Betrayed

by Jake Cross

  And to thank: a fragment of tooth turned into a missile when it broke away. Hit the guy in the cheek, it seemed. Nate hadn’t noticed.

  Nate glared hard at her, and she looked right back up. He wanted to crush her face with his foot. Her way presiding, Saturn Printworks would have been the final resting place of one Nathan Barke. But he lifted his foot and stepped back, turned away and stared at the ground just beyond the mezzanine. Signs of vicious movement in the dust.

  ‘This is where you should still be, asshole,’ she hissed at his back. ‘Dead and rotting. We won’t make the same mistake next time.’

  He didn’t look round. ‘You’re going in the water and never coming out,’ he said back, softly, still staring at the disturbed dust.

  Dragged again. Wet and hurt, and dumped next to the plastic. He watched the van reverse towards him. He was uncuffed and stripped, and cuffed again, and thrown into the van. Words, threats, each designed to sting, to instil fear. The doors slammed. He welcomed the darkness. Despite the pain, despite the threat of doom, some part of his brain still associated the dark with a time to rest, sleep. So, amazingly, unbelievably, he slept.

  And woke. The van was moving. He saw two heads up front. Heard a voice.

  ‘–on his doorstep.’

  That was the woman. And the man laughed. Another great idea from this pair, then. They were going to dump his body close to home.

  ‘You still got the saw in the back?’

  Man: ‘Yup. Exactly why I brought it.’

  ‘His back garden, eh? So, the police will be walking right on top of him without knowing it.’

  Her again. Nate had assumed she was a sidekick, but no. No, no, no. This girl had taken charge. All the pain and anguish, all the torture, all down to her. Angry, he turned to her again. He realised she was in the same pool. Pool on the right, where they’d dumped him. Fitting. If only he had a weapon to raise over his head like a sportsman’s tro–

  In an instant, one arm came free, no longer locked behind her, and her hand smashed into the side of his knee. He buckled with a yelp, tried to step back, but that leg didn’t hold his weight and he crashed onto his ass. She was up in a second, on her knees, driving that hand again towards him, the target this time his head.

  He took the blow and fell back, and in a nanosecond she was over him, holding his hair, and holding something close to his eyes. He recognised the pliers. Same pair that had splintered his teeth. He saw her own teeth as she grinned. The pliers had been in the pool. Pool on the right. Used to cut the cable tie. He had been fooled.

  ‘I told you, didn’t I?’ she said.

  She twisted his head so he was staring into the murky water. Hello again, old friend.

  ‘This time there’s no escaping.’ She cracked him again with the pliers. Everything spun. Just before he went out – again – he felt the cold water snatch him in an old friend’s embrace.

  Back.

  He woke with a heavy something on his chest and side of his face. It took a few seconds for him to realise that he was the weight itself. He lay on the floor, face and chest, hips on a girder, legs hanging in the cold water. Twenty feet away, the girl was sitting on the plastic chair, facing him. Just sitting there, slouched, and he would have thought she was dead if not for the eyes, which were wide and staring, although glazed, maybe seeing nothing. This had to be another dream.

  Something bumped his legs as he moved them to try to haul himself from the water. He turned his head.

  There was a body in there with him, floating on its back, dead eyes staring up, sliced throat gaping wide and filled with scummy black water. Nate would have scrambled away like a terrified cat if he’d had the strength. Instead, he just stared.

  Damar.

  Whoever had killed him must have weighted down the body, and it had shifted loose when Nate went in the pool. For the second time.

  Finally he got the strength to crawl out. He watched the girl, sure that she would launch herself at him in one final, lethal assault, but it never happened. As he rose to his feet, she didn’t move. As he walked towards her, dripping wet, limping because of his bad knee and staggering because of his dizzy head, she didn’t move. He fell to his knees off to one side of her, ten feet away. In this condition, he could not run and could not stop her killing him if she so chose, so why not just kneel here a few feet away and get his bearings back?

