The rest of the assassinated chapter....
#
Thirty-eight minutes later, after all the guns had been holstered and Anderson’s taken away, she was sitting on her it any longer.
She dialled Wiltshire’s cell.
‘What the fuck, Anderson!’ Was how she answered.
‘Sir, I—’
‘No - just listen!’ Wiltshire snapped. ‘The accidental discharge of a firearm on foreign soil isn’t even in the rule book!’
Anderson knew better than trying to talk, so a silence fell over the line, and she listened to Wiltshire’s heavy breathing for nearly a full minute.
‘I don’t know if you’ll survive this one.’
Anderson didn’t respond.
‘I should suspend you. Now.’ Wiltshire took a fast breath. ‘But we’re three agents down now because of that damn virus.’
‘Sir, I—’
‘Still talking,’ Wiltshire spoke over her. ‘The only way this could be worse would be if you’d hit one of the stags. Or a fucking human. What were you thinking!’
Anderson didn’t reply. She stared at the closed door of her room.
‘Nothing to say to that?’ Wiltshire’s voice sounded tinny over the cell line.
‘It was misty. I couldn’t see properly.’ Anderson shrugged. ‘But that’s no excuse.’
‘No, it isn’t.’
‘No, sir.’
Another silence set in.
‘They’re about to review your body cam footage.’ Wiltshire sounded like she was walking now. ‘You need to be prepared for the shit to hit the fan when you get back.’ She hung up without speaking again.
Anderson put her cell phone in her lap and stared at it.
Things were out of Wiltshire’s hands now.
Her only hope was that her bodycam footage would show just how poor the visibility was, and the investigating team of agents, all five of them, independently reviewing it, unanimously agreed they would all have made the same call she had and fired their service weapon. If just one of them disagreed, she would be dishonourably dismissed and possibly face jail time.
Fuck.
She pushed herself off the bed and walked to the window. Pulling the curtain aside, she stared over the hotel’s too-cramped parking lot. It was still raining. The day was getting dark. The President was visiting some Hollywood A-lister for a private dinner and stay at their Sussex country estate, with only the close protection team in attendance. Her shoulders slumped as she let the curtain drop back into place and headed toward the door.
She needed a drink.
#
She found a pub a few minutes from her hotel.
She’d walked past some buildings on the right that her phone map app told her were part of a private school, a supermarket, and just after the road split into a V, which divided the high street in two, she found herself a pub. It was small, old-feeling, quiet, and cosy. She could be a stranger sitting in the corner, sipping her whisky straight up—no ice—catching up with her bed diary, hopefully doing some people-watching and passing a couple of hours without thinking about the stags, or Imogen.
A few minutes later, with a shot of whisky in her glass, Anderson took off her coat and settled into a wooden chair at a table in the far corner of the pub. From there, she could see the bar, the back entrance, and the front door. There were a couple of older drinkers at the bar, whom Anderson suspected had been there quite a while. To her left, a man dressed in black was setting up what looked like a microphone and amplifier. It was going to get loud later. A quick look above the bar confirmed it was “Sevenoaks only open mic” at nine tonight. But she’d be long tucked up in bed before that mess started.
She pulled a small spiral‑bound notebook and a pen from her pocket and opened it on the table next to her whisky. She flicked through it. It was a bookkeeping‑style notebook, each page divided into three columns of light-red ink. She stopped at a page with only one line left empty at the bottom. Each completed line held, in her messy handwriting, a date, a location and, in the final column, a number. This was Anderson’s bed diary: every night she slept somewhere new, recorded by location and her sleep quality rated out of ten.
Some women she had dated called it weird. There were no more dates after that comment. This was not a first date reveal in her mind. The “Do you want children?” question was easier to answer. No. She could explain why she didn’t want kids (Date one? What sort of question was that anyway?) But why did she keep up this book? She had no real answers for that. It was just something she did. Every night since she was six had been recorded in a book like this. Some people kept money stuffed in their mattresses or under their beds. Anderson kept her bed diaries under hers. When she sat down at the end of the day and caught up on the previous night’s sleep, it felt comforting.
