Music echoed around the walls of the near-deserted corridor, got louder as she walked. She looked around. The Prof’s office was directly in front of her. The sounds emanated from there, seeped out from under the door. She couldn’t place it; something dark and sinister; twanging guitars, baleful drums, mournful saxophone. A voice intoning, imploring over the top. Something to do with fires and eyes, blood and poison. She couldn’t be too clear. She stopped, glanced in.
There were no lights on in the room and for a second she thought it was deserted. She looked closer. The Prof was sitting at his desk, head down, hands propping his chin up as if studying something, brow furrowed. He hadn’t seen her. She continued to watch, fascinated. He still didn’t move. The music played on, crescendoed and crashed into some apocalyptic cacophony. Still he didn’t move. Energy spent, the song died away. She watched him sigh heavily, move his arms to the side, ready himself to get up.
Not wanting him to see her, she moved quickly away from the glass. Hurried down the corridor without looking back. Behind her, the music started again. She found the door, pulled it open and was outside.
The cold air hit her like an icy slap in the face, the winter daylight interrogation-room bright. She stood for a few seconds getting her breath, thinking. She considered going to the refectory, seeing if there were any of her fellow students there. But decided against it. She couldn’t see the point. Besides, she had work to do. She set off across the quadrangle.
She kept her eyes straight ahead, tried to avoid eye contact with anyone else in case their paranoia infected her, bubbled up into fear, broke out as anger. As she walked, she couldn’t lose the feeling that she was being scrutinized by unseen eyes, that she was being followed. She tried to shake the feeling off, dismiss it as irrational. But she walked faster, trainers squeaking and scuffing, almost running.
She reached the corner, turned around. No one behind her. She sighed, let go a breath she didn’t know she had been holding. Looked around again. Saw the old security guard she had argued with on her way into the building. Even with the square between them she could see he was staring at her. She could sense the anger coming off him in waves.
She turned around, ready to walk back over there, mouth open to let fly some insult, give vent to her own anger. She stopped herself. She couldn’t see the point. Insulting a pathetic old man hiding behind a uniform. Instead she turned around, kept walking.
Feeling his laser-like eyes firing into her back, burrowing all the way inside her, until she knew he could see her no more.
Jamal concentrated hard, stared straight ahead, breathed heavily. He heard a screech of tyres, reacted quickly. He jerked the steering wheel sharp left to avoid collision with the car snaking out of a blind alleyway on his right side. As he did so, he pushed down the accelerator, brakes squealing, rubber burning. He knew the car could only be bad news. It was. It gave chase behind him. He only became aware of that when the bullets began to zing.
‘Shit, man …’
Then the whomp of helicopter blades. Two, one on each side, both after him. He needed some fancy driving to get out of this one.
He did some.
He pulled the steering wheel tight, sent the car into a 180-degree handbrake turn; the shockwaves juddered up his forearms. He raced back up the hill he had just come down, mounting the pavement as he did so, sending pedestrians running, darting left and right to avoid hitting them.
His pursuers were still on him, still spewing out bullets. He saw a turn-off on his left and, without slowing down, pulled hard again on the steering wheel, sending the car skidding around.
Too far.
Out of control, it hit the side of a building. He tried to straighten up but it was too late. With a huge, retina-searing Technicolor explosion, the car blew up.
‘Aw, man …’
Jamal stared at the screen, shook his head. Took his hands off the steering wheel.
A steering wheel. To play the game properly. Well cool.
He liked staying at Amar’s. It was the kind of flat – overlooking the city, cool and modern, proper urban – he dreamed of having when he was older. And he would have the same kinds of games and shit in it that Amar had. The day when he had the disposable income to make his dreams a reality couldn’t come quickly enough.
His dreams. He looked at the screen, watched the flames begin to subside. They would be gone soon. He’d get his second chance.
