by Helen Black
Iona played the tape at normal speed so they could watch the couple giggle and kiss their way down their corridor. They paused outside room 231 and Clem tensed. The male nuzzled into the woman’s breasts and ran his hands over her arse. Over his shoulder, the woman checked her watch while the man continued, oblivious.
‘It’s good to know romance isn’t dead,’ said Clem.
They watched the couple move along the corridor and disappear into another room. Nothing suspicious.
Iona speeded up the tape again, stopping of her own volition when a member of staff in regulation sweatshirt and baseball cap arrived with a stack of newspapers. He went along the corridor, leaving a copy at regular intervals. When he got to Connolly’s room, he laid it carefully on the carpet, brushing the door handle briefly as he rose.
‘Who is that?’ Clem asked.
Iona squinted at the screen. ‘Dunno. Could be one of the Polish lads. They say they’re over eighteen but some of them are pretty wee.’
‘Can you zoom in?’
Iona did as she was asked, but the angle of the camera and the cap made it impossible to get a good look at his face.
Clem asked Iona to move on and the film played until Connolly’s door opened. At first just a crack, then finally, Jo herself looked outside. Her hair was dishevelled as she peered up and down. Something had woken her. The newspaper boy in all probability. When she looked down at the newspaper she smiled and shut her door.
‘Keep it running,’ said Clem.
The tape continued to play for another ten minutes, with no further activity on the second floor. Clem was beginning to wonder if this was a waste of time when the fire exit door opened and a figure emerged. It was the newspaper boy again.
‘Why would he come in that way?’ asked Clem.
‘No idea,’ said Iona. ‘He shouldn’t do.’
This time he moved swiftly and directly to Connolly’s room, where he let himself in.
‘Shit,’ said Iona.
‘Shit indeed,’ thought Clem.
Another five minutes elapsed and the hotel room door opened. Clem watched in horror as Connolly was led out by the newspaper boy. She was holding her head at an odd angle as she listed to the side.
‘She really has had a skinful,’ said Iona.
Clem wasn’t convinced. The way Connolly was clawing the ground with her feet before each step, and the fact that the newspaper boy’s hands were planted behind her back, told a different story. They passed towards the fire exit, the newspaper boy guiding, Connolly stumbling. When they reached the door, Connolly leaned into her companion, pushing the brim of his cap backwards.
‘Zoom?’ Iona asked, though she had already begun before Clem’s answer.
The picture was grainy and blurred. ‘It’s not great quality, I’m afraid,’ she said.
It didn’t matter. Clem recognised the face and couldn’t believe how stupid he had been.
I wake with the mother of all headaches. It pulses in my temples with an angry ferocity. Each throb like a punch. My arms are still restrained tightly behind my back, all feeling lost.
I open one eye to ground myself and find I am on a green duvet. It smells of soap.
Throughout the long journey in the boot of the car, I fell in and out of consciousness. When I say long, I don’t actually know. I was so out of it, I could have been in there minutes, hours, even days. I remember the car stopping and being bundled out. There were some stairs to a flat. After that there’s nothing more, so I assume I’m in that flat, though again, I can’t be certain.
I move my head, gagging at the pain that movement brings. To the right is a desk, piled high with books. They look like textbooks rather than novels. The wall behind is the same green as the duvet cover. Not similar. Exactly the same. It feels like being inside a pea.
A shadow falls across the desk and I crane my neck to see. There’s a man in the doorway. Is this who came to my hotel room and forced me out? He doesn’t seem familiar. For a start he’s huge – at least six foot and eighteen stone. His face is as round and smooth as a pumpkin. I recall a much smaller arm around my waist. A slighter frame. Though I can’t be sure.
The man stares at me without blinking, a thick tongue protruding from between his lips.
‘What do you want from me?’ I ask.
The man doesn’t answer but takes a step closer. I can see now that he has no hair whatsoever on his big pink head, like an obscene oversized baby.
‘Did you bring me here?’ I ask.
The man shakes his head.
‘If you didn’t bring me here, then who did?’
