by Rob Aspinall
I gather myself. Ribs broken all over again. I hold a hand to my side, fighting for breath.
Pavel paces, staying loose. Dripping in smug. "What's wrong Charlie? Surprised I know how to fight?"
"I sank your bloody ship," I say, laughing, bleeding.
His nostrils flare. He lunges at me. Just what I wanted. I get hold of him so he can't pick me off. But he's got other skills. And before I know what's happening, I'm on my back staring at those bright theatre lights.
The bastard must have judo-thrown me or something.
"Where'd you learn to fight like that?" I ask.
"Serbian special forces," Pavel says. "There's no shame in staying down."
"Just taking a breather," I say, rolling onto my front.
I get to my feet again, he hits me with a left and a right. Fast, efficient punches I can't telegraph. I swing and miss a couple more times. He drives a fist into my sternum. He kicks out my right knee and takes me down to the floor. He has the point of his hand on my throat. A knee on my right bicep. My left arm twisted to shit in a fancy torture hold.
He applies more pressure to my throat. Talks to me, quiet and close. "You're a persistent bastard, Charlie, but you're an ape. A dumb, blundering animal. You lack the training or finesse." Pavel's got me. He's got me good. “See, I don't even need a weapon," he says.
He's right. I'm choking to death.
"Any last words?" he asks, as he slowly kills me.
63
Actually, I do have a few words for Pavel. But with his hand on my windpipe, they come out as cough and splutter.
Pavel seems amused. "Sorry Charlie, what was—" He wheezes mid-sentence.
Probably 'cause I'm crushing his ribcage between my thighs. He gives up on choking me and struggles to get free—both hands attempting to prise himself out.
I clear my throat. "I said, Pavel, you talk too much."
I nut the bastard hard in the mouth. His lips stain with blood. I push him off. As I get to my feet, he spins on the floor and sweeps my legs from under me. I hit the deck and roll away.
Pavel darts past me and grabs a scalpel off the tray. He backs off with it, twisting it in his hand.
I look at the tray. There's another scalpel. I dunno how good Pavel is in a knife fight, but I’m betting he’s better than me.
He rushes me fast. I grab the tool tray and tip it upside down. I whack Pavel in the throat with the hard edge of the tray. He staggers, coughing blood. I pull him in close. "How's that for finesse?" I ask him, reversing the scalpel into his side.
He cries out. I wind him in the stomach. Crack him in the nose. Pick him up and power-slam him on the edge of the operating table.
He falls off, groans and tries to crawl, pulling the scalpel out from his side. Blood spots the floor in his wake. He's fresh out of juice.
I roll him onto his back with a foot. I pull him up to a sitting position by his shirt collar. A clenched fist ready to spark him out.
"Out of the way, Charlie.”
I turn to see Amira. On her feet in front of the bed. Swaying a little. Pavel's weapon in both hands.
I hold out a hand. "Give me the gun, Amira."
"Get out of the way," she says, training the gun on Pavel, hands shaking.
"You don't wanna do this," I say, letting go of Pavel. I stand and tread slow towards her.
Amira's eyes are fierce, her chest heaving. She speaks through gritted teeth. "I want to know how it feels."
"How what feels?"
"To see one of them die."
I step out of the way in case that trigger finger of hers gets a little too itchy. "Don't let them drag you down, Amira."
Amira shuffles forward. "Why not?"
"Because there's enough of us down here as it is. And this piece of shit knows who's behind all this. He can help us stop it, whether he likes it or not." I close in on Amira. "Come on, give me the gun."
For a brief moment, I think she's gonna pull the trigger. But she lowers the weapon. Lets out a tearful sigh. I take the gun off her.
"I thought you were dead," Amira says.
"Well, the jury's still out on that one," I say, flexing my back and cracking a few bones.
"How did you find me?"
I run a fingertip over my cheek and study the soot on the end. "I asked around—as politely as I could.”
She stares at me, confused. "Why would you—?"
