Doctor Who_ Warchild - Andrew Cartmel [1]
‘Like bees to honey.’
‘Like flies to sh—’ said one of the other boys, suddenly noticing Creed’s four-year-old daughter and stopping from saying the word just in time.
Creed appreciated the effort but frankly Eve had heard most of the scatalogical catalogue of the English language from him; usually while he was skinning his knuckles on a wrench during various DIY projects at home.
As if sensing that she had suddenly become the unspoken object of attention, Eve squirmed uncomfortably and tugged on her father’s hand. ‘Well, I’d better be going,’
said Creed. ‘Good luck with your noble quest.’
‘Yeah, we’ll find the girls all right,’ said one of the boys.
‘Not that we’re going to say hello to them or anything. We wouldn’t do that. We’re geeks and the geeks union doesn’t allow it.’
Creed laughed and the boys laughed too. All except Ricky.
That was the problem, Creed realized. He got along fine with his son’s friends. He just didn’t get along with his son.
He said goodbye and turned away, leading Eve through the sports centre. Creed brooded briefly about Ricky. Had he screwed up as a father?
But it was hard to worry about that when his youngest daughter was holding his hand, feet skipping happily along the floor, weightless, a small balloon of love floating along beside him.
They had now reached the area of the sports complex containing the sauna and the weight-training rooms. A tall broad-shouldered man was emerging from the free-weight room, his back to them. He had a thick, bristling brush-cut and he was covered with sweat. Even before he turned around Creed had recognized him as Buddy Stanmer from the office.
‘Hi Creed.’ Stanmer was dressed in a pair of cut-off denim shorts with a white towel draped over his powerful shoulders. He took the towel and wiped it vigorously across his chunky red face as he squatted down, muscular thighs bulging, and crouched beside Eve. ‘Hi, honey.’
‘Hello, Mr Stanmer.’ Eve winced as Stanmer rubbed his hand roughly through her damp hair. ‘Been swimming with the old man, eh?’ Stanmer straightened up and grinned at Creed. ‘You should try weight-lifting if you want exercise.’
Creed made a polite, non-committal noise.
‘Got to watch that midlife inertia,’ Buddy Stanmer continued brightly. ‘When a guy gets to a certain age it’s real easy to just let things slide.’
Creed did some mental arithmetic while Stanmer was rambling. His age minus Stanmer’s. He was shocked to conclude that the other man was about twelve years younger.
Creed tended not to think in terms of age. It didn’t seem a particularly useful way of categorizing people. He pigeon-holed people, all right. But by different criteria. Stanmer, for instance, he’d sized up accurately within a few hours of their first meeting.
‘You don’t notice it at first,’ Stanmer was saying. ‘But before you know it the waist starts thickening and the reflexes slow down and you get breathless just walking up the stairs.
Don’t get me wrong. At a certain time in his life a guy’s entitled to take it easy. For most desk jockeys it wouldn’t matter.’ Stanmer dropped his voice conspiratorially as two teenage girls walked past in tennis skirts. ‘But in our line of work things aren’t so simple, huh?’
The girls glanced back curiously at the two men holding a whispered conversation. Creed felt his face getting hot.
Stanmer was an idiot. The sports centre was private but the Agency was only one of its clients. They had to share the facilities with the employees of several large local businesses; you did indeed have to be careful what you said.
But Stanmer was. just attracting attention with his clumsy cloak-and-dagger act.
Eve tugged impatiently at her father’s hand but Stanmer wasn’t finished with them yet. ‘I haven’t seen you on the pistol range much lately, Creed.’
‘I guess I’m shooting targets when you’re not there.’
‘I sure hope so. If you don’t put in your required number of hours by the end of December they’ll make you train up again