The man’s lips form a word. He doesn’t say it out loud, but I can work it out. Ronnie. My heart lurches. Ronnie X. Criminal. Terrorist.
A vision of the roof of the Plaza falling in on me flits across my mind’s eye. I swallow hard, trying to control myself. ‘Where is Ronnie?’
The man checks his watch, pressing a button on the side. ‘Ronnie has business elsewhere and will come back in thirteen minutes.’ He speaks in a singsong voice, as if he were announcing a train arrival.
I struggle to turn and face him but he doesn’t move, just stares. It’s unsettling but I don’t get the sense he means me any harm. Which is more than can be said for Ronnie X. Something tells me that I don’t want to wait around for Ronnie.
It’s obvious to me now that there’s something different about this guy. Whatever it is, I must use it to my advantage and get out of here.
‘I need to use the bathroom,’ I say.
The man shakes his head.
‘Seriously,’ I persist. ‘If I don’t go to the loo, I’m going to pee myself. Is that what you want?’
The man looks aghast. ‘No, because that will smell very bad.’
‘Yup.’
The man looks around the bedroom in a panic. Everything is neat. Everything smells clean.
‘I wouldn’t want to make a mess on this duvet,’ I say. ‘It might even sink through to the mattress.’
The man gasps and begins tapping his forehead with the palm of his right hand.
‘Why don’t you just help me to the bathroom?’ I say.
‘Ronnie said you must stay in this room.’
‘You could get me back in here before Ronnie gets back.’
The man closes his eyes and gives a low moan.
‘If you don’t take me now,’ I press him, ‘it will be too late.’
Panting, he shuffles forward, his belly wobbling where his T-shirt doesn’t reach his trousers. He pauses by the side of the bed and screws his eyes tight shut again, as if steeling himself. Close up, I can see he has no eyebrows either. He takes a deep breath, his nostrils flaring, then he grabs me by the arm and pulls me off the bed. I hit the floor, jarring my shoulder and banging my hip.
‘Hold on,’ I shout, but he doesn’t.
Instead, he drags me across the carpet and out of the bedroom before depositing me outside the bathroom. He points inside and grunts.
‘You’ll have to help me up,’ I say.
He wrinkles his nose as if he doesn’t want to touch me again, then lunges forward and hauls me to my feet. When I’m standing he drops his hand and moves back.
‘Could you untie me?’ I turn my back to him and wiggle my fingers.
He doesn’t reply.
‘The thing is,’ I say, ‘if you don’t untie me, then you’ll have to take down my trousers and underwear.’
He lets out a feral cry.
‘Exactly,’ I say. ‘You really don’t want to do that, do you?’
‘No.’
‘Can’t say I blame you, so just release my hands and I’ll do it myself. Then you can tie them straight back up again, can’t you?’
‘Yes, I can do that,’ he says. He doesn’t move though, just stares at me.
‘What are you worried about?’ I ask.
‘Your hands will be dirty afterwards,’ he says. ‘There will be germs present.’
‘I’ll scrub them very
well,’ I reply, nodding at the bottle of antibacterial handwash on the sink. ‘I’ll use plenty of that, okay?’
‘If you touch that, you will transfer your germs,’ he says.
I try not to scream. His thought processes remind me of Davey. You could spend half an hour trying to convince my brother that buses were safe, only for him to jump out of an upstairs window.
‘I will hold out my hands and you can squirt the soap into them,’ I say. ‘I won’t touch the bottle.’
He pauses, once again tapping his forehead. Time is running out.
‘I really need to go now.’ I use a whiny voice.
He pushes his tongue back between his lips and moves towards the rope. As he loosens the knot, it chafes the skin on my wrist but I grit my teeth so as not to make a sound.
At last he is finished and takes a step back. He holds the length of rope in one hand, running his other hand along it. Then he changes hands. He watches his fingers intently while he repeats the process. Now’s my chance. Sorry, mate, but I don’t have a choice here.
I pull back my arm, ignoring the agonising cramp, and punch him. I’ve never actually hit anyone before and am surprised by the crunch my fist makes as it connects with his nose.
