by Mark Ayre
With cat-like reflexes, Ronson lifted a hand and batted the glass. His face was obscured for a second. Once the glass was gone and his hand began to drop, he saw Abbie swinging the table by two of its legs. Then it smashed him in the head, glass shattering and flying past his face and cutting his cheek.
He was spinning. Off-balance. Abbie carried the momentum of the table through then released, letting it fly into the wall. While it was still in the air, Abbie was following Ronson as he stumbled. She put her hands behind his head and moved in close. Pulled him into her as she lifted her knee with all her might into the balls. As air exploded from his lungs out his mouth, she edged back, brought the knee up again, this time into the kidneys.
Like a bull that’s seen red, Kline burst into the room. Abbie took a step back, still holding Ronson’s head. From this new position, she grabbed the back of his skull, raised her leg and bought his face crashing into her knee.
Blood on her jeans. Some on her shoes. Droplets on her top. Ronson’s nose had exploded, but he didn’t scream. Dazed or unconscious, he went to the ground as Abbie stepped away.
And Kline grabbed her. Tossed her across the room. She rolled again, came up again. He was charging. He swung a fist. Which she ducked. Swung again. Which caught the side of her head and sent her off balance. He came in close, grabbed the back of her neck and bent her towards him while swinging his fist towards her stomach.
It was a similar move to the one she’d used on Ronson. She handled it better. Bending her knees, she jumped. Her stomach rose away from the first. He still caught her, but the blow’s impact was far weaker than it might have been.
Hand and stomach fell together. Abbie raised a palm to smack his tree trunk arm and, at the same time, jerked backwards.
Her neck was yanked from his hand, and she collapsed onto her behind. He was quick to react. He hopped forward, raised a leg and stomped.
She rolled to the side. Kline’s boot missed by an inch. The floor seemed to tremble under the force of it. He turned to have another go and found her rising, her arm shooting out, her palm flat and coming for him.
He grabbed her wrist. Punched for the head.
Abbie dodged. Because of Kline’s hold, her range of movement was reduced. He boxed her ear, and a shock of pain shot through her head.
Abbie didn’t let the pain unbalance her. While he held her good wrist, she fired the palm of her weak hand at him. This time she caught the mark. The base of her palm smashed his chin and forced back his head in a rapid jerk, rattling his brain against his skull. If he had one. Causing him to see stars. To release her wrist. To stumble.
She followed up. A kick to the stomach forced Kline to bend at the waist. He tried to grab her ankle as she pulled back her leg. Missed.
Like a cymbal crashing monkey, Abbie put one spread hand on either side of Kline’s head. Fast and hard, she brought them together over his ears. Then she bent one arm, grabbed the back of his head with the other and smashed her elbow into his face.
More blood. This time it soaked Abbie’s top and splattered her jeans. From the rain, her shoes were mercifully spared.
Kline dropped. Abbie raised a boot and stomped his skull, rendering him unconscious.
Woozy, dazed, Ronson was rising.
Abbie turned to the mantlepiece. Pictures of the parents. Pictures of Travis and his sister. Pictures of the family.
And an ornate clock set into a heavy wooden frame.
Ronson was up straight, was trying to compose himself.
Abbie took the clock, stepped across the room, swung back her arm, and smashed it across his skull.
Before Ronson hit the ground, he was unconscious.
“100% chance if you’re two vs one, eh?” Abbie said. But it was a pointless comment, seeing as he wasn’t awake to listen to her.
Abbie stepped into the corridor to warn Travis to stay away from Francis and stay away from Michael. Despite Ronson’s beating, Abbie knew she might need to throw the teen into a wall and get into his face to get her point across. She was happy to do so. That was the thing about fighting. Much later, it might make you feel grubby and ashamed, but in the immediate aftermath of the bout, you were pumped with adrenaline. You didn’t want it to stop. You wanted to find someone else and go again.
It was a lot like fast food. Not like a one night stand where self-loathing was much quicker to arrive.
