Red Boots, Black Soul (Part Five)
Title: Red Boots, Black Soul
Fandom: Mint Royale AU
Rating: PG
Warnings: Swearing, crossdressing
Word Count: 6000
Summary: He knew he should have been expecting it, considering Art's letters, but Nick wasn't quite ready for the sight that greeted him.
AN: So, next part, next part. It's getting exciting! I'm still playing with the start/end of chapters so I still can't say how many parts there are left, but it's starting to get fun.(read, I'm having fun, I hope you are). For anyone who's not aware of the Kasabian video, 'Fire', I suggest you watch it for some better understanding of their little appearance last time (and cause Serge and Tom are pretty). I meant to link, but I forgot. >.< Oops. In addition, I have in my head what needs to be done with the rest of the fic, but I'd love to know what everyone wants to see more of! This is for you guys, after all. <3
Anyway, I hope you enjoy part five.
SF xxxx
Chapter Five
A Big Dilemma
Art shuddered as a cold breeze rushed through him. How girls wore this shit all the time he had no idea; it looked amazing, but it was ridiculously impractical. He stopped as he caught his reflection on the glass, his hair was a wind whipped mess and it took him a moment to settle it back into place where the curls draped around his face and softened the hard planes of his jaw and ridiculous cheekbones.
He looked a little like a girl anyway, but with Eleanor’s help the illusion was heightened tenfold now, or at least made him look like a tranny enough to get away with it. He'd been smiling coyly all morning and had so far gotten a coffee for nothing and been stared at like it was going out of style. It was enough to break his resolve and laugh but he'd got away with that too. Now, now the playing was long over and he had to become Andrea Thompson, an Oxford dropout in Linguistics who had flunked in her second year and since then couldn’t pin down a job but looked like a whore. And it worked, he tittered in and smiled at the guard behind the counter and within two minutes had enough information to get past the front counter when the time came, but more importantly, he got visitation rights to see Nick and twenty minutes later he was waiting behind a sheet of plexiglass waiting for the guards to bring Nick through to the other side of the room. It had been easy to get this far and he was damn sure it was going to be a world away from easy getting much further. It definitely wasn’t going to be worth a smile and a little bit of keen flirting with an easily flustered boy like it had taken to get permission to see Nick. No, now Nick was going to have to help him out without knowing what he needed him to do. It was going to be escapades like this that he could pass him info on what was going on. That and those damn letters. But surely the letters became obsolete from this moment.
Art schooled his face blank and waited, taking in each inch of the room. It was a small room made out of three walls and plexiglass and he knew that it was nothing but a cubical, that just further along there was another duo helplessly trying to communicate through damn plastic. But he would work with what he got for now.
There was always room to move.
That was why he was here, to scout the rules and regulations, to mark the camera’s positions on either side of the glass, to push the guards boundaries and catch as many names as he could.
This visit was preliminary; this was just a scouting mission. But it was also everything to do with Nick. He’d be a liar if he tried to pretend that his blood wasn’t pounding, that he could feel his heart trying to make an escape through his mouth in the midst of the near hysterical laugh he could feel bubbling in his chest.
He felt more than a little bit insane, which didn’t seem to deflate at all as the door on the other side of the glass clicked and swung forward.
Art stared at Nick as the door framed him, like a portrait and Art felt his insides inflate, the manic laughter burst out just a little and he could feel himself grinning ear to ear as Nick moved forward, a dumbstruck look on his face as he sat down. Art forced himself to keep one eye on the guard as he walked Nick to the seat and unclipped the chain bolting Nick’s handcuffs to a hook on his belt. As he leant over Art took in the security badge on his belt. Stanton. Officer Oliver Stanton. Thankyou for your help, Officer Stanton Art thought, his gaze flickering from Nick back to the guard, who, he noticed with a surge of glee was watching him. Art smirked, his bottom lip curling before his gaze turned completely back to Nick, taking in his messed curls that had his fingers itching and the unsure look behind his glasses, the slight hunch in his shoulders and the burning smile that seemed to waver on his lips before it disappeared again, settling into something not anywhere near as eager. Still, it was more than something.
Art smiled, turning it on Nick and Nick alone. Nick squared his shoulders as he faced him.
***
He had a visitor.
He had a visitor; the information kept swirling around Nick’s head as he was marched from his cell down the block and towards the visitation rooms. There was a whole host of people he thought it could be, and a whole host he hoped it wasn’t.
But as he was lead through, he wasn’t really ready for the sight that greeted him.
Nick had to stop his mouth dropping wide open as he caught sight of ‘Annie’ seated on the other side, sitting up a little to offer him a wave, bangles dangling down his wrist. As Stanton walked him over Nick stared through the glass at the pale green cut of Art’s dress framed by the fur of a dark long lined green coat, rising up to meet black hair. Nick stared and as Art smiled at him on the other side of the glass he had a hard time not immediately telling him he looked like a tart, and a harder time telling his cock not to like it. Because he did. A lot.
He smiled.
“Heya, Nicky,” Art smiled and Nick’s shock dissipated.
"What are you doing?" he couldn't stop himself asking, Art laughed, a short breathy thing and took a moment to answer, staring at Nick from under long false lashes curling over his eyes and his lips curled upwards in a ridiculous smirk.
"Come off it Nicky, what’re you gawping at, huh? Surely them cell buddies o’yours ain’t short of pretty girls to wank over." he murmured, twirling his hair around his finger and smiling coyly. He had this down to an art. Oh the irony.
“None are quite like you, Annie,” Nick said stiffly adjusting in his seat.
Art grinned, bright and wide like he knew exactly what he was doing and just what effect he was having. Nick’s smile turned to a scowl.
“Course they ain’t, Nicky. No one’s quite like me,” he said, curling his tongue down his incisor. He looked depraved, and in that moment Nick wanted him more than he could handle. It had been over six weeks since the last time he’d touched him, felt his skin under his fingertips, tasted him, held him, fucked him. And he was so damn close and so damn out of reach.
“What have you been up to then?” he asked, trying to ignore the way his voice quavered and Art’s simpering snicker.
“Oh this and that, sweetie. Keeping things going, you know. I’ve been meeting so many nice people. They know so many new things. I need to find more boys like that Nicky. Need to keep one, one of these days too. Thought you mighta been my boy but you had to go runnin’ off didn’t you, got yourself locked up here, never mind all that homo buggerin’ you been up to since I seen you back before you messed up Ethel. You’re a hard one to get at, Nicky.”
“How is Ethel?” he asked, and he couldn’t help but enjoy the way it stopped Art short. Made his smirking little mask slip just a bit on the other side of the glass, but then the mask was back up and Art was smirking again and offering a simpering laugh and his eyes were flashing dark with just a little warning and Nick couldn’t help but smile himself.
“Oh I don’t know, silly. She ain’t talking to me since I told her it were her problem you were sucking off guys and if you weren’t I would have been after you in a second. Didn’t much like that. But she never much liked me, Nicky. You know that.”
