The forecast said it would be fine so Miri had not bothered with an umbrella when she left for work that morning, planning to get changed at the hospital at the end of her shift and go straight from there to meet her date that evening.
But a patient kept her late and the bus went without her so she had to walk instead. The restaurant was only twenty minutes away yet the heavens opened shortly after setting off and, as a consequence, she got completely drenched.
After a mad dash through the pouring rain, she finally made it to the quaint little bistro, puffing hard and looking much like a drowned rat as she burst breathlessly in, her arrival announced to the rest of the diners by the tinkling of the bell above the door.
All eyes were upon her as she was escorted sheepishly to her table, dripping every step of the way and highly embarrassed by her bedraggled state.
What is more, she was almost twenty minutes late and her blind date, who described himself as tall, dark and handsome, but turned out to be short, balding and rotund, looked rather peeved by her soggy appearance and extreme tardiness.
“Oh, your French,” was his only reaction when Miriam apologised for being late, which was not the most welcoming of responses, but she slipped off her coat anyway and hurriedly took her seat opposite him.
She hoped that perhaps he was just as apprehensive about their rendezvous as she was and his opening gambit was merely the result of nerves. Indeed, she was rather relying on his conversation and sense of humour making up for his disappointing looks as so far her opinion of him was decidedly lukewarm.
Nevertheless, her date introduced himself as ‘Gerry,’ and stated, rather proudly, that he was a Financial Advisor, which he seemed to think would impress her. So much so, in fact, that he proceeded to tell her in great detail exactly what it involved.
Miri smiled sweetly and feigned interest but was relieved when the waitress came to take their order as it forced Gerry to pause for a few precious moments.
Already it was clear to her that he was far from her ideal man, but it had been months since she had been out - even longer since she had actually been on a date, so Miriam was determined to make the very best of it.
For the last few months, she had been working almost non-stop. Having earned her degree, she was now in the first foundation year of hospital placement, gaining valuable hands-on experience in what was the next step to her becoming a fully qualified doctor.
However, her busy schedule at the hospital left very little time for a social life and even less time for romance, yet on impulse she had responded to a classified ad in the Relationships column of the local newspaper. This led her, one week later, to that particularly bistro and the stranger who was presently sitting opposite her; the identifying red rose he was wearing in his lapel looking much more cheerful than the squashed, soggy one pinned to hers.
Unfortunately, Gerry’s personality was as unappealing as the cannelloni the waitress finally delivered but Miri devoured it anyway as she was utterly famished having not had time to eat all day.
As her date waffled pompously on about how clever, how sought after and how successful he was, her thoughts drifted away, as they did on an almost daily basis, to Sam.
Neither she, nor Vas had heard from him in many months and it was immensely worrying.
Miri had last spoken to Sam on the phone around the first week of April and Vas had called him maybe a week after that - but that was six months ago and neither had heard a thing since.
She had, however, received a mysterious bouquet of flowers on her birthday in June; the message on the accompanying card reading simply, ‘Happy Birthday, love S x’ which she assumed to be from Sam, but there had been nothing more since.
Miri did not know if he was alive or dead. Indeed, he could well be lying in some shallow grave somewhere, killed by the very men he had set out to find and the thought of him meeting such a terrible end - the very idea of never seeing him again, was almost too much to bear.
Some days the worry threatened to crush her, but she powered on, threw herself into her work and tried to keep her mind occupied at all times.
But at moments like this, when she was bored or had little to do, or whenever she could not sleep no matter how tired she was, Miri could not help but think about Sam and wonder where on earth he might be.
Vas was the same and when they saw each other it did them both the world of good. But with Vas busy with his studies and her shifts at the hospital keeping her there until all hours, they never seemed to get any significant time together.
Furthermore, since finishing her degree, Miri had moved out of her flat on campus and now lived in a little bedsit on the other side of the city which made it even more difficult for them to meet up regularly.
She did know, however, that Vas was constantly in touch with his father, continually pressing him to find any information on the men Sam was after. So far, nothing had turned up but he would not give up. Someone, somewhere knew something and if anyone could extract that information then it was Vladimir Voronin.
It was Vasily’s hope that when, or indeed, if, Sam finally got in touch, then he would have something significant to report. But unfortunately, as yet, he had not.
For the present, Vas and Miri could do nothing more than wait, but that, in itself, was becoming absolutely insufferable.
When the meal was over, Gerry set to work on the house wine and after several large glasses started to become rather boorish; rudely commenting on her bedraggled appearance and making it clear that she should be very grateful he had stayed for the meal at all.
Soon she decided that she’d had quite enough. She had given him the benefit of the doubt, hoped that there might be some substance behind the falsely advertised exterior, but there was none to be found.
Indeed, it was an inauspicious end to a thoroughly forgettable date.
So she made her excuses, paid her half of the bill, along with a generous tip, and got up to leave.
