by Rob Aspinall
A big one.
A big, hairy forearm around my neck. A hand on the back of my head for leverage. I rub even faster.
Looks like they sent the biggest piece of shit on board to put me out of their misery.
Either he's gonna snap my neck or crush my windpipe—whichever comes first. I keep rubbing, drawing blood from my own skin. Threatening to slice open an artery. The friction burning. I don't care. Gotta get out of these ties.
Yes! They snap. I reach behind me. Feel a face full of wiry hair. A bald head. A pair of eyeballs. My thumbs going in, pressing hard.
He screams in my ear. Lets me go and backs off blind. He's a pale guy with a mess of a ginger beard and a flabby frame busting out of a tight white t-shirt.
As he wanders back into me, I grab a metal beam overhead and swing both feet towards him.
I have visions of kicking him down the stairs behind him, but he catches me by the soggy ankles of my jeans. He rips me off the beam and slams me down on my back.
I bounce like a ball off a steel mesh flooring. I groan and roll, but no time to pick myself up. The bastard's on top of me, pinning me down. A rather large knife pulled from a sheath on his belt.
He angles the point of the blade towards my face. I catch hold of his stabbing hand and stop the momentum. He wraps his other hand around mine and leans all his weight into it. I push back with everything I have, but he's got the leverage.
At six-seven and twenty-odd stone—that's a lot of leverage. And he's starting to win the war. I've got nothing left. I try and roll him off, but no joy. He inches the blade towards my right eyeball, the knife getting closer, closer . . .
55
The blade is all set to puncture my retina. Nothing but a blur.
I wait for the blinding pain. Death to follow soon after.
But a shot rings out.
I find some extra strength. A lot of it. I push back and realise the guy's arms have gone limp. He's wearing a bullet hole between the eyes, blood streaming down his face, into his beard.
Knife still in hands, he flops sideways onto the mesh floor.
I look up and see a pair of long legs standing over me. A lanky bastard in a grey suit.
Detective Clarke holsters his weapon.
"You took your bloody time," I say.
Clarke extends a hand. He helps me to my feet.
"You bring the cavalry?" I ask.
"If by cavalry, you mean . . . " Clarke looks behind him. Detective Morales appears. Low on breath with a weapon of her own held tight in both hands.
"Thought detectives weren't supposed to carry guns."
"Technically, we're not," Clarke says. "But I'm not about to die on a technicality."
I laugh and rub my neck. "You're gonna get in some serious shit for this."
Clarke looks around him. "We're not in it already?"
There's a rumbling in the belly of the ship. A deep explosion from the starboard side. We move over to the guard rail running along the far right of the deck. I cough on a rising funnel of acrid black smoke.
The ship groans and rocks a foot to the right. Huge swathes of river water rush in through a gaping hole in the hull.
The boat I used as a missile is a flaming wreck. It detaches from the ship and slips beneath the water.
"Charlie," Detective Clarke says. "What the hell did you do?"
"It was meant to be a distraction," I say.
"It's distracting alright," says Morales.
"Look, I've had a tough afternoon."
"Tell me about it later," Clarke says. "We've got to get off here."
"We can't," I say. "They're keeping women on the ship."
"They'll find their own way out," says Morales.
"They're drugged up to their eyeballs. Half of 'em can't even move."
"Where?" Clarke asks.
I point between my feet.
"You've gotta be kidding," he says.
I shrug and start towards the stairs leading below deck. Clarke and Morales stand looking at each other. "Well?" I say, picking up the discarded machine gun.
Morales curses under her breath. Clarke shakes his head, but they follow me down into the bowels of the ship.
Lights blinking. Wiring sparking. We meet with resistance along the way. Automatic rounds from the remaining crew abandoning ship.
We flatten out inside doorways and return fire. Morales is a good shot. Clarke less so, but I make up for it with a spray of machine gun fire. Between us, we dispatch the remaining crew.
We drop down the second staircase. The brown, oily river creeping in around the bottom step. My feet are still thawing out, but here we go again. I jump in and run ahead of the detectives, trying to remember the way to the main cargo hold.
