TT Fic: Seeing the Light, 19/26.
Seeing the Light, Chapter 18/24. Chapter 1, Chapter 2, Chapter 3, Chapter 4, Chapter 5, Chapter 6 Chapter 7 , Chapter 8 , Chapter 9Chapter 10, Chapter 11 , Chapter 12 , Chapter 13, Chapter 14 , Chapter 15 Chapter 16 Chapter 17 Chapter 18
Pairing: Overall OT4/5. This part Mark/Other, Mark/Robbie, Gary/Howard.
Rating: NC-17.
Words (this part): 3 200.
Genre: Adventure, Angst, Sci-Fi. Unintentional Top Gear crossover.
Summary: The lads get closer to a reunion. Jason finally shows up and Mark gets whumped, but not as much as Richard.
Warning: Interminable markie whumping...
Thanks to EWT for the wonderful beta and awkbyname for the lovely manips. Also to amy_wolf and asilia for the chats and ideas.
Also, will try and start updating this more than once a week again soon. Thanks so much for sticking with me so far!
Chapter 19
Robbie was standing a few metres from Gary Barlow in a plush apartment overlooking the Mosley Park, and he was there because Howard turned out to be quite a tough bloke. At some point their confused shouting at each other had got nasty, and Howard had put Robbie in a headlock and threatened to call back-up, although he hadn’t ever done it. He hadn’t needed to.
‘You’re only alive because I chose not to kick your arse!’ Robbie had grumbled as they both stumbled, mildly bruised, into the lift.
Howard had shown a fair amount of dignity in rising above this. ‘Just tell me where our Mark Owen is, and then we can get him back.’
And now, Robbie was leaning back against an art deco occasional table, gazing suspiciously at Gary. He half-wanted to bash the guy’s teeth in just because, and half-wanted to beg him to do something to help Mark because, frankly, he himself had proven to be a bit shit at it.
‘Tell us where he is!’ repeated Howard. ‘Cowell’s got him, right?’ Howard turned to Gary, who was raking his fingers through his hair, still trying to get his head around everything. ‘We can send in the army or something, now, can’t we? Or the police or something? Look, I’ll go...Gaz?’
Gary was staring back at Robbie, equally intense. ‘Is it Cowell?’
‘Yeah,’ shrugged Robbie. ‘Good luck - you’ll need it. It’s not just the security. He’s got a fucking great army camped near what used to be Windsor, ready to take London, and he’s always got Mark near him. It’s just not fucking possible. Don’t you think I’ve tried?’
‘Oh God!’ groaned Gary, sinking back down into a large leather chair.
‘Gaz - you’re in charge of everything now,’ said Howard softly. ‘You can get him back, right? You can do anything!’
Pulling a face, Gary shook his head. ‘It’s not that simple. Mingay’s stepping down because he’s scared of Cowell. They know how powerful he is, that it’s only a matter of time before...well, anyway, they said I was the last hope!’
‘Hold on a minute!’ butted in Robbie. ‘Mingay’s stepping down! And you’re taking over!’
‘Yeah,’ breathed Gary, and then fixed Robbie with a hard look. ‘And I’d appreciate it if you and your hoodlums stopped trying to blow me up! I’m going to do my best to make this mess of a country better.’
‘Not fucking likely,’ snorted Robbie. He smiled blithely, pointing to the door. ‘I’m gonna go now, okay? Have fun, oh fascist friends of mine!’
Robbie’s casual saunter to the exit was stopped by Howard planting himself firmly between him and it, folding his arms and looking particularly determined.
‘You’re not very scary,’ pointed out Robbie, folding his own arms and squaring up. ‘You want a proper fight? You know, one with knives and all that shit?’
‘Lads!’ yelled Gary. ‘This isn’t helping. Look, Robbie, this is about Mark! You care about him, right? Just tell us where he is, and I can fill in the right forms, and put the right administrative procedures in motion, and...what?’
Both gawping at Gary in disbelief, Robbie and Howard were momentarily united. And then Robbie shoved Howard so hard on the chest that he stumbled backwards, and charged out of the door.
‘Don’t bother!’ snapped Gary, as Howard leapt up to make chase. ‘We can finish this without him.’
‘But, Gaz...’
‘No buts,’ said Gary, sharp and authoritative. ‘He’s working with Cowell - it’s bloody obvious! He said he was with Mark earlier, right...?’
‘Yeah,’ breathed Howard, leaning back against the wall and pinching the bridge of his nose. ‘Bloody hell, I wish I’d just got out of him how Mark was, if they’d been treating him well. What if...oh God!’
