by Simon Logan
Looks back at the squatter, laying on the bed as if merely passed out from a night of excess.
“I’m sorry,” Bridget says then smashes the ornament into his face.
24.
A patrol car lines up alongside her as she waits at a junction and Bridget leans forward to block the officer’s view of the drugged and beaten body in the passenger seat should he look across at her.
She stares at the traffic lights suspended above the wet street, pointedly not making eye contact with the officer, willing the lights to change. Then she can’t help it and briefly glances to the side.
The officer is laughing and there’s the sound of radio chatter. His eyes nail hers.
He frowns, then smiles.
Bridget forces a smile back.
The lights change but neither of them move and she’s thinking, Is this a test? What does he want me to do?
Act normal. Act normal.
She eases onto the gas, lets the clutch drop and leaves the patrol car behind, all the while her attention going to the road ahead then to her side mirror and back again. A moment later and the cop is moving too. She waits for its lights to start flashing, grinding her teeth in anticipation, before he peels off into a side street and is gone.
Despite her desire to floor it she keeps her speed steady and well under the limit, not wanting to draw any attention to herself, all the way to Lindenmuth Blvd. She pulls up next to a scrapyard encircled by patchwork fencing and stolen street signs then switches the engine off. Parked halfway up an alley at the side of the yard is a white van with huge red lips spray-painted across the rear doors.
Bridget gets out then circles around and opens the passenger door.
The guy is still out of it and she hopes it is just from the injection than the beating which followed. She touches two fingers to his neck and finds a weak pulse.
She’d done the best she could to distort his features without doing any serious damage. Both cheeks are swollen and one is split. A large bruise darkens the left side of his face, accompanied by a rather prominent lump which looks like a marble has been inserted under his skin. There’s dried blood on his nose and forehead. She’s also wrapped a scarf she’d had in the back of her car around the man’s neck to cover the plain flesh where there should have been a tattoo and a trach tube.
This is never going to work.
But then what other choice does she have?
She hooks an arm under the man and lifts him out, glad for his slight build. Drags him up the alley.
As she approaches, someone gets out of the van—a tall, broad woman wearing a tight black cocktail dress with a purple sash and a pair of elbow-length satin gloves. The woman looks as if she has just stepped out of a ballroom.
Bridget hesitates, wondering if she has gotten the wrong location.
The woman drops a cigarette to the ground and crushes it under one foot. Motions for Bridget to come towards her.
Bridget struggles the rest of the way up the alley and its only as she gets closer that she realizes the woman is not, at least in the strictest sense, a woman. And she thinks of the discarded clothing and wig, the raided wardrobe. Liz’s dress?
She lets the squatter slump to the ground beside her. “Lady D?”
The transvestite tilts her head to one side, the way a dog might when hearing a familiar word, looking at what Bridget has brought her.
“Sorry for the mess,” Bridget says. “But she wasn’t for coming voluntarily.”
Lady D continues to examine the body from a distance. Takes a step closer. Bridget holds up a hand.
“Where’s Liz?”
“In the van.”
“Is she okay?”
Lady D nods at the body. “I was just about to ask you the same thing.”
“She’s fine. Out cold but nothing serious.”
“You better be sure about that.”
“I want to see her. Liz. Now.”
“She doesn’t even look alive.”
For a split second Bridget panics then realizes the Tgirl is referring to the body, not Liz.
“She’s alive.”
“Forgive me if I’m not going to take your word for it.”
Lady D takes a step forward. Bridget matches her, blocking her view of the body now.
“I want to see her first,” she says.
Lady D mulls it over then nods. She opens the rear door of the van just a little, pokes her head in and mutters a warning, then opens it the rest of the way. Liz emerges from the darkness. Her hands are bound and makeup smears her face. There are streaks of red around her mouth that could be lipstick or could be blood.
A wave of anger, sadness and fear hits Bridget and she only just manages to swallow it down before the van door is slammed shut again.
“If you’ve hurt her . . .”
“I hardly think you’re one to talk, Nurse Soelberg.”
The use of her name sends a shiver up Bridget’s spine but she says nothing as the transvestite approaches, bends down next to the body. She turns its head from side to side, examining the wounds and, thankfully, chooses the wrist to measure for a pulse instead of removing the scarf. Bridget looks at the van, resisting the urge to run to the vehicle and grab Liz before Lady D realizes Liz’s deceit.
“She’s alive. That’s good enough for me.”
Lady D picks the body up, hooking one arm around her shoulder just as Bridget had but carrying it with far more ease. She opens the van door and puts the body inside, then motions for Liz to come and helps her out of the van. Liz stands there for a moment, not sure what to do.
“Off you go,” Lady D says, easing her forward.
Bridget locks on to Liz’s eyes, encouraging her to keep coming as if her gaze is a homing beacon. As soon as she is close enough, Bridget grabs and embraces her.
“We’re done?” Bridget asks.
Lady D closes the door, her chest and silk gloves now smeared with blood. “Done,” she confirms. “Nice doing business with you.”
