Joyride Page 12

  ‘OK, don’t make me regret it though.’

  ‘I won’t, got to go.’

  She hangs up. ‘That was Damon. Ram called.’

  ‘We know!’ April cries. ‘So what’s going on?’

  ‘He says he’s somewhere called . . .’

  Tanya’s face suddenly becomes vague, her words petering out.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ asks Charlie. ‘You don’t look . . .’

  Tanya smiles and Charlie knows instantly that he’s not really looking at his friend. Tanya would never smile like that. It’s the smile of someone who’s just spotted a fly they can pull the legs off.

  ‘Good times roll!’ she shouts, which makes no sense to Charlie whatsoever.

  She looks at him, eyeing him up, making a decision.

  ‘Confused? Dopey look? Yeah, I guess you’re the kid we’re after! We’d like to talk to you.’

  Charlie looks to Matteusz, only to see he’s looking distinctly uncomfortable. ‘Yes,’ Matteusz says, with no trace of his normal accent. ‘Sorry, but we need to, erm, borrow you for a bit.’

  ‘Don’t say no,’ April adds, leaning in, ‘or we’ll slap you all the way back to Mars.’

  TWENTY-THREE

  NOBODY TELLS GARRY FLETCHER WHAT TO DO

  Fletcher is relieved that Mrs Cummings is happy to be dropped off at the Barbican. Today is just grating at him from all sides and the last thing he needs is to be stuck in traffic playing nursemaid to her. At least she’s not talking about her dancing like usual. Fletcher only really enjoys dancing that involves vertical poles.

  The very minute he gets her out of the car his phone rings. He glances at it; it’s from the same number O’Donnell was using. He answers.

  ‘Mr O’Donnell? I just need twenty minutes, I had to drop off another client.’

  ‘This is more important than your little business, Fletcher!’ O’Donnell says. It’s so weird hearing him talk in that kid’s voice. ‘We could be dealing with an invasion here!’

  ‘Well, from what you said it’s just one kid and a woman so I don’t think . . .’

  ‘It doesn’t matter what they look like, Fletcher, or has your entire livelihood escaped you? They could be disguised, they could have taken over human bodies!’

  Fletcher supposes he has a point there.

  ‘OK, well, like I say, I’ll be back in the transfer room shortly and I’ll pick them up.’

  ‘Excellent, then we can contact the proper authorities.’

  ‘Well, let’s not be silly, Mr O’Donnell. There’s no need to call anyone official in just yet, is there?’

  Fletcher has no intention of doing anything of the kind. He’s on a recruitment drive, not a witch hunt. He wants these aliens to help him deal with the machinery, that’s all.

  ‘What else are we supposed to do?’ O’Donnell asks. ‘This could be a matter of . . . of . . .’ He’s struggling to think of the right words. ‘Planetary security. What if there are more of them? We need to deal with this properly. I have no idea what agency would deal with something like this—MI6? Special Branch?’

  Fletcher’s nerves are getting shorter by the second. He’s got enough on his plate without this overblown idiot causing even more problems. Why is today being such a bitch? It’s getting so he can barely think straight. If only he could have ten minutes just to clear his head, just to come up with some kind of plan.

  ‘Here’s an idea,’ he says. ‘I’ll control them, have them walk in somewhere anonymously, and admit everything. That way we don’t have to be directly involved.’

  ‘But will anyone believe them?’

  ‘Will anyone believe us? I’m sure we can figure it out. There’s got to be a way of doing this without all of us getting it in the neck as well.’

  O’Donnell thinks about this. ‘No, it’s too important. I think I should call someone now.’

  ‘Please, Mr O’Donnell!’ Fletcher shouts, seriously close to losing the thin shred of patience he has left. ‘There’s no need for that, we’ll deal with this. Let’s just meet up first, talk it through.’

  ‘You won’t change my mind, Fletcher. But very well, I’ve sent you a text message of the house address.’

  ‘Great, I’ll be right there.’

  Fletcher hangs up, shaking. He’s had enough of this. This morning he was running a lovely little business, bringing in a lot of coin, now he’s being pulled in all directions with one problem after another. He just can’t be doing with it. Time to take some serious action. ‘He’ll be right there?’ No chance. But someone will and that will be the end of the annoying Mr O’Donnell. He should have just killed him earlier—he should have known the old man would be trouble. But no, he had to let greed get in the way.