His second chance. That’s what he had. What Albion and particularly Donovan had given him. A life where he didn’t have to sell himself for money to get drugs and booze; those brief highs and temporary blackouts chasing away who he was and what he did. A life where he wasn’t on the run all the time, where he didn’t have to hide – either externally or within himself. Sometimes the realization of this would hit him like a slap in the face, and the emotions it released would just pour out in one huge, unstoppable torrent.
He never drank now, never took drugs. He didn’t need to.
He was lucky to have these people around him who wanted him and liked him. Loved him, even. They were like family to him. But better than his biological family: a family unit that worked. Things were good. And he didn’t want them to change.
But.
Joe was still looking for his son. And that was cool, that was right. Jamal could understand that. In fact, when he was younger, he used to hope that his father was looking for him, even though he knew, deep down, that he wasn’t. And Joe had called him last night to tell him the dead boy wasn’t David. He sounded upset, choked, even. And Jamal had felt sorry for him. Sorry but confused.
Because he didn’t know if that was a good thing or not. And he didn’t know why he felt that. Just like he didn’t know why he was so unhappy about Joe sleeping with Katya. Maybe he should talk to Amar about it. He could always talk to Amar.
But then maybe this was what being part of a family was all about. You sometimes argued and felt confused about each other, but you all loved each other. Maybe that was it. Maybe all the other shit didn’t matter.
Amar entered the room. ‘Jamal, Peta’s phoned and—’ He stopped, looked at the boy. ‘You OK?’
Jamal turned away, unaware that tears had begun to fall down his face. He hoped Amar hadn’t seen them.
‘Yeah, man, I’m good.’ He grabbed the wheel, head still averted, and began to play with the controls. ‘Love this steering wheel, man. Give it a real arcade feel, you … you get me?’
‘Glad you like it.’
Jamal smiled. ‘Yeah. Safe.’ He looked at the wheel, gave it a couple of twists, tried to think of something to say to fill the gap. ‘Hey, Amar, you reckon Joe’ll let me drive his car now I been practisin’ with this?’
Amar looked at the screen, the dying flames, smiled. ‘Driving like that? In his car? I doubt it.’
‘I’ve done it before. For real.’
‘And you were lucky not to get banged up for it.’
Jamal seemed about to argue, thought better of it. Amar was right. He noticed he had his coat on.
Jamal stood up. ‘Joe called?’
‘Peta called. Said Joe was staying at hers another night. So you’ve got me again, I’m afraid.’
‘Fine,’ said Jamal. He looked at Amar, waiting for him to speak again. Saw he was wearing his coat and scarf, pointed to it. ‘So? We workin’ then tonight, yeah?’
Amar looked away. ‘No. I’m … off out. You’ll be OK here on your own. I know you will. You’ve done it before.’
Jamal’s eyes narrowed. He frowned. ‘Where?’
‘Just out.’ Amar couldn’t quite meet his eyes. ‘Doesn’t matter.’
Jamal scrutinized him, unblinking. It was something he had learned to do on the street. It was an intimidation trick that had never failed him yet. ‘Where?’
Amar’s eyes flared. ‘Look, I don’t have to explain myself to you as well.’ He sighed. ‘Jesus.’
Jamal knew where Amar was going. And what he was going to do. He broke eye c
ontact, looked away. ‘Can’t say nothin’, man. You do what you gotta do. Or what you think you gotta do.’
Jamal sat down again, looked at the screen. He put his hands on the steering wheel, readying himself for another attempt. He was aware of Amar standing behind him, unmoving, wanting to say or do something but not having the words or actions. Jamal heard him walk away, heard the front door close as he left. He stared at the screen.
He was lucky, he told himself; he had a second chance.
And all the other shit like Joe and Katya, and Joe looking for his son, and what Amar was doing with his life, maybe that was just how families were. Maybe none of it mattered.
And then again, maybe it did.
He gripped the wheel, readied himself to ride into hell once again.
Night fell cold and hard. Black ice hid in long shadows.
Black ice. And something else.
‘This is it?’
‘This is it.’