Howard trailed off as Gary squeezed his shoulder reassuringly.
‘Everything’s going to be alright, mate,’ he promised. ‘Even if I’m only Chancellor for a second, I’ll do that one thing, I promise. I’m going to get Markie back!’
......
Mark’s head felt like it was drowning in honey, and his stomach felt like he had swallowed a bucket-load of the sickly stuff; but, worst of all, he was still conscious enough to hear the rattling of boisterous laughter, and the endless congratulatory chink of glasses.
Mark was still lying on the couch in Cowell’s lounge, while Simon loudly discussed his glorious future with a group of his closest cohorts - the ones that knew all about Mark, and certainly more about the rest of Cowell’s business than Mark himself did. Stripped to just his pants, Mark knew that being here, exposed like this, was all part of his punishment. He’d been sedated and his hands were tied - he had tried to bite Cowell after he’d ‘come to’ properly, and received another hard slap for his efforts. But he was still conscious enough to hate, and to mourn. Of course, nobody dared touch him, apart from Cowell, but Mark was past caring about that now. The real torture was his helplessness now, of all times.
Champagne glass in hand and a wiggling cigar poking in the side of his mouth, Cowell settled momentarily on the arm of the couch and ruffled Mark’s hair.
‘Oh, baby,’ he sighed. ‘Why did you have to get yourself in such a state this evening over Barlow? I wanted a nice little cosy dinner for two to celebrate my ascendancy to power - was that so much to ask?’
It was all Mark could do to find the right motor functions to curl his lip. He vaguely fantasised about grabbing that glass and smashing it into Cowell’s groin - but even that didn’t seem to help much.
It wouldn’t save Gary from being blown up by Robbie.
And then the worst happened again and, although Mark was in such a state that he hardly cared, he still hated that everyone could see; particularly that Simon could see. Mark felt a lump in his throat and the tears tricking down his cheeks. He rolled onto his side, hoping to hell that Simon wouldn’t notice too soon and draw attention to it noisily.
This time, nobody noticed - and, after a few moments of fighting off the tears, Mark, too, realised the atmosphere in the room around him was changing
‘We’ve got problems,’ somebody was saying. ‘The fucking Aussies have been busy. Armoured Division 8 refuses to enter the city unless they get a promise from you that you’re going to recognise the Australian Free State. And they want to talk!’
‘Who wants to talk? The Aussies? AWOL squaddies and bloody convicts, the lot of ‘em!’
‘Yeah, but they’re sending a guy over. That poet that’s caused all the trouble. What’s his name? Jason Orange?’
Mark blinked, shaking his head so hard that his fringe flopped across over his eyes. He was hallucinating now; hearing things, surely? Jason Orange? He tried to push himself up onto his elbows to see and hear better, but the room began to spin. Cursing himself, Mark sunk back onto the couch and listened as hard as he could.
Cowell and two of his advisers were talking in hushed tones now, but Mark managed to discern the lines that really mattered.
‘I think I’ll see him,’ decided Cowell. ‘I reckon Williams is coming toward the end of his usefulness for me. Some woolly-minded poet might be just what I need to keep the masses sweet.’
And Mark’s world was suddenly spinning ever faster. Jason was going to be here! If he could just speak to him, and tell him about Gary and everything and...
Mark’s clamouring thoughts fell silent as Cowell loomed over him. He was holding the dreaded injection gun and Mark gritted his teeth in fury. ‘No...don’t want...’
Cowell sighed: ‘Sorry, Mark, but I want you to be a calm little thing and keep your mouth shut when I show you to your friend Jason, because he and I are going to have a little chat about how he can help me. Who’d have thought? Jason Orange is the new Robbie Williams...’
Mustering all his faculties, Mark flipped over as sharply as he could, grabbing for a crystal glass and still harbouring fantasies about doing any sort of damage to Simon. But nothing was working for him. Simon shoved him back into position easily enough, and plunged the needle into the side of Mark’s neck. After that, everything became extremely vague again.
....................
‘I hope my guys treated you well?’
Jason quirked an eyebrow at the irony; he silently dismissed Cowell’s offer of a cigar, and sat himself down, uninvited, on the couch which had, unbeknownst to him, been so recently been occupied by Mark.
‘No. They brought me here in handcuffs - on your orders. So let’s cut the crap, Cowell. Do you mean a word you say about making things better, or are you just going to grab power so you can leave the country rotting in the gutter, and buy yourself more cigars and that wife of yours more shoes?’
