It was a pain, learning enough mechanics to be let loose behind the wheel. And at the time I thought I was just finding out about cars. But over the years I’ve seen it’s the same story with people. Compare pros and amateurs in any field, and there’s only ever one conclusion.
They might look similar on the surface.
But underneath, they’re completely different animals.
Lesley sat and watched me, completely still except for her left hand. It seemed to be moving on its own, creeping steadily across the tabletop toward the gray parcel. Her fingertips reached it, paused, and climbed on top. Then they started to caress the soft suede, rippling across the smooth surface like a spiteful sea creature tormenting its prey.
Her fingers only stopped circling when the door opened and a man took a couple of hesitant steps into the room. He would be in his mid-twenties, reasonably tall-a shade over six feet-with jeans cut to show off his narrow waist and a pair of broad, powerful shoulders showing through a plain black T-shirt. His short blond hair was a little shaggy, like he was growing out a crew cut, and he hadn’t shaved for a couple of days. The only off note was his face-it was slightly pointy, and he had beady brown eyes that were a touch too close together. They made him look like some kind of rodent.
The tall guy came in next. He didn’t come over to the table this time but stayed by the door, like a sentry. George-the guy who’d brought my food and caught Julianne in the dining room-was last. He came across and stood next to the wall, near me. He was looking down, fiddling with a small video camera. The strap was looped safely around his right wrist.
“David, this is Cyril,” Lesley said, nodding toward the new guy. “Actually his name isn’t Cyril, but we call him that ’cause we think he looks like a squirrel. It kind of suits him. Cyril the squirrel. You Brits like rhyming words, don’t you?”
“Not particularly,” I said.
“Recognize him?”
“No.”
“He recognizes you. Don’t you, Cyril? Had to take a real close look, before he made that 911 call. Surprised you didn’t see him.”
“He was hiding by the time I got there,” I said. “In a kiddies’ playground, apparently. Not the kind of place I spend much time in.”
“That true, Cyril?” she said.
He didn’t reply.
“Cyril, David and I have been talking about your performance last night,” she said. “We’re not real impressed.”
“Lesley, I-” Cyril said.
“Quiet. Don’t make it any worse,” Lesley said, and then turned to me. “Cyril made a mistake last night. He hasn’t worked for me long, but a mistake’s a mistake. Can’t have my people making mistakes. And he made a big one. So now he’s going to do something useful.”
“Make a cup of tea?” I said.
“Maybe later. If we have any. But first, he’s going to show you what happens to people who let me down.”
Lesley turned the gray parcel over and I saw that the clasp on the silver chain was shaped like a tragicomic mask.
“This is me,” she said, pointing to the smiling face. “And this other guy is-can you guess, Cyril?”
His face had turned pale, and the patchy stubble made his skin look as if it were covered in mold. Lesley opened the clasp, unwound the chain, and set it to one side. Then she unrolled the gray suede. It made a rectangle about eighteen inches long with a flap of the same material folded over, hiding its contents.
Lesley got to her feet and started to walk toward Cyril, casually sliding the half-opened parcel along the tabletop with the tips of her fingers. Cyril started to fidget. Lesley reached the corner of the table, stopping barely five feet away from him. She stood there for a moment, looking him up and down, and then the corners of her mouth began to creep up into the ghost of a smile.
The smile was too much for Cyril. He turned and made a dash for the door, but the tall guy was ready for him. He caught him, spun him round, and marched him right up to the end of the table with his arms pinned to his sides.
“You want to beg, now would be the time,” Lesley said.
Cyril was breathing so hard he was almost wheezing, but he didn’t say anything.
“Shame,” Lesley said. “I like it better when they beg.”
“Does it make any difference?” I said.
“Does to me,” she said, grasping the corner of the suede flap and slowly peeling it back.
The parcel held a pair of rubber surgeon’s gloves, which were small, even allowing for them to stretch; a coil of white elastic, an inch across, with metal hooks at each end; four long copper needles, like the kind acupuncturists use; a small hammer; two scalpels; a pair of long-nosed surgical forceps; a pair of slender, pointed scissors; a clear plastic box, rectangular in shape, containing a sewing needle and some bright blue thread; and a device that looked a little like a pair of miniature bolt cutters. It had the same kind of mechanism to multiply the force but the jaws were more rounded and it had a swollen, bulbous end.
Each item was held in place with a little loop of black elastic, obviously designed specially for the purpose. There were no gaps, and nothing extra had been squeezed in. It looked like something you might use to carry your favorite housebreaking tools.
Lesley left the parcel open in front of Cyril and went to the built-in closet at the far end of the room. She opened the right-hand door, reached inside, and hauled out a trolley like the kind they use to carry stacks of linen in hotels and hospitals. It was made of shiny wire mesh, six feet tall and two feet square. There was nothing inside it. The wheels at each corner were disproportionately large, like the ones on modern furniture. They probably weren’t the original wheels, but they were very effective. The trolley was taller than her, but Lesley moved it effortlessly. It glided across the floor after her without a sound.
As she drew level I saw that the frame of the trolley had been reinforced with inch-square metal tubing, and that one of the sides was missing. Four thick, brown leather straps had been attached near the corners of the opening, six inches from the bottom and three inches from the top. With the mesh and the straps, it looked like a portable cage.
Lesley wheeled the trolley all the way to Cyril’s end of the table. She left it with the open side facing the room. Cyril didn’t notice. He was still staring at the strange collection of tools, completely transfixed. The tall guy eased him back a couple of steps and Lesley moved up close to him. Her left hand grabbed his groin. She squeezed. Cyril squealed. His eyes looked like they were ready to pop out of his skull.
The tall guy let go of Cyril’s arms and brought the trolley in right behind him. Lesley kept hold of Cyril’s groin, looked behind her at the table, and hitched him up an inch or so onto his tiptoes. The tall guy moved quickly and secured Cyril’s ankles to the frame of the trolley before he could sink back down. He did the same to Cyril’s wrists, pulling hard enough on the straps to break the skin. Then he nodded to Lesley who let go, leaving Cyril spread-eagled. He was quaking, causing part of the wire mesh to rattle.
Lesley reached toward Cyril’s groin again, but this time he saw her coming. He wriggled his hips from side to side and tried to arc away from her, his backside retreating right inside the trolley. Lesley put her hand on Cyril’s thigh and slowly ran her fingers up his leg, over the front of his jeans, and as far as the hem of his T-shirt. Then she rolled it up, revealing the kind of sculpted stomach muscles you see on the cover of fitness magazines.
“No hair,” she said. “Pity.”
Cyril’s jeans were held up by a wide leather belt. The buckle was shaped like a motorcycle. A Harley, or maybe an Indian. It wasn’t a very good replica. Lesley unfastened it, pulled the strap free of the belt loops and dropped it on the floor. The crash made Cyril jump. Then Lesley unfastened his waistband. The jeans had a button fly. Lesley undid all four, pausing each time one popped open to gaze into Cyril’s face.