I shrug as I detach the clip from the gun. I rest both of them on the operating table. "Seemed like a good idea at the time."
Amira smiles. It drops at the sight of something over my shoulder. I turn and see Pavel, rising to his feet. A gun detached from a velcro strap around his ankle.
I push his arm away as he shoots.
He misses. I reach out instinctively. Pick up a pair of surgical scissors off the tool stand. I drive the blades deep into his left temple.
Pavel's body goes loose. He drops the ankle pistol. Blood streams down his neck. He looks at me and opens his mouth to speak.
He flops to his right. Hits the floor with a smack.
Amira steps forward. "Is he—?"
"As a dodo." I dig inside his jacket pockets and find Pavel's phone. It's unlocked.
Don't know many mafioso who do bother locking 'em.
I swipe through to his call list. Remembering the time of the first phone call he took during my interrogation. There's a name next to the relevant time: Mr G. I dial the number. It rings a few times.
I hear a ringtone out in the corridor, through the doors. It's only faint, but it rings out in sync with the dial tone. I pop the clip in Pavel's main weapon. "Stay here a moment," I say, handing the ankle gun to Amira. "If anyone tries to operate on you, shoot 'em."
Amira grips the pistol tight in both hands and sits on the edge of the bed.
“Shouldn’t be long," I say. "Then we'll clear this place out."
I push through the operating room doors. Mr G answers in Pavel's language. His voice baritone, mature.
"You speak English?" I ask.
"Who is this?"
I turn right and follow the sound of his voice to the end of the corridor.
"Hello?" Mr G says. "I said, who is this?"
As I peep around the corner, I see him stood with two bodyguards in black suits. He's a stocky guy in a roll neck jumper and a matching black raincoat. Big brown glasses and greying hair oiled back over his head. He hangs up and says something foreign to the bodyguards.
I take 'em by surprise and round the corner, my gun on 'em before anyone can draw. "Everyone relax," I say.
"Where's Pavel?" Mr G asks.
"Having a lie down."
The bodyguards step in front of their boss.
"You just made the biggest mistake of your life," Mr G says. "I'd suggest you disappear while you can."
"And I'd suggest you let the man with the gun make the demands."
I can see the bodyguards' hands twitching. Wanting to go for their weapons.
"What do you want?" Mr G asks.
"We'll get to that. Tell your boys to step aside."
"Or you'll do what?" says Mr G.
"Or I'll—"
The stairwell door to my left opens. In walks a bald copper in full uniform. "My wife's on her way—" he says, freezing. I see the name on his badge: Chief Superintendent Bridlington.
As he enters the conversation, one of the bodyguards draws.
64
As one bodyguard goes for his weapon, the other throws himself into me. We wrestle for control of the gun. I direct the shot at the other bodyguard. It hits him in the arm. He draws his weapon with the other hand and pulls the trigger. I use the guy I'm fighting as a human shield. I run him towards the other guard. He takes another three rounds in the back. I push the guy off me. Beat the remaining bodyguard to the next shot. He collapses too. A bullet in the forehead.
That leaves Mr G and Bridlington.
Correction. Bridlington is already gone, through the stairwell door he came
in through.
Mr G makes a dash towards the same exit. I sidestep and cut off his escape. He skids to a stop in his tan leather shoes. Doubles back, looking for another way out. I stride after him. He's got nowhere to go.
But he gets lucky. There's a sliding glass door out onto a large balcony. Wood decking, chairs and plants.
I'm thinking it's a tactical mistake. He'll end up running into a dead end. But again, he gets the rub of the green. A metal staircase leads up onto the roof of the building.
Mr G heads up the stairs, his feet rattling off old iron steps. I go after him, but lose sight of the bastard.
I hit the top step and emerge onto the roof. No sign of Mr G, but I'd bet any money he's hiding out here somewhere.
I see a cluster of shafts and air conditioning units.
Any money he's behind one of ‘em.