Gerry, however, was less than impressed by this and became quite obnoxious, loudly protesting her departure as she hurried from the restaurant; the embarrassment of her exit rivalling that of her entrance.
When she emerged into the damp night air, the rain had thankfully passed over but it was late now and the buses had stopped running, nor was there a taxi in sight.
She stood on the pavement outside the restaurant, not relishing the lonely walk home and desperately hoping that a cab might come along soon to save her from it.
But instead her drunken date blundered out of the bistro behind her and once again started haranguing her.
It seemed now he felt short changed, as if she had supposedly welshed on some imaginary agreement and that for his company at dinner she was required to reciprocate in kind.
Suddenly, under the streetlight on the pavement in front of the restaurant, he grabbed her breast and tried to kiss her, his pungent breath smelling of cheap wine and garlic.
In response, Miri punched him sharply on the nose; her reaction quick and instinctive.
“Fuckin’ French whore!” Gerry exclaimed as he lunged for her. But Miri was ready to defend herself and kicked him hard in the balls.
As her would-be-attacker doubled over in agony, she swiftly turned on her heels and ran.
“Come back here you bitch!” Gerry winced painfully. “I’ll fuckin’ kill you for that!”
But Miriam did not stop running until she was sure it was safe to do so.
However, she was now completely alone on a dark, deserted street and her little bedsit was still a considerable distance away.
The thought of making the journey on foot through Cambridge’s eerily Gothic streets filled her with dread but she had no other choice.
She set off at a brisk pace, the echo of her high heels click-clacking on the cobbles as she went.
She had been going for about ten min
utes and was roughly half way home, when the harsh sound of her own footsteps was joined by the distant echo of somebody else’s.
Suddenly a shiver of fear ran down Miri’s spine; her first thought being that her date had followed her. Scared for her safety, she looked back over her shoulder, her mind racing, she was all alone with no one else about, what should she do?
Yet as she stared back up the street, expecting to see the short, balding creep from the restaurant, she instead saw someone entirely more terrifying.
Some distance away, briefly illuminated by the solitary light of a window, she saw the figure of a man; the harsh sound of his heavy boots pounding the pavement slightly out of sync with the dainty click-clack of her own stylish sling backs.
In that briefest of glances and in spite of their considerable length apart, Miri saw enough to chill her to the very bone.
For the person behind her was no ordinary man; he had a shaved head, calf-length jeans and high-laced boots.
In fact, all the defining trademarks of a skinhead.
Visions of Claudette flashed into Miri’s mind along with terrifying thoughts of the men who had killed her; two of whom she knew to be skinheads as Sam had said so.
Suddenly spooked, Miri snatched off her high heels and broke, barefooted, into a run, a wave of panic flooding through her whole body. Were they after her, too?
With her feet now free from the restricting shoes, she sprinted the remaining distance in record quick time, not daring to look back again for fear of seeing the skinhead chasing after her.
The detached house in which she lived was a large, three-storey Edwardian property, comprising seven self-contained flats, and surrounded by a low privet hedge.
Miri darted through the little wooden gate that sat between a gap in the hedge and rushed up to the front door, fumbling for the keys in her handbag.
Hairs were prickling the back of her neck as she searched frantically through the contents, all of her senses screaming that the skinhead might be somewhere close behind and her hands trembling with the fear of it.
The moment the key was found, she quickly unlocked the front door and immediately ran upstairs to her top-floor flat.
Once inside, she locked the door behind her and snapped on the light, her heart racing ten to the dozen.
But it did not matter now as she was home, safe at last.
***
The skinhead watched from the shadows below as Miri closed her curtains up on the top floor. He had lost sight of her when she ran and was not certain that this was the correct address, but seeing her up there confirmed it and a faint smile played over his lips.
Now it was just a matter of breaking in.
***
Miriam stripped off her still damp clothes and turned on the shower.
She was perspiring from her run and the warm water would refresh her, she also hoped it might wash away the sense of unease she still felt after seeing the skinhead.
Was she being irrational? She wondered. Could he really have been following her?
The truth was she did not know but her instincts told her that he was.
However, he might have been entirely innocent, after all, a skinhead was not such an unusual sight, even in Cambridge.
Nevertheless, she was glad to be home and as she stepped into the soothing stream of warm water, Miri could not wait to get to bed.
She was tired and everything would surely seem a bit clearer in the morning.
Ten minutes later, having dried herself off, she slipped naked between the cool sheets of her comfy bed. Her long hair was still damp but she had spread a towel over her pillow to protect it, happy to let her dark locks dry naturally overnight.
With tiredness taking over and her fears fading into the background, Miriam’s thoughts turned once more to Sam, as they so often did at bedtime, and after switching off her lamp, she soon fell into an exhausted sleep, imagining just how wonderful it would be to see him again.
