Waistline Drift (aka Bike) Part 620 by Angharad

I sat up in bed, the sweat was pouring off me. Helicopters with machine guns was too much even for my ability to reach deep states of torpor at night. It was just a dream, but so real. Thankfully, that was too much even for organised crime. They had however, attacked the police station and kidnapped the Assistant Chief Constable, which is a serious matter in anyone’s book.

I was pleased that my dream seemed to imply an exchange with him for me, rather than real life. I wouldn’t think too much about it, in case the enemy picked up on my thoughts. Come to think of it, I’d stop thinking about helicopters too, for the same reason.

I drank a sip of water from the bottle I had on the bedside table. I could hear the regular breathing of the two girls. Somehow they had managed to sleep despite all the trauma they’d suffered. It was me who was waking up with bad dreams. Perhaps they didn’t realise just how close danger came today? I wouldn’t like to say, especially with Trish, who knows far too much for her age and her own good.

There had been talk of charging me with anything from manslaughter to premeditated murder, on several counts. I remembered the guy all in flames as I fired three arrows into his body. I shuddered. I wondered how long I’d remember that horrible sight. The smell and the screams, I shuddered again.

I eventually did get back to sleep, wondering what the day would bring–I really didn’t think I could cope with another attempt on my life or that of my loved ones. Oh how I wished I was back in my lab counting dormice, not sitting here in fear of my life. Still, what did I have to worry about–some idiot with a bomb up his jumper detonated it and killed forty eight people in Baghdad today–what a pointless act.

The girls woke me about seven, and I snuggled down with both of them. “When are we going to see Daddy again?” asked Trish.

“I don’t know, sweetheart, he’s hiding from the bad men who have been trying to hurt us. He’ll show up as soon as he can.”

“But if he was here, they wouldn’t dare come to hurt us, Daddy would bash them up.”

I wish. It would save me having to do it, “I don’t know, sweetheart. Daddy doesn’t believe in violence,” especially against him. Having said that he did rearrange the teeth of the guy who stabbed me, and helped me out against the two thugs who attacked me in the street while I was transitioning. Mind you, if I remember correctly, he had to pull me off one of them. Hmmm.

“I bet Daddy would save us, Mummy.”

“Mummy saved us,” said Meems, and gave me an extra hug.

“Well I’m really glad someone noticed.”

“Oh, Mummy, I didn’t mean it like that, you were very brave and you did save us from those horrible men in that big car.”

“The Range Rover?”

“Yes, one of those 4x4 things made by Vogue it said on the back.”

“You saw that?”

“Yes, it went past twice, didn’t it?”

“I suppose so, except I was too busy trying not to get myself shot.”

“You shooted them, Mummy,” beamed Meems blissfully unaware that my retaliation led to the deaths of three more men. Arguably they were pond life, so their returning to the water via the loch, was poetic justice. I still had to live with it. Where was Simon, and who was that bloody woman who called him darling?

“Pass me my phone, Meems.” She did and I sent another text to Simon.

‘Where r u? Had more run ins with bad guys. It’s ur turn to kill a few of them, I’ve d1 my share. Luv C xxx’

We cuddled down again and I actually dozed off until my phone peeped. I sat up and checked the text messages. I had one from Simon.

‘Soz, all will become clear soon, will b with you asap. Love S xxx’

“Daddy says he’ll be with us as soon as he can.”

“Oh goodie gum drops,” said Trish, I looked at her in astonishment. That was an expression straight out of the William stories by Richmal Crompton. This girl never failed to amaze me with her expressions or understanding of things.

“I’m gwad Daddy is coming.”

“Yes, so am I,” I responded, hoping we’d all live long enough to see the day. I cuddled the girls a bit longer and thought nice memories of Simon. I hoped my suspicions were wrong, no, I prayed they were wrong–a bit less passive than hoping, though they amounted to the same thing–wishful thinking.

“Come on, girls, let’s shower and get some breakfast.” I saved the girly clothes for a safer time, if we had to run, they’d be better in trousers, so would I, so it was jeans again, all round. Trish grumbled, she preferred skirts, Meems didn’t care what she wore. There’s an irony there somewhere.

We collected Tom on the way down to breakfast. He looked better for his new togs and thanked me for choosing them. He hated buying clothes and admitted he’d only bought what he absolutely had to since his wife died. He brought Kiki down with him, which was how we were staying in this hotel, they were happy to take the dog, lots of places won’t.

I was trying to enjoy the fact that someone else was doing the catering and washing up–a rather female thought. I recalled my mother saying it whenever we stayed in a hotel when I was younger. I ate some fruit, cereal and toast. The girls had some cereal and toast and took a banana each to eat later, while Tom ordered Arbroath Smokies–which stank like nothing on earth. Even the girls complained. He just laughed and tucked in with gusto; this was after his dish of porridge with salt. I quite liked porridge, but with cream and sugar or honey. Tom informed us, “It’s the Scots way–the proper way tae eat parritch.”

The girls grimaced and I poked my tongue out at him. I don’t care if it’s the correct way or not, I’m not going to eat it with salt, I’ll stick to cornflakes, which was what I had today. The girls had Rice Crispies.

Tom walked Kiki round the car park after breakfast and we went back up to pack. “Where are we going, Mummy? Home I hope,” sighed Trish.

“Not just yet, girls, we’re going to see Grampa Henry’s country house.”

“Does Gramps have two houses, then?”

“I believe he has more than two.”

“Gosh, does he need more than one house?” asked Trish, who was obviously a budding socialist.

“Don’t forget, I have more than one myself.”

“Oh yes. You said we could go and see them one day.”

“I did indeed, and assuming all this sorts itself out, we shall go and see my house in Bristol soon. Come on, let’s get everything packed.” With that, the girls began to bring me their clothes from the wardrobes and I folded them and placed them in the suitcases I’d got from M&S yesterday.

As I packed, I wondered how I’d recognise the people who were coming to collect us. I’d never been to Stanebury, so how would I recognise anyone? After all, we'd assumed the police who brought us from Portsmouth were kosher, and they weren’t.

There was knock on the door and Tom was standing there with his case and the dog. “I believe our lifts have come.”

“How do we know they’re the real thing? I mean with the luck we’ve had recently, it could be more gangsters.”

“Could you call Henry and ask how we know, and it has to be people not vehicles, because that’s how they got us last time.”

“Good idea,” I was on the verge of doing it, now I knew it was the best thing to do.

He was busy but sent a message via one of his secretaries, “We’d recognise the convoy people.” I relayed this to Tom, who shrugged his shoulders.

“So if we dinnae recognise anyone, we stay put and call the polis?”

“Aye, Dr Finlay,” I said in a very artificial squeaky Scots accent. The girls thought it was very funny, Tom gave me a disdainful look. Well, I’d thought it was funny.