  She still had the pliers. He watched her twisting away pieces of glue from her hand. Spit had dribbled out of her mouth and hung from her chin. Water still dripped from her and onto the plastic.

  Strangely, he felt sorry for her. Maybe that was purely because at the minute he was feeling the same pain of loss, or maybe it was something else. A portion of attraction, undeniable between men and women sometimes, despite the negativity of their history? A desire to seek the company of someone, even someone who had tried to kill him, during this dark period of his life? Maybe it was simply because she had finally had her best chance so far to end him, and hadn’t seized it. Whatever. It was what it was.

  ‘Who was he to you?’ he said.

  Her look was one of shock. Maybe she had expected him to kill her, and she didn’t care, or might even welcome it. Maybe she had waited here for it and was confused by his hesitance.

  ‘Just a friend,’ she said. ‘But he took care of me. I was supposed to do the same for him. You need to go. They might be back.’

  ‘Then so should you.’

  ‘It’s not me they’re after.’

  He looked back at Damar, and she saw him do it. ‘You sure?’ he said.

  She didn’t respond.

  ‘Why didn’t you kill me?’

  Now her look was one of anger. ‘They want you dead. I’m not giving them what they want.’

  Of course. They had killed her partner, so she was hardly their best friend or loyal employee any more.

  He said, ‘Then we should both go. They might come back here and kill us both.’

  She didn’t speak. Just played with the pliers and the glue.

  ‘How many of them are there?’ he asked. The question grated on him. He knew he was using her weakened state of mind to get what he could from her. But he owed her nothing, and himself everything.

  ‘I don’t know. Damar had all the information. I only heard one name from him. Lazar.’

  ‘A guy on a bike?’ He was thinking of Blondie. She nodded. ‘Is he the boss?’

  ‘Me and Damar were low-end. Top dogs have buffers between them and the scum.’

  ‘So this Lazar was a buffer? There’s people higher up we need to get to?’

  Another look, but this time suspicion. ‘We?’

  It took that word, ‘we’, for him to fully realise what he’d just announced. A partnership. More than siding with someone who had tried to kill him, he hated the idea of continuing alone. He needed this woman’s help. Her brain to work things out, her memory to help him navigate clues. Even her damned arms to help lift things. Every bit of her. Right now he could count his friends on the fingers of his third arm, and beggars couldn’t be choosers.

  He tried to convince her with: ‘Do you want to let them get away with Damar’s murder?’

  ‘They killed him because of you.’

  That struck like a hammer. ‘Because I had the gall to try to escape a violent death? You chose to hook up with these people.’

  She didn’t respond to that.

  ‘You need me if you want to get back at them. And I need you. We can help each other. Or go it alone and start getting in each other’s way.’

  She seemed to think for a moment – or was spaced-out still. ‘You’ve got the police after you. Your movements are restricted. Mine aren’t. I don’t need you.’

  Not exactly a refusal. ‘Yet you let me live, and I don’t think it’s just because I’m your enemy’s enemy. You know it makes sense. Admit you need me and this will go smoother for both of us.’

  She couldn’t meet his eyes. Wouldn’t. ‘This changes nothing b
etween us.’

  And just like that she was in. But not because he had convinced her with a good argument, or because she refused to help her new enemy achieve their plans. She needed his help. She just had a problem with admitting it.

  He said, ‘Right, then we do this together.’

  ‘And what can you bring to this party?’

  Good point. He had no money, no contacts, no information, no superpowers. For two seconds he just stood there, and that was all the time she needed to get her answer.

  ‘I am not your helper, understand? You are mine. We do things my way.’

  ‘No,’ he said, almost snapped. ‘You’re forgetting that I’m the guy at the centre of this damn thing. I’m the important one. We do it my way or we go separate ways. I don’t care.’

  There was defiance on her face, which gave him the impression that she wasn’t someone who was used to being bossed about. Or she was finding it hard not to respond with rage and violence. Certainly violence was a normal way of life for her. But the defiance subsided. He took that as an agreement.

  ‘Then let’s go,’ he said, making for the door. Halfway, he heard her chair scrape as she got up. But when he got to the door, she wasn’t behind him.

