Short Story Sunday: E is for Explosive

For Ursula and her adventures with the ex-MI5 agent

The last time Harvey spoke to me, he warned me about the innocuous.

“Beware civilians, Cynthia,” he said. “It’s easy to overlook danger that’s right under your nose. Not all baddies come with Enid Blyton descriptors.”

Harvey was my mentor and superior. Everything I know about this game I learnt from watching him. Most of the time he didn’t speak to me at all, so it was a case of learning to read the signs: the tension in his breathing, the excitement in his cheek spasms, the fear in the sweat along his temple. Harvey taught me to read people, to notice them. I found reading him the most difficult because he had trained himself to render his features almost immobile. Those were the days before Botox, mind, so it took incredible control on his part to sustain that level of seeming indifference.

I spent so much time studying his face that I could see it behind my eyelids at night: his hair was wavy in the morning but straight in the evening owing to the number of times he ran his fingers through it. He told me once it had started in prep school when the school master asked him to solve a tricky bit of long division. His eyes were blue and flecked with brown near the iris. Our colleagues always teased him about his jowls, which he claimed he’d inherited from his father, together with a beak of a nose. He didn’t have lips as much as a gash for a mouth, which made him look amused rather than happy when he smiled. Harvey never went anywhere without a tweed jacket, a pocket watch and a penknife. When he was very drunk at the Christmas party of 1968, he claimed this combination had saved his bacon on many occasions. That was the same night he told me he loved me.

I never married, of course. Not in this business. It’s no good allowing sentiment to distract you from the fact that one of your slip-ups could cost lives. Harvey, on the other hand, had many affairs. He saw pleasure as a diversion and I think he rather enjoyed playing at James Bond. He thought he was discreet but after our trip to Montreal he got into the habit of sending his conquests to call on my hotel room the next day and, since I was good at getting rid of them for him, I suppose you could say we had a sort of gentleman’s agreement. I miss Harvey every day.

Back to the present: I am undercover and working on my next case.

“Where did you say you were from, dear?”

She is soaping my legs and feet. I decide to butter her up with my defenceless old lady routine. Her face is open and unlined with a high forehead and the hair tucked behind her ears is light brown.

“I’m from London at the moment.”

Somehow, I have misplaced the papers for my assignment. I have looked all over the study but they are gone. This new woman who calls herself Ursula Kuba is the target. I suspect ties with Moscow; her surname was my first clue. I cannot believe how sloppy the Reds have become. She is all over the house, with her loud voice and an accent I cannot place. She claims she is here to care for me, but I am having none of it. I wish Harvey were around. A quick phone call to him from the red box at the bottom of the road would straighten me out. Ursula is insisting I have a bath. I must play along for the sake of remembering my mission.

“And before that?”

“I have travelled all over, Cynthia. I have lived in South Africa, Australia and New Zealand and even in the United States for a while. For now I call London home.”

“What about your parents?”

“My father is German.”

I have never interrogated such a forthcoming target before. She might be lying.

“Really? Which part of Germany is he from?”

“His family is from Bavaria, I think. But now he’s moved north-east.”

“To Berlin?”

“Yes.”

“East Berlin?”

“I think so, yes. Why? Have you been there?” Her face beams innocence.

“I have, actually. Ghastly place. Full of communism and poverty.”

Ursula laughed. “I’m sure things have changed a bit since your last visit.”

“What do you mean?”

“Communism has been over for a while now, Cynthia. Ever since the Gorbachev years.”

“Gorbachev? Who is Gorbachev?” I begin to shout. “Who sent you?”

“Mikhail Gorbachev was the president of Russia during the late 1980s. And Brenda from ‘Helping Hands’ sent me.” She looks tired. I don’t believe her. She’s been wiping my left foot for an age. I decide to change tack and kick her across the face. Her eyes cloud with anger as a mark appears on her cheek.

“Cynthia, why did you do that?”

“I know who you’re working for, Miss Kuba. What did they send you to find? I won’t talk. You’ll get nothing out of me.”

She withdraws the bucket and washcloth. “I’m going to make us some tea, Cynthia. Would you like some? With a chocolate biscuit?”

The old distraction routine. “Fine. But when you get back, we’re going to have a serious talk, young lady.”

Her nod is resigned.

