and
kissed her there, on her neck, where that drum beat. She stirred a fraction, but I let her lie in
her own darkness; soon enough she’d wake to this other obscurity. (She might be frightened and I didn’t want to
see Kathleen frightened.) So I held her
lightly and I waited for whatever would happen next. Whatever that was, there was no use in
fretting about it. As it turned out, I
hadn’t long to wait.
I estimated the van had driven for no more than ten
minutes before it stopped. By that time
Kathleen was beginning to come to, shuddering in my arms and finally drawing a
decent breath.
“It’s alright, darling,” I whispered into her
ear. “Nothing to worry about.”
After which, nothing much happened. We waited and we waited and it felt like an
absolute age had limped past before the clang and clash of doors opening made
us jump in our seats. The beam of a
powerful torch temporarily blinded us.
“Mr Upshott,” came a mild, not particularly
authoritative voice, “would you please reverse the car out of the van.”
The murmur of another voice came and went.
“I beg your pardon,” the first man continued, “Mrs
Upshott, I see you are at the wheel. Would you please reverse the car out of the van, Mrs Upshott.”
I grinned, squeezing Kathleen’s hand.
“You’d better do as the old man says, darling. It seems we’re back at HQ. I’m sure you’re dying to meet the man who
signs my paycheques.”
“You mean . .?” She was still rather dazed.
“Safe as houses,” I replied.
Sir Godfrey Hutchcraft was head of both
Services in 1955, an unsurpassed achievement for anybody, never mind a retiring
chap with a singular lack of charisma. In fact, the lack of
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