Watching Her

by Harlem Dae

The screams of the burning man roared around my brain. The sight of blood leaking from the three men, the sticky scarlet rivulets expanding over their bellies, blazed into my eyes.

  The Albino was helping me—he’d stepped in where Sutton was supposedly meant to be.

  Sutton was as useful as a pack of bacon at a Hanukkah.

  “Now get your howling mate and get the fuck out of here,” the Albino said. “Before you all end up dead.”

  It was the most I’d heard him say in one sentence, and despite my panic, the sheer terror circulating my brain, I’d noticed he had a strong accent. Eastern European? Russian? I couldn’t be sure.

  The leader pressed his hand to his wound then studied the splay of blood on his palm. “You are dead, white man.”

  “I do not think so.” The Albino half turned, drew up his knee then crashed the sole of his shoe onto the leader’s patella.

  He dropped like a stone, howling, his leg bending the opposite way to how it should.

  Fuck. The Albino was not a man to mess with.

  I glanced to the right—it was time to make my escape. Make the most of the fight and their distraction.

  The smoke twisted around me, swirling shambolically in a chaotic pattern. I pushed away from the metal wall and staggered into the alley I’d raced along before ending up in my very own smouldering hell.

  I glanced left then right. Which way?

  I had no idea; the lack of orientation was disconcerting, but I had little choice other than to make haste.

  Feeling ridiculously vulnerable, running in just a bikini and my sarong floating from my hand like a lilac flag of victory, I pressed on. I knew I was a target for any other creeps who lurked in places like this and had one thing on their mind.

  A dog snarled as I sprinted past. It wasn’t the same one as before.

  I looked to the right, hoping to see something other than endless alleys. Skittering past a man with a child in his arms, I was aware of tears flowing down my cheeks. I had to get out of there. Had to get away, from everyone, everything.

  The next turn I took was a mistake.

  I hurtled into a wire fence. Atop it was a coil of razor wire. A lopsided orange triangle held the words NO ENTRY.

  I hooked my fingers into the metal diamond shapes and pressed the length of my body up to it. In the distance, my hotel rose from a crop of palm trees and frondy shrubs.

  Safety.

  “Help!” I called. My jittery mind wondered if a security man or a gardener might see me. “Help!”

  “Shh.”

  I spun around. I wasn’t alone.

  Standing before me was the Albino. His chest was rising and falling rapidly. He was clearly fresh from a sprint. And his green T-shirt had several round splatters of blood sprayed across it in a rainbow-shaped arc.

  “What? What do you want?” I gasped.

  He said nothing, just stared at me. A muscle flexed and unflexed in his cheek, then he linked his fingers and cracked them out in front of his chest.

  The noise rattled around the narrow alley I’d cornered myself in.

  Fuck, is this it?

  Was he going to rape and murder me now?

  This really wasn’t turning out to be the trip I’d hoped for.

  He stepped closer.

  I surged up against the wire fence. It rattled under my weight. “Please, no.”

  He came closer still. So near that the toes of his shoes touched mine. The bulge in his shorts rubbed against me, and my breasts pressed up into his chest.

  My insides tumbled the way boulders rolled down a hill.

  His eyes, boring down on me, were the wateriest shade of blue imaginable, so weak they could have been coloured with one drop of azure paint in gallons of crystal-clear water. And his lashes, curled and frosty white, matched his eyebrows and his shorn hair. His lips were full with a central crease in the lower one.

  I had a sudden crazy urge to touch his almost transparent skin. Was it as smooth as porcelain the way it appeared to be?

  “Claudine Montague-Fostrop,” he said in a slow, deliberate way, rolling out the vowels and precisely uttering the consonants.

  Yes, he definitely had a Russian accent. That much I knew. It would come in helpful when I had to describe him to the police. A Russian Albino—how many of them were there in St Lucia?

  “What do you want from me?” I curled my fingers so tight into the wired fence it pinched my skin.

  “I want to know…”

  His breath washed over me. Warm and sweet, like the pineapple from the market.

  “You want to know what?”

  “How you know who to trust?”

  “What?”

