by Andy McNab
A moment later Brogues decided the time for questions was over. His jaw jutted and he started issuing orders. Black Shirt was looking for a little sympathy and understanding but getting fuck all. Brogues didn’t wait for a reply. His shouts faded down the corridor and I heard my door slam.
26
I waited for Black Shirt to get close. I coughed and snorted the sludge from my nose, trying to make it sound like I was suffering, but in fact trying to get as much oxygen into my lungs as I could.
He picked up a cushion and kicked me. He knelt carefully behind me so his knees weren’t in the puke, and pulled my head back and up. I took a deep breath just as the cushion came down.
Both his hands pushed against my mouth and nose. I gripped his wrists. He grunted with effort. My nose was compressed to breaking point. I knew I could hold my breath for maybe forty-five seconds. I struggled for twenty, and then I let my hands fall from his as he kept pushing. As my right hand dropped I wiped as much puke off it as I could onto my jeans. I jerked my head backwards and forwards to make it look like I was in the final throes of suffocation. I was, but I was also trying to grab another lungful of air while my hand closed round the knife handle.
My chest was going to explode. I could feel my face bloating and burning as I gripped the weapon more tightly. Now was the time. I jerked the knife out of my arse and swung my arm high. I rammed it back down in as wide an arc as I could manage. If it missed him, I risked stabbing myself.
It made contact. He screamed. There was resistance. It didn’t go straight in. I had to force it. The skin finally buckled and the blade sank between the bones.
I didn’t pull it out. I might not get it in again. I pulled it down towards me as hard as I could and twisted my body as he came down on top of me.
I sucked in air. I saw the blade in his neck. There was no blood. It had missed the artery.
I kept digging, twisting and pushing, swung my left knee and came up astride him. The serrations faced the back of his neck. I got my left elbow onto his shoulder, pinning him with as much of my body weight as I could. His face was turned to the right. I twisted the blade until the serrations faced his windpipe and started to saw. The knife wasn’t sharp enough. I had to bring it out and plunge it in again. I kept my arm solid, moving it up and down using the top of my body to get some weight behind it to help it rip through the tissue.
He screamed again. I grabbed the cushion and held it over his face with my free hand as I tried to cut into him.
I forced the cushion down harder. The knife was firm in my hand and my arm was rigid. I rocked and used body weight to move it up and down.
It wasn’t long before he gave up. He had no choice. His body was giving up for him. It wouldn’t be long. I would just have to leave him to die. It wasn’t him I was here for. I now had to grip Brogues.
I lay there, trying to recover. I took deep breaths, snorting and gobbing to clear my nose. Black Shirt was fading fast. The rasping and gurgling noises became fainter and fainter.
I put my hand in his pocket and retrieved the money he’d forgotten to tell his boss about, and then put my trainers back on. I yanked the knife out of his neck and gripped it in my left hand.
Slowly, I opened the door. The hall lights were on. The clink of bottle on glass came from my left, the other end of the hallway. I walked towards it, picking up the mallet on the way.
Brogues started gobbing off as soon I opened the door. I couldn’t see him immediately but I could hear him. He thought I was Black Shirt. He took a swallow of something and walked round the corner towards me when he didn’t get an answer. He had a tall glass of light brown stuff in his hand with ice floating on top. This boy was sharp. He charged towards me. No hesitation; no fear.
I stood still. There was nothing I could do about this. His eyes were locked on mine. He knew exactly what he was going to do when he got to me.
I had to do the same. I tried to focus. I could feel the blood warm and wet on my leg. It was ripping me apart but I had to get into the zone where it all became slow and defined in my head. He was coming to kill me, to do the job that Black Shirt had failed to do.
He finally got his head down. He was going to body-charge me back into the hallway. Once he’d done that, he was going to jump on top of me and finish the job.
I raised the mallet and waited. I concentrated on the back of his head. My whole world was focused on the blurred shape barrelling towards me.
