by Bo Brennan
When the taxi signalled to a stop at a leafy intersection, Gray tucked into a farm track between hedgerows. The bike had many more advantages than getting under his ex’s skin.
Shayla Begum climbed from the back of the cab wearing nothing more than a hospital gown, gauze dressings, and a plaster cast. As she gesticulated for the driver to wait, Gray spied the plastic hospital admission band still encircling her wrist, and remembered how limp that same wrist had been when he’d passed her through the window of Cantilever Court to safety. The fact he couldn’t do the same for Charlie, or Mrs Reynolds, lodged painfully in his throat.
When she disappeared around the corner, and out of Gray’s view, he edged the bike from his hidey hole and followed.
With Shayla again in clear sight he pulled in and watched, his dark visor concealing curious amusement. She padded barefoot along the narrow road on tiny sparrow legs, one hand holding the gaping gown together, the other, in a plaster cast, jutting out before her like a Hollywood housewife lacking a Hermès.
Halfway down the road to nowhere, something in her demeanour changed. Closing in on a chocolate-box church, she suddenly seemed cautious. Warier of her surroundings. Through his helmet, Gray could make out muffled jeers. He wheeled closer to see the culprits beyond the privet hedge. A group of bleary-eyed teenagers stood around a freshly filled grave, swilling from beer cans, toasting their fallen friend. He shared their sorrow, felt their pain.
They were no threat to Shayla Begum, she was more threat to them. In their current state of drunken teenage grief, a woman in a sheet walking through the graveyard was likely to leave its mark on more than one pair of pants. It was the sort of prank Charlie would pull.
As Shayla reached for the wooden gate Gray suppressed a guilty smile, turning his head away despite the anonymity his visor afforded.
And then frowned as the texting taxi driver sped past, phone still welded to his palm. The arsehole must’ve got a better fare. Gray wished he’d got his number, before someone like him had to cut the dickhead’s corpse from his car.
When he looked back, Shayla was making a beeline for the church doors.
Change of plan, Gray decided. He’d had enough death and destruction. Wherever she was going – she was arriving in one piece.
He climbed off the bike and unlocked the spare helmet from the back, resting it on the tank as he prepared to remove his own. Gray wanted her to know it was him waiting. Know she was safe.
His hands froze on the chin strap as a white Mercedes Sprinter van screeched to a halt in the middle of the road and two Asian men jumped out. They left the engine running and the side door open as they disappeared through the graveyard gate.
Chapter 43
Royal South Hants, Winchester
India Kane stormed into the hospital’s Security Hub shaking her head. “What the fuck, Smithy. Seriously?”
PC Paul Smith spun in his chair, shifting his glare from the camera monitors to India. “Yes, seriously.” He lifted the cold compress from his temple as proof. “Bitch knocked me out.”
“How the hell did she manage that?” India spat. “Apart from being the size of a fucking ant, she was half dead yesterday.”
His brows bunched together. “I can smack you around the head with a plaster cast and show you exactly how, if you like.”
India set her jaw. “I’d like to see you fucking try.”
Paul winced and returned the compress to his temple. “She got lucky, caught me off guard,” he grumbled defensively. “Ward Sister Kennedy brought me a Danish pastry back from the canteen. Sat right outside Begum’s door to eat it. I thought we were protecting her from threats, didn’t know she was the bloody threat.”
Neither did India. The oversight was hers, not Paul’s. The man had to eat. “Nursie’s Danish nice, was it?”
He gave a sheepish shrug. “Don’t know. Didn’t get to taste it. Licked my lips and whack. Came round on the floor with the fuckin’ thing stuck to my face.”
One side of India’s lips twitched. “I’ll buy you another one.”
“You already owe me a chocolate badge,” he said, snootily swivelling his seat back to the monitors.
India tutted and rolled her eyes. “Fine. I’ll buy you two.” She braced her hands on the desk between Paul and the hospital’s camera operator. “Any sign of her yet?”
