by K E Coles
CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE PEARL
A noise woke me. I sat up, listened. Nothing. Perhaps the rat, looking for food.
Cold grey early morning light accentuated the barren desolation of the warehouse. It seemed fitting somehow, as if it summed up my life. I sat up, smoothed my hair down, rubbed my face with my hands.
The noise came again. Male voices, footsteps on metal. They grew louder, then began to fade. They’d missed me.
‘Art,’ I shouted, my voice croaky and hoarse. ‘Art, I’m in here.’
The sound of bolts being slid back made me weak with relief. ‘Thank God.’ The door opened. Two silhouettes – one tall, skinny, one broader. ‘Where’s Art?’
‘Get up,’ Nico said. ‘We’re going.’
Spicer appeared behind him, hands in his pockets. He avoided my gaze, the coward.
Relief turned to anger. ‘What’ve you done with him?’ I said.
Nico laughed. ‘He sent us, darlin’.’ He came towards me.
‘Liar.’ I tried to stand but my right leg had gone dead. I straightened it, flexed my foot up and down.
‘Let’s get you back,’ Nico said. ‘Check his kid’s okay.’
‘Kid?’ I said. ‘There is no kid.’ Pins and needles spread from my hip, down my leg.
Nico’s eyes narrowed. ‘What d’you say?’
‘There’s no baby. I’m not pregnant - idiot.’ If only I could have stood, I could have punched him, because I wanted to do it, so, so much. Punch him, knock him unconscious, do the same to Spicer, and run away, but my damned leg wouldn’t work.
A slow grin spread over Nico’s face, as he watched me struggling to get to my feet. ‘So blue-eyed boy’s messed up.’ He laughed, flung his head back. ‘Brilliant.’
‘We don’t need to take her in then,’ Spicer said.
‘No you don’t,’ I said. ‘So leave me alone.’
Nico laughed. ‘Oh, yeah. We take her in - once I’ve rectified the situation.’
‘What?’ Spicer’s mouth hung open.
‘Papa wants a kid,’ Nico said. ‘He’s gonna get one.’
Anger had given me strength, but horror took over – gut-wrenching terror. I shook my head, shuffled backwards.
‘Leave her alone,’ Spicer said, as if that was going to help.
Nico smirked. ‘Wait outside, Spice, if you don’t wanna watch.’
‘Leave her,’ Spicer said, slowly, ‘alone.’
Nico’s jaw clenched. He turned. ‘What the fuck are you doing?’
Something clicked.
‘You’re never gonna use that, man.’ Nico laughed. ‘Give it to me.’ He moved towards Spicer.
I shuffled sideways, saw Spicer holding a gun, eyes wide, hands trembling.
‘Oh, I’ll use it,’ Spicer said, but his lip wobbled when he said it, and the gun was all over the place.
Nico turned his head, winked at me. ‘Keep it warm.’ He turned back to Spicer.
I held onto the wall and hauled myself to my feet. I put my weight on my good leg, flexed my right foot.
Spicer backed off. ‘I don’t want to kill you.’
Nico moved so fast, he had Spicer on the floor before I could move. The gun skittered across the floorboards. Nico pounded the side of Spicer’s head again and again with his fist. The sound . . . He was going to kill him.
I dived flat out for the gun, grabbed it. A loud crack, and the gun recoiled in my hand.
‘Oh, my God!’
They were both unmoving. Spicer’s face was a bloody mess.
‘Oh, my God!’
Nico swayed above him.
I clambered onto my knees, rocked back and forth. The gun, the gun. I’d dropped it, and Nico was going to . . . Shit!
My fingers caught at the gun, picked it up.
When I looked back, Nico had slumped on top of Spicer. They looked as if they were asleep, except for the blood pooling on the floorboards
Spicer’s hands moved, pushed against Nico’s body.
‘Spicer.’
He wriggled out from under Nico. Blood, bone, flesh, speckled his face, his hair. He wiped the gunk from his eyes, stared at me. ‘You shot him.’
I nodded.
‘You shot him.’ Spicer laughed.
‘It’s not funny,’ I said. ‘It just went off.’
‘I was meant to be rescuing you.’ He laughed again, hysterical. ‘And you . . .’