Decca and Christopher sat in the BMW, parked unevenly on the cobbles, around the corner of the overgrown playground in Summerhill Terrace. Through denuded branches of stunted trees, crumbling stone and rusted ironwork, they could see their target: the Albion office.
‘Is this the only entrance?’ asked Christopher.
‘Yeah. I’ve checked out the back. There’s a kind of yard thing backin’ on to another kind of yard thing. Whole row of them. No real way in.’
Christopher nodded. ‘A kind of back yard thing …’
Decca flushed. The night hid it. ‘Well?’ he said tetchily. ‘We doin’ it or what?’
‘We are doing it,’ replied Christopher. ‘But remember. Once the alarm is taken care of, no talking. No excuses. Right?’
Decca nodded. ‘Yeah, I hear you.’
They got out of the car. Christopher looked around, checked for eyes behind curtains, pedestrians. Found none. Began walking towards the Albion office, Decca following. Christopher had put on a huge overcoat, Decca noticed, a heavy one by the look of it, weighing him down as he walked. Christopher stopped outside, looked at the front of the building. Decca watched; he knew what Christopher was looking for. Burglar alarms, CCTV, elaborate locking systems. They had been past during the day, appearing as inconspicuous as possible, checking the place out. They had found nothing too hazardous. Christopher had given it a medium security rating. Decca had just nodded.
Christopher walked up to the front door, looked at the lock, his face granite-like, thoughtful.
‘Keep watch,’ he said.
Decca turned, scoped the street. Still no one about. From a reinforced inner pocket in Christopher’s large overcoat, he produced a scarred, heavy metal bar with two grips welded along the top of it. He grasped it, pulled it back, his body tense, and swung it forward, putting all his considerable strength behind it.
The door crashed open, the alarm sounding simultaneously. Decca and Christopher hurried inside, Christopher throwing the metal bar to the floor.
‘The alarm,’ said Christopher above the din.
Decca saw the box mounted on the wall, moved over to it. He looked at the numbers on the keypad, fingers poised above them, thinking of what the successful combination could be. Before he could press anything, Christopher knocked him out of the way and, grunting only slightly, ripped the box off the wall. The noise stopped. He threw it to the ground.
Christopher pointed at the front door, made a closing motion. Decca hurried to it. It was ruined, uncloseable. He pushed it shut, found a heavy stone vase in the hallway, dragged that against it.
Christopher had already moved into the first room. Decca followed him. They looked around, saw large leather sofas, a central coffee table. Christopher pulled the sofas away from the walls, looked behind them. Nothing there. A door led to a further back room. He motioned to Decca to open it.
Decca tried. It was locked. He took a step back, lifted his leg, brought his booted foot down on the handle. It opened. He entered, grinning. Buzzing off his head. The most fun he’d had in ages. A bigger kick than gear, booze or sex. He wanted to kick something else, smash the place up, rip it apart. Put his print on things. Show them he’d been here.
They were into the main office. Desks, filing cabinets, computers, phones. Christopher had already made his way to the nearest filing cabinet, had a metal bar out and was forcing the lock. The top drawer sprang open. He motioned for Decca to come across, rifle through with him. Donovan’s file was near the front. Decca removed it, opened it. Home address, bank details, car, everything. Decca waved it about, grinned.
‘Fuckin’ jackpot.’
Christopher pushed his finger angrily against his lips, glared at Decca like he was about to hit him. Decca flinched, closed his mouth immediately. Christopher still glared at him. Decca looked at the documents he held in his hands. They just looked like bits of paper. His heart sank, his adrenalin plummeted. Suddenly this wasn’t as much fun any more. He handed them over to Christopher, who silently pocketed them.
They looked through the rest of the filing cabinet, through the desk drawers, rummaged in the wastebin, working efficiently. Found nothing pertinent. Christopher motioned to the two computers on the desks. Both iMac G5s, neither had base units, just a screen, keyboard and a mouse each. Christopher nodded towards one, picked up the other. They both pulled out wires, disconnecting the machines from electricity and Ethernet, hefted them up and, with a last look around the office, left with them under their arms.