I think I may have bought myself at least seven minutes to look for my instruction papers. I feel down the side of armchair. The book! I had forgotten. I open it and scan my last entry. I know I would have put the coded instructions here to jog my memory. Oh no. There’s a bomb on a railway track. We don’t know which and she’s the link to the Reds. I need to call her back, but I have forgotten the target’s name.

“Young lady! Get back here!”

She is impassive and wiping her hands on a tea towel when she appears at the door.

“I’m not playing games. Where is the bomb?”

“What bomb, Cynthia? I’ve just gone to make tea.”

“The bomb you and the Reds have planted. Our intelligence tells me that it’s on a railway track and, mark my words, our intelligence is far superior to yours.”

To my horror, she starts laughing. “If that is the case, Cynthia, why don’t you know where the bomb is?”

I didn’t expect her to be this clever. “Oh, I know where it is. I just need you to confirm what I know. I’m not going to overplay my hand at this stage, young lady. Now tell me. Where is the bomb?”

A whistle from the kitchen distracts her. “I’ll be right back with the tea.”

I calculate that I have around three minutes before her return. Not much time to think of a new modus operandi. I decide to hide behind the door and grab her in a headlock. My feet slip on the floor as I try to stand. Saboteur! Suddenly she is back, carrying a tray. I’m sure the tea is poisoned; I’m not falling for that trick. I decide to stay still and wait for her to come to me. She places the tray on the table. I see she has done a good job of covering the milk with a doily and arranging the biscuits in a geometric pattern on the plate. She takes a blanket from the sofa and comes towards me.

“You must be quite chilly after your wash, Cynthia. Here, let me tuck you in.” As she leans down, I grab the scruff of her neck with one hand and clasp her jaw with the other.

“Where is the bomb, girl?”

“I don’t know what you are talking about, Cynthia.” She is trembling. I have finally got to her.

“Tell me right now where the explosives are secured or I will kick you out of my house and across the railway line.” The colour drains from her face and pools around the grip of my fingers.

“They’re on the express train. It’s due at ten.”

I release her. The confession was too easy. I am as exhausted as she.

“Can I pour your tea now, Cynthia?”

Tea seems ludicrous. I have to tell Harvey. I have to warn him about the express.

“I’ve given you two chocolate biscuits. I know it’s your favourite.”

I don’t have the energy to respond.

“I’ll just leave it here, on the side table. Ring the bell if you need me, ok?”

Must get word. Must tell Harvey. Express. At ten.

“Cynthia? Are you all right?” I hear footsteps down the hall. “A&E? Yes, I need an ambulance. The woman in my care is unconscious. Her pulse is weak. Yes. Fifty-eight Tottenham Court Road. Thank you. And hurry.”

Must tell Harvey. Harvey. Harvey.

Short Story Sunday: Faye

Faye held her clipboard to her chest and watched the revellers undulate on the dance floor. In her ear, Franco was muttering about another screw up in the kitchen. She smiled and delivered her usual advice: “Make it happen.”

Franco retorted, as always, “Faye, I cannot work like this.”

It was a routine they had rehearsed over the years. She was the calm one and Franco the diva. It was a system that worked and was what had made F&F Functions achieve success.

“Tell the chef to replace the crème fraîche with cream cheese, Frankie.”

“But that is the most cliché combination.”

“It’s canapés at a fragrance launch, darling, not the Embassy Ball. Besides, the way these dancers are going, I don’t think they’ll care what they eat as long as it tastes good.” The silence on his end confirmed her gut feeling. “You know I’m right, Frankie.”

“Yes, and for once I wish I was the one saying those words.” His microphone caught the first of his orders across the kitchen and she imagined his arms flailing.

“You look pleased with yourself.”

Faye strained her eyes at the man beside her. “Oh, god, yes, Mr Mitchell, sir.” She took a deep breath. “Are you enjoying the evening?”

“Call me Brian. These types of things are much of a muchness as far as I’m concerned.” He glanced at the Tag Heuer on his wrist. “I’d prefer to be home, with a glass of wine and a bowl of pasta.” He stared at the dance floor.

The music concealed her snort. This man had less than nine percent of fat on his body.

Faye’s earpiece crackled with Franco’s voice and she jumped.

“Cream cheese as requested. I hope you are happy.”

She gestured an apology at Brian and turned her back on him. “I am eternally grateful, Frankie. What’s the ETA on the canapés? I think we need to start counteracting the cocktails.”

“He’s there, isn’t he?”

