fic: hard liquor. [14/14] (spooks)

[delga]

hard liquor. (spooks)
Fiona, Adam, Tja; het./fem.
xiv. izvinitye¹

She knows – knows it like the lines on the palm of her hand, the iris that rings her eye, the teeth marks that brand her neck – that life with Tja would never have worked, not once, not in a million, million years. She knows that eventually they would have spiralled out of control, their very own Thelma and Louise. As it was, it had only been Tja’s continual pursuit of something unreachable that had kept her vaguely on the straight and narrow. (Of course, now Fiona knows of an ulterior motive. But she doesn’t believe it; doesn’t believe in a Tja who would bow to a greater will).

It was not love: of this she is practically certain. It was not love; mostly lust mixed in with the knowledge of the tangible. (She can still feel Tja’s lips on hers, their fingers entwined; can still taste her breath - the tequila, the salt and the bitter, acrid taste of blood). Everything about their coupling was harsh and destructive (so sweet and impure; Tja always spoke of sin but Fiona had never tasted it – not really – until she met her little deity) and enticing; even now, Fiona hungers for it, gasps for it like an addict heading so deep into withdrawal that the pain and need and utter aching tears at her.

When this happens, she drinks.

She drinks hard and she drinks fast and she drinks to make herself ill. That way, if she’s throwing up at three AM, at least she isn’t empty; at least she feels something other than that bitter loneliness Tja left in her wake.





She comes home, cooks. Helps Wes with his homework. Puts him to bed, kisses his forehead (the way a mother should). She watches some TV, switches it off when the news comes on (“Good evening, tonight’s top stories are…”). Goes to her laptop, turns it on, checks blindly through her mail. Looks at the clock.

Adam isn’t home.

(She’s trying, so hard, so much just to get the picture straight. She’s looking back, filtering through the memories, trying to remember anything that will explain what Adam’s told her. It seems that even now – so far post hoc – Fiona still doesn’t know a thing about Tja).





(Adam is at Thames House, sitting at his desk. There are manila folders everywhere. He’s digging around for some explanation, however weak, of who or what Fiona is).





Alexis Savakis, a.k.a. Lewis Johnson. Cold War jewel. Deep cover agent and a member of Her Majesty’s Secret Service. Retired.

Amongst his many achievements, Johnson was renowned for dissolving two political uprisings in Eastern Europe as well as preventing a potentially disastrous arms deal between Moscow and the Balkans.

(And yet that was his last assignment).

Afterwards, he broke down. Couldn’t take the strain. Started getting sloppy, nearly got caught. So he was decommissioned. Sent off into the nether of the world where he couldn’t be found.

(Yeh, well, Adam wasn’t looking for the man. Just a contact number).

One of the very last things Johnson did was cock up. Stupid sod engaged a sleeper, gave her information – information she used to hold him to ransom. (She was just a little thing. Oriental looking, nasty gleam in her eye). Word was she took the fall for him on some job, was hooked into Six as a useful little secret. Turns out, she didn’t much like that idea. But she took what she had, took Johnson.

(They found him, throat slit, hanging from a shower rail in a safe house in Milan).

There was a note from the sleeper; a threat. If Six should look for her, she would sell the information she had to the Bear. (Red lights. Moscow). Of course, they did look for her. Found her too. Were ready to take her in—

But someone somewhere thought she might be of use.

So the sleeper was made a freelancer, was called on to do certain jobs that needed doing without being traced back to the Service. (It was this or torture leading to death and the girl, it seems, was no fool). The ultimate double agent, a hand in every pocket. Doing what she wanted, when she wanted.

(Bringing back the winnings for the Service).

Antja Kunstler² (a false name on an obviously fake birth certificate) did the jobs no one else wanted to do – for SIS, KGB, Syrian Secret Service… the list goes on. But at the end of the day, she was tied to Six.

(Until the day she brought them a replacement).





“She was using you.”

Fiona looks up, sees Adam in the doorway. (Her eyes are red and sore). He throws the file onto the table.

“She was too much trouble for Six. They paid her to do odd jobs. Being the way she was, she went to Moscow and Syria and all the hotspots.” He sighs, sits down, elbows on knees (jacket off, tie gone, shirt open at the neck). “She got fed up of it. Struck a deal. A permanent officer in return for her freedom. Someone else to do her dirty work.”

(He doesn’t know what to make of this ‘Tja’ character. Doesn’t know how Fiona could have been fooled so thoroughly).

“She was using you.”

“No.” Fiona shakes her head. “No.” Sits back, looks at Adam. “No.”

He gets up, walks to the cabinet, pulls out a bottle of Smirnoff. Puts it on the table, pushes it towards her. “Tell me about her.”

