Davy woke refreshed. Seated on the edge of the bed, he pressed the Band-Aids on his arms but sensed nothing.

Jay laughed when he entered the kitchen, wearing her pink bathrobe.

Breakfast consisted of fresh orange juice, toast and coffee. As he sipped his coffee, Jay handed him an envelope.

"Five thousand to get you started. Give me a bell when you find a place, and I'll send the same every month. If you want more, just ask."

"Thanks, I've decided to fight back, whatever it takes. I want to be me again, not someone who doesn't exist. This money will come in handy. One more thing, I'd appreciate it if you keep banking my percentage of the business."

He left her sitting on a stool, staring out of the window. A few minutes later, he returned wearing his cheap clothes. "Thanks a million. See you soon."

She stood, grabbed and held him tight. "At times, you can be a stupid bastard. Remember, when it goes tits up, I'll still be here."

He kissed her full on the lips, turned, and left.

The hours vanished, buying clothes and finding a place to live. Davy mind went back to the bust-up with Emma when he had found himself in a similar situation. This time was so different.

The day's success was renting a modern, two-bedroom, furnished flat with telephone and private parking, not far from Hammersmith Bridge and the underground. With two traditional pubs nearby, The Rutland and Blue Anchor, it was ideal. One thing was sure; he needed to contact Jay for more money.

He timed his arrival at the grotty bed-sit a few minutes before his meet with Angie. The old witch, wearing the same smelly black clothes was waiting when he opened the door. "Didn't sleep in your room? What's wrong with it?"

He wondered how she had survived so long. "It stinks." He tossed her his key. "I promise I won't be back, and you can keep the clothes in the suitcase."

She caught the key with her bent and twisted fingers. Before Davy had a chance to ask for a refund, she edged him out, closing and bolting the door behind him.

Angie was late, and he waited further along the road.

Ten minutes later, she arrived. "I've lost my bet. I didn't think you'd be here."

"I made a decision. Perhaps we can help each other."

She shrugged. "You're wearing new clothes, and how can you afford expensive Italian shoes?"

"Because I can. Let's get this scenario straight. You want to catch the big fish, and I want to return to another life. From today, you can tell that anus fucking Harman-Smith I'll play his game, but by my rules. If he disagrees, find someone else. I don't give a shit."

Angie shook her head. Someone had fucked up. This man should be scared shitless, but he was dictating the game.

Davy turned towards her. "Before we go anywhere, have they planted a microchip under my skin?"

"They micro-chip dogs, don't they?"

Davy stared at her. "You have five seconds to tell me, or I'll walk. I have friends who can hire private doctors tonight and have them removed. I can also guarantee you'll never see me again.

"Oh dear me, who has got their knickers in a twist." she taunted, straightening her skirt.

"Nice knowing you. Bye." He started to walk along the street.

The clatter of high heels followed him. "I don't know."

He stopped and turned to face her. "Now wasn't that easy, but I'd already guessed you weren't in the loop. Give me a reason why I should trust you."

"Because I can keep you alive."

"You call this living." He glanced at his watch. "I have two options, one I walk away and two. I can help you get a promotion."

She hesitated before answering. "If you walk away, I'll give you an hour before I tell my boss you've disappeared."

He grinned. "Do you want to stop the drug barons from supplying drugs and killing people?"

"Will you help me?"

Don't we have a party to attend?"

She grabbed his arm.

He stopped. "It's going to persist down. I'm getting a cab." He flagged the first taxi he saw. As soon as it stopped, he pushed Angie into the rear seat. "Tell the driver where we're going. We're late."

The taxi sped towards St John's Wood. Fifteen minutes later, it stopped outside a block of flats. Davy noticed the weed-free flowerbed. Along the kerb, a row of Mercedes and BMWs.

He paid the driver and gave him a large tip.

"Why did you do that?"

"I want people to remember me."

Angie became unhappier by the second as his grip tightened on her arm. Together, they entered the block. Davy noted the red indicator on the security cameras flickering. "Someone is watching our every move." He glanced at the marble floor and wood-panelled lift doors.

Angie rubbed her arms. "Penthouse suite? Mark Ghashide is a major dealer. But, if we can get to his boss, we could bring to an end to his operations in the UK."

"Right, darling, if you're supposed to be my girl, a little enthusiasm might help. Hang on my arm and look like I'm the best thing since sliced bread. Follow me because if I fall, we drown in deep shit. Do you understand?"

"It's too late to change my mind." She held his arm as they waited for the lift doors to open.

Angie gripped his arm tight as they walked across the carpeted floor. Davy pressed the doorbell, leaving his finger on it longer than necessary; it had the desired effect.

The overweight Baboon who opened the door did not smile. On seeing Angie, it grinned. "Who's the bloke?"