“Frankie? Canapé ETA?”

“I know you, Faye. He’s there. And he’s hot, right?”

“Two minutes, you say? Good. Thanks, Frankie. I’m out.”

If she were alone, she knew she’d have told Franco something very different.

“Here they are.” Brian gestured at the waiters carting trays of bite-sized food around the dance floor. “Right on time.”

Faye hoped the disco lights would hide her colour.

“You look flushed.” One hand landed on her elbow and the other rested on the small of her back. “Let’s get you some fresh air. You’ve been working too hard.”

They wove between the tables that had been set for the banquet and stepped into the foyer. The absence of noise was a relief and Faye’s ears popped.

Brian summoned a waiter. “Ice water, please. And hurry.”

“Thank you, Mr Mitchell. I’m fine, I promise.”

The waiter materialised with a glass.

“Drink up, Faye.”

She knew it wasn’t a request. She felt like a five-year-old who’d scraped her knee on the playground and was now being made to drink sugar water for shock.

“Much better. You look your old self.” Her face must have given away her sentiments. “You know I don’t mean ‘old’ in that way.”

Franco’s quickstep filled the foyer. “Is everything all right, Faye, darling?”

She nodded.

“Mr Mitchell, you are needed backstage. You’re due in four minutes.”

It seemed Brian had no intention of letting her go. “Thank you, Franco. Might Miss Duncan escort me?”

“I’m afraid Faye is needed in the control room. Allow me.”

Faye cleared her throat. The icy water tickled her lungs and she feared she might cough. “Thank you again, Mr Mitchell, for rescuing me.” Her professionalism was back. “The control room, Frankie? Excuse me, please.”

The mirror in the lift confirmed what she’d feared. She was pink and her lips had swollen from the combination of the cold drink and desire. Teasing her fringe and smoothing her hair, she lamented the unflattering light and resolved to steer clear of Brian Mitchell. The lift doors opened and a waiter met her.

“Faye Duncan? Call for you.” He handed her a Smartphone.

“Hello?” She kept walking to the control room.

“It’s Brian. I wanted to thank you for your exemplary work this evening. I’m due on stage in about 45 seconds and I wanted to check whether you’d meet me for a drink at eleven. I’ll be in the foyer.”

“I don’t think so. You’re technically still my boss.” She opened the door and waved at the AV crew.

“Only until ten-thirty. After that, I used to be your boss.”

Through the control room windows, she saw the emcee invite the audience to take their seats in the arena.

“Say yes, Faye.”

The emcee cracked a joke and the audience tittered.

“One drink is all I ask.”

The AV team kerfuffled around her, trying to locate the file with the intro material about the fragrance launch.

“Make mine a gin and tonic.” She ended the call and tossed the phone onto the desk.

Brian smiled. He’d have to remember to give the emcee a bonus; he was outdoing himself with a boring launch and a tipsy audience. He glanced at the Tag Heuer again. Eleven o'clock couldn't come soon enough. He'd been dreaming of the moment when he’d finally get to sink his teeth into the tendons of Faye’s neck and taste her blood.

Poetry Post

The Hounds of Winter

I wake --
They snap at my heels,
Pressing noses to my cheek,
Chilling my bones. Their

Breath escapes in clouds,
Icy spots track their paws:
The Hounds of Winter are
On the prowl, feasting on
Warmth and hope before
Slinking into shadows and
Waiting for the first frost.

Short Story Sunday: S'Wonderful

They say history repeats itself; I am living proof. Every year I mean to be organised, and I mean to prepare myself for days like this, but I keep putting it off until the last possible second because – truthfully – I hate shopping malls. Yet, here I am, mulling over which bunch of flowers looks least offensive and most expensive. I can’t mask my horror at what people pay for six dying plant uteruses. You might have guessed I’m not a fan of flowers. But the person I am buying for is. I think she might like what they called the “Medley”. It’s got a purple-pink theme and there’s a whole lot of greenery. The price makes me feel ill.

