Children's Crusade ac-9

by Scott Andrews

  She grabbed a pair of jeans and a t-shirt, ushered James out while she dressed, then joined him in the living room. He was boiling the kettle in the kitchenette. She nipped into the bathroom, collected her wine, then returned to the cracked leather sofa, tucked her legs underneath herself and said: "Get your tea. Sit down. Start at the beginning."

  James plonked himself down at the other end of the small sofa, cradling the mug and biting his lip. Kate had seen her brother up against it more than once — the time he'd been attacked on the street by gay bashers; the day he was expelled from school — but this twitchy nervous wreck was barely recognisable as her flamboyant, devil-may-care, overconfident younger sibling. As he opened his mouth to speak she had an inkling that everything in her life was about to change. She felt a rush of butterflies in her stomach.

  But before James could begin, there was another, louder knock at the door.

  "Oh fuck," he whispered. His face went even paler, his eyes widened with fear and he stared at Kate like he'd just seen a ghost.

  "Who is it?" she asked, but he wasn't listening.

  "They must have followed me. Oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck." He leaned across and grabbed her wrist. "Don't open it. Just stay quiet, maybe they'll go away."

  The knocking came again, louder this time.

  "James, it's 4am and the lights are on. They know we're here. Who is it?"

  "They're looking for her." He pointed to the bedroom.

  "Why? What are they going to…"

  There was a sudden loud crash from the front door, which rattled on its hinges.

  "Fuck!" Cried Kate, suddenly, finally, scared.

  There was another crash and this time she could hear the wooden door frame begin to splinter.

  The door to the second bedroom opened and Jill stood there in her sensible flannelette pjs, rubbing her eyes and digging in her right ear for her earplug.

  "What the bloody hell's going on?" she asked sleepily.

  Kate leapt up and reached for the phone. "Sod this," she said. "I'm calling the police."

  "No, Kate, please," shouted James as he rose to his feet.

  Another crash from the door. This time it flew open with a huge crack of shattering wood. All three of them turned to see an enormous man framed in the doorway.

  With a square head and haircut to match, the man's shoulders were so wide he had to turn a little bit sideways and stoop to fit through the doorway. His suit was large and baggy, more like a tent, and he lumbered into the room, his eyes narrowed and threatening.

  James stepped forward, putting himself in front of Kate and Jill. He hunched his shoulders like a dog that's about to be told off by a pack leader, lowered his head, held out his hands in supplication, and started to beg.

  "Petar, mate, I'm sorry. I didn't know what else to do. Nate was out of it and Lyudmila needed help, y'know. At least I didn't go to a hospital, right? Right? I mean, I did good not to go…"

  The man raised a huge, ugly paw and backslapped James across the face with such force that he flew sideways, crashing into the sideboard and collapsing to the floor in a dazed heap, the silhouette of the man's hand etched onto his face in livid red.

  "Hey," shouted Kate, stepping forward and jutting out her chin defiantly. "You leave my brother alone."

  He raised his other hand and gave her the same treatment. It felt like being hit in the face with a girder. It lifted her off her feet and sent her sprawling into the kitchenette, scrabbling for purchase on the lino.

  It was the first time in her life that anyone had ever hit her. She sat there, stunned, so surprised and shocked that she had no idea how to react. Out of the corner of her eye she registered Jill stepping backwards into her room and closing the door. The giant ignored her, instead opening the door to Kate's room where the injured girl was still in the bed.

  He looked inside, assured himself that she was in there, then turned and walked out. She heard him bark a terse order in a language she did not recognise, and then three men entered the flat. They wore similar suits to the giant, and their faces were hard and cruel, but that wasn't what made Kate cry out in fear.

  All three of them were carrying guns.

  Kate had never seen a gun before. Not a real one, not up close and personal. She'd seen them on telly, of course, and in news reports about gang violence. She'd been trained what to do if a gun was pulled in the hospital, but there was no panic button here, and no guaranteed minimum response time.

