3 of a Kind

by Rohan Gavin

  Just then, he saw a small red light flashing on a phone handset next to the toilet. He gingerly picked it up and sat down on the closed loo seat. ‘Hell-o?’

  ‘Clive Palmer?’ an American voice asked.

  ‘Speaking. Is this room service?’

  ‘Do you know The Code?’ asked the voice.

  ‘Wait. What?’ Clive stammered.

  ‘Do you know the meaning of fear …?’

  The post-hypnotic suggestion took hold of Clive through the phone, like a lasso around a bull, tightening a noose around his consciousness. ‘Yes. Yes, I do,’ Clive responded in a whisper, not wanting to alert Jackie.

  ‘Good. We wouldn’t want your recent change in fortune to reverse itself now, would we?’ the voice warned.

  ‘No. Definitely not.’ Clive shook his head quickly, feeling his brain flooding with thick, gloopy syrup: a sensation he hadn’t experienced since his last encounter with the Combination’s hypnotic bestseller, The Code – which led to him being fired from his lucrative job as the presenter of Wheel Spin, and to attacking his stepson, Darkus, in what doctors described as a ‘psychotic episode’. Now, Clive was struggling with the feeling of falling headlong into a deep, dark hole. He was being tugged like a helpless minnow into a whirlpool, his head lolling from side to side. ‘Tell me … what you … want me to do …’ he murmured into the phone.

  A few minutes later, Clive emerged from the bathroom with a rictus smile.

  Jackie didn’t look up from the bed, her head hung low. Her bags appeared to have been packed and were sitting in a neat pile by the door. Clive ignored this small detail and blundered on with the instructions he’d just been given.

  ‘I’ve got a very special night planned, Jax,’ he announced. ‘And the fun starts now!’

  CHAPTER 20

  THE THIRTEENTH FLOOR

  Following the briefest of showers – and the sudden urge to re-outfit himself in tweed – Darkus left his father in Dougal’s care and led Tilly and Uncle Bill into the lift. He pressed the button for the thirteenth floor, but the number didn’t illuminate. Tilly tried swiping her key card, but nothing happened.

  ‘It doesn’t make sense,’ she remarked. ‘The thirteenth floor isn’t key card protected. Only the penthouse level is.’

  Uncle Bill pressed the button until his chubby finger blushed a florid red. ‘It’s nae good.’

  ‘Can you access the elevator management system?’ asked Darkus.

  Tilly tapped at her phone and shook her head. ‘Weird. No signal on 4G or wireless. It must be shielded.’

  Darkus selected the twelfth floor and the lift obediently descended at an angle down the pyramid, the flashing numerals counting down. They reached the twelfth floor and the doors opened.

  They stepped out into a long balcony corridor that connected the rooms, overlooking the grand atrium and lobby area below. Darkus quickly located a fire exit and pushed through the door into a narrow stairwell. He climbed the stairs two at a time to the thirteenth floor and pressed on the access door, only to find it locked. He took a set of lock picks from his tweed waistcoat, which was the only tweed he’d brought along – apart from his ever-present walking hat, which he was also wearing, more for good fortune than for any practical purposes. He realised once again that he was becoming more and more like his dad: believing in superstition over logic. He tried to pick the lock but it was deadbolted on the other side. Perhaps the hat wasn’t so lucky after all.

  Darkus reappeared on the twelfth floor to report, ‘It’s locked down. The whole floor is.’

  ‘What about abseiling down from the fourteenth?’ asked Tilly.

  ‘The pyramid’s a sheer drop on all four sides. It’s too risky,’ replied Darkus.

  ‘Ah think I may have the answer, Doc,’ Bill volunteered, ushering them back into the lift. He pressed the button for the fourteenth floor. The doors closed and the pod set off up the incline, before jolting to a halt as Bill pressed the emergency stop button.

  ‘Now what?’ demanded Tilly impatiently.

  ‘A bit o’ keepie-uppie,’ said Bill, appearing to limber up, performing a star-jump on the spot, causing the lift car to rock and shudder. Darkus and Tilly instinctively held on to the sides, and each other, as the cables and weights screeched and clanked in complaint from the elevator shaft.

  ‘Are you sure that’s wise?’ enquired Darkus.

