‘We go back now,’ said one of the servants from the back seat.
‘No,’ said Doyle. ‘Old English tradition. Bodyguards drink coffee. You sit in the car.’
Doyle shook his head almost imperceptibly.
Hendry chuckled.
BLOCK
Four lousy pages. Ward looked at his watch. It had taken him three hours to write four pages.
Why not the outpouring of the previous night? Why not thirty pages?
He sat back and gazed at what he’d written.
A thought came unwanted into his mind. He was working on a book that no one wanted. Slaving over words that nobody would read. What was the point?
He placed both elbows on the desk and sat staring at the paper before him.
A book no one wanted to publish. The words hit him like fists. The realisation was as painful as a kick in the ribs.
He stood up and stepped away from the desk, leaving the keyboard and monitor switched on. It was 4.17 p.m.
A GATHERING STORM
The first rumble of thunder was so loud it woke Ward. He rolled over in bed and opened his eyes, looking towards the window in time to see the sky illuminated by the cold, white glow of a lightning flash.
It was followed immediately by another. A great fork that rent the clouds and stabbed towards the earth like a highly charged spear.
The thunder came again. A volley of cannon fire across the landscape.
He sat up, watching the celestial fireworks with the fascination of a child.
It had been a humid, unsettled day but there had been no hint of the ferocity of the storm that was now raging. Rain hammered against the window so hard it threatened to crack the glass.
For long moments Ward lay on his back staring at the ceiling, then he finally swung himself out of bed and crossed to the window.
He looked out at the storm, stunned by its power. The lightning was tearing across the sky with ferocious regularity, illuminating everything by cold, white light.
Ward saw something moving at the bottom of his garden. A dark shape. A large, four-legged shape that
carried all its weight on its front two limbs. He blinked. The shape was still there. Then he saw another close by. A third near the door of the office.
Cats? Dogs? Too big for either. Just like the other night.
Was this a dream? Some bizarre hallucination?
The .shapes were moving. They darted about the garden with almost obscene grace, moving effortlessly.
Ward swallowed hard.
The lightning stopped. The garden was plunged into darkness once more. He cursed under his breath, wanting the light. Wanting to see those three shapes once more.
There was another flash of lightning. In the momentary glare, Ward saw them
again. They had gathered together close to the door of the office.
He cupped his hands around his eyes and pressed his face close to the glass.
Through the blackness he could see six yellowish points of light. Their eyes?
They were motionless now. Ward felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise as he realised they were looking at him.
The lightning flashed again quickly, like a manic strobe, then faded. The darkness returned.
He continued peering in the direction of the office.
More lightning. No shapes. No strange visions. Only darkness and driving rain.
Thunder rumbled menacingly.
Ward moved back from the window and sat on the edge of the bed. He glanced down at his clothes, wondering whether he should pull on the jogging bottoms and sweatshirt and venture out to the garden. See if he was indeed losing his mind.
There could be little other explanation for what he had seen. He was going mad. End of story.
He smiled to himself, shook his head and climbed back between the sheets.
The storm continued to rage. It was still roaring an-hour later when he drifted off to sleep.
WARNINGS
It was still dark when he woke. He felt something wet running down his face and sat up, wiping it away. His hair was drenched. So were his sheets. The dream must have been bad. The bed was sodden.
He held out one hand and saw that it too was sheathed with moisture. It was also shaking.
As he swung himself out of bed he stepped on his clothes. Both his jogging bottoms and his sweatshirt were soaking wet. As if he’d been standing, uncovered, in pouring rain.
The cafe in Sloane Street had only been open half an hour. Doyle went inside and ordered two coffees while Hendry parked the Daimler then followed him in.
The driver was constantly looking out at the vehicle. Doyle sat across from him, facing the door. He sipped his coffee and took a bite from his croissant.
‘Haven’t they got any sandwiches?’ he said, looking disapprovingly at the pastry.
They’re not cut yet,’ Hendry said.
‘Waiting for the fucking organic baker to arrive, are they?’
Hendry smiled then looked, once again, at the Daimler.
‘Nobody’s going to nick it, Joe,’ Doyle said smiling. ‘Not with those two twats in it.’ He nodded in the direction of the servants who gazed out agitatedly from the back seat.
Hendry nodded and smiled. ‘I suppose you’re right,’ he said.
‘Anyway, even if they did, the Sheikh could run to a new one, couldn’t he?’ He lifted his coffee cup in salute. ‘Cheers.’
Hendry chuckled and imitated the gesture.
They sat in silence for a moment then the driver spoke. ‘Force of habit, is it?’
Doyle looked puzzled.
‘Sitting facing the door?’ Hendry elaborated.
‘You could say that. Old habits die hard.’
‘Why did you leave the CTU?’
‘I didn’t volunteer, I was invited. Didn’t you know?’
‘No one said anything to me but then, why should they? It’s none of my business.’
‘Does Mel know I was thrown out?’
‘if she does she hasn’t said.’
‘What’s the SP with her? Married? Boyfriend? You and her?’
Hendry grinned. ‘Not a chance,’ he said. ‘We’ve worked together before but that’s it. I don’t know much about her background, except what she’s told me, but I do know she’s not attached. Why? You interested?’
‘just asking. I’m curious by nature.’
‘Another old habit?’
Doyle sipped his coffee and nodded.‘So what about you?’ he asked.‘How did you get into this line of work?’
‘I’ve always been in the security game. Music business mostly. I used to look after AC/DC, Judas Priest, Iron Maiden.’
‘My kind of music’
‘And George Michael.’
‘Not much fucking difference,’ Doyle snorted.‘What made you give it up?’
‘I got sick of the travelling. Three hundred days a year on the road, it wears you down after a bit. It’s great when you’re a kid starting out but after a while
it gets on your tits. It got me used to dealing with egos though. I had a spell as a chauffeur too.’