He drops the rope and screams, blood pouring down his mouth and chin. ‘You hit me!’ His voice is filled with confusion.
Seizing my opportunity, I rush forward, pushing him aside.
‘You hit me,’ he says again.
I run down the hallway to the door and yank the handle. It’s locked. Of course it’s locked. I look back at the man, still in the same spot, blood now dripping down his T-shirt and pooling at his feet.
‘Where’s the key?’ I scream.
He doesn’t answer.
‘Where is the fucking key?’
His eyes flick towards a set of drawers and I wrench the top one open.
‘Christ.’ There are probably twenty keys in there. ‘Which one is it?’ I shout, but the man has started rocking back and forth.
I grab a handful and start trying them, flinging them to one side when they don’t fit. Didn’t he say Ronnie would be back in thirteen minutes? How much time has elapsed? Fear makes me fumble and I drop a small brass key that spins away, coming to a halt under the set of drawers. I fall to my knees and prise my fingers into the gap. It’s too small. I push at the drawers, hoping to move them backwards, but they’re far heavier than they look. I have to get that key.
I jump to my feet and heave. The damn thing won’t budge, but I’m not giving up. I can’t. I press the weight of my entire body against it, feeling it give an inch. ‘Yes!’
This time, I bare my teeth and howl as I push with all my might. The drawers move. Only slightly, but it’s enough. I can see the edge of the key peeking out and I gently slide it towards me.
With shaking fingers I put it into the lock. It fits. I turn it with a sense of elation.
I’m free. I’m getting out of here. Laughing, I fling open the door.
Then I stop dead in my tracks. My way is barred.
It’s a woman in her mid-twenties. Tall and slim, she’s dressed head to toe in black, the same colour as her hair. Her skin is so white it’s almost translucent and her eyes are like fish scales.
‘Where do you think you’re going, Jo?’ she asks.
In that second, I know exactly who she is.
This is Ronnie X.
Chapter Ten
‘Are you okay?’ Iona eyed Clem nervously.
Clem hadn’t spoken for some time. His recognition of Connolly’s captor was like a slap in the face. How had he been so blind? As soon as he’d seen the face on tape, he’d recognised the girl on the plane. She’d been wearing dark glasses then, but it was her. The skin, the raven-wing hair. The bitch had been on her way to take Connolly. She’d been sitting feet from Clem the whole journey.
He slammed his fist on the desk, causing papers to scatter and cups to jump. Iona squealed. ‘Sorry,’ he muttered.
He’d been so caught up in his anger with Connolly, he hadn’t been paying attention. He’d dismissed the girl as some C-list celebrity he’d glimpsed in a magazine. If only he’d given himself a second to go through his memory bank he would have known. He would have remembered her and he would have known where from.
It was the café in Bethnal Green. He’d been watching the cell over a greasy table, flicking through information on his iPad. Someone had asked him about it. A waitress. She’d been watching him, checking what he was reading.
‘Damn!’ He punched the desk again.
Ronnie X had ridden the tide of assumptions made about her and stayed one jump ahead. She was ruthless and violent. That much was obvious from the Plaza bomb. Now he knew something else about her – she was clever.
And she had just kidnapped Jo Connolly.
I’m flat out on the carpet, my cheek pressed into the weave. In the split second it took me to understand that the woman in front of me was Ronnie, she punched me twice in the face, knocking me to the ground and retying my hands. She is strong and moves with a deftness I might admire under different circumstances.
When she’s satisfied that I’m disabled she moves towards Rory, who is still rocking and crooning, reminding me of those orphans that filled our telly screens after the fall of communism in Romania. My mum said it was the mark of a civilised society how it dealt with its young and weak. My dad didn’t say anything.
Ronnie doesn’t touch him but stands a good foot away, her hands in the surrender position. ‘Can I help you, Rory?’ she asks.
He doesn’t answer, doesn’t even acknowledge she has spoken.
‘I won’t touch you with my hands.’ Her voice is firm but calm. ‘I’ll use a towel to wipe up all this blood.’
Not a flicker.