The operator pointed to one of the monitors. “Think I’ve got her on the approach to the main doors. Is that your woman?”
“Yeah, that’s her,” India murmured, studying the screen as Shayla Begum made a surprisingly agile bid for freedom. Or death. Because that’s exactly what lurked outside those doors for her. It made no sense. Here they could contain the threat, protect her. Why would she run from them, instead of to them?
“I want her done for assault,” Paul said.
India frowned down at him. Maybe Shayla Begum had encountered the law before. Maybe the law she’d encountered then was also an arse. “You are seriously concussed if you’re contemplating charges,” she said. He’d be ridiculed. The woman was the size of a ten-year-old child, barely eighty pounds. At over six feet tall, sweet-toothed PC Paul Smith probably still made two-eighty after a shower, shit, and shave. “Sleep on it and get back to me when your brain’s not broken, Smithy.”
“I’m switching to the external cameras now,” the operator said. “We’ll pick her up outside.”
It wasn’t just the cameras that picked her up. Shayla Begum climbed into the back of a car. India squinted at the screen. “That’s a taxi. I can’t see the registration. Can you zoom in?”
The operator shook his head. “Only on a live feed.”
India groaned and kneaded her temples, where a headache born of stress and frustration threatened to rival Paul’s plaster cast pasting. “Can you track the internal footage back to see if she used a phone on her exit route?”
“No need. The hospital only has one cab contract.” The camera operator smiled up at her. “If I tell you who it is, will I get a Danish too?”
Headbourne Worthy, Hampshire
Shit! Gray grabbed the spare lid and sprinted through the graveyard gate.
The bastards had caught up with her right outside the church doors. The tallest, widest one held Shayla’s upper body, tucked tight against his chest. Head down, his slightly smaller mate grappled to get a grip on her wildly kicking legs.
Even through his helmet Gray could hear her desperate cries.
Closing in on the melee, he swung the spare through the air. The impact reverberated through his arm when it connected with the leg-grabber’s skull, knocking him clean off his feet and sending him crashing face first into an angelic granite cherub. Gray had God on his side. The fucker stayed down.
Gray squared up, ready to unleash everything he had on the big ugly bastard still holding her.
The fuckwit dropped Shayla to the ground between them. Gray couldn’t get to her without showing his back to him, and he couldn’t get to him without trampling Shayla.
Gasping for breath, she crawled towards the grass. With his eyes fixed on Gray, searching for an identity behind the dark visor, the evil bastard stamped down on her leg, gritting his teeth as he ground her into the dirt. Her fingers still clawing for earthly escape, she let out a blood curdling scream . . . and Gray instinctively reached for her.
Blow after powerful blow rained down on him, rattling his brain in his skull and threatening to fell him. He braced himself over Shayla, sucking up her pain like petrol for his fire. On a surge of adrenalin-fuelled fury, Gray shot up and headbutted him, mashing his nose into a pulp of blood, bone, and gristle and adding a nice new scar to the ugly fucker’s collection.
His eyes glazed over. For a split second he was out on his feet. Something clattered to the overgrown stone pathway before the hateful prick followed it down. Hard.
Gray dropped to one knee, pressed the spare helmet onto Shayla’s head, hastily fastened the clasp, and threw her over his shoulder, running for the road
.
Mere minutes after he’d raced through the graveyard gate, Gray Davies cranked the throttle on his bike and roared away with Shayla Begum clinging to his back and no intentions of stopping for anyone.
Chapter 44
Winchester, Hampshire
The cab office was a pokey hole, just enough room for Jabba the Hut – picking through the bones of a Kentucky bucket – and his body odour to fester nicely.
Jabba looked up, gnawing on the remains of a chicken drumstick when India walked in. “Where to, love?”
A galaxy far, far away, she thought. “The land of enlightenment,” she said, holding up her warrant card. He sucked grease from his fingers and reached for her ID. It was back in her pocket before he even got close. “You the owner?”
“I wish. This body would be poolside at a villa in sunny Spain right now.” He trailed slick fingers across his bulging belly. “Manager, controller, and all-round dogsbody, love. What can I do for you?”
