TT fic: Seeing the Light, 22/26 (part two).
Seeing the Light, Chapter 22/26 (part two). Chapter 1, Chapter 2, Chapter 3, Chapter 4, Chapter 5, Chapter 6Chapter 7 , Chapter 8 , Chapter 9Chapter 10, Chapter 11 , Chapter 12 , Chapter 13, Chapter 14 , Chapter 15Chapter 16Chapter 17 Chapter 18 Chapter 19, Chapter 20 Chapter 21, Chapter 22 - Part 1
Pairing: Overall OT4/5. This part Mark/Gary, Howard/Jason, Gary/Howard.
Rating: NC-17.
Words (this part): 2,600.
Genre: Adventure, Angst, Sci-Fi. Unintentional Top Gear crossover.
Summary: Gary and Mark finally meet again, and Howard and Jason start kicking some ass!! Meanwhile, Robbie is trying to stop his other mates making everything a bit too hot...
Warning: Interminable markie whumping...
Thanks to my beta, EWT and to asilia, amy_wolf and awk :)
Chapter 22 - Part Two.
‘Andy, mate - are you sure this is where they were?’
Jeremy was about as good at keeping his voice to an undertone as a foghorn was at quietly and politely pointing out your ship was about to get smashed to pieces on rocks. Andy pulled a cautionary face, but doubted if he’d had any effect at all as the ‘Man from Man’ stomped suspiciously around a Gothic pillar, which swept up to meet the point of another, supporting the low vaulted roof.
‘This is where we decided upon,’ whispered Andy. ‘It’s roughly the same location as Guy Fawkes picked in 1605...’
‘And right now, we’re being about as bloody successful,’ barked Jeremy. ‘Apart from those monkeys at least got as far as loading up the gun-powder! This is just pathetic! Hamster - where are you?’
‘Be quiet!’ hissed Andy; behind a further line of pillars, he dropped to his knees, shining his torch across the floor. The dust on the floor was smeared and tracked in a way that suggested something had recently been dragged across it and, amidst the dirt, were damp, dark-red clots of what looked like blood.
Jeremy drew up behind him and grunted. ‘He’s dead then? I knew it. Completely, utterly useless...’
‘No!’ Andy’s voice was still very calm, and very quiet, and he just couldn’t believe that Richard was dead. After all, Jeremy claimed that he had messaged him only half an hour ago...
‘For once, you’re fucking right!’
Andy turned with a start - and there was Richard, although his appearance was as shocking as it was unexpected. The whole left side of his face was smeared with blood, his fringe matted against his forehead. He was brandishing a familiar-looking pointy stick, which might have seemed rather comic in other circumstances; but, given his gory appearance and the vitriolic glint in Richard’s eye, he actually resembled a bug-eyed killer-goblin out of a particularly eclectic horror movie.
‘Hamster!’ Jeremy gaped at his friend, the relief washing through him almost enough to bring tears to his eyes, but he thought better of his instinctual desire to pull Richard into a hug.
‘And you can shut your gob-hole!’ snapped Richard to Jeremy, and then jabbed a finger viciously in Andy’s direction. ‘What did you bring him here for? Fucking traitor!’
‘Andy’s alright,’ replied Jeremy, taking a wary step forward but scanning Richard very closely. Like Andy, he had identified that Richard was not only bleeding but seemed rather shaky on his feet. He was leaning increasingly heavily against the pillar he had emerged from behind.
‘Hamster, put that stick down, you look like you’re chasing vampires. Is that...is that your blood?’
‘No!’ Richard winced as he shook his head slightly too violently. It was a crap lie, but he didn’t care; he smeared his sleeve across his forehead. ‘It belonged to some fucker who came to take the explosives. Some Pig mate of...that traitor bastard. They took it...they took it all...get away from me!’
Richard slapped off both Andy and Jeremy as his knees wavered and he sank down against the pillar. ‘You brought more Semtex?’ he murmured, as his head lolled forward. ‘Get it out, right? We can still do this...we can still do this...fuck...fuck...’
‘Bit of a headache, Hamster?’ asked Jeremy; looking at Andy, he grimaced concernedly.
‘Just blow this place...and Cowell...to...hell...’ spat Richard, and promptly passed out.
‘That simplifies things,’ said Andy. ‘We can carry him between us - let’s get out of here.’
