Killing Eve: Resurrection (8)

The eighth instalment of a new killing Eve story, published exclusively on Substack

 

           So here we are. I'm back in favour with the Twelve - the real Twelve - and the Brits have Eve. The idea of them hurting or scaring her makes me want to vomit (is this what they mean by empathy, is this what I'm supposed to lack?). Almost as bad is the thought of them charming her back into the MI6 fold. Luring her with digestive biscuits and Radio 4 and God Save the King. Would she walk away from all that a second time? Just to be with me? Or was our time together her last, crazy fling? A helter-skelter nightmare from which she was longing, deep down, to wake. God, when I think of the times when I was cruel to her for no other reason than that it amused me. Yet I loved her, in my way, and always will. And she loved me, or said she did, and she's not a woman to lie.

            Perhaps forget love. I'll probably never complete my linguistics degree, but I've learnt enough to know that words are slippery things, and mean different things to different people at different times. I also know this: that Eve and I, at moments, escaped to a place where there was only us, passionately happy, forever. And that I will kill without hesitation for the chance to return there.

         It's ordinary enough, in the event. No spycraft, no secret rendezvous, just a local courier delivery. The package contains a used Samsung phone and a UK passport. The phone displays the British Airways app, an e-ticket from St Petersburg Pulkovo to London Heathrow, and a text message directing her to an address in North Finchley. The passport is in the name of Malgorzata Spurrell, aged 27, place of birth Gdansk. Her legend, or cover-story, is detailed on a printed A4 sheet. Goz, as she calls herself, is a trainee commodity broker. Her interests include golf, Scottish dancing and wine-tasting. Relationship status: single.

            Villanelle arrives at the Finchley address at ten in the morning. The doorbell is answered by a nervous, narrow-shouldered young man who introduces himself as Alex and, with an apologetic air, shows her round. The place has safe house written all over it. Ten year-old magnolia emulsion, stained carpet, and a stale-smelling fridge with a cracked salad drawer and a shuddering hum. Upstairs, a narrow single bed boasts worn pillowcases and a My Little Pony duvet cover.

            'I got you some stuff, but I wasn't sure... you know, dairy and that,' Alex says, indicating the jar of instant coffee and carton of soya milk on a work surface in the kitchen.

            'Thanks. I'm also going to need cash. Like, in case I want sugar in my coffee?'

            'Oh my god, of course, yes, sorry,' Alex reaches into his pocket, finds a crumpled envelope, and presses it on her. 'If you could, you know... receipts and stuff?' He opens a door. 'As you can see there is a bath, but maybe just use the shower; we've had to tighten our belts recently. The previous gentleman left some shampoo. Nizoral, quite a nice fresh scent.'

            'Thoughtful.'

            When he's gone, Villanelle explores the immediate area, quickly identifying the nearest delicatessen. Returning to the flat she runs herself a bath and lies there for an hour, eating chocolate croissants, drinking coffee, and replenishing the hot water at intervals. The phone waits within reach on a chair, and eventually it rings. It's Maria.

            'How are you settling in?'

            'OK, I guess.'

            'Good. We need to talk. I'll meet you in Harrods, in the perfume department, one hour from now. The Guerlain stand.'

            So we're still pretending that Max and Maria are from the Twelve. As if the Twelve would ever invite me to stay anywhere as shit as this. Not that it actually works like that; on assignments for the Twelve I make my own arrangements, money no object. But I guess this is how the Brits function. It certainly accords with everything Eve's told me about life in the Secret Intelligence Service, where dinginess is a kind of cult (a cult Eve herself has internalised; she has pretty feet, but to this day I have never seen her in a really nice pair of shoes.) By suggesting we meet at Harrods, Maria's clearly trying for some kind of lame-ass glamour by association. Perhaps she thinks all Russian women are flinty-eyed mercenaries, and a whiff of Guerlain's Shalimar will melt my resistance. And this flirtatiousness of hers. Am I really supposed to fall for that? I mean, she's not wholly uncute, and in another life I can imagine us spending a playful few hours together, but if she thinks that kidnapping Eve is the path to my bed, she has badly misjudged me. I need to take control of this situation before it gets out of hand, and I know an absolutely guaranteed way to do that. Red Queen takes Knight; checkmate in three moves. The more I think about this plan, the more I like it. In fact I love it.

            Villanelle prepares herself carefully. Jeans with an antique Russian belt, an embroidered cotton top, hair in a braided updo. She arrives deliberately late at Harrods. She wants Maria to be annoyed, to feel at a disadvantage. But Maria is smiling.

            'Look at you, Miss Summer Sunshine. You must try this Patchouli scent.'

            'Sure.' Villanelle tests the scent on her wrist, and before Maria can react, has pulled out the envelope of cash and passed three fifty pound notes to the Guerlain saleswoman. Pocketing the change, she hands Maria the receipt.

            'That cash was supposed to be for essentials,' Maria says faintly.

            'Exactly,' Villanelle says. 'So what's the plan?'

            'I thought maybe lunch, and then we'll meet Max and talk further. Is the café here OK with you?'

            'Sure.'

In the café Maria orders a green salad, Villanelle a full English breakfast.

            'How's the apartment?' Maria asks. 'Do you like Belsize Park?'

            'I've no idea. I was taken to North Finchley.'

            'Seriously?' Maria stares. 'They sent you to Ventnor Road?'

            'Yes. Was that a mistake?'

            'Jesus, yes. How is it?'

            'A shithouse.'

            'I'm sure. That's where we put the snitches and witness-protection people. The last one was a drug gang boss.'

            'With dandruff?'

            'Blizzards of it, how did you know?'

            'Just a guess.'

            'There's clearly been some kind of mix-up.' She winces. 'Is there any chance you could, um... hang in there? Just for a few days?'

            'I suppose I could try.'

            The food arrives. Maria picks at her salad and watches in fastidious horror as Villanelle demolishes a large plateful of sausages, bacon, poached eggs, black pudding and fried bread. 'Where does it all go?' she asks.

            'Thighs, bum, the usual.'

            'Don't you care?'

            'No. I love eating.'

            'You look good on it, I must say.'

            'Are you flirting with me again?'

            'A bit.'

            'You wouldn't like me if you knew me.'

            'Try me.'

            'I'm greedy, as you've seen. Also selfish, heartless, compulsively violent...'

            'Oh boo.' Maria strokes Villanelle's bicep. 'You're not the monster you pretend to be.'

            Lowering her knife and fork to her plate, Villanelle leans across the table, laces her fingers around Maria's neck, and positions her thumbs very precisely over her carotid arteries. 'I'm exactly that monster,' she says. 'And that's why you need me.'

The story continues…