“No.” Almost inaudible.

“Look, Fi—”

And then she’s in his face, her eyes boring into his, looking deep, deep into his soul, unearthing him with her hands, shredding him apart, bit by bit. “I don’t want your pity, Adam. I don’t want it, I don’t need it. If you want answers, go look it up.”

“She sold you out!”

“No!”

“Yes!” He takes her wrists, holds her still. “Yes, she did, Fiona. She wanted out, she traded you in. What I don’t understand is why you stuck around for so long.”

Tears, rivers and river of tears. Years of bitterness, confusion, anger all spilling out as suddenly everything begins to fall into place and she’s shaking, again, shaking so much that she can’t support her own weight and it’s all too much. She can’t bear it, not any more.

“No.”

Now she clings to him, bunches his shirt in her fists and cries, tries to beat against him and can’t. Nothing makes sense, nothing is real, nothing is valid. She is falling and weeping and drowning all over again. (Adam holds her. This, at least – or so he thinks – is Fiona). There is madness and mania, fever and fear.

She cries.





The last time she heard from Tja was the morning of her wedding. In three hours she would be Mrs. Fiona Carter and her fate would be sealed, however much she fought against it.

She was sitting at her dressing table, in front of the mirror, waiting for the hairdresser to arrive. She was staring at her refection, wondering at the passing of time.

A ‘friend’ (a girl called Lisa, she thinks, a secretary in a school or something) brought up the post. Knocked on the door, smiled. You look beautiful. Fiona tried to smile.

(There was a postcard. Four words).

I am with you.





Heat. Lust. Tequila.

(Blood, sweat, tears).

She is drowning.





After a while, she stops. Stops crying, stops shaking. Just stands there in Adam’s difficult embrace.

“She loved me.”

Adam steps back. “What?”

(She cannot face him, cannot look up from her feet).

“She loved me. She— she didn’t want to let me go.” (She can sense his confusion, his frustration). “She wanted to save me.”

Adam shakes his head, stays silent regardless.

“She took me from Israel, took me across the world. Fed me, clothed me. Kept me safe. She killed for me. Not for Six, not for ‘the Service’. She killed for me.” She smiles, sadly. “Amsterdam, Tel Aviv, Morocco— Palermo.” She shakes her head. “Those weren’t for the good of anyone but me.”

(And this, she knows, is the truth).





(Strange the things you remember. Fiona remembers Tja, singing Russian lullabies, just like matushka).





“She was an agent.”

“I don’t care.” Complacent, now. Confident.

“She sold you out.”

“Two birds, one stone”. A small smile, not unkind. “I think she duped us all.”

Adam stands in disbelief. “You know, she’s murdered men.”

(Her smile is cold but wide). “I was there.”





After everything, she doesn’t tell him her name. She’s said everything that needs to be said, so far as she’s concerned. She’s free to go, she supposes. Adam won’t stop her. Harry Pearce can’t, no matter what he thinks. No one will mind so much if she walks away.

(She won’t, of course. The resentment is gone. Tja is gone).

She is on the roof of Thames House. She finds that she quite likes the view, likes the feeling of being on top of the world. She forgives Tja her trespasses because Tja would not forgive them. Tja did not forget her detka. Of this, Fiona is certain.

(The difficult bit is explaining to Adam. But late at night, when he pushes back on her shoulders, his stubble rubbing across her skin, she thinks that in at least one way, he is similar to Tja).

“I talked to Danny.”

She turns; Adam has his hands shoved into his pockets, an image of perpetual informality.

“You scared the crap out of him. He asked me about Tja.”

Fiona looks at him. Shrugs. “So? You told him it was nothing.”

“True.”

She looks away. “She’s dead, you know.” Says it without flinching. Is over it, maybe. “Fucking car crash. Of all the stupid things and it’s—” She shakes her head sadly. “What a waste.”

He comes to the rail, leans over it, the same as the day before. Says nothing. Watches as she rummages through her bag. “What are you doing?”

Fiona has opened her purse, pulled out a cigarette. “Smoking.” (He watches as she lights the smoke, takes a drag. Looks relieved). She grins. “I haven’t smoked since before Syria.”

Adam looks at her, wears a somewhat familiar look of bemusement. “Those things’ll kill you.”

Another grin. A challenge. “So?”

“So nothing.” He snaps the cigarette from her fingers, takes a drag himself. “Feels good.” He looks at her. Smiles.

Fiona laughs.



end. [14/14]

[1] Russian, meaning ‘sorry’
[2] German surname meaning artist, or skilled artisan.

spooks and its associated characters and plots do not belong to me; I am merely borrowing them. tja is an original character. with thanks to my beta, tigertrapped for her kindness and her sharp eye.