The Project

For our First Issue we present to you "The Wanted Testament", a serial by our very own Creative Writing editor Kim Sherwood. The Wanted Testament will be serialised over the next two weeks on the creative writing section of www.theprojectonline.org. You lucky devils.

THE WANTED TESTAMENT

 

1.

The flowers were dying, their sweet smell now sickening, like glue or rotting fruit. They overpowered the faded smoke of gunfire. The blood trickling from Francis Cartwright’s skull and into the carpet, clotting the expensive strands like a horse’s mud-soaked mane, was undetectable. Even the body, now a few hours old, did not strike the maid as she opened the door. Instead, her eyes moved over the thick white envelope propped up against the vase - probably a note from Mr Cartwright - to the wilting flowers, thinking, as she rounded the coffee table, that they needed a fresh bunch. She stopped, banging into the table. The vase fell and smashed. Water and green mulch pitter-pattered onto the body. Outside, the gardener heard her scream, dropped the watering can, and ran into the house, where he found the maid standing over the boss’s body.

 

The glitter of antique brooches and tangled beads beneath the midday sun; the fluttering shawls dyed deep sumptuous purples and greens in India and now hung between stalls; the lines of watches, belt buckles, tea cups; the back and forth of stall owners and tourists; French and English syllables swapped between friends; crying children; the dog tied to the fountain and left to bark; the grand columned building squeezed between pink and orange houses that watched over the market; the sea slapping the city walls. She had missed these things.

The young lady, standing next to some American tourists at a stall of homemade jam, kept her small smile of contentment, even as the wail of police sirens interrupted the crowds’ chatter like sudden static. Sea green eyes flickered upwards for just a moment, alighting on her black 1967 Cadillac Fleetwood Eldorado parked in a dead end alley. Her shoulders tensed. A disappearing figure was stumbling into the darkness, a hand trailing the bonnet of her car. She gave the stall owner a farewell smile.

"If you were planning to hotwire it, I’d really rather you didn’t," the woman said quietly, stepping into the alley. "I’ve just had it serviced."

The man jerked away from the car, stumbling back into shadow. She could only discern half of his tall, broad outline. Taking a few more steps, the young woman caught the crimson streak on the car door. Her attention returned to the cornered man. She first saw his pale face, then the workings of his clenched jaw, then the stream of blood.

"How badly are you hurt? Parlez-vous anglais ou francais? "

"I…please, please don’t…" His voice was hoarse. He stopped, seemingly frozen beneath her gentle inspection. A sound made the woman turn around sharply. She saw the policemen walking around the square.

The man dragged his thin lips apart, seeming to pause for a moment, and then said "Help," as he buckled to the floor.

She caught him under his elbows. Kneeling, his head came to her stomach, and he leant there exhaustedly, his eyes closing.

The six-foot-three body was hard to drag, and bumped along the old paving stones as she manoeuvred him up into the passenger seat. Panting, the young woman started the engine. Her new companion slumped against the door. A red patch was blossoming on his white vest. The woman moved his open coat aside, pausing as she felt something small but solid in his jacket pocket. Cautiously, looking back up at the surprisingly handsome face, she sneaked her fingers in. The young woman stared at the Victoria Cross in her hand. The gunmetal grey cross bore a lion standing proudly atop a crown, beneath which the small curling banner read ‘FOR VALOUR’. On the back a name, rank, and company were inscribed. She ignored the first two details, drawn instead by the three letters on the bottom line: SAS.

 

He woke up. Quick, shallow breaths. Hands curled to tight fists.

Don’t panic. Breathe. Think. Where are you?

He lay in an iron bed with a soft Indian bedcover. Turkish rugs scattered across the oak floorboards. A plush red recamiér beneath the window. The room showed little evidence of habitation beyond the chair pulled up to the bed.

What happened to you?

He lifted the navy blue pyjama shirt. Soft white bandages were strapped tightly across his middle. Holding his breath, the man forced himself into a sitting position, and then onto his feet. He gripped the headrest as blood drained from his head.

How long have you been here?

He limped to the large window, and twitched back the velvet curtain. It was night. A string of white lanterns lit a vast garden. Men in tuxedoes and women in glamorous dresses stood in loose groups linked by the constant movement of waiters. He closed the curtain and turned back to the dark room. His clothes lay folded on a rocking chair. They had been washed, but blood stained the vest. His knife sat neatly on top of the pile.

The door clicked shut behind him. He followed the curving hallway with increasing nausea, surrounded by sturdy doors and locked windows and low ceilings, until finally a set of double doors, partially opened, greeted him.

