AUTHOR’S NOTE:

This story was written especially for Sparsile.

…or was it Sarah... ?

Diarmid MacArthur

`Ye`re no from aroond here, then, hen?`

Hen...ffs...!

She wasn`t entirely sure if it was a question or a statement, but she shook her head anyway as the pair of dark and mysterious hazel eyes regarded her with apparent interest.

`No, I`m from down South, actually.`

`Aye, Ah thought so. It wis the accent!`

Of course it bloody was...

He smiled at her and she could feel the hairs on the back of her neck tingle. He was tall and rather handsome, in a rogue-ish kind of way. And there was something else, an aura of power, of menace perhaps...it was as if the crowd at the bar had subconsciously parted to allow him access.

They were in Sanctum, one of Glasgow`s most prestigious night-clubs. Glamorous, glittering, the favourite weekend meeting place of the City`s “In Crowd.” The volume of the music seemed to have notched up a few decibels and he leaned closer; she could smell his aftershave; Tom Ford, she suspected.

`So whit`s yer name, Hen?`

`Scarlett. Scarlett Ferrari.`

He threw his head back and roared with laughter. A group of tanned and slightly-aloof revellers nearby turned to stare at him, one man in particular sneering slightly and shaking his head in a rather superior manner. Her “man” turned his head towards the individual, his smile fading, his voice cutting through the music like a knife.

`You got a fuckin` problem, sunshine?`

The frowning man visibly backed away and shook his head slightly, raising his hand in apology...recognition...?

`Em...no, sorry mate...`

Menace...yes, definitely menace...

The hazel eyes swivelled back to face her, the smile returning as he casually swept his fingers through his mane of thick, black hair.

`So, Scarlett, wi` a name like that ye must have some fancy job?`

It was her turn to laugh; an ever-so-slightly innocent, girlish giggle. It usually worked...

`Of course – actually, I`m an undercover agent...`

He guffawed for a second time, the group nearby studiously ignoring him on this occasion

`Aye, of course you bloody are! `

She smiled back at him but said nothing. His own smile faded very slightly.

`Here, you`re no` really an undercover agent, are you?`

She giggled again; it was working...

`I wish! No, of course I`m not. I`m something a lot less glamorous, I`m afraid. I work for a bank and I`m up here for a couple of months to do some staff training on the new systems we`re installing. First time in Glasgow, actually.`

He grinned wickedly as he winked at her.

`Aw, that`s a shame, Ah quite liked the idea of ye bein` “under the covers”

She gave him a playful slap on the arm, but couldn`t help grinning back.

`Anyway, Scarlett...`

He emphasised the word.

`...Ah take it that`s no` yer real name either?`

She smiled sweetly up at him. God, he was attractive...

`No, I`m afraid not, although I`d love it if it was! Actually, it`s Sarah, Sarah Smith. Sorry, I always feel that it`s a bit ordinary. Scarlett sounds so much more exotic and it breaks the ice...`

His smiled broadened; he had beautiful teeth, she thought.

`Aye, it certainly does – and Ah love it! But Sarah suits ye too. Never be ashamed o` your name, it can be a powerful thing...`

He winked again; rather knowingly this time, she thought.

`Anyway Sarah, Ah`m very pleased tae meet ye, ma name`s Greg Sorley.`

He held out his hand and she took it; his palm was pleasantly warm, his grip firm and re-assuring without being overpowering.

`And what do you do for a living, Mr Greg Sorley?`

For the first time, his eyes darted away for a second.

`Och, Ah`m just a borin` old businessman, me...so, first time in “No Mean City” eh? An` whit d`you think so far?`

I`m loving it – what a place! The people are so friendly too.`

`Aye, we`re no` a bad lot. Right, Sarah, whit are ye drinkin`?`

`Em, well, if you`re asking, Greg, I`d love a Cosmopolitan. That`s very kind of you.`

`Cosmopolitan it is.`

He turned and, despite the throng around the brightly-lit and garish bar, he was served almost instantly. Perhaps it was the fifty-pound note he had held aloft when he summoned the bartender...

*

Two a.m. They had danced, they had drunk, they had chatted, they had laughed. But Greg Sorley had been the perfect gentleman and when he escorted her outside for a taxi, he had simply placed his hand gently in the small of her back. No attempt at a kiss, no drunken fumbling, just a subtle masculine and proprietorial touch. As he held the door of the black cab open, he asked.

