by Peter May
She fumbled in the breast pocket of her tunic to take out one of the crumpled photographs of Cleland that she carried and hand it to Mackenzie.
‘Better if it’s a man showing them this. I’ll check out the next level.’
She set off back along the way they had come and Mackenzie stood for a moment before making his way apprehensively through the rubble to wave the picture of this white-faced, blond-haired Scotsman in front of frightened Arab faces. Suspicious eyes fixed on his and barely glanced at the photograph. He knew it was a waste of time. If Cleland was to be found here at all, it would not be among these sad homeless people in search of a better life.
Not a word was exchanged as he moved from campfire to campfire holding his breath. He was met with blank faces, or the merest shake of the head, and he couldn’t help but wonder where these people would go from here. Who they had paid to bring them this far. Who was waiting somewhere in the shadows to take them on to the next stop of this hopeless quest. And the next. And the next. If there was one thing worse, he thought, than people who dealt in drugs, it was those who trafficked in people. Pedlars of misery and the cruellest of false dreams. And it was, he knew, only going to get worse. More and more criminal gangs were abandoning the lucrative but dangerous traffic in drugs in favour of people smuggling. People were a cheap, reliable and endless source of revenue, the authorities spent less time and effort in trying to prevent the flow of illegal immigrants, and the consequences of capture were far less punitive.
From somewhere far off in the building he heard a woman scream. He froze, listening intently, only to become aware of every eye in this hellish place turned in his direction. He hesitated for just a second before sprinting back through the rubble, and along the hallway which had brought them here. On the landing he stopped, gasping for air, and strained to hear above the sound of his own breath echoing back at him off cancerous concrete. He heard a clattering of footsteps from the next floor up and took the stairs two at a time. Only to have his heart very nearly stop. Two teenage boys came hurtling down and parted only at the last moment to stream either side of him. Like water around a rock. Then they vanished into the night.
Mackenzie stood breathing hard, trying to recover his composure. No point in going after them. If Cristina was anywhere, she was on the next floor up. And so he continued the climb, playing his torchlight on the stairs ahead of him.
On the next landing a mirror image of the hall downstairs opened off into a corridor mired in darkness. A crude door had been fixed to the hinges of the first apartment on his right. It stood ajar, and light fell into the dark. Grit and detritus crunched beneath his feet as he moved towards it, one careful step at a time. He reached out and pushed it open with the flat of his hand. Candles and an oil lamp burned in here on a table pushed up against the far wall. There were several chairs around it, one tipped on to its back. Several plates of unfinished food had been abandoned, and a cigarette still burned in an ashtray. Three old metal bedsteads stood side by side against the right-hand wall, makeshift mattresses thrown across rusted sprung frames, tortured sweat-stained sheets lying crumpled on each. But there was no one here.
Mackenzie turned quickly back towards the stairway and heard a muffled cry from the top floor. He shone the beam of his torch ahead of him as he climbed into darkness, becoming aware that there were no longer any walls around him. The tower that housed the stairwell, and what would have been the lift shaft, was completely open to the elements on three sides. Moonlight flooded in now, casting oblique shadows across the steps. Out there, where stars shimmered in the night sky, seemed a world away, and the ground below a dangerous drop into the dark.
As he stepped out on to the topmost level he realized that there was nowhere else to go. An unfinished doorway to his left led on to a small square of roof terrace. Turning to his right he stepped on to the top landing, dusty concrete laid on four sides around a square opening intended to house the lift mechanism. Concrete pillars at each corner supported the roof above.
A gathering of three men and a stricken Cristina stood with their backs perilously close to the drop at the far side of the empty shaft. One of the men held her from behind, his hand over her mouth, the barrel of her SIG Pro pushed against her temple. He was dangerously thin, wearing a torn singlet and filthy sneakers. A soiled red bandanna wrapped itself around greasy hair that fell to his shoulders. The other two dangled scarred baseball bats from arms that bulged beneath stained white T-shirts. They faced off to Mackenzie across the gap, and he could see the terror in Cristina’s eyes by the light of the moon that angled in across his shoulder.
He realized that having light behind him gave him an advantage, and he raised the beam of his torch to shine directly at the group opposite. He would barely be visible to them, but could see almost every pore on the unshaven faces of Cristina’s captors.
In what seemed to Mackenzie like a stage whisper one of them said to the man holding Cristina, ‘What do we do?’
‘Has he got a gun?’
‘Can’t see.’
And Mackenzie realized it wasn’t Spanish that they spoke. But Arabic. He relaxed a little and started moving cautiously around the perimeter of the lift shaft towards them.
‘Listen,’ he said. ‘We don’t have to do this the hard way. No one has to get hurt here.’ And he registered their surprise. This strange pale Caucasian was speaking to them in Arabic.
Cristina’s fear morphed into confusion as Mackenzie appeared to engage her captors in conversation. A language that she didn’t understand. He seemed unnaturally relaxed as he and the man pressing the gun to her head swapped several short exchanges. Then to her astonishment she felt the hand around her mouth relax its grip, and as her captor let her go he stepped forward to lay the SIG Pro carefully on the concrete floor.
