Falloir (Passion Noire Book 2) (17 page)

I feel my eyes getting big as my heart starts thumping. I shake my head quickly. ‘No swimming. I can’t swim. I don’t like swimming.’ My voice doesn’t sound right ... it doesn’t sound like me.

‘Shit, Kid. I’m sorry, I didn’t think. But look, if you’d like to learn how to swim or you’d like to stay where it’s not deep so you can keep your feet on the bottom, like being in a big bath, let me know. I’ll take you and keep you safe. I swim better than fishes do.’

He gives me a smile but it doesn’t last. I know he feels bad.

‘It’s a shame you weren’t being a fish that night,’ I say. ‘You could have taught me and my mum.’

‘Your mum could swim. She was a fantastic swimmer,’ he says and I’m confused. But then I think he’s right because she kept getting me up to the top where I could breathe and that would explain it. Then she disappeared and I didn’t know why but if she could swim, then she could swim away, couldn’t she?

I hear Jones say, ‘Fuck,’ but it’s really quiet, like he swallowed it. I turn to see what’s wrong.

He takes those glasses off and looks at me in a funny way, like he’s worried or scared.

‘It’s okay, I know.’ I say quietly. I think he’s sorry for talking about that night. That place.

‘You know?’ he says, his blue eyes seem to be looking through mine.

They’re like my mum’s but they’re even lighter. My mum’s were like the colour of the sky, right now. Or at least that’s how I remember them. I worry sometimes that I’ll forget what she looks like and that she’ll forget me. What if she was in one of those busy shops we went past earlier? What if she was in the food place? What if I don’t recognise her? And what if she doesn’t recognise me now I’m getting really big? What if I never see her again?

I feel like something’s squeezing my chest. I can’t breathe. My head starts banging and I feel like I’m going to fall over, although I’m sitting down. I try to tell Jones but I can’t get my breath. I see his face change.

‘Fuck,’ he says again, louder this time. ‘Veuve’s going to fucking kill me.’

I don’t know what he’s going on about but he gets up and starts emptying all the boxes and wrappers from our food on to the table. Then he scrunches up the top of the brown bag and holds it out to me.

‘Breathe in and out of this as slowly as you can,’ he says.

I push it away. I can’t breathe. The last thing I need is something over my mouth.

‘Kid, listen. You’re having a panic attack. Nothing’s going to happen. You’ll calm down soon but if you breathe in and out of this bag, it will make you feel better faster. You feel dizzy. Your chest is tight and you can’t breathe. Your head’s thumping and your skin feels tingly. You’re panicking because you’re panicking ... the more you panic, the worse it gets.’

He can fuck off. I’m not panicking ... but all those things he described, that’s exactly how I’m feeling but my chest is burning now as I try to suck air in but it feels like my throat’s closed up. Jones looks funny and I realise that all around him is going black. I look over at the tennis courts and the black is still there.

‘Kid, if you feel like I said, I know what this is. Take the fucking bag and try to breathe in and out slowly. Stick your head in the bag if you have to. It will help, I promise you.’

I’m really starting to feel like I’m going to either be sick or fall over. I don’t have the strength to push him away when he puts the bag over my mouth after he shows me what to by breathing in and out inside the bag. His hand rubs back and forth across my shoulders. It feels like Veuve. Or my mum. I wish they were here. I think I’m dying. I really think my heart is going to just stop any second now. I don’t want to die. Then I feel weird, like I’m floating but I can’t see anything.

I open my eyes and I’m lying on the grass. Jones is holding my feet up off the floor. I frown at him, wondering what he’s doing. I must look really stupid, lying here like this. When he sees me watching him, he looks relieved like he thought I was dying too. He puts my feet down and holds out his hand to help me up. I go to stand but he stops me.

‘Slowly sit up and stay sitting for a few minutes. You fainted. Your blood pressure needs to settle. Just give it a few,’ he says.

I shake my head. ‘I didn’t faint. I just closed my eyes.’ I’ve watched a TV programme where someone fainted. It was like they’d died. They just fell down, splat. I’d know if I’d done that.

Jones nods but there’s a little smile on his face. I don’t know what he thinks is funny. But I think he’s right about sitting down, I still feel like crap. He sits down next to me.

‘I’m sorry, mate. I didn’t mean for you to find out like that,’ he says.

I shrug. I haven’t got a clue what he’s talking about. I’m trying to remember what he was saying before I felt funny.

‘I mean I don’t know for sure but I’m trying to get proof. We could do a simple DNA test but we’d both feel happier if we found her, wouldn’t we?’

I nod, not following at all then I remember—we were talking about my mum and talking about that night made me feel ill. The thought of never seeing her again. I should have known—I used to feel unwell when Veuve wanted to talk but it never felt this bad. ‘Yes. She’s my mum,’ I whisper, nodding again. Of course I’d feel happier if we found her. ‘It was a shame she didn’t see them men who got me out, she could have got out with me if she had ... except ...’ I was going to say that she swam off and left me but I couldn’t quite bring myself to say it. Why would she leave me? Do you have to keep moving if you swim? Like I’ve seen fishes do on those TV programmes? Maybe that’s what she was doing and when she came back, I’d gone.

‘Except for the fact that the bastards put something on you both to weigh you down. She did bloody well to get yours off. She didn’t panic because she loved the water. She kept her head and that saved you although it must have been close if you can’t swim and you were rescued. If your rescuers had seen you just a few minutes earlier, seconds even, they might have been able to save her too.’ He goes quiet for a minute. He looks really sad. ‘
If,
always the word of choice after the event. She didn’t stand a fucking chance thanks to those evil bastards. I’m sorry, Kid but I tell you this, I will hunt down and bring to justice every one of them that is responsible for Sandy’s death. And if you want to, you can help me.’