When he was less than half a metre away I swung the mallet down. In the same motion, I twisted my body and dropped like a matador to get more energy behind the hardened rubber.
As my knees bent, he crumpled. His head fell onto my thighs and he came down with me. By the time I hit the floor his head was wedged between my thighs and chest. I checked his pulse. There wasn’t one.
I scrambled to my feet. Keeping the mallet with me, I raced as fast as I could to the first floor. Unlike the hallway below, the rooms were all spotless.
There was no point looking for a weapon. Brogues seemed too switched on to have anything that might compromise him in the house. He didn’t even have an alarm system that could bring the police running if tripped.
I pulled a white satin duvet and the bottom sheet off a bed and staggered back downstairs. I checked Brogues’s pockets for the Passat keys. They were empty. I had to stop and take a breath to calm down. Of course: the bowl by the back door. I wrapped him in the sheet. He wasn’t bleeding, so wouldn’t need anything thicker to soak it up. I turned off the lights, picked up the mallet and tool-box, and left him in the now darkened hallway.
I went outside and retrieved my Bergen. I threw on the padded nylon coat to cover the mess on my jeans and sweatshirt. I climbed into the Passat. It was automatic, top of the range. I turned it round and reversed back in towards the door. I hit a button and the boot clicked open. I did one last scan. The square was in darkness. All the neighbours were in their own perfectly manicured little worlds. Nobody was rushing to investigate.
I couldn’t lift them. I was going to have to lug each one down the steps and load them one at a time.
I wrapped Black Shirt in the duvet and dragged and pulled it towards the back door. I bumped him down the first couple of steps. The second was level with the Passat’s boot. It took all my strength to lift and push him in. I brought down the lid in case someone above me suddenly got curious.
I repeated the process with Brogues, then got behind the wheel and gunned the engine. The Passat rolled towards the gates. I didn’t have a clue how they opened, but I’d find out soon enough.
I drove slowly. Now wasn’t the time to look like I was in a hurry. I travelled twenty metres into the square and turned right into the archway. I stopped about three metres from the gates and they began to open.
I turned left up Noordermarkt. My arse was still sending Mayday signals to my brain, but I was breathing and I’d removed another couple of traffickers from the landscape before they could make a play for Lilian and her mates. Right now, that was all that mattered.
PART SIX
1
I turned left onto Papaverhoek and passed FilmNoord XXX. The window blinds were up and bright blue-and-white rope lights shone their welcome onto the pavement.
I’d used the same route as yesterday from Westerstraat, taking even more care than usual not to become the focus of any attention. I kept the sun visor down even though it was dark. There weren’t as many speed and CCTV cameras here as in the UK, but I wasn’t taking chances.
I passed the German office block and nosy-parked in front of the shutter, exactly as I’d done with the Panda. Headlights off, I climbed out and limped over to the door. The telltales were intact. I went to put the key into the top lock. Pain shot through my buttock as I raised my arm. The congealed blood felt cold on my skin. I’d been sitting on the warm leather of the Passat’s driving seat and now the air was getting to it.
I leant on the door with my left hand as I started on the last lock. My leg
spasmed and bile flooded into the back of my throat. My nostrils stung as the puke acid launched another attack.
I wrestled the door open. I wanted this wagon under cover as soon as possible, and then I wanted a brew, a shower, and some first aid.
The footsteps behind me were heavy. I spun round. She emerged from the dark interior of one of the doorless garages and headed straight for me, arm outstretched. She was still in my boots and clothes.
‘What the fuck?’
‘Please, please …’
She had a wad of euros clutched in her hand.
‘Please, the money. Take it. I—’
I grabbed her and bundled her over the threshold, then followed her in. She fell against the stairs. I shoved my face right into hers. ‘Wait here!’ I needed her off the street, as well as the Passat. I’d get rid of her later.
She shut up. She was going to do what she was told. She wanted me to help her. She was going to be compliant.
