The Hit

by Anna Smith

  ‘Wh-what . . . who are you? Please. Don’t hurt me.’

  She was pulled to her feet and felt the ties behind her back being cut and her feet released. But she could barely stand, felt sick rising in her throat.

  ‘Please. I’m sick. I can’t see properly. I need a doctor.’

  She heard someone laughing. Then she saw his face for a moment. A man in a dark suit.

  ‘This is message from our friends in Eastern Europe. We are here now. This is not your city.’

  ‘What?’ Rosie tried to focus.

  She could hear water and, from instinct, she knew she was at the banks of the river on the Southside. She saw the silhouette of what looked like a huge warehouse she knew. Then she was grabbed on each side and dragged towards the water. She could see its inky blackness rushing past. Her body was icy cold but soaking with sweat and her head was thumping as though it was about to explode.

  ‘You can swim? If you can, maybe you live. If not – is your problem.’

  Rosie turned her head to make one last plea as they dragged her to the edge. She pushed her hand inside her pocket and pressed the button to ring the last number she’d called on her mobile – the DI’s. She could hear it ringing. But it was too late to matter now. She could feel herself flying through the air, legs flailing. The cold icy shock of the water on her face left her gasping for air when she came up for the first time. She’d never felt cold like this. Down she went, beneath the water, eyes open in the pitch blackness, the taste of oily, gritty water in her mouth, swallowing, choking. She kicked furiously with her legs to bring her to the surface again, but she was weighed down with her boots and clothes. Her arms and legs were getting heavier the more she struggled, and she sank again. The pain had gone from her head. But every survival instinct pushed her on. She broke through the surface, and could see nothing, just blackness. Her legs began to feel numb and she couldn’t move them. She was going to die here, in this river, like this, alone. Nobody was coming. Nobody even knew where she would be. An image of her mother dancing with her father on a snowy night in their living room came to her head and she tried to kick her legs again – but nothing. Then she was below the water again and pulled her arms to try to come to the surface, but they felt so heavy. But again, the image of her parents dancing, the music, she suddenly felt the warmth of the house that winter’s night, the crackling of the open fire, the old record blaring on the radiogram. Rosie felt her eyes closing. There was the warm embrace of something as the music carried her off and suddenly she wasn’t afraid any more. She chased the warm embrace and she slipped away.

  *

  ‘She’s fucking deed! Look at her, Terry! She’s blue. Fuck’s sake, man! Somebody get an ambulance or something. Get the polis!’

  Rosie could hear voices in her dream.

  ‘Up there! Go up to the Jamaica Bridge! Flag somebody down, for fuck’s sake!’

  ‘I’ll go. You can hardly fucking stand up you’re that wrecked.’

  The voices came and went and Rosie lay on her stomach feeling someone punching her back.

  ‘That’s not what you’re supposed to do, Dan. You’re fucking punching her.’

  ‘I’m trying to get the fucking water out her lungs, man. Maybe she’ll come round.’

  ‘She’s dead, man. I think we should get out of here before the cops come. We might get blamed.’

  Then silence. The sound of people moving, shuffling. Rosie coughed. Then vomited.

  ‘Fuck me, man! She’s no’ deed.’

  Someone knelt beside her and lifted her head back.

  ‘Listen, hen. It’s all right. Jamie’s away to get help. You’ll be all right. We’ll no’ let you die.’

  Rosie slipped in and out of consciousness, freezing, shivering, her teeth rattling. Then more voices.

  ‘Stand back, everyone. We’ve got this.’

  She could hear sirens and see the yellow glow of jackets. Ambulance flashing lights. Hands and arms touching her, lifting her onto something. She was alive. She opened one eye as she was going into the back of the ambulance and suddenly she knew where she was. There was a two-seater sofa below the Jamaica Bridge, and beer cans and bottles strewn around. This was where down-and-outs lived and slept if they couldn’t get a hostel. Christ almighty! They’d saved her. She felt tears warm on her face. Because part of her wished they hadn’t. Then she saw them, unsteady on their feet, gazing at her with wide eyes.

  ‘Is she gonnae be all right, boss?’ she heard one of the voices slur.

  ‘She’s alive, anyway. Listen, you boys stay where you are. We’ll need a word with you. What you saw.’

  ‘Didny see anything, man. Just a body bobbing up and down in the water. She must have jumped. Poor lassie. We just dragged her out when she got close enough to the side. Fuckin’ scary.’