  He didn’t repeat his question. Instead, he stared at me and swiped his tongue over his bottom lip.

  How do I know who to trust?

  What the hell does that mean?

  In my peripheral vision there was movement. I flicked my gaze over his shoulder.

  He must have seen my action, for he spun and came face to face with the deadly end of a gun.

  The man holding the gun was Sutton.

  About bloody time.

  The Albino froze, the black metal denting his forehead. He took a step backwards but was followed by the gun not losing connection with his skin.

  For someone potentially about to meet their maker, he seemed remarkably calm.

  “You stay away from her, you hear?” Sutton said. He was breathing fast, his polo shirt stretching over his chest as he inhaled and exhaled.

  The Albino glared at him.

  “You hear me?” Sutton jabbed the gun. “Stay away.”

  Albino’s neck jarred backwards.

  “I don’t want your blood on my hands,” Sutton said. “So I’ll give you one warning. Get on the next plane back to Moscow. You’re not needed. I’ve got this covered.”

  How does he know he’s from Moscow?

  There was a long pause. Tension fizzed in the air. I dreaded hearing the sound of the gun discharging.

  “Got it?” Sutton repeated, his voice low and dangerous.

  For once he actually seemed quite manly and tough.

  “Yes.” The Albino tilted his chin. He also spread out his fingers then formed fists again.

  I didn’t think Sutton had noticed that.

  “Claudine,” Sutton said. “Walk past me, turn right, and don’t stop until I catch you up.”

  “O…Okay…” I pushed from the fence, not taking my attention from the Albino.

  How do I know who to trust?

  I did as Sutton had instructed, turned right, and broke into a jog. My mind was fudged, my body suddenly exhausted.

  I glanced behind me, my hair catching on my cheek, one strand finding its way into my mouth. I hooked it out with my finger.

  Sutton appeared, gun now directed at the floor, my bag hanging on his shoulder, and raced after me.

  Chapter Seven

  “What the sodding hell is wrong with you?” Sutton’s grip was tight on my elbow as he steered me away.

  It hurt, but I wasn’t about to try to throw him off this time. Despite the pain, his hold was a comfort. “I needed to get back to the hotel. I—”

  “What you needed was to let me walk with you. What you needed was to stay at the hotel in the first place, to not come here. When I say to do or not do things, there’s a reason. Now you know the reason.”

  But did I? It was all very well warning me about the Albino, but I didn’t know the real reason the man was following me. Things were certainly not as clear-cut as they might seem. If being trailed by a creepy man could be called clear-cut.

  “You’re pinching my elbow,” I said, clutching my sarong to my chest, as though it was a lifeline and could protect me.

  “Tough.”

  I swallowed a mean retort, relieved that the path to the hotel was ahead. I’d never seen such a welcome sight. Not recently, anyway. We walked in silence, my feet aching, my stomach wrenched by anxiety. Sutton glanced back every fe
w seconds, which, of course, made me do the same. No one followed, but still I felt the Albino watching my every move. For all Sutton knew, there could be more men trailing me and the Albino was the only one who stood out.

  “Will he listen to you and go back to Moscow?” I asked. God, I hoped he would. Then I could get on with my life, return to normal.

  “Be quiet.” He frowned, giving my elbow a squeeze. “Your bag…”

  I almost replied with a waspish comment about a listening bug or tracking device but refrained. It was becoming more and more apparent that Sutton had been right in the first place—the Albino had put something in my bag. So why hadn’t it set off any alarms at the airports? Why hadn’t security found something when they’d searched it? I asked Sutton these questions, a whisper, my throat dry, and waited for what he had to say.

  I received nothing but a filthy look. And for some reason, that hurt. I was unaccustomed to that kind of emotion since… I shook my head, discarding thoughts of falling for someone new. That wasn’t my life plan. And certainly not with a man who, at this moment in time, appeared as though he’d walked straight out of a Guy Richie movie, all London roughness and more than a few shifty secrets up his sleeve.

  “Oh, yes. My bag,” I said, holding back the sarcasm.

