by A. A. Dhand
She had something to lose.
‘Someone you love? Or do they have something on you?’ he asked.
She didn’t reply. Didn’t move.
‘I gave you a chance,’ Lucas said. He turned and opened the door. He called Harry into the room. Steele didn’t look at him. ‘Nothing,’ he said as Harry walked past. ‘Not a damn thing.’
She felt his presence in the room. Saw his dark trainers out of the corner of her eye. She tensed her body, prepared for an assault.
‘At least tell me why.’ Harry’s tone was soft. Deceptively so. ‘You’re not going to tell me who? You must have something to lose, or why else would you subject yourself to this? Is it a partner? If you’re willing to die protecting someone you love – I can live with that. I’m here for the same reason. In return, I won’t make you suffer. I promise.’
His offer lingered in silence. Harry closed the door.
‘She won’t talk, Harry—’
‘Two thousand and four,’ Steele replied suddenly. She didn’t look at them. Her voice was shaky. Distant. Calling upon a memory she didn’t want to relive.
‘Go on,’ Harry said.
‘The Armley riots.’
‘I remember them.’
‘An Asian guy was murdered inside the prison. Racist attack, they called it. Whole place went to ruin. Inmates rioted. I was trapped inside the infirmary when these two . . . bastards’, she hissed, ‘trapped me inside.’
Steele was stationary in the chair. Harry knew Lucas had hit her. Creeping through the blonde curls down the side of her face was the painful graze.
‘Fucking rapists,’ she mumbled.
That put Harry on edge: this wasn’t on his script.
‘First one tied me to a trolley. Cut off my uniform. Bit me when he did it.’ She tried to stop her voice from cracking. ‘Always remember the feel of the scissors against my skin. Cold and foreign but so much better than his skin.’
Scissors. Images of a bloodied pair in Harry’s hand. A man’s life leaking across them.
‘The other one watched. They did rock, paper, scissors to decide who went first. They laughed about it.’
Lucas cracked his knuckles. Harry wouldn’t look at him. Steele’s voice was heavy with pain. It made what they had to do so much harder.
‘I don’t really remember the first one. I closed my eyes. But the second one. He was . . . he wanted me to open my eyes. He needed to see what I . . . was feeling.’
Harry wanted her to cut to the details that involved Lucas. But he was afraid interrupting would halt the story.
‘He put the scissors in my mouth. Said he would cut out my tongue if I didn’t open my eyes. So I did.’
Lucas was breathing heavily. Angrily.
Steele raised her head and looked at him. ‘Uncomfortable?’ she snapped. ‘Don’t want to hear the next part? How is what you’re doing any fucking different?’
Her words stung them both, as though she had taken the higher ground.
‘Keep going,’ Harry said coldly. ‘My wife? My unborn child? That’s where my focus is.’
Steele looked away, towards the window. The blinds were open, streetlights revealing the mist.
‘Before the second one started, another inmate arrived at the infirmary. He saw what was happening and took care of them. Knocked them both unconscious. This man – who I had never seen before – this inmate freed me, gave me back my clothes.’ Steele shot Harry an angry scowl. ‘Do you know what I did next?’
‘No,’ replied Harry.
‘I picked up the scissors and I stuck them through the head of the second bastard. The one who wanted me to look at him. And I did it so quickly that nobody could stop me. You know the best part?’ she spat.
Harry wanted her to stop. It was suddenly too similar to what he had done all those years ago.
An explosion of rage.
‘I would do it again,’ she said. ‘The pleasure I got from seeing his blood all over the floor is the only memory which gets me through darker days.’
‘I would have done the same thing,’ Lucas told her. ‘This inmate? The one who saved you. He the guy you’re protecting?’
She nodded. ‘He took the scissors from me. Told me the law wouldn’t see it right. He murdered the first inmate but made it look like the men killed each other in a fight. Did it right so that no one ever questioned it. I testified they had set upon each other.’