Nick couldn’t help but stare as Art talked, he had it perfect, the voice, the smile, the way he carried himself. He had it all worked out, it was so perfect it was obscene. And he was back to smiling in a way that he entirely meant and it seemed to make the whole facade.
“It’s good to see you, Annie,” he murmured and it stopped Art as he was about to open his mouth to say something else, and the way it made him pause and flush just a little made the horror at himself almost worth it. Art laughed again, light and breathy and Nick watched his gaze flicker around the room again.
“I been meaning to come see you, Nicky. I meant to right after I saw your name in the paper, but there’s been so much going on todays the first chance I got.”
“I forgive you,” he laughed a little himself and it grew as Art looked away, looking pleased and embarrassed and the way it was obvious across his face should have had Nick a means to be worried, but in that moment he simply relished having Art so close.
“You alright in here then, Nicky?” he asked, looking up at him again and Nick smiled.
“Yeah, I’m alright a while longer.”
Art nodded and his gaze flickered to the guard still watching them, listening in and when he wandered over before Art could say anything further Nick watched the annoyance flicker across his face with something else that seemed raw and scared him for the instant he saw it, but then Art’s face schooled into a blinding smile and Nick felt his stomach plummet.
“Time’s up, Marshall,” the guard grunted and Nick nodded, standing up. Art watched with greedy eyes as Stanton clipped his chain back onto Nick’s cuffs.
“I’ll see you soon, Nicky,” he murmured and Nick nodded as he turned to leave, taking one last look at the small man on the other side of the glass, looking a little like a wilted flower in his getup as Nick left the room and his last view of him was obscured.
***
Leaving the prison left Art with a renewed sense of determination that, while it hadn’t set the pieces moving in his head, he finally had placement of several key players. Even though a part of him had the unnerving notion that there were others he knew nothing of.
Like Des.
Des in particular was one anomaly he needed to find, a part of him had spent the last few weeks hoping that the other man would simply show up out of the blue and help him, but Art hadn’t survived as long as he had on hopes and dreams. He knew enough about the determination of the Selfish to last him a lifetime. After all, he had made it his life’s work.
The Rebellion was a generation of selfish beings. That’s what Rebel’s were.
But all the same, unanswered questions were a danger regardless of who was in charge.
And Des’ absence was a question Art was determined to answer.
He had a feeling it had more to do with the feelings he couldn’t quite pin down into questions than was natural more than the actual questions he had; a sense of foreboding that the simple insecurity he had, had reason for all out anxiety.
Either way, he was spread thin, and he knew it. But spread thin or not, it was necessary.
Driving back to the flat he’d invited Nick to, Art parked his car and called for a taxi before he made his next move. He had one move to make on both games he was playing, and both games needed one key piece.
Oliver Stanton was his in for Nick, to Nick. And Des was the reason Nick was gone. Or part of it.
Maurice Moss was his go to for both.
Sliding into the back seat of the black cab, Art gave the driver his instructions and settled back in his seat, smoothing the rumpled green frills of his skirt back around his knees and carefully running a hand through his hair. He was tired, worn out and on an improbable time frame. Art exhaled, letting the tension sink out of his body and feel the slopes of the leather seat of the cab hold him up. He let his eyes slide closed but in the moment they did his brain switched back on, immediate and unrelenting.
He’d never been one for nightmares, never had the conscience enough to maintain them. He’d been too young to dream about his parents death and it had been too far away from him to have seen their faces or anything horrible enough like that. Since he’d dug his hole in the Rebellion he’d seen enough, and been cause of enough things that should have made him toss and turn, and yet he’d always slept the sleep of the innocent. Or that’s how Dixon had described it once. He’d also say that one day Art would do something - or something would catch up with him - that would keep him awake.
If Dixon was right, Nick’s bloodied face and the pained ragged breath as he’d told him to leave was a nightmare almost two decades in the making. It was more than enough to keep him awake, his brain buzzing with the details, the dark matt of Nick’s curls catching the light, the furious beat of his own heart that had echoed in his head, that had buzzed and pounded and kept him full of adrenaline long enough to get him twenty minutes away on foot and into the back of another stolen car before it had disappeared and he’d blacked out. But almost two months later and while he could still feel the pull of the recently healed wound across his abdomen, the memories had yet to dull in the slightest. He could hear Nick’s panted breaths, the report of the gun in his hand, the echo of shrieking metal as the car crashed and the glint in Nick’s eyes and echoing desperate plea to run.
Art jolted upright, clenching his fists into his skirt and blinking furiously as sleep slipped from him like water over feathers. He couldn’t have drifted off long enough at all, the streets were barely the same and there was still a way to go before the park.
Art sighed and sat back in the seat again, this time careful. He turned his gaze towards the cabbie. He was old, stout, and unnerving, with a head of grouse curls and leering eyes staring back at Art in the mirror. As Art watched the routine movement of leering hazel he suddenly remembered that he was completely made up like a woman, and he was being completely utterly ogled at. A grin shattered his weary expression and he barely stopped himself from laughing outright.
With another sigh, this time deliberate and breathy he cast his gaze, coy as you like, up towards the mirror again, biting his lip as he carefully moved, just enough to make it seem undeliberate as he shifted his skirt up a little higher, exposing another good section of his legs.
Art could have crowed as he noticed the excited flicker of the man’s eyes in the rear view mirror. The same laughter tried to bubble up again but he stopped it short and bit his lip, letting the skirt fall back around his knees as he caught sight of the edge of the park.
Guess he’d slept a little longer than he thought.
The brief hilarity of his perving driver continued only as long as it took to pay the man before the disappointed perve was pulling away from the curb and Art headed towards the knoll.
Moss wasn’t there when he arrived, but it didn’t take long for Art to notice the awkward strut of the bumbling IT geek as he headed towards him. He was a stick out sore thumb to the entire vicinity, but he was a harmless soul and Art quite liked him.
He was always useful, too.
Art smiled up at him as Moss finally reached the seat he’s specified, waiting for him to catch his breath.
“Hello!” Moss said, as enthusiastic as ever.
“Heya,” Art grinned.
“Why are you dressed like a laydee?” Moss asked, immediately curious from the moment his arse hit the seat. Art couldn’t help a tiny smile.
“A job, Moss.”
Moss seemed content with his answer and so Art let the silence stretch a little while Moss sorted out his backpack.
“Why are we meeting here in the park?” Moss asked the moment the silence seemed too much and this time Art’s smile was wider, broken by a hesitant laugh. A chav walking through the park cast his gaze towards them and Art watched him until the boy lost his courage and looked away.
“Why didn’t we meet at the office, like usual? After Roy’s left.”
“This can’t wait. I need your help now. On something else. Someone else.”
“Oh,” Moss said, twisting to look at Art again. Andy could still see the busting questions on Moss’ tongue about the dress he was wearing and the makeup and the shoes, but the man seemed content to take what Art was giving him. He clearly knew something had changed since Art had shown up at his office nearly two weeks previous, desperate for another favour.
