Death Games

by Chris Simms

  ‘But a killer, beneath. I like the sound of this girl.’

  Jon decided not to add in the other snippet Kieran had told him. About Iona’s dogged pursuit of a terror suspect through the uncharted warren of tunnels that ran below the city. Squeezing into openings larger detectives were happy to give up on. Refusing to stop until it was only her chasing the man through the pitch blackness.

  He finished his wine and reached for the bottle. The last of it only half-filled his glass. ‘Been laying into this, you old soak.’

  She lifted a finger in response. ‘Try being in charge of Duggy for an entire day.’

  Jon checked her eyes, gauging the gravity of her comment. ‘Has he been...’ He paused. ‘How much of a pain has he been?’

  She ran a hand through her straw-coloured hair. ‘He’s a boy, that’s all. So different to Holly – gorgeous little thing, that he is.’

  ‘Little?’ Jon laughed. ‘This rate, he’ll be bullying me by his tenth birthday.’

  ‘He’ll get the hang of things, soon enough.’ She smiled. ‘Holly just calmly observes him bouncing around. It’s hilarious.’

  ‘Until he bounces into her.’

  ‘That we do have to watch,’ she agreed, glancing at the clock on the wall. She traced a nail provocatively down the wine bottle before pointing at his glass. ‘Anyway, neck that. You’re on a five minute warning.’

  ‘Aye, aye, Captain!’ He raised his glass and gulped it back.

  CHAPTER 24

  The Porsche, Elissa thought, wasn’t an automatic; he couldn’t have driven it. Operating a gear stick wouldn’t have been possible with a dislocated shoulder. Not even for him. Which meant he’d got her to drive it. Elissa looked around the plush interior. A car like this cost a fortune. It couldn’t be hers. Maybe one of her punters...the thought caused Elissa’s head to turn to the window of the room where Kelly was trapped.

  Was that how he’d got hold of the vehicle? By creeping up on it while it was parked somewhere quiet? He had a knife. Did he yank open the door, get rid of the owner, maybe by stabbing him? Oh my god, had he murdered the owner? Then made Kelly get behind the wheel and drive him here?

  It made sense. Which meant she’d been in that room, tape round her mouth, arms and legs for the entire day. Had he given her any water? What did he plan to do with her?

  For the first time, the gravity of the situation hit home. And it had all been set in motion by her. The simple act of passing a snippet of information to Uncle Bilal had led to this. Whoever owned the Porsche could well be dead. He’ll probably also kill Kelly. They wouldn’t be the last either – the reason he’s here is to end more lives. Maybe mine as well, when it suits him.

  She also knew things couldn’t be stopped. Her part in this was decided. Even if she got out of the car, walked to the nearest police station and revealed everything, her punishment would be severe. Decades in prison. She felt her armpits tingling with sweat. Closing her eyes, she pictured her family.

  All dead.

  And who, she asked herself, was bothered about them? Who was trying to get justice for Tarek? Certainly not the British government. All those bastards did was brush off her father while actually doing the exact opposite. She shook her head and started the car.

  Keeping to side roads and residential streets, she negotiated a path towards the city centre. It felt like she was in a beacon, the car’s lurid shade a silent siren, attracting the attention of everyone she passed. Had the police already put out an appeal? Was the incident already a prominent item on the Manchester Evening Chronicle’s web site? Main feature on Granada news? She tried to reassure herself: people weren’t really looking. Not with any more interest than at any other brightly coloured luxury car. But her sense of anxiety steadily mounted. She reached a main road and, to her horror, realised where she was. Plymouth Grove. The main police station for the city centre was fifty metres to her left. Pulse suddenly thudding, she turned right. The A6. Get off it, Elissa, now. She continued along, desperate to dump the vehicle. Anywhere would do. She took a left, then a right, found herself approaching the Greyhound racing stadium in Belle Vue. To her side was the monumental parking area for the Showcase Cinema. She steered in, drove across swathes of empty spaces to the smattering of vehicles clustered close to the pale building.