She picked up the pen, took the lid off and started writing on the last line; the date she’d arrived at the hotel, Sevenoaks, and started to write a 3, for sleep quality, in the last column, when a muddy bullet clunked onto the table right next to the diary. She flinched, and her hand went to her holster and stopped.
No gun.
She grabbed her glass, ready to do something with it, and stood up fast.
‘You.’ Imogen stared angrily across the table at her. ‘Left this behind.’
Anderson let out a breath and put the glass back on the table.
‘Cat got your tongue?’ Imogen raised an eyebrow at her.
It was the first time Anderson had seen Imogen’s face fully. She was classically pretty, if you liked someone on the skinny side. And, Anderson noticed, she had different-coloured eyes. Not the David Bowie kind, because of two unequal-sized pupils. No. Imogen’s irises were two very different colours. Her left was a hazelnut brown. Her right, a bright ocean green. Absorbed by this, Anderson stared, and the silence continued. Once she was happy that she had identified the green as more of a #57B795, Anderson sat down.
But didn’t say anything.
‘Green and brown,’ Imogen seemed entirely unbothered by the silence or the staring. ‘Were you going to throw that at me?’ She pointed at the glass.
‘Something like that.’ Anderson saw no point in lying.
‘Your face!’ Imogen pulled out the chair on her side of the table. ‘Just then?’ She laughed. ‘You looked like you were deciding how to eat me!’
‘What?’
‘You say that a lot, you know.’ Imogen picked up the bullet. ‘But just now. When you saw that. What were you thinking?’
‘Nothing.’ Anderson shrugged as her thoughts went into overdrive.
What kind of person goes to find a bullet? How DID she even find it anyway? What’s wrong with this picture? More tangential thoughts filled her mind, fighting for attention. All trying to answer one central question: Am I in danger?
So, the silence returned.
Imogen just watched her, saying nothing.
‘Fine. I was wondering how I could, you know…’ Anderson shrugged. ‘Deal with you. If I needed to.’
‘Mmm,’ Imogen nodded. ‘That’s what I thought.’ She leaned back into her chair. ‘You meant kill? Didn’t you?’ She stroked the side of her neck.
Anderson frowned. ‘I should go.’ She picked up her bed diary.
‘Probably.’
‘Okay.’ Anderson turned to reach for her coat.
‘But then,’ Imogen pointed at the bed diary. ‘I’d die not knowing what this crazy ass bookkeeping system you’ve got going here is all about.’
‘How were the deer?’ Anderson closed the notebook.
‘They’re okay.’ Imogen unbuttoned her coat. ‘Freaked the fuck out. But fine. How’s your job?’
‘Well.’ Anderson stared at her empty glass. ‘I still have one. For now.’
‘What’s the punishment for that? Shooting at a deer with your service weapon.’
‘According to my boss, my ass belongs to her.’
‘So, not good.’ She raised an eyebrow at Anderson.
‘No.’ But what civilian would refer to her SIG as a “service weapon”?
A loud electric guitar strum cut through the quiet pub.
Anderson flinched.
‘So,’ Imogen picked up Anderson’s empty glass. ‘You’re here for the open mic?’
‘Yes.’
‘Wait, what?’
‘No.’ Anderson put the notebook back in her pocket. ‘I just wanted to do my crazy-ass bookkeeping and go to bed.’
‘Oh. That’s a shame.’ Imogen glanced at her watch. ‘I’m starving. Have you eaten?’
‘I’m not hungry.’
‘Yes, you are.’
‘What?’
‘You need to work on that “What” business.’ Imogen stood. ‘Anyway, look, I’m hungry, you’re hungry. Do you eat steak?’ She tilted her head to one side and smiled. ‘You're American; of course you do.’
‘I’m a vegan.’
‘What?’
Anderson looked at her, expressionless.
Imogen laughed.
