Free Bolt Action by Charlie Charters

Para during his time. A babe fashioned by splicing human DNA with that of an extraterrestrial. As one of the scientists reflects wistfully, after SIL ’s murderous sexual rampage across Los Angeles, ‘We decided to make it female so it would be more docile and controllable.’
    Yeah, right, Ferret thinks, the widest smile under his helmet. His cheeks dimpling as he laughs. Like this female was ever going to be docile and controllable.
    Certainly the man from the ministry, Dougal MacIntyre, has no idea what is about to happen . . .
    The redhead eases herself closer to MacIntyre as the cab runs along Forest Road. To her immediate right is the overground District line and beyond that the modern-brick and glass wingspans of the new National Archives, the Public Record Office.
    ‘Dougal. Wake up.’ She nudges him. ‘I think this is your place.’ The cabbie eyes them knowingly in his rear-view mirror, before swinging left into Bushwood Road, a long line of three-storey, red-brick Victorian houses on either side. Halfway down to the left is the rear end of a refuse collection vehicle – the front end poking through into Priory Road, which runs parallel with Bushwood. Workmen are across the street tugging green wheelie bins backwards and forwards.
    The cab slows, the driver craning left and right to find number 79. MacIntyre makes a long, low groaning sound. His eyes blink, close, and then open sharply as he inhales the redhead’s presence. ‘Hello, again.’He straightens himself up. Leers intently.
    Seventy-nine is on the left-hand side, just beyond the rump of the rubbish van. A half-dozen yellow warning lights are rotating at the back end and there’s a constant and awful screechof garbage being compacted by huge hydraulic crushers. The taxi eases up, double-parking next to two family saloons.
    The redhead plays with the lapels of his grey herringbone suit with her gloved hands. ‘You must call me tonight, won’t you?’ She looks him in the eyes. ‘Just like you promised.’
    To the untrained observer, what happens next would appear fast, furious and apparently unconnected.
    The cabby steps out, moves to the front passenger door. Offloads on to the kerb two extra-large Italian leather wheeled holdalls, MacIntyre’s checked luggage . . . The rubbish-bin men weave in and around the taxi, whistling, joshing loudly . . . Inside the cab the man from the MoD holds the white calfskin glove of one of the redhead’s hands, all lecherous intent . . . The cabby stands by the open rear door. Clears his throat noisily. Wanting this lovebird stuff to be over with . . . behind him, one of the wheelie-bin men guffaws loudly. About Spurs. Bunch of tossers! . . . MacIntyre twinkles his eyes into Dalia’s. ‘I am going to give you such a seeing-to tonight.’ The redhead smiles; a long, sexy, try-your-best sort of a smile. ‘Of course you will,’ she exhales . . . And MacIntyre turns, humps on to the roadside the two aluminium briefcases, his hand-carry luggage, one slightly smaller than the other . . . then crouches his way out of the taxi. Stands with his feet astride his two briefcases . . . More loud japing from a different wheelie-bin man about Arsenal. All of them, bloody poofs, need a good kicking . . . MacIntyre passes two twenties and a ten, asks for a receipt from the driver, who returns to his seat, starts scribbling . . . Dalia turns it on one last time. ‘Aren’t you going to give a girl one last kiss?’ and beckons him back inside . . . he reaches out blindly for the receipt with his left hand, half-fits himself back into the cab . . . and gets a long awkward embrace, which ends with a lingering kiss and a breathy promise that would give Elton John the shivers. ‘Tonight, my darling . . . be ready.’ There’s a discreet phhisshh of airbrakes being released, as the refuse collection vehicle eases away, job done . . . MacIntyre blows a kiss on the end of a finger, before reversing his way back on to the road.He