Jeremy scrunched his nose objectionably: ‘Without blowing it to hell? Errr....no, I don’t think I’m going to do that. What’ve you got in your rucksack there, Andy - because I’m still in the mood for quite a big explosion!’
........................
When Gary stepped into the Central Lobby of the Palace of Westminster, the buzz of conversation dimmed almost to a hush; a flurry of flashes and clicks indicated that the official photographers saw fit to record this moment for posterity. The sweat trickling down the back of his neck, Gary adjusted his tie, glanced around desperately for somebody he knew, and wished Howard was here at his side; above all, though, he hoped desperately that he could trust Robbie not to change his mind and kill everyone!
Still, as his vision scanned over the sweeping, faux-medieval architecture and the aged statues of Kings, Queens and Ministers who had paced these halls before him, a sense of pride swelled within - as well as a sense of urgency. He had to make sure there was no statue erected here of King Simon the First!
‘This is for Howard,’ he told himself. ‘This is for Mark, and Jason and all of them. And, if anybody can command an audience it’s Gary Barlow!’
His heart thumped all the faster as he spotted the hunched figure of Chancellor Mingay, shuffling towards him across the lavishly decorated tiled floor with an outstretched hand.
‘Be professional, Barlow,’ muttered Gary to himself. He mustered a smile and graciously received the Chancellor.
‘Tonight is a big night for you, young man,’ croaked the elderly dictator. ‘I trust you are happy with your speech?’
Gary blinked at him for a second. What with everything, he’d completely forgotten that he had been provided with a carefully prepared speech, outlining his role as Mingay’s heir and how he was committed to the values and ethos of the Brittanic Fascisti.
He would have loved to have smiled serenely and said: ‘Gary Barlow ain’t nobody’s puppet,’ but, instead, he patted the empty breast pocket of his jacket.
‘It’s all memorised, sir,’ replied Gary smoothly. ‘But I’ve got my notes, just in case.’
‘Good, good,’ nodded Mingay, still warmly clasping Gary’s hand. He nodded towards to the Party’s logo, which formed the centre-piece of the seven-pointed star in the middle of the floor. ‘The future of the Brittanic Fascisti rests with you, and I’m sure you’ll do a fine job, m’boy! A fine job!’
‘I...I hope so,’ stuttered Gary, suddenly rather distracted. ‘If you’ll excuse me?’
The Chancellor frowned, confused and a little ruffled, as Gary abruptly turned and left. Glancing in the direction his protégé had departed, nevertheless, he too was somewhat startled, because the most powerful man in the country had arrived - who was, of course, neither him, nor Gary Barlow.
Creating a hush even more noticeable than that which had greeted Gary, Simon Cowell had entered on the far side of the lobby, accompanied by his pretty young ‘wife’. Not that ‘she’ was very visible: the ‘wife’ was wearing a long, loose-fitting cream gown, embroidered with real pearls, and a matching, bridal-esque veil. Cowell hadn’t set foot in Parliament since had had left the Party six years ago, and now he was waltzing in as if he owned the place.
Of course, Cowell was well aware of this. He liked this new plan that the events of the evening had dictated - and, by midnight that night, he still fully intended to be the lord of all he surveyed.
On seeing Gary, nevertheless, Simon reached back and caught his ‘wife’s’ be-gloved hand, squeezing it sharply.
‘Barlow’s coming. Don’t say a word. Don’t move a muscle.’
.................
It was all far too easy. The password and the uniforms meant Jason and Howard weren’t even questioned at the back entrance. It was only when they reached a taste-free marble lobby, centred with a pool of glistening, multi-coloured fish, that Howard and Jason were approached.
‘Afternoon, sirs,’ said a valet, fortunately not one that either of them had encountered on their earlier visits to the palace. ‘Mr Cowell is out, I’m afraid.’
Howard frowned. ‘We’re....um...um...’
‘We’re happy to wait,’ said Jason calmly. ‘We’ve got some news about the Eighth Division and Australian infiltration. It’s all top secret,’ winked Jason. ‘Can you show us where we wait?’
The valet looked unperturbed. ‘You’ll be waiting a while. Mr Cowell is at Westminster tonight, and then he’s dining with his wife at a restaurant. Would you...’ The man paused, surveying Howard from head to toe in a fashion that made him squirm. ‘Would you like me to contact him and tell him you’re here again, Superintendent Donald?’
Jason felt every sinew in his body tauten to breaking point. Were they onto them? He almost jumped at Howard’s unexpected reply - it was stuttered and uncertain, but it made Jason proud, all the same.