It sounded contrived. Forced.
The hairs on the back of Anderson’s neck prickled.
‘Come on.’ Imogen stood. ‘I’m starving. I fancy a bit of venison.’ She turned and slinked her way toward the pub's front door without looking back at her.
Anderson didn’t move.
‘I’m not looking baa-ack,’ Imogen sang.
Anderson watched her leave, like a good “mark” should.
This all felt like a performance, just for her.
#
The next day, Anderson woke at her usual 6 am, only to realise she had the day off, so she tried to get back to sleep, but failed. So, she updated the bed diary instead. She gave last night a 4/10, and doing that made her think of Imogen. Dinner had been interesting, and the kiss afterwards reminded her of things she’d not done or felt in a while. But she wasn’t a one-night stand girl, and most definitely not in a foreign land. So, after the kiss, they had parted ways outside the restaurant doors.
But as she ate breakfast in the small dining area of the hotel that morning, she found herself thinking about Imogen. There was something different to her. She couldn’t quite put her finger on it. The whole ‘performance’ thing had set off warning bells in the pub. But on reflection, maybe that was just because she’d not dated for a while? Had she been too hasty? The thought occupied her through the rest of breakfast, tooth brushing, putting on her coat and walking boots, and leaving her room. So, by the time she got downstairs, she was carrying a folded piece of hotel paper in her jeans pocket with her cell phone number on it. What did she have to lose after all? There was an agent at work, Lisa, who had always made a point of asking if Anderson had been on a date since she’d split up with her last girlfriend, Avery, who was also an agent. Nowadays, though, Lisa had taken to smiling at Anderson sadly and not even asking.
Anderson arrived back at the scene of the shooting.
The noise of her footsteps echoed back from the tall arch when she went under it, just like they had yesterday. She retraced her steps into the first grass-laid courtyard and turned hard right, following a path that ran around the edge towards where she knew the central office was located. She knocked on the large, wooden door and went in without waiting for an invitation. As she shut the door behind her, a woman stepped out of the admin office at the end of the corridor.
The woman marched towards Anderson. ‘Can I help you?’
‘Ma’am. Special Agent Anderson.’ She got her ID out and held it out towards the woman. ‘I was here yesterday with the President?’
‘Right.’ The woman moved towards her, took the ID, inspected it, and returned it. ‘There were so many of you. Sorry. I don’t remember you.’ She didn’t smile.
‘That’s not a problem, ma’am.’
‘How can I help?’ She suddenly looked anxious. ‘Is everything okay?’
‘Everything is fine.’ Anderson got the folded paper out of her pocket. ‘It’s nothing, official, ma’am.’
‘That’s a relief!’ The woman fiddled with an earring.
Anderson ignored it. Some people seemed to find her intimidating, or maybe it was her job? She didn’t try to smile. People said it was ‘unsettling’, according to Wiltshire. Whatever. But Anderson had no idea what to say next, so a silence descended into the corridor.
The woman gave a fake cough. ‘What can I do for you then, Agent?’ She smiled now.
‘Sorry.’ Anderson held the paper out towards her. ‘I was hoping you could do me a favour and pass this on to Imogen for me. I met her yesterday and I—’
‘Imogen?’ The woman stared at Anderson but ignored the paper.
‘Yes, ma’am.’ Anderson started to feel awkward. ‘She was working out front. We—'
‘Sorry.’ The woman frowned. ‘There’s no one here called Imogen.’
#
Today
‘Cabin Crew: Prepare for take-off.’ The pilot’s voice interrupted Anderson’s thoughts.
The screenshot of the text message was the conclusion of that Sevenoaks investigation. All five agents found they would have made the same call as she did that day. Anderson and Wiltshire were frankly both a little stunned.
Anderson put her phone away as the plane engines began to rumble. The kid in the seat next to her groaned as if they were feeling ill. Anderson shut her eyes and pretended he didn’t exist. The pilot released the brakes, and the plane surged down the runway, pressing Anderson back into her seat.