“And not doing it from a shitty flat on the shitty side of London.” Frank shrugged. “The money’s out of this world. Just saying.”
River gave this some thought, was disconcerted to discover that the idea of earning serious money wasn’t entirely unwelcome, and eased his conscience by shooting Frank in the foot. Or in the boot anyway, taking the tip of his Quechua off. Frank needed a cobbler more than a doctor, but still: the look on his face made River rich for a second.
He said, “That was my final answer, if you were wondering.”
“That’s a shame. Because it was my final offer.” Frank balanced on one foot for a moment, while he examined the damage. There was no blood River could see, which would have made it an excellent shot had he been as scrupulous in intent as in execution. As it was, blind lucky was probably the phrase.
Frank planted his foot on the ground once more, and looked to his left again. “Long way down,” he said.
Then he made his move.
Shirley had slipped through the trees, negotiated a stile half submerged in a snowdrift, and was now round back of the barn, if barn was what it was. She’d had in mind a wooden structure, and this was brick; but that aside, it ticked the right boxes, smelling bad and being nowhere. There were voices, too; a low mumbling exchange whose words she couldn’t make out. Didn’t sound like Louisa, but Louisa, if Shirley were honest, had never been top of her search list. If Frank Harkness were in the area, that was different. Harkness hadn’t actually pulled the trigger on Marcus, but he’d aimed and loaded the gun. And Shirley didn’t have a gun herself, but if Harkness was using this would-be barn as a hideout, she wasn’t going to let him walk away.
Somewhere inside her, a voice, not unlike Marcus’s, was pointing out what a bad idea this was.
And given time, she’d have listened. That was the thing about Marcus: he could be convincing, when he wasn’t pouring his life savings into the nearest fruit machine. And he knew a thing or two about action, having spent the upward-trajectory part of his career kicking down doors and shouting threats. So he’d have thought twice about wandering into a potential combat zone with nothing in his hands except that tingly feeling you get when your fingers are freezing.
On the other hand, consider the source. Marcus was dead, which, if it didn’t nullify every opinion he’d ever had, made him easier to ignore.
She looked around. No sticks as such, but the stile had a loose plank, which she made looser without much difficulty. If it was a little unwieldy in her hands—too short, too thick—imagine how much more so it would be in your face. That was a rejoinder to Marcus, who’d just sighed, unless it had been the wind in the trees. The voices inside the barn had continued uninterrupted. Just a quiet burble, as if a strategy were being discussed, or orders delivered. And meanwhile snow was falling, and here she was, on her own, with a chunk of wood in her hand. The sensible thing would be to stay hidden until whoever it was emerged, and if it were the Annex C team, as identified by J.K. Coe, to track them from a distance until she was able to reconnect with the others.
And not, for example, try to get the drop on them before they realised she was here.
Because that would be a good way to get killed. One Shirley; at least two bad guys. Not impossible odds, but unlikely to attract the clever money. On the other hand she still had accelerants surfing through her veins, and even without that stimulus, recognised the moment for what it was; one of those that never failed to light her candle. Brief bulletins from her past flashed to mind: capsizing a klieg light onto a parked van; firing a volley of bullets into a derelict building. Standing with her back to a church door while a crowd pressed forward, nearly crushing her to death. Anything could have happened to her by now. Those were only some of the things that had. And you never knew what was coming next.
And besides, a blaze of glory would do her fine. It wasn’t like there’d be universal grief if she never came back. A few Hoxton bartenders would miss her, along with some coke-dealing bouncers, but Shirley had been sharing her bed with an unslept-in space for too long, and there’d be no one waiting up for her key in the door. And anyway: shut up. Frank Harkness might be a badass, but Shirley was no girl guide. And there were times when an inability to manage anger had an upside.
Stubby length of wood in her hand, Shirley edged round the barn towards the front.