He was definitely an all-round something. “One of your cabs picked up a woman from the Royal South Hants earlier. I need to speak to the driver.”
He puffed out his chubby cheeks, it was probably the most effort he’d expended all day. “It’s a hospital. Hundreds of visitors come and go every minute. I’ve got sixty cars out there.”
“This one was unusual. They’ll remember her. The woman was a patient.” India handed him a grainy time-stamped security still of a spectral Shayla Begum getting into the taxi. “It was two hours ago. Radio your drivers and find out who picked her up.”
“Man, we do so many fares from that hospital, we have cars permanently parked there.”
“That’ll narrow it down then,” India said. “Radio those first.”
The first three drivers knew nothing. The fourth said ‘Ash’ had taken her fare. The driver on the radio said he’d just pulled in behind him, and was relieved she didn’t get into his car because ‘she looked like a mental patient. A real nutcase.’ The fat controller snorted a laugh and grinned at India. He had bits of chicken in his teeth.
Unimpressed, she stared back. “Get Ash on the radio.”
He swallowed his smile and glanced down at his ledger. “Can’t. His radio’s off. Dude’s on a long-haul airport run tonight, won’t be back till morning.”
“So phone him.”
“What and get him to break the law? Don’t think so. He’s driving, officer.”
India reached across the counter and grabbed the ledger, thumbing through its pages. “Where’d he drop her?”
“We don’t keep those records,” Jabba said, snatching the book from her hands. “They do their own thing.”
India gritted her teeth. How hard could it be? “You’re a cab firm. Your drivers pick people up and take them places for a fee. You must know where to, your revenue depends on it, right?”
“Wrong. We rent branded cars and switchboard services to drivers for a weekly fee. When work comes in we pass it their way. If they’re available, they take it.”
India frowned, digesting what that meant. “Are you telling me they pay you to drive your cabs?”
“No. They pay us to rent our cars and services. All fares are theirs, we don’t take a cut. That’s why it doesn’t matter where the drop is. They’re all self-employed.” He shrugged and glugged from an open can of Diet Coke on his desk.
An all-round piss taker. India shook her head. “You got a copy of this Ash’s licence, insurance, home address?”
“Yeah, of course. This is a respectable business.” The chair groaned as he reached for a file, the stench from his pits repugnant.
India coughed and looked to the door, hoping the faintest whiff of fresh air might be leaking through the letter box. “You run criminal record checks on these drivers too?”
“First thing we do once their licences come back clean.” He copied the documents on a desktop scanner and handed them over. “Do I need to run another one on this dude?”
India looked over the taxi driver’s licence details. Ashvindar Singh. A name and face with no relevance. “Not on my account. What time’s he due back from his airport run?”
The fat controller grimaced and spread his hands. “No idea, but he’s back on shift midday tomorrow. I expect he’ll get his head down for a few hours first.”
Not likely, India thought. Ashvindar Singh lived in Winchester, not far from the nick. She’d be knocking him up on her way into work in the morning. No doubt long after the mysterious Miss Begum had moved on.
Portsmouth, Hampshire
Under cover of darkness, Gray pulled Shayla into his body, shielding her from the street as his key shakily found the lock. Bundling her inside, he slammed the door behind them, yanked up the handle, and frantically checked the ground floor windows were secure.
He pulled his helmet off and dropped it into the armchair. The chip in the left of the lid indicated it was a write-off. “Shit, that was close,” he said, wiping sweat from his brow.
Wearing only his spare helmet and a filthy hospital gown, Shayla Begum stood silently in the corner of his lounge like a souvenir from a Daft Punk gig.
Adrenaline still pumping, he grabbed her hand and led her upstairs, felt her resistance when he pulled her into the bedroom and tugged the helmet off. “You’ll find joggers and T-shirts in there,” he said, pointing to his chest of drawers. “Get some clothes on.”