  Rosie heard the ambulance doors close, blinded by the light inside. People talking, asking who she was. Then everything went black.

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Sarajevo, four weeks later

  The first week after Rosie got out of hospital had been spent mostly staring into space in her flat, and sleeping for hours on end. She’d never known such exhaustion. She was beginning to think she was sinking into some kind of depression, but her shrink friend told her this was perfectly normal. She was suffering from post-traumatic stress – probably had for a long time – but the plunge into the river and the near-death experience had pushed her over the edge, made it acute. Tears had come to Rosie’s eyes when she’d confessed to him that there was a part of her that wished she had died that night; that she knew that the warm feeling she had had, which although she was trying with every fibre of her body to survive, was something pulling her to death. She was worried she was feeling suicidal, but he reassured her that was normal too. Time, he told her, is the great healer. Never mind the cliché. It was true. You need to rest, completely rest, he said. Get away from here. Get away from the job. Maybe even think about getting out altogether. You have your life to live, he’d told her. Rosie had listened passively, but the part that was Rosie Gilmour the journalist pushed him away and she knew she would be fine when she got back to work. He warned her not to: this was when she should stand back and take stock of her life. TJ had been right. She’d called him to tell him, but played it down. He was working and about to leave for a tour of Germany so she only told him half the truth. He seemed detached, and she wasn’t quite sure how she felt about that, but it wasn’t bereft.

  The rest of the time she spent at home, watching old movies, reading, sleeping. Visits from McGuire, then nothing. She wondered when she would go back to work. He told her she was off for at least a month. She’d tried to phone Adrian, but nothing. Then she phoned his friend Risto, and he told her that Adrian was going to talk to her but there had been some changes in his life. He would like to see you, Risto had said. Rosie couldn’t imagine what had happened. Was he ill? she’d asked. No. I cannot talk, he said. Why don’t you visit? He is asking. Why doesn’t he call? she’d asked. He said to visit. I can’t speak any more.

  *

  Now she was in the car with Risto heading back to where she’d once felt happy and free, with the bracing air of the mountains in her face, and the safety of Adrian. Risto hadn’t said much on the journey, and she wondered if Adrian had suffered some permanent damage. Perhaps he was seriously ill, in a wheelchair or something. Her stomach was in knots. They drove through lush valleys dotted with small villages. Then up to the house where Rosie remembered his mother lived. Now it looked exactly the same, with the smoke swirling from the chimney. Like stepping back in time, the small houses, farms, tight roads. In the garden, she saw Adrian’s mother glance at Risto’s car, then go quickly inside. Rosie felt sick with worry. She was desperate to see Adrian. There were butterflies in her stomach and her heart beat faster. They pulled the car up into the yard. Then, suddenly, Adrian was standing in the doorway, a smile spreading over his face. And a little boy in his arms. For a moment Rosie was dumbstru
ck. He hadn’t told her of a relationship or a baby, but why would he? It was his life. Her head swam as she got out of the car and walked towards him. Suddenly, there was a flash of recognition, as she saw the baby closer up.

  ‘Rosie. My friend. You remember this boy?’

  Rosie was stunned. The little boy from the orphanage. The toddler in the cot who had cried and wailed, who had reached out to touch Adrian. She choked back tears.

  ‘Jesus, Adrian! What? How! My God! You brought him home with you?’

  Adrian grinned as the little boy snuggled shyly into his neck.

  ‘Yes. I did. I went back and talked to the orphanage boss. So I made the decision. It’s all legal. Not stolen or bought. The father is dead. The mother is gone – could not be traced.’ He cuddled the boy. ‘So he is mine now, Rosie. My boy, Jabir.’

  ‘Jesus! Why didn’t you tell me? I’ve been trying to get hold of you for weeks. I was worried sick. I mean . . . All the way here, I really thought something was wrong with you.’

  He came across to her, put the little boy down and took her in his arms.

  ‘I had to wait until I could bring him here. It took some time. Nothing is wrong with me. Not now. I am happy. This is my life now. I can give this boy a life he couldn’t have. And he can have my life.’

  Rosie scanned his face. The trademark dark shadows of a man whose sleep had been haunted by the demons of war and heartbreak and loss were gone. The pale, tired face she’d left behind in Romania was glowing with something much deeper than sheer good health. Adrian was happy, and seeing him standing here, remembering who he’d been when they first met, made her throat tighten with emotion. She hugged him and he held her tight. Then he pulled back and looked at her.

