The Mentor. Steve Jackson
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going on I’ll break your bloody legs. I swear to God I will.’
Aston sighed into the mobile, well aware he was fighting a losing battle. ‘Look, we can’t talk over the phone. Can you meet me at Highgate tube station?’
‘No problem. I’ll be there in half an hour.’
‘Twenty minutes,’ Aston said.
‘Okay, twenty.’
Aston clicked the phone shut. The Chief hadn’t said anything about going to Mac’s on his own, and he hadn’t asked for clarification on that point. Aston was glad George was coming along; some moral support wouldn’t go amiss. He dipped a hand into his pocket, fingers finding the jagged edges of the key. It felt cold, slightly sinister. He’d worked out when the drop had taken place. On his way to the bar he’d passed the woman from the jukebox couple. She’d been heading towards the ladies and brushed against him. They’d connected for only the briefest of seconds. A quick apology then she’d disappeared into the toilet. Nicely done.
The rain started as he reached the station. Aston jogged the final few steps and brushed the dew from his hair. He paid in cash for a ticket and reached for the change with a shaky hand. Already his breathing was faster than usual, his heart rate rising, and he wasn’t anywhere near the platform yet. Aston walked down the escalator, resisting the urge to turn and run. This was the first time he’d used the Underground since 18/8. Up until now he’d got by using cabs, buses and his own two feet. Still, he had to face the fear sooner or later. Best get it over and done with. The deeper he got the quicker he wanted to move, as though he could somehow outrun those black memories. At the bottom he forced himself to walk to the platform. According to the digital display the next train was due in three minutes. Three minutes! He paced up and down the platform until the train arrived. As soon as he sat down he closed his eyes and imagined himself on a beach on a tropical island – the sun warm on his skin, sand gently scratching between his toes, the waves swishing rhythmically against the shore – just like George had told him to. Amazingly for one of George’s wacky ideas, it actually worked. He could feel the panic letting go: muscles loosening, pulse slowing, his breathing regulating.
George was waiting at the ticket machine. As soon as she saw Aston she walked over and hugged him. And this wasn’t a fleeting kissy-kissy hug, either. She grabbed him and held him close and tight, so close he could feel her heartbeat. ‘How was it?’ she whispered in his ear.
‘Could have been worse.’
She let go and held him at arm’s length, gave him a quick once over. ‘Well, you’re a bit pale – but apart from that …’ She linked her arm through his and led him towards the exit.
George’s most striking feature was the mop of black frizzy hair she constantly bitched about. At the moment it was cut to shoulder length and tied back with a red scrunchy; she’d had it long, had it short, but hated it whatever length it was. At university she’d had a crew cut, a number 1, sandpaper instead of hair. Her mother had been mortified, said it made her look like a lesbian and she hadn’t brought her little girl up to wear Dr Martens and dungarees. More than once she’d told Aston she was the ugly duckling who never quite made it into a swan. Aston told her she was talking shit, but she wasn’t listening. George wasn’t supermodel gorgeous, but she was a long way from scaring the kiddies. She had the most beautiful brown almond shaped eyes, olive skin, and she scrubbed up quite nicely when she could be bothered, which wasn’t very often. Most of the time she dressed down: plain clothes, sober colours, nothing too revealing, nothing that would get her noticed. Perfect for a spy. George didn’t have any trouble attracting men but keeping hold of them was a different matter. They were either too old, too young, or too married. Her love life was a soap opera Aston long ago stopped trying to keep up with.
The address was written in a careful copperplate script: 23 Farley Road, Crouch End. Underneath was a mobile number. They shared an umbrella that was too small to cover both of them, George jiggling it about to keep them dry. A young couple heading home after a long day. It was an act they’d got down to a fine art. They could do everything from the young lovers cruising through a hormone OD and desperately in need of a room to the long-married couple who wanted to stab each other. It wasn’t hard. From the word go they’d been comfortable with one another, so comfortable that every now and then the MI6 rumour mill would crank out a story. Officially their relationship was strictly platonic; unofficially there’d been one blip.
The incident was never talked about. To celebrate the end of the IONEC they’d gone out with the intention of getting annihilated, and reached their objective in style; even by their standards it had been a big night. Next morning Aston had woken up in bed with a mega hangover, and George lying next to him. They were both naked, and from the hazy flashbacks Aston kept getting, the state of the bed, and the fact his dick felt like it had been pounded with a mallet, it was apparent they had done more than sleep. Aston couldn’t put his finger on why it felt wrong. It just did. Like sleeping with your sister or something. When he closed his eyes all he could see was an albino boy with bad teeth playing the banjo. George felt the same. After an awkward discussion they decided the best way to deal with the situation was through denial.
While they walked, Aston told George about his meeting with Kinclave. ‘You know,’ he said in conclusion, ‘I’ve been working for Mac for – what? Almost three years? Not only did I not know he was married, until tonight I didn’t know where he lived. Shit, I don’t know anything about him.’
‘Not true,’ George said. ‘You know what he wants you to know.’
It took fifteen minutes to get from Highgate station to Farley Road. The rain was hammering down now, slick on the pavements, rivers raging along the gutter. Number 23 was a red-bricked Edwardian semi-detached with bay windows on both floors. The front garden had been concreted over and a brand new X-type Jag was parked there. All the curtains were closed.
‘I don’t like this,’ George said as they walked up the narrow path.
‘Join the club,’ Aston replied.
Underneath the porch, he shook the loose raindrops away while George collapsed the umbrella and brushed the rain from her frizzy hair.
‘Why do I let you talk me into shit like this, Paul? Answer me that, eh?’
‘I didn’t exactly twist your arm.’
‘Just open the bloody door, Paul, before I bottle it and go home.’
Aston slipped the key into the lock and turned it. The door opened easily on well-oiled hinges.
‘If it’s all the same with you,’ George said, ‘let’s stick together. None of this “let’s split up so we can get the place searched twice as quickly” crap.’
‘Fine by me.’ Aston wondered if he looked as wired as George. Probably. His stomach flip-flopped as he entered the house, his heart felt too big for his chest. He pushed the door shut, locking them in, flicked on the hall light. This wasn’t the first time he’d broken into a house, but that didn’t make it any easier. He swallowed involuntarily.
‘What exactly are we looking for?’ George asked.
‘Search me. The Chief was a bit vague on that score. “I just want you to have a quick look around, check everything’s in order, that sort of thing”.’ Aston gave a reasonable impression of Kinclave’s Etonian drawl.
There were three closed doors leading off the hallway. Aston pointed to the door at the end of the hall. ‘Right, we’ll start there.’
The door led to a cosy, tidy farmhouse kitchen. There was slate on the floor and lots of oak: dining table and chairs, a large Welsh dresser filled with knick-knacks and crockery. A sign above the Aga proclaimed that the kitchen was the heart of the house. Maybe once it had been, Aston thought. It was easy to imagine this kitchen full of life and laughter and sunshine. The big window overlooking the tangled, overgrown garden faced east and would have caught the rising sun, holding onto it until well past midday. Yes, once this had been the heart of the house. Not anymore, though. Whatever life had breezed through these four