  Two attendants in fluorescent jackets were leaning on a railing, both watching her approach. Damn it. She circled round, acutely aware the odd manoeuvre had drawn their attention. The exit road led round to the A57. It was one of the main roads out of Manchester, brightly lit and busy with traffic. The last thing she wanted. Faint with fear, she saw an Aldi on her left. That would do. She pulled in and drew up alongside a dark blue van, reasoning it would screen the Porsche from the main road.

  The locks pipped, sidelights flashing twice as she walked rapidly away. The shop was still open. Food. She needed food and other stuff. She wandered up and down the aisles, tossing packets and cans in. Did he eat meat? Would he eat pork? Probably not. She found packets of dried beef and grabbed a few. Medicine section: she picked off a few packets of painkillers. That should do.

  Outside, she looked around. It was a long walk back to the flat, especially carrying a load of shopping. On the far side of the road, a bus was idling at its stop. The front of it said Didsbury. That would take her in the right direction, at least. But by the time there was a sufficient break in the traffic for her to cross, it had pulled away.

  She scanned the timetable on the side of the shelter. In eight minutes, one was due for the Christie Hospital. She studied the route: it went along the A6010, practically past Uncle Bilal’s flat. A police car was among the stream of traffic turning onto the A6 from a side road. She stepped back and kept her head bowed as it prowled past.

  Knowing she was rid of the Porsche let her think more clearly. She considered the man who spoke Russian once more. What was the plan? All she was certain of was he couldn’t do it alone. She was all the help he had. What could she do to convince him to open up? She’d fixed his shoulder, removed the threat posed by the Porsche, bought him supplies. What more was there?

  She wanted to stamp a foot in frustration. Instead, she stepped closer to the kerb, unaware of the small CCTV camera set into the underside of the shelter’s roof.

  He sat on the sofa with the case for the computer game balanced on one knee. Its garish colours and bloated lettering annoyed him. Tilting his head back let him study the ceiling. He followed a thin crack in the white surface. It snaked across to a patch of lighter plaster that was cloud-like in shape. He imagined it was a sky he was looking at. Somewhere peaceful, where the air wasn’t stale and warm like here. The craggy pinnacles of rock above the trees. Up past the heavily wooded slopes and the meadows where herds of goats roamed each summer. He thought back to being a child. It was something he rarely did because it seemed so pointless. That world was gone, eradicated by the Russians. They’d arrived and changed everything. New ways to live. New rules. New language. He remembered sitting in the village classroom as the pale-faced teacher with the long face and wisps of brown hair wrote out the new letters they had to learn.

  He recalled when the checkpoints first started to appear. The soldiers stopping everyone, poking through the trucks, demanding small bribes before letting them continue to market. The dull noise of their helicopters’ engines. How the sound polluted the sky long before the machines actually appeared. The rumble and boom of distant explosions.

  It had been around his twelfth birthday when the bus he was on had juddered to a halt. Four men climbed silently down from the storage rack on the roof and strode effortlessly off up the slope. A bend and twist in the road later and they hit a roadblock. The Russian soldiers were more careful than usual. Their faces were tense. Everyone had to get off while they searched the vehicle. Even old women. Two climbed up on the roof and went through the stacked sacks and bundles of produce wrapped in old blankets.

  Once they were through, the bus drove on for a few minutes t
hen pulled over once again. After a few minutes, he saw shadows further up the slope. The same four men picked their way back down through the trees. He saw the driver nod at them as they clambered back up the side of the bus. Sticking his head out the narrow window, he glimpsed a Kalashnikov hanging beneath one of their cloaks. It was the first time he really realised: his people were at war.

  Slowly, he lifted his head off the sofa. The case with the pictures of dragons came back into view. He’d hoped, by thinking back to childish things, the words he needed to make the game work would reappear. Nothing.

  He swept his right arm out, sending the plastic case clattering across the coffee table and on to the floor.

  CHAPTER 25

  Twenty minutes later, she pressed the bell on the bus. It slowed to a stop and she stepped off: Uncle Bilal’s flat was round the next corner.