`Where to, Sarah?`

`Central Hotel, please.`

Greg leaned in and handed the cabbie a folded twenty pound note; the fare would be about five pounds and the cabbie nodded.

`Cheers, Mr Sorley, very kind.`

`No problem, pal. Make sure ma friend gets home safe.`

`Will do.`

As Sarah made herself comfortable inside the cab, he smiled again.

`Could Ah call ye?`

She smiled back; she would have been very disappointed if he hadn`t asked.

`Well...I suppose...`

She opened her purse, took out a business card and handed it to him. He squinted at it in the semi-darkness, scanning disinterestedly past the name of the global banking institution that she worked for.

Sarah Smith

Professional Services Training Director

`Director, eh? Yer a wee clever-clogs, then?`

It was said entirely without malice; she very much doubted that Greg Sorley felt threatened by anyone.

`Yup, that`s me. The girl done good!`

He laughed.

`Aye, she did! An` ye really don`t mind if Ah call ye?`

`I`d be delighted...`

`...as long as Ah don`t call ye Scarlett!`

They both laughed. The taxi door slammed shut and soon she was speeding along through the still-busy Glasgow streets, towards the imposing facade of the Central hotel. She leaned her head back on the seat, vaguely aware of the cabbie`s eyes staring curiously at her in the mirror. There was certainly something about Mr Greg Sorley...

*

It had been almost a week and she was beginning to suspect that it had been just another brief, drink-fuelled liaison, not even as much as a one-night stand. She was slightly disappointed; she really thought he would have called and it would certainly have livened up her time in Glasgow. Then, on Friday night, her phone had rung.

`Sarah? Greg here – listen, Ah`ve managed tae get a couple o` tickets for Simple Minds, they`re on at the Hydro tomorrow. Are ye up for it?`

Oh, she was most definitely “up for it!” As a young girl she had loved Simple Minds and had heard that they had re-formed and were touring. To see them on home turf would be a treat indeed and she had accepted with alacrity.

`Brilliant! Right, Ah`ll pick ye up aboot half-five, if that`s okay, an` we`ll grab a quick bite down near the Hydro. See ye then, pet.`

Pet...ffs...!

*

“Memorable” didn`t come close! The “quick bite” had been a delicious meal in a new Thai restaurant in Glasgow`s up-and-coming Finnieston, followed by her first experience of the City`s amazing SSE Hydro, a veritable amphitheatre of a venue. The Minds were, quite simply, on fire, Jim Kerr claiming both the stage and the crowd as his own. She though it couldn`t get any better until the encore – it was only when the bass line started that she realised that “Waterfront”, normally their opening number, hadn`t featured in their repertoire. The crowd went absolutely berserk, as did she. Then there was the drive back to the Central Hotel – in Greg`s shiny black Porsche 911...

When they reached the hotel Greg jumped quickly out, walking round and holding the door open for her. She smiled as she took his hand and clambered out of the low-slung sports car, trying her best to look elegant.

`What a night, Greg, it was totally amazing...`

`An` so are you, Sarah...`

Then, to her great surprise, he lifted her hand, kissed the back of it and winked.

`Ah`ll call ye, ok?`

Oh yes, it most certainly is...!

*

And he did.

The following weekend it was dinner at the Ivy, the Glasgow offshoot of London`s famous restaurant. Midweek, a trip to the cinema. Then, on the following Friday, he phoned her again.

`Listen, are ye free tomorrow, Sarah? Ma mate has a boat up on Loch Lomond, says Ah can hae a len o` it...`

Sometimes she struggled with the broad Glasgow of his speech but, somehow, it all added to his charm.

So it was that on Saturday morning, suitably attired, she found herself in the Porsche once more, speeding towards the bonnie bonnie banks. Greg`s friend`s “boat” turned out to be a thirty-foot cruiser, all gleaming white paint and polished chrome. The name, boldly emblazoned across the stern, was “Canny Catch Me.” She smiled – actually, she was picking up the lingo...

Having set off from Balloch, they cruised up the calm, dark waters of the loch, moored off a small island and lunched on fresh crusty bread, smoked salmon, fine cheese and champagne (Greg only had half a glass, obviously aware of the drive home). He pointed out “Rob Roy`s cave”, Duck Bay, Ben Lomond, and the infamous “naturist” island of Inchmurrin which, fortunately, he didn`t invite her to visit with him! All too soon, however, they were tying up once more at Balloch Marina.

`Well, how dae ye like oor wee loch?`

She found it hard to put into words. It had, quite simply,  been magical.

