by Lee Stone
Eventually he decamped and rolled out into the thick of it. He ducked back up the street towards the Elbow and stalked along the alleyway at the side of the building. The fire escape was already hanging down, and he took a chance on it. He climbed three floors and found an open window. Inside, a long corridor stretched away into the darkness, bedroom doors lining the walls on either side. Lockhart moved through the room, his senses heightened and alert. Nothing to hear except the rumble of music from two floors below. Nothing to see except the shifting shadows.
Lockhart carried on towards the green light at the end of the corridor. It seemed to stretch away from him as he approached, pulling him further into the building. He guessed Matilda was already here. She was a mother searching for her child, drawn like a moth to a flame. The question was where Lockhart would find her and what kind of shape she would be in when he did. The same went for the baby, the kid that Jimmy Penh had used as collateral and control over Matilda Braganza. Lockhart’s stomach knotted. Ever since he had read up about the Kun Krak, the smoke children ripped from their mothers and murdered before their lives had begun, Lockhart had felt grim about the fate of missing baby.
When he reached the end of the corridor, he chose the upward stairs. People with secrets like a couple of floors between them and the streets. As Lockhart climbed into the unknown, the stairway opened into a wide room with tall windows, the moonlight breaking through the cloud and spilling blue across the wooden floor. The room was empty and Lockhart crossed the floor to the far side, where an open doorway led through into another corridor. The door at the far end was ajar, warm light spilling out into the darkness. Lockhart glanced over his shoulder to the empty room behind him and then pushed on towards the light.
He heard her before he saw her. The light behind the door was bright, and he was still squinting when he heard a hoarse voice call out. Blurred objects slowly come into focus. The room was an ornate work desk surrounded by decadent art. Heavy drapes were pulled open to reveal windowpanes that reflected the scene back like giant mirrors. Below them, a wrought iron radiator was anchored to the wooden floor. They had cuffed Matilda Braganza to it, her cheek swollen and her lip bleeding.
‘Charlie!’
A woven Moses basket was resting on top of the mahogany desk, and it rocked suddenly at the sound of Matilda’s voice. The child inside was stirring.
‘Your baby?’
She nodded.
Lockhart checked the basket. The baby opened his eyes, big and blue and beautiful, as if some sixth sense had alerted him to his stare. His features moved into a barely practiced smile and on instinct his tiny hand stretched up towards Lockhart.
‘He’s fine,’ he said, without taking her eyes away from the basket. ‘He’s perfect.’
‘He’s mine,’ Matilda said.
‘I know,’ Lockhart said, moving across the room to her and checking the metal cuffs around her wrists. She slipped her arms around his neck and pulled him close, relieved and afraid all at once. Her eyes shone expectantly.
‘Lockhart,’ she said. ‘Tell me it will be all right.’
‘It’s going to be fine.’
‘Really?’
‘I have no idea.’
She smiled. Lockhart had come for her. He had helped her escape the horrors of Cambodia and saw her safely home. She had left him for dead in the apartment overlooking the Hudson and yet here he was again, risking himself for her.
The handcuffs were the real deal, and the radiator was fixed firm. There was no easy way out. He began casting around the office for something strong enough to wrench the piping away from the wall.
‘Why did you come for me?’ Matilda asked as she watched him search.
Lockhart stopped. ‘Seriously? Now?’
She cocked her head and smiled. He went back to hunting for something that could prize her free. Why was he helping her? Truth was, helping her made sense of the endless loneliness. The endless traveling, keeping ahead of the Ukrainians who still held their grudge against him. And besides, how could he not help her? How could he leave her to fight against a gang of thugs and then look himself in the eye next time he caught himself in the mirror? He couldn’t. And that’s why he was here.
He pulled at her metal bracelet, wondering if her slender hand might slip through the shackles, but it was fastened too tightly. As he leant into the job, his face close to hers, he noticed the bruising on her cheek.
‘Did he hit you before you were cuffed, or after?’ Lockhart asked as he pulled at the radiator, hoping for a little give.
‘Who?’
‘Jimmy,’ Lockhart said. ‘Jimmy Penh.’
Matilda looked confused.
