Mr & Mister Danvers: Initiation - 17. EPISODE 16: THE AGENCY

EPISODE 16: THE AGENCY

The sun was closing in on the horizon, and the orange filter ballooned in the sky.

I gazed outside, and the sounds that engulfed the street were cantankerous.

Vehicles were, it dawned on me to say, enacting frivolous jubilation on the day’s end.

The motorists encroached on the earth like ants bustling out of a colony.

The sun’s departure signalled the rush to avoid the traffic schemes, annoying each other to combust their horns and beeps out of each vehicle in the form of insults distinctive to every driver, which was, in turn, a gross mismanagement of one’s emotions.

Wanking, jabbing, crassest words of obscenities, thrown fists flung in the air, brain-damaged men: some watched in their cars, others cursed; some unbothered; others videoed the battle to outtalk the opponent till the cops came and handled the scene.

It was just another day in London—the city I hate and adore.

Arriving at 6 Herbert Crescent Street in Knightsbridge, Jean parked in front of a white period house situated amongst rows of attractive, purposely built townhouse blocks.

The front resembled a Victorian-period apartment that housed the bourgeoisie of the early 18th century, which included several tract apartments across the street.

There was a memorial plaque hanging beside the garage door.

I read the inscription: City of Westminster. Donnovan McLaren. 1936–1996, Photographer, Worked Here 1976–1996, Olympus Cameras, and turned to Jean, who was getting out of the car.

"Is this Donnovan McLaren who directed Robert Palmer’s Addicted to Love and Simply Irresistible?"

He leaned back on the bonnet and crossed his arms.

"Yep. That’s him. He also killed himself in this house. This used to be his studio before, but I reckon you won’t notice his ghost."

"He killed himself here?" I said, weighing out my options if living with a ghost was an alternative. "Are you saying there’s a ghost?"

"You’re not scared of ghosts are ye’?"

"NO, I’m not." I nodded, hiding my fear of the otherworldly.

Peering down on his watch, he said, "Alright then, I guess this is where we say goodbye."

He offered his hands, and I stood in front of him, which put me eye to eye with the dark-haired bloke whose lurid gaze melted the towering patulous trees in front of my impregnable defences like lava spewing around a burning forest.

His velvety eyes, dark and smoldering, and his face, quiescent but thunderously remarkable, looked down and stared at my orbs.

He was sincerely doing his thing.

The thing that prompts others to declare their commitment to you in such ways as, ‘Yes, I'll marry you’ or ‘Yes, I'll sell my car for 5,000 pounds so I can send it to your starving family in Africa’, and sadly, it will never work for me.

When someone is trying to lure me with their mind games, I can tell.

He then said, "I thought you’d be taller."

"I’m six-foot flat. You’re saying that’s short? That’s taller than the average height in the UK."

He puffed up the sleeve of his black trenchcoat and adjusted his duckbill cap.

"I’m six-three; I’m definitely taller. At least you don’t get to boss me around. Not unless you want me to."

He smirked, assuming I’d say something, and curled his bottom lip as I disregarded the subtle advances of his alluring charm.

"Please sign the contract. And let’s start from there, shall we?"

He's incredibly endearing, that much is true.

It makes sense why he had previously applied for this job. He's likely doing his thing with me right now, manipulating me into agreeing to his demands.

"Go on ahead; I’m not leaving till I see you enter the house. You might run off to go drink at a pub after the day you’ve had."

I walked over to the main door with the contract and the dossier under my arm.

My head turned to him.

"I’ll need more than a pint of lager after the shit I’ve had. I’ll need a good whiskey after this."

And then, I remembered.

I remembered something important.

After placing the contract and dossier on top of the boot, I was inches away from his face when he inquired, "You need something mate?"

I responded with a smirk while pummelling his face.

He stepped backward from the impact.

It wasn't quite the kind of punch that would knock anyone out.

He moved his jaw while grabbing his chin.

"Ouch! Why’d you do that?"

"That’s for tasing me. And this is for kicking me."

Pulling back my hand, I was about to slug his cheek for the second time when he caught my wrist, twisted it, and flipped me over.

His hand grasped the twisted arm with a vice grip, and his other hand clasped around my stomach, securing me in place, while his face was behind my shoulder.

He breathed deeply and said, "Once is enough. Twice is overdoing it, don’t you think?"

I could feel the rough outline of his cock pressing onto my arse against his trousers.

"Let go!" I cried.

He was getting turned on by this; something was definitely poking my arse.

I rolled my eyes and thought, great...another wanking pervert.

"If you say please, I’ll let you go." He pushed his mouth closer to my ear and commanded, "Say it with more panache, will you?" The outline of his cock aligned in my arsehole as he said, "Come on, I'll let you go if you've been a good boy."

He then began grinding his hips.

He moaned—this jerk moaned loudly.

I was over it.

I pulled my arm and rammed my elbow into his ribs when he was momentarily distracted.

"That’s for being weird and a creep."

He rubbed the area and said, "Ok. I deserve that."

