by Rae Shaw
The couple – a leather-clad man with oily hair combed back into a long tail and a skeletal woman – barged into the room and blocked the exit. The door slammed shut behind them.
Ellen stumbled backwards, and collided with the end of the bed. Where the hell was Freddie?
28
Julianna
Dublin was freezing. They dashed across the tarmac to the covered reception area, completed the formalities with a sleepy-eyed official, then stepped out into the darkness.
‘Come on,’ Julianna said. ‘Moran has arranged for a driver and car.’
It was nearly midnight. Mark staggered on his tired legs. Julianna chivvied, plucking at his sleeve. ‘There! There's a man with my name on a board.’ She waved at the driver.
The man recognised the name of the hostel. ‘Not the sort of place a tourist should go to,’ he said. ‘It’s a piss hole.’
Julianna asked him to pick up speed. Mark’s complexion was a shade short of puce. He was a good bedfellow, but not a reliable sidekick. Not yet, anyway. She fancied teaching him a few things about nerves and pressure, like breathing, keeping it steady and under control. It wasn’t fair to criticise him. Anxiety lurked in the raked pit of her stomach, fed by necessary adrenaline, which sharpened her senses, honing them ready. Not so for Mark, who seemed to be battling something more debilitating than the cold. He had closed his dark haloed eyes and pressed his quivering lips together. What would he say to Ellen when they found her? He should definitely apologise. And listen to her; a lesson both siblings needed to learn in order to heal the rift between them. Jackson clearly thought it was beyond them.
The driver was prattling. ‘Doxies use it,’ he said with too much relish.
‘What about students?’ Julianna asked.
‘Out here? Tis a long way from the colleges. You do know what a doxie is?’
‘Yes,’ she said, despondently.
Mark lowered the window and blasted the interior with icy wind. Drawing the lapels of the leather jacket up higher, she waited for him to realise his mistake. Goose bumps formed on the back of her neck and her muscles stiffened. Whatever Mark needed to feel, it wasn’t helping her prepare. She cracked her knuckle joints, leaned across him and closed the window. He stared for a moment at her, then looked away.
No one spoke until they arrived at the hostel on the outskirts of Dublin. Mark wrinkled his nose at the neon lit sign. ‘This isn't a hostel. It's more like a hotel.’
‘Pay by the hour,’ the driver said. ‘It hasn't changed much in years. Garda ignore it unless there's trouble, so it keeps itself unappealing. That's its beauty.’ He laughed. ‘I guess your friend isn’t familiar with the area. She shouldn't be here on her own.’
‘Can you wait?’ she asked the man.
The driver drummed his fingers on the wheel and peered at the dim street, the garish “Vacancies” in the hotel window. ‘You know you’re dealing with shite coming here. There are better places. Ireland isn’t—’
‘I know,’ she said; every city had its rough spots. ‘Please, just wait ten minutes or so. We’re trying to help her.’
He shrugged. ‘Ten minutes.’
Julianna wasn’t optimistic.
The pencil thin man behind the reception desk lacked a name tag. The loose shirt, unbuttoned at the top, was creased in the wrong places. Two dopey eyes with their half-drawn eyelids peeped out from under a mop of greasy hair. He stank of tobacco, and something sweet, almost musty.
He picked up the registration log, placed it on the desk before them and rattled off the rates. Mark blanched; she thought he might keel over.
‘She can't be here,’ she whispered to Mark. ‘I mean, why would Zustaller ask her to come here when it's so obviously the wrong kind of place. She'd walk out, wouldn't she?’
How gullible was Ellen? She’d lived in London for a year, grown up on a rough estate, she wasn't daft. How Redningsmann, or Zustaller as Ellen knew him, had contacted her was unknown. It was in Opportunitas’ interest to close down those conduits, which explained Jackson’s ongoing interest. However, what drove Ellen to come to Ireland was more about what she was leaving behind; it was about escaping her past and hoping for a better future. Two powerful motives that might blinker her common sense.
Mark drew himself upright, making use of his six feet. ‘I’m here to find somebody.’ He shoved his face right up to the other man's nose. ‘Are you going to help or not?’ Mark finally understood the urgency.
