There are no cars on this road; only us. I turn to look at her. She has really long, black hair. It looks fabulous. It reaches all the way down her back to her coccyx. I’m wondering what she’d look like naked with hair like that cascading down her back. Her figure is full and voluptuous. But somehow, I already know what she looks like naked; obscenely curvaceous, wide hips, big, plump, firm breasts. This is not the first time we’ve been together.
So why is she trying to shoot me?
I get a vision of her laughing, then one of her face frowning with fierce concentration in the throes of an intense and protracted climax.
Isolda.
And my name’s Daniel Beckett.
*
I must have drifted away again. Did I fall asleep or was I knocked out by the chemicals in my bloodstream? Well, at least my thinking capacity seems to have returned, even if it’s a little shaky. I have to try and concentrate.
Well, first things first. I’ve been pretty well incapacitated by an intramuscular dose of some drug or other. Probably a cocktail of drugs. It seems a shame to soil the word cocktail when you’re using it in this context. What a strange thing to think. Let’s hope it’s something they got from a professional rather than something Tommy Jennison cobbled together with his school chemistry set in the garage. Tommy Jennison: now I remember.
At the moment, it feels like it could easily be a mixture of horse tranquiliser, mescaline and some benzodiazepine or other. Perhaps it’s just a single drug that has all of those qualities. My muscle movements are sluggish, my thoughts are wandering, I’m losing track of time and I’m hallucinating. It’s just a normal day at the office, then.
Sometimes I can think quickly and lucidly, other times I can’t remember what I was thinking about a few seconds after I was thinking about it. This isn’t the case with the physical effects; they’re pretty well consistently awful, especially the nausea.
With any drug (or drugs), every second that passes allows your body to break it down and get rid of it, though some are more difficult to get rid of than others.
Some drugs can be flushed out with water or fruit drinks and others can’t. Some drugs stay in your system for a few hours, others stay there for a few days. In some cases, there may be an antidote available; something that you can take orally or intravenously which will neutralise the effects of whatever it is in a matter of seconds or minutes.
Well, no one’s going to be popping in here with a glass of orange juice or some useful pills, so I’m going to have to attempt to do it myself.
I’ve known how to do this for so long now that it’s difficult for me to put into words. It’s a little like the mental techniques for controlling pain. Everyone knows that when you accidentally put your finger on a hot surface, there are a couple of seconds before you feel the pain. You know it’s coming and you can brace yourself. It’s possible to increase that gap; to stretch it from a couple of seconds to five seconds to ten seconds to twenty seconds, until the sensation gets lost in there somewhere or you’re better prepared for it. I had it explained to me once and I still don’t understand it.
Another technique is to temporarily place your mind elsewhere. Into a nearby inanimate object, for example. This takes more concentration and is tremendously difficult to master. Any distraction, small or large, can put you off your stroke and the whole endeavour can rapidly collapse.
How can I possibly know how to do something like that?
But I know that both of these techniques can work, albeit temporarily, against unwanted drugs in your system. They don’t flush the drugs out of your system, but they may allow you to perform small tasks that would be impossible otherwise.
In my case, I want to be able to stand up and find out where the hell I am and how I can get out. I’m hoping that just the act of getting up and walking may reduce the effect of the drugs even further. It may not work, but it’s worth a try, and I’ve got nothing else to do.
Still sitting up, I try to visualise the drug or drugs as a single molecule. This molecule is in my bloodstream. It passes into my nervous system and is travelling along my nerve fibres, jumping the synapses, trying to get to the relevant bits of my brain.
Its journey is so rapid as to be virtually unmeasurable. I’m trying to imagine the molecules slowing down slightly, not so much that I annoy them, but enough to actually perceive their journey and attempt to decrease its speed. I’m aware that this must sound like codswallop.
While I’m doing this, I slowly raise my knees and get my feet flat on the floor. This takes a tremendous effort of will, but at least it’s something. It’s almost as if I’m doing something forbidden while the drug molecules are looking the other way.
