by Vic Robbie
As the roads were quiet, Skarab’s drive to his private laboratory in the country was uneventful. Just as well as he was deep in thought, and he made good time. After leaving the main road, he drove along a narrow lane to an inconspicuous, concrete grey building with one door and a small shuttered window standing in almost an acre of rough land bordered by trees. Once asked what he planned for the building, he said he’d demolish it and build a family home, but that was the farthest thing from his mind.
The process he’d put in place on his previous visit had been successful. After double-checking and testing the sample, he decanted it before placing the sealed bottles in a refrigerated metal case which he put in his car. He then returned to the laboratory to pick up the specimen which he laid next to the case.
Again, he rang her phone and, getting no answer, checked her location on the scanner. An hour before she’d been in an area he recognised, and he’d convinced himself that it was innocent. But now there was no signal, and that was a problem. He must find her before she caused any damage.
Chapter Four
Bemused and frightened, Solo found even closing her eyes couldn’t erase her discovery as if the image was locked inside her head. Like an upturned beetle, Ottomon had struggled to get upright, but all she thought of was escaping from the malevolence inhabiting this place.
With shaking hands, it took several attempts to hit the elevator button and, as soon as she entered, a red light flashed followed by a deafening wail. Stepping out on the ground floor, the footsteps of many men running in her direction forced her to take cover behind a screen. Four of Ottomon’s men bundled into the empty elevator and, as the doors closed, one shouted into a radio, ‘She mustn’t leave the property. Use force if necessary.’
Frightened by the cacophony of alarms and flashing lights turning the walls red, the guests dropped their supercilious smiles as they clambered over each other to escape in a murmuration of panic. And the waiters ditched their trays of coloured drinks and fled through the French windows, the yellows, greens and reds, combining to create a work of abstract art on the lush carpets. In the melee, Ottomon’s security men attempted to bring order to the exodus, but their eyes were ever watchful as they searched for her.
She grabbed a man’s discarded jacket and put it over her head and flung an arm around a wizened old man, frogmarching him to the exit surrounded by other guests. As they approached the last line of security, she turned his head to hers and kissed him hard on the lips as if resuscitating him. He didn’t complain, but as they left the building, a brassy blonde reclaimed her meal ticket with a proprietorial arm.
Chauffeurs were finding their passengers and ushering them into the safety of their cars. And the starting of engines and a fanfare of horns drowning out the cries of alarm added to the pandemonium as they manoeuvred for an escape route.
As she approached, car doors slammed shut, and they sped off, and her only option was to flee down the sloping lawns to the main road where she might hitch a lift to safety. Her stilettos were not suitable attire for sprinting on grass, but she couldn’t stop to take them off. When she reached the roadside, the guests had left, and they switched off the alarms in the house. Now she heard men’s voices searching in the grounds. But why? She hadn’t hurt Ottomon.
Under cover of darkness, she almost felt safe, yet looking at the city lights, she felt so alone. Down there, she could disappear. Up here, she remained a target.
A car started up, and its headlights swung from side to side as it drove slowly down the drive. Ottomon’s men fanned out across the lawns, using flashlights in their search, and dogs were barking. Within seconds she would be a sitting duck.
She took off her stilettos and hitched her skirt above her knees, cursing that she wasn’t dressed for this eventuality. But when did you go to a party wearing running shoes? The still-hot asphalt burned her bare feet as she sprinted across the road.
As the car was almost upon her and would catch her in the next sweep of its headlamps, she dived headlong into the roadside foliage. But the slope was more severe than she reckoned, and, off-balance, she tumbled headfirst, hitting her shoulder on a grassy knoll that launched her airborne before landing on the base of her spine. Winded, she slithered to a stop against a tree.
The car halted, and two men got out, searched left and right, but their flashlights missed her.
‘Nothing here,’ one shouted, and they drove on down the hill.
Chapter Five
‘Don’t hurt me.’ The frightened voice as sharp as an ice pick rent the night air and echoed around the walls. ‘You mustn’t.’