‘Shut up.’ The blood inched towards me. Red-black, shiny, lifeblood. ‘Please shut up.’
‘It’s okay,’ He walked over and helped me to my feet. ‘It’s okay, Pearl.’ He hugged me, and I could feel his warmth, feel his heart beating, strong and safe. He took the gun from my hand. ‘Think I’d better have this, don’t you?’
We both heard it at the same time – the sliding back of the metal grille down below.
We ran for the door and out onto a red iron fire escape. The will to live blotted out every other thought, blotted out the pain that shot up my leg every time my right foot hit the floor. Raindrops made polka dot patterns on the rusted metal staircase.
Spicer stopped. ‘Car.’ He glanced back. ‘I’ll have to get the key.’
‘No.’
He ran up, two steps at a time.
Down below, far below, nothing moved. A black limo stood parked in the centre of the yard. Other than that, it was empty. I watched the entrance as I clattered down the zigzag, one hand on the rail, ready to run back up if anyone appeared. Rain hammered onto my head, ran down my face, soaked through my jeans.
Spicer caught up with me. He looked different, in control. He looked like a man, instead of a crazy boy.
The rain grew heavier, bounced off the tarmac. Hailstones joined in, pinging off the limo’s bonnet and roof. We ran, heads down, and dived into the car.
We sat, dripping all over the seats.
Spicer’s fair hair lay plastered to his head. The rain had washed Nico’s brains off his face, but the side of his face was swollen and dark red. He looked at me and smiled. ‘Fuck,’ he said. ‘What a life.’
I nodded. Yes, what a life.
He started the engine, drove through the archway, and pulled out into the street.
‘They’ll trace the car,’ I said.
‘I know, but we need to get to a train, and quick.’ He pulled into a petrol station.
‘What’re you doing?’
‘I have to get something.’ He ran into the kiosk. Two minutes later, he came back, and threw an oblong box onto my lap. It weighed nothing.
‘What’s this?’
He started the engine, drove like an idiot.
I turned the box over. Pregnancy test. Just the sight of it made me queasy. ‘I don’t need this,’ I said.
‘Do it for me.’
He parked on a double yellow line, jumped out of the car. ‘Come on.’
I climbed out, left the box on the seat.
‘Take it,’ he said.
The vast, Victorian train station was packed with commuters and tourists.
Spicer pointed at the ladies’ toilet. ‘Now.’
‘What?’ I stepped away from him. ‘I can’t. Not here.’
He leaned forwards. ‘You can. You must.’ He put his hand in his pocket – the pocket with the gun. ‘Don’t make me force you.’
‘How did you get that gun?’ I said.
‘You do the test,’ he said, ‘and maybe I’ll tell you.’
What a place to find out – in a cubicle that smelled of shit, in amongst tampon wrappers discarded on the floor.
I followed the instructions, waited, read the graffiti on the walls - who gave head, who was gay - and looked back at the stick in my hand.
One blue word, lit up like a neon sign – pregnant.
CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX SPICER
Spicer called Jim. No reply. ‘Damn.’ He stared at the phone. What now? She’d been ages in that bloody bog. He pushed the door open. ‘Pearl.’
She looked a mess, her lip swollen, her hair sopping, like
a bedraggled mop on her head, and yet still, she was beautiful - perhaps even more so than before. The sight of her gave Spicer a sharp pain, right in the centre of his chest.
‘Well?’ he said.
‘You wasted your money.’
‘Yeah?’ Then why did she look so washed-out, defeated? ‘That’s good, isn’t it?’
‘Brilliant.’ She turned away.
She was lying. She had to be. Shit! Shit! Get her somewhere safe – that was the main thing. Get her somewhere safe, then go back and blow that bastard Art to oblivion.
‘We have to find somewhere to hide out,’ Spicer said, ‘and there’s no reply from Jim.’
‘Jim?’ Her eyes looked massive, dark. ‘Not Jim,’ she shook her head, ‘please.’
That left one option – the emergency number. He dialled it. It clicked immediately and a man’s robotic voice gave him an address. Then, ‘Dave’, it said, and the call ended.
Spicer stared at the phone.
‘What?’ Pearl said.
Spicer shrugged. ‘The safe house. We have to ask for Dave.’