  She was under the mezzanine. He watched as she dragged Damar out, using just her good arm, and used her own sleeve to clean his face, then zipped up his jacket so it covered his ragged throat. And kissed his forehead, and spoke to him. And then she let him slip into the water like a ship and pushed down on his head, and he sank and stayed submerged. Only then did she come towards Nate.

  From the rage on her face, he was glad she was now on his side. Sort of. For now.

  They walked to the van in silence, the girl lagging behind slightly. Nothing sexist about it. Just caution. With his back to her, she would have more time for a defensive move if he suddenly attacked. He knew that. He understood that. But he also knew that he was exposed with his back to her, so he kept his head turned, watching her more than the way ahead. Stalemate.

  They got to the van without one of them dying.

  She took the passenger seat. No sexism there, either. He would be unlikely to attack if he had to drive. He knew that. He understood that. But he also knew she wouldn’t risk attacking him if he had control of a speeding vehicle. Stalemate.

  They sat in silence. He watched her out of the corner of his eye. He knew she was doing the same. It was all very awkward, but understandable: they had been mortal enemies just minutes ago.

  Are we still? he wondered. She had not asked him why he had been targeted, and he did not like that. She should have. People wanted him dead, and those people had killed her best friend, and it would be logical for her to assume that Nate knew them, or of them, or at least had some idea of why a bullseye was on his back.

  So why hadn’t she asked what he knew? Did she know more than she was letting on? He had to stamp down a blooming fear that she was playing him in some way, dead friend or not.

  ‘Nate,’ he said, holding out his hand. A test. They were not friends. He wouldn’t have shaken her hand if proffered. If it is a trick, he thought, she will probably shake my hand to keep up the deception.

  She looked at his outstretched hand and said, ‘I think you have a bad memory.’

  ‘Maybe I forgive easily.’

  ‘What makes you think I share such a habit?’

  He put his hand away. Anger could explain her unwillingness to shake hands – it didn’t mean there was no trickery involved here. The silly experiment had achieved nothing, and so the paranoia remained.

  He put the heaters on full blast to help dry them and started driving, peripheral vision all over her, so much so that he had to blink occasionally to focus his eyes on the road ahead. She said nothing further and the silence was fine with him. It was two minutes before curiosity got the better of her and she said, ‘Where you going?’

  ‘Shepherd’s Bush.’

  ‘What’s in Shepherd’s Bush?’

  ‘In half an hour? Us.’

  He said nothing further. He didn’t want to outline his plan for her. She was here to help him, and he would give her information if and when she needed it in order to perform that help. She was going to be his public face, that was all. He was a wanted man and couldn’t flash his own face around London. So if he needed information from someone, that was her job.

  She said nothing, either.

  Richmond Way, Shepherd’s Bush, just after 1pm. A row of small shops on the ground floor of a four-storey building. Between two dry cleaners and a letting agency. There was a space a couple of shops down in the pay-and-display zone, and Nate pulled in. He did not pay or display. From this angle he couldn’t see inside the big window. But he could see the sign: ‘Palmer & Co.’ Good.

  He looked at her and found she was already watching him. Neither had spoken for the rest of the journey. And now it was really bothering him that she hadn’t asked why he’d been targeted. But he ignored that for now, because they were here.

  He pointed at the shop. ‘Palmer & Co. Go in and ask for a man called Michael Senior. He’s one of the owners. If his secretary tells you that he’s unavailable, say you need to speak to his son. Say it’s important. Get him on the phone if he’s not there. Because it is important.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Why you? Because I’m a wanted man and they might have the news on.’

  ‘No. Why?’

  ‘Smarten yourself up a bit in the mirror first.’

  ‘Give me money.’

  She didn’t wait for an answer, but delved into his jacket pocket and extracted his wallet.

  ‘What’s that for?’

  She got out without answering. Nate waited and watched.

  But she didn’t go to the letting agency. Instead, she went across the road. He wound down his window and shouted to her. She ignored him, but others on the street didn’t. He shut his window on their staring faces and sank low in his seat. Nobody screamed for the cops.

