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He was drinking a fair bit, but not because of an alcohol problem, rather because of a holy-shit-this-is-free problem.
“Haven’t you got friends for this kind of thing? I mean, I can see how you’re not the easiest person in the world to get along with, but somebody must have managed it?”
“Have one of your staff email me the details, and have the other two check to see if she managed to do it correctly.”
“I’m glad to hear you think you can control yourself. By the way, I meant to say, bar anything else, this company has a very strict no-fraternisation policy. I take that policy seriously.” “I guarantee you it’s not as strict as my no-fraternisation policy.”
The security guard shrugged. “Who knows? That Deccie fella’s gas. He’s always winding people up. The MMA fighter, whatshisname – Martin Regan. The guy threatened to knock him out. Be great if he turned up. I’ve always wanted to see him hit somebody. I hear it’s spectacular up close. They say the noise of it is incredible.” “You do realise,” Brigit began, “in that situation it would be your job to stop him from doing that?”
“While we’ve got a second, here’s the extensive list your PA gave me of the things she does for you. I’ve taken the liberty of going through it – the items highlighted in green are the ones I’ll be doing, the ones in blue are things that Shauna shouldn’t be doing, and those in red you should just stop doing entirely.
Deccie looked up from scanning the list. “What? No. The toilet roll in my loo in the apartment is always in swan-like shapes. I guess Shauna must have been doing that.” “Your loo roll keeps being transformed into renderings of aquatic birds, and you never thought to ask?”
As a mental exercise, she started to decide how she would take down each person in the room if it turned out they were the one who was trying to kill Deccie. Several of the plans included the happy possibility of Oliver Dandridge being collateral damage.
Like there was anything about human history that gave even the first hint that there was a higher intelligence at play.
The problem with the human brain, thought Brigit, is that you couldn’t stop the bloody thing from thinking.
If there was anything Brigit was sure of in this life, it was that she didn’t want to get Phil Nellis started on Mars. If there were two things she was sure of in this life, it was that on the way back, Phil was definitely somehow going to get started on Mars.
She’d noticed the platform on her way back in from the shops earlier, and had nipped up to check that the window cleaners were who they said they were. She was being paranoid, but then again, it was that kind of week. After a rather confused conversation with a Polish father-and-daughter team, she had decided they were legit. Assassins didn’t bring that many kinds of sponges with them.
Thanks to the lockdown-generated backlog, wedding venues in Ireland were now harder to find than someone you wanted to marry.
In another life, Burns might have been more interested in playing politics, but in the last few years she’d decided she was far more interested in being good at the job she had, rather than worrying about the next one.
“You’d better start explaining stuff instead of being so infuriatingly enigmatic, or some of the things we’ve discussed happening when that cast comes off your leg will be off the table. Literally, in the case of one of them.”
“Oh, and Wilson – for no good reason, I’ve decided you are to blame for this, and I shall find a way of exacting my entirely unjustified revenge at a later date.” “I’d already assumed that, boss.” “Good lad. Pop the kettle on, please.” “Already done.”