  How easy it was to forget, to stay quiet when I had so many things I wanted answers to. I was used to demanding information from people and having my queries met with satisfactory responses. This mute business was alien and uncomfortable. But I could hold my tongue for a while longer. The hotel gates were ahead now, and Sutton waved at the security man, who opened the gates before we got there. Once inside the complex, instead of taking me straight to my room, Sutton directed us to the poolside bar. Surely it was better to search my bag as soon as possible?

  Alberto frowned at me as we sat on the stools. “Are you all right?” He cocked his head and indicated with his eyes that he thought I looked a mess.

  I shrugged. “Just a tussle in the market.”

  “Ah, they can get rowdy there. Bartering can be volatile, no?”

  Alberto was Spanish, and I had the sudden urge to ask him how he’d come to be here, so far away from home. Then again, the less I knew about him the better. His familiarity with me and Sutton might not be because he was just a jolly barman.

  He turned to Sutton and winked. I suspected I wasn’t supposed to have seen that, but his action made me feel a fool. A silly woman with no clue. Yes, I’d acted like one when leaving Sutton at the café, but I wasn’t usually so…dense.

  “Yeah, just a tussle,” Sutton said to him, nodding then waving one hand so that Alberto made us a drink.

  “Ah, I see.”

  Alberto nodded knowingly, and I got the sense he knew more than he was letting on. Was he working with Sutton? For my father? No, surely not. That was too elaborate a plan, to have someone working in the hotel bar just so they could keep extra tabs on me. But wasn’t that just like Father? Yes, it was. My whole life, as far as I could tell, had been monitored by him. Why, though? He was a prominent man, but for goodness’ sake…

  With our drinks shaken not stirred—I wanted to laugh hysterically at that but held it in—Sutton jerked his head.

  “Go to your room and stay there,” he said. “I need this drink, and I want to drink it alone.”

  He stared at me then at my bag. Ah, a spy trick? Saying something for the benefit of whoever might be listening to the tracker in my bag?

  “Okay. I’ll be glad to get away from you, anyway,” I said.

  Then he got up, jerking his head again, and I followed him into the hotel, taking a sip of my cocktail as I went. The liquid soothed my parched throat, and the alcohol swam pleasantly through my limbs. I relished the blessedly cool floor on my soles, and my skin tightened, the AC sucking all the moisture from it. We rode the elevator in silence. Sutton’s reflection in the high sheen of the metal door let me know not to say a word. He looked positively steaming—and worried. The world appeared to be on his shoulders, but that couldn’t be the case because the world was resting firmly on mine. This trip had turned into a nightmare, and for once, I was eager to move on.

  The buckle on my bag caught the light from the overhead strip, and the resulting twinkle flashed. It was like whatever was inside was mocking me, letting me know it was there but that I couldn’t discuss it. Infuriating.

  The elevator dinged, and the doors shushed open. Sutton took my elbow, gentler this time, and, appearing ridiculous with my handbag slapping against his hip, he guided me down the corridor to my room. He raised a finger to his lips, letting me go, and fumbled in my bag for the door key. Once inside, he dumped the contents onto the bed, seizing on my small notepad that I used to jot down flower names and locations. He took the mini pencil from the spiral at the top then started to write. I peered over his shoulder.

  PUT THE SHOWER ON.

  I did so then returned to the bed.

  NOW SING.

  I wasn’t about to bloody sing, so I hummed while he sifted through the items on the bed. Lipstick, a packet of tissues—because you never knew when they’d be needed—a small mirror, sun lotion, Kindle, my purse. A few coins sat among crumb debris and a tiny ball of fluff. He examined everything, even ruining my new Mac lipstick by ripping off the red and gouging it out of the base. Wiping his hands on tissue then throwing the lippy in the bin, he let out a long, quiet sigh. I continued humming, feeling ridiculous, and stared at him as though asking: What now?

  What now was him turning my bag inside out then checking the pockets. He scribbled another note.

  COUGH. UNTIL I’VE DONE WHAT I’M GOING TO DO NEXT.

  I did so, and he ripped the lining away from the leather. It was only last season Prada, but still. I winced and stopped coughing. He searched on.

  Nothing.