‘How do you know…’
‘Does it matter?’ Lockhart asked. ‘When did he hit you?’
‘Does that matter?’ she asked.
‘It’s a measure of the man.’
Matilda reached up towards her cheek, the delicate fingers of her free hand tracing the outline of the bruise. The Moses basket creaked. Her eyes flicked instantly to the desk.
‘Charlie,’ she said. ‘Bring him to me? I can’t reach him.’
Lockhart took the basket from the desk and placed it gently on the floor next to her. She reached in and played with the baby’s hands until she felt the comfort of tiny fingers wrapping around her own. Lockhart could see Matilda in the curve of the girl’s lips and the way her brow sloped into the bridge of her nose. But her skin was olive toned and her hair was dark.
‘Jimmy’s the dad,’ she said, answering Lockhart’s unspoken question. ‘And I was old enough to know better. It was the biggest mistake of my life.’
Lockhart watched her reluctantly pull her hand away from the basket. If this situation was her own fault, then God knows she’d been punished for it now.
‘Not that I’d change it now,’ she added quickly.
Lockhart frowned. Ever since reading Audrey Dufour’s blog about the tortured and murdered Kun Krak, Lockhart had worried about Matilda’s kid. Now he couldn’t work out whether the fact that he was Jimmy’s flesh and blood made him safe, or in even greater peril.
‘I know about Jimmy Penh,’ he told her. ‘Just stay focused. We’ll be all right.’
Matilda looked up from the basket and nodded.
‘Okay,’ she said. ‘You got a ride?’
Lockhart smiled and raised an eyebrow.
‘Girls and cars,’ he muttered. ‘Sure, I’ve got a ride.’
‘I’ll ride in anything as long as you can get us away from here,’ she said.
‘It’s good that you say that,’ Lockhart told her, thinking of the Kia Spectra. ‘Don’t raise your hopes too high.’
Both of them heard the crack at the same time and stopped talking. For a second, Lockhart hoped it was the storm pulling at the building, twisting the ancient floorboards. But then came another. And another. Someone was walking quickly towards them across the bare wooden floor outside. Matilda’s eyes flashed up to Lockhart, brimming with adrenalin and fear.
‘What do we do?’ she whispered hoarsely.
Lockhart straightened up and was halfway toward the door when Jimmy Penh emerged from the dark corridor. He was well dressed, sharp-eyed and lithe. Designed to cause trouble. Remembering how blurred the room had seemed when he had first emerged from the dark corridor, Lockhart made a fast move. He believed in playing fair, but not with a guy who cuffed women to radiators. He plowed into Jimmy Penh while his pupils were still wide and unseeing, slamming him into the wall.
Jimmy crumpled, but he rolled and was back on his feet in an instant. Lockhart stepped into him to push home his advantage, anger pulsing through him as he thought about Matilda’s bruised face, and the baby Jimmy Penh had used to trap her. He swung hard, but Jimmy was ready for him. He spun and elbowed Lockhart in the ribs, thumping the air from his lungs and causing him to topple back. Still part blind, Jimmy pulled a gun from inside his jacket and brought his arms forward and locked his aim on the man who had jump
ed him. Solid and unwavering, the barrel of the gun pointed straight at Lockhart’s face. On instinct Lockhart put his hands in the air, leaning back against the wall and blowing out in frustration.
‘Who the fuck are you?’ Jimmy Penh snarled.
‘He’s a friend,’ Matilda called from behind him. ‘Yet another person wrapped up in all of this for no damn reason.’
There was a vitriolic edge to her voice that Lockhart hadn’t heard before, even when she was remonstrating with the police as they carted her away in Kep. It was an intimate anger reserved for a previous lover, and it cut through the air like a knife. Jimmy’s gun didn’t waiver. His pupils slowly sharpened and focused on Lockhart.
‘You’re trespassing,’ he said eventually. ‘You’re messing in something that isn’t your business. Something you don’t understand.’
