Yassen hated public flying. Hated. All his sedatives were twelve-hour ones, his tablet and earphones were back in his room at Scorpia (and yet he'd packed sun-cream; how quaint), and the seat felt like somebody had been forced to remove all of the stuffing from some parts and relocate it to others.
Behind him, an American woman was nattering into her mobile about her trouble at work in an irritatingly nasal drawl; beside him a sticky two-year-old had just clambered into the seat and had stuck a fist with a jelly sweet in it into its mouth to suck; in front of him a Russian teenager was trying to clean someone else's tonsils with his tongue; across the aisle, a pre-teen was trying on a winning smile in his direction… He glanced at her. She twinkled. He eyed her sparkly hair-clips, the line of foundation that had stopped just below her chin, her very wonky, very thick mascara and eye shadow that gave her the appearance of a sleep-deprived attack-victim… He raised an eyebrow and looked cold. She pouted and turned. He sighed.
He hadn't even had the foresight to bring a novel. There were a couple of magazines in the netted pocket attached to the back of the Russian boy's seat (who was now groping his date in wild-abandonment and attempting the tongue-tango) and he plucked one gingerly out with his finger and thumb to take a look at.
Lips!proclaimed the cover: Hot Gossip! Hot Dates! Hot Scandal! Read Now!
He flicked through to the middle in dull resignation.
'Dear Linda,' it read, 'My sister is married to the man I love and, several weeks ago, I had sex with him when we were at work. She recently found out and has cut off all contact. I don't know what to do! –Yours sadly, Unloved.'
'Dear Unloved,' thought Yassen, 'Find a tall building and jump from it. You deserved everything that was coming to you, you little slut. -Linda.' And he rammed the magazine back into the depths of the netted pocket. The toddler beside him leant over and clumsily pulled a fistful of the gossip rag back over to wave about and coo at.
Yassen leant back in his seat. 3 hours, 45 minutes to go.
At 7.20am precisely, he woke up to find a morphed lump of jelly-sweet welded to his shirt and the toddler sucking on his credit card.
At 8.00am he'd finally managed to scrape off the last little bit of sticky residue that had attached itself to his shirt, with aeroplane tap water, and had reclaimed his credit card.
At 8.23, he'd returned to his seat to find, to his eternal amusement, that the Russian boy in front had been slapped by his girlfriend hard enough to leave a handprint, and had been made to watch her make out just as enthusiastically with the toddler's reciprocating father over the back of her seat.
He'd had to force them apart to sit down.
At 8.29, he'd realised the toddler's nappy had burst open and was now leaking brown sludge onto its seat.
At 8.36 he'd been forced to wash yet again because the brown gunk had found its way onto the toddler's hands, who'd grabbed him in an attempt to escape being changed.
At 8.57 he'd considered stabbing himself with a fork. At 8.58 he'd realised aeroplanes didn't supply metal forks.
At 9.02 he'd been coerced into holding the toddler on his lap (money had changed hands) whilst its father and an aggravated air hostess attempted to undo the damage done to the seat. The toddler had ended up sitting on a coat.
At 9.22 he'd entered into conversation with the toddler's father, who, in actual fact, was a member of the metropolitan police who was coming back from holiday, and was an expert in weaponry. Yassen had given a false name and had pretended he was the curate of a military museum, and they'd had a heated discussion about various makes of gun throughout the ages, which Yassen, for the first time since the news of Hunter's death, found himself enjoying.
At 9.46 he'd remembered Hunter's death.
At 9.47 he'd relapsed into silence.
At 9.58 they'd landed and he'd exited the plane.
000
The taxi journey to the hotel was only marginally better than the taxi journey to the Scorpia base: for one thing, he'd just passed the stage of 'fixation' and moved into the 'able to think about other things without those things being related to Hunter' stage… for another, London taxis were infinitely more comfortable than taxis on the continent, mainly because they were used often enough that the drivers could afford nicer upholstery, but also because most Russian taxis were yellow, and therefore made him feel like a sitting duck. London taxis were black, very common (ie. harder to tail) and comfortable.
Unfortunately, the good was balanced out by the bad because he was indirectly going to a funeral in this taxi; on Russian roads, a person could find opportunities to drive over five miles an hour; he couldn't comfort himself with the thought of shooting the taxi driver, and the taxi driver kept trying to strike up a conversation, which was by far the worst thing about this whole situation.
"We're gunna turn lef' 'ere an' then take a seck'n right off onta the…"
Yassen ignored him.
"Cos thass faster 'n goin' onna M4, duncha fink? Funny 'ow all these people drive dahn there an' get stuck in a traffic jam, innit? Silly buggers. Always better on the smaller roads; thass what I always say. True, innit? Cos…"
Yassen continued to ignore him.
"An' my ol' ma said t' me; never drive dahn 'em big roads like 'em silly buggers what get stuck inna jam, cos yor regret it, right? An…"
Yassen contemplated the high-rise flats at the side of the road, and busied himself counting the windows.
"Anna turn righ' 'ere onta…"
And reading the graffiti.
"Don' mind 'em people what's lookin' at us funny. They's just wunnrin woss goin' on."
And…
"Ere… d'you speak English?" said the taxi driver, turning his head and nearly crashing into a streetlamp. Yassen felt his heart skip a couple of rather vital beats.
"Thatta no, then?"
The man continued driving. Yassen tried not to strangle him as he spoke. He didn't know if he wanted to continue with his life in this man's hands or not.
"Right. Jus' talkin' t' meself, then. As always," muttered the driver, and switched on BBC2, which was currently playing folk music. According to the assassin in the back, he had just saved his own life.
000
They pulled up at the cemetery at 10.22 in the morning. Yassen knew this because he had counted the seconds.
The driver grinned at him and made a couple of crude gestures to mean 'I help with bags' but his passenger glared at him, hoisted his (minimal) luggage onto his back and dropped a fistful of money onto the floor of the car with an added 'go away you lunatic' in Russian just to speed him on his way.
The man stared at him dimly for a moment, before shutting his mouth, getting coldly into his taxi, and driving off. Yassen, gritting his teeth frustration, allowed himself one minute of spewing out the most foul, torrid, evil-sounding Russian curses at the London public in general, and then calmly collected himself, pulled a black, baggy hooded jacket over his head, and drifted through the cemetery gates towards the crowd of graveside black. He would bring the roses tomorrow. They shouldn't see.