Look who's here
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section7mfuShort Affair challenge, 23 October (Smear. White).
Who needs a partner anyway?
Look who’s here
New York 1960
This time, it wasn’t pre-planned, not part of a sting to fool the enemy. Napoleon heard the shot, and started to run.
There was something moaning – it seemed to be coming from an alleyway, where all the bins were kept. It might be an animal trapped in something. Sometimes they caught their heads in jars and cans, didn’t they?
“Can we go and see?” she said, trying to attract her mother’s attention from the gossip she was enjoying with another lady.
“What, dear?”
“Can we go and see? I think there’s a hurt puppy or something, in there.”
“A hurt puppy? Okay, sweetheart. Let’s go see, Joyce, or she’ll start crying – such a soft heart, she has.”
It wasn’t a puppy. It was a man, lying where he had fallen against, and knocked over, a bin full of rubbish. There was a sweet, metallic smell of blood, and the equally unpleasant sweet smell of rotting debris from the overturned bin.
“Oh, my God! Joyce! Call an ambulance! Take Rachel away, out of here.”
Joyce hustled the child away and ran back into the street to look for a telephone, while her friend knelt in the filth to see if the man were still alive.
She had just put her coat under his head, when she heard running steps and looked up to find a man anxiously looking down at her. “Who are you?” she said.
“Is he alive?” he said, not answering her question.
“Yes. He’s breathing, and there’s still a pulse.”
The man crouched beside her and took the man’s wrist. “Help’s on its way,” he said. “Should be here in a minute.”
“That was quick. Did Joyce get through to you?”
“Who? No, we have other methods.” And as he spoke, other running feet came, and other men took over and carried the wounded man away.
“I must go,” he said, “I’d like to thank you for staying with him.”
“Will you call me later, tell me how he is?”
“Sure. Give me your number.”
And he was gone.
“How is he?”
“Brain damage. It’s no good.” Napoleon was curt. They knew better than to offer the easy verbal condolences of a normal workplace; they all knew what it was like, and all preferred silent sympathy, themselves.
“What was he doing there? He was supposed to be watching the front.”
“I’ve no idea. Maybe it was a call of nature.”
“Do you know you have a smear of blood on your sleeve?”
Napoleon looked down – there was a rust-red stain on the grey sleeve of his jacket and also on the white shirt-cuff. “I’d better change.”
He left his colleagues looking glumly at each other.
“Second one this year,” said one.
“To lose one might be regarded as misfortune – to lose two looks like carelessness,” said another, rather prone to black humour.
“What?”
“Oscar Wilde: Lady Bracknell? The Importance of Being Earnest?” he said, “No? Oh well.”
“There’s a time and a place, George.”
Napoleon went back to his office, cleaned up as to attire, but not mentally cleansed in any way. He sat with his head in his hands, wondering whether he should just give it all up, leave, do some other work. What, though? He didn’t know any other trade, didn’t really want one. But just now he felt a failure, and not inclined to answer the summons from Waverly.
The old man watched him walk in, a picture of despondence, not the breezy, self-confident, cheerful Napoleon of a normal day.
“Sit down, Mr Solo,” he said, and watched him slump into a chair. “First, let me assure you – that though you appear to think so, this was not your fault; you have nothing to blame yourself for. Your partner knew the risk, took it, and was …”
“Don’t say it, sir. Not unlucky – betrayed. By all of us. We should have had more back up. He shouldn’t have been down there on his own.”
“Easy to say with 20/20 hindsight, Mr Solo. But, even so, you mustn’t think I don’t regret our failure to protect him – or that I don’t grieve for his loss – because I do. Very much.”
Napoleon shrugged. He mourned the deaths of the two partners he’d had this year. They had been good men but in his heart he knew that they had both lacked that sense of self-preservation, and uncanny ability to anticipate trouble that marked the brilliant agent. He would carry on alone from now on.
He finally managed to get around to writing up the report a few days later, and was reading it over when he was summoned.
Mr Waverly looked up as the door slid open and was slightly relieved to see a faint return of confidence in this favourite agent’s demeanour.
“You want me to take on another partner?” Solo said, “So soon after …”
==================================
Who needs a partner anyway?
Look who’s here
New York 1960
This time, it wasn’t pre-planned, not part of a sting to fool the enemy. Napoleon heard the shot, and started to run.
*********
There was something moaning – it seemed to be coming from an alleyway, where all the bins were kept. It might be an animal trapped in something. Sometimes they caught their heads in jars and cans, didn’t they?
“Can we go and see?” she said, trying to attract her mother’s attention from the gossip she was enjoying with another lady.
“What, dear?”
“Can we go and see? I think there’s a hurt puppy or something, in there.”
“A hurt puppy? Okay, sweetheart. Let’s go see, Joyce, or she’ll start crying – such a soft heart, she has.”
It wasn’t a puppy. It was a man, lying where he had fallen against, and knocked over, a bin full of rubbish. There was a sweet, metallic smell of blood, and the equally unpleasant sweet smell of rotting debris from the overturned bin.