He walked behind the gun as he spoke, and he came a little too close. Before they sent him overseas, the Times had sent Lockhart to be taught a few hostage evasion skills. Not many, just enough to appease their insurers before he deployed to some dangerous place or other. Ex-special forces guys ran the sessions. Sometimes they were British. Sometimes South African. They were usually a little unhinged, but their take-home message was always the same: compliance. Compliance keeps you safe. Do as you’re told. Stay in the middle of the crowd. Stay gray. Gray keeps you alive. But if you see a sure-fire chance, then take it.
As Jimmy moved in, Lockhart swung forward with both arms, slugging the gun sideways. At the same time, he stepped out of its range, spinning away from the barrel and flinging himself backwards into Jimmy, raising his elbow and cracking it against the side of his head. He felt barbed wire pain shoot along his forearm, but he guessed it hurt Jimmy more. When his face spun back into view, Lockhart caught a blur of red. Jimmy Penh’s cheek had split and blood was pouring from it. Lockhart wasted no time. He thrust hard at Jimmy’s head with both hands, one palm smearing the blood and his fingers ramming into his eyes. Fight dirty, the Special Forces guys had told him. Use everything. He pushed out with his arms and felt Jimmy’s head slam against the wall. He thumped his knee into the guy’s thigh just for good measure.
Jimmy fell. He hit the floor hard and rolled, spitting and cursing. The only thing he didn’t do was drop the gun. On the floor, on his back, he reached up and fired. Lockhart felt his body spasm and drop, his ears ringing and his pulse thumping. And just like that, everything stopped. The bullet buried itself into the bare brick wall, spitting shards and filling the room with dust that mingled with the pungent spell of the spent cartridge. Jimmy Penh laughed. It was a hollow laugh; one he had learned rather than one that had welled up inside him. He slowly drew himself up, twitchy and alert. He leaned against the wall, recovering his breath, never taking his eyes off Lockhart. His right hand held the gun steady as he skirted back to his desk. He threw a pair of cuffs to Lockhart and told him to put them on.
‘Both hands please,’ he said courteously. ‘Wrap the chain around the pipe.’
Lockhart complied. There was no choice. When he was shackled securely, Jimmy Penh changed. His walk became more languid and confident, his strides lengthening, his movement fluid and balletic. He was in no rush. He was a man preparing to enjoy his work. Ta Penh’s flesh and blood, Lockhart thought to himself.
Jimmy sat down behind his desk and put his feet up on the mahogany.
‘Who are you?’
Matilda spoke up.
‘Don’t fucking answer him,’ she spat. ‘Who you are is none of his fucking business.’
Lockhart said nothing, waiting to hear if Matilda still pushed Jimmy’s buttons, the way former lovers sometimes do. Apparently though, she didn’t. Jimmy Penh pulled a flick knife from his top drawer and began spinning the point of it into his desktop.
‘Who are you?’ he asked again, as though Matilda had never spoken.
Lockhart looked at him, and the knife.
‘Does it matter?’ he asked.
Jimmy Penh grabbed the knife from the wood, pulled it back over his shoulder, and tossed it forward, all in one fluid move. It came straight at Lockhart’s eye. He saw it late and his body on impulse. The knife flew just above his head and buried into the wooden window frame behind him. Jimmy sauntered over to the window and retrieved it.
‘I’ve got all night,’ he said.
‘I’m a friend of Matilda’s.’
Jimmy turned and threw the knife again. For a second time, Lockhart ducked, and it thudded into the wooden frame behind his head.
‘Seriously,’ Lockhart said. ‘If you keep doing that, I will get pissed off.’
Jimmy pulled the knife out of the wood, and this time he ran it under Lockhart’s throat as he pulled it back.
‘Not your place to get pissed off,’ he said. ‘It’s your place to bleed.’
He threw the knife again, but this time his aim was off and it clattered against the glass of the window and rattled to the floor.
The blade landed close enough for Lockhart to consider grabbing it. Lightning struck outside in the street, and in the flash everything felt surreal, like a black and white movie where grabbing for the knife would have no consequence. The truth was different. If he grabbed the knife, he’d have to use it. And whoever Lockhart was, he wasn’t that man. Besides, Jimmy had a gun. Scissors, paper, stone. Lockhart was beaten all ends up. He watched as Jimmy Penh found the blade with his foot and scraped it back across the floor before picking it up.
