Get Katja

by Simon Logan

  He reaches for his gun then thinks better of it. Instead he retrieves the syringe.

  It is all so exquisitely perfect: to not only get his hands on the punk again but to steal her from the very one who was about to be sent to collect the debt from him—and to use the weapon which had been used to take her from him in the first place.

  Footsteps again, so he retreats back around the side of the van. Crouches down, watching Lady D’s incongruously muscular legs, then realizes he can see her reflected in a pane of glass which is laid up against a dumpster straight ahead. She’s got a phone in her hand now and is thumbing a message or number into it. She turns away from him and he doesn’t waste the opportunity, jumping around and stabbing the syringe into her neck, squeezing the end to deliver what remains of the sedative into her bloodstream. She grabs at her shoulder, tries to twist around but DeBoer has a hold of her. She claws at him blindly, one of his sleeves rucking up and her fingernails raking along his skin to ignite a line of pain but he holds firm until she slumps in his arms. The phone drops from her hand and he lets her crash to the ground, ending up folded in half, her forehead and left shoulder in contact with the ground, hair cloaking her and her ass high in the air.

  DeBoer takes out his gun, edges up to the door. He listens but it’s all gone quiet inside. Stands on his tip-toes again but can no longer see the figure inside. He stands as far back as he can whilst still reaching the handle then opens the door, gun pointed at the opening.

  Nothing.

  No one.

  “Alright,” he says, stepping from side to side, trying to see into the darkness. “Come on out you little bitch.”

  Movement, then a hand, held up high, fingers spread, quickly followed by another in a gesture of surrender.

  DeBoer suddenly lunges at the punk and grabs her, pulling one arm up behind her back farther than is necessary to restrain her, smiling as she squeals in pain. He forces her towards the car, slamming her into it then throwing her into the back while she is still stunned. With his grip on her finally gone she spins around to face him.

  DeBoer lowers the gun just a little. “What the fuck? Who the hell are you?”

  A shaved head, yes. Skinny, yes. Wearing the same leggings and skull t-shirt as the punk. But not Katja. Not even female.

  “Please . . .” the boy says, holding out his hands, shuffling closer. His face is swollen and bloody, his lips crusted with dried blood.

  “Hey, hey!” DeBoer warns him, jabbing the pistol at him. “You just stay right the fuck where you are! I’m a detective, you understand?”

  “I don’t know what’s going on,” the man says, a globule of saliva dripping from his mouth. Still shuffling. “I was just . . . I mean . . . I don’t even . . .”

  And then before the detective knows what is happening the boy lashes out, kicking the gun from DeBoer’s hand and sending it skittering across the wet pavement. DeBoer turns and the boy leaps out, knocking DeBoer to one side before fleeing past him. The boy runs back up the alley, leaps over Lady Delicious’ still-prone form, collides with the wall and the van then is gone. DeBoer recovers his weapon and gives chase but he gets wedged in the small gap between alley and van. He tries to squeeze through, his raincoat snagging, eventually having to take it off to free himself but by then the boy is long gone.

  “Motherfucker,” DeBoer growls.

  He still isn’t sure what’s going on, whether the informant has set him up or not, but what he does know is when it is time to get the hell out of somewhere. He goes back around the other side of the van, stops by the driver’s door. Opens it. When he leans in his main intent is to hope the vehicle’s keys are there and either steal them or just take the van but those plans vanish at the sight of the bags lying in the footwell. Three of them. He reaches in and pulls one of them across.

  It’s stuffed with money.

  He grabs all of them, calculating how much might be inside. Twenty thousand at least—maybe thirty? Enough to cover his debts plus a little extra, and though maybe not as much as the punk might have brought him it’s certainly far less trouble.

  He snatches the bags then hurries back to the station wagon, deciding that Lady Delicious can keep her fucking van. He has what he needs—now all he has to do is clear what he owes before anyone realizes how he has been able to do so.

  27.

  Stasko flicks the headlights back on then rushes around to where the punk’s body lies, hoping that he’s hit her hard enough to floor her without doing any major damage.

  She groans, holding her leg. Rolls onto her back.

  “What the fuck is going on tonight?” she says.

  No. He says.

  The boy holds one hand up against the glare of the headlights to protect swollen and bruised eyes, injuries that look as if they were there prior to the impact of Stasko’s car.

  “You’re wearing her . . . her clothes,” Stasko says as the realisation hits.

  The man sits up before suddenly crying out in pain.

  Stasko grabs him, eliciting another yelp. Shakes him viciously. “Where’s Katja? What the fuck are you playing at?”

  “I don’t—I can’t—”

  Stasko shakes him harder to get some sense out of him. Slaps him across his already-battered face.

  “Where is she?!”

  “I don’t know who you’re talking about!” the boy protests, still clutching at his leg.

  “The girl! You’re wearing her clothes!”

  And the boy looks down, plucking at the t-shirt and leggings as if only noticing his clothing for the first time. He appears to be trying to figure out an answer to Stasko’s question. Then something clicks.

  “Nikolai’s friend?” the boy asks.