  ‘Trust mae, Doc.’ Bill reached up with both meaty arms and pushed open an access hatch in the ceiling of the lift. ‘Ah achieved a bronze in the Scottish Highland Games,’ he announced, before adding, ‘in 1975.’

  ‘Which discipline?’ asked Darkus.

  ‘Caber toss,’ replied Uncle Bill. ‘Stay here and await mah instructions.’

  Bill jumped again, this time grabbing hold of the open hatch with his squidgy hands and heaving himself upwards. His legs kicked out in circles, narrowly missing Darkus and Tilly who ducked back against the lift wall. Then the Scotsman spread his legs wide like a rock climber, pressing his cowboy boots against the opposing sides of the lift to wedge himself in mid-air. It was a mountaineering technique called ‘stemming’, but Darkus had never seen it done quite like this before. Bill heaved again, hauling his bulk through the hatch and ripping a long tear under the armpit of his leisure jacket.

  ‘Aye, yer maw!’ He wriggled again and a rip opened up in the seam of his trousers. ‘Ah, ’n’ noo mah bahookie.’

  Bill struggled, his legs flailing in all directions, as he slowly vanished through the hatch – not unlike a hapless swimmer being consumed by a great white shark.

  ‘Noo for the full bhoona.’ Bill floundered for a few more seconds before appearing to be vacuumed up through the hole.

  ‘Bill?’ Darkus called up. ‘Are you OK?’

  ‘Aye, Doc.’

  Raising himself to an unsteady standing position, Bill stood in the angled lift shaft with steel cables extending above his head, and a glimpse of the atrium visible far below.

  ‘Mammy,’ he whispered, trying not to look down.

  He wiped his brow and glanced up, seeing the heavy sliding doors to the thirteenth floor just above him. He then knelt down and inexplicably unzipped and tugged off both his cowboy boots, plunging his hands into them instead, as if he was planning to scuttle along on all fours. He flexed his feet in his sweat-marked socks, then raised his arms with the cowboy boots on the ends of them, like the pincers of a crab. He aimed the pointed steel toecaps of the boots and inserted them into the narrow gap between the sliding doors. Then he proceeded to pry the panels apart, inch by inch, much the same as a fireman using the ‘Jaws of Life’ to open a crashed car door.

  Darkus and Tilly heard a series of grunts and clanks.

  ‘Bill …?’ asked Darkus.

  ‘Come on up and dinnae hang aboot,’ he wheezed in response.

  Tilly knelt down and interlocked her hands to provide a step for Darkus, who briskly climbed up and grabbed hold of the hatch, hoisting himself through it. A moment later, his arm reached down for Tilly, who grabbed hold of it and elegantly raised herself up through the gap like a circus performer.

  Darkus and Tilly arrived on top of the lift car to find Bill’s tartan-socked feet protruding from the sliding doors, as he wedged them open with his girth.

  ‘Climb over mae,’ he ordered from flat on his back. ‘Coorie up, ah woon’t bite.’

  Darkus and Tilly did as instructed, climbing over Bill’s quivering body and looking confused to discover him wearing his boots on his hands. After the teens cleared the doors, Bill pivoted his legs straight upwards in a surprisingly supple yoga move, then rolled his knees backwards over his head like a human cannonball, releasing the doors, which slammed shut; then Bill rolled up on to his stockinged feet again. His arms were outstretched, perfectly balanced, similar to a gymnast saluting the judges at the end of an intricate routine.

  ‘Impressive,’ commented Tilly.

  Darkus held up a finger to his mouth as a noise reverberated down the cor
ridor. It was a door latch unlocking. The trio retreated into the shadows by the lift. Tilly angled her smartphone camera around a pillar to see who it was. Darkus watched the phone screen, seeing a teenage boy emerge from one of the rooms wearing sunglasses, headphones and a baseball cap. The boy closed the door behind him and walked casually down the corridor, away from them. Darkus recognised the figure from somewhere, but couldn’t immediately place him.

  ‘I know that suspect,’ Darkus muttered.

  ‘Mmm,’ Tilly agreed.

  The windows of the pyramid rattled as the storm edged closer. Darkus’s catastrophiser began ringing like a slot machine, then the penny dropped.

