by K E Coles
I passed the heavy metal gates of the lock. The edges of the railings had been painted white, to warn people of the danger, I supposed. The sudden drop in water level gave me vertigo. Far, far below, black and green and oily, the water lapped against the sheer, slime-covered walls. I backed away from the edge. The darkness behind was almost as scary as the water. Lights from the pub and the road above highlighted the green foliage of the weeping willows, the white railings, but plunged everything else into deep, blue-black shadow.
Sudden terror gripped my throat. What if he’d been hiding, was creeping up behind me? I spun around. Nothing.
The world tilted. An arm clamped around my neck, crushing my airways. He dragged me backwards. I lost my footing, tried to free myself, tore at his arm. My heels clattered on the path. My head felt as if it was about to explode. I could feel my eyes bulging. My ears buzzed and the edges of my vision darkened. This is it, I thought – the end of everything.
He dragged me into the darkness, and loosened his grip a little.
‘Been waiting for this,’ he said, in my ear.
A tiny amount of air reached my lungs. I gagged, coughed.
‘Gonna finish you this time, you and your sprog.’ His laughter echoed across the water. ‘But first we’re gonna have some fun.’
His phone buzzed against my back.
‘Bollocks!’ He pulled the phone from his pocket.
A loud hum filled my head. Bright silver stars, millions of them, floated in front of my eyes.
‘Yeah?’ he said.
I moved my right hand back, underneath the hem of his Parka, grabbed between his legs, and yanked.
His screech hurt my ears. He lashed out, sent me crashing against the railings.
I cringed, expecting a punch or a kick. It didn’t come. I opened my eyes to see his silhouette staggering at the edge of the towpath, his hands between his legs. ‘Fuck. Fuck.’
Behind him, far, far below, the black water globbed, thick and viscous.
I edged forwards, crouched low in the darkness, and shoved him.
He swayed on the edge, back and forth, waved his arms like a windmill.
I could have saved him, could have stepped forward, reached out a hand and caught him, but I didn’t. I just watched as he teetered there – and fell.
The splash came later, much later.
There was an empty space where he’d been, and I couldn’t believe I’d done it. I felt no guilt, no remorse, just elation. Exultant, that’s what I felt. I was alive, and had rid the world of one evil bastard, the bastard who’d killed Jack. I’d sent him to the bottom of that putrid green sludge. Slime to slime, filth to filth.
I almost skipped back to the road. I called Art.
After eight rings, he answered. ‘Mmm?’
‘I’ve killed Leo,’ I said. The enormity of what I’d done smacked me in the guts out of nowhere. My hands shook so violently, I had to use both of them to hold the phone. ‘I killed him,’ I said, keeping my voice down, shielding the mouthpiece with my hand. Repeating it made it worse, made it a reality. I’d done something I could never, ever undo.
What sounded like a snigger came down the phone.
‘I don’t want to be a killer,’ I said, as if Art could somehow change the past, make it all okay.
Silence.
Art didn’t snigger. He never sniggered.
‘Where’s Art?’ I said.
‘He’s – busy,’ Papa said. ‘We’re waiting for you.’ Someone cried out in the background.
‘Don’t touch him,’ I said, my voice rising. ‘Don’t hurt him. Please, don’t hurt him.’
Papa chuckled. ‘Come and save him. That is what you do, no? Go to Liverpool Street station, get a cab to 20 Cecil Row,’ he said. ‘And your phone’s tapped, so come on your own, there’s a good girl.’
‘Let me talk to him.’
He cut me off – call ended.
CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO SPICER
Spicer sat by his bedroom window, looked out onto the busy street. It thronged with people as always, night or day. A group of girls, dressed in short, short skirts and high heels, tottered along, arm in arm. They chattered like a load of sparrows, shrieking with laughter as they disappeared around the corner.
He lay on his bed. Watching girls just made it worse. He stared at the ceiling, wondered whether to go to a club, see if he could pull again, someone a bit classier this time. As far as he knew, there were no house rules about bringing girls back. Perhaps if he had a proper shag, he’d stop thinking about her, with him.
He showered, shaved, dressed in his best shirt, splashed on some cologne.
As he came down the stairs, Nico poked his head out of the kitchen.
‘You’re wanted, Spice.’
‘I was just . . .’ Spicer indicated the door.
‘No - sorry.’ Nico put his jacket on, opened the front door. ‘By the way, who was the unfortunate female?’
‘What?’
‘You smell like a tart, mate. Almost fancy you myself.’ He laughed as he went out, shutting the door behind him.
Spicer wandered into the kitchen.
Papa and Art stood huddled together near the window. They looked up as he came in.
‘Ah, Spicer,’ Art said. ‘Job for you.’
‘I’m going out.’
‘Not tonight, you’re not,’ Art said. He lowered his head again, close to Papa’s.
They turned in towards each other, heads almost touching, excluding Spicer.
Papa handed a phone to Art. Art slipped it into his pocket, followed Papa past Spicer, and into the hallway.
Spicer edged nearer the door, heard Papa’s voice, but couldn’t make out the words, something about being disappointed. He peered through the gap.
Art was on his knees. He mumbled something, head bowed.
Papa touched Art’s head, turned his hand over and rubbed his fingers together, nose wrinkled. ‘Send Nico.’
‘Nico?’ Art’s voice shook. ‘But, Papa . . .’
‘I said Nico,’ Papa said.
Art bowed his head. ‘Yes, Papa.’
Spicer legged it back to the kettle, as the front door banged shut.
‘Want coffee, Art?’ he shouted.
‘No.’
Spicer forced himself to hum a tune, took a cup from the cupboard, milk from the fridge. ‘Sure?’
‘I said no.’ Art was right behind him. ‘When you’ve finished, get that basement room ready for a guest.’
‘Guest?’
Art’s jaw clenched. He breathed in, out. ‘Make sure the room is secure.’
‘Secure?’
‘What’s the matter with you? Are you asleep?’
‘What? No.’ Spicer frowned.
‘Then get on with it.’
CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE PEARL
I stared at my phone. It was all my fault. If I’d left things as they were, hadn’t tried to change him, he’d have been safe – evil, but safe. Panic rose up, threatened to choke me. They were going to sacrifice him, torture him, make an example of him. I hurried along the road.
People heading home after a night out packed the tube station. The lift smelled of alcohol and garlic. People fidgeted, or stared at the floor. A trio of women giggled in the awkward silence. Didn’t they sense the hatred and fear in the air? I did. I smelled the violence.
Two minutes until the next train – the longest two minutes of my life. I paced back and forth on the platform, finally caught a Northern Line train to Bank, then the Central Line. Never had trains seemed to move so slowly. I couldn’t sit, but rocked back and forth on my toes, willing the driver to go faster. I hated every single person who got off or on the train, wanted to scream at them to hurry. Didn’t they know someone’s life depended on me?
When I left Liverpool Street station, I couldn’t see a taxi anywhere, had to ask someone to point them out. They were right in front of me, a row of black cabs.
‘Ad a barney, have you, love?’ The taxi driver peered a
t me in the rear view mirror.
‘Yes.’ I smoothed my hair down, wiped my face with my hand.
‘Leave him,’ the driver said. ‘Done it once, he’ll do it again.’
Don’t think so, I thought, not this time.
I stood across the road from 20 Cecil Row. I’d imagined a house. Instead, a huge warehouse towered above me. I checked the address again. My phone rang.
‘Fourth floor. Press buzzer eight.’
A siren wailed in the distance. My pulse raced. I stared into the traffic as the sound grew nearer until it was deafening. The police car shot past me and disappeared. It took a moment for me to understand it wasn’t coming to rescue me, to rescue Art.
I ran across the road, pressed the buzzer, and pushed the door before there was time to change my mind. The door clicked shut behind me. I swallowed, breathed in, out, went for the lift. Don’t think, I told myself. Don’t think and you’ll be fine.
The lift crawled upwards, stuttering and stalling as it went. Eventually, it shuddered to a halt. The doors slid open. A metal grille covered the exit. For a moment, I panicked, thought myself trapped. Then I saw a handle. I gripped it and pulled. The grille concertinaed, opened.
