by Rachel Lynch
Nedzad knew the dog’s routine well and smelled the alcohol on his grimy breath. He would soon be in a stupor, and if they could wait, they’d have more chance of putting distance between them and the flat. He had no idea where they were; all he knew was that it was a fucking cold and miserable place. They were supposed to be heading to London.
This was not London.
Of course, the risk with waiting was that the big bastard would turn up, and even Nedzad wasn’t convinced they could overpower him, though perhaps with the element of surprise… After all, they’d all fought to the death in the ring.
They waited for half an hour.
Nedzad had no idea where the other men were from; they didn’t speak English and he didn’t recognise their languages. One could have been Chinese; the other was white European. They worked together purely from instinct, and within half an hour they’d padded around the flat and found coats, two kitchen knives and a spanner, though only two pairs of shoes. The small man who looked Chinese indicated that he could go shoeless.
They all nodded their readiness and Nedzad tried to communicate with his hands that every man was on his own when they left the flat. The other two seemed to understand; they both gestured to the outside and then ‘away’ with a flick of an arm. Nedzad held out his hand and they all shook.
They entered the hallway. The sound of a TV was coming from one of the other rooms. It drowned out any noise the three men made opening and closing the front door. The escapees padded gently down the stairwell and went off in different directions. Nedzad looked both ways. It was freezing. He hadn’t a clue where he was, but he’d soon find out. He’d been on the run before, and this was just England, where no one except criminals carried guns; England, where anyone could live comfortably as an illegal; England, the laughing stock of the world with her outdated allegiance to liberalism, tolerance and justice.
In Bosnia, he’d seen men stoned to death for stealing a pig; starving wretches put out of their misery by a more dominant species. He was a survivor, and for now, all he needed was shelter and water. He heard the distant rumble of traffic and walked towards it, sticking to the shadows. He looked nondescript, and in the overcoat and trainers he’d taken from the flat, he blended in. One of the first rules of survival was looking as though you belonged; it could be in your walk or the way you crossed the road, but you had to do it with nonchalance.
He was hungry, but that could be controlled. The mind made the body strong. He thought of revenge only momentarily; it was desirable but ultimately counterproductive. Only the weak sought revenge to their own detriment.
He turned a corner and the land opened up before him, lights twinkling in the distance. He decided that it was a decent-sized town: good, more places to disappear. Further away, there were mountains, and he was shocked. He’d always envisaged England as a drab place full of cities made of metal and concrete, teeming with people living grey lives. This scenery was a revelation. In Bosnia, he’d received the most generosity of spirit and heart in the countryside, where people lived simply, immune to what the press and the government told them.
Perhaps he’d head towards the mountains.
Chapter 37
‘This has all happened since Kelly got back, Mum,’ said Nikki. She was sitting with her mother in the outpatient waiting room at the Penrith and Lakes Hospital, waiting for an appointment: another check-up.
‘That’s not true, Nikki. Kelly has helped me get the house back into shape and she’s busy at work. This has nothing to do with her; she can’t make me ill. Now go and find me some tea. I might be in there for hours, knowing their tests and retests. And pass me a magazine.’
Wendy Porter looked at her elder daughter and wondered where she and John had gone so wrong. Children could be born into the same family and raised in exactly the same way, but turn out so differently. She didn’t favour one daughter over the other, although it was true that her relationship with Kelly was volatile, because she was just like her father.
Wendy had had a lot of time to think during her stint in the hospital. She’d done her best for both her daughters, and for John. How could she have known what lay ahead? How could anybody? You left school with a head full of dreams, met a boy, got married and became consumed by babies, then they grew up and suddenly you realised that you’d just been a vessel for human life.
John had thought he was the thinker, but Wendy was the one who watched the news and saw it getting worse and worse. She’d cried when troops went to Iraq and again when they went to Afghanistan because of all the mothers who’d be burying their sons, and of course it had come to pass. It always did.