I keep my focus on the molecules. That’s all that matters. I can see them passing by at an incredible speed and concentrate on attempting to slow them down, just a tiny bit, so they’re not getting into my brain so swiftly.
I raise my head up and make sure that I think my eyes are open. I feel my eyelids with my fingers, but am unsure I can trust what my fingers are feeling. It’s a worrying sensation. I don’t want the nausea to return while I’m doing this. I breathe deeply. Doing this isn’t making me feel sick, which is a good sign.
After a possible five minutes, I finally get the nerve to attempt standing up. I know this isn’t going to be easy, but I have to have a go, for my own curiosity if nothing else.
I press down onto the floor with both hands and somehow get into a crouching position. The floor feels colder. Then I straighten my legs, take my hands off the floor, and after a few wobbles I’m almost standing up straight.
I feel dizzy once more, but at least there’s no nausea. I blink once, and this brings with it a dazzling display of orange circles, which fly away to the edge of my visual range and then disappear. Wow.
Despite the fact I feel like I’m wearing lead shoes, I stretch my hands in front of me and attempt a few steps. I must look crazy. I hope no one’s watching this on infrared. I hope this isn’t being recorded for training purposes. It’s easier than I thought. I’m taking it slowly, waiting for some obstruction.
After eleven slow steps I notice a very slight change in temperature. I stretch my hands out a little further and come into contact with what I assume to be a brick wall. I run my fingers across the grouting; definitely bricks. I start to feel a little sick again, so use the wall to support myself while I attempt a little deep breathing.
I’ve been concentrating so much on getting to this stage, that only now do some of the other factors involved in my current circumstances start flooding back into my head. But it’s hard to focus on them and arrange them in any way that makes sense.
I’ve got a definite image of Isolda aiming that gun at my head. OK, so that was my fault, my carelessness and my naivety. As soon as we started heading over to her dad’s place, she must have known that she was leading me straight into a trap. But the gun falling out of my jacket was pure chance. For Isolda, it was a bit of opportunistic luck.
I remember being surprised she could handle that gun so well, but then she might have been familiar with that exact model. It belonged to Black Suit, after all. Perhaps her dad and his boys all used the same type of shooter, as I’m sure they call it. Well, she may not have been able to handle it very well, but at least she knew how to load it and aim it, which is always useful with a gun.
I try to think about what would have happened if she hadn’t discovered the gun, but she did, so it isn’t really worth any conjecture. Despite that, it still gives me pleasure to think of her not discovering the gun. It’s so enjoyable that I may have been thinking about it for five minutes or more. I really must get my brain to work properly.
Is Sara inside that house somewhere? Almost certainly. That’s what I’m here for, of course. I’m here to rescue Sara, except I’m in a dark place with stone floors and so debilitated with drugs I can hardly walk, let alone think straight.
So the baddies have at least one gun. Are there more
in the house? Possibly; unless Isolda’s dad is being careful. Maybe he has to keep his nose clean. One is enough, though.
And now I start thinking about Tommy Jennison’s staff. The guy with the broken nose. Wide Chest, as I designated him. Certainly a tough character who could easily beat the crap out of you and enjoy doing it.
Not infallible, though, I suspect. Creeps like that never are. The fact that they usually think they are means they aren’t.
And then there’s Shortass, of course. Quick temper, smirking and violent. It’s still shocking that he must be Isolda’s boyfriend. Is she insane? I mean, really insane? Maybe that would explain everything that’s been going on. Nobody apart from me knows that I took him down on Marylebone High Street a few days ago and it has to stay that way for as long as possible.
And God knows what he’d do if he found out about Isolda and me. Maybe he already knows. Maybe she’s told him. There’s nothing I wouldn’t put past her now.
Maybe Shortass recognised me straight away, but didn’t say anything because it was so embarrassing. Whatever; for a number of reasons it’s not good that he has me at quite a big disadvantage here.
I start to feel a little better and slowly work my way along the wall, one languid step at a time. I’ve never used them, but I imagine this is what it’s like when you have a really heavy pair of those ankle weights on. I feel cold, then suddenly realise that I’m covered in sweat. I’m soaked in it. I can feel it dripping down the sides of my body from my armpits.
I start to think that it’s getting lighter in here, but I suspect it’s just a side-effect of whatever’s coursing through my bloodstream at present. Was it Fortnum’s she said? I can’t remember the hotel she was staying at. Is there a Fortnum’s hotel?
And Tommy Jennison didn’t look like the psychopath I was expecting. Looked like he was a retired businessman of some sort. In fact, that’s probably the way he sees himself. A businessman. Career criminals are often inclined to anoint themselves with respectable-sounding appellations. Did I really just say that?
Of course, in the real world, it’s unlikely that someone like Tommy Jennison would have had the brains to be a businessman in any normal sense of the word. Does he know about Isolda and me? Would it make any difference to him? Will he force me to get married to her?
I suddenly feel a little surge of panic. There’s something I have to do; something I’ve forgotten about. Then I laugh as I realise that it’s Mrs Vasconselos. She’s probably at Fortnum’s right now, wondering where I am and why I haven’t bothered to turn up. I know I shouldn’t be thinking about this, but it suddenly seems the only important thing there is.
The bricks have stopped and I can feel my hands on a smoother surface. Is this a door? I try to remember what doors are usually made of. Wood? Metal? This is like ridged metal. I run my hands around it and eventually work out that it’s door-shaped. It seems the right size, too. But there’s something missing. It’s the handle. There’s no handle in here. I feel nauseous and excessively sweaty again. I keep my hands flat against this door without a handle and let my head droop down. I close my eyes tightly and see big fuzzy orbs of emerald and tangerine.
I remember that Black Suit was in the boot of the SUV. I’d damaged him in some way, but I can’t remember how. I try to concentrate on what I did to him, but it just won’t come. I’m breathing slowly. I can feel the air go down into my lungs and then come up again. I push myself back into a proper standing position, but I’m not confident about walking.
The pleasing image of Sara drifts into my brain again. This is good. This is why I’m here, but I keep forgetting about it. They’re going to be angry about what I did to Black Suit, whatever it was. He’s an asset. They must know about Blond Hair because Black Suit was there when I found him and he didn’t seem surprised. He had phone conversations with people, but I can’t recall them now.
And Footballer Dad. They don’t know what happened to him, but if they’ve got Sara she’ll know that I grabbed him. That’s if she knows who they’re talking about, of course. They may not bother to ask her. They have no idea where he is. It’s only me that knows where he is, or at least I think it is.
I just realised that I don’t know who it is I’m talking about. I can’t keep a thought going. It’d be handy to know what this stuff is. Oh, hang on: I told Black Suit about Footballer Dad. That’s a bit of a pain, but, um…
I take a few steps back from the door. I can hear someone outside it, or at least I think I can. There’s a metallic sliding noise. It opens with a bang and the bright light that floods in is burning the back of my eyeballs. It’s just unbearable.
I can see a big shape stride into this room or whatever it is. I think the big shape is Wide Chest. It is. For the first time I get a miniscule glimpse of this place. It’s big; totally windowless, square and featureless, apart from a loft hatch door dead in the centre of the ceiling.
He grabs my hair and marches me out into the sunlight. He’d never have managed that normally. I’d have stopped him before his hand had got anywhere near me. He’d be lying on the floor by now with a broken arm at the very least. That makes me feel a little better as I’m dragged through a courtyard towards a big house, throwing up twice on the way.
27
WITHERED ARM
I’m feeling so feeble and useless that it’s easy for Wide Chest to manhandle me in this way. I keep tripping up and falling over, and each time it happens, he grins and impatiently drags me up to my feet. I wish I could kill him. He smells of peaches. Perhaps it’s the shampoo he uses.
We’re making slow and erratic progress down a long corridor. Very tasteful carpet, I notice; one of those complex Turkish designs that you see in hotels or country houses. I become fixated on the complex interlocking patterns and the way they’ve used three different shades of red. I start breathing slowly through my nostrils so I don’t feel the urge to be sick over it. That would be such a shame. It’s such a nice carpet.
I suddenly wonder where my jacket is. Is it still in the car? I wonder if they’ve discovered Black Suit yet. I dislocated his shoulder. I remember now. That’ll need a hospital visit. Then physiotherapy. Three or four months for a full recovery.
Wide Chest opens a couple of cream Regency doors and we’re in a rather lovely, well-decorated living room. This is definitely the work of an expensive and stylish interior decorator.
Like the rest of the house, it’s enormous, but despite that, they’ve still taken the trouble to attach a conservatory to it. This catastrophically destroys the well-thought-out, tasteful Italianate theme of the interior.
Beyond the conservatory, which contains half a dozen basket chairs and a couple of matching tables, there’s a big lake. It’s still and peaceful. You could easily imagine rowing a small boat out to the centre and just chilling with a good book.
There are a couple of small wooden jetties a few feet away from the conservatory, but no visible watercraft. There are several weeping willows on the far side and some ducks swimming around. It’s a charming, peaceful scene.
There’s an enormous painting above the fireplace. Looks like a Raphael or something. There are naked angel/baby things floating in the air firing arrows at a half-nude woman, while satyrs grab other passing scantily clad females. I’m sure it has a theme, but I can’t focus on what that theme might be at the moment. I start to get obsessed with it, so Wide Chest gives me a slight nudge forward.
The floor is made up of what looks like reclaimed terracotta tiles in brown, cream, red and pink, giving the place a cool hint of the Mediterranean. I can imagine it must feel great walking barefoot on these in the summer. For a second, I start to have double vision, then it clears up as quickly as it appeared. I have quite a bad headache.
There are three big sofas in here. Each one of them could easily seat four or five people. In the centre of the room is a big green marble coffee table. There are a couple of large books on it, but I can’t read the titles upside down.
&nbs
p; One of the walls is almost entirely covered in a bank of huge mirrors. I look longingly at the sofas again. I want to lie down on one of them and go to sleep.
It says something about my state that I notice the furnishing, decorations and exterior view before I notice the people.
Wide Chest drags me over towards the sofa nearest the fireplace. Sitting down is Tommy Jennison. He’s wearing a short-sleeved shirt with awful pink, white and blue checks all over it. Grey casual trousers, white socks, and light brown leather moccasins. Now I can see him up close, it’s plain that his greying hair is actually a wig.
One of his arms is short and withered. Can’t imagine what the trouble must be. Whatever it is, he has that arm around the shoulder of a very pretty girl who’s sitting right next to him on the sofa. I really wish Wide Chest wouldn’t grab my bicep that hard. It’s really starting to hurt.
The girl who’s next to Tommy Jennison is wearing a purple see-though baby doll with a matching thong underneath, the sort of thing you’d get from one of the tackier sex shops. It’s open all the way down the front, except where it’s tied with a bow at the breasts. She has fabulous breasts; small, round, a sexy shape.
I wonder if I should be staring at her this much. I don’t want to appear impolite. Her shoulders are bare, with little bows on the upper arm. She also has great legs.
It’s because this girl seems to be pissed or stoned or whatever, her head resting listlessly on Jennison’s arm, her hair partially covering her face, that I don’t recognise her at first.
It’s Sara, of course. It looks like she’s had a big dose of whatever they gave to me and is pretty well out of it. I feel very slight alarm. I’m sure I should be feeling more.
She slowly tucks her legs underneath herself and leans into Jennison. Does she have any idea what’s going on or where she is? How long has she been here? I was in that club. When was that? Two, three hours ago?
Death is the New Black Page 27