The receptionist slowly scratched his chin, unperturbed by Mark's rudeness. ‘It's late. Anybody in particular?’ He lit a cigarette, blatantly defying the no smoking sign behind the desk.
‘Yes, Ellen, her name is Ellen Clewer… I mean, Devera.’
The receptionist scanned down the list of names. ‘Yep, arrived and checked in. Gone out again with a red-head, swinging happily on his arm.’
‘Gone!’ Mark's knees buckled.
~ * ~
Her mouth was sealed shut, blocking her screams. The screams that nobody in the building would bother to investigate, nor would they care about the bangs and shouts. Ellen was in exactly the right place for lassitude and disinterest. The man pinioned her head between his hands while the woman taped Ellen’s eyes, sticking her eyelashes together. Pain spiked in her jaw; the tape refused to split open.
Had Freddie really patiently cultivated her friendship and trust for three years for this day? It didn’t make sense – why her when there were more vulnerable girls to be tricked: a whole hotel full of potential victims? Freddie wasn’t behind this nightmare. It had to be an opportunistic snatch. Perhaps she had been spotted entering the hostel alone. The man on the desk with the rabid breath had eyed her, noting her accent with a wry smile. ‘We love the Brits here,’ he had said, and winked.
What a fool she was. How stupid and naive. Deidre was right; she had led a charmed life, barricaded in her bedroom, refusing to deal with the outside world.
Leaving her trussed up on the bed, they ransacked the room. Her presence thrilled them. She heard things through her frantic breathing and thunderous heartbeats: her bag was unzipped, and the contents scattered.
The woman laughed.
The man snapped his fingers, impatiently. ‘We only need her passport.’ There was no trace of an Irish accent.
~ * ~
‘British girl?’ The lanky receptionist rested his elbow on the ledger. The nonchalance was infuriating.
‘Yes. You're sure she's gone?’ Julianna leaned over the counter, rustled up an unblinking stare from her copper’s armoury and used it to pin him down.
‘Blonde thing with humongous tits.’ He cupped a pair of imaginary breasts. ‘Works up the street.’
‘No, that’s not her,’ Mark said. ‘Brown hair and eyes. Slender build.’
‘Oh her. Yep, still upstairs. Popular she is tonight. You’re the second couple to want to see her. So she likes couples.’ He chuckled, and winked.
She grabbed his collar. ‘Which room?’ He weighed nothing. She lifted him up onto his toes and he squirmed satisfyingly, like a worm on a hook.
‘Twenty-two,’ he gasped. ‘Second floor. What’s the rush? She couldn’t have finished with the first lot yet.’ She dropped him, and stepped between the counter and Mark, who was charging forward with a raised fist.
‘No, Mark,’ she said. She snatched his flying arm and spun him around on his toes. ‘He’s just the gatekeeper, he’s not got a clue. We’re wasting time here.’
She bounded up the stairs two at time, slipping on an uneven step near the top before recovering her balance. Mark followed, calling for his sister in a desperate tone.
Twenty-two was locked. Mark rattled the door handle and pounded on the door. ‘Ellen, open the door. For God’s sake, it’s me.’
Julianna pressed her ear to the door: muffled voices and scampering. She inspected the rusty lock and hinges – the top one was loose.
‘You realise I will probably break my leg doing this.’ She moved away f
rom the door. ‘Step back, Mark.’ Being a black belt in karate had to mean something on a day like this.
She raised her heel and unfurled as much power as she could muster, channelling the energy with a focused kick and landing the flat of her booted foot by the weak hinge. It rattled and the wood splintered, but the door remained steadfastly shut. She repeated the process twice more until, with her strength nearly spent, the door flew open and ended up hanging off the last hinge.
Mark was frozen for a second, unable to move. Julianna barrelled past him. There were towels scattered on the bathroom floor; signs of a struggle. She raced into the heart of the room. The girl on the bed, who was much smaller than Julianna had anticipated, was curled up, lying very still and possibly unconscious. She was bound with duct tape around her wrists and ankles. Her mouth was covered and her eyes too. On the bedside table was a bottle of clear liquid. Standing over Ellen with a syringe close to her arm was a man, and next to him, a wan-faced nymph with scabby cheeks.