She smiled. "My boyfriend, he's just returned from his holiday."

The Baboon chuckled. "The food's in the kitchen and the bars in the lounge. Help yourselves. The boss will soon be here."

The door closed, and they walked through a hallway into a spacious room. Expensive red leather covered the settees and chairs. Heavy cream velvet drapes cloaked the windows, crystal chandeliers hung from the high ceiling, and a light cream thick pile carpet stretched from wall to wall.

Davy strolled across to the elaborate cocktail bar and poured two gin and tonics.

"Angie, drink this."

"I hate gin."

He whispered. "You don't get a choice, but it has more tonic than gin. It's a trick I learned a long time ago,"

She took the glass. "If you think about it, you need me."

He smiled. "I hope you don't believe that. You're the same as me, cannon fodder."

From experience, he knew this was a dangerous game. If it went wrong, these thugs would try to find him through her, another woman's life on his conscience. He glanced at every individual, aware they played a part in the drugs business. One thing for sure: he detested every one of them.

Angie introduced him, and Davy chatted as if he had known them for years.

A dark-haired, six-foot-tall, heavily built, smartly dressed, and in his late forties, Mark Ghashide had arrived. On seeing Angie with a stranger, he strolled towards them.

Angie's hand tightened on Davy's arm as she gave a reassuring smile.

Mark's ice-cold eyes checked out Davy.

Davy held out his hand. "Davy Jones, back in town after a period in the north. I need a job, and Angie said you were the man to ask."

Davy's face remained relaxed, concealing his concern. If this turned sour, he could kiss the rest of his life goodbye.

Mark's mouth curled into a cold smile. "North of the border? You don't sound Scottish. Where did you say you stayed?"

"I didn't."

Mark strolled to the bar, poured himself a whisky and returned. "Call me tomorrow, midday."

He handed over a gold-embossed business card and left the room.

Davy read it. M Ghashide. Principal Director of the Wash and Go Laundry Company.

The evening was going well as Angie whispered, "You surprised me. I didn't think you had the balls."

Davy shook his head and dragged her to a quiet corner of the room.

"You're hurting me."

"Let's get one thing straight I have large balls, and you're stuck with me. That means we have to trust each other. One cock up, and the fish in the Thames will have food for a couple of days. If you want out, fuck off now."

She stared at him. "Is this relevant?

"Don't flatter yourself." Conscious of her closeness, the warmth of her body radiated cheap perfume. His eyes dropped; he watched her breasts rise and fall as she breathed. His mind raced: what was he thinking? He must tune in to a new frequency starting right now. Business mixed with pleasure kills people.

The moment passed, and they returned to the clamour of the party. Davy decided they had done enough for one night. It was time to leave. He asked the brute of a door opener if their host was still around.

"Fuck off," was his answer.

They took the lift to the ground floor. Outside, Angie hailed a passing taxi. "Want to share a cab?"

"No."

The night air was chilly as he walked at a brisk pace to the tube station. He wondered if, in Angie, was friend or foe. Davy bought a ticket from the machine and wandered to the end of the platform. He stood to the side of a vending machine and waited. Angie appeared a few moments later, uneasy as she ran along the platform glancing from left to right.

Davy stepped into full view. "What happened to your cab? Are you tailing me?"

"No, I leave that to the Agency. I've no idea where you're living, and I don't care. Where are we meeting tomorrow?"

He gave his answer a moment's thought. "Tomorrow morning, eleven am, King's Cross Station, by the newsagents."

"Fine," said Angie, her brow furrowing."

Travelling from St John's Wood, he changed to the Central Line at Bond Street, journeying to Notting Hill Gate. Here he moved in and out of trains before boarding a District Line to Earl's Court. Satisfied any pursuer should have lost the trail, he strolled to his flat.

With a glance at his watch, he went and lay on the bed. His thoughts turned to Angie. She was desirable; those long slender legs and her beautiful face made her special. How did she get into such a business? She was a dangerous combination of intelligence and beauty. His problem was, he fancied her. Eventually, he fell into a deep sleep, imagining Angie alongside him.

He awoke at six the following day, removed his crumpled clothes, and showered. One thing was clear; he needed more to wear and an iron.

The bus station clock registered eleven. With choices, Davy chose to use the Hammersmith and City Line. It arrived, and its passengers disembarked. Ten minutes elapsed before the doors closed. He counted the stations on the underground map located on the advertisement board; there were eleven. As a standard precaution, he changed to the Circle Line at Baker Street. Leaving the train, he trekked through the warren of passageways that led to the surface. On reaching the main concourse, Angie was waiting and dressed to impress. The tart had gone and, in its place, a businessperson in a navy power suit. What was it about her? She had achieved a look, which made her another woman.