The good thing about Moss was he didn’t hold favours over anyone. Art wasn’t sure if he even understood the hold he could have over Art at the very least. His skills were powerful. It was why the IT department were left to themselves, Reynholm Industries couldn’t risk angering a vital resource, or losing them. Well kept secrets were always the best kind.
“I need you to look into Oliver Stanton, he’s a guard at Belmarsh prison. I need to know personal details.”
“What type of ‘personal details’?” Moss asked with a lean of his body. It could almost have been Moss’ attempt at being lude. Art smiled.
“Everything. Girlfriend, boyfriend, finances, lack of finances, debts, arguments, job, friends, enemies. All of it. I need an in, he’s my mark.”
“This still about that man who came to see me? What about that other one?”
Art didn’t look at Moss this time.
“Yeah,” he murmured. Moss was quiet a moment. “It’s about the same guy, and I need you to keep looking at Des as well.”
Moss nodded.
“Are you going to come and get the information here?”
“No, I’ll come see you tonight, Moss. Like we usually do it.”
“So this is an exception meeting point?”
“This is an exception meeting point,” Art repeated, bemused and thankful that Moss was always so damn accommodating. He glanced down at Moss again as he stood up, the wind taking a not so gentle tug at his coat and going through the stockings he was wearing. Women were nutters.
“I’ll see you later, Moss,” he murmured and the other man nodded.
“Bye bye!” Moss called after him. Art didn’t turn around and wave back, he simply made a beeline for the main road again; he needed to go home, he needed a shower and a change of clothes and to focus. He finally had a point of entry, he had someone to press and manipulate and he’d always had his endgame. He finally had his pieces, his game was taking shape and it was about time to start moving the bigger pieces forward.
His King needed him.
***
Nick shook his head as he settled in his chair, staring at Art on the other side of the glass, eyes painted baby blue as if to match the pale blue dress he was wearing, a baby doll thing with a white bib to it like some mock attempt at honesty and morality but sort of looked something like an old woman’s nightie from what he could see. He was sure it was nothing so modest underneath.
Art had a simpering smile on his face as he made a girlish show of leaning on his hands, the dark hair along his arms gone in some freakish display that rocked Nick a little more than it should.
“Heya Nicky,” he grinned.
“Hi.”
“How you going, darlin’?” Art laughed; he was clearly loving every moment of this. Nick wanted to smack some sense into him or go back to his cell and make him come back again tomorrow or the next day if he had something to tell him if it meant putting a halt to the fast and furious way that he seemed to be attacking the prison system. That or his intent to show off his ridiculous attempts to dress as a woman. Either way, from supervised plexiglass to unsupervised plexiglass in two trips had Nick’s nerves razor sharp. Art had done something. Of that he was sure. Everything was monitored, the fact this wasn’t, was key.
Art had done something, and he was suddenly nervous just how far Art was going to get as much done as he had.
Appreciative he was, cautious he had always been.
And this had his alarms wailing.
“Do you want me to answer that?”
“Well I asked, didn’t I? I’m only being polite. Good manners. Beside’s there’s nothing else to talk about now is there. Except how well my plans are going an that. They’re going well, so you know. Should have you out and enjoying the cloud cover soonish.”
“What are you doing?” Nick hissed, trying not to let the glee in Art’s eyes rile him.
“Well you wanna know how I’m going getting you out of this place, don’t you?”
“Shut up.”
“I think a month at most should do it. Got my claws on some handy boys, Nicky. They’ll be well helpful.”
“You shouldn’t be telling me this, Annie.”
Art was laughing, his eyes dancing and his glossy lips twisted in a gleaming smile.
“It’s alright,” he said finally, “I may or may not have met up with one of your guards the other day and made an offer he couldn’t refuse,” he paused, wearing a blinding grin on his face for a moment that Nick couldn’t help but feel was entirely for his sake, but almost simultaneously made him look like the cat who’d got the cream. A part of Nick was flabbergasted and a little wary that in just four days so much seemed to have happened, but the fact remained, that Art had succeeded in getting an in with the Guards and it was enough to calm the raging anxiety in his veins. Art’s blinding smile tapered a little and he sat up a little straighter. His expression wavering for a second before falling back to the infallible confident smirk he’d been wearing the day Nick had first met him. It was a little comforting.
“There’s no recording audio on the tapes. We’re fine. I can tell you exactly how I’m getting you out of here, Nicky, and all they’re gonna have record of is that I was here and I talked to you, nothing else.”
As he finished speaking Art seemed immensely pleased with himself and it made Nick half nervous and half exasperatedly amused.
“How did you even start getting access to me anyway?” he asked, pointedly directing the conversation back into useful territory. Art’s smile said he knew exactly what Nick was doing, but he let it happen.
“I didn’t go to university with anyone called Annie. They wouldn’t have let any fucking stranger talk to me. They were checking my mail before and yours got through. How did you do it? How’d you get from visitation rights to an open sitting in two fucking trips?”
“Secrets and lies, Nicky,” he winked, grinning Cheshire cat wide.
Nick scowled and leant forward.
“Seriously Art, how?”
“Don’t fret, Nicky. I made Annie real, didn’t I? I found Moss will do anything if you ask him nicely and get him away from his mother long enough, and Leroy will do anything if you pay him enough. They faked it all. Grades, photos, stories. According to the national database and the records at Oxford, Andrea Thomas failed a Degree in Linguistics.”
“Linguistics?”
“She’s good with her tongue,” Andy cackled, his eyes dancing.
“I’ve got it all worked out, Nicky. Don’t worry your pretty little head about it. If I can get these tapes swapped what says I can’t get you out, huh?”
“Fair enough,” Nick conceded, grudgingly. But at what cost, was what had him worried. He leant back in his seat and something must have shown on his face because Andy was leaning forward in his seat, an earnest expression on his face.
“Trust me, Nicky. I know what I’m doing. I’m getting you out.”
“I trust you,” Nick murmured, and it seemed to resolve something behind Art’s eyes for a moment. When he looked back up they had a strange gleam, like they were all out of focus but before he had a chance to say anything else Art cleared his throat.
“I should go. I don’t want to make too much of an impression. Things are hard to manage as it is.” Nick nodded, letting Art get away with not looking him.
“I won’t be long,” he said, throwing a tiny glance back at Nick as the guard at on the other side unlocked the door, and then the door opened and he was gone.
Nick sat as he was in the wake of the closed door, waiting for the guard to show him back to his cell, confused as fuck and, he realised with the weight of a stone through water, feeling suddenly - horrifyingly- lonely.
***
Two trips down, and Art’s map of the prison was starting to take shape. Between his own ease at remembering turns and directions, and careful questioning from Officer Stanton during the second visit, he was beginning to feel his anxiety beginning to abate.