The further we head towards the bow, the higher the water rises around our ankles.
Clarke is on his phone. "Shit," he says. "Can't get a signal."
"There's no time anyway,” I say, splashing shin-high through the freezing water. "Follow me."
Coming the other way, I see Nabil. He spots me and turns to run. I speed up after him. He trips and falls into the water. I pull him up by his collar.
I wave Clarke and Morales onwards. "The women are straight ahead. I'll catch you up."
Clarke and Morales pass me by, cursing the cold water—suit trousers soaked and ruined.
I shove Nabil against the nearest wall. "Where's Amira?”
"Who?"
"The girl I wanted to see."
"Are you crazy?" he says in a panic. "The ship is sinking."
"Then talk, or we're both going down with this thing."
The ship lurches again, as if to make my point.
"Shit, okay," Nabil says. "She's at the Mercia."
"The where?"
"It's a hotel. Pavel's using her as an escort. High-class fuck."
"Which room?"
"Let me go," Nabil says. "I can't swim."
"Which room?"
"Six-twelve."
I let go of the scumbag. He turns and runs off towards freedom. I fire an automatic round in his back. He collapses, face flat and arms out in the water.
“Oops,” I say.
I catch up to Clarke and Morales at the doorway to the cargo hold. A few of the girls are out of their beds. Disoriented. Panicking. Morales beckons them towards her as me and Clarke wade deeper into the hold.
I take the lefthand row, Clarke the other. We throw the curtains open on all the cubicles, the ship listing to the right.
I unhook the first woman from her morphine drip. She's just a girl, weak as wilted lettuce. I pull her over one shoulder and carry her out of the cubicle. There's another woman on my row, a couple of beds down. She's a little more awake. A plump African girl screaming at me. Confused out of her mind, like she's woken up in the middle of a nightmare.
"Come on," I say, waving her out of her bed. "We've gotta go."
The ship shudders. She shakes her head and cries. Frozen in fear. The water rising around the legs of the bed. Smoke invading the cargo hold.
"It's okay, I'm here to help," I say, taking her by the arm.
She shakes and slaps me off, not having any of it.
I look along the hold and see Detective Clarke. He fireman-carries a young woman away. Another staggers through the water alongside him.
I turn to the remaining woman. She's going bananas, but I'm not leaving her. So I pop her in the cheek. A tap with my fist that puts her out cold. I scoop her off the bed under one arm. I carry the two women out, the water making it heavy going. Smoke making it hard to see.
I cough my lungs out, following Clarke and Morales towards the stairs. Now that the goons are long gone, I let the rifle slip off the end of my shoulder.
We wade through the icy water, fire raging inside a few of the rooms along the corridor. We make it to the stairs in the nick of time. The water rises fast behind us as the ship continues to tilt to the right.
"Hurry up," I shout ahead of me as we lumber up the
stairs.
"What do you think I'm doing?" Clarke shouts back.
As we struggle up the next set of stairs, two dock workers in high-vis orange appear. One of them pulls the girl off Clarke's shoulder. Another grabs the woman under my arm.
Morales herds the walking wounded out onto the deck. I reach the top, but hear a scream. A large swell forms around the bottom of the stairs, carrying a young woman with it. The same young woman Pavel used to trick me, earlier in the day.
"Come on!" Clarke shouts at me. "What are you waiting for?"
"We left one behind," I say, flopping the girl on my shoulder onto the top of the steps. "Get out of here."
Clarke drags the unconscious woman out by the armpits. I look below and see the remaining girl flapping around. She's hit by another wave and sucked underneath. I vault over the side of the rail and plunge feet first into the swirl.
56
Amira paced the carpet. She clutched a brass candlestick holder, taken from one of the deep window sills of the room. It weighed heavy, its edges sharp
She heard voices outside the door. She backed up close to the wall, heels kicked off and bare feet ready to run. She heard the lock in the door. Saw the door knob turn.
