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Arms open Wide

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Palmer.
Go outside, there's a car waiting for you.
I'll give you 5 minutes but hurry. If you
take too long, Emily will come up and say
hello.

H.


DI Palmer had expecting this for some time, expecting a call out, reprisals for his digging but not so soon. He had tried not to wake Beth up, dressing quickly and quietly. His training allowed him to be both. It also allowed him to quickly assess what he needed.
Wallet: Yes.
House key: yes.
Badge: yes.
Phone: Yes. It would likely get taken off him but still. Better safe.
Gun: perhaps not. Could cause more trouble than was worth.
He tucked these into his trouser pockets, his black work ones. He would not go in jeans. He did however put on his trainers, again black. His work shoes would be no use if he had to run, which was likely. He felt strange, wearing them with his uniform, but considering the situation, it would do.
This all ran thorugh his head as he brushed his teeth. The Text had said he had 5 minutes to get down there and he wouldn't stop for his inner monologue.

He did stop in Lydie's room on the way out though, just stood in the doorway and watched her sleep. And breathe. He watched the little hump she made in the prettily patterned quilt rise and fall. All he could see of her was the top of her head, just long yellow hair on the pillow, the yellow hair that he had given her, the only thing he'd given her. Otherwise she was her mother's daughter, same eyes, same nose, same sarcastic eyebrow.
Spitting image.
Palmer smiled wanly. Lydie got annoyed when older family members said so, and they always did, every time an Aunt would pop round for a cuppa, the old proverb came out; isn't she the spitting image of her mum! Lydie would run to him and pout prettily with her mothers lips and demand that she wasn't mum, she was Lydie and herself, wasn't she daddy?
Also that spitting was dirty, and bad, and she would never do it Daddy, promise, cross my heart.
He would nod obligingly and allow her to go watch Pingu.
He watched her for a moment more, more than he really dared, then legged it stealthily down the stairs, grabbing his long coat from it's peg on the way.
His mind briefly begged him to leave a note. Instincts said no.
He would phone Beth later, explain. If there was a later.
He opened the front door (green, Beth had him paint it green when they moved here. It had been Piss yellow, her words, originally and painting it was one if his first tasks when they got the house ) and saw his ride.
The car was a Ford Focus, navy and a bit beat up but otherwise normal. Nothing special. Common. One of the most common cars in Britain in fact.
Clever.
Well, the leader of London's (hell, God knows how far their influence reaches?) largest and most vicious gang wouldn't want such a special guest to be picked up by the police, would we now? The answer is hell no, Mister Palmer.
Palmer wasn't surprised that the driver was a woman. And she was big.
Emily from the text.
Her features were strong, almost manly and her skin was olive. She stared at him with kohl lined eyes as he went to get in the back.
"No, in the front." She almost barked, gesturing with large hands. Her accent was foreign, perhaps german, and harshly broke the early morning quiet that Palmer often enjoyed with a mug of strong coffee before the rush of the school run.
Palmer smiled bitterly as he got back out. No, not in the back. He could get into mischief in the back, she wouldn't be able to see him. Better in the front, so she could keep an eye on him.
He got in the passenger seat and silently buckled himself in. He looked at the driver out of the corner of his eye, keeping his head foward, eyes on the empty street. This Emily was wearing black leather gloves and her hair was tucked into a matching hat. No prints, no DNA to be left behind. She would probably dump the car somewhere after dropping him off.
Dropping him off where ... Palmer didn't know.
He also saw a subtle gun shaped bulge in her fashionable dark jacket and the dull glint of a knife peeping from a black boot.
And perhaps better not to ask.
She smoothly reversed out of the little street he and Beth had fallen in love with in 2005, that Lydie had been born in two years later and off onto the main road.
Neither spoke as she drove.
Palmer was tempted more than once to turn on the radio but he didn't think Emily would appreciate the Golden Oldies, so he didn't. She looked more like a Radio One sort of gal anyway.

Emily stopped in Oxford street, slap bang in the middle. Palmer thought it impossible to get a space anywhere in inner London but the car was eventually smoothly parked between a Ferrari Enzo and Bently. Palmer cringed inwardly. A Ford Focus, between two super cars? Jeez.
Palmer was admittedly a car nut and watched Top Gear every sunday almost religously, memorising horsepower and torque while Beth sighed over Richard Hammond while washing up and Lydie laughed at the silly old men with funny hair messing about in Go-karts.
Being a DI only encouraged him. Recognising cars was helpful, no fumbling descriptions, vague things like colour and size, just Bam. Ford coupe. Bam. Citroen picasso. Model, year and license plate.
Easy.
Palmer watched Emily as he went to open the door, let his hand hover over the handle, to see if it was okay. She looked at him for a moment, as if memorising his face or perhaps gageing how much of a threat he was, if he would come after her, make trouble. He was a DI after all. He could make lots of trouble.
She must have thought not because she smiled at him. It was wide and lipsticky and Palmer thought it a lovely smile, charming. If not for the situation and the fact she would kill him if need be, he would've smiled back. Any man would've. But since he was, he simply nodded grimly and got out of the car. He could still see her smiling out of the corner of his eye. It was rather disconcerting, the red lipstick looked a little like blood.
He stood awkwardly on the edge of the pavement. People were rushing by him and he struggled to keep balance a couple of times.
He was about to turn back to Emily, to ask what the hell was happening, damn the shank in her boot and damn the gun in her jacket, he wanted to know what was happening for Fucks sake and it was then that London's most feared underground gangster hurtled towards him, pushing through the crowded pavement in a faded blue overcoat and brown high heels with her arms wide open and a big smile on her face.

Pardon the few swears, i think you guys can deal with it c:
A concept I may use for college work. Had so much fun writing it, so much different to Anouk's style. Theres actually more of this story to go so expect more. Comment would be useful.
All mine
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© 2011 - 2024 anonbea
Comments15
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theWriterMAB's avatar
This is really nicely written. I'd LOVE to read more. And I just ADORE the raven halo around her head. :heart: