by Eva Hudson
Shit. Shit.
She rang the bell, leapt out of her seat and shoved her phone in her pocket as she ran to the rear of the bus, then jumped down the stairs two at a time. Below her, the rear of the bus was open to the street. Her momentum was carrying her so fast that she wouldn’t be able to stop herself from tumbling out onto the blacktop, and under the wheels of whatever vehicle was behind. Ingrid reached out for the handrail. Her right hand grabbed hard, but she missed with her left. Her legs carried on moving beneath her till they were outside the bus. She reached up with her free hand, grasped the rail, bent her knees and just brought her feet back inside the bus as it accelerated away. A gymnastic display Svetlana would have been proud of.
Ingrid stood in the open doorway, panting heavily, as the Chicago sports fan receded into the distance.
“You need to slow down,” the woman with the shopping said. “You’ll come a cropper one day.”
Ingrid got off at the next stop and checked her phone to find out where she was.
She was in Pimlico. About half a block from the Queen Mary pub.
27
Ingrid saw the reflection of a well-dressed, slim woman in the window of the double doors of the Queen Mary and it took a moment to realize she was looking at herself. She looked so different in her new clothes.
After the strange emptiness and sirens the day before, it wouldn’t have been entirely surprising for a bobby to be standing sentry outside, but there was just a man smoking a cigarette. He gave Ingrid the once-over as she walked—a little more tentatively than usual—toward the entrance.
Shoulders back. Stomach in. Smile.
She pushed open the double doors and the smell of beer instantly wrinkled her nose. The place wasn’t deserted like it had been the day before, but it was far from full. She strode confidently up to the bar and perched on a stool upholstered in what looked like carpet. The barman was leaning over the counter, reading the sports pages of a tabloid newspaper. She glanced round: not only was she the only woman in the place, she was also the only person under forty. A piece of Sellotape with a strip of the ‘Good Luck’ sign still attached drifted like a cobweb from the paneling above the counter. It was the only visible sign of yesterday’s abandoned party, assuming of course that every trace of blood had been cleaned from the toilets.
“Hi,” she said, forcing the barman to look up at her, “I wonder if you can help me?”
He gave her a look that was probably transmitted as a smile but received as a leer. “What you like?” A Muscovite accent.
Ingrid peered over the counter to see what soft drinks were in the chiller cabinets. They had Tarkhun, a soda she hadn’t drunk since her semester in St Petersburg. She was tempted, but ordering it would only attract attention.
“Mineral water, please.” Though a shot of one of the many vodkas they stocked wasn’t completely out of the question. The stack of paired cutlery in rolled-up napkins she’d seen on the buffet table was now on the counter next to the menus. “What time do you start serving lunch?”
He glanced at a clock on the wall next to a chalkboard advertising Russian specialties.
The barman—fifties, pock-marked nose, skinny, balding—stood up a little straighter and eyed her with caution. “In here? You want to eat here?”
“I think I’m in the right place.” She took a moment, pursed her lips and decided to leap into the unknown. “My friend Irina told me you do good food here. Real authentic.”
She watched his features intently as she mentioned Irina’s name. His eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly. She hadn’t even used the surname of the woman Ralph had mentioned and it had still got a response.
“I will check with cook.” He placed a glass and a bottle of water on the counter and disappeared into the kitchen.
Ingrid studied the pub’s other patrons. There was a pair of workmen in paint-spattered clothes drinking Coke and eating potato chips, staring at their phones on the table as if just looking at them could make them ring. Either waiting for work, or avoiding it. The three single men in the pub all had pints of beer and were presumably avoiding stress at home while cutting to the head of the line to get cirrhosis of the liver. One of the men had a dog at his feet. A pitbull. She made eye contact with the dog owner, who smiled at her. He was missing most of his teeth. Apart from the workmen, Ingrid was confident the beer drinkers were regulars, individuals loyal to their pub in the way other men are wedded to their football team.
Ingrid picked up her bag from the floor and put it over her shoulder, the strap lying diagonally across her chest: she didn’t personally feel vulnerable—she was confident she could handle herself —but she could easily imagine how her iPhone might end up on eBay by the end of the day if she didn’t take precautions.
She tried to picture Karlos Ivanov, the owner of the Evening News, sitting where she was now and enjoying a drink. If the Queen Mary really was somewhere he visited, and not just a location chosen by his PR for a photo opportunity, then it was a reminder of who the oligarchs from Russia really were. Their wealth hadn’t been inherited. They hadn’t spent their summers in the south of France or their schooldays at Eton. They were regular guys who probably grew up in apartment blocks like the one her mother had lived in. Sure, they could afford cocktails and Cristal in Mayfair’s bars and clubs, but maybe they felt more at home in a place like the Queen Mary. Profiling them was going to be fascinating.
She scanned the chalkboard menu, deciding if she was in the mood for dumplings or stuffed cabbage leaves. It was only when she saw the prices next to the menu items that she remembered she had spent all her cash on the taxi. The Queen Mary didn’t look like the kind of establishment that took cards. Given the residential nature of the neighborhood, she guessed she was a long walk from an ATM.
“You ask about food?”
A short, stocky man in his thirties wearing a stained blue football shirt—Chelsea, at a guess—stretched tight across his pot belly was standing behind her. A rope of silver chain was around his neck; his knuckles were encrusted with signet rings. She remembered the blood she had seen in the men’s toilets: his jewelry was practically designed for ripping flesh.
“Hi, yes,” Ingrid smiled at him. “I was just wondering how long I’d have to wait for lunch?”
The short stocky man turned to the barman. “Who is she?” he said in Russian.
He shrugged his reply: “She knows Irina.”
Irina was a fairly common name. If pressed, it would be easy to explain that the imaginary friend who rated their food was a different woman from the Irina they knew.
The man in the football shirt scrutinized her. “You looking for work?”
That wasn’t a question she’d anticipated. “Um, no. Just an early lunch.”
“Food starts twelve-thirty.” He turned and went back to the kitchen. It was 11:45.
Ingrid swallowed several mouthfuls of water, her throat suddenly in need of lubrication. “That’s a shame,” she said to the barman, who had turned his attention back to his newspaper. “I’m not sure I can wait till then. I’ll just have to come back another day.” She yawned: her late, drunken night was starting to catch up with her. Her next stop needed to involve caffeine.
Her thoughts returned to the man in the White Sox shirt. She could come up with two possible explanations for his appearance in Vauxhall, three if she was prepared to add in sheer coincidence. The first was that there was some unidentified magnet for American visitors in the neighborhood, something that had been posted on Twitter or Snapchat that explained why both he and Kristyn had made the trip south of the river. It was a reason she might have been prepared to entertain if it wasn’t for the way he’d looked at her when they’d locked eyes at the traffic lights. He had panicked. He knew that she had seen him and he ran. So that meant her final explanation was the more likely: he had followed her there.
She yawned again. Her eyes were starting to swim a little and her brain was fogging over. Suddenly startled by the ringin
g phone of one of the decorators, Ingrid wondered if she’d actually nodded off for a moment. The two men got to their feet and left in a hurry: whatever instructions they’d been waiting for had obviously been delivered. She took another sip of her water and noticed that the ice cubes had melted. She checked the clock: almost midday.
That wasn’t right. Couldn’t be. It had been a quarter to just a few moments earlier.
The double doors swung open and two young men entered, one white, one black, wearing sweatpants and hoodies. They nodded to the barman who nodded back. “This her?” one of them said.
Ingrid’s heart thundered. She shook her head, desperate to make herself wake up.
“You know Irina?” the white man said. London accent. He walked up to her, coming a little too close for comfort.
“Hi.” Her throat constricted.
“He asked you a question,” the black man said, now standing just two feet away.
Ingrid’s forehead puckered. Why was she feeling so dizzy?
“Does she look familiar to you?”
“Yeah,” his friend said. “She does.”
Not the Charlize thing again.
