The spy (#014)
Four years after the attack.
A quick note: This week’s story contains scenes that some readers might find upsetting.
Arnold walked to the water’s edge where Marcus was waiting for her. He turned quickly, surprised—like an amateur—by her sudden appearance.
‘We shouldn’t be meeting like this, Clarissa,’ he said.
‘Kate,’ she said. ‘Always call me Kate. And we had to meet. I’m pregnant.’
Marcus’s expression froze, then twisted. She could see the sympathy, rage and confusion swirling inside him, but he settled on sadness. He felt sorry for her. She could use that.
‘The father…’ he began. ‘It’s Dean.’ It wasn’t a question. ‘Jesus, Clarissa, you like him.’
‘You have to like them to do what I do. You have to find something to like.’
‘No,’ he said, suspicious now. ‘You love him.’
‘I want out, Marcus,’ she said. ‘I’m leaving tonight, and I think he’ll leave with me. If I ask.’
‘Clarissa, he’s a terrorist!’ Marcus snapped. ‘He blew up a military convoy!’
‘That wasn’t him,’ she said, taking a step toward him. ‘He hasn’t done anything yet. He thinks he’s saving the world.’
‘He’s siding with the enemy.’
‘It’s not like that…’ she said. ‘They just don’t think we can win.’
‘You sound like one of them,’ said Marcus, turning away from her to look out over the water.
‘Marcus,’ she said, quietly. ‘I am going to leave tonight. And once I’m gone, you know that you won’t be able to find me. I’m telling you this as a courtesy.’
She waited for him to react, to move, to say anything. But he just kept looking out at the lake. She could hear the sound of his rapid breathing, and the gentle sound of her own, in and out with the waves. She was calm. She was always calm.
A footstep behind them.
She turned and saw Dean, his eyes wild, his hair a mess, a radio in one hand and a pistol in the other. He had followed her here. Somehow, he knew.
‘Dean,’ she said, reaching a hand out toward him.
‘Who is this?’ he asked, pointing the gun at Marcus. ‘What is this?’
‘Dean,’ she said again, but it was already too late. Dean fired two shots into Marcus’s chest, and she hurled herself forward to wrestle the gun from him. As it came loose from his grip, he smacked her across the face and flung her to the ground.
‘Wait!’ she shouted as he lurched toward her and kicked her in the abdomen.
‘We were going to save the world,’ Dean gasped, staggering away from her. ‘We are saving the world!’
He turned and lifted the radio to his lips and, as he turned, Clarissa Arnold snatched up the pistol and aimed it at his head.
Dean pressed the button to transmit, and Clarissa shot him twice.
She didn’t need to check if he was dead. She knew he was as she knew that Marcus was dead, as she knew that the unborn child in her womb was dead.
Her heart rate remained steady. Any emotion she felt was locked away until later, perhaps forever. In the meantime, she would take the bodies back. She would take them back in Dean’s truck. He was a spy. He had betrayed them. Or, better yet, he was a martyr. A martyr who had died trying to save her and their child.
She pulled herself to her feat and slipped the pistol into her jeans. She would find his truck, and then she would take it from there.
Behind her, the waves washed over the cobbles. In time with her heartbeat.
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