‘How do you go from that? To this?’ Harry asked, trying to steer the conversation.
‘I took a lot of time off work.’
The suicide attempt in 2004.
‘The man who helped me was released three years later. I sought him out. He was the only person I could speak to about what I’d done. He understood. He was nice. We became close.’
‘What was he inside for?’
‘Drugs.’
Harry and Lucas exchanged a knowing look.
Drugs.
It all fitted into place. Steele’s motives for protecting this man were iron-clad.
‘I . . . I . . . couldn’t get into a relationship – not after what happened – but we became good friends. He helped me to become . . . whole again.’
‘And this is the man who wanted Lucas Dwight’s blood?’
She nodded. ‘He came to me a few months ago – three maybe? Said Lucas had a debt to pay. Knew you were coming out. Asked me for a favour. Your blood,’ she said, looking at Lucas. ‘And I agreed. I owe him my life.’ Then she added fiercely, ‘Now, is that story acceptable enough for why?’
He nodded. ‘Your reasons are solid.’
‘Then let me go.’
Lucas touched Harry’s arm. ‘A word.’ He beckoned Harry on to the landing before leading him to an adjacent bedroom. ‘We can’t do this. Not after what she just told us.’
‘If it’s the truth.’
‘You know it is. You heard her voice.’
‘Doesn’t change the facts. You’re being strung up and I’ll do whatever I need for Saima.’
‘Listen.’ Lucas dropped his voice to a whisper. ‘We cannot kill this woman.’
‘We’re not going to. She has a choice to make.’
‘If we rough her up—’
‘That won’t work. There’s only one option.’
‘When you asked me before – I didn’t know what I do now. If you want to take her life, Harry, be my guest, but not how we discussed.’
Harry stepped closer to Lucas, who didn’t back away. ‘Are you really going to put this between us now? Does it look like we have time to entertain this bullshit?’
‘I’m not a sadist.’
‘Neither am I. You trust me?’
‘I trust you about as much as I’d trust anyone I’d known twelve hours.’
‘Give me what I need.’ Harry glared at Lucas. ‘You’re going to have to trust that I know what I’m doing.’
Lucas backed away. He moved to the other side of the room, by the window.
‘She knows who set you up and who has my wife,’ Harry said. ‘And in a perfect fucking world, we wouldn’t have to make this decision. But we do. And it’s now. And the only thing you need to ask yourself is: your life or hers?’
‘Threat?’ Lucas asked, not turning to face Harry.
‘Whoever wants you isn’t going to stop. Only a sick, desperate man takes a pregnant woman. These . . . these people have spies within the police and are one step ahead of us. If you want your life back, then you better make a call. Right now.’
Lucas was angry at himself, disgusted by what Harry was going to do. ‘I have one condition.’
‘Name it.’
‘If we do this. If we go through with it, we’re done. Me and you: it’s over. You go your way; I go mine. You’ll have what you came for. You won’t need me any more.’
‘I can live with that.’
‘Why like this? Why not just make her suffer? You’d be surprised what a hot iron pinned to somebody’s skin can do. Why not go there?’
&
nbsp; ‘Because she’s damaged. Physical pain won’t break her. She’ll likely feed off it.’
‘And this will work?’
‘Yes. Let me ask you a question. When you get in the boxing ring – who wins? The man who is mentally stronger or physically?’
‘Mentally.’ Lucas turned the side of his face towards Harry.
‘Exactly,’ replied Harry. ‘I’m going to break her mind.’
THIRTY-EIGHT
SAIMA OPENED HER eyes to the yellow-eyed stare of a rat. Its teeth were bared and it turned its head to one side, displaying dishevelled grey fur.
For the briefest of moments, time stopped.
Then she released a blood-curdling scream which forced the rats to scatter. And she kept screaming. Her insides were cramping and she only stopped when her breath ran out.
Saima raised her body and found blood on the floor, beneath where her face had been. She tried to calm down. She touched the side of her face and felt the stickiness of a cut.