‘What do you want?’ Matilda asked, her voice icy. The metal of her handcuff rattling against the radiator’s sturdy piping. Jimmy stayed saccharine and controlled.
‘What do I want?’
He crossed the room and slid the Moses basket away from her with a twisted smile.
‘Nothing,’ he said. I’m just having fun.’
48
The sound of slow belligerent footsteps on the stairs killed Jimmy Penh’s mood. His twisted confidence ebbed away, replaced by ready alertness. Lockhart waited. He was a gentleman, an Englishman, but a primal urge to protect Matilda and her child consumed him, and in that moment he was one hundred percent caveman. Every thought was focused on tricking Jimmy Penh close enough to reach. A finger would be all he’d need. A finger would turn into a grappling hand, a crushing arm, and a prehistoric compulsion to smash the evil soul out of Jimmy’s spidery body.
With his back to the cold brick wall and the sound of the storm raging outside, Lockhart visualized the anatomy of the building. They were on the fourth floor. From outside, only the ground floor had seemed alive. Light and sound had spilled from the street level windows. The place was loud. He wondered if anyone would have heard Jimmy Penh’s gunfire over the noise in the bar? Maybe. But it was a full two minutes since the bullet had smashed into the brick, and it was only now that somebody was coming. And whoever they were, they were taking their time. So it wasn’t the cavalry.
It was Leisler who emerged through the doorway seconds later, curiosity etched across his face. Curiosity, but not much concern, Lockhart noticed. Leisler’s gaze rested on Lockhart for a second, his eyes suspicious as he recognized Lockhart from the cafe. He said nothing, but Lockhart knew what he was wondering. Was it his fault that the stranger from Siberia was now in the Elbow with his boss?
‘Everything all right, Jimmy?’ he asked.
At the sound of his voice, Matilda finally broke her attention away from the baby in the basket.
‘Leisler, you spineless shit.’
‘Yeah, yeah,’ Leisler sighed, without turning to look at her. ‘Jimmy?’
Jimmy nodded towards Matilda.
‘Everything’s fine,’ he said, and the smile returned to his lips. ‘Turns out Matilda is the world’s worst assassin.’
Then he turned and looked at Lockhart.
‘I don’t know who this guy is yet.’
Leisler didn’t enlighten him. Jimmy turned back to his desk and beckoned Leisler over.
‘Where is Veasna?’ he asked. ‘I’ve got some
work for him.’
Leisler shrugged, limping heavily as he came further into the room. It was the second time Jimmy had asked for the Rat, but the word was that nobody had been able to raise him.
‘He lives underground, Jimmy. He lives in the sewers. Have you seen how much water is coming down? He’s probably got his own problems right now.’
Jimmy Penh’s features hardened.
‘I don’t pay him to have his own problems.’
Lockhart watched the two men with interest. Where had Leisler’s limp come from? He’d been walking fine at the café, and he’d been sure-footed when he was throwing his friend into the dump truck. Even his footsteps on the stairs had been steady and metronomic. So where had the limp come from? There was only one answer: Leisler wasn’t playing his boss straight. He was faking an injury. Who knew why? It didn’t matter. Whatever the reason, it meant the two men were not honest with each other, and that meant an opportunity. The trick was knowing what to do with it.
‘Find Veasna,’ Jimmy was saying. ‘You know what Lim wants, and if we can’t find it for him, we’ll have to….’
He tailed off and glanced at the baby in the basket.
The anger in Lockhart twisted another notch. He knew exactly what Jimmy meant. So did Leisler, who turned and started back towards the door.
‘How come you’re limping?’ Lockhart called after him.
Both men turned to look at him. They had almost forgotten about him, kneeling on the floor and chained to the radiator.
‘You weren’t limping in Siberia earlier.’
Jimmy Penh looked from Lockhart to Leisler. Then he walked slowly to his desk and picked up the baseball bat that was resting against it. He twirled it once in his hand as he walked back across the room, twisted it back into his grip, and swung it down on Lockhart. It connected with the side of his thigh hard enough that Lockhart felt like he’d split the skin. He yelled out in pain. Matilda yelled out too, grinding her metal restraint against the pipes and calling Jimmy every name she could bring to mind.