‘Don’t come any closer.’ His black hair was tied back into a mangled ponytail. A white scar ringed his neck and each of his cheeks was pitted with tiny craters surrounded by wiry whiskers. It was a face she would never forget. The woman tottered on her heels and spoke to the man in a foreign language.
Julianna preferred not to fight; she was bone weary and unsure what she might unleash in her fractious state. But Moran had said no police, no other agencies who might complicate the extraction. ‘Get out,’ she said, foisting vehemence into her voice.
‘Or else.’ The man laughed. The syringe dripped its contents on to the bed. He edged towards Ellen’s exposed arm. ‘Stay back.’
‘You heard her, get off,’ Mark said, his hands balled fruitlessly at his side. Mark had no clue how to punch.
The petite woman backed into the corner of the room and cowered. Julianna bit the bullet and launched herself at the man, knocking him away from Ellen. With her fists and feet flying, she jabbed and stabbed, blow after blow. He attempted to feint and box with her, but her martial art techniques were quicker and smoother. If this man represented everything she loathed and hated, then he was her new punch bag. The tactic worked. While Mark protected Ellen with his body, Julianna unleashed her version of hell, one not even her father would recognise, certainly not her mother who preferred yoga. What brought Julianna to this moment had nothing to do with her upbringing, nor was it about photos stuck to parched leather; she struck the flailing stranger because she enjoyed giving some payback, even somebody else’s.
She pinned him to the floor by her straddling thighs, and he twisted beneath her, bucking with his hips. Her tempered fists were losing their impact, so she battered his head against the bottom bed post until he lost consciousness. Gasping for breath, Julianna shot the diminutive accomplice an angry glare and the woman bolted through the broken doorway. It was the fleeing woman’s terrified expression and Mark’s pleas, ‘You’re killing him,’ that successfully countered Julianna’s blows. She stopped, suddenly aware of her bloody knuckles, the soft unresponsive body underneath her knees, the morass of congealed features that once was an ugly face, now even more so. She slid off him onto the floor, leaving him prone, and shifted her attention to the bed.
Were they too late? Was Ellen sufficiently incapacitated she might need medical help? Mark touched Ellen’s cheek and the girl flinched.
‘It’s me, Ellie. You’re safe.’ Mark picked at the tape over her eyes, peeling it off.
Ellen blinked in the light. Her tears formed shallow pools that spilled over onto her alabaster cheeks.
‘Mark.’ Julianna staggered to the side of the bed. ‘We need to be quick. We’ve got an unconscious man, a broken door, and drugs to explain. Let’s get moving.’ The adrenaline high smothered the familiar pain in her unclenched fists. She would worry about the consequences later.
‘Sorry, luv, going to have to tear these off quickly.’ He ripped the duct tape away and Ellen winced.
‘Mark.’ She shook violently, and stirred from the nest of his arms, as if awakening from a bad dream. ‘I thought I’d come to the wrong place—’
Julianna, gently re-establishing some sense of normality, took Ellen’s elbow, and steadied her. ‘Can you walk?’
Ellen nodded. Julianna crouched by the man. She listened to his shallow breaths, observed, with unpleasant satisfaction, the bubbles of blood dribbling out of his swollen mouth and judged him thoroughly incapacitated. She had done this. She had never beaten a person unconscious; it was easier to do than she imagined. She rifled through the pockets of the man’s coat and retrieved Ellen's passport. They collected up the rest of her scattered belongings and stuffed them back into the suitcase.
Mark guided the wobbly Ellen down the stairs. Confused and disorientated, possibly concussed, she required support. Julianna wheeled the cumbersome luggage behind them. Other than a few doors opening then quickly shutting, nobody disturbed their retreat.
‘Did they inject you?’ Mark asked Ellen.
She rubbed her arm. ‘No. I don’t think so.’
‘That was quick.’ The skinny man on the reception desk grinned. Julianna strode past the counter. ‘Hey, what about my cut? You bitch!’