  Stasko stops shaking him. Nikolai. Bridget’s guinea pig.

  “Tell me where she is,” he asks, more softly this time.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Where can I find her?”

  “I don’t know!” the boy pleads, then his expression suddenly changes. He points over Stasko’s shoulder. “There.”

  Stasko looks where he is pointing, farther up the street. Sees nothing.

  “Don’t fuck with me. There’s no one there.”

  The boy shakes his head wearily. Jabs his finger again. “There,” he repeats.

  “I’ve told you already . . .”

  Stasko’s words drift when he looks again. He lets go of the T-shirt, of Katja’s T-shirt, and walks a few paces towards the brick wall which lines the street—towards the poster.

  It’s the same as the one he’d seen earlier that day, the image which instantly entranced him, except this one isn’t half-torn. It is intact, including the part that had been missing from the first copy—the part which announces the time and date of the band’s gig.

  The Wheatsheaf. 10:00 P.M. Tonight.

  Stasko checks his watch. 9:50.

  He rushes back to his car, leaving the boy where he is and ignoring his pleas for help. He throws it into reverse, spins it around, once again heading in the direction was going before spotting the figure stumbling around in the darkness, when he spots Bridget’s red Honda up ahead. He pulls up alongside her vehicle and she is momentarily panicked at the sudden arrival before she realizes who it is and winds down her window.

  She starts to speak but Stasko cuts her off.

  “I know where she is,” he tells her.

  28.

  Frank’s place, complete with a candy-cane pillar and framed portraits of long-dead models with their long-dead haircuts, is at the end of a block, separated from its neighbours by the shuttered remains of a liquor store.

  DeBoer ignores the glass front entrance and walks around the back to a heavier door complete with a barred window and pornographic graffiti, the same door which he had, only a few hours earlier, been thrown out of as if he were nothing more than another piece of trash.

  He knoc
ks on the door. Waits.

  Waits more.

  He shifts nervously, the scratches on his arm now itching.

  Maybe this isn’t such a good . . .

  The security plate behind the little barred window slides aside. A pair of eyes blink in the darkness.

  “Frank? It’s . . . it’s DeBoer. I have your money.”

  There’s a pause then the security plate slides back into place and a moment later the door is opened. Frank stands there in a dressing gown, bleary-eyed.

  “I’m sorry to wake you,” DeBoer says, “but I . . .”

  He holds up the bags of money. “I’m here to settle up.”

  Frank rubs at his eyes then steps aside to let DeBoer in. He closes the door and re-engages the lock.

  “Come on through,” Frank says, guiding DeBoer through the shop and into what appears to be a study.

  “So let’s see it.”

  DeBoer eagerly tips the cash onto the desk before them, pushing it into neat stacks.

  “It’s all there,” DeBoer assures him. He’d counted out the twenty thousand that he was due in the car and stuffed the rest into the remaining bag then hid it under the driver’s seat, already cycling through what to do with the excess. First on the list is another poker game though he’ll probably have to find somewhere else to play just in case Lady D, or some other snitch, figures out who took her money.

  Frank touches the piles with one finger as if sensing the quantity by feel alone.

  “So,” DeBoer says, “we’re all squared now?”

  Frank picks up one of the bills, holds it up to the light.

  “They’re genuine,” the detective insists, exaggerating offence. “You don’t seriously think I would—”

  “No,” Frank says. Then he stops, the bill still pinned between two fingers. “But it looks like whoever you got it from wasn’t giving it up lightly.”

  And he nods at the scratches on DeBoer’s forearm.

  29.

  When Lady D comes to, the anger hits her first but it is unconnected to anything for a short time. Fizzing and hot, it dances around her like an impatient child desperate for attention. Then it snaps into place.

  That pink-haired bitch Soelberg fucked her over.

  She grasps at the back of her neck and finds something still sticking in there, plucks it out. An empty syringe.

  Her head swims with whatever she had been injected with, muddying her thoughts and sight.

  She hauls herself to her feet, struggling in her heels to right herself and having to use the alley’s wall for support. She staggers around the back of the van, finds both of the rear doors wide open.

  And nobody inside.

  She thinks back, trying to get it all clear in her head. Watching the two women hurry away. Going to start the van, looking in the rear view mirror at the prone figure in the back. A tingling up her spine. Getting out and opening the rear door, splitting the spray-painted mouth wide. Climbing in and taking a closer look at Katja.

  Not Katja.

  Then a rage, calling each of the girls one by one to tell them what needs to be done, to find the nurse, and the punk, at any cost.

  And then what?

  She looks down at the syringe in the palm of her hand. Would Soelberg really have been stupid enough to have come back? She’d already gotten away, why risk the fight?

  And then another realisation hits.

  She rushes around to the driver’s side, almost colliding with sheet of glass laid up against a dumpster as she continues to fight through the mental murk. The door is slightly ajar and she already knows what she will find inside.

  The bags of money are gone. Her entire takings from that night—gone.

  She punches the vehicle. Catches a glimpse of herself in the sideview mirror.

  One side of her face is grazed and dirty. Her wig is a mess. The stolen dress is torn at the shoulder and one of her heels is damaged, hanging on by a thread. She snaps it off and throws it away.