At this, Cowell laughed gleefully. ‘My wife? Oh, that’s priceless, mate!’
‘No it’s fucking not! We’ve heard how you spend millions on her silk scarves, while half the population is bloody starving. I know the gutter press here like to make out she’s some sort of martyr, but we don’t fucking buy that ‘down under’. We know who funds the gutter press!’ Here, Jason looked pointedly at Cowell, his eyes so piercing and blue that even Cowell’s steely facade almost withered at their intensity. ‘So, mate, do you mean a word you say, or do I tell the 8th division to stay where they are?’
‘Do what you like,’ smirked Cowell, recovering himself well. ‘I’ve still got nine other divisions poised to march on the city tonight, and I think the people will be pretty pleased to see them, Australian anarchist poets in tow or not. I really am quite interested to hear more about what you think of my wife, though...’
‘Fuck your wife!’ snapped Jason, his irritation only burgeoning at Cowell’s obvious amusement at the sentiments. ‘If the 8th Division doesn’t march, what makes you think the mutiny won’t spread? I know the truth, Cowell. I know everything - what do you think your nice U.S. backers would say if they found out half of where you got your money from? What if they knew that the pharmaceutical and weapon research you sold them for billions was based on experiments on human beings? And what would the people of London think? Even your pretty little wife couldn’t save you then...’
Jason trailed off, staring hard at Cowell; Cowell, indeed, had gone quite still and quiet, running his thumb slowly around the rim of a whisky glass. The clock ticked ten times, the clack of the hand resonating around the room.
‘I knew it,’ said Cowell, almost softly. ‘I knew you’d be the one as soon as I found out you had survived the crash, and that he had survived too. Where is he, by the way?’
‘Where’s who?’
‘Don’t give me that, Jason,’ said Cowell, his placidity rendering him more sinister than ever. ‘Where’s James May? Only a few people still alive know about that. Well, only a few people who count. It took me monthsto trace him after he vanished; once I knew he was heading for Australia, I had that flight shot down. Getting rid of you was a bonus - but, for once, it seems, I failed.’
‘Get used to failing,’ said Jason, his fists flexing as he slowly rose from the couch. ‘You can kill me, but I’m not the only one he’s told about you.’
‘Never mind about that. You can be the one who tells them all it’s a lie,’ smiled Cowell, reiterating his offer of a cigar.
‘What the hell?’
Cowell lit the cigar and began puffing on it slowly. ‘You’ll see soon enough, my friend - in fact, there’s no reason why you can’t see it now!’
‘Stop talking crap, Cowell. I don’t send a message to my men in fifteen minutes, and the eighth division will mutiny.’
‘No it won’t,’ grinned Cowell. ‘Because you’ll be sending them a message asking them to march upon Brittanic City 1 with the rest of the army just as soon as you’ve met my wife.’
.................
Shuffling, reluctant feet took Robbie back down the underground tunnels to where Richard was still holed up, in the cellars of Westminster. He heard Richard before he saw him, still fine-tuning the wiring on their infernal device, and muttering unpleasant little rhymes of revenge and hate in a determined but almost cheery tone.
‘Kill the fucking Pigs, kill fucking Cowell, stick his head on a pointy stick and gouge out his beady eyes and...’
Robbie stood there, watching him, for several minutes before Richard realised, and started; his eyes glistened with a genuine fear as he absorbed the other man’s presence. Recognising him, Richard snatched up a screw-driver, and brandished it threateningly.
‘What the hell kept you?’
Robbie shrugged.
‘You brought more explosives?’
‘Nah. It’s all off.’
‘What?’ Richard jumped up; he looked more distressed than angry. ‘No! You’re not telling me that, that’s not true. We’re killing fucking Cowell tonight, or I’m fucking well killing you!’
‘He’s not going to be there. Sorry, mate. We can’t kill him like that.’
The next thing Robbie knew, he was being pushed up against the cellar wall with a force that belied Richard’s diminutive build. ‘YES WE FUCKING CAN!’ screamed Richard down Robbie’s throat. Even in the dim light, Robbie, as he gathered himself, could see Richard’s intensity was bordering on the hysterical. ‘YES WE FUCKING CAN! AND I’M GOING TO KILL HIM AND ALL THE FUCKING LOT OF THEM AND FIND HIS HEAD AND STICK IT ON A...’
‘Oh, change the record, will you, Hamster?’