I shoved him over to the cab as I turned to face him.

He almost fell, but he grabbed onto the door.

I apologised for pressing him hard and said, "Sorry, I didn’t mean to," and then my eyes dropped to the tent on his crotch. "Please don't tell me this is helping you in any way," I said.

"Hey, I'm sorry if you're scratching an itch. I can't help it."

I grabbed the documents from the boot and said, "You’re gross."

He snickered and got inside the car, shouting from the driver’s window, "I’m more than gross; I’m nasty," and then he drove away.

I laughed, knowing he would cause trouble.

It will be fully up to him, whatever problems he may cause.

Little did I know that Jean De La Fontaine would turn out to be my anchor and my iron stronghold, the man who’ll carry my back against the raging torrents thrust upon this life and this job, and the man who’ll have my secrets under the palm of his hand, keeping all there is to know about me.

He would also steal the one thing I've kept hidden for so long, the one thing I didn't know I still had...

...my heart.

Before entering the house, I imagined Brady sitting on the couch watching the telly.

I envisioned dad comfortably resting his aching back with Brady sitting by the foot as I prepared their dinner.

My life was in the process of changing, as I’d hoped their lives would remain the same.

As I’m about to make a decision to enter this career veiled in mystery and lies, I wish to put a part of the old me in a clear bottle so I may look back and be reminded of who I am: a father, a son, and a good provider for my family.

Life, for me, had already changed from the harrowing experience of being kidnapped to the despicable truth to test my conscience.

But to the verities of my belief, I’ll always be Greg Danvers, that small-time city copper who stood his ground till the end.

My eyes peered above the front of the house.

It looked simple enough.

A renovated brick home painted albescent with a white rolling shed where the barn’s entrance used to hold, and above it, box-sashed windows on the first floor and Juliet windows on the second and third floors.

I’m sure it’s a two-bedroom flat, at least.

They may have turned this into a three-story flat to save space and earn more rent.

I wonder who the other tenants were.

Surrounding the dark wooden door was a black-spiked square fence with an entrance to the side.

Old Victorian houses have these standard fences, probably to ward off stray foxes and other roaming animals, as there are stray foxes all over the city, I must say.

The two weeping figs beside the main entrance door were fancy, like those rock-textured planters you only see in high-end hotels.

This looked really expensive.

I wonder if the landlord wanted to beautify the entrance.

I opened the door, and my heart fell and my knees weakened.

I held onto the entry table and mumbled to the best of my own surprise, "What the hell...thi—this, er, thi-this is a mansion. What in geezus name is this sorcery?"

I stepped outside to look at the simple front-facing facade and went inside to align my brain that whatever I was seeing was very confusing.

Basic on the outside and expensive on the inside.

How was this possible?

Silently gasping, I looked at what I was holding and saw the entry table made of marble, pure Italian marble.

I retracted my hand, feeling unworthy of grasping something exquisite.

On the side of the wall, there was a tablet devise that controlled the property through multiple pads throughout the home—lighting, air conditioning, and heating—and even some quirky features that were futuristic at best.

The small patter of feet came running to greet me.

Brady, with his open arms, hugged my legs and shouted, "Daddy! You’re home."

I picked him up, and embraced him as tight as I could, inhaling the scent I missed the most.

He clung to me as though he hadn’t seen me in ages.

Now that I think about it, I had been gone for several days.

"Where did you go?" he said, saddened by eyes drawn with a subtle pout on his lips. I’d never been gone this long without seeing him. I sensed I would have more days like these...gone on day’s end.

"I was in business, sweety. It’s a new job," I said, bopping his little nose and kissing his cheek.

"I haven’t seen you the whole day. Lotty said you were at work. She also said I’ll be changing schools, and you’re coming with me tomorrow."

"Oh, she did, did she? You know how I missed my little bear."

He held onto my neck while I smothered his cheeks with kisses. "Daddy, stop it. You’re twickling me."

I loved how he would suddenly burst into his lisps.

I’m certain he’ll outgrow them soon—hopefully, not too soon.

"So, where’s this friend you’ve been telling me about?" I said, needing to know who this stranger was who’d been taking care of my child the whole day.

"Nice to finally meet you Mr. Danvers."

She was the darkest shade of chocolate, an exquisite bar with a melted sheen.

Her skin glistened as though she were dipped in luxurious argan oil.

Long wavy hair, chiselled angular cuts, and a straight nose—she was so stunning and gorgeous that I was lost for words.

"Er, erm, are you sure you’re a nanny?"

Her sleeveless, low-cut dress with her badonkadonk had lured me to stare at it.

If I were straight, she wouldn’t be safe with me.

Thank god I’m gay.

She opened her arms and said to Brady, "Come on, little bruv, your daddy and I need to talk. Go upstairs and watch the telly there. I’ll buzz you later when dinner’s ready. Alright, little bruv."

To my surprise, Brady willingly leapt into her arms.

She must have used a spell to convince the child to be friends with her.

"Alright," said Brady. "No broccoli, please. I hate broccoli."