  Whoever has taken the money is dead. It’s as simple as that. If it’s Soelberg then she will be dead twice over—but first she needs to get a new outfit.

  Lady D gets into the van, the druggy confusion respectfully fading enough to let her plan her revenge.

  30.

  Lady Delicious parks the van in its usual safe spot and walks the short distance home barefoot.

  A combination of adrenaline and the light rain which still falls has cleared her head somewhat but also makes her more acutely aware of the aches and pains now wracking her body. She goes inside and flicks on a light. She thinks of the shower which still awaits her and is tempted to just forget about her plans for revenge but instead opts for a bottle of vodka on the kitchen counter. She downs a mouthful, stinging the grazes on the side of her mouth as some of it dribbles out but she accepts the pain, lets it revive her further.

  She looks across at the guitar she’d taken from the punk earlier that day, leaning against the wall next to a potted cheese plant.

  Then, still groggy from the drug, she takes the vodka with her through to her bedroom and stares at herself in the full-length mirror mounted on one wall. Shakes her head in disgust.

  She opens her bag and takes out the syringe which had only minutes earlier been lodged in her neck.

  She has another swig of vodka then caps the bottle and throws it onto her bed. Peels off what remains of the dress and takes off her wig. She examines the hairpiece, brushes dirt from it, de-tangling it with two fingers before placing it onto one of several polystyrene dummy heads then pulls on a dressing gown. Notices that one of her false nails is broken.

  “Motherfucker,” she murmurs.

  She tilts her finger from side to side then looks closer. Close enough to see the scraped skin cells of her attacker buried beneath it.

  “Good,” she says. “I hope it fucking hurt.”

  She uses a cleanser to remove her makeup, stripping herself back even further, until there is nothing of Lady D left—at least not on the outside.

  And now it is another reflection staring back in the mirror.

  “Welcome back, Frank,” he says to himself. “But I’m afraid you won’t be here long.”

  He’s about to take another swig of vodka when there’s a knock at the door.

  31.

  So there’s DeBoer on the other side of the desk, the scratches on his arm still gleaming, still a little wet. Fresh.

  “They’re genuine,” he insists as Frank examines one of the bills. “You don’t seriously think I would . . .”

  “No,” Frank says. Then he stops, the bill still pinned between two fingers. “But it looks like whoever you got it from wasn’t giving it up lightly.”

  And he nods at the scratches on DeBoer’s forearm.

  The detective shrugs. “Nothing I can’t handle.”

  “Clearly,” Frank says.

  Then reaches into his dressing gown pocket and takes out the syringe. Lays it on the table before them, on top of the cash.

  DeBoer just stares at it, uncomprehending. Then he looks up and the colours drains from his face.

  He doesn’t say anything. He can’t say anything.

  Frank lets it all sink in a little further before sliding open the top drawer of his desk and reaching inside. DeBoer, still frowning, still desperately catching up on what exactly is going on, raises his hands before the gun is even out.

  “Oh shit, Frank, I didn’t . . . I mean . . .” His words disintegrate and he shakes his head. “It can’t . . . you can’t . . .”

  “You broke my nail,” Frank says.

  And shoots DeBoer.

  32.

  “What time is it?” Katja asks.

  They push their way through the crowds coming out of the small movie theatre they have been holed up in ever since splitting from Nikolai’s squat.

  “Coming on for ten,” he tells her
. “How far is it from here?”

  “Not far,” she says, quickening her pace. She feels more secure in the baggy clothes but at the same time ridiculous, not at all herself. She has the top zipped as far as it will go and the hood pulled up, her head dipped and her hands in her pockets. She walks as quickly as she dares to without drawing attention.

  Nikolai tries to keep up.

  “Are you sure you want to do this?”

  “Stop asking me that,” she says as they leave the crowds behind. “Look, I’m just going to get the gig done, get the money, pay your fucking debt then . . .”

  Then what?

  She isn’t thinking that far ahead.

  “It’s just up ahead,” she says, changing the subject.

  They cross the street, the traffic light but the rain now heavy, and hurry towards a building isolated from those around it by plastic barriers. Scaffolding climbs up the building’s walls like metallic vines, the brickwork charred, the posters which had once adorned it now burned and peeling and pasted over with warning signs.

  Outside is a small group of bikers, their rides parked on the street, and an even smaller group of teenage girls, designer stockings tattooing their skinny legs with spiderwebs and dizzying patterns. The girls pass a cigarette between one another, flirting with the bouncer, and neither they nor the bikers look up as Katja and Nikolai pass.

  “Hey.”

  They both freeze.

  “You two.”

  Katja turns to see the bouncer coming towards them.

  Nikolai leans in, whispers “What do we—”

  “Just shut up,” Katja whispers back. Then, to the bouncer, “Yeah?”

  “Hood down,” he says, his hands still firmly planted in his bomber jacket’s pockets, jaw working on a piece of chewing gum.

  Katja takes her hood down. The bouncer looks from her to the poster on the wall behind her, the one which is repeated all over the entrance.