It would be her one and only chance. As the door opened, she swung the candlestick holder high.
She connected with her target, but only a glancing blow. Tony raised a forearm in time to deflect the base of the brass holder away from his temple. In the same move, he snatched the weapon from Amira's hands.
He pushed her deeper into the room and laughed to himself. "Silly bitch."
Pavel wasn't amused. He strode up to Amira with thunder in his eyes. He shoved her onto the end of the bed.
Amira scrambled away. Pavel stepped onto the bed and stood over her. He dropped to his knees, straddling her waist. He looked over his shoulder.
Tony took the hint, closing and locking the door behind him.
Pavel pinned Amira down by the throat. "I've spent the last hour in the lobby, trying to make peace with Rowbottom. Have you any fucking idea how much you've cost us?"
Amira glanced around her for another weapon. Nothing but a plastic telephone to her right, out of reach on a bedside table.
"Well?" Pavel said.
Amira shook her head as best she could.
"Take a guess."
"A thousand?" she said, choking.
"Millions," Pavel said. "The old man was going to push through a land deal. But thanks to you, it's gone. I treat you like a fucking queen and this is how you repay me?"
If Amira wasn't struggling to breathe, she would have laughed. Repay him? The only way to repay Pavel was a bullet to the brain.
He let go of her throat and breathed deep, as if talking himself down from murder. He pushed his hair from his face and reversed off the bed. He straightened his jacket and calmed his voice. "You want out of here? Fine."
Amira sat up, rubbing her throat. "You'll let me leave?"
Pavel straightened his tie. "If you're not going to service our clients, all you are is an expense. Put your shoes on."
Pavel shouted Tony into the room. "Tell Anton to bring the car around front."
Amira slid off the bed and stepped into her heels.
57
Eyes open, I see the white gown of the girl, billowing out under the water. I swim after her, catch hold of her and pull her backwards.
We surface together. I'm relieved to hear her screaming and yelling. We ride the rising water up to the top of the stairs. I plant a foot on the step and drag the girl out onto the deck. A fire blazes towards the bow. The floor leans at a forty degree angle. I climb up the slope, pushing the girl on. I look over the edge: Clarke and Morales stand at a safe distance with the other girls and those dock workers.
Squad cars and fire engines rush wailing onto the scene.
I scoop the girl up in one arm, not giving her any say. The stairs are out as they no longer reach the dock wall. The port-side hull leans away from shore.
I swing my legs over the edge of the ship and slide under the guard rail running along the deck. The girl shakes her head. I push off regardless.
I slide arse-first along the exposed hull. Lucky for us it’s dirty. The muck and rust slows the ride. The girl screams anyway. We hit the dock in a heap. But we're both okay. I drag the girl onto her feet and look up at the ship. It’s sinking fast, the starboard side submerged in the Thames.
"Well there goes the next lot of evidence," Clarke says to me, breathing heavy, his face black with soot.
“You moaning bastard," I say, wandering off.
"Where are you going?" Morales asks, shivering wet.
“Gotta take care of something,” I say, breaking into a jog.
"Cobb!" Clarke shouts. "Cobb! Get back here!"
I ignore the guy and run as fast as my frozen bones will let me. I'm parked a hundred yards and a couple of streets away. I find a big yellow clamp on the front driver's wheel.
Well, at least I've got weapons in the boot. I dig a hand inside my pocket. The key fob comes out sopping wet. Doesn't work. I throw it away and start running.
I hit the main road and flag down a black cab. The driver's a chubby forty-something in a red polo shirt.
I talk to him through the window. "How far's the Mercia from here?"
“Couple of minutes,” he says. "At the top of this road and then right."
"Great," I say, "That's where we're going."
"You're not getting in my cab like that, mate."
"Oh come on pal, it's an emergency."
"Not my problem,” he says, pulling away.
I give him a mouthful and start running. I see a large white van pulling out onto the road behind me. I wait for it to pass by and jump on the back. I stand on the rear bumper and ride it all the way up the road. I hop off as it makes a right turn into a busy street full of shops and bars. The momentum sees me run across the road in front of beeping, braking traffic.