"Don’t worry, the chef said we’ll be having some pizza. Do you like that?"

"Yes please!"

Lotty dropped him and tapped his bum as he scrammed upstairs.

"Go on now."

"Did you say chef?" I muttered.

She walked over to this spacious open-plan reception and dining room, gesturing me to the lounge.

"Please take a seat and we’ll talk."

Stuck looking at the marble dining table and this unique light feature made of scrambled leaves built onto the ceiling, I peered at the expensive-looking painting hanging across the table, and said, "This looks funkadelic."

"That’s a La Chapelle sur Carouge 1973 painting by Bram van Velde. That’s $245,000."

I didn't blink at the price.

Smudges of paint thrown on a canvas, then charging people thousands of dollars—I could be a painter with that excuse.

I then ambled inside this white-walled room and sat on this white couch.

If I accidentally smudged something on it, it felt like I would have to pay with my own life.

She put the house keys on the marble coffee table, crossed her legs, and said, "So Mr. Danvers, have you made up your mind yet? This could all be yours if you sign the contract."

"Hang on a second," I said, wildly excited as I placed the contract and the dossier on the table.

Looking through the glass windows, I hurried to open the glass door on the right side that led straight to the patio.

On the left was the outside lounge, and on the right was an outdoor dining table.

In the middle was a mini-pond with a glass floor cutaway of the underground pool and a vertical garden on the wall with a myriad of plants and flowers meticulously placed to look whimsical and ethereal.

I looked up, and there they were—the stars.

It’s extremely expensive to have any patios or terraces in central London.

If I sign this contract, I don’t think I’ll be able to afford this place.

Even if I sold my liver or lungs on the black market, it still wouldn’t be enough.

I went back inside and asked, "How much is this property?"

"£22,500,000. It’s actually a bargain."

Words weren’t enough to express my shock. "A bargain?"

"Yep. The architect who made this, well, he was—I wouldn’t say coerced, more like convinced to design this place at a much reasonable price. It would have gone to £25 million if we went to this house’s original pricing."

Another shock marred my face. "Was he blackmailed to do this?"

"You could assume that was the case, nor could I confirm." She pushed the envelope, the contract, in front of me. "I forgot my introductions. How rude of me. I’m Lotty Asula Granger, the supervising director of The Agency handling all inbound and outbound client requests. Any related concerns regarding your escorting job fall under my authority. As for the other job, that jurisdiction lies under the Deputy Director-Covert Division of SIS, Jean de La Fontaine."

"I thought he was a handler."

"He will be handling you if you accept this job since you’re special. But trust me, he’s not what he seems. He’s more than capable of, er, putting you in your place if the need arises."

"I’ve never heard of this covert division."

"The Covert Division was established in 1876 upon the rising threat of anti-nationalist sentiments against the monarchy. But even before that, there were already sects and hidden agencies working under cloak and dagger for the British Royalty as early as the 1400s. As the name pertains to itself, no one knows about this. The Agency, in which I am the acting owner for the public’s interest, was established in the early 20s at the peak of the threat of WWII, which blossomed when Hitler rose into power. The handling of the agency was then given to the Dyson family, longstanding members of the Rose Templars. They vowed and swore secrecy to continue this line of business that no one knows. So you have me, working at the front of this organisation. The Dyson family as the backbone addressing the decisions needed for this organisation to function. And its head, the SIS Covert Division, that handles all government-issued tasks or requests for every working agent."

"Hang on, Dyson, as in Lord Henry Dyson, the billionaire who invented the hoover?"

"Yes. They’re the ones funding this. The escort agency fully matured in the early 2000s when the boon of the internet became a thing. Back in the 60s, it used to be by word of mouth. At the dawn of the internet and online connections, we had to change with the times and evolve as well. So, the inception of an escort agency came to fruition."

"So why me? I’m a—I’m a simple retired cop. I know nothing of this spy business."

There had to be a reason why they’d taken a fancy to me.

They’re making all the efforts to rope me in.

I had a cold feeling about what it was.

"I’m nothing special," I insisted. "Sure, I could be an escort, which I thought I could do and now regret doing...but I don’t understand why you people came to me."

"We’ve been interested in you for several years now." She rose and pulled to the side the glass doors that opened up the patio. I didn’t know you could do that. Grabbing her bag, she slid out a 120mm and inserted it in a cigarette holder. "The truth is, we’ve been biding our time until something clicked and you’re on our radar. Then a couple of days ago, you called one of our recruiters and asked if you wanted in." She puffed a long one and said, "Your name automatically pinged in our system as an extremely high-priority recruit, so...we were smitten with you."

"But why though? As I’ve said, I’m nothing special."

After three hard drags, she quickly finished her cigarette.

She returned to the couch, crossed her legs, and sighed exasperatingly as though something was bothering her.

She said the words that would turn my life upside down.

"There are only three people who know about this information: me, the acting director, and the director of the Covert Division."

What was she talking about?

"Greg, we know about you," she said.

And as she said it, something awakened in me...something dark and sinister I prayed would go away.