Stalker

By Rapscallion 25/07/2003 – revised 23/09/2003

He knew her. He sat in his car, wreathed in cigarette smoke, watching. It had cost him everything to be here, moving from city to city, tracing her route, and watching.

He took out his notebook and a stub of a pencil. “Appearing in a single concert,” he wrote, his lips forming the words as his eyes flicked to the billboards advertising the evening’s entertainment. Her face showed up in lights, pouting for the world to see. The rain could not diminish her features.

That was her style. Never too long in one place, always leaving them wanting more, move on quickly. A bus obscured his view for a moment. He wanted more. Much more.

He wanted her.

In a much smaller size, her face mocked him from posters advertising the plays and concerts she starred in – however briefly she stayed. People adored her, and she was feted by the great and good in many cities.

Coventry, London, Coventry, and Manchester – the critics had adored her performances. The visitors had been more and more generous, the men guarding the stage door taking in more and more bunches of flowers from well-wishers and admirers.

Evadne Brown. His eyes took in the name on the front of the theatre. He stubbed his cigarette out and checked. Coffin nails, his mother had called them. The packet was empty, and so was his wallet. He needed to fill both. He needed her.

He’d seen her talking to ill-favoured people, people he hated. He didn’t approve. She shouldn’t be doing that, but the public didn’t see that. They would not have understood, making excuses if they caught a glimpse of those she should not have consorted with. He saw it for what it was, and he watched and bade his time. She always slipped away to another place and another time, and he followed. Sometimes he could deal with those who dared to talk to her, but most often he had to chase after her.

Oh, the acts she put on the stage kept the public entranced. Rumours abounded of princes who had sought her affection – the simple country girl who charmed the masses and the gentry alike. She could pick and choose her beaus, and she did.

She should have picked him. The security staff at every theatre had pictures and descriptions of him, their orders to keep him away and call the police if they saw him. He would have to be careful.

It was time. The crowds thronging into the theatre entrance told him that. He left the smoke in the car and weaved uncertainly between the traffic.

Manchester was good. He kept his hat well down over his face to keep the rain off and to keep prying eyes from recognising him. Drips ran down the nape of his neck, but he didn’t care. He was going to see her.

He kept to the middle of the thronging crowd, edging to the side where the tickets were being taken by a young lad. The other usher looked competent and would recognise him, but that youth was more interested in the cashier. The lad took the ticket and gestured without interest.

Buying the ticket at a booking office had incurred a hefty premium. It had taken the last of him money, but he would get to see her.

He waited in the toilets until the show had almost started. The musicians struck up a tune, and he came from the stall – the staff would be busy, and the lights would be dimmed. He found his seat, excusing himself past annoyed patrons. Some of them recoiled from his stench. No matter. He could attend to hygiene when he had her.

He sat and watched as the first dancers came onto the stage. The music fed their legs, and they did their best, but the audience wanted one person. He wanted her.

The music and lights fell away, until a pool of light was left.

She walked into it, her eyes down to the stage floor. No longer was it a stage, it was a cloud in the heavens. The angel, Evadne Brown, looked up with her coyest expression, and began to sing.

He forced himself to breathe. Spellbound, he watched as she led the orchestra in a duet of music. Not a duet, but a duel, and one in which the musicians knew they were outmatched. Neither side cared, and nor did the audience. It was rapture.

He didn’t know what she sang of, nor did any of the audience, but that didn’t matter. She sang, and the world listened. She sang, and he listened.

It was over. All too soon, the performance ended. Song after song had throbbed through the patrons, and not one could remember a word. It had to have been her finest performance.

They screamed for more. He screamed for more. They wanted her. He wanted her. He had to have her.

She came, bowed, blew a final kiss, and left.

The audience began to stream out, chattering amongst themselves. He had to have her. He waited, and then walked to the doors near the stage.

“Sorry sir, but nobody is allowed backstage without authorisation,” a burly stagehand said.

He could hear the man’s suspicion. Nobody should be wearing a hat indoors.

“What the...?” he said, looking at the curtained stage quickly.

The stagehand looked.

His fist flashed, and the stagehand slumped to the ground. He moved to stand by the door. No screams – nobody had seen anything. He stood where the stagehand had stood. The picks slipped out of his pocket.

Nobody watching. He worked the door’s lock easily and slipped through into the maze of corridors and storage rooms that birthed the chaos of the theatre. Dressing rooms – those were what he needed.