An eyelid heavy as a rock opened, and a hand came up and rubbed it before exploring the rest of his face, and the skin was tender to the touch. It’s still obsidian night. Is this blindness? He rolled over and slipped back into sleep.
Face down, banging on a great glass disc, but it’s so thick there’s no noise. People below, but no one notices. Slipping towards the edge. Fingernails scraping, searching for purchase. But not falling, instead fluttering and spinning like a leaf in a breeze.
Another scream. ‘Please. No.’
Both eyes opened. It’s still dark. Headlock pushed himself up from the wet, hard ground and winced in pain. In the distance lights flickered like fireflies, and from the darkness came voices and sounds of struggle.
Unsteady, he dragged one foot in front of the other and had to rely on a rough brick wall for support. It was an alley, cool and damp and smelling of cats’ pee, and he peered into the darkness, making out a shape like a shroud. He opened his mouth, and only a garbled mumble fell out lubricated by blood and saliva.
What in hell am I doing here?
Memory returned in snapshots. Stumbling from the bar, pursued by a madwoman who’d poisoned him, and the dull thud of his head hitting the concrete. But how did he get here?
‘Stop!’ A woman’s voice, shrill with panic.
Now there were two shapes and, as he shuffled towards the apparitions, the grainy image of a man pinning a woman against the wall materialised. As a reflex action, years of training took over and without thinking he leapt, dragging the attacker off the woman and pulling him to the ground like a discarded overcoat. Her terrified eyes flashed at him, desperately trying to determine if he was friend or foe. Suddenly, she groaned as if all the air in her body was being squeezed out of her. And, as she buckled at the knees, he eased her into his arms.
A loud cracking sound coincided with a sickening blow, and it was as if his head had split in two. Several times in the ring, an opponent had hit him with a metal chair, but this was different. Pain flooded in, and he collapsed, pulling the woman on top of him. The dream of lying on a glass disc returned briefly, but it faded as he sank.
Two orbs of light were approaching like the headlamps of a fast-moving car. Were they a dream? The throbbing pain in his head confirmed they were real. Two eyes full of concern searched his face, and their owner babbled, each word chasing the next, ‘If you hadn’t intervened, he’d have killed me.’
He put a hand on her arm to convince himself she was real, skin and bone, and groaned as the movement made the pain flare up, making her recoil. And he touched the source to feel a wetness on the back of his head.
‘You okay?’ She moved closer, smelling of something you didn’t get in alleys. ‘You’re bleeding.’
He wondered aloud if brains could be as sticky as this, but she didn’t understand.
‘Will go to Bernard’s and get help,’ she offered.
‘There’s no need.’ He waved a hand with bravado and immediately regretted the movement as she helped him upright and was almost pulled over.
Propped up against a wall, he tried to take stock of his surroundings. This was the alley near Barney’s Bar, but all he recalled was escaping to the parking lot. Everything after that was a blank.
‘Never mind me,’ he said. ‘Are you hurt?’ He groped at one of the double images, but she backed away in alarm.
&nbs
p; ‘No, I’m okay,’ she stuttered.
‘Did he hit you?’
‘Didn’t get the chance.’ Her voice was as gritty as gravel. ‘Made of tougher stuff. Not sure about you. You look rotten.’
‘It’s not a promising start to our first date.’ The attempt at flippancy missed the mark, and blood or brains dripped down the back of his neck.
Agitated, she averted her eyes as if wishing she was somewhere else. ‘A few Qs will get you back on your feet.’
‘A beer would be better.’ He followed her gaze around the alley.
‘My purse,’ she cried, ‘can’t find it.’
‘If he was a mugger, he’s probably made off with it.’
‘Wasn’t. Was after something else.’
‘You must have dropped it around here,’ he said and warned her as she moved rubbish with her foot. ‘Junkies might have left needles and other crap.’
She flashed him a quizzical look.
