The automatic doors open slowly.
“It’s quiet. Too quiet,” says the Man, hand signalling to the Editor to cover his back.
They pause at the threshold.
Fluorescent light. A hum that feels like surveillance. Or a device for pea refrigeration.
“Easy,” says the Editor. “Bananas at six o’clock.”
They enter. “I’ll cover you. Take the carrots, a bunch of bananas and some apples, those nice little crunchy ones if they have any,” the Man says.
Vegetable aisle.
Carrots. Potatoes. Cucumbers stacked in the usual way.
“I don’t like it. It’s normal. Too normal,” the Man says.
A pyramid of tomatoes under a sign that has slipped slightly to the left.
The Man slows.
“Contact zone,” he says.
A woman reaches past them for onions.
The Man steps back too quickly.
“Movement, three o’clock.”
“Negative. Pensioner,” says the Editor. “With net bag. Stand down.”
They move along the row.
Everything is too bright. Everything is too available.
No cover.
“No cover,” says the Man.
“It is a supermarket,” says the Editor. “The cover is normality.”
The Man picks up a cucumber. He puts it back. No ammo.
“I heard Muzak,” says the Editor. “I think its Boney M.”
A trolley squeaks.
Rhythmic. Approaching.
The Man turns slightly.
A man at the end of the aisle.
Still.
Watching.
Selecting shampoo.
“Charlie,” says the Man.
The man picks up a bag of dog food.
The Man doesn’t move.
“I don’t like it.”
The trolley squeaks again.
Closer.
They hold position between carrots and potatoes.
A child runs past with a Kinder Bueno.
The Man scans the labels.
BIO.
PROMOCJA.
2,99.
Codes.
All of it codes.
The Editor is by now at the shampoo section.
A woman coughs.
The Man flinches.
The man at the end of the aisle shifts his weight.
Looks up.
Meets the Man’s eye.
Holds it for a second too long.
“Contact,” says the Man.
He hesitates.
The man lifts the dog food into his trolley.
The Editor sighs. “Charlie,” he says.
“What?”
“That’s Charlie. From downstairs. You borrowed his ladder. Twice.”
The Man looks again.
Less threat.
More like neighbour.
A man with whom he has, on at least one occasion, discussed wheelie bins.
Charlie nods.
A small, polite nod.
The Man nods back.
“Stand down,” says the Editor.
The trolley squeaks away.
Silence returns.
“Jesus,” says the Man.
“Yes,” says the Editor. “That was nearly the Vietcong. Buying dog food.”
They stand there a moment longer. The body hasn’t caught up. Part of them would prefer it to have been the Cong.
The Man picks up a bag of carrots. Holds them. Cold. Slightly damp.
“Anything else?” says the Editor.
The Man looks around.
“No,” he says. “Let’s get these carrots back Stateside ASAP.”
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