He was still alone; Rosey and Bauer were yet to arrive but they had sworn their services and so had Breton, and it was enough to keep Art’s worries at bay. He had other things to worry about before the bumbling help of the two strange Frenchmen. There were parts of his set up he still needed before they could offer any assistance.
The map was the most prominent.
He had the main entrance sorted, the divided section between prisoners and guards and the general public, the placement of cameras and a general gist of the gates security system. It wasn’t much, personalised security badges that wouldn’t be hard to nick at all. And if he couldn’t steal one, by some off chance, there was always Officer Oliver Stanton, the nervous gambler trying to keep his girlfriend of four years at home when she had one foot out the door almost constantly. Officer Stanton was help enough just through careful nudging, when he was pushed and pressed there was going to be an endless amount of information Art was sure he could squeeze from him, and that was just from the firm knowledge the man could not keep his hands to himself. There was a damn good reason his girlfriend was trying to run.
It was almost fun; he was back into the part of each heist he loved, the planning, the plotting. It was all about knowing more. The more you knew the better you were, and if you knew more than the system, you were better than the system, and therefore, beyond it.
It was almost six weeks since Nick’s arrest and while he was still no closer to getting him out than he had been when Nick had been sentenced, he had more information, and information was vital. It was important and in that respect, he was miles in front of where he’d started. Belmarsh was a maze, but he had a memory for mazes, and while there were too many variables, all he needed to do was figure out which ones were important. Which ones he had to exploit, and which to leave.
Art stared down at the pile of information Moss had printed for him, a compiled list of everywhere that Oliver Stanton went, everything he liked, loathed and was desperate to keep secret. It was an impressive pile, and it was enough to force any man’s hand. He’d done more with less just getting Nick’s arraignment organised.
The only thing that had Art worried, was the utter lack of information that Moss could find on Des. No aliases, no transactions, trips, whispers or rumours. It was as if the man had disappeared, and that, that was worrying. There was something else going on, Art was sure of it. He still had no idea what, but it had something to do with Des, something to do with Nick, and between them, it meant it had something to do with him.
Paranoia had never been his strong suit, he’d always been too reckless to care about consequences, and he’d never stayed in one place long enough to worry about redemption.
That didn’t stop him now. He didn’t know whether it was, but it felt like a symptom, and whether it was just an add on to his insomnia and lack of appetite or a symptom of them, he wasn’t sure.
All he was sure of was that something was finally moving, and it felt good.
***
Nick couldn’t quite believe it when one of the guards - Connors, Nick thought his name was - came up to open his cell early the next morning, crowing once again that he had had a visitor. There was a strange mixture of excitement and confusion in his stomach as he left his cell, swirling together at Art visiting again so soon, and by the time he reached the interview rooms he was sure that something had happened, that Art had second thoughts and he was fucking off, leaving Nick here to rot. His own brain conspiring with every second guess and niggling worry that had crept up on him in the middle of the night for almost two months and throwing it back at him with each measured step.
It came as a bit of a surprise - albeit a preferable one, considering his own betraying thoughts - when Connors sat him down in an enclosed room and five minutes later he was joined by a large man in a checked suit with a funny limp.
Big Smith barged into the room with the whole of his presence on show, his mouth a small line and his eyes hard and glinting. Nicholas couldn't help it, he smiled, a sneering laughing smile.
"Detective, how nice to see you again."
Big didn't say a thing, silent and scowling as he crossed over to his chair and sat down. He folded his hands in front of him and turned his gaze directly on Nick.
"You're a strange one, Nicholas Marshall. Your father died when you were thirteen, mother never remarried. Only child, story says you were quiet, good grades, but never made many friends. Indifferent to the other children, overly smart at times. Studied at Oxford, competent, good grades but nothing outstanding, could have done so much better. Seemed like you were holding yourself back. Married to Ethel Marks when you were twenty six; divorced two years ago, no children. Worked at Renholm Industries for seven years, where five years ago you began moonlighting as a Rebel. Made a fortune overnight in overseas funds. You're not exceptional, Nick. You're just a guy who's managed to work his way along the road and stay there. What on earth made you so special?"
Nick stared at the bumbling anger filled man in front of him. He had no idea what the man was on about, or what had brought him so far out of his way just to whittle of such a speech. But he also knew that it wasn’t over. There was more to this.
Nick smiled. If this was a game about Art, then let it be Art’s game.
"My rugged looks perhaps?" he said with a smirk, a thrill running down his back at the way the vein in Big’s temple seemed to throb as the words echoed around them. Nick squared his shoulders.
"See he’s given you a mouth,” Big scowled. “What I want to know is what it is about you that makes you so intriguing to someone like Andrew Thompson?"
Nick’s smile grew. But that was the question, though; what did make him so special?
Big's scowl deepened.
"Andrew Thompson, parents both murdered when he was six years old, where he was sent to live with then Chief Inspector Michael Moore, his uncle. Gifted boy, made friends easy as you please, didn't pay attention in class but knew all the answers. Went to one single primary school and went through six different schools between sixth and tenth form. Didn't go to college or university, dropped off the planet for two years where he used his uncle's influence and parents money to go travelling. Met several characters along the way that influenced him, before at the age of eighteen years and seventeen days, he swindled out a payout from an old woman’s estate some three million pounds. A woman he'd never met." Big sat forward in his chair.
"What makes you so interesting to a man who by the time he turned twenty five didn't connect to anyone except to swindle them out of anything he wanted? He stole three million pounds one day, three weeks later he'd auctioned off a prize beagle. He's run in with drug cartels, arms dealers, espionage, he's infiltrated bank heists and he's handed them in, he's ruined people and he's used them. He's never once built a man up, and yet, yet outside of everything there's you, Nicholas Marshall. There's you who hasn't fit in any hand I’ve dealt out. And I know he's up to something. And I know that you're at the centre of it."
"You sound like you need a bit of shut eye there, Big," Nicholas said with a tiny smile. The vein in Big’s temple throbbed harder. Nick focussed his attention on the embodiment of the other man’s rage, forcing himself to not let Big get a rise out of him. Big leant forward on the desk, and it groaned and squeaked under his weight, sliding a little across the floor.
“I'm warning you, Nick. Don’t try something you're not going to get out of. He will slip up one day, and I’m going to make sure it’s this time, and I'm going to make sure he doesn't get away. You're not getting out."
Nick turned his gaze up into Big’s and didn’t let it waver.
"Never said I was.”
"Don’t shit me, Nicholas. I know him, better than you do. Don’t test me. His time is up. Give my regards to Annie, will you." He sneered, pushing back his chair to leave, and Nick watched as he slammed his fist on the door and stormed out. The whole room felt tiny and overbearing and for a moment, as they lead him back to his cell, he was torn over his own impulses, divided down the middle between the two simultaneous thoughts that ran through his head the moment the door slammed behind Big.
Do whatever it took to get out.
Do whatever it took to make sure Art left him where he was.
And as the door on his cell slammed shut, Nick was still caught over which he wanted more; freedom, or the assurance that Art wouldn’t lose his.
