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Steve freezes the moment his right foot touches the red carpet in my office. The takeaway coffee in his hand is at a dangerous angle – I direct an icy look at it. Spill coffee on my carpet, Steve, and you’ll be very sorry…
He regains himself, lifts the coffee to a straight position, turns around to close the door, then walks to my desk, sits down in the chair in front of it, putting the coffee on a coaster. His eyes don’t meet mine; in fact, they don’t for a second leave my collar area. I'm not surprised - my neck is sporting some spectacular bruising – dark grey with purple, red, and yellow around the edges. It looks like I got some supernovas tattooed.
It’s a delight to see his face journey – he’s dying to know, but he isn’t sure if he can ask. If he asks, will I be angry at him poking his nose into my business, tell him that if I need him, I’ll tell him? But if he doesn’t ask, will I get angry at him just blatantly ignoring that I got hurt?
Sweat is starting to break out. It’s so delightful to play with people… even good people like Steve.
He breathes in. A decision has been made.
“Do you need anyone dead?”
See Steve, that’s why you are my number two. Practical and to the point. Able to make some deductions, and focussing on what could be your job. You are curious, but you know that’s not the issue here – what you should do is.
But I do so enjoy playing the straight man…
“Always – you’ll have to be more specific.”
I see his brain strain again. He settles for “Should I send someone out to kill someone right now?”
I shake my head. “No one I can think of at the moment. I thought you were here to report on the Staperton experiment?”
Poor Steve. He’s lost his in, and if he now asks, he’ll have no excuse but curiosity, and there’s no telling how I will take that.
I wait patiently as he takes out the large blueprints, talks me through the surveillance of Staperton. I make notes in my mind map – this looks like we’ve found a sensitive spot, high potential for blackmail, possibly personal use; if I play it right both. I love secret government plots – they’re always something to get your teeth into. So much red tape wrapped around them no one has the full overview of what's going on any more; you never know what you’re going to find. Like an Easter egg hunt at Christmas.
Steve’s eyes keep straying to my neck, but he’s resigned to not finding out – from me at least.
He only dawdles for a moment when I dismiss him, walks out with firm steps. I can’t suppress a grin at the closing door.
The moment it clicks shut, I start up the monitoring app on my laptop, select Steve’s mobile. As expected, Steve heads straight for the soundproof meeting room. The moment he’s in there, he’s making a call – to S.M.
“Hey.”
“Moran!”
“What can I do for you Sir?”
“You were with the Boss last night, weren’t you? Seeing LeDuc and his guys?”
“Yeah.”
The sound of a lighter clicking, smoke being breathed out. I can just picture it…
“Did… anything go wrong?”
“Didn’t seem to. LeDuc is a hard head, but he’s getting round to seeing the Boss’s point of view. He left him with some interesting numbers – I figure next time we see him, he’ll be a lot more interested in what we have to offer.”
“And after that?”
“What do you mean, Sir?”
I stick my fist in my mouth to stop myself from laughing, even though there’s no way Steve would be able to hear me – my office is soundproof as well, of course. Sebastian has switched to his deadpan voice, the ‘I ain’t seen nothing wrong Sir’ voice, the one I bet he used with his superiors in the SAS when they were getting on his nerves. I wish I could see him – I can’t, but I can, in fact, see Steve, if I want to. I start up the view from the camera in the meeting room. Steve’s sitting at the mahogany table, his coffee (without a coaster, I notice with a frown) on the surface, leaning back in a chair, rubbing his temple with his hand.
“What happened after that? You were on night guard, weren’t you? Did you take him home, stay there?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“Well what the fuck happened?!”
Poor Steve – he’s been dying to shout that at someone.
“You’d have to be more specific, Sir,” Seb deadpans.
“Specific!? Did you see Moriarty this morning?”
‘Moriarty’? That’s Mr Moriarty to you and your guys, thank you Steve…
“I did, Sir, on account of me being on night guard.”
“Stop fucking playing Moran! What the fuck happened to his neck?! He looks like he’s been hung! Who did that?! What happened?!”
“Hanged, Sir.” I can’t suppress a squealing giggle at that. “I assure you it was consensual, Sir.”
Steve’s coffee, which was halfway to his lips, freezes in mid-air. His mouth hangs open. His eyes are huge, staring into the middle distance.
“Ghk-“
“Sir?”
“He – what the –
OK. OK, sure. He’s a grown man – he can do what he – shit, but that’s fucking – he could have –
Who was it? Was it one of his usual rent boys? I didn’t think he’d –
- who?”
“I’m not sure if I can give away the details of the Boss’s intimate affairs, Sir.”
Steve’s neck is getting red, a sure sign he’s angry.
“Sebastian fucking Moran! I’m in charge of the Boss’s security, and if anyone puts their hands on his neck I want to know every fucking detail of who they are, down to shoe size and GCSE grades! Stop fucking playing coy with me!”
“Teeth, Sir.”
“What!?!”
“They’re teeth marks, Sir. In his neck. Not hands.”
Steve’s expression is to die for. I’m so glad we record all the security footage.
“Who! The fuck! Bit James Motherfucking Moriarty!”
“… I did, Sir.”
The coffee lands with a slight thump, fortunately on the table, and fortunately upright. That cream carpet costs more than you make in a month, Steve.
I zoom in and take a screenshot of his face, make it his contact picture. It’s beautiful.
The face falls into an upturned hand, which proceeds to rub it.
“Moran.”
“Yes, Sir?”
“Do you need a doctor?”
Oh well done Steve. No imagination, but always sees what must be done. You’re the best.
“I’m alright Sir. Mostly superficial injuries. Two ribs cracked, but there’s not a lot a doctor can do.”
“Alright. Alright.” Steve’s hands go to his pocket and take out his cigarettes, but he knows better than to light up in the meeting room. He just takes one out and twists it round in his fingers.
“Moran.”
“Yes, Sir?”
“You’re a good fucking soldier. I’d hate to lose you.”
“Thank you Sir.”
“It’s my own fault, I guess…” he sighs, looks wistfully at the cigarette, puts it back in its pack, stands up, picks up the coffee, takes a sip.
“You’re on night guard tonight again, aren’t you… want me to swap you?”
“No, Sir.”
“… are you sure?”
“Absolutely, Sir.”
Steve shakes his head, leans back against the wall.
“You’re a fucking idiot, Moran.”
“Yes, Sir.”
“Take care, Moran.”
“See you, Sir.”
He hangs up, puts his phone in his pocket, rubs his face, walks out.
I start up the salary app. It was high time I gave him a raise anyhow.