  The sight of the small, black, stubby metal objects paralysed her. She knew exactly the damage a bullet could do. Her mind was suddenly filled with images of herself lying on the floor, bleeding out from ruptured arteries, lungs filling with blood, choking on her own fluids, twitching and convulsing as she voided her bowels, wet herself and lost control of her body, dying on a black and white lino floor in a pokey flat with the smell of a tramp in her cooling nostrils.

  What the bloody hell had James got her mixed up in?

  She instinctively crawled backwards into the corner, as if cramming herself between the MDF cabinets would help. One of the men went into her bedroom, another grabbed James and dragged him to his feet, the third came for her. By the time her reached down to take her arm, Kate was hysterical. She began kicking and screaming, flailing around with her fists and shaking her head wildly. She didn't see what hit her across the temple, but if she'd been able to think about it, she'd have realised it was the handle of the gun. Her head swam, her vision sparkled, she went limp with the sound of James' protests ringing in her ears.

  She didn't entirely pass out, though. She remained vaguely aware as the man grabbed her wrists, spun her around and pulled her out of the flat by her ankles. Her head bounced off the doorframe with a horrible thud, scraping the back of her scalp so it bled through her hair; it was thickly matted with blood by the time they reached the lift.

  She was thrown into the lift like a sack of rubbish and ended up in a foetal heap in the corner. As the doors slid shut, she finally blacked out.

  In years to come, Kate would grow accustomed to waking from unconsciousness. The sharp pain in her head that revealed the site of the blow; the dry, metallic taste in her mouth; the shock of bright light; the fear that maybe this time some permanent damage had been done. The most important lesson she learnt, though, was not to panic. To take a moment to assess the damage, establish her capabilities.

  The first time she awoke from such an ordeal, she didn't have this experience to draw on, so she sat bolt upright and looked left and right quickly, terrified. The sudden movement caused a spike of agony in her head, her vision blurred, and she slumped back down onto what she realised was a red leather sofa, groaning as the room span around her. She clutched her hands to her head as if that would stop the wild rotation of the room and make the pain go away. It didn't.

  "Here, take these," said a voice above her. She squinted up and saw a man looking down at her. He had a glass of water in one hand and a packet of Nurofen in the other.

  Slowly, she sat up and reached out for the medicine, gulping them down hungrily, and draining the glass of water. As she handed back the glass she instinctively opened her mouth to thank the man, but then realised her mistake.

  "You're welcome," he said softly, with a smile. She registered an accent, but couldn't place it. Russian, maybe?

  Kate wanted to run, to scream, to try and escape, but she guessed she wouldn't get five metres. She leaned back into the comfy sofa and took in her surroundings.

  The lighting was low and red. She was in a large room, a hall of some kind. No windows, so possibly a cellar. There were sofas and armchairs dotted around on the thick carpet, arranged in horseshoes with glass tables at their focal points. At the far end was a bar and on either side were raised platforms with metal poles that ran to the ceiling. She was in a strip club. An upmarket one, but not one of the majors. Probably central London. Even through the headache she knew what that implied about the management.

  There was one more detail, t
oo — handcuffed to the stripper's poles, sitting on the floor with their hands behind their backs, were James and Lyudmila. The girl was out for the count, but James was conscious. She couldn't be sure in the half-light, but Kate thought he'd been beaten up.

  The man in front of her sat down in an armchair. He placed his arms on the armrests very deliberately, as if arranging himself like a work of art ready for display. His movements were precise and considered, but Kate did not think it was vanity. She got a sense that he was so full of anger or violence that even the simple act of sitting in a chair required titanic effort and conscious control.

  This man immediately scared her more than anything else that had happened on this bizarre, awful night.

  She forced herself to meet his gaze, but his eyes were lost in shadow. He was middle aged, maybe in his forties. Short hair topped a high forehead above a long, straight nose and sensuous, amused lips. He was not overweight nor musclebound and he wore an expensive, well-tailored suit. He should have been attractive, but there was something cruel about that smile, and his body language screamed danger.

