‘Whoa there, Batman,’ said Sandra, her wrists resting on the edge of the table, both palms towards him. ‘Before you get too carried away with your new-found role as saviour of the universe, I’ll remind you exactly what’s stopping us, and that’s a little thing called the Official Secrets Act. Mess with that and you could be talking serious prison time – or worse.’
‘Worse?’ Trevor genuinely didn’t know what she meant.
‘You think people like Pitter Patterson give a monkey’s who they…’ She seemed to be searching for the right word. ‘… Liquidate if they get in the way? It’s what they do, for Christ’s sake.’
Trevor resisted giving voice to any of the thoughts which sprang into his mind. Any one of them would have reinforced Sandra’s opinion of his naivety, and besides, he had the distinct impression she was losing patience with him. He stirred his coffee even though he’d added neither milk nor sugar.
‘Look, I don’t like it any more than you do,’ said Sandra, ‘but shit like this happens all the time, and there’s not a damn thing people like us can do about it.’
Yep, she was definitely getting pissy, but he was grateful she hadn’t added “Deal with it” or “Get over it” at the end. He continued pointlessly stirring his coffee, once again in the belief that silence was his best form of defence. After several seconds, however, he was beginning to doubt the effectiveness of his strategy when he heard a sharp tapping sound in front of him. He looked up to see the silver toast rack poised a couple of inches above the table, and his eyes traced a route from Sandra’s hand and up her arm to her face. It was wearing a broad grin.
‘You want me to order more toast?’ she said.
Trevor shook his head. Sandra had arrived in the guesthouse dining room a few minutes before him and ordered the full English for both of them, but he had hardly touched it. By rights, he should have been ravenous since he’d hardly eaten a thing all weekend apart from a handful of biscuits, a Mars bar and the late night snack at his sister’s the night before. But his appetite had deserted him. In fact, he felt decidedly nauseous whenever he pondered the events of the past couple of days, which was most of the time. The queasiness was particularly intense when he recalled the shock of seeing Imelda on the— Oh hell, I’m going to throw up.
He jumped to his feet, almost knocking his chair over in the process.
‘You okay? You’ve gone a bit… pale.’
‘Need a pee,’ said Trevor through ventriloquist lips but was able to appreciate Sandra’s look of genuine concern despite his current preoccupation with finding the nearest toilet as quickly as possible.
‘Tell you what,’ she said as he frantically scanned the room for the appropriate sign. ‘I’ll sort out the bill while you’re gone. It’s quite a schlep back to your van, so the sooner we get started, the better.’
He nodded, suddenly remembering there was a Gents in the hallway just outside the dining room, and he was about to set off when Sandra interrupted his mission once again.
‘Still, it’ll give us plenty of time to talk about how we’re going to spend the twenty-five grand. I don’t know about you, but I haven’t had a decent holiday in years.’
It was as if she had recited some kind of magical healing charm, so rapidly did Trevor’s nausea vanish. His mind had no room for anything other than what she had just said. ‘We?’
‘You got a problem with that?’
‘Well no, but—’
‘The thing is,’ said Sandra, ‘you came so close to screwing up this job that I could quite cheerfully have throttled you the moment I caught up with you at the festival.’
Trevor scratched the back of his head and stared down at his feet. ‘Yes, I’m sorry about that. All I—’
‘But then I was lying in bed last night, thinking it all through, and it struck me that without your untimely and totally unwelcome interference, I’d have ended up with two grand instead of twenty-five. Fair’s fair. We split the difference.’
‘Are you serious?’
Sandra sat back in her chair. ‘I thought you said you needed the loo.’
He didn’t any more, but he decided to make the trip anyway if only to give himself the space to try and get his head round what she was suggesting. He weaved his way past the three tables that stood between him and the dining room doorway, each occupied by a solitary man in a suit and tie, all intent on reading their newspapers. As he passed the last of them, he heard Sandra’s voice calling out: ‘And don’t forget to wash your hands.’