Head bowed, this tiny fragile creature trembled at the foot of his bed. Gray lifted her chin. The dressings on her neck had been disturbed. Raw, pink wounds blemished coffee-coloured skin. “You’re safe with me, Shayla, I promise. Once you’re dressed I’ll take a look at your neck, okay?”
Big brown bewildered eyes stared back at him through sweeping jet black lashes. She swallowed hard and nodded. And his heart punched his chest so hard he thought he might pass out.
Roughly clearing his throat, he dropped his hands to his sides. “I need to cover the bike up. I’ll be downstairs when you’re ready.”
Gray pulled the bedroom door to, annoyed at the twinge in his shoulder. That big ugly bastard in the churchyard had fists like hammers. He’d hurt like hell when the adrenaline finally crashed. But not as much as Shayla. She now had the monster’s mammoth shoe print embedded in her calf, adding to her burnt and broken bones.
Cautiously stepping outside, he peered over the forecourt wall. The street seemed unnaturally quiet tonight, no headlights or movement anywhere. With a sigh of relief, he retrieved the rain cover from under his dustbin and slung it over the bike. For once thankful of the council’s recycling policy madness, he dragged his rainbow assortment of wheelie bins over, adding an eco-wall of screening. With the ache in his shoulder intensifying he shook the numbness from his fingers and went back inside, pressing his palm to the plastic door as he locked them in and the world out. Blood speckled the white uPVC. Gray raised his hand to see his bloody imprint left behind.
He stared at it, sticky red and glistening in the light of the lounge. Then he felt it. A red-hot poker piercing his shoulder. His gaze shifted to the cut in his leather jacket.
The pain grew as realisation dawned.
He’d been stabbed.
The ugly fucker had stabbed him.
He unzipped and shrugged out of his leather jacket, letting it fall to the floor where he stood. His white T-shirt was slashed across the shoulder and drenched with blood. Pressing the heel of his right hand to the hole, stemming the flow, he hurried to the kitchen.
“Shit, shit, shit.” He pulled open cupboards, scattering cleaning crap in his haste to find the first aid box. It was seldom used so it should be well stocked. He pulled the green box free and dumped it on the counter.
Breathing heavily, he pulled the shirt over his head and slung it in the sink, exposing the wound for the first time. A big red eye winked at him just below his collar bone.
Fuck, he really had been stabbed and hadn’t felt a thing. Sure as hell felt it now though. Wished he’d hung around a bit longer and kicke
d the shit out of the evil fuckers while they were down.
He ran the tap, soaked his shirt, and pressed it to the wound, emptying the contents of the green box onto the draining board one-handed.
The plasters were discarded; a Band Aid wasn’t going to cut it. A sling and safety pins, useful but not right now. Good to know he owned a finger splint, thermometer, and eye pod.
Sterile gauze pads, adhesive tape, and antiseptic cream he kept to one side. Hesitated over the alcohol wipes, sounded painful, derided himself for being a wuss and chucked them in too. He’d been stabbed for fuck’s sake, how painful could it get?
“You’re hurt.”
He turned to see Shayla at the kitchen door, swamped by his clothes. “One of your friends stabbed me.”
“They’re not my friends.” She pulled out a kitchen chair and steered him to it. “Please, let me help you for a change.”
Gray didn’t argue. His wobbly legs welcomed the opportunity. People trying to kill you might be a regular event for her, but it sure as hell wasn’t for him.
She stood between his thighs, unconcerned by his blood on her hand as she cleaned and clinically assessed the damage. “Penetrating trauma to the left clavicle. Sharp blade, clean wound.” The alcohol wipe stung like fuck, but that was nothing. He almost had to peel himself off the ceiling when she unexpectedly poked her finger in the hole. “Sorry,” she said as every muscle in his body clenched, forcing a growl from his throat. “Luckily it missed the subclavian artery. Move your fingers for me.”
Gray wiggled his fingers and formed a fist, studying her reaction.
“Good,” she said. “No obvious nerve damage, either. You’ll live, but you need stitches to close this.”