Part Six
Fandom: Mint Royale AU
Rating: PG
Warnings: Swearing, crossdressing
Word Count: 6000
Summary: He knew he should have been expecting it, considering Art's letters, but Nick wasn't quite ready for the sight that greeted him.
AN: So, next part, next part. It's getting exciting! I'm still playing with the start/end of chapters so I still can't say how many parts there are left, but it's starting to get fun.(read, I'm having fun, I hope you are). For anyone who's not aware of the Kasabian video, 'Fire', I suggest you watch it for some better understanding of their little appearance last time (and cause Serge and Tom are pretty). I meant to link, but I forgot. >.< Oops. In addition, I have in my head what needs to be done with the rest of the fic, but I'd love to know what everyone wants to see more of! This is for you guys, after all. <3
Anyway, I hope you enjoy part five.
SF xxxx
Chapter Five
A Big Dilemma
Art shuddered as a cold breeze rushed through him. How girls wore this shit all the time he had no idea; it looked amazing, but it was ridiculously impractical. He stopped as he caught his reflection on the glass, his hair was a wind whipped mess and it took him a moment to settle it back into place where the curls draped around his face and softened the hard planes of his jaw and ridiculous cheekbones.
He looked a little like a girl anyway, but with Eleanor’s help the illusion was heightened tenfold now, or at least made him look like a tranny enough to get away with it. He'd been smiling coyly all morning and had so far gotten a coffee for nothing and been stared at like it was going out of style. It was enough to break his resolve and laugh but he'd got away with that too. Now, now the playing was long over and he had to become Andrea Thompson, an Oxford dropout in Linguistics who had flunked in her second year and since then couldn’t pin down a job but looked like a whore. And it worked, he tittered in and smiled at the guard behind the counter and within two minutes had enough information to get past the front counter when the time came, but more importantly, he got visitation rights to see Nick and twenty minutes later he was waiting behind a sheet of plexiglass waiting for the guards to bring Nick through to the other side of the room. It had been easy to get this far and he was damn sure it was going to be a world away from easy getting much further. It definitely wasn’t going to be worth a smile and a little bit of keen flirting with an easily flustered boy like it had taken to get permission to see Nick. No, now Nick was going to have to help him out without knowing what he needed him to do. It was going to be escapades like this that he could pass him info on what was going on. That and those damn letters. But surely the letters became obsolete from this moment.
Art schooled his face blank and waited, taking in each inch of the room. It was a small room made out of three walls and plexiglass and he knew that it was nothing but a cubical, that just further along there was another duo helplessly trying to communicate through damn plastic. But he would work with what he got for now.
There was always room to move.
That was why he was here, to scout the rules and regulations, to mark the camera’s positions on either side of the glass, to push the guards boundaries and catch as many names as he could.
This visit was preliminary; this was just a scouting mission. But it was also everything to do with Nick. He’d be a liar if he tried to pretend that his blood wasn’t pounding, that he could feel his heart trying to make an escape through his mouth in the midst of the near hysterical laugh he could feel bubbling in his chest.
He felt more than a little bit insane, which didn’t seem to deflate at all as the door on the other side of the glass clicked and swung forward.
Art stared at Nick as the door framed him, like a portrait and Art felt his insides inflate, the manic laughter burst out just a little and he could feel himself grinning ear to ear as Nick moved forward, a dumbstruck look on his face as he sat down. Art forced himself to keep one eye on the guard as he walked Nick to the seat and unclipped the chain bolting Nick’s handcuffs to a hook on his belt. As he leant over Art took in the security badge on his belt. Stanton. Officer Oliver Stanton. Thankyou for your help, Officer Stanton Art thought, his gaze flickering from Nick back to the guard, who, he noticed with a surge of glee was watching him. Art smirked, his bottom lip curling before his gaze turned completely back to Nick, taking in his messed curls that had his fingers itching and the unsure look behind his glasses, the slight hunch in his shoulders and the burning smile that seemed to waver on his lips before it disappeared again, settling into something not anywhere near as eager. Still, it was more than something.
Art smiled, turning it on Nick and Nick alone. Nick squared his shoulders as he faced him.
***
He had a visitor.
He had a visitor; the information kept swirling around Nick’s head as he was marched from his cell down the block and towards the visitation rooms. There was a whole host of people he thought it could be, and a whole host he hoped it wasn’t.
But as he was lead through, he wasn’t really ready for the sight that greeted him.
Nick had to stop his mouth dropping wide open as he caught sight of ‘Annie’ seated on the other side, sitting up a little to offer him a wave, bangles dangling down his wrist. As Stanton walked him over Nick stared through the glass at the pale green cut of Art’s dress framed by the fur of a dark long lined green coat, rising up to meet black hair. Nick stared and as Art smiled at him on the other side of the glass he had a hard time not immediately telling him he looked like a tart, and a harder time telling his cock not to like it. Because he did. A lot.
He smiled.
“Heya, Nicky,” Art smiled and Nick’s shock dissipated.
"What are you doing?" he couldn't stop himself asking, Art laughed, a short breathy thing and took a moment to answer, staring at Nick from under long false lashes curling over his eyes and his lips curled upwards in a ridiculous smirk.
"Come off it Nicky, what’re you gawping at, huh? Surely them cell buddies o’yours ain’t short of pretty girls to wank over." he murmured, twirling his hair around his finger and smiling coyly. He had this down to an art. Oh the irony.
“None are quite like you, Annie,” Nick said stiffly adjusting in his seat.
Art grinned, bright and wide like he knew exactly what he was doing and just what effect he was having. Nick’s smile turned to a scowl.
“Course they ain’t, Nicky. No one’s quite like me,” he said, curling his tongue down his incisor. He looked depraved, and in that moment Nick wanted him more than he could handle. It had been over six weeks since the last time he’d touched him, felt his skin under his fingertips, tasted him, held him, fucked him. And he was so damn close and so damn out of reach.
“What have you been up to then?” he asked, trying to ignore the way his voice quavered and Art’s simpering snicker.
“Oh this and that, sweetie. Keeping things going, you know. I’ve been meeting so many nice people. They know so many new things. I need to find more boys like that Nicky. Need to keep one, one of these days too. Thought you mighta been my boy but you had to go runnin’ off didn’t you, got yourself locked up here, never mind all that homo buggerin’ you been up to since I seen you back before you messed up Ethel. You’re a hard one to get at, Nicky.”
“How is Ethel?” he asked, and he couldn’t help but enjoy the way it stopped Art short. Made his smirking little mask slip just a bit on the other side of the glass, but then the mask was back up and Art was smirking again and offering a simpering laugh and his eyes were flashing dark with just a little warning and Nick couldn’t help but smile himself.
“Oh I don’t know, silly. She ain’t talking to me since I told her it were her problem you were sucking off guys and if you weren’t I would have been after you in a second. Didn’t much like that. But she never much liked me, Nicky. You know that.”