I dodge my way through and onto the pavement. I see the Mercia Hotel on the left. A plush, high-rise glass building with blue tinted windows. It sits behind a fountain and a stretch of perfectly cut grass.
I see a car pulling up out front. A shiny silver Mercedes saloon. A big guy with a greased-back pony tail shoving a woman in a posh frock into the backseat.
Amira.
Pavel, too, climbing in beside her.
The big guy gets in the front and the car pulls out onto the road.
I look around. Spot a black cab parking up in its place. I run towards it. The driver gets out. The same joker who refused me a ride. He's round the back of the cab, helping a couple with their luggage. I run straight past 'em and jump in behind the wheel. I take off. Leave the cab driver bawling and flapping in the rearview.
I'm soon up to speed and settle into a thirty mile-an-hour cruise. The silver Mercedes is a few cars up ahead. It indicates right and makes a turn. I tail the car through a series of swanky streets.
The Mercedes makes a left turn and I follow at a safe distance behind. There are no cars between us now and the driver of the Merc won't look twice at a following cab. All I have to do is track 'em to wherever they're going.
We stop at a set of lights. They turn green. We set off. Then some arsehole comes out of a side street in a yellow Porsche. He cuts between me and the Merc.
Pavel's driver speeds up to make a right turn through a gap in traffic. By the time the Porsche zooms off ahead, I'm blocked from making the same turn by cars coming the other way. I sit with the indicator on, waiting for a gap. There isn't one. So I make one, accelerating across a double-decker London bus.
The cab is an inch from being wiped out.
But I make it into a quiet road. It’s lined by tall, stone buildings. Traditional gaffes behind black, wrought iron bars. I give it beans up the road, playing catch up. I slam on at a T-junction and look both ways. The Mercedes is gone.
58
Anton, Pavel's driver, steered the Merce
des down a ramp off a quiet London street. The headlights clicked on as they rolled into an underground car park. They cruised past Bentleys, BMWs and a red Ferrari.
Amira tensed up on the backseat of the car. The journey had taken place in icy silence. She knew any hope that Pavel would release her was wishful thinking. She wondered what was in store next.
Anton parked the Mercedes in a space with no cars either side. Tony hauled his giant frame out of the passenger seat with a wheeze. He threw his door shut and opened the rear door for Pavel.
Pavel got out. Amira craned her neck to see him walk around the back of the car. He opened her door. Amira hesitated.
"Come on," Pavel said, checking his watch. "We haven't got long."
"Until what?" Amira asked.
"You can either get out, or Tony will drag you out," Pavel said.
Amira swung both feet out onto the car park floor. She rose out of the Mercedes and walked towards the elevator, Pavel gripping her forearm tight, the air chilly. They rode up three floors before the doors slid open.
Pavel yanked Amira out of the elevator, across a white marble floor. Large gold vases stood against walls, holding tall arrangements of bamboo.
Amira thought it expensively tasteless. "When are you going to let me go?" she asked, hoping Pavel would get frustrated with her. Give her the truth.
But Pavel stared straight ahead. Dead in the eyes, as if she no longer existed.
They moved along a clean white corridor, Tony's rubber soles squeaking over the floor. Pavel's and her own clapping in chorus.
They came to a reception area.
The young woman behind the desk was rake-thin with pinned-up red hair. She picked up a receiver on a phone behind the counter top. "Your guests have arrived," she said, in a plum accent. She put down the phone and smiled at Pavel. "They're ready for you. Meeting Room Four." The receptionist pointed to her right, along another corridor. As they passed by, her smile fell and her freckled nose wrinkled at the sight of Amira.
A bearded man in tweed walked by with a stethoscope around his neck. A nurse in a crisp white uniform stepped out of a doorway and shuffled off ahead. Amira thought back to the doctor who had visited her in the hotel room. At the time, she thought the blood and urine tests were to check she was free of infection. Now she wasn't so sure.