  He watched her enter a charity shop. She was back in five minutes, carrying a loaded plastic bag. He wound down the window, but only waved frantically this time. Ignoring him again, she walked two doors down and vanished into a hairdressers.

  Nate told himself to relax. Clothing and hair, that was all. A new look because she didn’t want to run around London looking like a homeless car crash victim. Being practical, and maybe a bit vain. No problem. Calm down. He watched her flash money at the girls inside, then take a seat. He waited. When a traffic warden appeared and cruised along the parked cars like a hunting shark, Nate jumped and bought an hour. And then waited.

  He didn’t notice her return until the passenger door squealed open. Immediately he noticed her hair. Short shag with a ragged fringe to hide her forehead laceration and spikey portions on top where they’d had to cut away long sections ruined by glue. A fantastic job, Nate thought, and told himself not to stare even as he thought it.

  She wasn’t waiting for approval anyway. She climbed into the back. ‘Me first, and don’t look.’

  Five minutes later, they were both done. She had selected only a new pair of jeans because her old ones had gotten ruined by the floor of the van and her blood. The pullover had dried, and her bomber jacket had wiped down easily with a wet napkin. She had bought Nate someone’s old T-shirt and a black fleece, and jeans. And a knit cap, which he pulled right to his eyes. Now he felt blended in, and far more comfortable.

  When he climbed back behind the wheel, she opened the door to get out again. ‘Remember, don’t tell him why you want to speak to his son, okay?’

  ‘Okay, sir,’ she said, scorn in her tone. She slammed the door before he could say another word.

  This time, thankfully, she went straight to the letting agency. Nate prepared for another long wait, and half expected to see a stubborn Mr Senior burst headfirst through the window. But she was back in ninety seconds, and the window had stayed intact, and he thought she must have had no luck.

  ‘His s
on should be at home,’ she said as she entered the van. ‘But if not then he’s at the snooker club. Home is a few minutes in this direction.’

  ‘He spoke to you okay? He didn’t ask questions? He wasn’t suspicious?’

  ‘Why? Is my face all over the news, too?’

  Unwilling to respond, Nate drove.

  Six minutes after she got no answer at the home address Michael Senior had given her, they arrived at the snooker club. It was beside a Co-op and had its front entrance at the back of the building, which was good because they could watch it from the tiny car park behind the superstore.

  Nate pointed at a red Vauxhall Corsa with tinted windows and fiery flank stickers. ‘He’s here. That’s his car.’

  ‘Uh-huh,’ she said, not even looking. In fact, she was studying her nails. An ex-girlfriend used to do that when he was boring her.

  ‘He’s a rude boy, deals drugs, mugs people. So you be careful when you go in there. He’ll trust a woman, but a guy going in might spook him. He might think I’m someone he pissed off way back.’

  ‘Okeydokey.’

  ‘He might even remember me. I met him one time. And my face is in the news. So you have to go in. Okay?’

  A glance up out of the window: ‘Looks like it might rain.’

  Uninterested. Mocking him. He could hold off no longer. ‘I want to know why you haven’t asked who this guy is or why we’re here.’

  ‘No need,’ she said. ‘This is obviously you following your theory that Achala Kaushal is the one behind all this.’

  And there it was – why she hadn’t asked that all-important question. She had heard the news report about Achala Kaushal, knew he suspected his ex-employee. And clearly thought his theory was full of shit.

  ‘She has to be involved,’ he said. ‘It’s obvious. She used to work for me and her family was pissed at me, and then she goes into hiding at the same time that people try to kill me and my brother. You think that’s a coincidence? Culprit or not, she’s involved, she knows something, and we need to find her. And the best way to do that is with the guy inside that snooker club. This idiot might just have the clout to pull off what’s happened to me. He knows fools who’d commit crimes for pennies. Weirdos and druggies and the like. He’s connected. And who is he? He’s her boyfriend, or was four years ago when I knew her.’