The next step is to find an accompaniment for the flowers: despite those advertisements, flowers don’t say it all. And, besides, you can’t do anything with them except shove the stems in water and that gooey plant food they include and place it on a table or sideboard to slowly rot in its own juices. Perfume turns to pong rather quickly, if you know what I mean. No, it’s important to give chocolates or biscuits, wine or a scarf, something – anything – to justify the flora. I can’t help but wonder, as I appraise the rows of earrings, why we participate in this dance of lies where we buy stuff we might like for people who might want it purely as social insurance. I have settled on an assortment of rhinestone earrings and the medley for her vase. I hope she likes it. Even if she doesn’t, I’ll console myself with the lie that it’s the thought that counts. I hate that moment when (and it’s usually after I have re-gifted something) I see the faux joy on someone’s face at the plastic placemat that’s actually a candle shield! I had to add that exclamation mark so you’d know how enthusiastic I am. Did you detect the irony? (Thank goodness we’re on the same page.)

The only thing that makes these expeditions somewhat enjoyable is eavesdropping. You heard me. I mean, I cannot abide shopping with a friend, especially those svelte sorts who look good in everything and then agonise for hours over whether they should take the size 6 or size 8 denim jacket, and what a bargain it is at only eleven-ninety-nine. Oh, shut up. I like to listen when I shop. People think they’re invisible and start discussing all kinds of dirty laundry. I suppose I have been considered odd on more than one occasion when I surreptitiously (with varying degrees of success) follow people to hear more.

“It’s become something of a bad habit,” said Thandi. Look, I don’t really know their names, but I make them up and imagine it’s a sitcom.

“I’ve told you before, you need to dump him. All these booty calls with Andrew mean no other, more deserving men get to see your booty.”

“Sa-am! Why are you talking about my booty? Although, OMGEEE! I saw these jeans that are to die for.”

Now I’m bored. I wanted to know more about the bad habit. Pfft. I decide to peruse the lingerie section. I spot a tiff.

“Mom! Why did you bring me here?”

“I need your objective opinion about these. Do you think the red or black is better?”

“Holy cow, Mom! I’m not going to think about you naked.”

“Libby, come on. Don’t you want a new Daddy? I’m doing this for both of us.”

Ewwww. Make up counter, here I come.

“Since I started using the ivory, people have asked me if I’ve got yellow fever, Ricardo. I can’t go on like this.”

“Okay, Mrs Reeve, have a seat and I’ll get Felicia to bring out her colour chart.”

“Yellow, Ricardo!”

She doesn’t exactly look like a Minion, but I guess that’s her vanity talking. Poor woman. I catch a glimpse of myself in those awful shop mirrors. I look like an extra from The Corpse Bride – and those were puppets.

The layout of this section, where they keep the perfume, is dazzling. I love the glass containers with coffee beans to clear the nasal palate between sniffs. It never works for me but I sniff anyway. I love the exotic posters of celebrities and models airbrushed to within an inch of looking like Androids enticing me with their lusty expressions. I am such a perfume whore; I fall for it every time. I honestly believe that D&G will have me “Dreaming in Portofino” or that I’ll smell like a “Daisy” with the help of Mark Jacobs. Or that Armani will have men saying “Sí” at first sight.

“See anything you like?”

Where did he come from? “No. I’m just wishing.”

“Oh. I thought you might be shopping for a gift.” He gestures at the flowers and earrings.

“Yes, well spotted, Sherlock. But this is the extent of my love for the person who’ll get this.”

“And what about you? Shouldn’t you spoil yourself?”

I know I must resist this sales talk, but fragrances are my Kryptonite. “As I said, I’m just wishing.” I allow myself to look at him. I blink, twice. He looks just like that Calvin Klein underwear model from the men’s section. Well, hello there.

“Your wish is my command.”

“Do they teach you cheesy lines like that at marketing school?”

“I’m not a salesperson.”

“Then who are you?”

“My name is James.”

“Sounds like a predator’s name. Are you going to rob me?”

“Not today.”

Well, this is awkward. I’ve got Captain Dreamboat gawking at me and I’m squeezing the flowers so hard I think they might be wilting and my legs will not move. This must be a waking dream and I’m having sleep paralysis.

He takes my right hand and tilts it so that the palm is up. The display nearest us is Armani and he retrieves my favourite, Acqua di Gioia, water of joy. The sleep paralysis is embarrassing. He slides his thumb over my wrist to move my bracelet out of the way and then spritzes Armani on the crease. After replacing the tester on the shelf, he holds my hand, studying it almost. Then, with his other hand, he takes my elbow and guides my wrist to his nose. He inhales. His eyes close. 

“You smell delicious.”

“You mean, ‘expensive’.” I cannot help but smile.