Nick couldn’t help but stare as Art talked, he had it perfect, the voice, the smile, the way he carried himself. He had it all worked out, it was so perfect it was obscene. And he was back to smiling in a way that he entirely meant and it seemed to make the whole facade.
“It’s good to see you, Annie,” he murmured and it stopped Art as he was about to open his mouth to say something else, and the way it made him pause and flush just a little made the horror at himself almost worth it. Art laughed again, light and breathy and Nick watched his gaze flicker around the room again.
“I been meaning to come see you, Nicky. I meant to right after I saw your name in the paper, but there’s been so much going on todays the first chance I got.”
“I forgive you,” he laughed a little himself and it grew as Art looked away, looking pleased and embarrassed and the way it was obvious across his face should have had Nick a means to be worried, but in that moment he simply relished having Art so close.
“You alright in here then, Nicky?” he asked, looking up at him again and Nick smiled.
“Yeah, I’m alright a while longer.”
Art nodded and his gaze flickered to the guard still watching them, listening in and when he wandered over before Art could say anything further Nick watched the annoyance flicker across his face with something else that seemed raw and scared him for the instant he saw it, but then Art’s face schooled into a blinding smile and Nick felt his stomach plummet.
“Time’s up, Marshall,” the guard grunted and Nick nodded, standing up. Art watched with greedy eyes as Stanton clipped his chain back onto Nick’s cuffs.
“I’ll see you soon, Nicky,” he murmured and Nick nodded as he turned to leave, taking one last look at the small man on the other side of the glass, looking a little like a wilted flower in his getup as Nick left the room and his last view of him was obscured.
***
Leaving the prison left Art with a renewed sense of determination that, while it hadn’t set the pieces moving in his head, he finally had placement of several key players. Even though a part of him had the unnerving notion that there were others he knew nothing of.
Like Des.
Des in particular was one anomaly he needed to find, a part of him had spent the last few weeks hoping that the other man would simply show up out of the blue and help him, but Art hadn’t survived as long as he had on hopes and dreams. He knew enough about the determination of the Selfish to last him a lifetime. After all, he had made it his life’s work.
The Rebellion was a generation of selfish beings. That’s what Rebel’s were.
But all the same, unanswered questions were a danger regardless of who was in charge.
And Des’ absence was a question Art was determined to answer.
He had a feeling it had more to do with the feelings he couldn’t quite pin down into questions than was natural more than the actual questions he had; a sense of foreboding that the simple insecurity he had, had reason for all out anxiety.
Either way, he was spread thin, and he knew it. But spread thin or not, it was necessary.
Driving back to the flat he’d invited Nick to, Art parked his car and called for a taxi before he made his next move. He had one move to make on both games he was playing, and both games needed one key piece.
Oliver Stanton was his in for Nick, to Nick. And Des was the reason Nick was gone. Or part of it.
Maurice Moss was his go to for both.
Sliding into the back seat of the black cab, Art gave the driver his instructions and settled back in his seat, smoothing the rumpled green frills of his skirt back around his knees and carefully running a hand through his hair. He was tired, worn out and on an improbable time frame. Art exhaled, letting the tension sink out of his body and feel the slopes of the leather seat of the cab hold him up. He let his eyes slide closed but in the moment they did his brain switched back on, immediate and unrelenting.
He’d never been one for nightmares, never had the conscience enough to maintain them. He’d been too young to dream about his parents death and it had been too far away from him to have seen their faces or anything horrible enough like that. Since he’d dug his hole in the Rebellion he’d seen enough, and been cause of enough things that should have made him toss and turn, and yet he’d always slept the sleep of the innocent. Or that’s how Dixon had described it once. He’d also say that one day Art would do something - or something would catch up with him - that would keep him awake.
If Dixon was right, Nick’s bloodied face and the pained ragged breath as he’d told him to leave was a nightmare almost two decades in the making. It was more than enough to keep him awake, his brain buzzing with the details, the dark matt of Nick’s curls catching the light, the furious beat of his own heart that had echoed in his head, that had buzzed and pounded and kept him full of adrenaline long enough to get him twenty minutes away on foot and into the back of another stolen car before it had disappeared and he’d blacked out. But almost two months later and while he could still feel the pull of the recently healed wound across his abdomen, the memories had yet to dull in the slightest. He could hear Nick’s panted breaths, the report of the gun in his hand, the echo of shrieking metal as the car crashed and the glint in Nick’s eyes and echoing desperate plea to run.
Art jolted upright, clenching his fists into his skirt and blinking furiously as sleep slipped from him like water over feathers. He couldn’t have drifted off long enough at all, the streets were barely the same and there was still a way to go before the park.
Art sighed and sat back in the seat again, this time careful. He turned his gaze towards the cabbie. He was old, stout, and unnerving, with a head of grouse curls and leering eyes staring back at Art in the mirror. As Art watched the routine movement of leering hazel he suddenly remembered that he was completely made up like a woman, and he was being completely utterly ogled at. A grin shattered his weary expression and he barely stopped himself from laughing outright.
With another sigh, this time deliberate and breathy he cast his gaze, coy as you like, up towards the mirror again, biting his lip as he carefully moved, just enough to make it seem undeliberate as he shifted his skirt up a little higher, exposing another good section of his legs.
Art could have crowed as he noticed the excited flicker of the man’s eyes in the rear view mirror. The same laughter tried to bubble up again but he stopped it short and bit his lip, letting the skirt fall back around his knees as he caught sight of the edge of the park.
Guess he’d slept a little longer than he thought.
The brief hilarity of his perving driver continued only as long as it took to pay the man before the disappointed perve was pulling away from the curb and Art headed towards the knoll.
Moss wasn’t there when he arrived, but it didn’t take long for Art to notice the awkward strut of the bumbling IT geek as he headed towards him. He was a stick out sore thumb to the entire vicinity, but he was a harmless soul and Art quite liked him.
He was always useful, too.
Art smiled up at him as Moss finally reached the seat he’s specified, waiting for him to catch his breath.
“Hello!” Moss said, as enthusiastic as ever.
“Heya,” Art grinned.
“Why are you dressed like a laydee?” Moss asked, immediately curious from the moment his arse hit the seat. Art couldn’t help a tiny smile.
“A job, Moss.”
Moss seemed content with his answer and so Art let the silence stretch a little while Moss sorted out his backpack.
“Why are we meeting here in the park?” Moss asked the moment the silence seemed too much and this time Art’s smile was wider, broken by a hesitant laugh. A chav walking through the park cast his gaze towards them and Art watched him until the boy lost his courage and looked away.
“Why didn’t we meet at the office, like usual? After Roy’s left.”
“This can’t wait. I need your help now. On something else. Someone else.”
“Oh,” Moss said, twisting to look at Art again. Andy could still see the busting questions on Moss’ tongue about the dress he was wearing and the makeup and the shoes, but the man seemed content to take what Art was giving him. He clearly knew something had changed since Art had shown up at his office nearly two weeks previous, desperate for another favour.