I frown. His sister’s dead? ‘I’m sorry about your sister,’ I say.

He smiles but he looks like he’s going to cry. ‘Thanks buddy but being your mum would have meant more to her than being my sister. I haven’t seen her for so long. I’d always hoped that I’d find her alive but now I know she’s dead, I have to accept it. But there’s you. Sandy’s son. My nephew. I know you’d rather have your mum here and that’s never going to happen now and God only knows how we found each other but you’ve gained an uncle. I’m proud to be your uncle, if you’ll have me. I don’t normally go in for that mumbo jumbo shit but it’s weird how we’ve found each other. I mean, what are the odds? Your mum being my sister and then me finding you like that, completely by chance when I took Dean to Veuve’s that night?’

The whole time he’s speaking a horrible humming sound has been growing louder and louder. I can hear Jones but it’s like he’s inside my head with the humming sound. What he’s saying makes no sense.

My mum being his sister ... he’s my uncle … what’s an uncle? …

I’m Sandy’s son? Sandy is my mum ...

He said Sandy was dead ... that means ... no ...
no way.

‘Nooooooooo!’ I shout, holding my hands over my ears as I try to stand up but I fall back down. I scrabble again. I need to get away from him, this liar next to me. That humming noise is so loud that it’s making my head feel like it’s going to explode but over it is his booming voice ... ‘Sandy’s son ... Sandy’s death,’ repeating over and over.

I grasp at my head, grabbing handfuls of hair and I pull on them. It hurts like hell but it helps to distract me. I need to get this voice out of my head. He’s lying. My mum’s not dead. She can’t be. He’s not my uncle. He’s just another cruel man. All men must be cruel liars. I want Veuve. I want my mum. I burst into tears and everything goes black.

VEUVE’S FLAT IS GOING to have to wait. I need to get The Kid home. The Kid ... what kind of a name is that? He can’t go through the rest of his life being called that—what happens when he reaches middle age? Old age? Besides, he’s going to need a birth certificate sorting so he’ll need a name for that. I’m not sure who the best person is for that sort of thing. If I get another deniable op for Queen and country, I could make that a requirement under my terms and conditions but I’d much rather they didn’t know anything about him. I don’t like MI6 knowing anything about me, never mind having something on me. They can be ruthless bastards when they choose to be.

I’ve laid him out on the back seat. He’s out cold and I know I’m taking a risk, driving with him like this ... if he wakes up and kicks off again, it could be fun being behind the wheel. I’m just going to take him back to mine. He’s had a shock. I thought he’d put two and two together when I told him his mother was a good swimmer. To my sharp, suspicious brain, that was a blatant giveaway. He’s a bright kid but with so many gaps in his vocabulary and understanding, it’s easy to get crossed wires with him. It’s also easy to forget that not everyone overanalyses everything like I do. A bad habit in civilian life but one that kept me alive.

I’m turning into my road when I hear him moaning. Thank fuck for that, we’ll be home in seconds. I slow down anyway, just in case he freaks. I see it the second I enter the bend in the road, several hundred yards before my flat. I slam my brakes on.
Fuck.
Now what?

There’s a bus coming the other way. The instant it passes my flat, I slam the car in reverse, pulling back into the entrance to a cul-de-sac and then pulling out in front of the bus. Right in front of the bus. I floor it, heading towards Veuve’s flat.

I doubt they’ve seen me but I can’t take chances. I can’t abandon Veuve and The Kid right now but the bods in the nondescript grey saloon parked outside my flat don’t take no for an answer. And, unless I speak to them, I’ve got no idea of the job they need me to do. No idea of what, where or how long. Of course, once I speak to them, it’s too late. They have ways of making sure you do what they want. I don’t need my life complicating right now. I don’t need a harder time than the one I’m having. And they could make my life very difficult if I don’t jump when they ask, the moment they ask.

Fuck it.

The last time I tried to evade them by driving off, they put my registration plate out to the local constabulary when I didn’t return home that night. I was picked up by a traffic officer as I left my mate’s place after I’d crashed on his sofa. Within minutes, I was in the back of a dark grey saloon. These fuckers play hardball and right now, I need to get the answers I need about Thierri, Paul and Sandy. I can’t go fucking off to the depths of some godforsaken country that has pissed off Her Majesty’s Government.

I toy with leaving the car in the alley behind Vouloir and getting a cab with Veuve back to hers. But I’ve got a membership with the club and I don’t want them sticking their oar in there ... some things are best kept private. They know all my aliases. It’s their job to know these things. And, for the same reason, I don’t want to leave the car outside Veuve’s flat.

I need to stay out of the city centre ... my registration plate would be flagged up in seconds if they did see me reverse off. I remember that I have to pick up my coloured contact lenses from an independent optician near Veuve’s so I head over that way. If she’s going to be stuck with me while I lie low, I can’t keep wearing these stupid sunglasses all the time.

When I pull into a space in front of a parade of shops, including the opticians, I notice a small motor factors place. I head over, making sure The Kid is still out of it, although I doubt he’d leave the car, not by himself. I leave with a smile on my face, two fake number plates and some stick on Velcro strips—it’s incredible what a decent cash bribe can achieve. I throw them on to the passenger seat before I go and pick up my contacts. I ask the woman to help me get them in but she says I need to do it myself. Shit, it makes your eyes burn when you’re poking at your eyeball with inexperienced fingers. I spy a hardware store, just a little place but it has what I need to make Veuve’s front door useable and secure until the replacement is fitted.