`I`ve never been anywhere so beautiful in my life, Greg. Thanks so very much.`

She leaned forward and kissed him. He responded, gently, sweetly, unexpectedly...

*

`Sarah, Ah`ve a wee favour tae ask...`

She felt that little tingle down her spine again as she wondered what it was...

`Ah`ve got a business associate comin` up frae doon South. He`s a bit o` a poser, tae be honest, but it`s kinda important. Wid ye mind comin` along? His wife`ll be there an` it wid balance the table, if ye get ma drift...`

How could she refuse? And so it was that she found herself seated in a somewhat secluded corner of Rogano`s, an Art-Deco restaurant specialising in seafood and fine wines. Once again the staff were familiar but deferential, which was more than could be said for Tony Brent. A man in his late fifties, with a pock-marked face and a long scar on his left cheek, every time he looked at her she felt that he was mentally undressing her. Although immaculately and expensively dressed, Brent somehow exuded an aura of both menace and “uncouth” that the most expensive of tailoring couldn`t quite disguise; Sarah struggled to hide her almost instant dislike for him. Trudie, his wife, was a glamorous bimbo, easily thirty years Brent`s junior. She clung fatuously to his every word and it was only when Greg suggested that the two “girls” might want to “freshen up” that Trudie finally detached herself from her boorish husband.

In the toilet, the younger girl prattled on about cosmetic surgery, fashion and celebrity, Sarah nodding and offering the occasional “uh-huh” in response. Other than a Southern English accent, they had nothing in common but she had realised that Greg wanted them out of the way in order to discuss “business”, although the exact nature of her attractive and charismatic friend`s business was something that had remained a taboo subject. That was about to change...

*

They had walked the few blocks back to the Central Hotel, glowing with the fine food and flowing drink. Sarah was relieved to be away from the the unpleasant and leering Tony Brent and his sycophantic young wife and, although Greg had been his customary attentive self, he was also slightly subdued and thoughtful. Unusually, he accompanied her into the hotel foyer, frowning as if he had something on his mind. Suddenly, his face seemed to clear and he turned to face her.

`Fancy a wee nightcap, Sarah?`

`Why not?

Was tonight the night that Greg Sorley would make his move...?

No. Tonight was the night that Greg Sorley would tell her what he really did for a living.

*

A week passed and she hadn`t heard from him; had he regretted their conversation? But Friday had finally arrived and she was now in her hotel room, vaguely aware of the rush-hour bustle of the adjacent Central Station as she stepped out of the shower, sipped on her glass of champagne and proceeded to towel herself dry.

He had invited her to dine at yet another Glasgow institution; the Ubiquitous Chip, the West End`s famous Ashton Lane eatery. She had dressed appropriately in a simple black dress, short enough to show off her shapely legs, long enough to maintain her dignity. Heels high enough to look sexy but low enough to allow her to walk with a modicum of elegance – just! They had taken a taxi, they had ordered fine wine, they had eaten an exquisite meal. It had been a perfect evening. Finally they had walked back towards Byres road, holding hands like a couple of love-struck teenagers. Greg hailed a passing cab.

`Let`s head back in tae the Toon, have a couple o` drinks an` see how the night pans oot!`

She smiled; it was always an adventure with Greg and she loved adventures. There was no doubt that, in the City Centre (or “The Toon”, as he quaintly referred to Glasgow), he was well-known (or “weel-kent”, another of his favourite expressions and one that she intended to take home with her!) Bouncers, taxi drivers, waiters, nearly everyone seemed to know “Mister Sorley”. His name opened doors that, as far as she was concerned, would have remained firmly closed. But she was never entirely sure if they were showing respect or if they were simply afraid and she certainly wasn`t going to ask. She gave a slight, anticipatory shudder as she felt the warmth of his hand ushering her into the taxi, the scent of his aftershave almost intoxicating as he leaned close. Somehow she knew that tonight would be the night...

*

It was well after one a.m. when they finally left the crowded bar. Greg had suggested going back to Sanctum, the club where they had first met, but taxis seemed to be at a premium. He seemed unperturbed, however.

`C`mon, we can walk a bit an` see if we can pick up a cab further oot.`

Her ankles were suffering slightly from standing in the crowded bar but she agreed; given the amount she had drunk and eaten over the last few weeks, a spot of exercise certainly wouldn`t go amiss!

They headed westwards, the streets quietening noticeably as they left the City Centre behind. They chatted easily, holding hands, unaware...