  He shook his head, frustration clear on his face in his deep frown and the brackets either side of his mouth. I stared at him for direction, pointed to my purse. He opened it, throwing each credit card out in turn, and it hit me then. A cold chill swarmed up my spine, and I remembered when I’d thought some of my cards were missing. I’d been wrong, though—they’d just been moved, put back the wrong way round. I jabbed a finger at the slits where the cards had sat, and he dug a finger inside each one. At the third slit down, he paused, his mouth a grim line. He eased his finger out, and sitting on the end was a transparent plastic disc, the metal workings inside it visible. My stomach churned, and I sat heavily on the bed, heart thumping, my muscles weak.

  So he’d been right. Father’s spy hadn’t been prattling on about nonsense. I really had been bugged.

  But by who?

  Sutton wrote another note.

  TURN THE SHOWER OFF THEN RUSTLE SOME FABRIC AS THOUGH YOU’RE DRESSING. THEN MUTTER TO YOURSELF THAT YOU’RE GOING DOWN TO THE POOL.

  In the bathroom, steam had marauded the air and clung to the mirror. I switched the water off then returned to the bedroom, swishing my hand over the bed for a few seconds while Sutton used the notebook again.

  “Totally bored,” I said while yawning. “The pool’s the only place to get some entertainment around here.”

  Sutton nodded. Showed me his new command.

  I’M GOING DOWN TO PUT THIS IN A PLANT POT. PACK. BE READY FOR WHEN I RETURN.

  He left the room, and I looked at the door for what seemed a long time, flummoxed as to what the hell was going to happen next. While I didn’t want to stay here any longer, I didn’t much like the idea of leaving against my will, either. The stubborn part of me wanted to resist, to refuse to obey a man I hardly knew, but a vision of the Albino in my head soon had my feet and hands moving. I gathered my things while shuddering off goosebumps, and once I was done, I had a quick shower and put on some light travelling clothes—a floaty white skirt and a pale blue vest top. I thanked the heavens I’d brought more than one handbag with a matching purse and began putting all my things inside them. After a quick sweep of the suite, I sat on the bed and
waited.

  The lock clicking had me jumping to my feet, hand uselessly going to my chest. Sutton appeared, coming towards the bed in a hurry. I opened my mouth to speak, but he clamped his hand over it, shaking his head. Then he took hold of my suitcase and went back to the door. It was silly of me, but I didn’t want to leave the safety of my room, although it was far from safe now. I didn’t for one moment think the Albino would go back to Moscow, scuttling away to his boss, telling him that some rough-looking English man had told him to go home. No, the Albino was made of stronger stuff, I’d seen him in action, and he’d continue to follow me. Why, though? Again, I opened my mouth, and Sutton gave me such a fierce look of warning that my knees went weak.

  Out on the corridor, we walked to the room beside mine. Inside, Sutton turned the lock and gestured for my bag. I handed it over, and he rummaged inside, pulling out the notebook.

  WE’RE LEAVING VIA THE BACK ENTRANCE. ALBERTO WILL LET US OUT.

  I nodded—what else could I do?—and realised that if my other bag had been bugged, my room and the ones either side of it could have been, too. A thought struck me, and I felt sick. I’d possibly fucked a man in the Albino’s employ. Nathan, who’d asked a lot of questions before I’d managed to send him on his way. Or was my mind working overtime, creating scenarios that didn’t exist? And, if it were true, that Nathan was something to do with this, what on earth was going on? Why were these people following me? Why was I so important to them?

  By the time Sutton had thrown a few items into his holdall and we’d made it down to the checkout desk, I was exhausted, emotionally and physically. I wanted nothing but to crawl into a bed and sleep away the horrors of the day. I hadn’t allowed myself to sieve through what had happened—to relive being trapped by those men then the Albino appearing… No, I didn’t want to remember any of it. After the devastation of my earlier years, life was supposed to be led in a happy fashion, carefree and without rancor.

  It seemed that wasn’t to be the case. If God existed, was this my punishment? For what I’d done? Wasn’t a girl allowed to put the past behind her and move on?

  “Sign out,” Sutton said, wrenching me from my thoughts.