Yet as she drifted off, she was blissfully unaware that the skinhead who had frightened her so was already in the house; his highly polished boots not making a sound as he crept slowly up the stairs.
***
It was the creek of a floorboard that alerted her first; the sound stirring her from sleep and setting her pulse racing once more.
As she listened, terrified, she was certain she could hear movement - someone was inside her flat.
Tentatively, she opened her eyes and peered into the darkness of the room; immediately seeing the figure of a man moving about.
With her eyes accustomed to the dark, she could clearly see that the man was a skinhead and a crippling fear filled her belly.
Very slowly, she reached out an arm and snapped on her bedside light. “Who are you? What do you want?” She demanded, her eyes briefly dazzled by the sudden brightness.
However, as she bolted upright in bed, the blankets pulled up tightly to cover her nakedness, she could see that the man had a closely shaved head. He was wearing a patterned red and white T-shirt, tie-dyed Levis that were calf-length and high-laced, cherry red Doc Martens. Unmistakably the same person who had been following her earlier.
The skinhead seemed startled and staggered slightly as he turned to face her.
“Come any closer and I’ll scream!” Miri warned. “I mean it.”
“No, please,” said the intruder, swaying unsteadily at the foot of her bed, “Don’t.”
Miriam’s eyes were still struggling to get used to the light but she could see now that the man was not actually wearing a patterned T-shirt at all. It was, in fact, a plain white Fred Perry and the redness, which she had mistaken for some sort of design, was, rather shockingly, a large, wet blood stain.
She gasped with horror at the realisation.
Yet there was more blood on his jeans and as Miriam’s eyes slowly adjusted, she could see that the skinhead also had bloodied nostrils and a nasty split across the bridge of his nose. His lips were badly swollen too and he had clearly been in one hell of a fight.
However, it was his eyes which struck her the most. Deep blue and filled with warmth and kindness, they were eyes she would have known anywhere. And she had missed them dreadfully.
“Oh, mon dieu!” She exclaimed, realising with utter shock that this intruder was no stranger at all but the man whom she had thought about every single day for the last six months.
“Sam?” She said, her voice cracking with emotion as he fought to stay upright.
“Hi, Miri,” Sam replied with a friendly smile, just a moment before his eyes closed and he pitched forward.
He fell face down onto her bed and immediately Miriam leapt out from under the covers and rushed to him, completely oblivious to the fact that she was stark naked.
Very gently she turned him onto his back and stared down into his badly beaten face, unable to quite believe what she was actually seeing.
She leant over him and tenderly brushed his cheek; his eyes flickering open at the softness of her delicate touch.
Miriam smiled at him, tears of joy and pain and heartbreak flooding her eyes. “Hello, Sam,” she said, her voice no more than a whisper.
He grinned back at her, obviously in a great deal of discomfort. “Sorry to scare you,” he croaked.
“That’s okay, chéri,” she cooed, “but what the hell have you been up to?”
Sam’s eyes glanced down involuntarily and Miriam was suddenly conscious of her nakedness, but she made no attempt to move or cover herself such was her concern for him.
He smiled again, forcefully averting his eyes from the sight of her gorgeous body. “It’s a long story,” he said. “But put some clothes on, will you, or you might just finish me off,” he coughed, making light of his strange appearance and the serious condition in which she found him. “Then I’ll tell you.”
“Tell me later,” Miri replied, trying to disguise the distress in her voice, realising he was in an extremely bad way. “I’m going to take a look at your wounds first.”
“Great, I was hoping you would,” said Sam, his pained voice dreamy and far away, “that’s why I came here.”
Then his eyes rolled upwards and he surrendered to oblivion.
Part Two:
The Hare And The Bulldog
Chapter Eleven
Six months earlier, after leaving his family home in New Hampshire, Sam had flown directly to London.
His objective being to find the skinhead with the harelip who he had recognised from the police mugshots.
‘The Hare’, as Sam had dubbed him, was apparently local to the Cambridge area and undoubtedly his best hope of finding the other five men.
Find him, then he might hopefully find them all.
But he could not simply go blundering into known skinhead hangouts and start asking questions willy nilly as it would be far too dangerous - it might also alert the very man he was after.
It was also a possibility that his man was long gone. After all, it had been nearly a year since the attack and he could be almost anywhere by now - but Sam hoped not.
Even so, barging blindly in was not the way to go about things as doing so could possibly jeopardise any chance he might have.
His initial strategy was to pose as a newspaper reporter in the pretence of writing a feature on the skinhead culture. Marcus had supplied him with press credentials from one of the newspapers owned by Beresford Industries so it seemed to be a perfect way in.
However, before risking this approach on the skinheads of Cambridge he thought it better to test it on those in the London area first, just in case it was unsuccessful.
Yet, upon attempting to interview the skinheads he found there, he was met with animosity and mistrust together with a sneering dislike for his unmistakably American accent and ‘long-haired hippie’ appearance.
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