It happened without warning; three figures appeared from the mouth of a dark, bin-filled lane, each one carrying a knife. In an instant, Sarah felt herself being grabbed from behind, a hand on her forehead, the steel of the blade at her throat and the sour smell of sweat filling her nostrils. The other two assailants were circling Greg, knives hovering dangerously. Finally, one of them spoke, his accent most definitely not Scottish; gutteral, monosyllabic and threatening.

`Wallet, phone, watch. Her bag. On the ground.`

Greg smiled lazily.

`Aye, nae worries, pal.`

He lifted his hand towards the pocket of his light jacket, causing the nearest assailant to raise his knife and narrow his eyes to slits. His features were heavy, Neanderthal almost.

`Slow – move slow.`

`Aye, yer awright...`

Greg glanced at Sarah and raised an eyebrow questioningly. She gave him an almost imperceptible nod, fortunately un-noticed by the thugs. Greg raised his arm very slowly.

`Here, take it, Ah`ve got plenty mair at home...`

As the nearest assailant made to remove Greg`s Rolex, Sarah lifted her leg. In an instant, Greg lashed out, catching the Neanderthal on the side of the head. At the same time, Sarah brought her foot down as hard as she possibly could, the sharp heel puncturing her captor`s trainer as she dived to the side and away from the lethal blade. He let out a howl of agony as she pulled her foot free, then she turned and poked her finger into his nearest eye socket. This time the man screamed, dropping the knife and raising his hands to his damaged cornea. Considering herself temporarily out of danger, she turned round to assist Greg; she needn`t have bothered.

One attacker was already on the ground, curled like a foetus and clutching his stomach. The second was running but Greg quickly caught him, spun him round and head-butted him with such force that she could hear the splintering of the man`s cartilage. As the blood spurted from the assailant`s ruined nose, Greg brought his knee up sharply, smashing into the man`s crotch and bringing him to his knees. As he fell to the ground, Sorley started to kick his body until, like his accomplice, he was curled up, inert, bleeding and moaning like a wounded animal. Greg finally turned towards her, his face distorted in a feral snarl as he pulled out a handkerchief and wiped his victim`s blood from his forehead.

`Y`awright, Sarah?``

She was shaking but unhurt.

`Yes...yes, I`m okay...are you?`

But he was looking past her. Sarah turned; her own assailant was limping off down the road, still clutching his eye. Greg made after him.

`No, don`t, let him go...`

`Aye, like fuck I will, Sarah` he growled `nae bastard holds a  knife tae ma girl`s throat...`

He bent down and picked up the discarded weapon. A few seconds later, he caught up with the whimpering attacker, grabbing him and raising the hand holding the knife; the steel of the blade flashed as it reflected the harsh glare of the street light..

`No, Greg, don`t...`

He ignored her; with one single stoke, Greg Sorley sliced off the man`s right ear, quickly wiped the handle of the knife on his jacket then dropped the weapon to the ground. He walked over to a nearby drain, bent down and dropped the bloody appendage into the murky depths. He stood up, wiping his hands on his trousers before walking towards her.

`Best get the fuck oot o` here...`

She glanced about nervously as they half-walked, half-ran along the deserted street; despite being the intended victims, the last thing she needed was to be dragged into an assault investigation! Greg had pulled out his phone and was muttering into it; a few minutes later, a dark Audi approached, executed a u-turn and pulled in at the kerb. Greg pulled open the back door, they jumped in and the driver pulled away with a screech of rubber.

`Where to, Boss?`

`Ma place, Jimbo.`

`Sure. Anythin` else needin` taken care o`, Boss?`

Greg Sorley smiled in the darkness and squeezed Sarah`s trembling hand as a police car passed, its siren blaring, its lights flashing.

`Naw, Jimbo, Ah think we`re sorted...`

*

They had sat in silence for a few minutes then he turned towards her.

`Sarah, Ah`m really sorry aboot that. Fuckin` scum-balls; needless tae say they weren`ae locals...`

She squeezed his hand.

`I`d gathered as much, Greg. Please, don`t apologise, you probably saved my life...`

He grinned at her, his white teeth flashing as the car sped through the quiet streets.

`Did no` bad yersel`, though, Neat wee trick that, wi` the heels.`

She smiled back.