Davy shook his head. "Good morning. How are you this morning?

"Who are you?" she asked. "The Agency's rummaged around every record available. You don't exist. You're the invisible man. They'll use you, but one thing's for sure, they'll never trust you."

He ignored her remark. She was right. He was a man running, hiding and trying to survive.

Together, they walked the length of the platform to the nearest telephone booth. David removed Ghashide's card and dialled the number. To his surprise, Ghashide answered. Davy completed the preambles and waited.

Ghashide was direct. "I have a package I want collecting from Spain."

Davy laughed. "Can't imagine any difficulty, except I haven't much money. A fortnight in Spain could be rather expensive for two of us."

"What do you mean, two?"

"I want Angie with me."

Ghashide laughed. "Last night, you told me you've just returned from an extended holiday!"

"You're the one who wants a parcel collected."

"Okay, where do you live? I'll have the details, and a grand in cash delivered."

Davy placed his hand over the mouthpiece and turned to Angie. "Disappear."

"Who were you talking to?" asked Ghashide.

"Angie."

He waited. Once Angie had entered a shop, Davy gave his address. Ghashide's voice changed its tone. "Davy Jones, be warned. If you fail, don't come back."

"Mr Ghashide, an expenses-paid holiday, could become a habit. I'll deliver the parcel into your own hands."

There was a pause before Ghashide replied, "Not necessary. I've arranged for its collection." The line went dead.

Davy wondered how he could smuggle a package full of drugs into the UK. As he walked along, a young woman attempting to control two screaming kids and transport three large suitcases along the platform gave him an idea. Without altering his pace, he went across and asked if he could be of help.

She was so grateful when he found a trolley for her cases, placed the eldest child on the top, and escorted her to a waiting train. If she said thank you once, she said it a dozen times. He placed each case in the luggage rack and carried the oldest child to their seat. He left her singing his praises and had already formulated a plan. In his hand, he held one of the woman's luggage tags. He smiled to himself as he tossed it in the bin.

Davy laughed but saw Angie was not a happy bunny.

She watched him and shouted. "Davy Jones, where the hell have you been?"

Passersby flinched at the sound of her voice.

He continued to stroll along until in front of her. "Don't shout. It's rude, especially when I've arranged a fortnight in sunny Spain."

"Who said I'm going anywhere with you?" she screamed. "You're a despicable bastard. You should have drowned when your boat sank."

"Oh, Angie, your face tells me everything. I don't give a shit what you think." He turned on his heel and walked away.

Angie watched him go. "Davy, wait. Please wait." She hurried after him. "I was wrong."

He turned. "Angie, sometimes you don't get a choice. I am what I am. As far as my past is concerned, I have no one to blame but myself. My mother died during childbirth, and I never knew my father. The orphanage raised me to be independent and to take care of myself. The Agency may give me the chance to live a normal life: a wife, kids, and a dog. If acting this way is what it takes, so be it."

His voice softened, "I'll do whatever it takes to lead a boring nine-to-five existence. I don't want to be on the run for the rest of my life."

On leaving the shelter of the station, it started to rain, and they walked in silence.

Davy needed to confide in someone. "Angie, we must talk. Fancy a drink?"

"Good idea."

The rain fell steadily. Angie spotted a pub, its staff busy preparing for the lunchtime hordes. It smelt of stale cigarette smoke and bleach. Davy bought two drinks, and they sat in a quiet corner on opposite sides of a small round table. Davy began to recount his ordeal on the yacht.

Angie twirled her glass and gazed into the red wine, not saying a word.

Strangely, he found talking therapeutic. Although the loss of Tracey still affected him.

"What's this two-week holiday you've planned?"

He explained, and she agreed it might be a drugs delivery. One decent-sized package cut and mixed might reap at least two million pounds.

"And what is your method of transportation?"

"Improvisation. You know better than I do. The possession of prohibited drugs means prison, and it's not worth the risk." He sipped his beer before continuing, "Stupid amateurs hide drugs in kids' toys or carved-out books. The professional has someone else to do the dirty work and reaps the rewards."

"How do you hope to achieve this plan of yours?" asked Angie

He took a deep breath. "We find a young mum with a couple of kids who needs help." He paused to examine her expression. "We switch cases and wait until she clears customs and then retrieve ours."

"Okay, it might work. What do you want from me?"

He pushed his chair back from the table. "First, I'm having another drink; when I've finished, we go and book a two-week holiday in Benidorm."

"You've got to be joking: two weeks in that place will drive me mad. Who the hell wants fish and chips and a full English breakfast every day?"

"Angie, that's where I'll find a single mum with a couple of kids. They can't afford the Ritz or the Hilton. You have to remember this s not a holiday."