I tread light and fast. Creep around the back of an air conditioning unit, ready to jump out on him.
But Mr G is no fool. He double-bluffs me. Comes at me from behind. Signalled by a crack to the small of the back with something heavy. I stagger forward, down to one knee. Another whack to the wrist knocks the gun from my hand. It falls into the mouth of a ventilation shaft in the roof. Clatters all the way down.
Mr G swings again: a length of lead pipe. I reach up and catch the end. I tear it from his grip. He panics and runs. Across the rooftop, frantic in his search for an escape route. The first thing I do is block his exit back the way we came up.
It forces him towards the far end of the roof. I walk after him with the pipe, letting the end drag across the floor. The boss stands with his coat tails flapping in the wind. He peers over the edge of the building. Looks back at me. "Who are you?"
I keep walking. Don't answer.
"You kill me and you're a dead man," he says.
I get closer. He sits down on the edge of the roof, pushes himself off and vanishes from sight.
Don't tell me he's . . . No, the rooftop doesn't end there. It angles downwards. Smooth slate tiles at sixty degrees. After that, a sheer drop of ninety feet. But there's only a six foot gap from this roof to the next one. If he can make that jump, he can scramble up it.
I'm guessing that's why he's on his arse, sliding down towards the outer edge of the building.
I drop the pipe and sit on the ledge.
You must be bloody nuts, Charlie.
I swing my legs over and follow him down the slope. The slates are slippy. I slide faster than him, trying to catch up. He sees me coming and responds. A slate comes loose under my feet. I almost lose my balance.
But I stay on the tails of his raincoat.
He makes it down to the edge. Sizes up the jump. Sees me almost on top of him. He goes for it.
The bastard jumps surprisingly well. He catches hold of a steel drainpipe and bumps off the wall.
My own momentum almost takes me over the edge. I dig my heels in and steady myself. I avoid eye contact with the ground.
I push up into a crouch.
Sod it.
I make the jump.
65
I land a foot to the left of Mr G, catching hold of the steel gutter.
He’s already on the upward climb of slates, but he's close enough to kick me in the face. A section of gutter gives way under my weight. I slap a hand on the tiles. Another, hauling myself up onto my forearms.
Mr G kicks again. I catch his shoe. He pulls his leg away. The shoe slides off his foot in my hand. He scrambles up the rise. I let the shoe spiral to the ground. I fight with all the strength and grip I've got and make it onto all fours.
Roof tiles break off as Mr G climbs. A couple bounce into my face.
He slips and slides backwards. He hooks his arms around a vent pipe rising out of the roof.
I'm struggling for grip, too, out of breath. Mr G the same. He attempts to climb further. I dive forward and seize an ankle. I pull him towards me. He holds on for dear life to that pipe, stocky little legs kicking out against me.
I pull and pull until the pipe snaps. The pair of us tumble towards the edge. I grab the drainpipe as I fall. Mr G slides past me, but I catch him with my spare hand by the collar.
We come to a sudden stop. Me hanging off the pipe, my spare arm almost torn from the socket. Mr G hanging over the edge, only the stitching in his raincoat saving him from certain doom. The drainpipe is quality metal, thank Christ. I plant my right heel on the edge of the roof and get some leverage.
Mr G looks down at the drop. He swings, he panics. "Pull me up," he says.
"Hum, this is a well-made coat," I say. "How much does a coat like this cost?"
"What? Just fucking pull me up!"
"Why? So you can murder young women? Cut out the eyes of little kids? Uh-uh."
“Think about it,” he says, "I can be a powerful friend to you."
The first stitch in his collar comes loose. Mr G doesn't look happy about it.
"I dunno." I say. "I've had friends like you before."
"I can make you rich," he says, eyeballing the ground. "Very rich."
The stitching rips some more. I struggle to keep hold of him.
Let him drop?
Pull him up?
If I don't decide in the next twenty seconds, gravity’s gonna decide for me.
I look into those big, dark soulless glasses. "How rich?" I ask him.
