The Burning Man

3

London sleeps, London dreams. Hyde Park is quiet. The tourists will not return until the fumes and the roar of constant traffic fill Lancaster Gate. Moonlight catches the still pools in the Italian Gardens. The statue of Peter Pan watches over the boundary between the magical and the real, conjuring dreams of stolen children and other worlds.

Hunter brought his knife away from the gaping throat and stepped back to avoid the arterial flow. Another job well done, more peaceful sleep for the country. On the surface his flamboyant, piratical appearance — long black hair tied back with a black ribbon, single gold earring, devilish goatee — belied the nature of the work he did; underneath, it illuminated it perfectly: a new age cut-throat.

Dragging the body into the cover of the trees, he meticulously wiped his blade on his target’s jacket. He needed to sleep; his weariness had built up brick by brick over the relentless weeks and months, in Bosnia and Fallujah, Tehran and Pristina, and a score of other places that all merged into one. Only the faces remained distinct. Superficially they were similar, glassy-eyed and bloodless, but he could never forget the telling details: a frozen, accusing stare; the faint impression of contempt or betrayal on the lips. Every one the same, every one different.

‘Nice job.’ A woman’s voice, laced with sarcasm.

Hunter started; no one ever crept up on him unawares. His shock was quickly brought under control, the knife palmed, ready for use. He didn’t speak. Instead, he rapidly scanned his surroundings and was surprised once more that he couldn’t locate the intruder.

‘What are you? Some kind of psycho? Existence chose well this time.’ A pause. ‘Actually, situation normal.’

Now he had a lock on her position. He shifted his body weight, ready.

The woman recognised his subtle movement. ‘If you’re thinking of using that knife on me, it won’t do any good. I’ve had worse things than that stuck in me.’ Her tone highlighted the double entendre.

The branches of an overgrown bush parted and the woman stepped brazenly out. She had white-blonde hair and an expression that fell somewhere between challenging and seductive. Her smile suggested that Hunter’s coldly efficient brutality had not scared her in the slightest.

Hunter weighed his options. He couldn’t leave any witnesses behind. His superiors in Vauxhall would instantly shift him into the box marked ‘Liability’, with all the repercussions that entailed. Nor was he prepared to hurt an ‘innocent’ (and the one thing that kept him going was that none of his victims were ‘innocent’).

He lunged quickly, hoping to find a way to resolve his dilemma once he had her in a position where she couldn’t raise the alarm. As he shifted his weight, he found his ankles mysteriously constricted and he pitched forward to the ground. Long grass was inexplicably wrapped tightly around his feet.

‘That’s how I like my men,’ the woman mocked. ‘On their knees before me.’ She tapped his arm lightly with her motorcycle boot, then skipped out of the way when he lunged for her again. ‘So, did you see what I did there?’ She nodded towards his feet.

‘You did that?’

‘Yes, I’m a beautiful wood nymph.’

‘You have a very high opinion of yourself.’

‘I like to call it realistic.’ She sat cross-legged just out of reach.

Hunter began to saw through the strong, fibrous grass with his knife. ‘You should start running now,’ he said.

‘I never run. Besides, I can do much worse than that. You know how painful it is when you get a thorn stuck in your thumb? Now imagine one going through your eye and into your brain.’

Her statement held such utter conviction that Hunter had to believe she thought she could do it. ‘Who are you?’

‘My name is Laura DuSantiago and I am here to save the world,’ she said archly. ‘And you go by the name of Hunter when you’re not using one of your many aliases.’

‘Who do you work for?’

‘Existence.’ She lay down and stared flirtatiously into his face. ‘I’m not interested in the stupid little-boy games you’ve been playing. I’ve got a bigger agenda.’

‘Which is?’ Hunter freed himself, then balanced the knife on the palm of his hand before thrusting it into the ground.

Laura appeared quietly impressed by his choice. ‘Ever felt this life you’re leading is wrong? Made up? That you’ve got another life you can’t quite remember?’

Hunter’s practised non-committal expression gave nothing away.

‘Do certain places give you a real buzz, like there’s electricity in the ground? Do you get creeped out by a man called Rourke?’

His bland, ever-friendly line manager. ‘How do you know about Rourke?’

‘Oh, he gets around. Have we had sex?’ she added with a hint of puzzlement that did not appear manufactured.

‘I think I’d remember.’ Yet even after he’d said the words, he realised that, strangely, he wasn’t sure. ‘But we could get it out of the way now if you like.’

‘I think you ought to be disposing of that body first.’ She teased him with her eyes. ‘But before that I’ve got a little fairy story to tell you, about five great heroes, a magical quest and a threat that could destroy everything we hold dear.’

‘Okay.’ Hunter lounged back with his hands behind his head. ‘Then can we have sex?’