  Within seconds, she was knocking softly on the front door. When she thought there might have been movement on the other side, she bowed her head. ‘It’s me.’

  The lock clicked, the door half-opened and she slipped through the gap. In the dim hallway, he kept his back to the closed bedroom door. Just seeing it made her stomach churn.

  ‘OK?’ he asked, dark eyebrows raised. His left hand hung loose from the front of the sling, the knife gripped in his fingers.

  ‘Yes. I have food.’ She half-raised an Aldi bag.

  He gestured for her to go past, so she stepped round him and went through to the kitchen. Once all the tins and packets were lined up, she looked over her shoulder. He was standing in the doorway, staring at what she’d brought.

  ‘Hungry?’ She opened a drawer, took out a fork and pretended to eat. ‘Yes?’

  ‘Da.’

  ‘This? Yes?’ She lifted a packed of ready-cooked chicken strips. ‘With this?’ She showed him a family-size sachet of rice and vegetables.

  He sent her an approving look then watched as she boiled the kettle and searched for a saucepan and cutting board. Once the rice was simmering, she pointed to the front room. ‘We speak? You and me?’

  He seemed reluctant, but stepped back to allow her past. She went over to the Xbox, immediately noticing the controller had been moved. And there was a case for a children’s game on the floor. He’d been using the machine while she’d been out. Was that how they kept in contact with him? Surely they’d have told him she could be trusted? That he should let her help him carry out the plan?

  Once on the internet, she brought up the translation site and started selecting letters. I got rid of the car.

  She looked for his reaction but only got the slightest of nods.

  I paid for the food with my money.

  This got her a disinterested stare.

  Do you have any cash?

  A nod.

  How much?

  He made a circling motion with his fingers.

  Did that, she wondered, mean enough? Or to ask something else? She formed another question. How will you travel now?

  He immediately lost his disdainful expression, breaking eye contact to adjust a fold in the sling.

  Got you, she thought. You don’t know. Maybe you don’t even know how to drive. And you certainly don’t know there’s a train that goes all the way to Anglesey. She formed another comment: I can get us another car.

  He studied the words and looked at her, eyes dark and guarded.

  Methodically, she selected new letters. Let me help you.

  No reaction.

  You need my help.

  That scornful laugh.

  I know where you must go. I gave that information to whoever sent you!

  He read her comments and sat back, face like stone.

  She typed again. Ask them!

  She had to tap the controller against the table to get his attention. It was, she thought, like getting a moody child to take his medicine. She held the controller out to him.

  Before she could react, it had been knocked from her hand. ‘Ya ne mogu sprosit, potomu chto ya ne znayu, kak.’ He brought his face to within inches of hers. ‘Ti tupaya suka!’

  Whatever the words were, he’d dragged them out in a low, menacing voice. It was a threat: a warning. She understood that.

  ‘I’ll get the food,’ she murmured and rose to her feet.

  In the kitchen, she had to lean against the sink and take several breaths. For an insane instant, when he’d closed down the space between them, she wasn’t sure whether he was about to strike her or kiss her. His eyes had been brimming with such intense emotion.

  She saw now there was only one way to prove herself to him. Shaking off her shoulders, she turned round.

  He was in the doorway, watching her.

  Ignoring him, she opened the packet of chicken then took a long sharp knife from the wooden rack beside the toaster. Once she’d cut the strips into small pieces, she checked the rice. Most of the liquid had been absorbed. She placed the cutting board on the edge of the pan and used the long blade to push the chicken into the bubbling rice. A couple of stirs and it was ready. She gestured at the small table in the corner.

  Without replying, he crossed the room and took a seat.

  She spooned his plate high and showed it to him. ‘Enough?’

  He beckoned for the plate.

  As soon as it was before him, he started digging away at the mound of food. Bits fell from his mouth, and as she placed the dirty cutting board and knife in the sink, she thought he’d have been better off with a spoon. With her hands hidden from sight, she slid the knife up into the sleeve of her sweat-top. The elasticated cuff kept it from falling back out. ‘Toilet,’ she announced, pointing to the door.