  ‘He was a passenger on our flight from London,’ recalled Darkus. ‘He was sitting a few rows behind us, and was one of the first to leave the arrivals area.’

  Uncle Bill cocked his head, confused.

  ‘You mean he followed us?’ asked Tilly.

  On the phone screen, the suspect reached the other end of the corridor, turning a corner into the adjacent side of the thirteenth floor.

  ‘I don’t know,’ replied Darkus, ‘but I’m going to find out …’ He crept out from behind the pillar, following the suspect at a distance.

  ‘Doc, wait –’ Tilly hissed, trying to stop his arm. ‘Remember it’s a trap –’

  She fell silent as the power to the entire hotel cut out, plunging the corridor and the atrium below into darkness. A collective moan resounded through the building as games were halted and guests froze on the spot.

  ‘What the –?’ Tilly mumbled, then was quiet.

  A moment later, the power was restored and the lights flicked on again. The casino continued about its business and guests crossed the lobby and glided up the escalators.

  But the corridor was empty. Darkus, Tilly and Uncle Bill had all vanished.

  CHAPTER 21

  RAISING THE STAKES

  Darkus wasn’t sure exactly how he’d got there, but he found himself in a large hotel suite, dimly lit by overhead spotlights. Tilly and Uncle Bill were not in evidence. He looked for the door and found it behind him. He tried to turn the handle, but it was locked from the outside.

  He controlled the rapid thrumming of the catastrophiser, steadied his breathing and focused his mind on studying the features of the room. It was like a plush prison cell. The furniture had been moved back against the walls: a sofa, a chaise longue, chairs, side tables and floor lamps – as if someone had been preparing for a party. But what sort of party, and why was Darkus the only guest?

  He approached the huge, sloping floor-to-ceiling window and checked for any kind of escape, but he was sealed in. The first raindrops from the imminent storm splattered across the outside of the glass, like someone blowing liquid out of a straw. He walked closer, examining his reflection, which was covered in beads of water rolling quickly, one by one, down the window. Then a silent flash of lightning illuminated something behind his reflection: the kid in the baseball cap was standing there, at the back of him, still wearing headphones and sunglasses.

  Darkus whirled round, but before he could complete the turn, the kid tackled him, smashing him against the windowpane so hard that a fault line rippled through it, threatening to shatter the reinforced glass. The back of Darkus’s head took the hit, forcing his chin down, compressing his neck and sending a jolt through his cerebellum: the part of the brain that controls movement and balance. Darkus staggered, trying to find his feet and recover himself, but the room was spinning. He was too shocked to speak. The catastrophiser was clattering like a helicopter losing height. His brain sent out a mayday call to pool its resources into self-defence, considering tactics and attempting to predict his opponent’s next move. But his prediction was wrong. The kid wasn’t interested in a fair fight or a varied style of attack. The assailant simply grabbed Darkus again and hurled him towards the same section of window with brute force, intending to send him flying into the abyss, to certain death. A thunderclap shook Darkus out of his stupor. He had the forethought to grip on to the kid’s arms and go with the flow, using one of the theories of Wing Chun: translating the momentum of an attack into a counter-attack. Darkus sidestepped and swung his assailant into the glass instead. The window splintered, but withstood the impact. The kid’s headphones were knocked askew, then he tore them off and tossed them aside in anger.

  Darkus composed himself and had a split second to identify the kid’s face around the sunglasses. But it was a blur and nothing clicked. Suddenly, his assailant was upon him again, this time with a barrage of heavy punches. Darkus retreated, dodging left and right, deflecting the blows with the sharp blades of his forearms, swiftly moving his left hand forward and then his right, keeping the attacker away from his centre line, following the guiding principle of Wing Chun: protect the temple, the nose, the mouth, the solar plexus, the vital organs. But Darkus was out of practice and one of the attacker’s punches connected with his jaw, sending him reeling to the floor. Darkus ran his tongue over his teeth to check they were still intact, then looked up to see the kid towering over him, holding a large floor lamp in both hands like an executioner. Darkus instinctively rolled right as the marble base of the lamp slammed into the carpet, leaving a dent where his head had been a second ago. He rolled the opposite way as the weapon came down again, this time glancing off his temple. Blood started running down the side of Darkus’s face, pooling in his eye and obscuring his vision. Darkus grabbed a nearby chair and flipped it upside down, using its feet to trap the base of the lamp, then jabbed upwards, connecting with the attacker’s face, knocking his sunglasses off.