They walked slowly back towards the car, neither being stupid enough to draw attention to themselves by running, making sure to close the front door of the Albion office as well as possible on the way out. Decca opened the boot, and they placed the computers inside. They got in the car, Decca again behind the wheel. Decca breathed a huge sigh. He was sweating, hands shaking, chest pumping.
‘Can I talk now?’
Christopher just looked at him, his gaze lizard-eyed, his face stone. He didn’t seem to have broken into a sweat.
Decca swallowed. He couldn’t remember what he had been about to say. ‘Those computers’ll be encrypted,’ he said, panting, just so he didn’t look foolish. ‘Passwords an’ shit.’
‘We have someone for that. Drive.’
‘Whatever you want,’ he said. ‘You’re the boss.’
If Christopher heard the sarcasm in Decca’s voice he didn’t remark on it. Decca, without looking at him, turned the radio on. He had it set at certain times of the day and night to find hip-hop and RnB stations. Clattering beats came tumbling out of the speakers. Decca picked up the rhythm straight away, felt it bring back some of that nasty-edged euphoria he’d had in the Albion office before Christopher had taken it away. Yeah, he thought, nodding along, things weren’t so bad.
Christopher, without looking at Decca, leaned forward and retuned the radio to a classical station. Strings immediately replaced beats. Happy that this was what he wanted, he sat back comfortably in his seat, letting the operatic music wash over him.
‘Drive,’ he said.
Decca was pissed off. He had been looking forward to turning those offices over and Christopher had gone and spoiled it for him. Now he was dictating what Decca could listen to. In his own car. He felt anger flare within him. He was about to argue, tell Christopher what he thought of him. He turned, mouth open, ready to let go. And caught that stone lizard face looking back at him.
Decca said nothing. Just silently turned the engine over, put the car in gear.
And drove away.
They rounded the curve in Summerhill Terrace, came out on to Westgate Road. Decca indicated, turned left, drove carefully away.
Once they were out on the main road, Christopher turned the opera up.
Decca said nothing. There wasn’t a single thing he could do about it.
Just keep driving.
27
Jill lay there, naked and shivering. Beyond crying, beyond screaming.
Tied to his worktop. Beyond hope.
She tried opening h
er eyes, felt only pain. She couldn’t. Tried again. The same. She stopped trying. Like picking at a wound that hadn’t had time to heal. She didn’t know if the wetness running down her cheeks was tears or blood.
She lay as still as she could, listened. He wasn’t there.
It didn’t matter: his voice still resonated in her head. Those words, going around again and again …
‘I’m sorry about this,’ he had said, his voice frighteningly calm and reasonable. ‘I really, really don’t want to hurt you. You might feel some pain, I’m afraid. It’s quite necessary. There’s no other way, unfortunately.’
He had advanced towards her. She had seen the needle in his hand, the light glinting off it.
‘It’s time for the first step. It’s time for you to stop looking at this world and start looking at the next.’
He had knelt over her. She had struggled, tried to pull herself away, got nowhere.
‘It’s the first stage on your journey …’
The needle had come towards her.
She had felt pain.
And remembered the first time she had opened her eyes and found herself tied there. It felt like months, years ago.
Not just days …
*
She had opened her eyes to find herself tied down flat. Naked, cold. And to find him standing before her. Naked also, except for his glasses and, she noticed, his socks. Under other circumstances she would have found that amusing. Then she saw his erection, guessed his intention and found her breath coming in even shorter gasps. He had smiled at her.
‘You’re still with us? Good. Thought we might have lost you. And we wouldn’t want that to happen, would we? At least not yet. Not before you’ve answered my questions for me.’
She tried to take in her surroundings. It was an airless, windowless room. Wires trailing, hanging, lamps on stands like a film set, trained on her. Behind the lights, grey lumpen shadows and razor-light glints. Like figures standing, holding poses.
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