Free The Unseen by James McKenna Page A

because it might well be full, but it was handy with the driving licence and passport. He disregarded all else. Photos of the couple showed a plain woman.

    “Sexless cow,” he said, looking into her underwear drawer. “You gotta be ‘A’ list to get my interest.”

    Switching on their PC he found their passwords on auto-admittance, so read a few emails and got to know them better.

    “Can’t hide from me,” he said. “You hide nothing from Zoby.” They weren’t married. She was Sue Raybert, her friends called her Bunny, a lawyer, he discovered. That made her more interesting. He went back to her lingerie drawer, picked out a pair of black lace knickers and pushed them into his pocket. Now he had power over her.
     
    The ride on his moped to Willesden cemetery took forty minutes. He found the cut grass and symmetrically placed headstones gave him a sense of well being, mainly because the ground held his dead mother.

    The mailbox had been his own idea. It gave a purpose for her existence and an occasion for him to stand on her grave. The black marble chips, long sullied by grime, held deposits of moisture which allowed the establishment of moss and weed. The grave bore no headstone, no identification of its occupant, just a small, inconspicuous disturbance of the surface, as if some animal had buried its faeces, or some hand clawed from beneath.
     
    Mark whistled as he scraped away the chippings and extracted a sealed, waterproof wallet. He weighed it in his hand, rubbed fingers over the thick wad and nodded satisfaction. The Colonel could always be relied on. He had hidden once, waiting for the Colonel to arrive. When he did, he knew it was Crystal masquerading as the Colonel. It did not matter, so long as he received his money. He had watched Crystal without being seen and followed him to the tube station. He disliked Crystal, the man was not built like a soldier and Mark much preferred the Colonel, except the Colonel never came. Perhaps one day they would meet, soldier to soldier.

    Inside the wallet he found one thousand pounds in twenty pound notes, full details of his mission, plus photos and ID of his target. A nun; his first. The adrenalin rush was instant, his prick became rock hard. He felt elated. The white cloth of her wimple enhanced her face to give an unblemished and simplistic beauty. He couldn’t wait to find what lay beneath, what goodies would be his as he consumed her purity. Between Sister Katherine and Cindy, August looked like being a good month. Mark began to whistle and felt the sun was shining on his day. OK, time to go to business, he thought, time to organise itinerary, the logistics and acquisitions. He pocketed the wallet and removed his mobile. Walking back to the cemetery gates he dialled Travelpath. Stratton, his boss, would be dealing with after-hours customers, people on the way between work and station, pavement cattle looking for escape. Stratton was on the line within thirty seconds of connection. Mark knew he’d oblige. Mark was his best salesman and sold more holidays than the rest together.

    “Bad news, Mr Stratton. I just visited my mother. She’s has a serious condition. The doctors say it’s irreversible.”

    “I’m sorry to hear that, Mark.” He listened to the man’s pause, his indecision. “Will you be working tomorrow?”

    “’Fraid not, Mr Stratton, it may be four, five days. Cancer is like that. You never know where you are.” Again the pause.

    “You must do what is best. We’re very busy, I have to go. Call me when you’re free.”

    “Thank you, Mr Stratton, I knew you’d understand.” Mark hung up. Stupid arsehole, he thought. Then the man was gone and Sister Katherine entered his head instead. He tried to image her naked, pristine and untouched. He began to whistle again and found a spring in his step.

    Mark divided his flat between operational and living quarters. Communications and combat room lay on one side, the kitchen, his bed and