And she just stands there, arms crossed, until Bridget and Liz turn and walk back up the alley.
They keep walking at a steady pace, around the corner to Bridget’s Honda. Bridget fumbles for her keys then opens the passenger door and helps Liz inside, circles around and climbs into the driver’s seat. Once they are inside she finally feels able to speak.
“Are you okay? Did he hurt you?”
Liz shakes her head even as Bridget checks her over, gently touching the other woman’s face and glad to find that the discolouration is all just make-up.
“I’m okay,” Liz says. “Just a little shaken. Do you have anything to . . . ?”
She holds up her wrists, still bound with cable ties. Bridget leans across and retrieves a small knife from the glove box, slices through the plastic. Liz rubs at her reddened, raw skin.
“What the fuck was that all about?”
“I don’t know,” Bridget says, looking through the rear window to see if there is any sign of the van.
“You don’t know? It’s something to do with Stasko isn’t it?”
“I think so,” Bridget says but leaves it at that.
“Fuckin’ asshole.” Liz twists the rear-view mirror to face her and examines herself.
“Who was that you . . . gave her? Him. Her.”
“Nobody important.”
“They seemed important to him. To her.”
“That’s the problem.”
“What problem?”
“It’s not who she thinks it is. It’s not who she wanted.”
Liz twists the rear view back. She checks over her shoulder too. “What do you mean, not who she wanted? And what do you keep looking at?”
“I had to do it,” Bridget explains. “To get you back, I mean. She wanted this girl and—look, it’s complicated but bottom line is it’s only a matter of time until she realiz
es that I’ve fucked her over. I couldn’t bring her the girl so I improvised. Not to mention Stasko . . .”
Her phone rings. She pulls it out of her pocket.
Stasko.
“Bridget?”
Ringing.
“What’s going on?”
“I have to . . .”
And Bridget hits the button to pick up the call.
“Where are you? Have you found her?” he barks down the line.
“Not yet,” Bridget says, side-stepping his initial question.
“What about the address? You said that . . .”
“They’re not there. They must have known we’d come looking for them.”
There are a few moments of silence, enough for Bridget to wonder if he knows exactly what is going on.
“Where are you?”
And this time she can’t avoid it.
“Back of Lindenmuth.”
“What the hell are you doing over there?”
“Looking,” she says simply. Checks the rear window again. Liz stares at her with an expression she can’t quite read.
“I’ll be there in ten minutes.”
“What for? If we’re going to find her then . . .”
“I’m already on my way, Bridget.”
Then he hangs up.
“What the fuck is going on?” Liz demands as soon as Bridget puts the phone down.
“We have to get out of here.”
“Is she coming?” Liz asks, craning to see out the window.
“I mean the city, we have to get out of the city,” Bridget says. “Together.”
Liz is about to say something but stops. Her frown softens, disappears. Bridget looks right at her.
“It was never the men I was watching,” Bridget says. Then she peels off one of her gloves and looks at her hand as if it isn’t really a part of her. She reaches across and touches Liz’s cheek.
“Where would we go?” Liz asks after a few seconds, reluctant to risk her talking breaking the contact and grateful when it remains.
“We’ll figure something out. Do you have somewhere safe you could go for a couple of days?”
“I don’t know . . . maybe.”
“I’ve got money but it’s going to take me a day or so to sort things out.”
“I could probably crash with—”
“Don’t tell me,” Bridget interrupts. “It’s better if I don’t know. Stasko’s on his way here—wherever it is can you go there now? And just lay low until you hear from me.”
“Bridget what have you gotten yourself involved with?”
“I have no idea,” Bridget says. “Just say you’ll come with me?”
Liz puts a hand over Bridget’s, still cupping her face. Then she leans across and kisses Bridget.
“I’ll come with you.”
25.
DeBoer is standing in a queue at an all-night pharmacy, resisting scratching his asshole, when his phone chimes.
He checks the number before answering. Unidentified.
He picks up but doesn’t say anything.
“Umm . . . Detective DeBoer?” the voice on the other end of the line says.
Male. Not young, not old, but anywhere in between. DeBoer doesn’t recognise it.
“And you are?” DeBoer asks, finally giving in and clawing at his backside. Relief floods through him and a strange, blissful twitching affects one eye. He hums with joy until he catches the scruffy teen in front of him looking over his shoulder.
“The fuck you looking at?” he snaps at the man.
And, just as expected, the relief is short-lived, quickly chased down and enveloped by an angry, burning pain that shoots up his asshole, spreading into his gut. He clenches his buttcheeks and teeth simultaneously.
“I’m sorry?” the caller says.
“Not you. So who is this?”
“A friend of a friend,” the caller says.
The line moves forward by one person, agonisingly slowly. The fiery pain is fading now, the background itching drone returning.
“I have lots of friends,” DeBoer says.
“Yeah, well. I’d heard you were looking for someone.”
DeBoer remains silent, staring at the back of the head of the old woman explaining what she is needing to the pharmacist and not being particularly successful.