  ‘You are all right?’

  He wiped a tear from her cheek.

  ‘I’m just so happy that you’re happy.’

  ‘I’m glad to see you, Rosie. This is a great day. Come. My mother has cooked. But first you can rest from your journey.’

  *

  The meal had been a feast prepared by Adrian’s mother and sister, who’d joined them at the table along with Risto. Rosie listened to their stories as they drank wine and toasted absent friends, but also drank to a future filled with great hope. She closed her eyes for a second to take a picture in her mind of this night so she would remember it forever. Rosie had watched earlier as Adrian cradled the sleeping boy in his arms, then gently laid him in his cot in a room next to his. He has everything he needs, she thought, as he pushed the little boy’s fringe back from his eyes. She was glad for Adrian, and yet somewhere inside there was a tiny ache that she had lost him, that whatever they had been to each other was over. There was no regret, no sadness, just an ache that she couldn’t explain to herself.

  Finally, there was just Rosie and Adrian sitting at the table, looking out at the blackness of the winter sky as the wind howled around the cottage. Adrian raked the flickering fire and placed another log on, then came back and sat at the table. He poured a little wine into both their glasses, and raised his.

  ‘To you, Rosie Gilmour. I am glad you came into my life.’

  Rosie smiled, and reached across, brushing his cheek with the back of her hand.

  ‘We’ve had some times, Adrian. Truly. You . . . you mean so much to me.’ She hesitated. ‘Probably more than you know.’

  They were silent for a moment, comfortable, two friends relaxed with each other.

  ‘What now for you, Rosie? Another big story?’

  She shook her head. ‘Who knows. I haven’t thought beyond this.’ She spread her hands. ‘Glasgow seems like another world.’

  Adrian took her hand. ‘You know, Rosie. You can stay here. I mean . . . longer than a holiday. I . . . I . . . What I’m saying is that my life is different now. I have my boy. I can see now clearly what my life should be.’

  ‘You are very lucky to be able to see that, Adrian. I’m so pleased for you.’

  Rosie looked beyond Adrian out to the darkness. She had never, ever been able to see what her life should be. It just was what it was. And it was really about work, and people she encountered, and relationships that came and went. She’d tried not to ponder too deeply on where she should be in her life, but she knew right now she was tired. Exhausted. Burned out. She saw herself drowning in the freezing river, and she shivered.

  ‘But my life is not complete, Rosie.’

  Rosie only half heard his words and she looked at him, surprised, but didn’t say anything. Here, like this, with Adrian, was a feeling so potent that she was afraid to even imagine that her life could be like this.

  ‘Rosie, why don’t you stay here for a while? I . . .’ He touched her face. ‘Stay with me, with us, as long as you want.’ He brushed her lips with his, and for a moment their eyes locked. ‘Will you think about it?’

  She could hear the urgent buzz of her mobile on Silent, and knew it was shuddering somewhere in her jacket hanging up in the hall. She let it ring . . .

  Acknowledgements

  When I began writing the Rosie Gilmour novels I only ever imagined doing two of them, and now we’re at number nine – and who knows what will happen next!

  It’s been a wonderful, fulfilling experience for me, and I am grateful to so many people – family, readers – for all their support.

  My sister Sadie, my greatest friend, who is ever at my side. My brother Des, who even in the most difficult times always finds time to ask me about my novels and takes a great interest in my work.

  Matt, Katrina, and Christopher, who inspire and throw in ideas, and Paul who keeps my techno stuff right.

  My cousins, the Motherwell Smiths, as well as Alice and Debbie and all their family in London. And my cousins Ann Marie and Anne.

  I am lucky to have so many close friends: Mags, Eileen, Annie, Mary, Phil, Liz, and journalists Simon, Lynn, Mark, Maureen, Keith, and Thomas in Australia. Also Helen and Bruce, Marie, Barbara, Jan, Donna, Louise, Gordon and Janetta, Brian and Jimmy.

  In Ireland, I am grateful to Mary and Paud, for their support, as well as Sioban, and Sean Brendain. And in La Cala, Yvonne, Mara, Wendy, Jean, Maggie, Sarah, Fran, Billy and Davina. There are so many people who make a contribution to my life, and you all know who you are.

  Thanks also to my editor Jane Wood, for believing in the Rosie books from day one, and to her assistant Therese Keating. Also to Olivia Mead in publicity, and all the top team at Quercus, who have been the best.