They caught the train to Clapham Junction. Spicer led the way along the road, reading the map on his phone. He wanted to hold her, hug her, tell her everything would be okay, but she’d probably punch him, and anyway, it would be a lie. She was still pretending, but the downturned mouth, the darkened eyes said it all.
They found it, a doorway between a jewellers’ shop and a newsagent. Three steps led up to a dirty, white-painted door. He checked again. Definitely the right place. No buzzer, just a keypad.
‘It said Dave,’ he said. ‘Maybe we should ask at the shop next door.’
She stared at the keypad. ‘Got it.’ She punched numbers in – 41225.
The door buzzed. ‘Bingo.’ He pushed. The door opened a little, then stuck. He shoved again, using his shoulder. A pile of post and junk mail lay on the floor. He pushed a foot in, kicked as much as he could out of the way. At last, he forced the door wide enough for them to squeeze through.
‘How d’you know the number?’
‘Letters of the alphabet.’ She said. ‘D, 4, A, 1 . . .’
‘Oh, yeah,’ he said. ‘Clever.’
She looked so different when she smiled, as if someone had turned a light on, but it didn’t last long. She caught his arm. ‘I killed two people, Spicer,’ she said. ‘Two people in two days.’
‘Two?’
‘Leo.’
‘Listen.’ He held her shoulders, looked into her grey eyes. ‘Nico was an accident, okay? And Leo, well . . .’
‘I meant to do it – Leo.’ Her eyes filled.
The two of them stood, cramped in the narrow hallway.
‘Don’t think about it,’ Spicer said. ‘Forget it.’
‘Is that what you do?’
‘Yes.’ A narrow flight of stairs rose in front of them – olive green, threadbare carpet. Spicer took them two at a time.
‘What about Art?’ she said, from behind him.
‘What?’
At the top of the stairs was a hardboard door with a hole punched in it.
‘Nice,’ Spicer said.
The door opened into a long, narrow living room with two doors off. It was furnished with a sagging brown tweed sofa, and matching armchair. The place stank of mildew. Spicer opened the window, looked out onto the back of another, equally grim, building.
Pearl joined him. ‘They’re going to kill him,’ she said.
‘What?’
‘Art. We have to stop them.’
Spicer stared at her. She meant it. She only fucking meant it. ‘Are you insane?’
‘They’re going to kill him – sacrifice him.’
‘He sent us to get you.’ Spicer’s jaw clenched so tight, his teeth ached.
She shook her head.
‘He ordered me to get your room ready.’ His eyes felt as if they might just pop right out of his head. ‘You want to know what it was like – your room? What your lover had ready for you? Yeah? Yeah?’
She stepped back.
‘No, no,’ he said, ‘you’re going to hear this.’ He stepped after her. ‘Bars on the window,’ he said. ‘Fucking great thick metal bars.’
‘You’re lying.’ The corners of her mouth pulled right down. ‘I know you’re lying.’
‘The door,’ he leaned into her face, could feel the spittle foaming at the corners of his mouth, ‘locks from the outside – fucking great bolts. Now d’you get it?’
Laughter, but not from her.
‘You do exaggerate, Spicer.’ Art stood in the doorway.
CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN PEARL
‘Oh, thank God.’ I put my hands to my face. It seemed like a miracle.
Spicer stood with both hands on the gun, pointed straight at Art’s head.
‘What are you doing?’ I said.
Art raised his hands. ‘Come on now, Spicer. You don’t want to piss me off.’
‘Piss you . . ?’ Spicer said. ‘I’ll blow your fucking head off.’
‘You’re insane,’ I screamed at him. ‘Put the gun down.’
‘You’re the one who’s insane,’ Spicer said. ‘Ask him.’ He pulled the safety catch back. ‘Ask him what his plan is for you, his beloved.’
Art’s lip twitched. His eyes, when he looked at me were dead, empty. ‘It’s a perfectly comfortable room.’
‘What?’ I didn’t get it.
‘You’ll have everything you need.’
I must have heard him wrong, misunderstood.
‘There,’ Spicer said. ‘See?’
I spun around. ‘Shut up. Just shut up.’ I stared up at Art. ‘You were going to keep me prisoner?’