I moved as fast as I could into the loading bay and down the metal steps towards the shutter. I banged the button and it started to grind open. I didn’t turn on the lights. As soon as there was enough clearance I bent down and eased myself underneath it. It still stretched my wound and another jolt of pain shot through my body.
I slid behind the wheel. There was a smear of blood on the driver’s seat, but there wasn’t a pool of it. The capillaries withdraw after the initial trauma and the deeper muscle mass closes the wound. After a while the site is just gooey, not running with the stuff. But there was still one fuck of a hole in my right buttock and every move I made felt like I was sitting on a red-hot poker.
I drove in and parked alongside the Panda. As soon as the shutter came down I went back through to the front door and closed that too.
As the lights flickered on, she clambered to her feet, the cash still in her hand. ‘Take me. You leave tonight, yes? Help me. Please.’ Her eyes had filled with tears.
I stood with my back to the door. ‘Why the fuck didn’t you go to the airport? The woman, the blonde woman, my friend, was waiting for you.’ I dug into my jeans, dragging out more cash.
She slumped to her knees and threw her arms around my legs, squeezing them tight. The red-hot poker got busy again and I pushed her off more vigorously than I’d meant to.
She saw the blood smeared on her hands from round the back of my jeans and must have smelt the bile. ‘Let me help you. I will help you.’
I leant against the door. My mouth tasted of puke. My leg throbbed excruciatingly. I clenched my teeth and breathed deeply through my nose. ‘Right - go upstairs. Get the kettle on.’ Fuck it, it would all be over in twenty-four hours.
‘Kettle?’ Her face relaxed. She didn’t know what it meant, but she knew I wasn’t kicking her out.
‘Boil the water.’ I mimed drinking. ‘For tea.’
She nodded and jumped up, eager to please. She bounded up the stairs.
I turned and locked the front door. I didn’t bother with any new telltales.
Pushing myself off it, I shuffled back through the fire door and into the loading bay.
I took off the Passat’s fuel cap. There was nothing to tell me if it took diesel or petrol. I gave it a sniff. Good: it was petrol. I’d need an extra bit of accelerant for what I had in mind.
I retrieved the Bergen from the front passenger seat and hauled myself upstairs to what I hoped was going to be a brew.
2
I checked the remaining telltales as I made my way gingerly up the stairs. I did all I could to avoid bending my leg. They were all in place.
The girl was standing with her back to me as I hobbled into the room. She seemed to be preparing the brew as if it was a three-course meal. Anything to look indispensable, I supposed. The roll of cash I’d given her sat on the drainer beside the open box of Yorkshire Tea.
I shrugged the Bergen strap off my shoulder and let its weight drag it down my arm. I didn’t have the strength to lift it off properly. I leant against the wall in a vain attempt to relieve the pain. I didn’t want to sit down and stretch the wound site any more. I was fucked, and I was glad to be here.
I let the Bergen drop to my feet and spoke to the back of her sweatshirt. ‘What’s your name?’
She didn’t turn. Perhaps she still thought I was going to show her the door. She really was just a kid, doing the brew-making version of dragging the duvet over her head.
I didn’t know if she hadn’t heard me or if it she was ignoring me. I said it louder. ‘What is your name?’
Her hands flew around in front of her as if she was conducting the Philharmonic rather than just squeezing out a couple of tea bags. ‘Angeles.’
‘Like the city?’
She finally turned and smiled.
‘Where are you from, Angeles? Nationality? Your country?’
‘Moldova.’
‘Why didn’t you go to the airport, like I said? You could be safe now.’
She turned back and mumbled something into the drainingboard.
‘What?’
She got stuck into the sugar bag and finally came towards me with two steaming mugs of the black stuff.
‘But I am safe. I want to stay with you.’
It wasn’t much more than a whisper. Her hair fell across her face. I found it even harder to understand her now I couldn’t see her mouth.
I was desperate to sit down, but leant my weight against the wall instead. She stood in front of me.
