by Janene Wood
Two doors opened off the first floor landing, one of which was slightly ajar. Fitz pushed it open without knocking and led the way inside. They were immediately assailed by a low pitched keening sound which became louder and more unnerving with every step. Through an open doorway on the far side of the room, she could see a body lying on the floor, in a puddle of warm light. Her patient, she presumed. Inhaling the pervading stink of urine, stale cannabis and rotting food, she wrinkled her nose in distaste. The outer room was illuminated only by the glow of a streetlamp outside the window. The floor was littered with discarded pizza boxes, empty beer bottles and homemade bongs. There was no furniture to speak of, just an old sofa with its springs poking out and a couple of broken dining chairs.
Before she could change her mind and run away screaming, she was guided into the adjoining room where her patient lay on a limp mattress, shivering beneath a threadbare blanket. The room was lit by a smoking kerosene lamp which thankfully masked the stink from the other room, but wasn’t strong enough to disguise the metallic tang of blood rising from the floor. And something else: the sweet, familiar scent of a woman’s perfume, emanating from the young woman kneeling on the floor next to her patient.
It wasn’t necessary to see the girl's face to know who it was. Her unruly red locks would have given her away even if the possessive way she stroked Ryan’s hair did not. Kate wanted to slap Lindy’s hand away and yell at her to stop that dreadful yowling, but she was too much of a professional, and despite the evidence of her nostrils, she had no proof there was anything between them except friendship and a bit of harmless flirting. Just because Ryan arrived at Kate’s flat the other night reeking of Lindy’s perfume didn’t mean he was sleeping with her.
Crap. Why did Lindy have to be here now? As if Kate wasn’t unsettled enough, now she had to deal with niggling doubts about Ryan's fidelity. If she couldn’t focus properly, she would be of absolutely no use. She forced herself to stay calm and stop jumping to conclusions; this wasn't the time or the place.
Kate placed a heavy hand on Lindy’s shoulder to get her attention. The other girl didn't even flinch; she just looked up at her with wide, vacant eyes. Oh my God, she's high! Well, that explained the extreme emotional display, if not her actual presence here. Funny, she had mentally accused Lindy of being a slut and an opportunist, but never suspected she was a user. Not of drugs, at least.
“You need to move aside so I can take a look,” Kate told her with cold civility, subjugating her personal feelings. Lindy reluctantly moved over, giving Kate sufficient space to kneel over Ryan's unmoving body.
Ryan groaned and Kate forgot about everything else but him. His blood was everywhere: all through his clothes; over the mattress and blanket; on Lindy's hands. It wasn’t anything she hadn’t seen before but it wasn't usually the blood of someone she loved. She felt his neck for a pulse and was relieved to find it, weak but steady. His skin was cold and clammy but he opened his eyes at her touch, and tried hard to smile through his pain.
“I knew you’d come,” he said breathlessly. “I fucked up bad, Kate,” he told her with a grimace of pain. “You won't let me die in this shit-hole, will you?” His words all slurred together, as if he had been drinking heavily. It was clear how much the effort to speak cost him.
“Shhh,” she whispered. “Be still. You’re going to be fine,” she assured him in her steadiest voice. With a last look of entreaty, he closed his eyes again.
It was a struggle to remain detached; every nerve in her body was tensed to breaking point. Using both hands, she gently probed his belly, until she found the entry point of the bullet, an inch below his navel. From the odour, it had perforated the small intestine, spilling fecal matter into his abdominal cavity. Without treatment, it would be a slow and painful death. God willing, it wouldn’t come to that.
Kate felt the heavy gaze of two sets of eyes, praying for a miracle.
Marc watched the red Saab drive off down the narrow street before stepping out of the taxi. He paused briefly, long enough to look up and down in both directions, seeking anything out of the ordinary, before following in Kate’s footsteps.