‘Help,’ she panted, but it was no more than a whimper. She doubled over in pain as another contraction crippled her insides. ‘Help,’ she whispered again. ‘Please.’
But there was no one to hear.
Saima started to cry.
This was all wrong.
She’d obeyed all the rules.
How was this nightmare possible?
Saima gritted her teeth and crawled towards the door. She could hear movement outside and tapped desperately on it. ‘Please, my baby’s coming. Please, I beg you.’ She began crying hysterically. ‘Don’t punish my baby,’ she sobbed. ‘I beg you – show me some mercy.’
No response.
There was a crack between the edge of the door and the frame, no more than an inch. Saima put her eye to it and could see the back of a man, sitting on a chair.
Scuffed white trainers. Socks which didn’t quite meet his jeans, revealing brown skin.
Saima spoke in Urdu, pleading for him to listen. She promised him money, told him God would reward him and that if he didn’t help her, could he live with himself knowing he had killed a child?
But he remained motionless.
She heard another man’s voice.
He told the man sitting watch that he was wanted downstairs and took his place on the stool.
A changing of the guard.
Saima started pleading with him but stopped as another contraction took her breath away. She groaned as the spasm sent a pulse of misery through her body.
Then the man on the stool turned around quickly. He stood up, came towards the door and put his eye to the gap. He spoke quickly in Urdu, real urgency to his words. ‘Behind you,’ he whispered. ‘Now.’
Then he was gone. Back to his chair.
Saima turned around.
The door at the other end.
It was open.
She struggled to her feet and hurried towards it. Her legs felt shaky and there was cramping in her stomach but the adrenaline from the possibility of escape drowned out the pain.
Saima stepped through the doorway. She was on a landing with a metal staircase leading down. She lowered her foot on to the top step and slipped. She would have fallen down the stairs had she not grabbed the handrail in desperation.
She dropped painfully to one knee, cracking it on the steel. She suppressed a scream and cursed quietly in Urdu.
From somewhere deep inside, the need to get her baby to safety took over. She got to her feet and put both hands on the railings.
Outside she could hear sirens.
The steps were deceitful, as though they were covered in oil. Saima didn’t trust the strength in her arms to take her weight if she fell. Instead, she sat on each step and lowered herself to the next one like a child.
At the bottom the floor was dry. She searched for the wall and used her hands to drag her body along it.
Until she hit a door – a metal one with a steel bar across it. A fire door.
Saima’s spirits rose and she pushed it hard.
It didn’t move.
Stupid, you’ve got to depress the bar.
Saima held it with both hands and tried again.
Still it didn’t move.
A distressing sharpness in her womb took her breath away once more. Her legs crumpled and Saima collapsed, suppressing her natural instinct to cry out. She writhed, curling into the foetal position with her hands on her stomach. It felt as though she was drowning. She coughed and suddenly threw up. The retching continued for almost a minute before it subsided.
Saima lay still, trying to recover. ‘Get up!’ she hissed. ‘Get up, Saima. Open the door.’
She put her hands on the floor and raised her upper body. Getting on all fours, she crawled towards the wall. She had a window before her next contraction and needed to utilize it. Saima whispered a prayer, gathered her courage and got to her feet. The tassels on her wedding outfit bounced against the silk, the only sound which might alert somebody to her presence.
Saima put both hands in the middle of the bar, then straightened her arms and applied her weight through them. With a sudden jolt, the bar retracted and the door flew open.
An alarm started beeping by the door. Not loud enough for anyone on the street to hear – it wasn’t that type of alarm. It was an internal warning; the fire door was open.
They would know.
Saima placed her hands under her stomach, supporting her baby, and ran. She’d taken only a few paces before she heard them.
Footsteps on the metal stairs.
The alleyway was dark but there were streetlights at the end. The sound of sirens was deafening.
Ambulances close by. She just needed someone to see her.
Or hear her.