  A huge sheet of lightning lit up the room, bouncing off the mirrors. The attacker loomed above him and Darkus shook his head, not believing what he was seeing.

  The kid’s face was a patchwork of florid scars, which had never fully healed. It had been carefully pieced together, but the doctors must have had so little to work with that the result was botched and monstrous. The eyes were too far apart, the nose was a mess of skin grafts, and the mouth drooped on one side into a sneer. And yet the face was familiar to him, as if from a nightmare.

  ‘Long time, Dorkus,’ it said.

  Darkus felt a chill down his spine. It was the voice of someone he knew: a classmate. Someone who had fallen victim to Barabas King’s attack dogs during the Knightleys’ previous investigation. Someone who had been so badly mauled that he was meant to be confined to a clinic somewhere, being treated for life-changing injuries. And yet he was here now, with murder on his mind.

  ‘Doyle …’

  Uncle Bill initially thought he was experiencing an earthquake, or a particularly strong tummy rumble. Only when he was forcibly shoved through a dark doorway did he realise he’d been frisked and manhandled against his will.

  When the lights came up, he found himself in a large hotel room, facing off with two heavily built henchmen, both dressed in black shirts and trousers, both wearing grim, indifferent expressions on their hardened faces. Bill quietly reached behind his generous waist and tried the door handle. Predictably, it was locked.

  ‘A’right, fellas, so it’s just ye and mae,’ he began.

  The henchmen stood with their arms folded across their barrel-like chests, motionless.

  Uncle Bill looked around the room and casually reached inside his leisure jacket for his trusty Colt revolver, only to find it missing from its holster.

  ‘So ye’ve taken mah mahaska tae …’ The larger henchman nodded and indicated Bill’s gun, which was now tucked in his waistband. ‘Looks like ah’m ootta luck then, aye?’ The henchman nodded.

  Bill’s concentration was interrupted by a thudding from the ensuite bathroom, accompanied by a faint groaning. Bill took a moment to process the particular frequency of the voice.

  ‘Bogna …?’

  The groaning rose an octave in response, becoming more insistent.

  The first henchman moved to obstruct the bathroom door, but didn’t expect the speed of Uncle Bill’s knee swin
ging up into his groin area. The henchman doubled over in pain and Bill smothered him with a bear hug, before jumping into the air, extending all four limbs and flattening him to the floor. The second henchman lumbered over to assist his unconscious comrade, only to see Uncle Bill rear up to his feet again in a wrestling stance.

  The second henchman charged Bill but bounced off the Scotsman’s mid-section.

  ‘Here, have a Glasgow kiss,’ said Bill, and headbutted the henchman on the nose.

  The two goons fell together in a heap.

  ‘Boggers?’ Bill called out, then kicked the bathroom door clean off its hinges.

  Sitting cross-legged in the shower cubicle was Bogna, still in her holiday attire, her hands tied behind her back and her mouth gagged. ‘Mum-ty!’ she mouthed, trying to articulate his birth name: Monty.

  ‘Stop bumpin’ yer gums. Ah’m here, mah wee clootie dumpling.’

  Bill leaned over gently to unharness her, accidentally turning on the shower with the shoulder pad of his jacket. Cold water gushed down over their heads, spraying everywhere and causing them both to shriek loudly.

  ‘Baltic – ! If it ain’t a Scottish shower!’ Bill cried, soaked to the skin, before adding, ‘Sorry, hen, mah fault …’ He wrestled with the gag, removing it from her mouth.

  ‘You took your times, Monty,’ she remarked.

  ‘Ah’m not as young as ah used to be,’ Bill replied.

  They looked at each other, both drenched and restricted by their dripping garments. Then Bogna yanked Bill into an embrace, so hard in fact that the Scotsman fell over and shattered the shower cubicle with his outstretched foot. Ignoring the cold water and the broken safety glass, Bogna’s lips pressed against Bill’s, resembling two goldfish squabbling over a pellet of food. Then they came up for air.

  ‘Belter,’ panted Bill. ‘A’right, let’s find the others and gie ootta here.’