Chapter XXV - An Unwilling Convert

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-Emily-

~~~~~~

"Sign."

She takes the cheque from me and scans it, squinting at the fine print. I drum my fingers on the hard shell of my laptop, impatient, waiting for the finalising scratch of pen nib on bank paper.

"And you're sure your activity is untraceable?" she asks, looking anxiously at the silver memory stick on the table. "That the police won't track this information to my house?"

"I'm no novice."

"I know that," she says, handing over the cheque and contract. "You've got quite the reputation."

I run my finger over the small indents of the signature and pass the papers to the men behind me, unsmiling.

"Mr Moriarty will be in contact."

"Will he meet me personally?"

"No," I say, standing up and re-buttoning my blazer, "he won't."

"Why not?"

"A further modus vivendi will be made indirectly or through contact with myself."

"Very well." She gets to her feet. "Pleasure doing business with you."

I shake my client's hand, trying to keep up my glacial exterior: I have proven myself capable of maintaining control, of doing business.

It is a feeling like no other.

I turn to take my leave, internally jubilant with the success of my first, professional interaction within this criminal framework. It is with practiced formality do I deliver the lines that so many individuals have come to bitterly regret.

"You owe him a favour now, Mrs Carsonella. Don't forget that."

Her face is pale against the mauve of her wallpaper as I walk away.

~~~~~~

I sit back against the car seat and secure my laptop in its security casing, placing it on the space beside me. The cheque reads five thousand pounds. Five thousand pounds, made in one hour.

I try very hard not to think of the alcohol supply I could purchase with my financial surplus.

It has become a matter of avoidance, now. I returned from my night spent in the gutters of London's criminal alter ego to an empty penthouse. Moran took great pleasure in manhandling me from car to lobby, and from lobby to lift, before leaving me to face the man who effectively spat me out onto the streets and dragged me back by the frayed collar of my shirt.

Only, he wasn't there. There was no confrontation. No explanation. I was left entirely to my own devices: a new suit and tie was delivered the next morning, boxed and lined with glossed satin, followed by a replacement pair of shoes tucked within their own gold-piped case. I was sent a generic email with my client's details and a date, and a car was arranged to chauffeur me from penthouse to private suburbs whereupon I was to extract information for a woman who wanted to 'disappear' from her married existence.

And extract information I did.

I have been looking into private accommodation between the ongoing training and the hacking to limited success. I'm dependent on this uneasy employment for a salary – although I could comfortably afford an apartment worth twice as much as my previous flat, there is no guarantee that I would be earning a regular income to pay my rent.

I push it to the back of my mind. Jim will inevitably tire of me, of my incapability and my instability, and when that day comes I know a cut to my paycheque is hardly worth fretting about, when a cut to my throat is thrice as likely.

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