‘We’ll, um, come back later, mate. Thanks.’
‘Through the back door or the front door?’ asked the valet, extremely calm, even as two armed guards stepped out from an adjoining antechamber. ‘I don’t think so, Superintendent Donald. Now, you will be waiting here, while Mr. Orange is escorted back outside the city to do what he’s been told!’
They shared a look, and that was all it took. Nothing - not even these oafs with their embroidered uniforms and stupid little handguns - was going to separate Jason and Howard again. Howard was particularly impressed with the balletic, swinging kick to the head which Jason used to incapacitate the first guard. He used more conventional methods himself, grabbing the other one’s gun as the man still stared at Jason, and then punching him in the face. The valet was easy after that; Howard clonked him over the head with a handgun he had taken off one of the guards, although not without a twang of guilt.
‘You’re good at this!’ panted Jason.
‘So are you, mate,’ replied Howard. ‘But that karate move you just did, or whatever. Bit poncey! I can tell you’ve been abroad too long....’ Howard managed a wolfish grin, and they fled off down the corridor together.
......................
Mark said nothing; staring through the veil so hard that his eyes watered, his focus was fixed on Gary and Gary alone. Gary looked older, of course, but the six years had done him no disfavour: his features were more chiselled, enhanced by a dusting of beard; the three piece suit flattered a broad well-muscled chest and shoulders. As Gary’s piercing blue eyes latched onto him, Mark half-wanted the stone slabs of the floor beneath him to part and swallow him up. Gary had become a gentleman; and he? At best, a courtesan, at worst, a whore...
‘Fuck!’ cursed Mark. For the first time in his life, he felt grateful for the veil; and then Gary was upon them.
With the confidence of an Emperor, Gary smiled graciously and shook Cowell’s hand.
‘We meet again! And your lovely wife! Will you introduce me, Simon?’
‘It’s illegal for a woman to show her face within this precinct,’ pointed out Simon, entirely correctly. ‘Maybe you should suggest the repeal of this ridiculous law in your speech tonight, and then we may both enjoy her beauty?’
‘Maybe,’ replied Gary, clasping his trembling hands behind his back; after all these years, he was standing two foot from Mark and he couldn’t even find a way to speak to him. He suddenly felt very rude.
‘I...I’d better take my seat,’ he stuttered. ‘I’d like...like to see you both later?’
‘That would be great, Gary. How about we do dinner? I’ve got a table booked at The Ivy.’
‘Super,’ said Gary. A guilty relief washed through him as he released he could go - but then something completely unexpected happened.
Maybe it was because Mark had wanted to die of shame that he did it; but, looking back, he realised that that must have been the moment he subconsciously vowed that he would not suffer in silence any more.
Because, just as Gary was on the cusp of walking away, Mark took a step forward, grabbed Gary’s sleeve and shouted ‘wait!’ The cameras were flashing madly before Simon had a chance to tell anyone that this wasn’t in the plan; by the time Mark had whipped back the veil, it was simply too late.
Mark raised himself onto tiptoes, and planted his lips softly against Gary’s.
‘Good luck, Gaz,’ he whispered.
After that, everything was over very quickly. Simon grabbed Mark away, yanked the veil back over his face and shot Gary a peevish smile. Gary stopped and stared, forgetting even to breathe; silence hung thick in the lobby and then, seconds later, the chattering started again.
Somewhere distant, Gary heard Simon tell a cohort, ‘anyone prints those pictures, they’re dead!’ But Gary was caught in a daze. He smoothed his lips together and realised they tasted of cherry lip gloss; he could still smell Mark’s scent, vaguely lavender, and feel where his hair had tickled against his cheek.
But Mark’s face: Gary had scarcely seen more than a glimpse of him, but it scared him. It was Mark - but not Mark. That haunted look, that last flash of guttural fear on his face that Gary had remembered through six long years.
It was still there.
He shook his head. ‘Pull yourself together, Gary. You need to do this now - more than ever! Just keep your head - and trust Robbie and his mates to not blow you up!’
Gary decided not to dwell on that last thought. It wasn’t good for his stomach.
...................
‘I’ve got 2 kg, and you’ve got...what?’
‘A big wad,’ said Jeremy, slapping two white, plastic packets of explosives down onto the ground. ‘If we apply enough fire to start off with, that’ll have the roof off this place in no time.’
