The Storm Protocol (47 page)

‘Yeah, about that....’ said Dave.

The long agonised scream of anguish could be heard over a mile away, as the photograph was turned face down onto the desk.

22
nd
May 2011 – Twelve days after the Storm.

Life is so constructed, that the event does not, cannot, will not, match the expectation. – Charlotte Bronte.

When Tony dropped him off, he was looking forward to relaxing in his favourite chair, the one that looked out over the sea. He would shake off his shoes and catch up on the evening paper, maybe even have a beer or two. But as his key turned in the lock and the door swung open, he encountered something in his house that he hadn't experienced in a very long time; cooking smells.

He dropped his laptop and the
paper beside his favourite spot on the sofa, and followed the trail. It took him through the double doors and into the dining room where he noted with interest the table set for two, the lit candles flickering in his back draft as he continued on his way.

David carried on through the dining room, and as he neared the kitchen
, he heard a soft singing. He stopped in the doorway, realising that she hadn’t noticed he was there. He leant against the door jamb and studied her with interest.

He had been so preoccupied over the last two days that he had barely noticed her presence, despite the empty boasts to Ben that very same morning.

Her white blonde hair was tied back in a simple ponytail. She wore no trace of make-up; no trace of the war paint, the disguise she required to do what she did. She was wearing a pair of figure hugging jeans and an oversized shirt; David recognised it as one of his own, a Ralph Lauren that was well past its best. He noted how much better it looked on her, surprised that he’d noticed at all. She wore no shoes or socks and he was struck by how shapely and exquisite her feet were, compared to his size eleven boats.

She continued to work in that completely unselfconscious way
that people do when they think they're alone. She was so relaxed and so peaceful that he felt strangely dirty; like a voyeur.

He coughed loudly and involuntarily, startling both of them. She turned
to fix him with a direct and unwavering stare. All he could hear was the sizzling of the stir fry and the hammering of his own heart as it beat fiercely inside his rib cage. He couldn't look at her and he felt her eyes probing the space between them, desperately trying to make eye contact, until he relented and their fields of vision combined and locked.

She held his gaze gently, almost caressing it with hers. He felt the emotion welling up and had to choke it back. He could feel his guard dropping and he couldn’t afford to let it slip
. Or could he?

He had to play a part
for so much of the time, to act in the way that people expected of him, that he found it very difficult to relax. But he met her challenge head on, and in his own kitchen, he found David McCabe, the lonely orphan boy, seeping slowly back, eliminating the Bullock minute by minute.

‘I didn't know what was....
expected,’ she finished awkwardly, pointing at the dinner and then gesturing toward the dining room.

‘I’m sorry?’ asked
David.

He hadn’t really been listening.

‘Being brought to this house,’ she replied. ‘I didn't know what was expected of me.’

David tried on his loud manly laugh and it was then he realised how patronising and chauvinistic it sounded.

‘You don't have to do the cooking,’ he said. ‘We have staff to bring us food.’

He watched her face collapse slightly. He was not used to saying and doing the right thing.

‘Unless of course you want to,’ he finished hurriedly, tailing off.

‘It smells delicious,’ he added hopefully.

‘Are you hungry then?’ she asked.

He smiled and then started laughing, he didn’t know why; maybe a release of tension. She joined in and he was astonished to realise that her laugh was genuine.

‘Do you know what?’ he said, relaxing with every second. ‘I’m bloody starving.’

He busied himself in the kitchen, finding with embarrassment that he knew where very little of his
own belongings actually were. By the time she had boiled and decanted the noodles onto two plates, he had only just managed to find the condiments and napkins. He put out two Italian beers, popping the tops with a hiss of exploding gas. He placed two glasses of water at each setting and a large wooden chopping board for the wok.

He sat down at the far side
and watched as she dropped the pan onto the makeshift mat, the contents still spitting and sizzling wildly. She proceeded to start serving and he saw with some amusement the portion size she gave herself. She looked at him and noted his eyebrow curling upward questioningly.

‘I don't always eat this well,’ she answered simply.

There was nothing he could say to that.

‘Also, it's a pleasure to cook with such simple and wholesome ingredients,’ she said.

He blinked; he wasn’t used to a woman being so forthright and straightforward. Who was he kidding; he wasn’t used to a woman full stop.

‘Excuse me,’ she said, as he helped himself.

She was back in a couple of seconds. She offered him the packet; chopsticks, another thing he didn't realise he had.

‘No thanks,’ he replied, shaking his head
.

There was a sudden crack as she broke the implements apart, and then she tucked in with gusto, noticing his eyebrow rising again as she did so.

‘Backpacked around Asia after I got my degree,’ she said. ‘Now I can’t eat Asian food any other way.’

He stopped chewing.

‘Don’t be too surprised,’ she said, ‘there’s more of us than you think. We’re not all uneducated crack addicts.’

He pondered the word
us
before taking the plunge.

‘So how did....’

‘....so how did a nice girl like me end up in a place like this?’ she completed, smiling.

He looked down in embarrassment; he didn’t know why.

‘Like a lot of people do, I expect,’ she said. ‘I needed the money.’

He looked at her
then with an unbroken stare, feeling the first faint stirrings of pity. She mistook his pity for distaste and felt an unreasonable need to justify herself.

‘I’m not a s
treetwalker.’

She paused.

‘Not that those poor girls have anything to be ashamed of,’ she followed up quickly. ‘I was just in a better and luckier position financially when I started.’