Carrying a random prop, he walked. He wasn’t dressed as a stagehand, and the few he passed looked at him curiously, but carrying the prop, he was one of them. The prop was his lifeline. He had to have her.

The gold star, blatantly showing on the door, summoned him. Her room. He stopped and looked around. Nobody in sight.

The door opened to his touch and he slipped in quietly.

“I thought I said that I was not to be disturbed.” The angel spoke, and her voice held more than words.

He looked at her. She was intent on her image in the mirror. So close. She was his now. All those hours spent looking through the programmes and gossip columns to find her, to work out her intended route. It had all paid off. She had tried to hide in public, but he had her now.

“Evadne Brown?” he said. His voice croaked.

“If it’s flowers again, put them over there or something. I’m leaving shortly,” she said, peering closely into the mirror. That perfect face should never need cosmetics.

The knife slipped into his hand.

“Not flowers,” he said.

She caught the tone of his voice and looked around.

“You?” she gasped.

“Me,” he said, stepping close.

The famous voice never screamed. He made certain of that. The floor stained as she slumped, lifeless. Nobody else would have her any more. She would never have anyone else…

“Evadne? I’ve got the – Good lord!”

He turned. He knew that face.

”Sir, Captain Hollins, Special Operations, sir.” He spat the words out, standing to attention and saluting.

“Captain…” The general stared in horror at the body on the floor. The colour drained from his face.

”General, sir. I have tracked her for some time, sir. She was an enemy spy by the name of Evangeline Braun, sir. She was an accomplished actress in Germany, sir.” He watched General Brockhurst carefully, noting the man’s shaking hands.

The general gulped. He fumbled with the papers in his hands and thrust them into a pocket inside his jacket. “A-at ease,” he stammered. “What…”

“Sir, she has corrupted many of our officers, sir. I’ve been tracking her for weeks, sir. A clever disguise, sir.” Hollins eased his body away from attention and forced the tension out of his voice.

“But… you have proof?” General Brockhurst looked around, his eyes flickering wildly.

“Yes sir. I have her movements and people she talked to logged, sir. We’ll have the last of the traitors behind bars within days, sir.” Bars for now. The bullet-scarred wall later.

“Britain owes you a debt, Captain,” the general said after a moment. His eyes showed panic. The sweat on his brow showed panic.

“I could do with a cigarette, sir,” Hollins replied with a smile.

“Oh, allow me,” Brockhurst said, bringing a silver cigar case from his hip pocket. “Take one – take them all, and the case. We owe you far more than that.”

“Very generous, sir.” Hollins took the case from the general’s trembling fingers and eased a cigar out. It lit easily, and he breathed deeply. “Thank you, sir. I shall make a special note of your assistance in this matter, sir.”

“You… you will?” More than ever, the general fidgeted, his eyes staring at the rapidly cooling corpse.

“Of course, sir,” Hollins said. “Your assistance in helping to capture this notorious spy was invaluable, sir. You kept her in one place, keeping her thinking that you were going to turn your coat, allowing me to strike, sir.” Hollins sucked on the cigar deeply. It felt so smooth.

“Oh. Of course,” the general replied hesitantly. “Well, I’ll expect to see your report when it is finished. I can only thank you for your services to your country. There will be a medal in this for you when we have time to present one. For now, I have… business to attend to.” Brockhurst walked past Hollins, not meeting the captain’s his eyes.

“Thank you sir. You’ll be the first to see my report, sir,” Hollins said to the closed door. He should be – as the head of Britain’s armed forces, it was Brockhurst’s right to see the report.

Hollins walked across the room to where two empty glasses sat next to a bottle of champagne. He poured himself a drink. He’d never see luxury such as this on his wages, and his expense account was completely depleted.

The general would see this all the time, of course. Brockhurst could afford this most nights. He would be getting into his car about now.

Hollins slipped his hand into his jacket pocket and felt the transmitter. It felt cold to his fingers. He pressed the button.

Hollins could hear the explosion, even this deep in the theatre. Maybe nobody else had been hurt in the blast. He poured himself another drink. Maybe the travel papers had survived. A general didn’t need travel papers within his own country, especially papers with the enemy’s seal on them. Brockhurst would not need them now.

Hollins sat down with another glass of champagne. He stared at the body on the floor. He glanced towards the bathroom and smelled the scent wafting from it. He took out another cigar.

He could get used to this life.