To her surprise, the taxi driver had waited. He waved, grinning briefly before realising something wasn’t right; Julianna pulled down the sleeve of the conveniently oversized jacket and hid her hands. Bundling Ellen into the back, Julianna gave a destination near the airport.
‘Right, I’ll avoid the Garda then, should I?’ He pressed his foot down without waiting for an answer. Wisely, he said nothing further for the rest of the journey.
‘We’re going to stay the night in a hotel, then fly back early tomorrow,’ Julianna said to Ellen. The company helicopter was scheduled to return at seven in the morning with or without them, after which they had to rely on commercial flights.
Ellen nestled in Mark's arm and he stroked her hair. While her pitted eyes were shut, his were watery and unfocused. His actions were mechanical and unlike the way he soothed Julianna. Naturally, physical affection toward his sister was different. But, still, she thought, he could try to offer Ellen the kind of comfort that came from the heart.
Julianna gave the driver a generous tip. He nodded, wryly. ‘Better place.’
The hotel was standard airport fare, no luxuries but functional and clean, and compared to the hostel, it was palatial in its plainness. They were assigned two adjoining rooms, one with a double, the other a twin – she and Mark would not sleep together. Ellen flopped onto the double and instantly fell asleep.
Still riding the high of the fist fight, Juliana ordered food via room service for her grumbling stomach. While Mark fretted about Ellen, there were other things to do and with a deep breath, she dialled a number on her mobile. As expected, Jackson was awake too.
‘We’ve got her. She seems to be in shock. I don’t think she’s been drugged.’ Julianna paused to listen to his instructions. ‘No, I don’t think she needs a doctor. She's asleep. I had to take somebody down. A couple had come for her. They spoke something Slavic.’ She glanced over to Mark. ‘She’s traumatised. Confused. Mark is obviously upset.’
‘He should be. Remember to bring her here.’ Jackson's distant voice crackled. If he was relieved, it was difficult to tell. She hoped he was. He had better be. She had nearly beat a man to death and needed her boss’s support. There was a mess to clean up.
‘Very good, sir. Tomorrow morning.’
She hung up.
‘What did he say?’ Mark asked.
‘That we should come back on the chopper and bring her to him. He’ll look after her. I mean, Opportunitas will.’ Jackson was adamant that Ellen and Mark needed to work out their own issues before resolving their fractured relationship.
Mark peered around the door into the other room and checked on his sleeping sister. Satisfied, he returned and dissected a sandwich; the only meal on offer at that time of night.
‘She didn’t as
k who you were,’ he said.
‘She will in the morning. In the morning, she’ll want to know why we came. How we knew.’
Mark shut his eyes and put the half-eaten sandwich down on the table. Later, they lay on separate beds, the adjoining door wide open. Eventually exhaustion defeated Julianna, and she slept fitfully, troubled by dreams of the man with the ponytail – was he Freddie? Sadly, she doubted it; ponytail man was too young and from what Jackson had told her, the Deliverer kept a distance from his operations. It meant he was still in control and would be angrier than ever.
29
Julianna
SATURDAY MORNING
Ellen remained in a state of shock throughout the flight to London. The stupor of fatigue kept her in a docile and convenient state for the journey home, and Julianna had a chance to evaluate Mark's sister. Petite, slender build, a hint of olive skin and walnut hair that bobbed around her neck as she moved. If there was a similarity to Mark it wasn't the tone of her skin or the colour of her eyes but the fullness of her lips and height of her cheekbones. A beautiful child in the body of an adult. Why wonder Zustaller coveted her.
As the grey dawn light seeped through the windows of the chopper, Ellen broke her self-imposed silence and started to ask questions. Awkward ones.
‘I know it seems rude to ask now, but who are you?’
Julianna had been expecting that particular one for some hours and it was a measure of Ellen's trauma that it had taken so long to ask.
Stick to facts. ‘Julianna Baptiste. I work for the same company as Mark. I’m one of Mr Haynes’s investigators. This is a company helicopter.’ She shot a glance at Mark, encouraging him to participate. He coughed nervously and looked away.
‘Mr Haynes.’ Ellen's eyebrows lowered into a thick line that met above the bridge of her nose. She fingered the leather upholstery. ‘Why would he send a helicopter for me?’