It took the application of a great deal of Robbie’s superior bulk to shove Richard off, but he managed it well enough, sending the smaller guy flying backwards at such a rate that he ended up falling flat on his arse; on reflex, Richard sprung up again, fists flailing, but Robbie wasn’t in the mood. At the cost of a bruising blow to the jaw from Richard’s right hook, Robbie grabbed him by the collar and slammed him back against the wall, using hands, legs and all his strength to keep him there; for a moment, Richard stopped struggling, and appeared a little dazed.
‘I’m gonna...I’m gonna kill you...’
Robbie slammed a hand over Richard’s mouth, and held it there tight; when things were getting desperate, Richard famously bit people. ‘Now fucking listen! Cowell is not going to be at Westminster tonight! He’s going to be at home...with his wife. So we’re going to kill him there, right? OW!’
The tiniest loosening of his hold on Richard was Robbie’s downfall. The sharp nip on his fingers was enough to make him recoil a little further, and then Richard gained the leverage to smack his knee up into Robbie’s groin. Next thing he knew, Robbie was lying on his side on the cold, stone floor, trying to shield himself from the repeated visiting of Richard’s toe-cap to his ribs and stomach.
‘Fucking hell...no...Hamster! Calm the fuck down...shit! Andy would...Andy would agree with me...Ow...OW!!’
‘FUCKING PIG!’ yelled Richard, at the top of his voice now, having lost any sense of the secrecy of their mission. ‘Fucking traitor! Pig!’
‘Ow!’ wailed Robbie again, trying to roll out of the way, but ‘Hamster’s toe-cap seemed to travel faster. In the end, he managed to scramble up, bleeding and bruised, and had pretty much committed himself to bravely running away, when he realised ‘Hamster’ didn’t seem to be lunging after him.
He turned, to see Richard was doubled over as if in pain, panting hard. Robbie raised his eyebrows; he was pretty breathless himself. ‘Bloody hell! What the hell came over you? I’m surprised the whole fucking world didn’t hear!’
Richard didn’t reply and, after a moment of wallowing in increasing guilt, Robbie took a step closer; he didn’t touch his mate, but he said gently. ‘You okay?’
‘Yeah,’ wheezed Richard. ‘Yeah, I’m good, I’m good.’ He straightened, and shot Robbie what was supposed to be a hard look, but in truth he looked drained and terrified. ‘You ever touch me like that again, I will fucking kill you!’
Robbie raised his hands in resignation. ‘Whatever. Look, Cowell ISN’T HERE. He’s at home - with his wife. And we’re going to go and kill him there, okay, and then you can put his head on a pointy stick? Happy now?’
‘So we blow up his palace, then?’
‘No, no, no. We’re going to have to be more subtle than that.’ Robbie cringed; subtlety was neither his nor Richard’s forte. ‘You see, we’ve got to rescue his wife first. That’s the whole point of the mission.’
‘What? No, no, no, the whole point of the mission is to kill Cowell.’
Robbie sighed. He was going to have to tell Richard sooner or later, so he decided to bite the bullet and go for it. ‘No. Not anymore. The point of the mission is to rescue Mark. You see, he’s Cowell’s wife. Has been for the past six years. You get it?’
Robbie didn’t mean Richard to ‘get it’ quite as well as he did. But Richard, unfortunately, was conditioned by years of living nightmare to harbouring suspicions even when they were unwarranted - and it had only been through his innate yearning to believe that Robbie was one of the few mates he could half trust, that Richard hadn’t surrendered to the truth of his suspicions long before.
Now, in a heartbeat, everything made sense.
Robbie hadn’t let him kill Cowell over the past six years because of clone fucking angel boy! Because Mark meant everything to Robbie and he, Richard, meant nothing. And it scarcely took another heartbeat to thud past before Richard’s quick mind worked out the rest: the weapons, the money, the whole, mysterious ‘why the fuck do we never get caught when we’re really quite shit at this’ aspect.
Robbie had been cahoots with Cowell all along.
‘YOU - FUCKING - TRAITOR!’ hollered Richard, his voice echoing through every inch of the cellar and out through the tunnels and deep into the derelict London Underground. ‘I’m going to kill you, and Cowell, and clone fucking angel boy and...’
Robbie felt guilty. He really did. But the circumstances he felt he had no choice but to take advantage of Richard’s momentarily crippling fury to whip out the torch from his jacket and clonk him very hard over the head with it. Watching Richard collapse to the floor, he winced, and he felt even worse when he saw the little stream of blood trickling from Richard’s temple. But he’d hardly given him much choice.