Given this adrenaline, this need to keep fighting, perhaps it was lucky she returned into the hall to find Travis had scarpered. Lucky for him but lucky for her too. Sometimes, she scared herself.
Didn’t matter. Travis was gone for now. Abbie would catch him later.
Closing the door on the unconscious men, Abbie made her way upstairs to collect the bags which belonged to her and to Francis’ wife.
Only to find both had gone.
Twelve
It was nearing two. Abbie should have been hungry, but the adrenaline from the fight and fury at Travis' latest idiotic actions kept the hunger at bay. She had to force herself to find a cafe, to order a jacket potato with beans and cheese, and to sit down with a water.
Already, she had known Travis was an idiot. What about her? What was her excuse? It was bad enough she had left the handbag for Travis to find, but why hadn't she kept her own bag on? Idiot. Idiot.
What could he do with her bag? What might this lapse of judgement cost?
Though it was stupid, her first thoughts went to The Stand. What if Travis threw it away or destroyed it for the kicks? Even taking it out of the bag without proper caution might rip the cover or cost her some pages.
Her heart rate was rising. Her chest constricting. Stop it. Stop it. It was only a book. It didn't mean anything. Travis tearing it up would destroy The Stand, not Abbie's memories of her sister.
She knew that. It was rational. Still, Abbie couldn't stop herself believing if the book's cover was torn, she would no longer be able to recall Violet's face. That, if the pages were burned, her sister's voice and laugh would be lost to her.
Closing her eyes, she forced herself to take deep breaths, to remember Violet. The little girl in the purple dress; raven black hair, silky smooth even when she did nothing to it. Those soft, gorgeous, turquoise eyes. That laugh. Infectious, like her smile.
With a hand on her chest, Abbie remembered her sister. Told herself she wouldn't open her eyes until her heart rate reduced to a reasonable bpm.
This plan went out the window when someone coughed. Opening her eyes, Abbie saw the man who had taken her order and tried a disarming smile. He returned to her with an odd look and put the jacket in front of her.
"Thanks," she said. The guy left without a word.
Abbie tried to put the book to one side. What else had she lost? Her change of clothes. That was annoying. Luckily for her, Travis had left her hoody. That covered the blood-stained top but hadn't helped with the jeans or her shoes. Travis would have to explain to his mother why she was now a pair of trousers short. None of the shoes had been suitable. Lots of heels and sandals. Not ideal if Ronson recovered and came for round two or if Francis sent more goons her way. So the boots had stayed. She had given them a rinse in Travis' kitchen sink and had to hope no one looked at them too closely.
Next—her wallet and phone. Not a problem. Her phone was locked, and she doubted Travis could hack it. Ben might return the call she had earlier made to SOMK LTD. Being a little shit, Travis would almost certainly answer, but that was okay. Ben would hear a male voice and would hang up. He wouldn't be pleased, but Abbie could handle his displeasure.
Her wallet contained nothing but fifty pounds in cash, which he'd spend, and two credit cards. Both were contactless, so he might spend some money on those, but that was a whatever issue.
Toiletries. Fine. A pen and several scraps of paper, most of which were blank, a couple on which Abbie had written her current phone number. Not a problem. Her hotel key. That was annoying, but not the end of the world. The key offered both the hotel's name and
room number, but if he was to visit, she just hoped she was there when he arrived. So she could teach him a lesson. If she wasn't, there was nothing further he could steal, so who cared? The piece of paper on which Bobby had written his number. That caused some stress, but it was probably for the best. It removed the temptation to take him up on his date offer.
Finally, the reason she hadn't wanted the police to search her bag. The reason she feared a warrant allowing any police officer access.
Her little black book.
Would it mean anything to Travis? Probably not.
Would it pique his interest? Almost certainly.
Would Travis realise it had value to Abbie? Would his mind jump to thoughts of blackmail? Given what had happened after he mugged Francis' wife, she thought the chances were high that it would. Maybe that was good. He wouldn't be able to phone to blackmail her because he had her phone. He would have to find her. First, he would hide her bag. That was okay. She relished the chance to convince him to tell her where it was.