Holding his breath, the man peered into the well-lit study. He grew rigid as someone walked into view, their back to him. It was a woman. He took in the tight strapless grey chiffon dress that shifted easily with each languid movement, a perfect fit for her slim waist; his gaze moved lower, tracking her tanned legs as she half-turned. Her thin wrist was decorated with a sapphire bracelet; the same glimmered about her neck, casting glowing spots of light across her cleavage. She bent over the desk, searching for something. Recognition stabbed at him. Strong hands clutching him; a still, steady body allowing him to pass out. Then…nothing. The woman turned around. He stepped into the room, and closed the door.

She did not appear surprised. Putting down a mobile phone, she gave him her full attention. He cleared his throat, confused by the contradiction that faced him. Strength and delicacy. Distance and intimacy. Dark hair tumbled down her neck, jewelled slides keeping the glinting curls from her face. A vibrant gaze contrasted her smooth lily skin, and her small nose and rising cheekbones added to her soft jaw to create a sense of delicacy somehow darkened, made more enticing, by red lips that rested in calm beauty: knowing, tantalising, heartbreaking. Unafraid.

"You’re up. How do you feel?" Her accent was English.

"Where am I?"

"My house."

"Why?"

"Well, given the circumstances, I thought a hospital might not be your safest bet. I’ve had my private doctor looking after you. You’re going to be fine."

"Who are you?" he barked as she took a step towards him.

The woman pursed her lips. Then, with a magnanimous smile, she said: "How about we start with what I’m not?"

"Poor?" he spat.

"There is that. I’m also not somebody who is intimidated by a scared man holding a knife behind his back." She drew level to him. "Point of fact, I’m not somebody who intimidates."

He stared at her outstretched hand and licked his lips. Then, with a small grunt, he swivelled the knife around. The cool hilt hit her hand and she accepted it peacefully.

"Thank you. Now, you are welcome to stay - something I would advise - but, if you feel the need to leave, the key to your bedroom window is in the vase on the bedside table. There is, of course, the front door, but somehow I don’t think front doors are quite your style. I’m neglecting my guests. I’m glad you’re feeling better. Good evening."

"I take it the window was too high?" she asked, as a long shadow stretched across the kitchen tiles. The party was over, the kitchen cleaned and scrubbed by the catering staff. She moved with the ease of a dancer, her feet bare, as she piled the cheese on toast and tea onto a tray and turned to consider her guest.

His short dark hair was ruffled from an uneasy sleep, and growing stubble shadowed his pale face. It suited him. His face was a network of ridges and planes: a strong jaw and prominent cheekbones, pronounced brow and straight nose; something hard and handsome, softened by the way he held his lower lip between his teeth.

"Who are you?" he asked, keeping hold of the door handle.

"Myra Desirée. It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Captain."

His hand flew to his dog tags. The muscles in his jaw rose slowly, and fell again. "You know my name, then?"

"Can’t say I quite recall…" she trailed off, smiling. "How about you let me know when one comes to you?"

"That won’t be necessary. Thank you for your help. If you let me know the costs, I’ll send you some money."

"If that’s what you want. But my doctor tells me bed rest is vital for a proper recovery."

"It’s just a scratch. I don’t want to take up any more of your time."

She laughed at that, setting the tray down on the central island. "You hungry?"

He remained in the doorway, his formidable body caved inward, shoulders slumped, stony eyes lost.

"Take a seat," she said, busying herself with the cups, as he slowly lowered himself onto a stall.

"Thank you," he said hoarsely.

"My pleasure."

"I heard one of your guests talking."

"Boring, aren’t they?" she said, watching a smile overtake his face. He was beautiful. "People pretending to be fashionable."

"They said you were on a list. The top ten richest entrepreneurs of this year."

"It sounds odd when I hear it put like that."

"How would you put it?"

"I wouldn’t."

"You don’t like them then, these fashionable types?"

"They never have anything to say."

"Including Charles Winkweather? From what I’ve heard, he’s been saying too much."

Myra stared at him, hand frozen halfway to the teapot. He smiled innocuously.

"I didn’t see you come downstairs," she said eventually.

"No."

"But you can name one of my guests?"

"Yes."

"How?"

"You didn’t see me come downstairs. Doesn’t mean I didn’t. He asked you to dinner. I read somewhere that Winkweather has been accused of selling industrial secrets?"

"Such is the gossip of the caviar and pearls set. You’re from England?"

"London," he said after slight hesitation. "You?"

"The same. Some of the year. Do you have a name yet?"

He wiped his mouth and took a quick swallow of tea. Then, looking her in the eyes, he said: "Edward Wellesley."