He patted his unconscious mate lightly on the cheek, and then dragged his body over to settle it, only slightly more comfortably, up against the pile of explosives.
‘Andy will patch you up, mate,’ he whispered. ‘Got to go save Markie. But I’ll be back soon...I promise, mate, I promise.’
Pairing: Overall OT4/5. This part Mark/Other, Mark/Robbie, Gary/Howard.
Rating: NC-17.
Words (this part): 3 200.
Genre: Adventure, Angst, Sci-Fi. Unintentional Top Gear crossover.
Summary: The lads get closer to a reunion. Jason finally shows up and Mark gets whumped, but not as much as Richard.
Warning: Interminable markie whumping...
Thanks to EWT for the wonderful beta and awkbyname for the lovely manips. Also to amy_wolf and asilia for the chats and ideas.
Also, will try and start updating this more than once a week again soon. Thanks so much for sticking with me so far!
Chapter 19
Robbie was standing a few metres from Gary Barlow in a plush apartment overlooking the Mosley Park, and he was there because Howard turned out to be quite a tough bloke. At some point their confused shouting at each other had got nasty, and Howard had put Robbie in a headlock and threatened to call back-up, although he hadn’t ever done it. He hadn’t needed to.
‘You’re only alive because I chose not to kick your arse!’ Robbie had grumbled as they both stumbled, mildly bruised, into the lift.
Howard had shown a fair amount of dignity in rising above this. ‘Just tell me where our Mark Owen is, and then we can get him back.’
And now, Robbie was leaning back against an art deco occasional table, gazing suspiciously at Gary. He half-wanted to bash the guy’s teeth in just because, and half-wanted to beg him to do something to help Mark because, frankly, he himself had proven to be a bit shit at it.
‘Tell us where he is!’ repeated Howard. ‘Cowell’s got him, right?’ Howard turned to Gary, who was raking his fingers through his hair, still trying to get his head around everything. ‘We can send in the army or something, now, can’t we? Or the police or something? Look, I’ll go...Gaz?’
Gary was staring back at Robbie, equally intense. ‘Is it Cowell?’
‘Yeah,’ shrugged Robbie. ‘Good luck - you’ll need it. It’s not just the security. He’s got a fucking great army camped near what used to be Windsor, ready to take London, and he’s always got Mark near him. It’s just not fucking possible. Don’t you think I’ve tried?’
‘Oh God!’ groaned Gary, sinking back down into a large leather chair.
‘Gaz - you’re in charge of everything now,’ said Howard softly. ‘You can get him back, right? You can do anything!’
Pulling a face, Gary shook his head. ‘It’s not that simple. Mingay’s stepping down because he’s scared of Cowell. They know how powerful he is, that it’s only a matter of time before...well, anyway, they said I was the last hope!’
‘Hold on a minute!’ butted in Robbie. ‘Mingay’s stepping down! And you’re taking over!’
‘Yeah,’ breathed Gary, and then fixed Robbie with a hard look. ‘And I’d appreciate it if you and your hoodlums stopped trying to blow me up! I’m going to do my best to make this mess of a country better.’
‘Not fucking likely,’ snorted Robbie. He smiled blithely, pointing to the door. ‘I’m gonna go now, okay? Have fun, oh fascist friends of mine!’
Robbie’s casual saunter to the exit was stopped by Howard planting himself firmly between him and it, folding his arms and looking particularly determined.
‘You’re not very scary,’ pointed out Robbie, folding his own arms and squaring up. ‘You want a proper fight? You know, one with knives and all that shit?’
‘Lads!’ yelled Gary. ‘This isn’t helping. Look, Robbie, this is about Mark! You care about him, right? Just tell us where he is, and I can fill in the right forms, and put the right administrative procedures in motion, and...what?’
Both gawping at Gary in disbelief, Robbie and Howard were momentarily united. And then Robbie shoved Howard so hard on the chest that he stumbled backwards, and charged out of the door.
‘Don’t bother!’ snapped Gary, as Howard leapt up to make chase. ‘We can finish this without him.’
‘But, Gaz...’
‘No buts,’ said Gary, sharp and authoritative. ‘He’s working with Cowell - it’s bloody obvious! He said he was with Mark earlier, right...?’
‘Yeah,’ breathed Howard, leaning back against the wall and pinching the bridge of his nose. ‘Bloody hell, I wish I’d just got out of him how Mark was, if they’d been treating him well. What if...oh God!’
Howard trailed off as Gary squeezed his shoulder reassuringly.