Andy shook his head. ‘You know it doesn’t work like that. This isn’t enough to do much damage, but it’ll send out a message, I guess...’
‘A big firey message!’ grinned Jeremy; glancing over his shoulder at Richard, though, he grimaced. ‘Shame ‘Hamster’s’ not awake to enjoy it. Shall I do the wiring?’
Andy sighed. He doubted Jeremy would be even vaguely good at wiring bombs or setting timer devices, but he really did want to check that Richard was okay - something that really had to be done while he was still unconscious - and time was of the essence.
‘You’ve done this before?’
‘No, but I’ve got a hammer in my bag.’
Andy gave a mirthless laugh. ‘I won’t be a minute Jeremy, but I’ve got to have quiet to get this right...’
The silence scarcely lasted thirty seconds, before Andy’s concentration was interrupted by a metallic clunk: Jeremy’s over-sized machine gun being shaken as if it was about to fire - which it actually couldn’t, because it was a broken 1960s antique. Jeremy had quietly admitted that to Andy as they were trudging up the tunnel.
‘What?’ snapped Andy.
‘Somebody is coming. And I am going to kill them dead!’
This was serious, though; hearing the none-too-subtle tread of footprints coming up the tunnel towards the vault, Andy reached for the hand-gun in his pocket. The heavy arched door swung open, and he braced himself.
‘Rob?’
Jeremy clunked his gun and snarled. ‘It’s the traitor. Prepare to die, Pig!’
Robbie grinned, slightly drunkenly, glancing around. ‘Where’s Hamster? Oh, there he is. What you doing, Andy?’
‘What you should have done,’ said Andy, calmly enough; he hadn’t lowered his gun. ‘What the hell are you playing at, Rob? Are you really working with Cowell?’
Robbie shrugged, trudging fearlessly into the room. ‘He’s got Markie. And he gave us good stuff - better than this pratt ever gave us.’
‘Right, that’s it. I’m going to blow your fucking head off!’
Despite Jeremy’s loud threat, Robbie appeared monumentally unbothered, and started reeling around the chamber spouting fairly meaningless, drunken drivel about friendship and love - right up until the moment he suddenly slammed the heel of his boot down on the timer device that Andy had been fiddling with and cracked it in two.
‘Can’t blow anything up, now, can you?
The glassily cheeky grin returned.
‘No,’ replied Andy, utterly exasperated.
And that was the moment when Jeremy revealed that he had also brought a blowtorch.
...................
Pairing: Overall OT4/5. This part Mark/Gary, Howard/Jason, Gary/Howard.
Rating: NC-17.
Words (this part): 2,600.
Genre: Adventure, Angst, Sci-Fi. Unintentional Top Gear crossover.
Summary: Gary and Mark finally meet again, and Howard and Jason start kicking some ass!! Meanwhile, Robbie is trying to stop his other mates making everything a bit too hot...
Warning: Interminable markie whumping...
Thanks to my beta, EWT and to asilia, amy_wolf and awk :)
Chapter 22 - Part Two.
‘Andy, mate - are you sure this is where they were?’
Jeremy was about as good at keeping his voice to an undertone as a foghorn was at quietly and politely pointing out your ship was about to get smashed to pieces on rocks. Andy pulled a cautionary face, but doubted if he’d had any effect at all as the ‘Man from Man’ stomped suspiciously around a Gothic pillar, which swept up to meet the point of another, supporting the low vaulted roof.
‘This is where we decided upon,’ whispered Andy. ‘It’s roughly the same location as Guy Fawkes picked in 1605...’
‘And right now, we’re being about as bloody successful,’ barked Jeremy. ‘Apart from those monkeys at least got as far as loading up the gun-powder! This is just pathetic! Hamster - where are you?’
‘Be quiet!’ hissed Andy; behind a further line of pillars, he dropped to his knees, shining his torch across the floor. The dust on the floor was smeared and tracked in a way that suggested something had recently been dragged across it and, amidst the dirt, were damp, dark-red clots of what looked like blood.
Jeremy drew up behind him and grunted. ‘He’s dead then? I knew it. Completely, utterly useless...’
‘No!’ Andy’s voice was still very calm, and very quiet, and he just couldn’t believe that Richard was dead. After all, Jeremy claimed that he had messaged him only half an hour ago...
‘For once, you’re fucking right!’