Mackenzie approached along one side of the opening, and all three men moved warily along the facing edge. When Mackenzie stooped to pick Cristina’s gun from the floor, they made a break for the stairs. She heard their footsteps clattering down into darkness and thought she was going to faint with relief. But Mackenzie was there with a hand on her arm to steady her. He smiled and handed back her gun.
‘You should be a little more careful about who you let play with this,’ he said.
It took her a moment to find her voice. ‘What . . . what just happened?’
Mackenzie shook his head. ‘When I said I was going to learn Arabic, people told me I was an idiot. The only use I would ever have for it, they said, was if I joined the foreign office or became a spy.’ He laughed. ‘But I always figured it would come in handy someday.’
‘What did you say to them?’
‘I told the fella with the gun at your head that your weapon was faulty. That the safety catch had jammed and that if he fired it, not only would it blow your head off, it would take his hand and probably half his face with it.’
Cristina gawped at him in astonishment. ‘And he believed you?’
Mackenzie shrugged. ‘Apparently.’
‘So why didn’t you hold them at gun point once you’d got it back?’
Mackenzie said, ‘I’m not authorized to use your gun. And if I had, you’d only have got into even bigger trouble.’ He started steering her towards the stairs. ‘As Sun Tzu explained in his Art of War, if we do not wish to fight we can prevent the enemy from engaging us if we throw something odd and unaccountable in his way.’
‘A jammed gun?’
‘Well, here’s the thing . . . one way or another these guys were illegals. Involved in people-trafficking or drugs. Who knows? But they didn’t want a fight any more than we did. They were just scared. So I gave them a way out. Whether or not they believed the story about the gun doesn’t matter. They accepted the chance it offered to escape. So now you can call this in, and it’s someone else’s problem.’ They started down the stairs. ‘It’s just a pity we’ve wasted our time here.’
Cristina stopped halfway down to the next landing. ‘But we have
n’t. Before I met the charmers who dragged me up here, I caught a couple of teenagers spray-painting walls. Showed them a photograph of Cleland and told them I’d turn a blind eye if they could give me any information about this guy. It was obvious they recognized him. Not exactly someone you’d expect to stumble across in a place like this. They said they’d seen him here a few times in the last couple of days. In the company of some unsavoury characters. Not the ones who took my gun. Spanish, apparently. So at least we know where he’s been hiding out.’
They stepped on to the first landing, and Mackenzie glanced back along the corridor towards to where poor people fleeing conflict were no doubt collecting their belongings and preparing to move on before the police arrived. He said, ‘If this is the best Cleland can do, he can’t have many friends left. And he must be pretty desperate.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Ana is dying a little inside. Cleland has been moving around her house. She is aware of the smell of him, of his body heat as he comes and goes, of the movement of air as he passes. At one point she feels his breath on her face. Not realizing he is quite so close she cries out.
She is terrified. For herself. For Cristina. But more imminently for Sergio. She knows that sometimes they work late at the bank, even if it is not open to the public. The dots raised on the surface of her braille watch tell her that it is nearly nine. If he is coming, as he promised, it will be soon, for people will start eating at ten.
She hopes against hope that something will prevent him from returning tonight. Even that he has taken cold feet after meeting her earlier, and reconsidered. Yes, even that.
A vibration alerts her to a new message on her screen and she raises her fingers to read the braille.
– Who is Sergio?
Fear runs through her bones, chilling her to the very core. It’s as if he can read her mind. ‘Who?’
– Don’t play games with me, Ana. When I first arrived you asked if I was Sergio.
‘He’s just a friend.’
– But you were expecting him.
‘No, not really. He drops by from time to time.’ She tries to keep calm, control the trembling in her voice.
– You’re lying to me, Ana.
‘No. Honestly, I’m not. I’m not expecting anyone.’
And as if to make her a liar, fate chooses that moment for the bell to ring downstairs. Her hand flies to the vibration on her chest, as if somehow she can stop it.
– So who would that be, then?
‘I’ve no idea.’
– Open the door.
She is desperate now. ‘Why involve anyone else? It’s me you want.’
– And Cristina. Is it her?
‘Not at this time of night, no.’
– Well, answer it, then, and we’ll find out just who it is.
Ana reaches towards the panel of switches on the table and fumbles unconvincingly with the rocker. ‘It’s not working.’ Then feels Cleland brush her hand aside, before the vibration on her chest tells her that he has successfully unlocked the door below. ‘Don’t harm him. Please.’ It is out before she can stop herself.
– Who is he?
‘Just a friend.’
– We’ll see.
Then nothing. She feels the heat of Cleland’s body recede and is only too painfully aware of the tread of Sergio’s feet on the stairs. Never has the silence and darkness that traps her felt so imprisoning. She wonders about calling out a warning. But would Sergio even understand? It would make no sense to him, until it was too late.
She is aware that the door has opened, then nothing.
What is Sergio doing? Where is Cleland? Has Sergio seen him? Are they speaking?
And then she feels him crossing the floor towards her. The heat of his body. He is very close. The scrape of a chair vibrating faintly through hers, his now familiar scent. Then suddenly his lips on her forehead. She recoils, startled. A quite involuntary response. She can almost feel his hurt.