‘Everything’s going to be alright, mate,’ he promised. ‘Even if I’m only Chancellor for a second, I’ll do that one thing, I promise. I’m going to get Markie back!’
......
Mark’s head felt like it was drowning in honey, and his stomach felt like he had swallowed a bucket-load of the sickly stuff; but, worst of all, he was still conscious enough to hear the rattling of boisterous laughter, and the endless congratulatory chink of glasses.
Mark was still lying on the couch in Cowell’s lounge, while Simon loudly discussed his glorious future with a group of his closest cohorts - the ones that knew all about Mark, and certainly more about the rest of Cowell’s business than Mark himself did. Stripped to just his pants, Mark knew that being here, exposed like this, was all part of his punishment. He’d been sedated and his hands were tied - he had tried to bite Cowell after he’d ‘come to’ properly, and received another hard slap for his efforts. But he was still conscious enough to hate, and to mourn. Of course, nobody dared touch him, apart from Cowell, but Mark was past caring about that now. The real torture was his helplessness now, of all times.
Champagne glass in hand and a wiggling cigar poking in the side of his mouth, Cowell settled momentarily on the arm of the couch and ruffled Mark’s hair.
‘Oh, baby,’ he sighed. ‘Why did you have to get yourself in such a state this evening over Barlow? I wanted a nice little cosy dinner for two to celebrate my ascendancy to power - was that so much to ask?’
It was all Mark could do to find the right motor functions to curl his lip. He vaguely fantasised about grabbing that glass and smashing it into Cowell’s groin - but even that didn’t seem to help much.
It wouldn’t save Gary from being blown up by Robbie.
And then the worst happened again and, although Mark was in such a state that he hardly cared, he still hated that everyone could see; particularly that Simon could see. Mark felt a lump in his throat and the tears tricking down his cheeks. He rolled onto his side, hoping to hell that Simon wouldn’t notice too soon and draw attention to it noisily.
This time, nobody noticed - and, after a few moments of fighting off the tears, Mark, too, realised the atmosphere in the room around him was changing
‘We’ve got problems,’ somebody was saying. ‘The fucking Aussies have been busy. Armoured Division 8 refuses to enter the city unless they get a promise from you that you’re going to recognise the Australian Free State. And they want to talk!’
‘Who wants to talk? The Aussies? AWOL squaddies and bloody convicts, the lot of ‘em!’
‘Yeah, but they’re sending a guy over. That poet that’s caused all the trouble. What’s his name? Jason Orange?’
Mark blinked, shaking his head so hard that his fringe flopped across over his eyes. He was hallucinating now; hearing things, surely? Jason Orange? He tried to push himself up onto his elbows to see and hear better, but the room began to spin. Cursing himself, Mark sunk back onto the couch and listened as hard as he could.
Cowell and two of his advisers were talking in hushed tones now, but Mark managed to discern the lines that really mattered.
‘I think I’ll see him,’ decided Cowell. ‘I reckon Williams is coming toward the end of his usefulness for me. Some woolly-minded poet might be just what I need to keep the masses sweet.’
And Mark’s world was suddenly spinning ever faster. Jason was going to be here! If he could just speak to him, and tell him about Gary and everything and...
Mark’s clamouring thoughts fell silent as Cowell loomed over him. He was holding the dreaded injection gun and Mark gritted his teeth in fury. ‘No...don’t want...’
Cowell sighed: ‘Sorry, Mark, but I want you to be a calm little thing and keep your mouth shut when I show you to your friend Jason, because he and I are going to have a little chat about how he can help me. Who’d have thought? Jason Orange is the new Robbie Williams...’
Mustering all his faculties, Mark flipped over as sharply as he could, grabbing for a crystal glass and still harbouring fantasies about doing any sort of damage to Simon. But nothing was working for him. Simon shoved him back into position easily enough, and plunged the needle into the side of Mark’s neck. After that, everything became extremely vague again.
....................
‘I hope my guys treated you well?’
Jason quirked an eyebrow at the irony; he silently dismissed Cowell’s offer of a cigar, and sat himself down, uninvited, on the couch which had, unbeknownst to him, been so recently been occupied by Mark.
‘No. They brought me here in handcuffs - on your orders. So let’s cut the crap, Cowell. Do you mean a word you say about making things better, or are you just going to grab power so you can leave the country rotting in the gutter, and buy yourself more cigars and that wife of yours more shoes?’
At this, Cowell laughed gleefully. ‘My wife? Oh, that’s priceless, mate!’