‘Pity the light’s bad. Are you sure you had it with you?’
She didn’t answer, moving farther along the alley. ‘Was first attacked down here.’
Why was a woman dressed smartly and wearing stilettos wandering about in a dark alley at night?
‘Was headed for the restaurant,’ she explained as if reading his thoughts and nodded towards Barney’s. ‘This is a safe zone. Heard something and came in to investigate.’
‘You’re brave or stupid or both.’
Something on the ground almost tripped him. He knelt in the wet and explored around, and his hands closed on an object. Holding a silver purse above his head, he rose to his feet not realising the clasp had broken and several objects scattered on the ground.
‘Shit.’ She dropped to her knees, searching for the items and found a leather pouch and checked its contents before slipping it into the bag.
He dragged a foot to make sure nothing else was there and turned, seeing her white face contorting, and she was trembling.
‘What’s wrong?’
She didn’t answer, just stared past him.
‘What is it?’
He followed her pointing forefinger and, not expecting it, didn’t identify the object at first.
‘A child.’ Her voice laced with bewilderment. ‘What’s she doing here?’
Like a broken doll discarded on a rubbish tip, the girl’s body lay in a corner and was an unreal colour as if made of alabaster.
‘Never seen a dead person.’ The words stuttered out between sobs, and her face was almost as white as the corpse.
‘We must call the cops.’ He tested for a pulse and shook his head. ‘Give me your phone.’
‘Sure.’ She scrambled in her bag and handed it over.
At first, it wouldn’t activate. The phone was different, but he no longer used them, and they were being upgraded all the time. With a phone, it was too easy to find you. ‘How do you operate this thing?’
Within seconds of taking it from him, it lit up then her shoulders slumped. ‘No signal.’
‘Here, let me try.’ But he couldn’t get it to even light up and slipped it into his pocket.
At Barney’s, they could call the cops and get a drink, and he reckoned they needed it. As they left the alley, he glanced back at the body, hardly distinguishable now, and felt guilty for deserting her. And it reminded him of his daughter.
Being drugged, a blow to the head and the discovery of the dead girl was a heady cocktail and his mind swirled as he stumbled into the bar. Barney, bottle in hand, paused, mouth open in surprise. ‘What in Christ’s name happened to you, Headlock?’ He put down the bottle and came around the bar, ushering him to the nearest seat. ‘You’re bleeding like a stuck pig. Thought you’d given up the wrestling game. Let me get you a cab to the hospital.’
‘The only transfusion I need is a beer,’ he growled. ‘And call the cops. There’s the body of a kid in the alley.’
Chapter Six
Feeling like a refugee, Solo had intended meeting an old friend at Bernard’s restaurant who could advise her on what to do next. Instead of her friend, she was with a man, so dishevelled he might be a tramp. She was confused. In the last couple of hours, her life had taken a downturn. Being chased out of Ottomon’s house and attacked and finding a dead girl in an alley had given her a new perspective on life.
Restaurants came and went subject to fashion and trends, but Bernard’s had been a constant in her life since arriving in the city. People came here to be recognised, and Bernard’s never let you down. But she couldn’t hide the disdainful surprise in her voice as she entered with the man who’d possibly saved her life. ‘This place has sure gone downhill fast.’
‘Why?’ he grunted, distracted as he reached for the first beer.
‘They’ve changed the decor and not for the better. That’s one way to lose customers, quick.’ She pointed at the maritime display. ‘And where’s the pianist with the baby grand?’
He glanced at the Spanish galleon as if wondering what she was talking about and not really caring
‘Young guy. Pity, he was cool. Played everything by ear, you know.’
‘Sounds painful.’
He laughed at his joke, but she screwed up her eyes. ‘Don’t take this the wrong way. I’m grateful to you and all that for rescuing me in the alley, but was it the bang on your head or are you just weird?’
Ignoring that, he offered a hand, and she took off her glove. ‘The name’s Hartington.’
‘That’s a weird name.’