Her potato sat untouched in front of her. Taking her knife and fork, Abbie forced herself to take a bite. As she was going for her second, a horrifying thought occurred.
By now, Travis would know handing Francis' wife's bag back to Francis was not an option. Travis had taken the piss. For the teen's ill-thought-out plan, the criminal would make him pay.
To avoid retribution, Travis needed either to double down on the blackmailing, then get out of town, or find an alternative.
Had Ronson's fists and feet changed his mindset? Did Travis now realise he was in over his head? If he did, he would want to put an end to his troubles. He would like to give the bag to Francis. He would not be paid for the job. He didn't care about that. Money meant nothing to him. He would know he needed something to sweeten the deal when he returned with the bag.
Hey, Francis, you heard from Ronson yet? You know he and Kline got their arses handed to them by some bitch called Abbie? Well, what if I could help you get back at her. I got her bag, and there's this little black book I think you're going to find real interesting.
The anger rushed over Abbie in an uncontrollable burst. Dropping her cutlery, she clenched her hands into fists and smashed the table.
It was after the lunch rush. The cafe wasn't busy. The six pairs of eyes with which she shared the space turned her way. Most just gawked, a couple began whispering, wondering who she was. Questioning if this stranger might not be crazy.
Maybe she was. She had to be, didn't she? Only an idiot would keep the black book somewhere it could so easily be stolen. Only a fool would have bought the black book in the first place. Only a complete moron would note down what she had noted down—all those names.
Abbie almost thumped the table again. Stopped herself. Forced herself to pick up her cutlery and take more deep breaths.
After taking a second bite and a third, she put down the cutlery and took another deep breath.
What was done was done—no way to change the past, only to make amends in future. Travis was a dumb teen. He would not keep the bag for long. Try not to think about it.
So what now?
Retaking the cutlery, Abbie found she was able to eat with a natural rhythm. As she ate, she considered her situation.
As she saw it, she had several problems or considerations.
1. Eddie. The reason she was here in the first place. His life was in danger, and although she had her suspicions, she didn't yet know who was going to kill him. She certainly didn't know why. She suspected the only way to find that out would be to discover why Francis had wanted Danny dead.
2. Francis. After rendering unconscious two of his thugs, Abbie would be off Francis' Christmas card list. At the least. As Christmas was almost a year away, Francis would want to find a punishment that could hurt Abbie far sooner than could the Christmas card snub.
3. Travis. He had both her bag and the bag Francis wanted. As a preference, Abbie would get hold of the wife's bag before Francis. As a must, she would get back her bag before anyone else got a look at it.
4. Michael. Abbie had been taken with the boy. She wanted to help him. As much as she wished that wasn't so, it was—nothing she could do about that.
That was more problems than she would like, and that was before Abbie considered how Kline and Ronson might react when they woke. Hopefully, before she left town, they would be in no position to seek revenge.
Four problems, but you could only be in one place at once. Letting your focus split could be fatal. It was essential to pick a lane and go with it.
Easy, in this case. Abbie had made her call regarding Michael and could do nothing until she heard back. In the meantime, he should be okay. She'd told him to steer clear of Travis, and, seeing as Francis knew Travis had the bag, there was no reason for the criminal to go after Michael.
Travis could also wait. He had Abbie’s bag. There was nothing of great value in there except for the black book, and that offered no value to him except via what Abbie was willing to give to get it back. That meant he would come to her. That meant he could wait.
Similar story with Francis. Despite the fact she suspected he was at the centre of what had happened to Danny and what would happen to Eddie, there was no chance she was going to launch an assault against him. Not without proof. She didn't know where he was anyway. Because of Ronson and Kline, he would likely come to her. She would stay alert, ready. She would wait and put thoughts of Francis on the back burner for now.