  "What is your name?" he asked softly.

  "Kate."

  "Hello Kate. People call me Spider."

  Of course they do, thought Kate. Can't have a criminal mastermind with a name like Steve or Keith. She almost voiced her sarcastic thought, but didn't, possibly because she was surprised to find herself capable of levity. She wondered if maybe she had a concussion, and then mentally chided herself; of course she had a bloody concussion.

  "Interesting name," she said. "Where's it from?"

  His smile widened. "I am from Serbia."

  "Oh."

  "Have you ever been?"

  Kate shook her head.

  "It is the most beautiful country on Earth." He paused and Kate felt herself being appraised. "Maybe one day I will take you."

  The way he said it left Kate in no doubt that the double meaning had been intentional. There was a long silence. No sound penetrated this room from outside. All she could hear was her own breathing and the soft hum of ancient aircon.

  "What do you do, Kate. I mean, for a living?"

  "I'm a student doctor. You?"

  "Oh, I do many things. Many things."

  "Is this your club?"

  He nodded. "And let me say, Kate, that if you ever tire of the medical profession, I am sure we could find a place for you here."

  "If Lyudmila's an example of how you treat your staff, I think I'll pass."

  "Lyudmila broke the terms of her contract."

  "How?"

  "She spat."

  It took Kate a moment to work out what he meant, but when she did she felt sick to her stomach.

  Spider leaned forward, gently intertwining his fingers and placing them on his knees.

  "How do you know her?" he asked.

  "I don't."

  Spider looked puzzled and then surprised. He swore in Serbian and despite the language barrier Kate could tell he was amazed.

  "You mean James brought her to you on his own?" he asked, openly astonished.

  Kate didn't know what to do. If she said yes, would that make things better or worse? Eventually she nodded.

  Spider turned to look at her brother and shouted. "Have you found a spine, Booker? I did not think you ever would."

  "She… she was hurt, boss," wheedled James. "And Nate…"

  "That useless junkie is gone. He works for the Albanians now."

  "I know that, boss. But she was hurt, she needed to be looked after. I didn't know what else to do."

  "So you took her to this girl?"

  "Yes."

  "And how…" Spider broke off and looked sharply back at Kate, then back at James. "Ha! She is your sister. You took Lyudmila to see your sister the doctor."

  James hung his head in shame and then gave one short nod.

  "Sorry, Sis," he said softly.

  Spider turned back to Kate and leaned back in his chair again, once more placing his arms just so.

  "I apologise for the way you were treated, Kate. I can see that this situation is not your fault."

  "But?"

  "But I hope you see that I am now in a very difficult position. The business I run is not, entirely, legitimate. There are people who would like to see me locked up. You have seen my face. You know my name. You can identify some of the men who work for me. You are a problem. I think it would be sensible for me to kill you."

  "No! Boss, please!" Yelled James.

  As Spider rose from his chair, his precise movements made him seem almost robotic. He turned and walked over to James, who cowered on the floor. Spider stood above him on the stage and lashed out with his foot, kicking James hard in the face. It was a sudden, shocking action, an explosion of pent up rage. For an instant Spider's limbs were flexible, his neck was loose, his body fluent and fluid. Then, when the blow had been struck, he stood stock still and kind of settled, his body returning to repose, an act of conscious thought, re-imposing order on the chaos he worked so hard to contain within himself. His momentary loss of complete precision seemed almost not have happened.

  He spun on his heels, walked back to Kate, and resumed his seat.

  Kate could hear her brother sobbing quietly.

  She surprised herself by consciously thinking how much she would like to kill this man.,

  "Who…" Kate's mouth was too dry to form words. She rubbed the sides of her tongue across her teeth to force some saliva into her mouth, then sluiced the tiny amount of liquid to the back of her throat, swallowing. "Who was Nate?" she asked eventually.

  Spider's eyes narrowed, calculating. "He was my doctor."