She snorted. "You could be a conman. But then, for all I know, you might be. You’re getting cheese on my pyjamas."

"Excuse me?" he blurted.

"Look down."

"Oh, you mean these… right. Sorry." He blushed, mopping it up, but when he looked back up at her she was grinning. "I should tell you… you could get in a lot of trouble for this."

"For helping someone I found bleeding in the street? I’m a Good Samaritan. Or did you mean more immediate danger?"

"No," he said quickly. "Well, safe to say I’m not a conman. Or anything else

"Ma’am? I’m twenty five!"

"Then you inherited this?"

"A woman couldn’t get this far all by her lonesome?"

"Did I say that?"

Myra laughed, saying, "Maybe I’m just very good at what I do."

"I don’t doubt it."

"Why, Mr Wellesley, I’m going to blush. How old are you?"

"Thirty."

"How long were you in the army?"

"Joined at eighteen. I…left, a short while ago."

She was silent for a moment. "That’s twelve years of service."

"Yes."

"And your current occupation?"

"I’m an etymologist, with entomology on the side. Really any kind of ology beginning with an ‘E’."

The young woman smirked. "My kind of man."

"Scholarly?"

"A good liar. Would you care to stay, Mr Wellesley? Until you’re feeling better, I mean?"

"Much obliged…Ma’am."

 

Oliver Barry slipped into the section chief’s office, a mobile phone flipping from one hand to the other. He cleared his throat, and the man sitting behind the desk looked up from his computer, eyebrows raised.

"You have contact?"

"Yes Sir."

"What does she say?"

Oliver snapped the phone open, summoning up the text message. He read dryly, his face pale: "‘I have him’."

 

2

 

The safe hadn’t been hard to open. In fact, it should have been harder, Myra decided, giving the locked bathroom door one last glance. Someone on Charles Winkweather’s team was letting him down. She ignored the velvet pursestring bags that nestled together on the bottom shelf - most likely precious stones - and the padded envelopes on the second shelf. Protection money? People always kept it at home: buried under a dog’s kennel, taped behind the cistern. What was the point of a safe that cost almost as much as its contents if was as ineffectual as a toilet? Reaching to the back, Myra found a thick white envelope. She opened it quickly, pulling the paper inside out by an inch, and then slipped it into her handbag. With one hand, Myra flushed the toilet; with the other she closed the safe, wiped the electronic keypad, swung the bathroom mirror back into its place and, taking one last second to peel off her gloves and check her hair, slipped out and walked towards the landing.

Below Charles’s loud voice said, "Thank you, Jacques. Doesn’t this look delicious, Sebastian? Now, where’s Myra?"

Sebastian, a new development, was replying softly as she came to the dining room door. Moving around the butler, Myra crossed to Charles, saying, "That’s a beautiful Moore sketch in the bathroom."

"Oh, really?" said Charles. "Sister gave it to me. She knows about that sort of thing. Myra, this is Sebastian Cassel. He works for me. Sebastian, the exquisite Mademoiselle Desirée."

"A pleasure, mademoiselle. How do you do?"

"How do you do?" returned Myra, offering her hand. Her gaze remained steady as Sebastian brushed her fingers with thin lips. He was much taller than Charles, his body sparse, all lean points and hollows, as if he had been carved from stone and the sculptor had run out of material.

"Charles here has been telling me all about you. I hear you’re in stocks. Rough trade."

Myra looked up into his stone grey eyes. "Maybe I like it rough."

 

"My name is Edward Wellesley. I am thirty years old. I am in exports. I have no brothers or sisters. My mother died when I was young. I never knew my father. My name is Edward Wellesley. I am thirty years old."

"Drafting a personal ad? I’d emphasise your chiselled jaw. Just a thought."

Edward swept the stack of papers into the open duffel bag at his feet and stood up, his hands clasped behind his back as he said, "Myra. I wasn’t expecting you."

"It was a first date. What were you expecting?"

"Uh…"

Myra laughed, curling up in a corner of the large sofa. "Don’t answer that."

"You’re a merciful woman. A man came by from the electricity company. Took a look in the wine cellar."

"The cooling system has been a little off down there. I see you’ve had a productive evening."

"Meaning?" asked Edward, sitting facing her.

"Your bags are packed," she said, watching the suit jacket she had bought for him shift with the tensing of his broad shoulders. "Which involved you buying a bag. And possessions to pack, for that matter. Including a passport and driver’s license for one Edward Wellesley, perhaps?"

"You know an awful lot about this," he said, leaning closer.