  It reminds him of Mike, of how, after only a couple of weeks, he had already been insisting what they should do. Like it was his damn business or something.

  ‘We could do anything with this!’ Mike had insisted. ‘It doesn’t just have to be joyrides for the rich, we could make some serious, big changes to the world. We could take on terrorists! You’re thinking too small.’

  Obviously, that was a conversation that was going to go nowhere, and Fletcher had made good use of the machine that night. A very excitable client had described the look on Mike’s face when, with a violent flick of hair braids and a crooked smile, the teenage girl standing next to him on the Tube platform had shoved him into the path of a train at Edgware Road. One satisfied customer and the problem of Mike solved—if only business could always be that simple.

  There was one thing that Fletcher simply couldn’t stand: people telling him what to do.

  Now, with Mike gone, he made do with Steve, stupid, greedy Steve. What he lacked in common sense he made up for with a lack of ambition. With a bit of luck he might get to keep this member of staff for the foreseeable future. If there still was a future after today.

  He punches the dashboard, his stomach still churning with anger.

  He turns the car off Old Street and immediately rethinks Steve’s career prospects. Right in front of him is the body of that fat bastard who is trying to ruin his business. Well now, thinks Fletcher, this is what we businessmen call an opportunity.

  He doesn’t think about it, he just acts. He stamps down on the accelerator and charges towards the now-running O’Donnell body. ‘Go straight on,’ he mutters, ‘go straight on.’ Because if the kid in O’Donnell’s body turns left down Swallow Avenue, there’ll be witnesses. If he keeps going straight, he’ll find himself in a narrow back road, a road with a high wall on one side and a row of garage lockups on the other. A road that has good odds on being empty, a road where something really useful might happen.

  The kid goes straight on.

  Following the curve of the road, Fletcher slows down again. He waits until he can check all is clear. He glances at the mirror. There’s nobody in sight, just him and the body of this fat old pain in the arse.

  The kid stops, flailing around in the middle of the road.

  ‘Out of breath?’ Fletcher asks, chuckling to himself as he guns the accelerator again.

  He makes eye contact with his target, smiling at the look of panic and confusion on that stupid face. Fletcher tenses as the car hits O’Donnell’s body. It bounces right over the roof, coming to land on the road behind. That’s probably enough, Fletcher thinks, but he’s not a man to take risks, so, checking through the windows again, he stops, slips the car into reverse, and makes doubly sure. He actually rolls over O’Donnell, bouncing so much in his seat that he bangs the top of his head on the car roof.

  ‘For God’s sake.’ He rubs at his sore head; this man really is causing him grief today. He’s so angry that he’s tempted to drive forward and go for one more sweep, just out of spite. There’s no need though, he can see that. O’Donnell’s body is twisted in an ugly way, legs splayed in the wrong direction to the knee joints, arms twisted and sticking up like tent spikes.

  Well, that’s one problem dealt with. He’ll prob
ably have to ditch the car as soon as possible, depending how bad he’s dented the front, but that’s no big deal. He’ll get Steve to drive it somewhere and dump it later. No, not Steve, because Steve has clearly proven how reliable he is.

  Fletcher drives back towards the courtyard, ready to do some serious shouting. Then he suddenly remembers he needs to pick up two afternoon clients and he’s already running late. With everything else, it has slipped his mind.

  This is the last straw on his temper. For a second he just roars, pounding out his anger on the steering wheel. He’s surrounded by problems—he feels like the whole damn world is trying to get in the way and he’s had enough. Being Garry Fletcher is supposed to be brilliant. He’s not supposed to have to deal with all these issues.

  He calms down, takes a few deep breaths, and then reverses back onto the main road and towards Old Street station. Luckily he’s only a few minutes away; these are two of his original clients and he trusts them enough to let them make their own way as far as Shoreditch. If this was someone new on the list he could easily have an hour of driving to contend with, but hopefully he’ll be back within a quarter of an hour.