  Even though she'd known what he was going to say, the fact of it chilled Kate to the core. This man needed a doctor on call all the time. Dear God, how many women… how many beatings?

  "And he's gone now?" she asked.

  Spider nodded.

  "Then maybe I can help you. Take his place."

  There was a long silence. When Kate had woken up this morning she'd known this would be a life-changing day. But not in her wildest dreams had she envisaged sitting in a strip club at the crack of dawn as a Serbian gangster considered whether to kill her or welcome her to a life of crime.

  Spider rose again and walked over to Lyudmila. He stood over the unconscious girl, his back to Kate, for a long moment. He stood so still that you could have mistaken him for a shop window dummy. Then he reached into his jacket and withdrew something that Kate couldn't see.

  The shot was deafeningly loud, totally unexpected. Kate screamed in spite of herself. Lyudmila jerked once, but other than that you'd never know that a small piece of metal had just evacuated her head. James cried out, a howl of horror and shame. Spider turned and walked over to him. His body language had changed again. Now he moved like a hunter, loose limbed and balletic.

  Kate didn't have the luxury of going into shock. She leapt up from the sofa and ran over to them. Spider still had his gun in his hand, and he aimed casually at James's head. Kate flung herself between the gun and her brother.

  She opened her mouth to speak, to beg for her life and James's. But she looked into Spider's eyes, able to see them properly, up close, for the first time. She instantly realised that it would be hopeless. There was neither pity nor humanity in those eyes. They were the cold, dead orbs of a predator, nothing more.

  As she realised there was nothing she could do, Kate felt something inside her change. For the first time, she understood that her life lay entirely in the hands of another person, who would end it or not according to his whim. She was no longer in control of her own fate. Her life as she had known it was over. This realisation lent her a sudden, deep calm.

  She looked into those eyes. She did not beg, or plead or cry. She did not try to strike a bargain or make a threat. She did not try to seduce him or attack him. All of those things would have resulted, she knew with absolute certainty, in instant death.

  She just said one word, calmly, si
mply and without emotion.

  "Please."

  The barrista scooped the soy milk froth over the coffee with a long spoon, put a heart shaped flourish in the pattern then sprinkled it with chocolate.

  "Two ninety-five," she said, her Polish accent impossible to miss.

  Kate paid. She smiled at the young woman, lifted the two mugs and a small packet of biscuits, then walked back to the table in the corner where her broken brother sat hunched and sniffling. She placed the mug of coffee in front of him and took her seat, facing him across the small round table. Over his shoulder she could see people hurrying to and fro down Villiers Street, popping into Accessorize or Pret, enjoying the bustle and business of their daily lives. She envied their ignorance and felt as if she no longer lived entirely in their world.

  Her hands were steady as she lifted the coffee mug to her lips. She was surprised by this, but reasoned that she would probably go into shock in an hour or so, when the adrenalin finally wore off. For now, she felt focused, purposeful yet slightly spaced out, as if she had just begun the long build up to a skull shattering migraine.

  James, she could see, was already in shock. She'd been trained to deal with people brought into A amp;E like this; taught how to treat them while eliciting their story, gathering information to help with diagnosis.

  "Start at the beginning," she said, more harshly than she'd intended. It seemed that when it came to her brother, her training didn't help

  James sniffed, wiped his nose on his sleeve and took a sip of coffee. He looked up at her and she winced again at the marks on his face. His left eye was swollen shut, his jaw bulged and bruised, and his front left canine was a gaping, bloody hole. Say what you like about his personality, James had at least always been pretty. He'd always jokingly referred to himself as the lipstick half of any relationship. Certainly his boyfriends had always tended to be square-jawed gym bunnies. Kate suspected his pretty-boy days were over.

  "I got into trouble about six months ago," he said, but then he ground to a halt, staring at the table top.

  "James." He did not respond. "For god's sake James, snap out of it. I need to know what you've got me into and I need to know now. Just take it slowly and tell me the whole story from the start."