  He didn’t look pleased at having to break off from his food. Not waiting for his permission, she strode across the front room. At the toilet door, she glanced back. As she suspected, he had shadowed her – but only as far as the kitchen doorway.

  She closed and locked the toilet door, counted to five, reopened it and peeped out. She heard the chink of his fork; he was back at the table. Quickly, she crossed the corridor and let herself into the bedroom.

  Kelly was now slumped so far forward, her chin rested on her chest. Her shallow breathing was turning erratic. The number of times the woman had been brought into the Accident and Emergency department, Elissa thought. Sometimes it was for injuries she’d received on the streets. Almost always, alcohol was involved. Often, she was so drunk, the paramedics had to wheel her in on a trolley. In the parlance of the A & E doctors, she was CTD. Circling The Drain. Every time she reappeared, staff couldn’t believe she was still alive.

  Elissa examined the woman’s skin. Even in the half-light, she could see its yellow tinge. Hepatitis C and B. So advanced, the doctors thought that, if her liver wasn’t already riddled with cancer, it soon would be. There was no doubt she had chronic cirrhosis. It was a matter of speculation whether she was also HIV-positive. She always refused the test.

  Elissa knew, if she slid the woman’s sleeves up, her forearms would be stained with rivulets of black dots. Needle marks. It had been, Elissa guessed, about twenty hours since she’d have had access to Sofosbuvir, the liver medication she depended on. Even if she got to hospital, it would be touch and go if she’d survive.

  ‘Kelly?’ Elissa whispered. ‘Kelly?’ She lifted the woman’s chin. Her face was slack, eyes closed.

  She let the head sag back to where it was. I needed to know, Elissa thought as she removed the knife from her sleeve. I needed to know that she wasn’t conscious.

  Moving quickly, trying not to think about what she was doing, Elissa positioned the tip of the blade in line with the base of Kelly’s heart. Grasping the handle in a firm double grip, she closed her eyes and shoved hard. Please don’t hit a rib. The blade passed cleanly into the woman’s chest cavity and Elissa leaned forward, pressing it in right up to the handle.

  Kelly’s torso twitched and stiffened. Her legs kicked a couple of times, but the tape prevented her from moving too much. Elissa kept the blade in
position, knowing if she withdrew it too early, blood would spurt all over her. Bit by bit, the other woman’s body relaxed. She waited another half minute, stepped aside and withdrew the knife. It was covered in blood. Some was on her hands and a large patch had spread down to the top of Kelly’s skirt. The seat was dripping.

  Elissa walked quickly from the room and along the short corridor. It was like someone else was moving her. It was like she wasn’t there. She was just an observer, watching herself entering the kitchen, using a hand wet with red to place the slickened blade on the table before him. That woman then stepped back, arms at her sides and stared at him with a defiance Elissa didn’t recognise.

  He saw the knife and looked up, mouth full of food. She didn’t blink. At her sides, her bloodstained fingers had started to stick together. His eyes swept the rest of her, then suddenly widened with realisation. He stood up so fast, the chair toppled over. Two, three steps back, then he turned towards the door, eyes still locked on hers.

  ‘Me and you,’ she said hoarsely as, finally, he hurried out of the room. ‘Me and you!’

  CHAPTER 26

  Jon jogged down the ginnel separating his row of houses from the one behind. The ticking of Wiper’s claws slowed as they came to a stop at the gate into Jon’s tiny backyard. Once inside, his dog made straight for a stainless steel bowl of water. Jon’s hand was turning the handle of the kitchen door when he heard Alice’s voice beyond it.

  ‘Duggy, no!’

  Family’s up, then. He pushed the door open.

  ‘Daddy!’ Holly rushed across the room, drawing short when she got within arm’s reach. ‘Euw, you’re all wet.’

  He held out his arms and gave her a beseeching look.

  She hesitated, wanting to hug her dad, but not wanting to get covered in sweat. Finally, she worked out a compromise and hugged the sleeve of his upper arm. Briefly.

  ‘I wouldn’t touch him, either,’ Alice said. ‘Stinky Daddy!’