66
We stand outside departures. It's a warm day. The sun is shining.
Amira fiddles with the young girl's hair. The kid's name is Rima. She wears a pink coat and matching trainers. She smiles at Amira. A mouthful of tiny teeth. The colour's back in her cheeks again. Brown eyes twinkling in the light.
"There, now you look like a princess," Amira says, out of the escort dress and into jeans, a white sweater and a navy jacket.
A car approaches from the left. A sleek, black Audi saloon. It pulls up in front of us. The driver winds down his window. He's a young, blonde guy dressed in a smart grey suit and black tie.
"Charles Cobb?" he asks.
"That's me."
The driver takes a package from the passenger seat and hands it through the window. I pass the package onto Amira.
The driver hands me a clipboard and pen. Some kind of form. "Sign to confirm receipt," he says.
I scrawl something illegible at the bottom of the form. I hand it back. He nods and drives away.
I pick up Amira's travel case and the lady bird case I picked out for Rima. I pull theirs and mine in through the terminal doors. I help them find the right line for their flight to Munich, Amira's original destination.
She has a cousin there. He owns a small restaurant.
"He says I can help out in the kitchen," she says.
"Waiting on tables?" I say, rolling my eyes.
"It's a start," she says. "That's all we need."
"Well you'd better get going," I say.
Amira prompts Rima in Arabic. Rima dashes forward and hugs my right leg. I pat her on the head and try to shake her off me.
The kid finally lets go.
Amira comes in next for a brief hug. "I don't know how to thank you," she says in my ear.
"Ah, never mind all that bollocks," I say, breaking the hug. I look at Rima. "Shit, shouldn't swear in front of the kid."
Amira laughs. "It's fine. She doesn't understand."
“Everything there?” I ask, pointing to the envelope the driver handed over. “Papers? Passports?”
Amira pulls out two passports. She holds them up for me to see. "All here,” she says. “But I don't understand . . . The passports, the visas, getting Rima out of hospital. How did you manage all this, Charlie?"
I smile. “A powerful friend,” I say.
67
Detective Clarke stopped the car across the road from the NAC building. His suit trousers still damp. The smell of carcinogens and river water up his nose.
"How are we gonna write this one up, guv?” Morales asked, toying with her straggled hair.
“Simple. We followed an anonymous tip," Clarke said. "We saved some girls from a sinking ship.”
"And what about the guns?"
"Don't worry, they're in the river."
Clarke turned off the engine and unclipped his seatbelt. He caught Morales staring into the near distance.
"What the f—?" she said.
Clarke followed her line of sight towards a handful of detectives. They seemed to be discussing something outside the entrance to the building. Clarke and Morales climbed out of the car and wandered across the road.
As they approached, they caught sight of a man lying on his side on the pavement. The man wore a black raincoat and dark-brown glasses. His hands and feet bound, and mouth gagged with silver duct tape. He mumbled and squirmed, a business card and a folded note peeping out of the breast pocket of his coat.
Detective Clarke pushed his way to the front. He kneeled down and plucked the card and note from the man's pocket.
He looked at the business card: one of his own. He turned it over and saw something scrawled in blue biro: The scumbag you're looking for.
He opened the note. It was addressed to him, with a shopping list of demands, scribbled in the same handwriting as the card.
Clarke scanned the list.
The author didn't leave a name, but he hardly needed to. He wanted documents and passports. And he'd left instructions on when and where to deliver them. A phone number too. And something about a hospitalised girl.
On delivery, the note said, Clarke would get a name. The name of his mole.
68
My phone rings.
My other phone. Another cheap-as-chips burner with a number I gave to Clarke.
He's on the other end. A happy little pig rolling around in his own shit.
“You unwrap my present?“ I ask.
"Edgar Grezda," he says. "Albanian Mafia."
"He talking yet?" I ask.
"He will," Clarke says.
“And the people in the clinic?"
"The patients are in care. The staff are being questioned.”