The white man leaned in. “You look an awful lot like this bird I saw on telly yesterday. You woz running around in an empty house. Nah, I remember now. It wasn’t a house, was it? It was a pub. It was this pub.” Ingrid felt his spittle on her face and followed his gaze toward the CCTV camera above the door. She blinked hard at it, trying to focus. What was happening to her?
The black man took a step toward her and the barman stood a little straighter. Behind her, Ingrid heard a door swing shut. She glanced over her shoulder: the man in the Chelsea shirt had returned from the kitchen and was holding a knife. A sharp, long blade reflecting the twinkling lights of the fruit machines.
Ingrid felt herself wanting to slump over the bar. What the hell had they put in her drink? She had to get out of there. Her eyes drooped shut. Fight it. Fight it.
She clenched her teeth and focused on the double doors. Ingrid grabbed a set of cutlery from the pile at her elbow, fell forward off her stool with enough force to make the white man stumble. She carried on falling and as she tumbled into the black man she raised her hand as powerfully as she could, driving the knife and fork hard under his ribcage.
“The bitch stabbed me! The bitch fucking stabbed me.”
Ingrid took another step toward the door. The white man grabbed her wrist, she rotated her arm backwards, forcing him to let go. She managed another step toward the doors. The pitbull started barking. The man with the kitchen knife ran at her. She turned, brought an open palm up to his wrist, knocking the blade to the floor.
“Who the fuck are you?” one of them shouted. She could no longer tell who was speaking. Her hearing was fading in and out. She managed another step while the Chelsea fan crouched to retrieve his weapon. The younger white guy moved in front of her.
“No you fucking don’t,” he said, his hands reaching up to grab Ingrid’s shoulders.
She rotated into him, knocking him off balance. She continued her rotation, falling against the doors, before using all her strength to pull them open. On the sidewalk. Run. But something was holding her back. Her bag was trapped between the doors. She shoved both doors as hard as she was able and was rewarded with the sound of wood hitting skulls. She pushed the doors again, releasing her bag, then turned and ran.
She didn’t look back. She didn’t dare. Just run, she told herself. Just one more step. Her gait was unsteady, her pace was slow. Her lungs hurt. But this was only a jog. Not much more than a stroll. Why did she feel so weak? What drug could work so quickly? Her brain was too sluggish to figure it out. She saw a red London phone booth up ahead. Just get to the booth, then look round. She forced her right foot forward, her left leg dragging along the sidewalk. One more step. Come on!
Ingrid fell against the booth just as a wave of nausea rose up from her stomach. Her vomit sprayed down the glass door.
“You all right?” It was a female voice. Something inside Ingrid relaxed. She slumped onto the ground and passed out.
28
Ingrid tried to open her eyes. Some deep part of her brain willed her to open them, but the effort required was too much. She could hear voices, but couldn’t tell who was talking or how far away they were. “Pulse sixty-two… back from the lab… under observation… BP one-ten over sixty-five… is that OK?… any allergies or adverse reactions… vending machine down the hallway… just a sharp scratch.” Her lids were too heavy; she tried again to open them but couldn’t manage. She felt something on her hand. What was it?
“Thanks, Kate.” Was that McKittrick’s voice?
“You look like you could use it.”
She could smell coffee. Ingrid felt the pressure on her hand again. She made her right eyelid flicker. Blurred light. Nothing more. She tried again; this time her eye stayed open longer. A gurney. A hospital. Ingrid tried to move her fingers.
“Hello again,” McKittrick said.
Ingrid knew she was meant to say hello back, but her tongue was heavy, pressed against the base of her mouth. With one eye open she looked down at her hand, resting on a light blue ribbed blanket. McKittrick’s hand was on top of hers. Ingrid twitched her hand, and McKittrick squeezed it.
“You want some water?” she asked.
Ingrid managed to make her head nod. McKittrick got up, picked up a plastic beaker from a table and brought it to Ingrid’s lips. She took a sip.
“Are you going to stay with us this time?”
What was she talking about?
Ingrid licked her lips.
“More?” McKittrick asked.