“A, uh, a woman?”
“Look, buddy, I’m kind of busy right now. Cut to the cheese, pal.”
“I know where she is. I know who has her.”
DeBoer’s attention is finally gotten but he still says nothing. Waits.
“There’s a debt collector. A transvestite called Lady—”
“Delicious,” DeBoer says, moving forwards now that the old lady is gone. Only two more in front of him.
“You know her?”
“I told you already I have lots of friends,” the detective replies. “So what makes you think she has the punk?”
“Because I just saw her being handed over and put in the back of Lady Delicious’ van. White with a mouth painted onto the rear doors.”
The scruffy teen is now being served, saying something about pus oozing from somewhere he’d rather it wasn’t.
“Handed over? By who?”
“Just some woman. I don’t know. Pink hair. Weird uniform.”
“And this just happened? Where?”
“Over by Lindenmuth Blvd. Near the scrapyard. That’s why I called you. If you hurry then—”
“And who did you say you were again?”
A pause. “A friend. Of a friend.”
The teen shuffles off, avoiding eye contact with DeBoer, clutching a paper bag of creams. DeBoer steps up to the counter.
“Yes?” the pharmacist asks.
DeBoer holds up a finger to ask him to wait.
“Which friend?”
“I just heard the word is all,” the caller says. “On the street, you know? Look, if you want her then you have to come now otherwise . . .”
The pharmacist. “Sir, please, how can I help you? As you can see we’re very busy and tonight—”
DeBoer stabs the finger at him, turns the phone onto his shoulder. “It feels like someone has set fire to some razor wire and shoved it up my ass, okay? Is that enough fucking information for you?! And don’t give me any of that over-the-counter shit either!”
“Uhmmm . . . I’m sorry I don’t know what . . .” the voice on the other end of the phone is saying as he puts it back to his ears.
“Not you!” DeBoer shouts at him.
“Are you on any other medications, sir?” the pharmacist asks.
“Buddy, I can be there quickly, I’m only a couple of blocks away. But that little bitch has been giving me the runaround all night and yours is not the first tip-off I’ve had.”
“So?”
The pharmacist. “Sir?”
“Just give me some fucking cream!” DeBoer shouts at him. Back to the phone. “So, if your information isn’t as good as you seem to think it is then, well . . . I won’t be happy. I’ll come looking for you. And when I look for something I don’t stop until I fucking find it, you understand me?”
Silence on the other end of the line. Then, faintly, “Yes.”
“Good,” DeBoer says.
The pharmacist. “I’m sorry sir but we have to verify that you’re not going to have a reaction to anything we might give you. Can you fill out this form first so that we can—”
DeBoer’s rage boils over and he punches the Plexiglass in front of him. “Fuck off then!” he shouts and punches the screen again before turning and stalking off, on his way to Lindenmuth.
26.
The station wagon’s engine rattles and grinds as it comes to a halt then lets out a little burp of steam.
As DeBoer had approached Lindenmuth he’d spotted a red Honda parked up and there was en
ough of a glow from the nearby street lights to detail the outline of two people inside. He’d slowed slightly as he came up to the car, trying to get a look at the occupants out of the corner of his eye, then continued on for another block before circling back to the junkyard from the other side.
Now he sits in the car, thinking.
Itching. Burning.
He looks around for any other suspicious vehicles or figures but the street is dead. The one in the Honda had, at least in the brief glimpse he had gotten of them, looked like a women but there is the distinct likelihood that it could be one of Lady’s D notorious transvestite crew instead. He takes the pistol from his shoulder holster and checks it. Slips it back in and starts to button his coat over it then thinks better of it. Then carefully reaches into a pocket and takes out the syringe which had earlier been stuck in him, still with a thumb’s height of fluid inside the plastic chamber. Puts it back.
He gets out and casually walks towards the alley then straight past it, again relying on peripheral vision, but it’s enough to let him know that the white van is still parked there, facing him. He slows after a few paces then turns back, fumbling in his pockets as if having forgotten something. Stops when he reaches the alley and peers into it.
At first all he can see is the van, then a figure emerges from behind it. Tall and broad, high-heeled and with shoulder-length blonde hair.
Lady Delicious, rummaging around in her handbag. She turns away from him and he rushes to the other side of the alley, then along the wall towards the van. He ducks underneath the driver’s side window and shuffles towards the rear wheel so that his legs and feet will remain hidden. Listens.
He hears her mumbling something to herself then there’s a thud against the van, coming from the inside. DeBoer jumps back in shock but doesn’t move. A voice, coming from inside, too muffled to be able to tell what is being shouted. More pounding.
Then Lady Delicious’s heeled footsteps, going towards the front of the van. DeBoer edges himself in the opposite direction, ending up at the rear of the vehicle. He peers around it and sees the Tgirl leaning in through the now-open passenger door, then stands on his tip-toes to see through the van’s rear windows. There’s movement inside, a figure lying on the ground, barely visible, but skinny and with a shaven head.