They left the pub and stepped into a steady downpour. They ran to the travel shop across the road. The agent commented this was the best weather for business. Davy chatted non-stop, but Angie remained silent. It took ten minutes to book the trip, and with the details agreed, he turned to Angie. "My love, I've forgotten my wallet. Please pay the young lady."

Angie hesitated but paid the bill with her credit card. Once outside, she stopped and faced him. "And if I'd refused?"

Davy sighed. "Simple, end of our contract. You'd have failed. Anyway, I haven't any money."

"You've acquired money from somewhere." Her glare made him uncomfortable.

The rain continued, and taxis were at a premium. The Underground beckoned.

For Davy, the moment of decision: could he trust Angie? They waited on the platform until a rush of air told them a train was on its way. Its thunderous arrival made conversation pointless. Together, they entered the carriage, and he asked her the inevitable question, "Are you with me, or am I on my own?"

"What do you mean?"

"Well, I don't know your address, and you haven't a clue where I live. It's catch-twenty-two. So what are we going to do?"

From her purse, she produced a card and handed it to him. "In future, we'll meet there. I'm not interested where you live, so long as the job gets done."

Angie left the train at Covent Garden. Davy continued, changing trains until he reached Hammersmith. He intended never to use the same route twice.

The following day, a pounding on his front door awakened him. Still half asleep, he opened it to find a spotty faced teenager holding an envelope.

"Yes, what do you want?"

"Are you Mr Jones? A foreign-looking geezer told me to give this to you, and you'd give me a tenner."

Davy held out his hand, grabbed the envelope and opened it. He removed a five-pound note and gave it to the boy.

"Where's me, a tenner?"

"Let this be a lesson to you. Money before the job. Now bugger off before you annoy me."

"You fucking bastard," the boy shouted as he ran away.

Now we're beginning to get somewhere, Davy thought. He telephoned Angie. "I have the location in Spain where we collect our package."

He gave it to her. "Check it out. I want to know who owns it, lives there and pays the rent. I also have my payment for the job, so I'll see you at Gatwick Airport tomorrow, at three a.m., four hours before our flight time. If there's a single mum with horrible kids on our flight, I don't want to miss them."

"It's your plan, but what if it doesn't work?"

"Oh, ye of little faith. It will work." He ended the call before she had a chance to reply. Next on the list of priorities was more money.

A quick telephone call to Jay gave him another two thousand pounds in traveller's cheques. If he needed to make a hasty retreat from Spain, he wanted funds to fly schedule rather than charter.

"Jay," Davy asked. "I need the services of a doctor who doesn't ask too many questions?"

The line went quiet for a moment. "I still use the clinic that cared for Emma's girls. Why, what's the problem?"

"I need to find out if these microchips in my arms are there."

There was a long silence. "Meet me at the Schneider Clinic at the top end of Bayswater Road in two hours."

They chatted for a few more minutes until Jay said, "Don't be late."

Davy waited at the entrance of the clinic located in an impressive Georgian mansion. A marble pillared and mirrored hallway led across a carpeted floor to a staircase that rose in a grand sweep to the upper floor.

Jay arrived and ushered him inside, stopping at the receptionist's desk. "Good afternoon. My husband has an appointment with Dr Patel at two."

The receptionist checked her diary. "Mrs Adams, you know the way."

Jay grabbed Davy's arm as they headed for the lift.

Dr Patel, a small, cultured Asian man, waited as the lift doors opened and welcomed them. His surgery seemed full of the latest gadgets.

Dr Patel greeted Jay with a kiss on each cheek. "Your wife tells me you've been experiencing pain in your upper arms. Let's see what we can find. Please remove your shirt."

Davy stripped to the waist. Dr Patel massaged his upper arms. "No abnormalities, but to be on the safe side, we'll x-ray both arms."

Dr Patel strode to his desk and pressed a button on the intercom. A pretty nurse entered. "Rosy, please take Mr Adams along to x-ray. I need x-rays of both upper arms. Two front and sides will do."

The nurse took Davy away. Jay waited until she and Dr Patel were alone. "How much do I owe you?"

He smiled for the first time. "For one hour of my time, the examination and x-rays, five hundred pounds. I assume you do not need a receipt."

Jay did not flinch as she removed an envelope from her handbag and counted out the money.

Dr Patel checked his watch and spoke to Jay. "How's the young lady I treated?"

"She's doing okay."

The nurse returned with Davy and the x-rays, which she handed to the doctor.

He checked for any irregularities; there were none.

The whole concept of a tag had been an elaborate bluff. Davy thanked the doctor, and they left.

He refused Jay's offer of a lift but promised to pay her back.

"Don't be silly. It's your money. You take care. Remember, we can't change the world."

A shiver passed through his body. To survive this game, he must learn the rules. Turning, he walked away.