`Well, a girl can`t be too careful...I took a course in self-defence a few years ago. Some of it must have sunk in!`

`Aye, well, Ah`m very glad it did, but Ah`ll need tae keep an eye on you frae now on...anyway, Ah think we deserve a wee nightcap after aw` that excitement...`

*

The journey had taken just twenty minutes. As they drove, she leaned against him, grateful for his warm and re-assuring masculine presence. Greg told Sarah that he lived in a penthouse in Speirs Wharf, a huge converted warehouse that sat next to the old basin on the Forth and Clyde canal. Once they reached their destination, and after a few mumbled words of thanks to Jimbo, their driver, they exited the car, which sped off once more. She felt a faint frisson of something run down her spine – anticipation...fear...? As they walked towards the secure-entry door to the flats, she looked nervously behind her but, apart from the various expensive-looking cars, the car park was deserted.  Her heart was pounding as Greg keyed in the security code, then they entered the bright, well-decorated foyer – there was even a lift! A few minutes later, he opened the door and she entered his penthouse flat. She let out a gasp – it was magnificent!

`Wow!`

The lounge was in darkness but the blinds were open, the large windows overlooking the canal below and the lights of Glasgow beyond. The recent, violent events seemed to drift away like a bad dream in the peace and calm of the darkened room and she felt that she could have stood forever, gazing at the late-night majesty of Scotland`s Second City. Greg came up behind her, placing his arms gently around her, burying his face in her long, shiny dark hair and gently kissing her neck. She could feel the shivers course down her spine as his hands started to explore...

She turned to face him, tilting her head up, her lips parting and meeting his...she could smell his cologne – Tom Ford, definitely! She could feel his hand on her back, moving lower...suddenly, without warning, he put one arm under hers then, bending slightly, he put his other arm behind her knees, lifting her gently and effortlessly into the air; she didn`t resist, she had no energy left. He carried her back across the lounge and into the hall then, with a flick of his foot, he opened the door into a spacious and luxurious bedroom, in the middle of which sat an enormous bed. He placed her gently on top of the covers and grinned down at her, the pupils in his hazel eyes dilated. He spoke as he loosened his tie, his voice husky with desire.

`Sarah, withoot a word o` a lie, you are the most beautiful creature Ah have ever set eyes on...`

*

It happened suddenly, unexpectedly, noisily...as usual. The banging, the crashing, the shouting. Bodies, bright lights, screaming...fortunately, she had managed to keep her underwear on, thus sparing her dignity ever-so-slightly. Greg Sorley, on the other hand, was dragged from the bed, screaming, swearing, stark-naked, engorged... Two large, hard-faced men, clad in black fatigues and each sporting body-armour with “National Crime Agency” clearly emblazoned across the front, wrenched his arms behind his back and fastened a set of handcuffs on his wrists. As they attempted to pull his underpants back on, a similarly-clad tall man with a shaved head and piercing blue eyes casually walked over towards where she was lying. He looked down at her and raised an eyebrow.

`Nice underwear!`

`Fuck off, Pete...`

But she couldn`t help herself; her face broke into a grin as she sat up, the tall man named Pete holding out his hand and helping her off the bed.

`Anyway, what bloody kept you?` she asked.

He grinned back.

`Wee problem with the warrant; still, we arrived in time...`

`Yes, just!`

`Good job, though. We`ve been after this piece of shit for ages. You`re a bloody star...`

`Cheers, Pete, always nice to be appreciated.  Got you plenty of interesting stuff, names, places, a few vehicle registrations. Should get good mileage out of it all.`

`Excellent.`

`Ever heard of a Tony Brent?`

This time both of Pete`s eyebrows shot up in surprise.

`Seriously?`

She grinned. `Yup. Had dinner with him, in fact...seems that he`s “weel kent” in “The Toon”...`

Pete looked at her and gave a lop-sided grin, shaking his head.

`Christ, six weeks and you`re talkin` like a bloody local...`

Greg Sorley was now standing up, looking somewhat ridiculous in his boxers, black socks and a pair of trainers. The two agents pulled the duvet off the bed and draped it over his shoulders.

`There ye go, son, that`ll keep ye nice an` cosy in the Big Hoose...`

Sorley turned towards her, the expression on his face somewhere between bewilderment and hate. As the two officers bundled him from the room, he hissed at her.

`So just who the fuck are ye, ya fuckin` lyin` bitch?`

She walked towards him, uncaring that her lithe, curvaceous body was still clad only in her lacy underwear. Placing her hands on her hips, she smiled sweetly at him as he looked her up and down with those dangerous hazel eyes, the realisation that he would never now possess her clearly written across his handsome features.

`I never lied, Greg, I told you right at the start, remember? I`m Scarlett Ferrari – and I`m an undercover agent...`