Several long moments pass before he takes her hands in his. His signing is hesitant.
‘I’m so sorry, Ana. I was held up at the bank. I should have been here ages ago.’
All she can think is that he won’t hear Cleland if he approaches him from behind. She turns her head in desperation, as if looking for her captor. Where in God’s name is he?
‘Ana, what’s wrong?’
She can feel through the hands his distress at sensing hers.
‘GO, SERGIO!’ Her hands sign urgently on his. She is more used to others signing for her than she signing for them. But if she speaks aloud Cleland will hear her. ‘LEAVE NOW. DON’T ASK WHY. YOU ARE IN DANGER.’
She can feel his consternation. If fills the air around them, as tangible as if she could reach out and touch it.
Then suddenly his hands are gone. She feels a deep vibration run through her body. Something heavy striking the floor. She cries out.
‘Sergio!’
But there is no response of any kind. Nothing. Just the darkness and the silence of her world. There is the sense of someone close. The faintest warmth in the cool air of the room, then it is gone.
She sits trembling, tears spilling silently from stinging eyes. Something awful has happened. She knows it. But she daren’t speak, hardly dares even to breathe. And she waits, as she has waited half a lifetime, for the world to come to her. It seems like an eternity before she feels the vibration against the skin of her chest, and raises her fingers to the screen with dread in her heart.
– What were you doing with your hands?
‘Where’s Sergio?’
– Don’t worry about Sergio. Tell me what you were doing with your hands.
Ana can barely draw enough breath into her lungs to allow her to speak. ‘Touch-signing.’
– What’s that?
‘It’s a way of communicating letters and words by touch.’ Then, ‘Where’s Sergio?’
– He’s gone. Don’t worry about him.
‘I don’t believe you.’
– I don’t care.
‘Don’t hurt him, please.’ Her voice breaks as she pleads with the dark. She cannot hear her own sobbing, but feels each sob tearing itself from her chest. Then pain fills her world. A stinging, burning pain on the side of her face. He has slapped her again. She feels his breath in her face, tiny specks of spittle on it as he shouts at her. It smells rank and she almost gags on it.
Then nothing once more. For several long seconds. Before she senses the other chair being drawn in close, Cleland’s heat, his earthy masculine smell. Another vibration at her chest.
– Show me.
She doesn’t understand how he can be typing when he is sitting next to her. Then conjures a picture of him with the keyboard on his knees. It is wireless, so perfectly possible. ‘Show you what?’
– How to touch-sign.
She feels her breath trembling as she fills her lungs to try to stop herself from sobbing. All she can think is, what has he done to Sergio? Her voice catches in her throat. ‘You can’t learn to touch-sign just like that. It takes weeks, months.’
– Ana, I have all the time in the world. A pause. At least until Cristina comes again. Will she be here tomorrow?
‘I . . . I don’t know.’
– I think you do, Ana. But don’t worry, I have endless patience. I learned at school that revenge is a dish best served cold. It’s a maxim I have lived my life by.
She doesn’t know what to say.
– I want you to teach me to touch-sign. It was intriguing, what I saw passing between you and Sergio. It looked . . . A longer pause while he searched for the word. Intimate. I want that, too. I want to be intimate with you, Ana.
She could not stop the shudder that shook her body. A wave of disgust. And she wonders if it shows.
– But not right now. I have to leave for a while.
Her heart leaps. If he leaves, then somehow, some way she will be able to raise the alarm. A call to the operator. An email to Cristina. But his n
ext words send fear spiking into her soul.
– He’s a nice kid, your niece’s boy. What’s his name, Lucas? And such a good school they send him to. What a shame if anything were to happen to him. You’d be to blame. You know that, Ana, don’t you? If that little boy were to come to any harm. So you’ll just sit here quiet and wait till I get back. Or do I have to tie you up?
With lead in her heart Ana knows that she will do exactly as he wants. The threat of harm to Cristina’s little boy binds her more efficiently than any rope he might use to secure her. But if Cleland has patience, then so does she. She’s had twenty years to nurture it, to make it a virtue. Her time will come. Of that she is now determined.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Sophia stood at the top of the staircase watching him as he lifted one weary leg after the other and climbed towards her. He had been waiting so long for this chance to tell her how sorry he was about the concert, to put his arms around her and hold her close and tell her he loved her.
He wouldn’t say anything about her unfriending him on Facebook, but he would watch his page for her friend request to reunite them again across the ether. It was just a temporary huff. She couldn’t hate him for ever. Could she?
He was almost there. Three steps, two steps. He reached out his hand towards her. She turned and fled across the landing, into her room, slamming the door behind her. He summoned all his strength to reach it before she could turn the key in the lock. But even as his hand closed around the handle, he heard the click of the deadbolt slipping into place.
‘Sophia!’ His own voice sounded distant, desperate.
Hers on the other hand thundered in his head. ‘Go away!’
‘Sophia, let me in.’
‘I hate you!’
As tears came to his eyes he started hammering on the door with his clenched fist. ‘Sophia!’ Nothing. No response. He hit the door harder. ‘Sophia, please . . .’