There was a faint blood trail, illuminated by the arc of light from a nearby streetlamp. It started in the middle of the road and continued across the footpath, inside the house and up the stairs to the first floor. He was cautious, moving slowly and methodically, having learned the hard way that everything was not always as it seemed. The door was open but he paused outside, listening intently, before cautiously crossing the threshold. The room he entered was dim, but his eyes adjusted quickly to the gloom. It was unoccupied.
A faint whimpering led him to the adjacent room where Kate was kneeling with her back to the door. An unconscious man lay on a mattress before her. A second man and a young woman completed an odd quartet, but in the lamplight they didn’t register his presence, or perhaps they thought he was somebody else – the driver of the Saab, possibly – and didn’t warrant acknowledgment. The young woman, no more than a girl, really, with a tangled mess of red hair, knelt beside Kate, rocking back and forth on her haunches, moaning softly. The second man, unexpectedly well-dressed in a navy-blue suit, stood immobile at the foot of the mattress, looking down at the patient, his hands steepled together beneath his chin in silent contemplation or prayer; Marc couldn’t tell which.
It took only one look at the blood-soaked man on the floor for Marc to understand why Kate had been brought here. The realisation sent an electric shiver up his spine. His hand went involuntarily to his chest, but he knew no trace remained of what happened that day, in that other life. If the memory of sudden, overwhelming pain and a crippling inability to breathe hadn’t stayed with him, he wouldn’t have known it even happened. But he did remember. He remembered also the warmth and strength that trickled into his body when Kate laid her hands on him, seeking to prevent his heart pumping his last drop of blood onto the dry, dusty Eritrean road. Right before he lost consciousness.
It was enthralling to watch Kate work. The wonder of it pushed all other thoughts from his mind. After several minutes, he could see she was tiring and wondered if she would be able to finish the job. He willed her to keep going, wishing he could impart some of his own strength to bolster hers. Not that it wouldn’t make his life a whole lot easier if Ryan Leach died and was summarily removed from the equation, but he didn’t want it to be like this. He needed it to be her choice. Sadly for Leach, this situation wouldn’t help his case. It hadn’t escaped Marc’s notice that this was all the confirmation he needed of the man’s true character. There was definitely something fishy going on if he chose to be treated secretly by Kate instead of being taken to the nearest hospital emergency room. Considering the delay and the uncertainty involved, he was lucky to still be alive.
The sound of footsteps echoed up the stairwell outside. Marc retraced his steps through the bedroom door while removing his borrowed revolver from its holster. After everything that happened in Paris, he had decided it made sense to arm himself, and Pax was happy to oblige. Re-entering the outer room, he used the shadows to mask his movement. A moment later, a dark shape entered the room.
“Stop right there,” ordered Marc. He raised his weapon, ensuring the man knew he was armed. “What's your business here?”
The newcomer gave a humourless chuckle. “Surely such rudeness is unwarranted, Mr Webb. I thought we we’re old friends.” He sounded very sure of himself; cocky even. “I’m impressed you made such good time finding us,” said the stranger, but then he cocked his head and frowned. “Actually no,” he reconsidered, smirking. “Four years is quite a long time, really. A lifetime, in fact. You’re not thinking of shooting me, I hope,” he said, warily eyeing the gun. “I haven’t done anything illegal, you know – not today, at least.”
The man stepped into the light from the adjoining room, giving Marc a better view of his features, although Marc had known who it was as soon as he opened his mouth. Théodore Meunier's accented voice was as
distinctive as his face. It was a face Marc had hoped never to see again – until yesterday that is, when all he had wanted on earth, apart from making things right with Kate, was to track him down and squeeze the last breath of life from his body.
“Ah, Tayo. I was wondering when you’d show up,” said Marc, keeping his tone light. “This is exactly the sort of sewer I'd expect to find you in. Classy as always.”
“You insult me!” replied Meunier, in mock reproach. “And here I was thinking we were old friends.”
“Where I come from, old friends don't try to run each other down in the street,” said Marc dryly.
Meunier ignored the accusation. “Tell me, how goes it in there?” he enquired, indicating the other room. “There's real magic in those fingers of Kate's, but I fear poor Ryan still might not make it. That would be a pity since they are so much in love.”