And gradually she’d witnessed the war between her own daughters escalate to the point where they barely spoke. Kelly left, Nikki stayed. Kelly followed her heart, Nikki her duty. Kelly freed herself and Nikki became imprisoned. Now Kelly lived and Nikki brooded.
Secretly Wendy wished she herself had been more like Kelly, but she hadn’t had the courage. She’d watched as John and his younger daughter shouted at one another. Wendy wanted her punished for not being just plain ordinary. Now she understood that ordinary never broke records, ordinary never got a pay rise, ordinary never travelled to the moon, ordinary walked the same path for fifty, sixty, seventy years, and she was glad that that wasn’t Kelly’s destiny.
When Kelly had left for London, Wendy knew that she would survive. It was Nikki she feared for now, with her reliance on the ship being forever solid. She looked at her elder daughter, with her thick make-up and her pinched-in mouth, telling her mother who she was going to blame for the ward being too cold, or the toilet not being clean, or the consultant being late. She wondered who’d looked after Nikki’s three children in her absence, and if Ria would ever stop wetting the bed.
Wendy had told neither daughter of her illness and what it meant, and she’d instructed the hospital staff to respect her wishes and do the same. She’d known for three months. When Kelly had suggested she might move back to Cumbria, Wendy had jumped at the opportunity to enjoy her younger daughter for a while. The palpitations, and other nagging conditions, would continue to get worse until she had to stay in hospital for the last time. She wouldn’t tell them until she had to.
‘I thought Kelly might have come,’ Nikki said. She was still standing there, with her hands on her hips. Wendy knew that what she really meant was that Kelly was selfish for not being here. Her elder daughter was making her melancholy, and Wendy wished she’d talk of something positive for once, instead of complaining all the time. It was tiresome staying at her house and she wanted to go home.
‘Well I’m going to speak to the consultant today, Mum. I’m going to give him a piece of my mind. We need to get to the bottom of this. If you don’t get results today, I’ll explode.’
‘You’re not coming in with me, Nikki.’
‘What?’
‘I want to go in alone. The last thing these doctors want to hear is complaints from someone who has no idea what real suffering is.’ It was out before Wendy could help herself.
Nikki’s mouth opened and closed.
‘But Mum! It’s unacceptable! This hospital has always been useless. When I had Ria, I was left for twelve hours screaming in agony, and given nothing for it.’
‘I’ll call you when I’m done.’ Nikki began to say something, but Wendy stopped her. ‘I mean it, Nikki. I want to be alone. Please.’
‘But what about your tea?’
‘I’ll survive, thank you, love.’
Wendy watched as her daughter left the waiting room.
After she was sure Nikki had gone, she got up and went towards the toilet. The outpatients’ toilet was busy, so she went along to the main ward, where she was known to the nurses. They told her that of course she could use the loo. Rules were bent for patients who’d had bad news, and they all liked Mrs Porter.
She walked to the end of the corridor and turned the corner. A policeman was standing outside a door.
‘I�
�m sorry if I shocked you, ma’am,’ he said. Wendy laughed and shook her head.
‘You startled me, that’s all. Just ignore me!’ She carried on to the toilet.
When she opened the door, she was faced with the sight of a woman standing on a chair, trying to get out of the window. Wendy rushed to her.
‘My goodness, are you all right?’ she asked.
The woman babbled in some foreign language.
‘I’ll get help,’ said Wendy.
‘No!’ the woman whispered.
‘You speak a little English?’
The woman gave up struggling to climb out. She stepped off the chair and fell to the floor, where she began to weep. Wendy sat down next to her and put her arm around her.
‘Where are you from?’ She spoke slowly, as if this would break down the language barrier. The woman simply stared at her.
‘Scared. Baby. Out.’ She spoke with sad eyes, and pointed to the window.
‘You have a baby? Where?’ Wendy gesticulated, pretending to nurse a swaddled baby.
‘Yes,’ the young woman said. She began to cry. Wendy thought her baby might have died and she was suffering some terrible postnatal grief.
