The Lucy Ghosts

Adam slipped into the empty chair next to her just before lunch.

'You really can do without sleep, can't you?' she remarked.

He grinned. 'Trick of the trade. How's it going?'

She told him about Trimmler's lack-lustre interest. 'Probably tired after his late night.'

'I'll take over. You grab some lunch. Give yourself a couple of hours.'

'All right. I'll be back before then.'

The conference broke for lunch twenty minutes later and Adam followed Trimmler into the lobby where he was joined by Goodenache. They huddled together, away from the main group, and Trimmler excitedly jabbed his finger at his companion as he made his point. Goodenache tried to answer, but Trimmler wouldn't be interrupted. It soon took on the look of a heated argument and Trimmler suddenly walked away. Adam followed him into the lift. Trimmler stared angrily at the Englishman, but Adam ignored him as they swished up to the eighteenth floor. The scientist stormed down the hallway to his suite. When he'd slammed the door, Adam went into his own room, left the door ajar and waited for the scientist.

An hour later Trimmler emerged and went back to the conference hall, Adam once more following. The German totally ignored Adam.

The afternoon watch was taken over by Tucker. While Tucker stayed in the conference hall, Billie and Adam went up to the gym where Adam once again set about his rigorous exercises. It reminded her of Gary and excused herself while she went to call him.

Still no answer. She ignored the panic in her stomach, and then she rang her lawyers. There had been no further response from Peter with regard to the divorce and they advised her to sit and wait it out. She slammed the phone down, her emotions now at a raw edge, and immediately dialed Peter to shout at him. No answer… Damn it. She decided to stop thinking at that stage, showered and went down to wait for Adam in the lobby.

* * *

Things broke after the conference had ended for the day.

'You call this a serious occupation?' growled Trimmler as Adam took over from Tucker. The scientist had turned to confront his watcher. 'This is not a job,' he went on, 'this is baby-sitting.'

Adam said nothing, pleased that the pressure was getting to Trimmler. Over the scientist's shoulder he saw Tucker disappear down the moving stairway to the lobby, on his way to buy presents for Jean and the kids.

Trimmler spun away and walked rapidly towards the lifts. Adam followed at a safe distance, not wanting to inflame the situation. They both climbed into the lift together; there were no other passengers.

'You're my baby sitter,' Trimmler was sulking. 'You know which floor. Press the button.'

Adam pushed the button for the eighteenth floor. The lift started its upward journey.

'You're not American. Why are you here?' questioned Trimmler.

'To protect you.'

'Rubbish. I'm in no danger.'

'People think otherwise.'

'People. What people? Schmucks. Secret agents. They're not people. They belong in the comic books.'

'Shouting at me isn't going to get me off your tail. I'll go when I'm ordered to.'

'Baby-sitter. A joke.'

Billie stepped out of her room as Trimmler slammed his door.

'Problem?' she asked Adam.

'No. Just a tantrum.'

'Are you on all night again?'

'Of course.'

'Then let me watch him now.'

'No.' It was an instinctive answer, and as he said it he knew that he needed to be on his own. Danger, its bitter taste, was ever present and he needed his own space. 'No. I'll be fine. You take it easy and I'll catch up with you later.'

He took her arm and propelled her gently back into her room, pulling the door shut behind her.

Almost immediately Trimmler came out into the hallway, his topcoat over his arm and his hat rammed onto his head.

'My wife…' he declared loudly, '…has gone shopping. I am going into the French Quarter. Instead of following like a dog behind, I will let you walk next to me.'

They rode down to street level in silence and out onto Canal Street. Adam saw Frankie parked and waved him over. The white Cadillac lurched forward and slid in front of another cab that had pulled up for them.

'Heya. What you doing?' yelled the cab driver at Frankie.

Adam opened the back door for Trimmler and slid in after him.

'French Quarter,' he instructed Frankie. 'Anywhere special?' he asked Trimmler.

'I want something to eat. And somewhere quiet.'

'Okay?' Adam asked Frankie.

'I know a place,' said Frankie as he swung the car up Canal Street followed by a torrent of abuse by the other cab driver.

They drove to Chartres Street where Frankie pulled up outside K-Paul's Louisiana Kitchen. 'Best Cajun meals in the city,' he said, but Trimmler was already out of the car and on his way into the restaurant. 'Maybe I should’a said an ice cream parlour. Cool him down, eh?'

'Don't go too far,' instructed Adam as he followed Trimmler.

'Do I ever? Hell, do I ever?'

Trimmler had found a corner table. Trimmler signalled Adam to sit down as the waiter approached.

'Heya all. Welcome to K-Paul's Louisiana Kitchen,' he chirruped as he put two glasses of iced water on the table. 'This establishment is named after the greatest Cajun chef Paul Prudhomme and his wife Kay. And we got the best cajun cooking any side of Louisiana.' He put the menus on the table. 'Now you just cast your eyes over them and I'll be back soon as I can to get your orders.'

'I would like a drink now,' said Trimmler.

'Okay. We got cocktails starting with…'

'A scotch. On the rocks.'

'Okay. You want anything?' he asked Adam.

'Orange juice.'

'That all?'

'That's all.'

'I would like my scotch quickly.'

The waiter pranced off and the two men sat in silence until he returned.

'Another one,' ordered Trimmler as he took his and started to drink.

'You the customer,' smiled the waiter.

Adam slowly sipped his orange juice and said nothing.

'What's the matter, baby-sitter? You don't like alcohol?'

'Sometimes.'

'Ah! You are on duty. Is that it?'

'Yes.'

Trimmler laughed. 'On duty. To change my diapers. Is that what you're paid for? To be a baby-sitter would drive anybody to drink.'

'Mr. Trimmler. Insulting me isn't getting you anywhere. It has no effect. But, if it makes you feel better, then you just go ahead.'

Trimmler rocked back in his chair and studied Adam before he spoke. 'Life is easy for you. You know that. You just do as you're ordered. No thinking, just do it. I have spent my whole life thinking. Then the day comes when you think — what am I thinking for? Just to benefit science. Just to put another man in space. To make it all possible and never feel what it is like, to never really understand what it is to be weightless as you hang over this small planet, floating in space. All the science in the world, all the thinking, it can never be like being there, like actually doing it.' He deep gulped his drink, drained the glass as the waiter arrived with his refill.

'You ready to order?' asked the waiter.

Trimmler shook his head and waved him away.

'Okay. I'll be back.'

'Another one of these,' demanded Trimmler, raising his now full glass. Adam realised he was not a man who could hold his drink. The glaze in his eyes confirmed that.

Trimmler leant across the table conspiratorially as the waiter went back to the bar.

'Dreams,' he continued, 'are not just the preserve of the young. And it is arrogant of you, of all young people, to think so. As you always do. Too many people confuse success with dreams. I have success. The sort other people dream about. I am rich. I am famous, not like a pop star, but in my own world. I have been involved in, and touched, history since I was seventeen years old. But I have never been part of it. I have never ridden in one of my space ships, never… the dream I had as a young man was someone else's achievement, in someone else's country. And dreams are more important when you get old. You know why? Because there is so little time left to achieve it. And then the young come along, and they crush your dream, as if it never existed.' He drank deeply again. 'You have no idea what I'm talking about, do you?'