Gritting his teeth, Marc fought back the impulse to punch a hole in the Frenchman's face. “Answer me this, Tayo, if you will,” said Marc, taking a step closer, “before you crawl away and slide back into the swamp that spawned you. Was it simple jealousy that made you concoct that fantasy about Kate’s death – I know you’ve always had a thing for her – or was there some less puerile motive behind your little game?”
Meunier took an involuntary step backward, trying to keep an even footing amongst the refuse. He chuckled in response to Marc's question. “I confess, I was vastly amused when Kate came to me and confided she wanted to end things with you. And although I would dearly love to take credit for the idea of her faking her own death, as an honourable man I cannot.” He shrugged Gallically. “Obviously Kate thought she deserved better than some dim-witted, two-bit army grunt.”
“Don’t pretend she had anything to do with your lies, you pompous git,” snapped Marc.
“How can you be so sure? How well do you really know her? She and I have a long history, you know–”
“Just stay away from her, Meunier,” Marc interrupted angrily. “You’re no good for her.”
Meunier sniggered. “I think I’ll let Kate decide that for herself. We’re quite close these days.”
Marc clenched and unclenched his fists in an effort to keep his temper in check. He rejected out of hand the insinuation that Kate and Meunier were more than just friends – it was so unlikely as to be absurd, particularly in view of her relationship with Leach – but he would have liked nothing better than to wipe the smirk off the Frenchman's face. “So what are you doing here in London? I’m surprised they let scum like you into the country. Who are you exploiting now?”
“Wouldn’t you like to know,” Meunier sneered, continuing his slow retreat, encouraged by Marc’s forward movement.
“Well, I’ve decided to make it my business to find out. You’re going to wish you never crawled out of that swamp.”
Meunier turned his head and spat carelessly to one side. “You couldn’t make a dog lick its own balls.” Despite his bravado, a sheen of moisture glistened on Meunier’s forehead, betraying the effort it took to maintain his cool. He gave Marc a two-fingered salute. “Well, it’s been fun, Webb. I’ll see you around.” He turned on his heels and disappeared back the way he had come.
“Not if I see you first,” murmured Marc to the empty room.
Marc re-holstered his weapon and returned to the bedroom, putting the encounter with Meunier out of his head until later, when he had time to dissect it at leisure. Kate’s well-being was his main concern and he feared she was close to exhaustion. Making no secret of his presence this time, he stalked over to the sick bed, just in time to see Kate topple sideways, her vitality completely depleted.
Roused from his trance, the man in the suit demanded, “Who the hell are you?”
“I'm here for her,” replied Marc sharply. Lowering himself to the floor, he gathered Kate against his chest and scooped her up. Nothing on earth could make him leave her here for the dubious ministrations of these misfits. She was lighter than he remembered and he carried her effortlessly out of the flat and down the stairs to the street. He would carry her all the way home if he had to.
That turned out to be unnecessary. As Marc stood in the middle of the road with Kate in his arms, weighing his options, a white hatchback pulled out from the kerb a short way up the street and drove slowly toward them. Marc raised one hand, gesturing for the driver to stop.
The driver acquiesced and stuck his head out of the open window. “Hey, mon!” he called. “You need to get dat lady to a hospital, or someting? She alright?” The driver was a young black man in his twenties, his head covered in a mass of cornrows.
“She’s fine,” answered Marc wearily, “I just need to get her home.”
“Too much to drink?” suggested the young black man, grinning.
“Something like that.”
“Hop in, mon. I’ll take you and de missus home – long as it’s not Liverpool you want to go,” he laughed.
“Not quite that far,” answered Marc with an amused smile, his faith in human generosity going up a notch. “Just Notting Hill.”
“No problem, mon. I was going dat way already.”