‘So a high-class hooker,’ said David, wincing as she looked up sharply.

‘Escort?’ he ventured.

She nodded.

‘Better,’ she said, smiling at his discomfort. ‘Not so sure about the
high-class
bit, but initially I started doing escort work, accompanying wealthy businessmen to functions and balls. If they wanted to take it further, then it was an optional extra that could be negotiated. I built up a very good and very loyal clientele. It got to the stage where I only needed to work one day a week, maybe two days max. And then, I got lazy and complacent and I was raped.’

David’s head jerked
back up in surprise.

‘Oh
it happens all right,’ she continued, chewing thoughtfully. ‘Even though I was an escort, everything I did with my dates was consensual. They fully understood that. I was in charge.’

She must have mistaken his expression for judgement because her face hardened.

‘I make no apologies for what I do,’ she said, fixing David with a firm and direct stare. ‘This particular client wanted me to do something that I just didn't want to do, so he decided to force me. As far as he was concerned, he was paying for sex and he was going to take it how he wanted it. My feelings didn’t come into it at all for him.’

‘What did you do
after that?’ asked David, his voice barely above a whisper.

‘From that day on, I swore I would never be put in that position again.’

‘What’s your name?’ David asked.

She seemed flustered by the sudden change in tack.

‘Sam,’ she answered.

‘Well, Sam,’ said David, and he could feel the intense and suppressed rage in his voice. ‘You have my word. I guarantee that you will never be put in that position again, and if anything happens to you, I will hunt them down and kill them myself.’

She smiled at the almost juvenile earnestness of his statement, and then noticed the look in his eye.

‘You’re serious aren’t you?’ she said.

He nodded and she noticed a single tear tracking down his cheek.

‘You’re not
the arsehole they said you were,’ she said.

‘You must have me on a good day,’ he answered, blinking another tear away and wiping his face on the napkin. ‘So what did you expect?’

‘Not you anyway,’ she said, a little playfully.

‘So, should I take that as a compliment?’ asked David.

‘It was meant as one,’ she said.

‘So is that how you came to work for us?’ asked David.

‘I approached one of your guys,’ she said. ‘I crossed his palm with silver, and he made sure the ex client who raped me had an extra long stay in hospital. I especially wanted him to know that the beating had come courtesy of me.’

David smiled; he really liked her.

‘We worked out a system then, him and me. He organises a guy to run security for all my liaisons. That person stops the tricks on the way in and makes it very clear what will happen to them if they try something that I don't like. He then stops them again on the way out and calls me to make sure they didn’t. I give your organisation a percentage of my take; larger than I'd like to, but it keeps me safe and that’s my priority.’

‘Ben organised that for you,’ said David.

It was a statement not a question.

‘Normally the girls have no choice whether they come here, according to Ben. He gave me the option, and I have to say I was curious.’

‘So, what do they say about me?’ asked David interestedly.

‘You really want to know?’ Sam asked.

David swallowed hard and nodded.

‘I'm paraphrasing here,’ she said, ‘but unfeeling
, unthinking wanker with a God complex. Will do anything for money and doesn't care about any other living thing.’

‘Don’t sugar-coat it then, I can take it,’ said David wryly.

‘You asked,’ she said defensively.

He smiled disarmingly.

He was a strange one, she thought. Not your typical gangster.

‘So what’s your story?’ she asked. ‘How did you become such a cold hearted bastard?’

‘Be careful,’ David warned, half heartedly.

‘I’m a good judge of character,’ she said. ‘You won't hurt me.’

David inclined his head.

‘Touché,’ he said. ‘But in answer to your questio
n, I don't really think I have a story.’

She smiled.

‘Everyone has a story.’

He thought about it for a few minutes, looking for a place to start.

‘I loved my dad,’ he stated simply. ‘He owned a very successful suite of bookmakers and gambling businesses. Turned out he was also one of the most successful drug dealers in the country.’

‘And how did that make you feel when you found out?’

‘To be honest, I’d always kind of suspected there was some illegality there. We were pretty rich; not the kind of rich you get as a standard taxpayer. I think John was more shocked than me initially, put it that way.’

‘John?’ she asked.

‘My twin brother,’ he said. ‘He died in a violent altercation just after Dad passed away. The problem with John was he had a temper and an ego to match, a lethal combination, especially in your late teens.’

He stopped, aghast at himself. He had never spoken about John to anyone in such disparaging terms before.

‘What about your mother?’ asked Sam.

‘She died when I was very young,’ said David. ‘My dad brought me up.’

‘It shows,’ she said simply.

There was nothing he could think of to say in response.

‘Is that why you hate me?’ he asked eventually.

‘I don't hate you,’ she said softly. ‘I don’t even dislike you. I'm a realist, David.’

She used his name for the first time. He liked it.

‘If you didn't do what you do, somebody else would. It’s a dog eat dog world out there. Perfection is a dream, equality is a dream. Mankind is essentially animalistic; survival of the fittest.’

‘That’s certainly an interesting way of looking at life,’ said David.

‘It’s a pragmatic way of looking at it,’ she said.

She picked up her beer and took a swig.

‘I choose my way of life. I’m lucky, nobody forced me into it, but if you look at what I do in the cold light of day, am I any different from you? What I do is illegal, morally reprehensible to the sheltered middle class majority and really quite lucrative. I’m not going to judge you by any standards other than my own.’