‘How old are you?’
‘Fifteen. I will cook for you. I will look after you. Anything. Please let me stay …’
I nodded and started drinking. The brew was hot and sweet and right at that moment it was as good as anything I’d ever tasted.
She sipped hers like a bird, then started waffling like a madwoman. ‘I will help you, yes. Will you take me away from here? I can go with you tonight?’
I raised a hand to encourage her to slow down. ‘I want you to do something for me. Get that towel and tear it into strips.’ I held my thumb and forefinger about three inches apart. ‘Like a bandage, yeah? I’m going to go and clean myself up.’
I started to move, but winced as the pain shot through my arse.
‘Please - let me help. What happened?’
‘Don’t ask. Don’t say anything. Just do what I say and I’ll help you, OK?’
‘Yes. Thank you.’
I staggered into the shower. As I turned on the water and waited for the steam, I struggled to peel off my trainers and jeans.
3
I almost screamed with pain as the hot water hit the puncture sites. But it was the only way. I had to get them clean.
I cupped my hand below the wounds and scooped the water over them. It was the best I could do for now. I’d get it sorted when I’d lifted Lilian and waved goodbye to Flynn and his silo.
Once the important stuff was done, all I wanted to do was get the smell of puke off me and brush my teeth. I could almost feel where the acid had burnt into the enamel.
I stuck my head out from behind the curtain. ‘Can you bring me those bits of towel?’
I ducked back under the trickle of water and worked shampoo into my hair. It wasn’t long before the door opened and in she came. I turned to face her. I didn’t want her to get the wrong idea, but I didn’t want her to see the stab wounds either.
I climbed out of the shower and used the part of my sweatshirt that wasn’t covered in puke to dry myself. She stood there with the door open, staring at the ‘blunt trauma’, as Kleinmann had called the knife, bullet and dog-bite scars that covered my body.
‘Get your clothes off.’
She stared at me.
‘Take them off. I need them.’
I tried to work the strips of towel around me like Gandhi to give my arse some kind of dressing. It wasn’t happening.
Angeles handed me my jeans and sweatshirt before leaving. I put them on, then folded one of the strips and shoved it down the back of the jeans as best I could to ge
t some protection over the punctures. I’d seen lads in Africa with much bigger wounds, big machete cuts that had taken chunks out of their arms and thighs, and they were still going strong. All I had to do was crack on for another couple of months.
As I pulled the sweatshirt over my head, I realized that in a curious way the pain felt good. It was from a proper old-fashioned wound, not some cancerous growth that I hadn’t asked for and couldn’t do much about. It was the sort of pain I could handle, and an aspirin or two would help. I wasn’t going to run short of them any time soon. Perhaps the Smarties would too.
And then I realized something else: I’d left the Smarties at 118.
Fuck it, I’d be with Anna soon and I’d sort it then. Right now I’d just have to crack on.
Angeles was sitting on the airbed with the sleeping bag draped around her shoulders. The rest of my clothes were wet with blood or covered in vomit. I’d bin them eventually, but for now I was going to put them in one of the spare offices. The smell was making me want to gag even more. I started to gather them up. She jumped up to help. She grabbed whatever she could and wrapped it all in the brown nylon coat.
‘Are you going home to your family? Your children?’ She smiled. ‘You have a baby seat.’
‘I said no questions, remember? Don’t ask. Do you understand?’
Her face fell. I kept forgetting she was only fifteen.
‘Yes. I’m sorry.’
I took the bundle from her and reintroduced my feet to my Timberlands. ‘I’m going out for a little while.’
Her world was falling apart once more. ‘Please - can I come? Please don’t leave me. You are coming back?’
I scrabbled about in the Bergen for a couple of aspirin. ‘I’m going out to get some food, all right? I’ll see if I can get you some clothes too. What do you want to eat? Meat? Bread?’
‘Anything. Thank you.’
‘Just sit down and rest. Do not leave the room. Understand?’