Ingrid nodded, and her friend held the cup to her mouth once again. “What…” Ingrid swallowed. Her tongue felt strange, like it wasn’t her own. She tried again: “Why are you here?”
“You don’t remember?” McKittrick asked. She sat down on the edge of the gurney. “Really?”
Ingrid slowly and gently shook her head.
“Wow. We’ve been through this several times.” McKittrick reached out for a different plastic cup, a beige one, and took a sip. “OK, I’ll tell you again, and hope you’re going to remember it this time. You were blue-lighted in about four hours ago, and one of the nurses here dialed the most recent number in your history, and it turns out that was me. Aren’t you lucky you didn’t order pizza for lunch, because the man from Domino’s wouldn’t have had a spare pair of trousers in just the right size in a Selfridges bag in his living room.”
“Four hours?”
“Do you remember what happened?”
Ingrid tried to think. She remembered the man in the White Sox jersey. She remembered being on a bus. The concentration required was too much, she had to give up. Had she been in an accident? “No.”
“Ambulance picked you up from Belgrave Road in Pimlico. The woman who dialed 999 said you were running and then collapsed—”
A slightly plump man in his late twenties, red cheeks with prickles of perspiration at his temples and a stethoscope around his neck, appeared at Ingrid’s bedside. “DI McKittrick,” he said, “I don’t think Miss Skyberg is ready for questioning just yet.”
“Dr Mullally,” she said, “I’m not here for work. Ingrid’s my friend.”
“Ah, I see,” he said, “not much fun that this is where you get to spend your spare time. You’re in here enough as it is.” He smiled at Ingrid. “How are you feeling?”
Ingrid didn’t know how to answer. “What happened? Why am I here?”
He pushed his wire-rimmed spectacles higher on the bridge of his nose. “Do you remember me?” he asked.
“No.”
“Not surprising, really. My name is Brendan Mullally; I’m one of the registrars here. Do you know where you are?”
“Hospital.”
He smiled. “Well done. Was it the white coats that gave it away, or the smell?” When Ingrid didn’t respond, he carried on. “You were brought in by paramedics at
lunch time. You were unconscious. We’re running a tox screen, but my suspicion is that you were administered a drug like Rohypnol.”
Ingrid tried to remember. She could see a red phone booth. Why was that in her brain?
“Do you remember if you were drinking at lunchtime?”
McKittrick locked eyes with Mullally. “Trust me, Ingrid can handle her booze. That isn’t it.”
“Are you on any medication?” he asked. “Any prescription drugs?”
Prescription drugs? Why did that ring a bell? An image of a blister pack in a handbag popped into her head. Ingrid looked at McKittrick, who conspicuously avoided eye contact. Ingrid remembered about Natasha’s misconduct hearing. She had said she’d lost her job, or been suspended… she’d said she was in the pub drowning her sorrows. The morning started to assemble itself in Ingrid’s memory. She saw the Queen Mary pub. She felt her hand grip around a napkin filled with cutlery. Did I stab someone? She thought she might pass out at the memory. She closed her eyes.
“Ingrid,” McKittrick said, “stay with us.”
Ingrid took a deep, slow breath and opened her eyes. Did she? Did she really stab someone? She looked down at her right hand, observing it as if it was someone else’s and brought it up near her face. She turned it over and looked at her palm. There was a small patch of dried blood. Her hand slumped back down onto the bed, suddenly too heavy to be held aloft.
“What is it?” McKittrick asked.
Panic coiled up from Ingrid’s stomach, burning her throat. She looked up at the doctor: “Could you leave us alone for a moment?” she said.
“Of course. Rest. I’ll pop back later.” He looked at McKittrick: “Come and grab me when she’s ready.”
Ingrid watched as he walked away and saw the clock on the wall for the first time. Nearly six o’clock. Six? She didn’t have time to lie in bed. She had to speak to people; she needed to find Kate-Lynn. No, the girl’s name wasn’t Kate-Lynn, that was the sister, she needed to find… She searched her cloudy memory for the name. Kristyn. She had to find Kristyn. She turned to her friend. “Where’s my phone?”