‘Well,’ he said, ‘that’s a melodramatic way of putting it.’
He couldn’t mean it, not after everything we’d been through. He couldn’t. I stared up at that cold, hard face, realised I didn’t know him at all.
‘Did you know Mrs Arnold killed Ben?’
He flinched perhaps, or maybe it was wishful thinking.
‘I heard her talking to Papa,’ I said. ‘She killed him, and she wanted to kill me.’
Motionless – no shadow crossed his eyes, no downturn of that mouth – nothing.
‘Ask him if he loves you,’ Spicer said.
I spun around, noticed how Spicer’s arms shook. ‘If you don’t shut up . . . This is none of your business.’
‘You heard her,’ Art said.
I turned to Art. ‘Go on then. Do you love me?’
His silence chilled my insides, crept to where that tiny life lay.
‘You bastard.’ I slapped his face. ‘You bastard.’ I slapped him again, so hard my palm stung. ‘I’m having your – your . . .’ The chill turned to pain, agonising, intense pain. I doubled over, clutched at my belly.
He stared, white-faced.
I held onto the wall, straightened up. ‘What?’ I screamed. ‘That was the plan, wasn’t it?’
His eyes flicked to Spicer, to the gun.
‘It’s our child.’ I yelled into his face. ‘Our child - yours and mine.’
‘No.’ He looked right into my eyes. ‘It’s Papa’s.’
I laughed, harsh, shrill. ‘Papa’s? Oh, no – no. You’re Papa’s. You are, you bastard. You belong to him. I don’t, and neither does my baby.’ A fog of rage filled my head – blessed oblivion.
CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT SPICER
‘Christ!’ Spicer ran forward as Pearl’s legs folded beneath her.
Art was nearer. He caught her in his arms, lowered her gently to the floor.
‘Back off.’ Spicer levelled the gun at him.
Art knelt by Pearl’s side, laid her in the recovery position.
‘Stand back,’ Spicer said. He’d have taken the safety catch off, but it was too risky.
Art brushed the hair back from Pearl’s face, whispered something.
‘I said – stand back.’ Spicer pressed the gun to Art’s temple.
Art backed onto his heels, hands up. ‘Sh
e’s just fainted, idiot. She hasn’t eaten.’
‘Stand up.’ Spicer signalled with the gun. ‘I want to kill you, face to face.’
Art’s lip curled as he straightened up. ‘Don’t be stupid. She’d never forgive you.’
Spicer glanced down to see Pearl’s wide grey-green eyes watching him, just like those angels had.
‘Get out.’ He waved the gun at Art. ‘Go.’
Art looked back at Pearl, but her eyes were fixed on Spicer, on the gun.
Spicer followed him down the stairs, aimed the gun at the back of his head the whole way. He’d wait until they were out of earshot, and then . . .
Art turned in the doorway. ‘Oh, Spicer . . .’
The gun flew out of Spicer’s hand. His back slammed against the wall. He went to cry out, but Art’s forearm whacked across his throat.
‘Now then - Marcus,’ Art whispered in his ear.
Spicer’s bowels loosened. He was dead – if he was lucky. His arm, trapped behind his back, felt as if it was about to snap.
‘You make one sound,’ Art hissed, ‘one, and I’ll break your neck, understand?’
Spicer tried to nod, couldn’t move his head. His chest tightened, screamed for oxygen.
‘I have a proposition for you.’ Art glanced back up the stairs.
Proposition? Was this some kind of joke?
The pressure eased on Spicer’s throat. He sucked air into his parched lungs.
‘One sound.’ Art released him.
Stars peppered Spicer’s vision as he doubled over. Through them, he saw the Glock, Art’s finger on the trigger. Shit.
‘Out there.’ Art waved the gun at the door, shoved Spicer through it.
They stood in the tiny vestibule. Spicer massaged his neck, tried to open up his compressed windpipe.
Art pushed the interior door closed behind him. ‘You think I left my gun by accident?’
The coat, left lying across the chair, so out of character. Spicer shrugged.
‘I knew you’d rescue her, do your hero bit,’ Art said. ‘That’s why I sent you.’
It didn’t make sense. ‘I don’t . . .’ Spicer’s throat closed up. He coughed.