Lost

by Kiley S. Snape

Series 7 Episode 7: The Mole

It was a relief to be returning home, like being exhumed of a long-standing disease or nightmare. My nightmare was finally over. I shouldered my carry on to secure my hold as I passed through the boarding terminal, and glanced back at Moscow one last time. For so long, I had written this place off as the ultimate deception- the city that held so much history and beauty- was consumed by the blood, grief, and lies. And I believed the blaring lies for a time, but things were different. I was different.

I stepped out of the airport and made my way across the tarmac to the plane that would deliver me home; just as one its kin had done years ago. I jerked involuntarily when I felt someone take hold of my wrist to get my attention. Harsh, calloused hands clutched me intently, and I could not see the path in front of me as I was shoved through the endless darkness. I took a deep breath to break away from the memory, and glanced over my shoulder. "Oh, thank you," I gasped, and gently took back the novel that had fallen out of my satchel.

The man who returned it to me said nothing in turn, in fact- he did not even bat an eye in my direction as he brushed past me with purpose. He possessed a most striking personage, and I greedily took him in. He exuded power, respect, and yet he seemed so displaced. His penetrating, steely azure did not miss a single detail. He moved in lissom tandem- with such restrained grace- like he was some fallen angel. I shook my head, and chided myself at my Romanticised reverie. I hurried onto the plane was guided into my seat by an overbearing flight attendant.

"How was your time in Russia?" the woman inquired congenially(?).

"Cleansing," I replied cryptically, and dropped unceremoniously into my seat. I perused through my worn copy of Stories until the book fell open to one of my favourites. I ignored my temporary travelling companion as he shimmied between my knees and the seat in front of me to take a seat in the chair next to me. I inwardly cringed as the attendants executed their saccharine routine of safety procedure, and again when the lurching momentum of the plane taking off the runway.

A few hours into the flight and whilst turning the page of my book, I glanced over at the man sitting beside me. I was surprised and pleased to discover that it was the entrancing man that had returned my book to me before we had boarded the same plane. My first observation was that he was incredibly tense despite his relaxed façade of indifference. Next came the second realisation of how ensnaring his eyes truly were- all penetrating and yet impenetrable. He looked down avidly at what appeared to be a small roll of film, which was held carefully in his slightly calloused fingers.

"What brought you to Moscow?" I asked softly, eyes still fixed upon the roll of film as I tried to figure out what it was- or what could be contained in such an innocuous object.

"Visiting," he replied curtly. He reminded me of my father, the way he warily cast his eyes about to fall upon each passenger to take in every minor detail...like the hunter realised he had become the hunted.

"Strange place, isn't it? So different than back home," I agreed, and the corners of my lips quirked upwards in a brief smile, "But I am glad I decided to go."

He was statue, perhaps he thought that if he ignored me I would be offended and resist the innate desire to converse with him...he thought wrong.

"My name is Kiley Jensen of the United Kingdom," I introduced myself in archaic mirth.

"I did not know the Queen had knighted such a curmudgeon."

Oh, he was good. I laughed wryly and inquired, "So what's your name and where are you from?"

"James Arrington, London."

Ah, a fellow Jack...that was oddly soothing. I flashed him a warm smile, and then said in farewell, "Well- I won't bore you anymore than I already have. It was a pleasure to make your acquaintance, James." I nestled back in my seat and resumed my return to Chekhov's world; however, the surge of emotions from my trip soon caught up with me and I soon fell asleep.

'Tell us what you know,' a man crooned in my ear.

'I-I don't know what you want...please- please, I just want to go home. Why are you doing this?' I whimpered between violently trembling lips.

'Oh, you know what we want,' another murmured from the dark corner of the room, 'Our intel assures us you know. So I will ask you again, what do you know?'

I jerked awake just before the tell-tale popping crackle played itself over in my mind. My chest heaved, a cold sweat made my brow clammy, and my hands gripped the armrests of my seat in a bruising force.

"Miss, are you all right?" I flinched when a stewardess' hand gently gripped my shoulder as she gently whispered her question.

"B-Bad- Bad dream," I stammered, nearly incoherent.

"Some bad dream," James mused darkly as he stared out the small window.

I drummed my fingers erratically on my temple to distract myself from the tide of memories that tried to pull close to the forefront of my mind. "Are you a fan of Chekhov?" I inquired, tone beseeching for him to humour me.

"I prefer Blake," James answered.

"Any favourites?"

James gave me a wry, albeit exacerbated, look- which in turn caused me to laugh. An answer I had for many pieces of literature. "And yourself?"

"Blake is splendid in his distrust, but I would have to say that Frost is the only one that has managed to capture my heart for such a long time," I replied.

"Preferences?"

"The Road Not Taken, After Apple Picking, and of course- Birches. I am actually quite a fan of Pablo Neruda as well." At the latter portion of my reply, James scoffed in evident distaste, and to which I scowled fiercely at him. "Problem?"

"Only your apparent admiration for a Communist," James murmured faintly, keeping his voice low so that he went unheard by everyone but me.

"He was a lover of the ideal, but he loathed it just as much," I protested adamantly.

"You seemed convinced that you are right."

"Of course, I am right- I did an extensive paper on the topic in school," I agreed sardonically(?), and flashed him a knowing smile, "Best not get into an argument with an English major about such topics, Mr. Arrington." I glanced down at the roll of film still held almost protectively in his hand and asked, "So come on then, what's on there?"

His eyes flickered dangerously and his hand unconsciously tightened around the plastic container. "Nothing special," he dismissed.

I knew that tone. He was lying- in the no-nonsense tone that my father would use when I asked him about where he had been. I also noted how easy the lie came to mind; either he was a compulsive liar or he had practise- and my guess was on the latter. I also knew better than to ask questions I knew would not get answered in any manner except for silence.

"Attention, passengers, this is your pilot speaking, I just wanted to let you know that we will be landing in London shortly. So, if you all could return to your seat and fasten your seatbelts- it would be much appreciated." the captain explained, and was followed by various other translations from the initial Russian.

I tidied up the area around my seat, and carefully placed my copy of Stories back into my satchel- all the while, my full attention was latently fixed upon James. He was as equally stoic as he was handsome; a heady partnership that made it nearly impossible to look away. "Well, it was nice meeting you, James Arrington," I said with a blushing smile.

He held out his hand for me to shake, and my eyes dipped to the expanse of skin revealed from his shirt sleeve riding up. Five dots- just like the pattern found on the face of a di- he had done prison time...and solitary confinement at that. I tucked away that useless information and took hold of the proffered hand. His finger wrapped around my hand with such surety that a delightful shiver trickled down the length of my spine. I gently returned the squeeze and then reluctantly released his hand; he was almost magnetic in the way he ensnared my attention in only a four hour flight. "You as well, Kiley Jensen," he murmured faintly, and smiled gently.

"Perhaps we will each other again, eh?" I mused, latently hopeful.

"London isn't the big city everyone thinks," James concurred, and fidgeted with the strap of his backpack.

"What is it you do?" I asked as we stood in line in the aisle of the plane. The woman in front of me reeked of cheap Asian perfume, and I did not fail to notice how she eyed James appreciatively over her shoulder.

I was busy glaring at her that I did not notice I was holding up the passengers behind me. "Kiley, please move," James murmured, the heat of his breath crashed against the hypersensitive shell of my ear.

I blushed and stammered an incoherent apology that was unable to be heard by anyone, let alone myself even. I hurried down the aisle, nearly falling over my feet in the process, and I could not help the smile that curved my lips when I saw the familiar skyline of home. I turned my head to look back at James over my shoulder to say farewell, but I immediately grew crestfallen. James was already gone.