Myra stopped herself mimicking him, getting closer. He had been here for nearly two weeks and she had never seen that look in his eyes. Predatory. Unrelenting.

"About a lot of things," she murmured. "You’re leaving?"

"You tell me. There’s a ticket booked for Thailand under the name of Edward Wellesley. I didn’t book it."

"No," she said softly. "But you got yourself a passport."

"How did you know I was going to?"

"How did you know I booked a flight?"

Edward’s gaze shifted to the fire. His breathing was slow, his strong chest barely moving. "These last two weeks, I’ve felt different. Like you’ve done something to me. You’ve seemed interested by me. In me. But you booked that ticket, and went to dinner with that man."

Myra sat studying the diamond bracelet around her wrist. When she looked at him from beneath her long lashes, Edward found himself pinned by her stare.

"That doesn’t mean I’m not interested."

Edward swallowed, taking in her beautiful body and slowly smiling lips. "It doesn’t?"

"No."

Myra remained still as he moved up on the sofa. His large hand brushed her hair from her face, a calloused thumb smoothing down her jaw. Her breath caught as he leaned in, brushing her mouth with his, and then they were kissing, at first gently, almost timidly, and then harder, clutching each other.

"God…" muttered Edward, his head throbbing.

Myra pushed the jacket off his shoulders. Edward tossed it to the ground, moving back to kiss her immediately.

She stiffened beneath him. Edward rose up on his elbows, following her gaze to the shoulder holster and finally to the Magnum .37. Raising an eyebrow at him, she pulled the gun from its home. Edward remained poised above her, his bottom lip between his teeth. Smiling, Myra put the gun down on the coffee table and pulled him back into her arms.

 

"I think you’ll find that was before a first date," said Edward, accepting the whiskey and then pulling Myra into his lap.

"Exception that proves the rule."

"You are that," he said, as if voicing a thought she was only half privy to. "Why did you help me?"

"I told you, I’m a Good Samaritan."

"Tell me again," said Edward, his voice taking on a deeper, softer edge, like a gushing river suddenly slowing down, its awful thunder replaced by a safe, coaxing trickle.

"Maybe I enjoy contradictions. The bleeding stalwart."

"‘My interests in the dangerous edge of things," he murmured, a question in his eyes,."‘The honest thief, the tender murderer, the superstitious atheist’."

"Robert Browning," she said.

Edward kissed her with his eyes open, seeing how she did the same, their smiles growing cautiously, the appraisal of two predators. Myra looked away first, her slender fingers slipping over the scar on his ribs.

"Who did this?"

"That’s another story. You are so beautiful. What are you doing going out with guys like Charles Winkweather?"

Myra whispered against his mouth, "That’s another story."

"Hmm…looks like we’re going to need some time."

A phone rang. The couple flinched. Edward released her. Looking over her shoulder at Edward, Myra took the phone from her purse and left the room, her "Yes?" the only thing he caught before the door was closed.

Releasing a heavy sigh, Edward rolled his shoulders back, hearing the pop-pop of his joints. He threw the whiskey back in one and reached for his boxers. The soldier got dressed slowly, tucking the shirt into his jeans and dropping the gun and holster into the duffel bag. When Myra slipped back into the room he was shrugging his jacket on.

"Going somewhere?" she asked, holding the phone behind her back.

"Depends. Are you?"

Silence settled between them, Myra standing by the door, Edward ready to pick up his bag. The snap of collapsing wood in the fireplace and gentle patter of rain against the window filled the room. She was looking at him, her eyes blank, faraway, as if adding something up. Measuring him. Edward stood tall, almost at attention, his dark eyes glittering, enticing, daring.

"What if I told you I couldn’t come with you, but I could meet you?"

Edward took a deep breath. His fingers twitched, curling as if creeping around a trigger. "I would ask where."

"Nice airport. Four hours time."

"It doesn’t bother you? What I said when we met - about it being dangerous? About me being dangerous."

"Did the gun bother me?"

Edward laughed. It was deep, from the bottom of his chest. "Why not?"

"Call it an adorable idiosyncrasy. I’ll be in the watch shop on the second floor, near gate twenty-seven, wearing a red dress. Take my car."

Myra did not react at first when he walked towards her, but when his hand slipped onto her waist she rose up on her toes, meeting his kiss.

 

Edward sat in the airport bar, drink raised halfway to his lips. The TV was muted but it did not matter. He would not have understood the French newswoman anyway. But he did recognise the drive the footage showed the fire trucks racing up, and the house engulfed in flames. A photograph appeared on the screen of young socialite Myra Desirée, twenty-five, believed to be home at the time.