‘I’ll go and get help.’
‘No!’ It was emphatic, and Wendy stopped. ‘Out.’
Wendy climbed up onto the chair and looked out of the window. It wasn’t a big drop, but she wasn’t sure she had the strength to help the young woman to get out.
‘What is your name?’ she asked. She gesticulated again, pointing to herself. ‘I am Wendy.’ She repeated it a couple of time until the young woman understood.
‘Jovana.’
Wendy was unsure what to do. She remembered the policeman. ‘Police, outside.’ She pointed to the door and the woman’s eyes grew wider.
‘No! Bad!’
‘Bad?’ As the wife of a police officer, Wendy found it difficult to understand how anyone in uniform could be anything but helpful and reassuring, but she knew that was just fanciful. Even John had made mistakes. So had she.
This was her chance. Her chance to do something not ordinary.
‘You, out?’ she asked, and pointed to the window.
Jovana’s eyes changed and Wendy saw something that she only saw in her grandchildren: a pure and unshakeable trust. She made up her mind. They both got to their feet, and she gestured that the woman needed to take off some of her clothes. She understood.
There was a knock at the door.
They ignored it and sped up. Wendy screwed Jovana’s spare clothes into a ball and secured them with a jumper, then pointed to the chair. Jovana stepped up onto it and Wendy stood behind her. The young woman grabbed the window and Wendy pushed her from behind. Her fingers, wrists and shoulders screamed, but she hadn’t been so sure of anything for a very long time. She stood strong and tall, and heaved upwards.
Jovana climbed out of the window and Wendy threw the clothes out after her. She stood on the chair and watched her gather her things and run into the trees, stopping to look back once and wave. Then she saw a figure come forward and take the woman into his arms. They were lovers! She was going to her lover!
‘Go and find your less ordinary,’ she whispered, smiling to herself.
Wendy went to the toilet and washed her hands. When she left, the policeman was outside, still waiting and looking extremely anxious.
‘Is there a woman in there?’ he asked breathlessly.
‘No, no one but me. Good morning, Officer,’ she said, and turned to walk back to the waiting area.
Chapter 38
Darren woke from his fug. His phone was ringing and his head was banging. Christ, he could hardly see. The phone stopped, but in the time it’d taken to ring out, he’d found some sense of who he was, where he was, and whether he was dead or alive. He established that he was well and truly alive, although he wasn’t convinced that was necessarily a good thing. He coughed and looked at his phone; he didn’t recognise the caller. It rang again and he answered. He didn’t make a habit of picking up to unknown callers, but he wasn’t thinking straight.
‘Yep.’
‘Who is this?’
The man was well-spoken and sounded senior and kind of authoritative.
‘Who the fuck is this?’ Darren fell to his default setting of basic primate behaviour.
‘I want a flower,’ said the caller.
Darren swallowed. It was always tricky negotiating with a new customer about whom he knew absolutely nothing; it could always be a trap.
‘Who’s your contact?’
‘Colin Day.’
‘Nice try, he’s dead.’
‘I know, but he gave me this card before he died.’
‘Flower’s closed.’
‘Shame.’
‘You couldn’t afford it anyway.’
The man laughed. ‘Oh, I think I could.’
‘Well, like I said, it’s closed, but I’ll take your details in case that changes.’
‘Sure. I’m interested. I like… young ones.’
Darren laughed. ‘OK, nothing wrong with that. I’ll pass you to someone who deals in that shit. Name?’
‘Mickey Mouse. You have my number.’ The caller hung up.
Darren was used to old perverts giving Disney names; they thought they were being ironic, but Darren thought they were just sick. He’d never been interested in that sort of thing, but he had to admit it made money. The person to ask was Marko.
He padded to the bathroom to take a piss. While he was there, he swallowed four paracetamol. He remembered his mother warning him not to overdo the painkillers, and this made him laugh because of the forty per cent brandy she threw down her throat every day. He washed his face and glanced in the mirror; he looked fifty.