Kate was so deeply unconscious, she didn't stir during the entire drive back to Notting Hill. Even when Marc dragged her out of the car again and hefted her over his shoulder to carry her up the three long flights of stairs to her flat, she did little more than let out an occasional moan. Grateful for her light weight, he continued through the empty flat to her bedroom at the end of the hall. Laying her gently on top of the bedspread, he pulled her boots off, then her jeans, before tucking her warmly beneath the covers, hesitating just a moment before bending down and kissing her tenderly on the forehead. It felt like a presumption to do so, but the impulse was too strong to resist. There were other, more intimate things he longed to do to her – with her – but she would need to be a good deal more conscious than she was now.
Marc dragged a chair over to the bed, clearing it first of the pile of clothes heaped upon it. Kate was clearly no neat freak, and it made him realise how much he didn't know about her. All the mundane, everyday things he would have discovered if theirs had been a conventional relationship. If they had ever actually dated. But he knew the most important things, the things that made her Kate. And though he hoped for an opportunity to learn the rest, he was all too aware it might be too late for that.
She moaned softly in her sleep and he wondered what she was dreaming about. He was vain enough to hope she dreamed of him, but her face gave no hint of what lay beneath the surface. Perhaps she would tell him when she woke. If she was speaking to him. He longed to lay down beside her, to close his eyes and join her in slumber, but his job tonight was to be her sentinel, to guard her while she slept and keep her safe.
Asleep or awake, there was no place he would rather be.
Kate wasn't consciously aware of Marc's presence but his sudden reappearance in her life had disturbed her equanimity to such a degree that it couldn't help but trouble her, even while sleeping. Seeing him again had reawakened a host of old feelings and memories, feelings she had spent more than four years trying to ignore.
But Marc's unexpected arrival was only part of the recent upheaval in her life – a significant part, granted, but only one part of the whole. So many other things had changed lately and Kate's subconscious had had little chance to process them all. It didn't help that she had been in denial over Jack, refusing to accept he would actually fly off to Australia without her. He had tried his best to convince her to go with him, but she reluctantly assured him it was impossible, without telling him the real reason why. She had cited Ryan, her friends and work as reasons for staying, and while those things were important to her, they were only secondary to the ugly truth.
Her decision might have been different, though, had she known Marc was about to enter her life again.
Flowing on from Jack's departure were a number of other stressors. Buying a house. Moving house. These things were always difficult, but more so in t
his instance. Kate wasn't yet sure if she was comfortable living on her own, and the huge financial commitment of buying such an expensive property quite frankly scared the crap out of her.
And what was she supposed to make of the strange journal that turned up in her living room on the very day she moved in? Where did it come from and what did it have to do with her? It seemed to be connected to her, but for what purpose?
And tonight, someone shot her boyfriend.
Kate moaned aloud as the image of Ryan's wounded, blood-soaked body flashed through her dreams, and with it, the ice-cold fear that had gripped her when she first laid eyes upon him. Who, why, where and how were only a few of the questions she had no answers for. What if he had died before she reached him? She didn't think she had the strength to mourn another single person. Her quota had been reached. If someone else she cared about died, it would tip her right over the edge. Jane, Heather, Sam, 'Rissa, Maggie, Tom, Nona... She missed them all so desperately.
How had she gotten to this point? She had been asking herself that question a lot lately, and as a result, her family and childhood were often on her mind. Change had that inevitable effect on a person. It made you reassess all the events and decisions that led you to your present situation. What if her mother hadn't died? What if Maggie never left? What if they had never gone out that night? Where would she be now? Who would she be now?
All the half-forgotten decisions that steered her to this time and place were suddenly staring her in the face, stacked up one behind the other, waiting to be re-lived and re-analysed. Events she hadn't thought about in years now took centre stage in her dreams. People whose images had faded over time were now full-bodied and real again. The doubts and fears, the hopes and dreams of a lifetime, were suddenly laid before her in stark relief. A captive audience, Kate was trapped inside her own head by the mental and physical exhaustion of the past twenty-four hours. She struggled to push back the heavy blanket of unconsciousness laying over her, knowing exactly how much pain awaited her if she didn't succeed. But she was just too tired.