The good thing about Moss was he didn’t hold favours over anyone. Art wasn’t sure if he even understood the hold he could have over Art at the very least. His skills were powerful. It was why the IT department were left to themselves, Reynholm Industries couldn’t risk angering a vital resource, or losing them. Well kept secrets were always the best kind.
“I need you to look into Oliver Stanton, he’s a guard at Belmarsh prison. I need to know personal details.”
“What type of ‘personal details’?” Moss asked with a lean of his body. It could almost have been Moss’ attempt at being lude. Art smiled.
“Everything. Girlfriend, boyfriend, finances, lack of finances, debts, arguments, job, friends, enemies. All of it. I need an in, he’s my mark.”
“This still about that man who came to see me? What about that other one?”
Art didn’t look at Moss this time.
“Yeah,” he murmured. Moss was quiet a moment. “It’s about the same guy, and I need you to keep looking at Des as well.”
Moss nodded.
“Are you going to come and get the information here?”
“No, I’ll come see you tonight, Moss. Like we usually do it.”
“So this is an exception meeting point?”
“This is an exception meeting point,” Art repeated, bemused and thankful that Moss was always so damn accommodating. He glanced down at Moss again as he stood up, the wind taking a not so gentle tug at his coat and going through the stockings he was wearing. Women were nutters.
“I’ll see you later, Moss,” he murmured and the other man nodded.
“Bye bye!” Moss called after him. Art didn’t turn around and wave back, he simply made a beeline for the main road again; he needed to go home, he needed a shower and a change of clothes and to focus. He finally had a point of entry, he had someone to press and manipulate and he’d always had his endgame. He finally had his pieces, his game was taking shape and it was about time to start moving the bigger pieces forward.
His King needed him.
***
Nick shook his head as he settled in his chair, staring at Art on the other side of the glass, eyes painted baby blue as if to match the pale blue dress he was wearing, a baby doll thing with a white bib to it like some mock attempt at honesty and morality but sort of looked something like an old woman’s nightie from what he could see. He was sure it was nothing so modest underneath.
Art had a simpering smile on his face as he made a girlish show of leaning on his hands, the dark hair along his arms gone in some freakish display that rocked Nick a little more than it should.
“Heya Nicky,” he grinned.
“Hi.”
“How you going, darlin’?” Art laughed; he was clearly loving every moment of this. Nick wanted to smack some sense into him or go back to his cell and make him come back again tomorrow or the next day if he had something to tell him if it meant putting a halt to the fast and furious way that he seemed to be attacking the prison system. That or his intent to show off his ridiculous attempts to dress as a woman. Either way, from supervised plexiglass to unsupervised plexiglass in two trips had Nick’s nerves razor sharp. Art had done something. Of that he was sure. Everything was monitored, the fact this wasn’t, was key.
Art had done something, and he was suddenly nervous just how far Art was going to get as much done as he had.
Appreciative he was, cautious he had always been.
And this had his alarms wailing.
“Do you want me to answer that?”
“Well I asked, didn’t I? I’m only being polite. Good manners. Beside’s there’s nothing else to talk about now is there. Except how well my plans are going an that. They’re going well, so you know. Should have you out and enjoying the cloud cover soonish.”
“What are you doing?” Nick hissed, trying not to let the glee in Art’s eyes rile him.
“Well you wanna know how I’m going getting you out of this place, don’t you?”
“Shut up.”
“I think a month at most should do it. Got my claws on some handy boys, Nicky. They’ll be well helpful.”
“You shouldn’t be telling me this, Annie.”
Art was laughing, his eyes dancing and his glossy lips twisted in a gleaming smile.
“It’s alright,” he said finally, “I may or may not have met up with one of your guards the other day and made an offer he couldn’t refuse,” he paused, wearing a blinding grin on his face for a moment that Nick couldn’t help but feel was entirely for his sake, but almost simultaneously made him look like the cat who’d got the cream. A part of Nick was flabbergasted and a little wary that in just four days so much seemed to have happened, but the fact remained, that Art had succeeded in getting an in with the Guards and it was enough to calm the raging anxiety in his veins. Art’s blinding smile tapered a little and he sat up a little straighter. His expression wavering for a second before falling back to the infallible confident smirk he’d been wearing the day Nick had first met him. It was a little comforting.
“There’s no recording audio on the tapes. We’re fine. I can tell you exactly how I’m getting you out of here, Nicky, and all they’re gonna have record of is that I was here and I talked to you, nothing else.”
As he finished speaking Art seemed immensely pleased with himself and it made Nick half nervous and half exasperatedly amused.
“How did you even start getting access to me anyway?” he asked, pointedly directing the conversation back into useful territory. Art’s smile said he knew exactly what Nick was doing, but he let it happen.
“I didn’t go to university with anyone called Annie. They wouldn’t have let any fucking stranger talk to me. They were checking my mail before and yours got through. How did you do it? How’d you get from visitation rights to an open sitting in two fucking trips?”
“Secrets and lies, Nicky,” he winked, grinning Cheshire cat wide.
Nick scowled and leant forward.
“Seriously Art, how?”
“Don’t fret, Nicky. I made Annie real, didn’t I? I found Moss will do anything if you ask him nicely and get him away from his mother long enough, and Leroy will do anything if you pay him enough. They faked it all. Grades, photos, stories. According to the national database and the records at Oxford, Andrea Thomas failed a Degree in Linguistics.”
“Linguistics?”
“She’s good with her tongue,” Andy cackled, his eyes dancing.
“I’ve got it all worked out, Nicky. Don’t worry your pretty little head about it. If I can get these tapes swapped what says I can’t get you out, huh?”
“Fair enough,” Nick conceded, grudgingly. But at what cost, was what had him worried. He leant back in his seat and something must have shown on his face because Andy was leaning forward in his seat, an earnest expression on his face.
“Trust me, Nicky. I know what I’m doing. I’m getting you out.”
“I trust you,” Nick murmured, and it seemed to resolve something behind Art’s eyes for a moment. When he looked back up they had a strange gleam, like they were all out of focus but before he had a chance to say anything else Art cleared his throat.
“I should go. I don’t want to make too much of an impression. Things are hard to manage as it is.” Nick nodded, letting Art get away with not looking him.
“I won’t be long,” he said, throwing a tiny glance back at Nick as the guard at on the other side unlocked the door, and then the door opened and he was gone.
Nick sat as he was in the wake of the closed door, waiting for the guard to show him back to his cell, confused as fuck and, he realised with the weight of a stone through water, feeling suddenly - horrifyingly- lonely.
***
Two trips down, and Art’s map of the prison was starting to take shape. Between his own ease at remembering turns and directions, and careful questioning from Officer Stanton during the second visit, he was beginning to feel his anxiety beginning to abate.
He was still alone; Rosey and Bauer were yet to arrive but they had sworn their services and so had Breton, and it was enough to keep Art’s worries at bay. He had other things to worry about before the bumbling help of the two strange Frenchmen. There were parts of his set up he still needed before they could offer any assistance.