Andy turned with a start - and there was Richard, although his appearance was as shocking as it was unexpected. The whole left side of his face was smeared with blood, his fringe matted against his forehead. He was brandishing a familiar-looking pointy stick, which might have seemed rather comic in other circumstances; but, given his gory appearance and the vitriolic glint in Richard’s eye, he actually resembled a bug-eyed killer-goblin out of a particularly eclectic horror movie.
‘Hamster!’ Jeremy gaped at his friend, the relief washing through him almost enough to bring tears to his eyes, but he thought better of his instinctual desire to pull Richard into a hug.
‘And you can shut your gob-hole!’ snapped Richard to Jeremy, and then jabbed a finger viciously in Andy’s direction. ‘What did you bring him here for? Fucking traitor!’
‘Andy’s alright,’ replied Jeremy, taking a wary step forward but scanning Richard very closely. Like Andy, he had identified that Richard was not only bleeding but seemed rather shaky on his feet. He was leaning increasingly heavily against the pillar he had emerged from behind.
‘Hamster, put that stick down, you look like you’re chasing vampires. Is that...is that your blood?’
‘No!’ Richard winced as he shook his head slightly too violently. It was a crap lie, but he didn’t care; he smeared his sleeve across his forehead. ‘It belonged to some fucker who came to take the explosives. Some Pig mate of...that traitor bastard. They took it...they took it all...get away from me!’
Richard slapped off both Andy and Jeremy as his knees wavered and he sank down against the pillar. ‘You brought more Semtex?’ he murmured, as his head lolled forward. ‘Get it out, right? We can still do this...we can still do this...fuck...fuck...’
‘Bit of a headache, Hamster?’ asked Jeremy; looking at Andy, he grimaced concernedly.
‘Just blow this place...and Cowell...to...hell...’ spat Richard, and promptly passed out.
‘That simplifies things,’ said Andy. ‘We can carry him between us - let’s get out of here.’
Jeremy scrunched his nose objectionably: ‘Without blowing it to hell? Errr....no, I don’t think I’m going to do that. What’ve you got in your rucksack there, Andy - because I’m still in the mood for quite a big explosion!’
........................
When Gary stepped into the Central Lobby of the Palace of Westminster, the buzz of conversation dimmed almost to a hush; a flurry of flashes and clicks indicated that the official photographers saw fit to record this moment for posterity. The sweat trickling down the back of his neck, Gary adjusted his tie, glanced around desperately for somebody he knew, and wished Howard was here at his side; above all, though, he hoped desperately that he could trust Robbie not to change his mind and kill everyone!
Still, as his vision scanned over the sweeping, faux-medieval architecture and the aged statues of Kings, Queens and Ministers who had paced these halls before him, a sense of pride swelled within - as well as a sense of urgency. He had to make sure there was no statue erected here of King Simon the First!
‘This is for Howard,’ he told himself. ‘This is for Mark, and Jason and all of them. And, if anybody can command an audience it’s Gary Barlow!’
His heart thumped all the faster as he spotted the hunched figure of Chancellor Mingay, shuffling towards him across the lavishly decorated tiled floor with an outstretched hand.
‘Be professional, Barlow,’ muttered Gary to himself. He mustered a smile and graciously received the Chancellor.
‘Tonight is a big night for you, young man,’ croaked the elderly dictator. ‘I trust you are happy with your speech?’
Gary blinked at him for a second. What with everything, he’d completely forgotten that he had been provided with a carefully prepared speech, outlining his role as Mingay’s heir and how he was committed to the values and ethos of the Brittanic Fascisti.
He would have loved to have smiled serenely and said: ‘Gary Barlow ain’t nobody’s puppet,’ but, instead, he patted the empty breast pocket of his jacket.
‘It’s all memorised, sir,’ replied Gary smoothly. ‘But I’ve got my notes, just in case.’
‘Good, good,’ nodded Mingay, still warmly clasping Gary’s hand. He nodded towards to the Party’s logo, which formed the centre-piece of the seven-pointed star in the middle of the floor. ‘The future of the Brittanic Fascisti rests with you, and I’m sure you’ll do a fine job, m’boy! A fine job!’
‘I...I hope so,’ stuttered Gary, suddenly rather distracted. ‘If you’ll excuse me?’
The Chancellor frowned, confused and a little ruffled, as Gary abruptly turned and left. Glancing in the direction his protégé had departed, nevertheless, he too was somewhat startled, because the most powerful man in the country had arrived - who was, of course, neither him, nor Gary Barlow.