The flat was quiet as always, and noise travelled up from the street: revving cars, barking dogs, and domestics. Everything was normal.
Until he opened the door to the lounge.
He began to shake and rubbed his eyes, as if it would make the men reappear where they should have been. Their restraints had been left in bundles on the floor, and he searched through them desperately, hoping to find the men underneath. His stomach tightened. He knew he was in trouble.
Again.
But this time he wouldn’t be allowed to make it up. Marko didn’t give third chances. Darren shivered. Images of death at the hands of Curtis or Sasha swirled through his brain and assaulted him. It would be painful and slow.
He made up his mind and rushed out into the hallway, where there was usually a mass of bags, shoes and coats. They’d been gone through and there were no shoes and only a couple of coats left. He swore and grabbed a bag and took it to the bedroom, where he shoved whatever was to hand inside it and zipped it shut. He dressed quickly, catching his finger on his trouser zip.
‘Fuck!’
He checked his wallet and phones, leaving his keys on the side. He took a baseball cap and pushed it onto his head. He’d been growing a beard but it was still straggly. It would have to do. He threw on his new coat and left the room.
The front door was unlocked, and he remembered vividly now that he hadn’t locked it last night. He was in big trouble and there was no chance he could talk his way out of it this time. Those guys made Marko a ton of money and he’d let them walk.
He closed the door behind him and prayed Curtis wouldn’t turn up for a good few hours – ideally a day or two. He rushed down the stairs and walked past his car. He wanted no trace left at all. It would take him twenty minutes to reach the main road, and from there he’d hitch to Ambleside. He had nothing to lose now, and he needed Nush’s money. She’d had ten quid on her the night he suffocated her, and he knew she’d earned a hundred times that. She was a stupid bitch for leaving it behind for Roza to keep safe. That was her insurance and it’d done her no good at all. For all he knew, the room had been cleaned out already, but it was his only chance.
He checked his wallet and counted forty pounds in notes and seven pounds
in change. He picked up a newspaper at a petrol station; there was a new story on Colin Day. The police were asking for information on two items of jewellery, though the piece was cagey and didn’t directly suggest that they were linked to the guy’s death. In the time that Darren had been checking the papers daily, nothing had been mentioned about the old man being fucked to death. If he’d been a scumbag from Barrow Island and not an ex-mayor and public do-gooder, his shit would be all over the press; it would probably even have made the Daily Mail. He’d call the papers later to try and squeeze some cash out of the story.
For now, he had some items to retrieve from the Troutbeck Guest House. This time, he was armed with the formidable weapon called ‘don’t give a flying fuck’. He’d be in and out in under half an hour. He knew the routine. He’d wait until about three a.m., when all the Colin Days would be asleep after their strenuous activities, and most of the whores would’ve left. And if that stuck-up bitch gave him any trouble, he’d punch her in the face before she could even open her mouth.
Chapter 39
Dave Crawley came back to Kelly with lists of drivers and their schedules. He also told her he’d looked into his father’s accounts and seen a few payments to Tomb Day but didn’t know what they were for. He hadn’t wanted to push his father due to his illness. Kelly couldn’t really argue with that, but it left her with no option: she had to begin an investigation into the payments. Dave took the news badly and she felt guilty.
She drove with DC Hide to a housing estate on the outskirts of Penrith and parked outside the address of a lorry driver called Jack Croft. He’d worked for Crawley Haulage for ten years. In the past four weeks, he had been on the road for twenty-three days, most of it in Europe, including the week of 10 September, when he’d travelled from Zagreb through Budapest and then Munich, on to Belgium and home.
‘Any news on Jovana Galic?’ Kelly asked DC Hide.
‘No, guv.’
‘She must have had help. I don’t understand how she could simply vanish, and without her baby. She must have been terrified. It’s bad news for us, because she could have ID’d the lorry driver. Damn. Anyway, come on. Let’s see what we’ve got.’