Saima called out for help but her voice was lost in the chaos around her. The darkness was everywhere: behind her, on the floor, invading her vision. ‘No,’ she whispered, and fought the blackness flirting with her consciousness.
They were coming for her.
Voices shouting close behind – more than one.
The streetlights were getting brighter. Forty metres. The sirens louder. She burst into a sprint, letting go of her bump and clenching her fists, swinging her arms by her sides.
Thirty metres.
She tried to shout but there was nothing. The footsteps behind were closing in.
She was only twenty metres from the street.
Another attempt at a scream.
Nothing.
A sudden rough hand on her elbow – and now she did scream and shrugged it away.
An iron grip on the back of her neck.
Pain.
Another hand on her arm. Grabbing. Pulling.
And now she was struggling. Being dragged to a halt. She felt a sudden kick at her legs. Saima was falling, face first. Everything seemed to slow down. The ground seemed to elongate and then it was rushing towards her. She closed her eyes and braced for impact as her face accelerated towards the concrete beneath.
And when she hit it she felt her insides explode.
THIRTY-NINE
‘LAST CHANCE,’ HARRY said, closing his eyes tightly and massaging his temple.
‘After what he did for me – would you talk?’ Steele replied.
‘I’m not the one whose life is on the line.’
Steele stared at Harry. It looked as if she was deciding whether he was about to renege on his oath to uphold the law.
‘I assure you this isn’t a bluff. Frankly, I don’t have time to waste while you decide where your loyalties lie.’
‘I might have died in two thousand and four but I didn’t, because of him. I can’t give him to you.’
‘Your loyalty is admirable, but you might want to put self-preservation to the top of your list.’
‘If you’re going to torture me, then you’re just as bad as the men who raped me!’ she spat.
‘What I’m going to do is give you a choice.’ Harry turned to Lucas. ‘You’re up.’
Reluctantly
Lucas removed his hoodie and threw it on the bed, leaving him in a dirty white T-shirt. ‘You remember what you used to treat me for? Those daily pills.’ He rolled up his sleeve.
Steele nodded and watched him closely, apprehensive about what was happening. ‘HIV.’
‘You know the best things about community drug-treatment centres?’
She shook her head.
‘They give you fresh needles and syringes. Reduces the spread of the disease.’ Lucas removed some from his pocket. He unwrapped one of the needles and attached it to a new syringe. Slowly he inserted it into a vein on his arm. Steele kept her eyes rooted to it as dark-red blood started to fill the barrel.
Lucas withdrew the syringe and held it upright. He removed the used needle and placed it carefully on the bed. Then he unwrapped a new one and attached it. Lucas glanced nervously at Harry. There was a delay of no longer than a few seconds but Steele could sense the men were uneasy with each other. Finally Lucas handed Harry the syringe.
Before anyone could move, Harry came over to Steele and jammed the needle through her jogging bottoms into the fatty part of her thigh.
‘No!’ she screamed. ‘Oh God, no!’
Harry placed his hand over her mouth and his elbow across her body, pinning her to the chair. ‘Don’t move.’ He put his face close to hers. ‘You struggle and I’ll inject.’
Harry let go but remained kneeling in front of her.
‘Oh God,’ she repeated. ‘You . . . you . . . sick bastards. Take it out of me! Now!’
The needle was fully inserted. Blood was swaying in the barrel with a clear air-gap of a few millimetres. The plunger was retracted, waiting to be pushed.
‘You wanted Lucas Dwight’s blood and now you have it,’ Harry said. ‘Three minutes. That’s what I am going to give you before I hand you a death sentence.’
‘Jesus! Please! Take it out! I beg you, take it out!’
Lucas sat down on the bed, behind Steele, and clasped his hand over her mouth. ‘Shh. I need you to listen very carefully,’ he said, real urgency in his voice, ‘because believe me, like you, I don’t want this to happen.’
Steele didn’t struggle, paranoid that a sudden movement would somehow force the infected blood inside of her.
Lucas whispered into her ear. ‘You know the worst thing?’