The Enemy

Chapter 16

Chapter 16: March 2018 - The Met

It was a funny thing, dying. The amount of calculation that went into it. And though he was still breathing and his heart was still pumping, he might as well be in that casket six feet below the ground. When you die, you lose everything. Your friends. Your life. Your freedom.

You lose your identity.

Beck Howards: the person who was not to be named. Now, he permitted the name to roll around the inside of his head. To reside there. To seep in. He closed his eyes. He sank into the pleather of the Met's rental van and exhaled. He was caught, but the ends justified the means. He'd successfully installed his device. He heard the van door open and straightened in his seat. Lemons.

She climbed in and turned the key in the ignition.

His present company was no comfort on this his resurrection day. He looked out the window. She navigated the van out of the parking spot and towards the exit. It was hard to believe that for the past month he'd believed the mystery woman could be the one to help him. His brow darkened. How wrong he'd been.

She cleared her throat.

There'd been no other way. He clenched his hands into fists. His only option was to remain in Met custody at a safe house and aid in the Harrow investigation until it was closed. That or go to prison. He cast her a sideways glance. Her hands gripped the wheel in the ten and two position. The first option—however unpleasant—was the only one that allowed him, if he played it right, to keep tabs on his device. He already had a cover story cooked up: he'd broken into the Met in order to wipe his own file clean and be free from custody. Believable enough.

She took a turn onto the Victoria Embankment and away from town. He and Lukas had finally just settled in to their Frankfurt flat. But, there was always another safe house. He frowned. She merged onto the motorway. If this worked out, he'd never have to see Susie Pendleton again. That was at least one happy thought—

"You have a cat?"

He turned and looked at her, for real, for the first time in over five years. Those familiar dark eyes shone. No one feature stood out. Her mouth was tight and pinched. "Is this how you treat all of the people you know who have come back from the dead?" he asked.

She glared at him. Her hand whipped out and turned on the radio, raising the volume. "Say it a little louder why don't you?"

He clenched his jaw. "Do you not trust the Met to confirm this van is clean?"

Her response was silence.

He followed in kind. He had no idea where they were headed, but this had been his reality for years. He'd learned the art of the nomad, the way of blending in with the common folk.

He stuck to the less elite areas now. He could dissolve into a crowd within a day's observation. Germany, Australia, Portugal he had disappeared into the fabric of it. He was Edward Dartmouth. He had no title or proper upbringing, and Edward became second nature to him. There was a comfort in it. What did it matter how he conducted himself now, anyway? What did any of it matter? He no longer had any title or privilege for which he must keep up appearances. He just had to survive, to exist.

Yet, even after five years, the papers here at home still talked about him, usually around the Charterhouse attack anniversary. As far as he could tell, it was all centered on some bollocks narrative they'd created about him being an "untamed," "troubled," and "tortured," soul who sacrificed it all to do the right thing. One would think he, not Stapleton, were the hero the way they went on and on about him—his looks, his grades, his tragic history—in almost every media outlet about once a year. He recalled one particularly abominable article from OK Magazine.