‘No it’s fucking not! We’ve heard how you spend millions on her silk scarves, while half the population is bloody starving. I know the gutter press here like to make out she’s some sort of martyr, but we don’t fucking buy that ‘down under’. We know who funds the gutter press!’ Here, Jason looked pointedly at Cowell, his eyes so piercing and blue that even Cowell’s steely facade almost withered at their intensity. ‘So, mate, do you mean a word you say, or do I tell the 8th division to stay where they are?’
‘Do what you like,’ smirked Cowell, recovering himself well. ‘I’ve still got nine other divisions poised to march on the city tonight, and I think the people will be pretty pleased to see them, Australian anarchist poets in tow or not. I really am quite interested to hear more about what you think of my wife, though...’
‘Fuck your wife!’ snapped Jason, his irritation only burgeoning at Cowell’s obvious amusement at the sentiments. ‘If the 8th Division doesn’t march, what makes you think the mutiny won’t spread? I know the truth, Cowell. I know everything - what do you think your nice U.S. backers would say if they found out half of where you got your money from? What if they knew that the pharmaceutical and weapon research you sold them for billions was based on experiments on human beings? And what would the people of London think? Even your pretty little wife couldn’t save you then...’
Jason trailed off, staring hard at Cowell; Cowell, indeed, had gone quite still and quiet, running his thumb slowly around the rim of a whisky glass. The clock ticked ten times, the clack of the hand resonating around the room.
‘I knew it,’ said Cowell, almost softly. ‘I knew you’d be the one as soon as I found out you had survived the crash, and that he had survived too. Where is he, by the way?’
‘Where’s who?’
‘Don’t give me that, Jason,’ said Cowell, his placidity rendering him more sinister than ever. ‘Where’s James May? Only a few people still alive know about that. Well, only a few people who count. It took me monthsto trace him after he vanished; once I knew he was heading for Australia, I had that flight shot down. Getting rid of you was a bonus - but, for once, it seems, I failed.’
‘Get used to failing,’ said Jason, his fists flexing as he slowly rose from the couch. ‘You can kill me, but I’m not the only one he’s told about you.’
‘Never mind about that. You can be the one who tells them all it’s a lie,’ smiled Cowell, reiterating his offer of a cigar.
‘What the hell?’
Cowell lit the cigar and began puffing on it slowly. ‘You’ll see soon enough, my friend - in fact, there’s no reason why you can’t see it now!’
‘Stop talking crap, Cowell. I don’t send a message to my men in fifteen minutes, and the eighth division will mutiny.’
‘No it won’t,’ grinned Cowell. ‘Because you’ll be sending them a message asking them to march upon Brittanic City 1 with the rest of the army just as soon as you’ve met my wife.’
.................
Shuffling, reluctant feet took Robbie back down the underground tunnels to where Richard was still holed up, in the cellars of Westminster. He heard Richard before he saw him, still fine-tuning the wiring on their infernal device, and muttering unpleasant little rhymes of revenge and hate in a determined but almost cheery tone.
‘Kill the fucking Pigs, kill fucking Cowell, stick his head on a pointy stick and gouge out his beady eyes and...’
Robbie stood there, watching him, for several minutes before Richard realised, and started; his eyes glistened with a genuine fear as he absorbed the other man’s presence. Recognising him, Richard snatched up a screw-driver, and brandished it threateningly.
‘What the hell kept you?’
Robbie shrugged.
‘You brought more explosives?’
‘Nah. It’s all off.’
‘What?’ Richard jumped up; he looked more distressed than angry. ‘No! You’re not telling me that, that’s not true. We’re killing fucking Cowell tonight, or I’m fucking well killing you!’
‘He’s not going to be there. Sorry, mate. We can’t kill him like that.’
The next thing Robbie knew, he was being pushed up against the cellar wall with a force that belied Richard’s diminutive build. ‘YES WE FUCKING CAN!’ screamed Richard down Robbie’s throat. Even in the dim light, Robbie, as he gathered himself, could see Richard’s intensity was bordering on the hysterical. ‘YES WE FUCKING CAN! AND I’M GOING TO KILL HIM AND ALL THE FUCKING LOT OF THEM AND FIND HIS HEAD AND STICK IT ON A...’
‘Oh, change the record, will you, Hamster?’
It took the application of a great deal of Robbie’s superior bulk to shove Richard off, but he managed it well enough, sending the smaller guy flying backwards at such a rate that he ended up falling flat on his arse; on reflex, Richard sprung up again, fists flailing, but Robbie wasn’t in the mood. At the cost of a bruising blow to the jaw from Richard’s right hook, Robbie grabbed him by the collar and slammed him back against the wall, using hands, legs and all his strength to keep him there; for a moment, Richard stopped struggling, and appeared a little dazed.