He laughed. ‘And yours?’
‘Blue.’
There was a fleeting touch before she pulled her hand away and put the glove back on.
‘Blue?’ he asked and chuckled.
She didn’t answer.
‘Blue what?’ he repeated; an eyebrow raised.
‘My name is Solo Blue.’
‘Now, that’s what I call… unusual.’
She noticed him studying her stained and crumpled outfit. A deep indigo blue pencil skirt, mid-calf length with a split at the back that caused her to wiggle as she walked. A white silk blouse and over that a tailored jacket matching the colour of the skirt.
Uncomfortable with his stare, she sniffed, ‘And yours?’
‘Already told you, Hartington.’
‘Must have a first name, it’s the law. Bernard called you Headlock. Is that it, or is he just talking out of his wazoo?’ She pulled a funny expression.
‘Hartington will do for the moment.’
She sighed; she’d met men like him before who believed the less they said, the more mysterious they appeared when really they were just dull. Although not with shoulder-length hair, that was different. ‘Okay, Headlock, as you wish.’
Opening her purse, she extricated a yellow vial from a lizard-skin pouch and flicked back the lid. She held it to a nostril and inhaled, her eyes disappearing into the back of her head as a satiated smile crept over her face. ‘Overdosed already tonight,’ she confessed, ‘but these are exceptional circumstances. Care for some?’
‘No thanks, had enough poison for one night.’
Barely suppressing a guffaw, she suddenly shouted, ‘Cast an eyeball at those jokers.’
He swivelled in the chair, following the direction of her gaze. The cops had arrived. The city’s finest, they said. God knows what the worst were like. The bigger one, a sergeant, whose girth was greater than his height, had tufts of red hair peeking out from under a cap. His partner was almost half the size, exaggerated by the paraphernalia around his waist, and had a narrow head.
Why are they wearing blue instead of the usual green? Solo wondered.
Headlock led them out to where the girl’s body lay, and they knelt making a cursory inspection of the corpse using their flashlights. The sergeant sighed and stood up. ‘Yep, dead all right.’ He glanced at his colleague, who nodded in confirmation.
‘What were you doing in the alley?’ The sergeant didn’t try to conceal his suspicion.
‘Had just come out o
f the bar.’ He jerked a thumb behind him. ‘Heard strange noises so investigated.’
The cops looked at each other. ‘Anyone else in the alley?’
‘Yep,’ he said, touching the back of his head and wincing.
‘Did you get a good look at them?’
He shook his head. ‘Hit me with an iron bar.’
‘Better get that looked at,’ the smaller cop said without compassion, ‘otherwise, you might lose what’s left of your brains.’
The sergeant was doubtful and glanced at his watch, thinking of unfinished business. ‘Touch anything?’
‘No, apart from checking if she were dead.’
‘That’s touching,’ the sergeant growled. ‘Touch anything else?’
‘It was obvious she was dead. You don’t look like that if you’re breathing.’
‘Since when did you become an expert in dead bodies?’ The sergeant yawned and turned to his colleague. It was too late to be starting anything now. ‘Get forensics out. Homicide will want to hear about this.’ The cop waddled over and circled around him, so he had to turn away from the body. ‘Let’s see your ID.’
The sergeant shone a light on Headlock’s driver’s licence, and there was a sharp intake of breath as he called over his partner. Together they studied it, and both raised their heads at the same time to peer at him.
‘The boss will love this.’ The sergeant struggled to keep the delight out of his voice. ‘Okay, Headlock, you’re coming with us.’
A wave of anger surfacing, he stepped back. ‘It was an accident. I wasn’t guilty of anything.’
‘That may be the case,’ the sergeant said, placing a meaty hand on his shoulder, ‘we’re just doing our job.’
No one spoke on the short journey to police headquarters, and the unintelligible messages on the car radio filled the space while she stared out of a window. An overwhelming stench of gasoline pervaded the car and made her gag, and she attempted to open the window, but it was locked.