  He can get them hooked up and enjoying themselves and then he can deal with the alien kid. Except he can’t, can he? Someone has to operate the machine. The anger starts rising again. OK, so he’ll have to let Steve transfer. He’ll operate the machine, Steve can take over the alien kid and . . . But what about the other one? The adult? The machine won’t work on an adult over that distance. How is he supposed to control her?

  Oh Christ. What a mess.

  OK, wait, how about this? He’d considered it earlier with Mrs Cummings, but she’d been too distracted to even listen. He’ll offer his clients a special deal. They help him out with a small favour, bringing the kid and the woman here (if they go in mob-handed they should be able to deal with one woman, surely?). Then, once he’s got the aliens safely under his control, he’ll let his clients have a couple of free transfers by way of payment. Yeah. That might work. He doesn’t have to tell the clients what’s going on, he can spin them any old toss. Yeah! This’ll work. Give it a couple of hours and he’ll be back on track.

  The sound of his boss returning sets Steve into a panic. He’s all ready to explain what’s happened. He’s sure he can make Fletcher see that, actually, if they just think about it for a minute, it’s all going to be OK.

  He runs to the reception area only to see his boss leading in their next two clients. Should he talk about it in front of them? Probably not. The look on Fletcher’s face tells him all he needs to know about the sort of mood he’s in.

  ‘I’ve dealt with our little problem regarding Mr O’Donnell,’ Fletcher says, and Steve goes cold. ‘So count yourself lucky. Also’—he removes the blindfolds from the clients—‘thanks to the kind generosity of Mr Banks and Mr Taylor here, we’ll soon have the expert assistance we’ve been hoping for.’

  ‘We’re going on a mission!’ says Banks, offering the sort of spittle-heavy laugh that always makes Steve squint. That involuntary eye twitch you get from standing next to someone who’s hammering in a nail.

  ‘Yeah!’ says Taylor. ‘An extra half hour’s jolly off the books!’

  ‘Expert assistance?’ Steve asks, somewhat confused.

  ‘The unusual people Mr O’Donnell located for us earlier,’ says Fletcher, giving him a narrow look, a look that says, as clearly as if it were written in neon, ‘keep your mouth shut’.

  Unusual people? Steve thinks. But if Fletcher’s dealt with O’Donnell then they don’t need the aliens anymore, do they? He tries to think how best to phrase this without saying too much.

  ‘Are you sure we still need to, erm, discuss our running requirements with them, Mr Fletcher?’ he asks. ‘After all, if the situation with Mr O’Donnell is dealt with—’

  ‘Just leave the thinking to me,’ says Fletcher, patting Banks on the arm in a way he hopes will convey the jocular mood of a man who knows what’s what. ‘I know what I’m doing.’

  But you don’t, thinks Steve. You so clearly don’t.

  ‘Let’s get you two hooked up,’ Fletcher says, leading Banks and Taylor down the corridor.

  Steve dislikes these two. They’re exactly the sort of corporate types he thinks the world would be better off without. All posh suits and loud voices, a portfolio where their soul should be.

  ‘If you’re sure, Mr Fletcher,’ he says. He just can’t think of a way of discussing what’s happened with his boss without giving the game away. Still, he supposes he’ll have a chance once the clients are hooked up. He’ll be able to talk freely then and hopefully, between them, they can get all this ironed out.

  But that’s not going to happen, as is made clear to him a few minutes later.

  ‘You want me to go as well?’ he asks, absolutely terrified.

  ‘Don’t worry, old cock,’ says Banks, ‘we’ll hold your hand if you’re worried.’

  Fletcher is scowling at the map presented on the machine.

  ‘Looks like there are four viable transfers at that address but one of them keeps flickering in and out. What’s all that about then?’

  Steve tries to be subtle again. ‘Maybe the “expert” isn’t entirely compatible with the machine?’ he suggests.

  Something about the alien’s physiology must be clashing with the sensors.

  Fletcher stares at him, clearly surprised. Then covers it up. ‘Obviously, that was my whole point, so you’ll have to transfer to the other three and, well’—he grins—‘be really convincing! Just get them over here, whatever it takes.’

  This is so wrong, Steve thinks, but has no idea how to fix it.

  ‘Come on,’ says Taylor, leading him over to one of the benches. ‘Trust me, you’ll love it!’