Nothing. No one. Just a vast space. Huge, floor to ceiling, latticed windows ran along the opposite wall. London’s dull orange sky lit up the bare, dusty floorboards, and the high, oak-beamed ceiling.
I checked my phone. Dead, like Leo. God knows when I’d last charged it. It had to be the wrong floor. As I turned to press number four again, something caught my eye in the far corner, a dark mass. I stepped out of the lift, my insides churning. Splinters of wood, dust, and occasional fag ends littered the floor. Someone must have been there, at some point. The fag ends were old though – dirty and faded. The nearer I drew to the dark mass, the more convinced I was that something, something solid, sat in that corner. I paused, held my breath, listened. Nothing. Whatever it was, perhaps it had been put there by Papa, for me, to punish me. A horrible image flashed into my mind – Maria’s lifeless body, her knife wounds.
Petrified, I stood and stared. The shapeless mass was knee height, large enough to be a person, a body. My eyes strained in the darkness, tried to pick out some detail that would tell me what it was. It didn’t smell. That was good, wasn’t it? A body would smell, surely, of something, if it was dead. Or would it? Why didn’t I know this stuff?
A clanking sound jolted me out of my paralysis. I ran back to the lift, reached it just as it disappeared below floor level.
‘No,’ I shouted, commanding it to come back. ‘No.’ I glanced over my shoulder. The thing, the lump, hadn’t moved. I held onto the wall, and pressed the button. Far below, I heard it stop, heard the doors open – and stay open. I pressed the button again, then again, punched it with my fist. Nothing. I stared down into the black void. A chill draught blew from somewhere, cut right through my jeans, made me shiver.
My eyes scanned the room. Every dark corner, every alcove, seemed to hold hidden menace. There had to be another exit, but I was scared to move, scared to turn my back on anything. A building so tall would have to have a fire exit. Windows, there were plenty of them, but no doors that I could see. I felt my way along the wall from the lift, checking behind me every few seconds. The wall dropped back to an alcove, and at the very back, there was something – a door. I breathed, ‘Thank God.’ There was no metal bar, just a handle, like an ordinary, interior door. I turned it, pushed against the door with my hip. It didn’t budge. Pulling it did nothing either. I slammed the heel of my hand down on the handle. Nothing, no give at all. Growling with frustration, I felt all around the door for bolts. There were none. Unbelievable. I stood back, screamed, and kicked it with my foot side-on. It killed my ankle, but the door didn’t shift a millimetre.
I stood with my back to it, tried to think what to do next. Again, my eye was drawn to that dark blob. It wasn’t going anywhere, and neither, it seemed, was I. They said the unknown was always scarier than reality. I no longer expected it to jump up and attack me. It would have done so already. No, what held me back was the fear that Art was in there – that I’d lost him too. And I couldn’t face it, not again, the blood, the smell, the emptiness.
So I hobbled to the nearest window, gazed out at the night sky. It made me think of home, where the sky would be full of stars. No stars here. They’d abandoned London, as I should have done. It was a mistake to look down. There, below, flowed black water, a canal or river. I imagined Leo’s body underwater, dragged along through the silt and mud, or floating, bloated, on the surface, eyes and mouth open in a silent, never-ending scream. I turned away, folded my shaking hands together. I’d have to learn to live with that later, once I was safe. Me, a killer.
After taking a deep breath, I limped quickly across the floor, without thinking. Holding my breath, I leaned forwards, and touched the blackness.
It moved.
At least, I thought it did.
I swallowed, tried to speak, made no sound.
A scratch, another infinitesimal movement.
My heartbeat filled my head, louder than the traffic below, silencing the world.
Something shot out of the darkness, scuttled along the floorboards.
I screamed – instinct. My brain had already told me it was a rat, just a rat. I took a moment to calm myself, then moved closer, touched silky material, padded. I lifted it. It was empty, weighed virtually nothing. A zip ran down one side, a sleeping bag. I unzipped it, shook it out, checked for rat droppings, then zipped it up again, climbed inside, and lay down.
CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR SPICER
Spicer hardly slept. Even with extra covers on, he was cold, and yet the room was stuffy. He got up, pulled on his jeans, two t-shirts, and his warmest jumper. He opened the window. The air outside was still, heavy, somehow expectant.
His mind went over and over what he’d heard. The guest could be anyone. In his guts, he knew who it was. He just didn’t want to get it wrong - blow everything for some low-life Mesmeris member.
Whoever the guest was, once they were in that room, there was no escape. Thick, white-painted vertical bars crossed the small, square window. Ivy almost obscured the view of the road, so no chance of ‘the guest’ being seen by passers-by. The door locked and bolted from the outside.
A rescue from there would be pretty much impossible, unless he had the house to himself. How likely was that to happen? He had to think of something else, and fast, but his tired brain wouldn’t function. Caffeine - caffeine.
He wandered into the dark kitchen, turned on the light, checked the clock - not quite four-thirty. Even filling the kettle felt momentous. His skin prickled - electric, charged.
Someone coughed behind him.
Spicer spun round. ‘Shit!’
Art stood by the window, staring out at the lightening sky. ‘What’s up? Can’t sleep?’ he said.
‘No,’ Spicer said. ‘You?’
Art wandered towards the door. ‘I want you to go with Nico this morning – pick up our guest.’
Spicer’s pulse raced. ‘Me?’
Art turned his head, scorching eyes.
Spicer flinched, yet couldn’t look away. Could Art see the mad, hopeless plans already forming in his head?
‘Yes,’ Art said. ‘You.’ He opened the door. ‘I’m going to bed.’
‘Right.’ Then Spicer saw it, the leather coat, draped over the back of the chair. He stared at it, long after Art’s footsteps went upstairs.
He swallowed, hesitated, stepped towards it. It had to be a trap. He went to the door, checked the hallway. Empty. He went to the front door, took his own jacket off the hook, went back to the kitchen, and draped it over the back of the chair next to Art’s. He lifted the long, leather coat, felt the weight of the Glock.
A car door slammed outside. Mouth dry, pulse racing, Spicer drew the gun out of the inside pocket with finger and thumb, slid it into his own jacket pocket.
A key rattled in the front door.
Spicer switched the kettle on, leaned back against the unit.
Nico swaggered in. ‘All right?’ he said.
Spicer went to say yes, but no sound came out. He cleared his throat. ‘Yeah.’
‘What’s this job then?’
Art appeared in the doorway.
Spicer’s heart beat even faster. He’d made no noise coming down the stairs, could’ve been there all the time, watching. Spicer wiped his forehead on the back of his hand.
Art moved towards the table and chairs. Don’t pick up the coat, Spicer thought. Please don’t pick up the coat.
‘You and Spicer are collecting our guest.’ Art lay his hand on the black leather.
Spicer stopped breathing. Sweat pumped from every pore.
‘Yeah?’ A slow smile spread over Nico’s face. ‘Not you?’
Art’s knuckles whitened. ‘No.’
Spicer couldn’t take his eyes off Art’s hand.
‘We going then, Spice?’ Nico said.
‘Yeah.’ Spicer lifted his heavy jacket, slipped it on.
Nico drove the black limo. Spicer sat in the front passenger seat, felt the weight of the gun against his leg.
‘This guest,’ Spicer said. ‘Is it the girl we saw in Soho – Art’s target?’
‘That’s the one.’
Spicer’s hand went to the Glock. The way his pulse was going, he’d have a heart attack before he could use it.
‘Why we taking her in?’
Nico grinned. ‘You never change, do you?’
They drove through scruffy, grey streets.
‘So, why?’
‘Doesn’t want her getting away, does he? Not now she’s carrying his kid.’
Spicer stared straight ahead, through the windscreen. ‘She’s pregnant?’
‘All part of the plan, Spice, my lad. All part of the plan.’
Bastard. That bastard Art.
He stared at the side of Nico’s head, the temple a perfect fit for the barrel of the Glock. Spicer’s hand tightened around the grip. Turn back, he thought. Turn back so I can blast Art to oblivion. His index finger twitched over the trigger.