Abbie finished her lunch, having cut her list down to one item. Eddie. The one person who was hoping he didn't see her again was the person she would have to visit. He wouldn't like it. He blamed her for Danny's death, but she would have to convince him she'd had nothing to do with that. She needed more information if she was going to have a chance of saving his life.
He wouldn’t want to listen to her.
She would just have to make him.
Thirteen
It was gone half three by the time Abbie arrived at Eddie’s place. The evening of what could be his final full day on Earth was fast approaching, and he didn’t even know it.
Over the last few years, Abbie’s dreams had shown her the faces of many men and women scheduled for death within 48 hours of the time she woke, which was always midnight. More often than not, she succeeded in saving the life of the face from her dream. Occasionally, she failed. It seemed a shame that, if Eddie was to die, he would spend his last hours grieving his brother. Abbie was determined her success and not her failure count would rise tomorrow.
Parking the car across Eddie’s driveway, Abbie stepped out and moved up the drive. This was always difficult. She never saw the face of the person who would kill her victims. Even if she had, she would never take them out ahead of their murder attempt. Her prophetic dreams were never wrong. Even so, she would not punish or execute a person for a crime they had yet to commit. This was not The Minority Report.
The door was closed. Locked but not double-locked. Abbie could have broken in but didn’t want to compound on the grievances, imagined or genuine, Eddie held against her. She knocked and waited.
Eddie answered. His face was red, and his eyes sore. Though his cheeks were now dry, it could not have been too long since he had stopped crying.
Upon opening the door, Eddie looked straight at Abbie, but at first, did not seem able to comprehend who she was. Grief had blurred his vision. When it cleared, when he saw her, anger flared in his eyes. She thought he might attack. Hoped he wouldn’t make a scene on his driveway. But he didn’t. He took the door and attempted to slam it in her face.
Abbie’s boot prevented him. The forceful swing crushed her foot between door and frame. It hurt—a lot. But far less than it would have, had she switched her blood specked boots for Travis’ mother’s sandals. Something to be thankful for.
Eddie pulled back the door to try again to slam it. If he broke her foot in the same move, all the better, so far as he was concerned.
Before he could
, Abbie laid her palm flat on the door and pushed against his swing. The move was unexpected, and Eddie’s fingers slipped away. He stumbled. Abbie could have used this moment to knock him back and enter the house, but that wasn’t fair. Like a vampire, she would not enter this home without invitation.
Eddie came forward, retook the door. Abbie had lowered her hand.
“Don’t,” she said. “I just want to talk.”
She raised her palm in time to block the swinging door. Eddie continued to push, but Abbie refused to let go. Being stronger than she looked, it was not long before Eddie was straining, struggling. To make more difficult his challenge, Abbie leaned forward and put her shoulder in the way of the door. If her hand relented, the weight of her body would not.
“This is pointless,” she said.
“Murderer,” he replied. “Leave.”
“I can’t. Not until we’ve spoken.”
Abbie hated herself for renewing and intensifying Eddie’s sorrow, but what choice did she have? Had his life not been in danger, Abbie would happily have left him be. It was, so she couldn’t.
Eddie tried a vicious swing, and Abbie swung her shoulder into the door. This caused Eddie’s hand to rip off again, and this time he cried out in pain as the edge of the door scratched his skin.
There was no blood. The shock of failure hurt more than the door’s attack.
“Eddie,” Abbie said. Then there were footsteps on the stairs. Slow, laboured, heavy. Here came the cavalry.
“Eddie, you’re not thinking straight,” Abbie said. “Which is fine. Grief destroys rational thought. I know. I’ve been there. You’re—“ She stopped herself. Jess had arrived, and Abbie felt it would seem too convenient to tell Eddie she also had lost a sibling after bonding with Jess the previous day over a shared loss of a child.
It was true. Coincidences happened all the time. But perception is often reality, and right now, mentioning Violet would probably do more harm than good. Both to relations between her and the Deans and to Abbie’s own psyche.