‘I’ll use the towel on the rail in the bathroom,’ she says. Then she moves past me to the bathroom and grabs a green towel.
‘You broke his fucking nose, you stupid bitch,’ she spits at me me, her face contorted by anger.
She moves back to Rory and holds out the towel.
He looks at it, then at Ronnie.
‘Are you worried about the blood, Rory?’ she asks.
‘There are bacteria in blood. They multiply on contact with the air.’
Ronnie nods. ‘That’s true, Rory, which is why as soon as we’ve got you cleaned up, I will place this towel in a plastic bag and throw it in the dustbin outside, okay?’
Rory looks puzzled. ‘Then I’ll only have three towels.’
‘I will buy another one to replace it,’ says Ronnie. ‘Then you’ll have four as normal. Is that right?’
‘I like four,’ says Rory.
‘I know that,’ Ronnie replies. ‘So shall I clean you up?’
They gaze at one another, Ronnie patiently and silently holding out the towel.
‘Okay,’ says Rory.
Ronnie exhales. ‘Excellent. Now let’s move into the bathroom.’
Rory shuffles in, a trail of blood following him. Ronnie turns to me and pulls out a gun. ‘Don’t move a fucking muscle.’
I lie still and listen as Ronnie talks Rory through every move.
‘I’m putting the towel under the tap.
‘I’m going to wipe your face with downward strokes.
‘I’m going to hold the towel against the bridge of your nose.’
I have to get out of here. But how? My hands are tied and the door is locked. I breathe through my panic to keep my mind clear.
When they emerge, Rory is bare-chested, his flesh hanging in rolls, skin criss-crossed with stretch marks, his nostrils plugged with toilet paper.
‘You should lie down on your bed, Rory,’ she tells him.
He stops short and shakes his head.
Ronnie presses her lips together. ‘I’ll change the duvet cover.’
With impressive speed, she rips off the bedcover I was lying on earlier, and whips on an exact replica.
‘Lie down now,’ she says, and
Rory does as he is told.
When she closes the door, my heart thuds. The look in her eye is one of wild, dark fury. ‘I should kill you.’ She towers over me. ‘I’d fucking enjoy it, too.’
I grit my teeth, anticipating a kick in the ribs. Or worse. Instead, Ronnie strides away to the kitchen. My mind turns to carving knives, but when she returns she is carrying a glass of water.
She pulls me into a sitting position with her free hand, throwing me against the wall. I’m tempted to kick out at her, but I sense she’d just smash the glass in my face. Her eyes glitter as she watches me over the rim.
‘You’ve been trying to locate me,’ she says, a drop of water shining on her lower lip.
‘No,’ I reply.
‘Don’t fuck with me,’ she warns.
‘I’m not.’
With a snap of her wrist, she hurls the glass against the wall and it shatters above my head, showering me with shards. ‘I said don’t fuck with me.’
‘Okay, okay.’ My heart pounds, the crash ringing in my ears.
‘Why have you been following me?’ she asks.
‘I spoke to Miggs before he died. He mentioned you.’
She narrows her eyes. ‘He would never tell you anything.’
‘He thought I was you.’
She looks me up and down. ‘Not exactly flattering.’
‘He was pretty out of it.’
She rubs a knuckle against her teeth, a silver ring rattling against the enamel.
‘What did he say?’
‘That I – you – should get away.’
Her face is impassive. If she is moved by Miggs’s protectiveness, she doesn’t show it. ‘What made you start digging up old files at Social Services?’
‘Miggs mentioned an orchard,’ I say. ‘I just dug around on the internet until I found a children’s home in Glasgow. It seemed like it might fit.’
‘Why?’
‘Why what?’
‘Why bother with all this crap? Tracking us down? Coming to Glasgow? When was the last time someone like you even left Westminster?’ There’s malice in her voice. ‘What makes someone like you interested in people like us?’
‘I was nearly killed in the Plaza bomb.’ The vehemence in my voice shocks me. I’m scared shitless, but I refuse to be cowed by someone like Ronnie. ‘I’ve seen up close what people like you are capable of.’