Creating a hush even more noticeable than that which had greeted Gary, Simon Cowell had entered on the far side of the lobby, accompanied by his pretty young ‘wife’. Not that ‘she’ was very visible: the ‘wife’ was wearing a long, loose-fitting cream gown, embroidered with real pearls, and a matching, bridal-esque veil. Cowell hadn’t set foot in Parliament since had had left the Party six years ago, and now he was waltzing in as if he owned the place.
Of course, Cowell was well aware of this. He liked this new plan that the events of the evening had dictated - and, by midnight that night, he still fully intended to be the lord of all he surveyed.
On seeing Gary, nevertheless, Simon reached back and caught his ‘wife’s’ be-gloved hand, squeezing it sharply.
‘Barlow’s coming. Don’t say a word. Don’t move a muscle.’
.................
It was all far too easy. The password and the uniforms meant Jason and Howard weren’t even questioned at the back entrance. It was only when they reached a taste-free marble lobby, centred with a pool of glistening, multi-coloured fish, that Howard and Jason were approached.
‘Afternoon, sirs,’ said a valet, fortunately not one that either of them had encountered on their earlier visits to the palace. ‘Mr Cowell is out, I’m afraid.’
Howard frowned. ‘We’re....um...um...’
‘We’re happy to wait,’ said Jason calmly. ‘We’ve got some news about the Eighth Division and Australian infiltration. It’s all top secret,’ winked Jason. ‘Can you show us where we wait?’
The valet looked unperturbed. ‘You’ll be waiting a while. Mr Cowell is at Westminster tonight, and then he’s dining with his wife at a restaurant. Would you...’ The man paused, surveying Howard from head to toe in a fashion that made him squirm. ‘Would you like me to contact him and tell him you’re here again, Superintendent Donald?’
Jason felt every sinew in his body tauten to breaking point. Were they onto them? He almost jumped at Howard’s unexpected reply - it was stuttered and uncertain, but it made Jason proud, all the same.
‘We’ll, um, come back later, mate. Thanks.’
‘Through the back door or the front door?’ asked the valet, extremely calm, even as two armed guards stepped out from an adjoining antechamber. ‘I don’t think so, Superintendent Donald. Now, you will be waiting here, while Mr. Orange is escorted back outside the city to do what he’s been told!’
They shared a look, and that was all it took. Nothing - not even these oafs with their embroidered uniforms and stupid little handguns - was going to separate Jason and Howard again. Howard was particularly impressed with the balletic, swinging kick to the head which Jason used to incapacitate the first guard. He used more conventional methods himself, grabbing the other one’s gun as the man still stared at Jason, and then punching him in the face. The valet was easy after that; Howard clonked him over the head with a handgun he had taken off one of the guards, although not without a twang of guilt.
‘You’re good at this!’ panted Jason.
‘So are you, mate,’ replied Howard. ‘But that karate move you just did, or whatever. Bit poncey! I can tell you’ve been abroad too long....’ Howard managed a wolfish grin, and they fled off down the corridor together.
......................
Mark said nothing; staring through the veil so hard that his eyes watered, his focus was fixed on Gary and Gary alone. Gary looked older, of course, but the six years had done him no disfavour: his features were more chiselled, enhanced by a dusting of beard; the three piece suit flattered a broad well-muscled chest and shoulders. As Gary’s piercing blue eyes latched onto him, Mark half-wanted the stone slabs of the floor beneath him to part and swallow him up. Gary had become a gentleman; and he? At best, a courtesan, at worst, a whore...
‘Fuck!’ cursed Mark. For the first time in his life, he felt grateful for the veil; and then Gary was upon them.
With the confidence of an Emperor, Gary smiled graciously and shook Cowell’s hand.
‘We meet again! And your lovely wife! Will you introduce me, Simon?’
‘It’s illegal for a woman to show her face within this precinct,’ pointed out Simon, entirely correctly. ‘Maybe you should suggest the repeal of this ridiculous law in your speech tonight, and then we may both enjoy her beauty?’
‘Maybe,’ replied Gary, clasping his trembling hands behind his back; after all these years, he was standing two foot from Mark and he couldn’t even find a way to speak to him. He suddenly felt very rude.
‘I...I’d better take my seat,’ he stuttered. ‘I’d like...like to see you both later?’
‘That would be great, Gary. How about we do dinner? I’ve got a table booked at The Ivy.’