  Steve sits down, considers arguing one more time, then looks at Fletcher’s face and realises there simply isn’t any point. He puts the headset on and lies back.

  Banks gives a whoop of joy and puts on his own headset.

  ‘Come on then, lads, let the—’ And they’re gone.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  ‘I REALLY DON’T WANT YOU KILLING MY FRIENDS’

  Charlie does his best to get out of the way of the three people who are clearly no longer his friends. He’s known them such a short time but the difference in them is profound. Tanya’s energy has become a simmering threat of violence, April’s gentility is now all nervous twitches and clutching fingers, Matteusz’s grace is lost to awkward movements, the sign of someone who doesn’t know how to move without accidentally breaking something.

  ‘You want to borrow me?’ he asks. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  ‘I say we slap him anyway,’ says April. ‘Partly for fun, yeah? But also just to show we mean business.’

  ‘I’m up for that,’ says Tanya. ‘Fletcher didn’t say we couldn’t enjoy ourselves, did he?’

  ‘There’s no need,’ Matteusz insists. He looks pleadingly at Charlie. ‘Please just come with us. It’ll be much easier if you do.’

  ‘Screw easy,’ says April, leaping on Charlie with an enthusiastic roar. ‘I vote complicated but fun!’

  ‘Yeah!’ cries Tanya, joining in, the pair of them pulling Charlie to the ground and laughing.

  The door from the balcony crashes open and Quill moves in, grabbing both April and Tanya by the hair and yanking them back off Charlie.

  ‘Ow, you bitch!’ says April, holding on to her head.

  ‘Yeah, having long hair kind of hurts,’ adds Tanya.

  ‘As much as I, obviously, approve of anyone wanting to punch Charles, I’m afraid I’m not permitted to allow it,’ says Quill. ‘Anyone wanting to lay a finger on him has to go through me.’

  ‘OK,’ says April, running towards Quill with a laugh.

  ‘No!’ Charlie shouts, but not quick enough to stop Quill punching April and sending her sprawling across the floor.

  ‘Don’t hurt them, Quill,’ he says. ‘You can’t.’

>   ‘Can’t not,’ Quill replies. ‘Remember? If they try to physically harm you, I have to stop them.’ She taps at her head. ‘If you don’t like it, maybe you should have thought twice about having this thing put in my head.’

  ‘Please just come with us,’ begs Matteusz.

  ‘Don’t see why we should,’ Quill replies. ‘Do you?’

  ‘Because someone’s going to get hurt otherwise.’

  ‘Jesus, that guy’s a pussy,’ says Tanya.

  ‘I know,’ April agrees, holding a hand to her sore face. ‘I wish he’d stayed back there to work the machine. At least Fletcher’s got a spine.’

  ‘So have you, I’m sure,’ says Quill. ‘And if you attack the boy again, I’ll pull it out of you and beat your friend to death with it.’

  ‘I like her!’ says Tanya. ‘She’s hot!’

  ‘Yes,’ says Quill with a sigh. ‘Well, that’s going to go down as one of the most unpleasant moments of my life. The time Tanya Adeola lusted after me.’

  ‘It’s not Tanya,’ says Charlie.

  ‘I’m aware of that.’ Quill rolls her eyes. ‘I was just . . . Oh, never mind.’

  ‘We should run,’ Charlie says.

  ‘Why?’ Quill is incredulous. ‘They’re no threat to me.’

  ‘But you are to them, and I really don’t want you killing my friends.’

  ‘This is stupid,’ says April, storming out and heading for the kitchen. ‘It was supposed to be fun, not about getting punched in the face.’

  Tanya sidles over to one of the bookshelves, picks up a decorative paperweight, tosses it up and down in her hand like a ball for a few seconds, and then throws it at Quill. Quill steps aside, with no discernible effort.

  ‘If you’re going to start destroying the knickknacks,’ she says, ‘may I suggest you start with the candlesticks by the television? They’re particularly grotesque and I’ve been meaning to smash them to pieces myself. Quite why your species likes to surround itself with pointless clutter, I’ll never know.’

  ‘Bitch, you talk too much,’ says April, walking back in. She has a large knife in her hand. ‘Maybe we should shut you up, yeah?’