He opens his eyes and I think Cupid was behind me the whole time because now I’m seeing cartoon hearts all around his head. He drops my hand and I bring it to my chest, as if to protect it. I realise that I’m holding a card and look at it. It’s black with silver text declaring that the owner is James Anderson, CEO. I can’t read further because I suddenly feel clammy – the prelude to fainting.

“When next you feel like wishing, drop me a line. I hate telephones. My email is on the back.”

“You don’t even know my name.”

“It doesn’t matter. I’ll remember this.” He strokes my cheek with his thumb before brushing past me. Ricardo and Mrs Reeve are still arguing about her yellow complexion. Libby and her Mom are debating the merits of lace over satin. Thandi is telling Sam that while Andrew is a bad habit, habits are hard to break. I am a statue amongst the perfume, alternating between grinning and glancing at the card in my hand. Diana Krall starts up over the PA system.

“S’Wonderful. S’Marvellous...”

I couldn’t agree more.

Short Story Sunday: The Compass Star (For Mothers and Daughters Everywhere)

Every night, before she went to bed, Laura looked out of her window at the sky. Her mother, recognising the routine, would fall into the pattern of their conversation.

“What are you looking for, darling?”

“My Compass Star.”

“Any luck tonight?”

“No. But it’s out there.”

“Turn out the light when you’re done looking. Sleep well.”

“Night, Mom.”

When she was older, and Laura’s mother was no longer around to put her to bed, her habit persisted. At university, no matter where she was – or how raucous the party had been – she continued her study of the skyscape. Her varsity boyfriend, Impatient Brian, who specialised in marketing, tried to encourage her to study astronomy so that she would know what she was seeing. Laura declined. There was Orion’s belt and the Southern Cross and the rest was just a mystery – which was completely OK by her. When she found what she was looking for, she’d know. It was that simple. Some nights, when she felt like giving up, she’d see a glimmer of light and her heart would pound expectantly, restoring her hope and her belief in the Compass Star. Perching on the bed, planting her elbows on the sill and resting her chin on her palms, Laura would find herself sighing. It always seemed so close and yet so far away.

The man she married, Lovely Ben, found her search quirky and gave her the time she needed to gaze at the sky before joining him in the cocoon of their bed. During the late nights and early mornings of their child-rearing days, Laura took comfort in the sparkles that dragged the earth back to morning. 

On their daughter’s fifth birthday, Laura was confronted with a question she didn’t expect.

“Mummy?”

“Yes, love?”

“How do you know the Compass Star is in the sky?”

Laura looked up from where she was tidying the kitchen. Her mind imploded, shattering the belief she’d held for as long as she could remember. She walked around the counter, gathered her daughter in her arms and sank into the couch.

“What do you mean, Lizzy?”

“You keep looking for it every night and you don’t find it. Maybe it’s not out there.”
“It has to be, love. Where else could it be?”

Lizzy placed a hand on Laura’s chest, sure of her stance. “In here, Mummy. The only place you didn’t look.”

With a touch of lips to Laura’s cheek, Lizzy slipped off her lap, picked up her doll, Fairy Sarah, and went to her bedroom. Laura could not bring herself to move or end the moment. From the kitchen window, the night beckoned her, whispering promises that this would be the occasion when she’d find her heart’s desire. But her enthusiasm was gone. Her daughter was right. Everything she’d ever needed, ever looked for, she already had. It suddenly seemed so obvious. She stood up, and walked down the passage to Lizzy’s room. Lizzy was talking to Fairy Sarah about Cinderella, which she’d watched earlier.

“Must I go to sleep, Mummy?”

“Not yet.” Laura’s eyes brimmed. “I came to tell you something.” She perched on the bed. “I think you were right about my Compass Star.”

“Ok.”

“But I think I have finally found it. Right under my nose.”

“Where?”

Laura stroked Lizzy’s cheek. “In you. You give my life meaning. When I was a girl, looking for my star, I think I was waiting to meet you. And I think that, one day, when you have a daughter, you’ll find your star in her too.”

“Ok, Mummy.” Her brow wrinkled. “Fairy Sarah is sleepy now, so we have to stop talking.”

“Yes, you’re right.” She kissed her temple. “Goodnight Lizzy. Goodnight Fairy Sarah.” She turned on the nightlight, which cast galaxies on the wall, and walked to the door. Laura watched Lizzy snuggle her doll and whispered: “Goodnight, Compass Star.”