“Oh, my God! Joyce! Call an ambulance! Take Rachel away, out of here.”
Joyce hustled the child away and ran back into the street to look for a telephone, while her friend knelt in the filth to see if the man were still alive.
She had just put her coat under his head, when she heard running steps and looked up to find a man anxiously looking down at her. “Who are you?” she said.
“Is he alive?” he said, not answering her question.
“Yes. He’s breathing, and there’s still a pulse.”
The man crouched beside her and took the man’s wrist. “Help’s on its way,” he said. “Should be here in a minute.”
“That was quick. Did Joyce get through to you?”
“Who? No, we have other methods.” And as he spoke, other running feet came, and other men took over and carried the wounded man away.
“I must go,” he said, “I’d like to thank you for staying with him.”
“Will you call me later, tell me how he is?”
“Sure. Give me your number.”
And he was gone.
***************
“How is he?”
“Brain damage. It’s no good.” Napoleon was curt. They knew better than to offer the easy verbal condolences of a normal workplace; they all knew what it was like, and all preferred silent sympathy, themselves.
“What was he doing there? He was supposed to be watching the front.”
“I’ve no idea. Maybe it was a call of nature.”
“Do you know you have a smear of blood on your sleeve?”
Napoleon looked down – there was a rust-red stain on the grey sleeve of his jacket and also on the white shirt-cuff. “I’d better change.”
He left his colleagues looking glumly at each other.
“Second one this year,” said one.
“To lose one might be regarded as misfortune – to lose two looks like carelessness,” said another, rather prone to black humour.
“What?”
“Oscar Wilde: Lady Bracknell? The Importance of Being Earnest?” he said, “No? Oh well.”
“There’s a time and a place, George.”
*****************
Napoleon went back to his office, cleaned up as to attire, but not mentally cleansed in any way. He sat with his head in his hands, wondering whether he should just give it all up, leave, do some other work. What, though? He didn’t know any other trade, didn’t really want one. But just now he felt a failure, and not inclined to answer the summons from Waverly.
The old man watched him walk in, a picture of despondence, not the breezy, self-confident, cheerful Napoleon of a normal day.
“Sit down, Mr Solo,” he said, and watched him slump into a chair. “First, let me assure you – that though you appear to think so, this was not your fault; you have nothing to blame yourself for. Your partner knew the risk, took it, and was …”
“Don’t say it, sir. Not unlucky – betrayed. By all of us. We should have had more back up. He shouldn’t have been down there on his own.”
“Easy to say with 20/20 hindsight, Mr Solo. But, even so, you mustn’t think I don’t regret our failure to protect him – or that I don’t grieve for his loss – because I do. Very much.”
Napoleon shrugged. He mourned the deaths of the two partners he’d had this year. They had been good men but in his heart he knew that they had both lacked that sense of self-preservation, and uncanny ability to anticipate trouble that marked the brilliant agent. He would carry on alone from now on.
******************
He finally managed to get around to writing up the report a few days later, and was reading it over when he was summoned.
Mr Waverly looked up as the door slid open and was slightly relieved to see a faint return of confidence in this favourite agent’s demeanour.
***
“You want me to take on another partner?” Solo said, “So soon after …”
“I do. And when you see who it is, you may be quite pleased.”
Mystified, Napoleon stared at him. “Really? Why? Who is it?”
“He’ll be along in a moment. I gather he has been detained by some of the incorrigible ladies of this establishment.”
None the wiser, Napoleon was about to ask for further clues to the identity of this unwelcome new partner, when the door slid open once more.
He looked round and rose – suddenly smiling broadly – as a small, cross figure stalked in: a familiar catch in his gait, blond, blue-eyed, still youthful and skinny; but with hair tousled, tie askew, and lipstick where no lipstick should be on a Section 2 agent.
“Gentlemen, I think you know each other,” said Waverly, hiding a smile as the two young men looked at each other: one delighted and beaming, the other taken aback by it and suddenly wary, perhaps fearing another embrace.
“I suggest you remind Mr Kuryakin where to clean up, Mr Solo, and then take him to lunch. Please report back, both of you, this afternoon.”
Mystified, Napoleon stared at him. “Really? Why? Who is it?”
“He’ll be along in a moment. I gather he has been detained by some of the incorrigible ladies of this establishment.”
None the wiser, Napoleon was about to ask for further clues to the identity of this unwelcome new partner, when the door slid open once more.
He looked round and rose – suddenly smiling broadly – as a small, cross figure stalked in: a familiar catch in his gait, blond, blue-eyed, still youthful and skinny; but with hair tousled, tie askew, and lipstick where no lipstick should be on a Section 2 agent.
“Gentlemen, I think you know each other,” said Waverly, hiding a smile as the two young men looked at each other: one delighted and beaming, the other taken aback by it and suddenly wary, perhaps fearing another embrace.
“I suggest you remind Mr Kuryakin where to clean up, Mr Solo, and then take him to lunch. Please report back, both of you, this afternoon.”
==================================
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