‘Super,’ said Gary. A guilty relief washed through him as he released he could go - but then something completely unexpected happened.
Maybe it was because Mark had wanted to die of shame that he did it; but, looking back, he realised that that must have been the moment he subconsciously vowed that he would not suffer in silence any more.
Because, just as Gary was on the cusp of walking away, Mark took a step forward, grabbed Gary’s sleeve and shouted ‘wait!’ The cameras were flashing madly before Simon had a chance to tell anyone that this wasn’t in the plan; by the time Mark had whipped back the veil, it was simply too late.
Mark raised himself onto tiptoes, and planted his lips softly against Gary’s.
‘Good luck, Gaz,’ he whispered.
After that, everything was over very quickly. Simon grabbed Mark away, yanked the veil back over his face and shot Gary a peevish smile. Gary stopped and stared, forgetting even to breathe; silence hung thick in the lobby and then, seconds later, the chattering started again.
Somewhere distant, Gary heard Simon tell a cohort, ‘anyone prints those pictures, they’re dead!’ But Gary was caught in a daze. He smoothed his lips together and realised they tasted of cherry lip gloss; he could still smell Mark’s scent, vaguely lavender, and feel where his hair had tickled against his cheek.
But Mark’s face: Gary had scarcely seen more than a glimpse of him, but it scared him. It was Mark - but not Mark. That haunted look, that last flash of guttural fear on his face that Gary had remembered through six long years.
It was still there.
He shook his head. ‘Pull yourself together, Gary. You need to do this now - more than ever! Just keep your head - and trust Robbie and his mates to not blow you up!’
Gary decided not to dwell on that last thought. It wasn’t good for his stomach.
...................
‘I’ve got 2 kg, and you’ve got...what?’
‘A big wad,’ said Jeremy, slapping two white, plastic packets of explosives down onto the ground. ‘If we apply enough fire to start off with, that’ll have the roof off this place in no time.’
Andy shook his head. ‘You know it doesn’t work like that. This isn’t enough to do much damage, but it’ll send out a message, I guess...’
‘A big firey message!’ grinned Jeremy; glancing over his shoulder at Richard, though, he grimaced. ‘Shame ‘Hamster’s’ not awake to enjoy it. Shall I do the wiring?’
Andy sighed. He doubted Jeremy would be even vaguely good at wiring bombs or setting timer devices, but he really did want to check that Richard was okay - something that really had to be done while he was still unconscious - and time was of the essence.
‘You’ve done this before?’
‘No, but I’ve got a hammer in my bag.’
Andy gave a mirthless laugh. ‘I won’t be a minute Jeremy, but I’ve got to have quiet to get this right...’
The silence scarcely lasted thirty seconds, before Andy’s concentration was interrupted by a metallic clunk: Jeremy’s over-sized machine gun being shaken as if it was about to fire - which it actually couldn’t, because it was a broken 1960s antique. Jeremy had quietly admitted that to Andy as they were trudging up the tunnel.
‘What?’ snapped Andy.
‘Somebody is coming. And I am going to kill them dead!’
This was serious, though; hearing the none-too-subtle tread of footprints coming up the tunnel towards the vault, Andy reached for the hand-gun in his pocket. The heavy arched door swung open, and he braced himself.
‘Rob?’
Jeremy clunked his gun and snarled. ‘It’s the traitor. Prepare to die, Pig!’
Robbie grinned, slightly drunkenly, glancing around. ‘Where’s Hamster? Oh, there he is. What you doing, Andy?’
‘What you should have done,’ said Andy, calmly enough; he hadn’t lowered his gun. ‘What the hell are you playing at, Rob? Are you really working with Cowell?’
Robbie shrugged, trudging fearlessly into the room. ‘He’s got Markie. And he gave us good stuff - better than this pratt ever gave us.’
‘Right, that’s it. I’m going to blow your fucking head off!’
Despite Jeremy’s loud threat, Robbie appeared monumentally unbothered, and started reeling around the chamber spouting fairly meaningless, drunken drivel about friendship and love - right up until the moment he suddenly slammed the heel of his boot down on the timer device that Andy had been fiddling with and cracked it in two.
‘Can’t blow anything up, now, can you?
The glassily cheeky grin returned.
‘No,’ replied Andy, utterly exasperated.
And that was the moment when Jeremy revealed that he had also brought a blowtorch.
...................