The map was the most prominent.
He had the main entrance sorted, the divided section between prisoners and guards and the general public, the placement of cameras and a general gist of the gates security system. It wasn’t much, personalised security badges that wouldn’t be hard to nick at all. And if he couldn’t steal one, by some off chance, there was always Officer Oliver Stanton, the nervous gambler trying to keep his girlfriend of four years at home when she had one foot out the door almost constantly. Officer Stanton was help enough just through careful nudging, when he was pushed and pressed there was going to be an endless amount of information Art was sure he could squeeze from him, and that was just from the firm knowledge the man could not keep his hands to himself. There was a damn good reason his girlfriend was trying to run.
It was almost fun; he was back into the part of each heist he loved, the planning, the plotting. It was all about knowing more. The more you knew the better you were, and if you knew more than the system, you were better than the system, and therefore, beyond it.
It was almost six weeks since Nick’s arrest and while he was still no closer to getting him out than he had been when Nick had been sentenced, he had more information, and information was vital. It was important and in that respect, he was miles in front of where he’d started. Belmarsh was a maze, but he had a memory for mazes, and while there were too many variables, all he needed to do was figure out which ones were important. Which ones he had to exploit, and which to leave.
Art stared down at the pile of information Moss had printed for him, a compiled list of everywhere that Oliver Stanton went, everything he liked, loathed and was desperate to keep secret. It was an impressive pile, and it was enough to force any man’s hand. He’d done more with less just getting Nick’s arraignment organised.
The only thing that had Art worried, was the utter lack of information that Moss could find on Des. No aliases, no transactions, trips, whispers or rumours. It was as if the man had disappeared, and that, that was worrying. There was something else going on, Art was sure of it. He still had no idea what, but it had something to do with Des, something to do with Nick, and between them, it meant it had something to do with him.
Paranoia had never been his strong suit, he’d always been too reckless to care about consequences, and he’d never stayed in one place long enough to worry about redemption.
That didn’t stop him now. He didn’t know whether it was, but it felt like a symptom, and whether it was just an add on to his insomnia and lack of appetite or a symptom of them, he wasn’t sure.
All he was sure of was that something was finally moving, and it felt good.
***
Nick couldn’t quite believe it when one of the guards - Connors, Nick thought his name was - came up to open his cell early the next morning, crowing once again that he had had a visitor. There was a strange mixture of excitement and confusion in his stomach as he left his cell, swirling together at Art visiting again so soon, and by the time he reached the interview rooms he was sure that something had happened, that Art had second thoughts and he was fucking off, leaving Nick here to rot. His own brain conspiring with every second guess and niggling worry that had crept up on him in the middle of the night for almost two months and throwing it back at him with each measured step.
It came as a bit of a surprise - albeit a preferable one, considering his own betraying thoughts - when Connors sat him down in an enclosed room and five minutes later he was joined by a large man in a checked suit with a funny limp.
Big Smith barged into the room with the whole of his presence on show, his mouth a small line and his eyes hard and glinting. Nicholas couldn't help it, he smiled, a sneering laughing smile.
"Detective, how nice to see you again."
Big didn't say a thing, silent and scowling as he crossed over to his chair and sat down. He folded his hands in front of him and turned his gaze directly on Nick.
"You're a strange one, Nicholas Marshall. Your father died when you were thirteen, mother never remarried. Only child, story says you were quiet, good grades, but never made many friends. Indifferent to the other children, overly smart at times. Studied at Oxford, competent, good grades but nothing outstanding, could have done so much better. Seemed like you were holding yourself back. Married to Ethel Marks when you were twenty six; divorced two years ago, no children. Worked at Renholm Industries for seven years, where five years ago you began moonlighting as a Rebel. Made a fortune overnight in overseas funds. You're not exceptional, Nick. You're just a guy who's managed to work his way along the road and stay there. What on earth made you so special?"
Nick stared at the bumbling anger filled man in front of him. He had no idea what the man was on about, or what had brought him so far out of his way just to whittle of such a speech. But he also knew that it wasn’t over. There was more to this.
Nick smiled. If this was a game about Art, then let it be Art’s game.
"My rugged looks perhaps?" he said with a smirk, a thrill running down his back at the way the vein in Big’s temple seemed to throb as the words echoed around them. Nick squared his shoulders.
"See he’s given you a mouth,” Big scowled. “What I want to know is what it is about you that makes you so intriguing to someone like Andrew Thompson?"
Nick’s smile grew. But that was the question, though; what did make him so special?
Big's scowl deepened.
"Andrew Thompson, parents both murdered when he was six years old, where he was sent to live with then Chief Inspector Michael Moore, his uncle. Gifted boy, made friends easy as you please, didn't pay attention in class but knew all the answers. Went to one single primary school and went through six different schools between sixth and tenth form. Didn't go to college or university, dropped off the planet for two years where he used his uncle's influence and parents money to go travelling. Met several characters along the way that influenced him, before at the age of eighteen years and seventeen days, he swindled out a payout from an old woman’s estate some three million pounds. A woman he'd never met." Big sat forward in his chair.
"What makes you so interesting to a man who by the time he turned twenty five didn't connect to anyone except to swindle them out of anything he wanted? He stole three million pounds one day, three weeks later he'd auctioned off a prize beagle. He's run in with drug cartels, arms dealers, espionage, he's infiltrated bank heists and he's handed them in, he's ruined people and he's used them. He's never once built a man up, and yet, yet outside of everything there's you, Nicholas Marshall. There's you who hasn't fit in any hand I’ve dealt out. And I know he's up to something. And I know that you're at the centre of it."
"You sound like you need a bit of shut eye there, Big," Nicholas said with a tiny smile. The vein in Big’s temple throbbed harder. Nick focussed his attention on the embodiment of the other man’s rage, forcing himself to not let Big get a rise out of him. Big leant forward on the desk, and it groaned and squeaked under his weight, sliding a little across the floor.
“I'm warning you, Nick. Don’t try something you're not going to get out of. He will slip up one day, and I’m going to make sure it’s this time, and I'm going to make sure he doesn't get away. You're not getting out."
Nick turned his gaze up into Big’s and didn’t let it waver.
"Never said I was.”
"Don’t shit me, Nicholas. I know him, better than you do. Don’t test me. His time is up. Give my regards to Annie, will you." He sneered, pushing back his chair to leave, and Nick watched as he slammed his fist on the door and stormed out. The whole room felt tiny and overbearing and for a moment, as they lead him back to his cell, he was torn over his own impulses, divided down the middle between the two simultaneous thoughts that ran through his head the moment the door slammed behind Big.
Do whatever it took to get out.
Do whatever it took to make sure Art left him where he was.
And as the door on his cell slammed shut, Nick was still caught over which he wanted more; freedom, or the assurance that Art wouldn’t lose his.
Part Six