‘I’m gonna...I’m gonna kill you...’
Robbie slammed a hand over Richard’s mouth, and held it there tight; when things were getting desperate, Richard famously bit people. ‘Now fucking listen! Cowell is not going to be at Westminster tonight! He’s going to be at home...with his wife. So we’re going to kill him there, right? OW!’
The tiniest loosening of his hold on Richard was Robbie’s downfall. The sharp nip on his fingers was enough to make him recoil a little further, and then Richard gained the leverage to smack his knee up into Robbie’s groin. Next thing he knew, Robbie was lying on his side on the cold, stone floor, trying to shield himself from the repeated visiting of Richard’s toe-cap to his ribs and stomach.
‘Fucking hell...no...Hamster! Calm the fuck down...shit! Andy would...Andy would agree with me...Ow...OW!!’
‘FUCKING PIG!’ yelled Richard, at the top of his voice now, having lost any sense of the secrecy of their mission. ‘Fucking traitor! Pig!’
‘Ow!’ wailed Robbie again, trying to roll out of the way, but ‘Hamster’s toe-cap seemed to travel faster. In the end, he managed to scramble up, bleeding and bruised, and had pretty much committed himself to bravely running away, when he realised ‘Hamster’ didn’t seem to be lunging after him.
He turned, to see Richard was doubled over as if in pain, panting hard. Robbie raised his eyebrows; he was pretty breathless himself. ‘Bloody hell! What the hell came over you? I’m surprised the whole fucking world didn’t hear!’
Richard didn’t reply and, after a moment of wallowing in increasing guilt, Robbie took a step closer; he didn’t touch his mate, but he said gently. ‘You okay?’
‘Yeah,’ wheezed Richard. ‘Yeah, I’m good, I’m good.’ He straightened, and shot Robbie what was supposed to be a hard look, but in truth he looked drained and terrified. ‘You ever touch me like that again, I will fucking kill you!’
Robbie raised his hands in resignation. ‘Whatever. Look, Cowell ISN’T HERE. He’s at home - with his wife. And we’re going to go and kill him there, okay, and then you can put his head on a pointy stick? Happy now?’
‘So we blow up his palace, then?’
‘No, no, no. We’re going to have to be more subtle than that.’ Robbie cringed; subtlety was neither his nor Richard’s forte. ‘You see, we’ve got to rescue his wife first. That’s the whole point of the mission.’
‘What? No, no, no, the whole point of the mission is to kill Cowell.’
Robbie sighed. He was going to have to tell Richard sooner or later, so he decided to bite the bullet and go for it. ‘No. Not anymore. The point of the mission is to rescue Mark. You see, he’s Cowell’s wife. Has been for the past six years. You get it?’
Robbie didn’t mean Richard to ‘get it’ quite as well as he did. But Richard, unfortunately, was conditioned by years of living nightmare to harbouring suspicions even when they were unwarranted - and it had only been through his innate yearning to believe that Robbie was one of the few mates he could half trust, that Richard hadn’t surrendered to the truth of his suspicions long before.
Now, in a heartbeat, everything made sense.
Robbie hadn’t let him kill Cowell over the past six years because of clone fucking angel boy! Because Mark meant everything to Robbie and he, Richard, meant nothing. And it scarcely took another heartbeat to thud past before Richard’s quick mind worked out the rest: the weapons, the money, the whole, mysterious ‘why the fuck do we never get caught when we’re really quite shit at this’ aspect.
Robbie had been cahoots with Cowell all along.
‘YOU - FUCKING - TRAITOR!’ hollered Richard, his voice echoing through every inch of the cellar and out through the tunnels and deep into the derelict London Underground. ‘I’m going to kill you, and Cowell, and clone fucking angel boy and...’
Robbie felt guilty. He really did. But the circumstances he felt he had no choice but to take advantage of Richard’s momentarily crippling fury to whip out the torch from his jacket and clonk him very hard over the head with it. Watching Richard collapse to the floor, he winced, and he felt even worse when he saw the little stream of blood trickling from Richard’s temple. But he’d hardly given him much choice.
He patted his unconscious mate lightly on the cheek, and then dragged his body over to settle it, only slightly more comfortably, up against the pile of explosives.
‘Andy will patch you up, mate,’ he whispered. ‘Got to go save Markie. But I’ll be back soon...I promise, mate, I promise.’