by D J Harrison
As Mick catches up with me, I see bare feet sticking out from the blanket and realise he’s carrying a person.
‘Stop,’ Abe shouts, ‘get back here.’ But he remains static by the doorway. It’s his angry friend that galvanises into action, setting off after Mick and catching him after a few swift strides.
I’ve remained invisible, an irrelevancy to this altercation even while I’m now alongside Mick. The tall man makes a grab at him, and, as his arms raise, I hit him hard in the solar plexus with my massage wheel. It’s not the perfect strike, my feet are slightly out of position and I can’t get all my body weight behind the blow, but it does the job well enough. The guy sinks to his knees and gasps for air. Dodgy knees temporarily forgotten, Mick sprints back to the car, deposits himself and his bundle onto the back seat while I fire up the engine and drive away.
‘I couldn’t leave her there.’ Mick is still protesting even now, sitting in my flat with a cup of tea in his hand. Mary, the woman he rescued, is still in my bathroom with the best I can do in terms of clothes. She’s a careworn thirty-year-old with bright red hair and sad brown eyes. Her story is similar to mine, or rather that of my alter ego Jill Williams. She owes money to Abe and he’s making her pay it off in the most despicable way.
‘They put us in this room downstairs,’ Mick is explaining, ‘there must have been fifty of us at least and then we had to queue up the stairs. By the time I got to her she was screaming in pain. There were several guys being very rough with her so I put a stop to it there and then. I had to bring her out, Jenny, there was no way I could leave her there.’
‘You did the right thing, Mick,’ I say. ‘I’d have done the same. Of course I would.’
Mary comes out of the bathroom. My jeans and jumper look a little baggy in places, but at least she’s presentable now.
‘I need to go home,’ she says. ‘I’ve left the kids on their own, they’ll be wondering where I am.’
‘I’ll take you to the police, you should tell them everything, get Abe locked up,’ I say.
‘No,’ she looks alarmed, ‘no police. There won’t do anything, only make trouble for me. I know what they’re like.’
I can’t help but sympathise with her, my own experience with the law bears her out.
‘He’ll be back, he’ll make you do it again,’ I say.
‘It’s not so bad.’ She grimaces. ‘Tonight wasn’t normal. There were far too many men and no supervision. There should have been more girls.’
When I drop her off I give her my mobile number. ‘You don’t have to do this any more,’ I say. ‘If Abe bothers you again, ring me. Promise?’ She nods. I give her the envelope that Mick gave to me. ‘Here, take this, it’ll help get you back on your feet.’
She looks at me, eyes still blank and distant, takes the money and disappears inside.
6
‘Jenny Parker.’
It’s a man’s voice, almost a shout, coming from behind me. Immediately, I cringe and duck, step to one side, anticipating a knife thrust or a bullet ripping through my breast. As I turn, the crowd of shoppers parts to reveal a tall man pushing his way towards me with one hand outstretched.
Even here, the busy centre of Manchester with so many people around me, I’m frightened. The old rule of safety in public places doesn’t apply any more. Last time they shot at me from the Terminal 3 car park, and before that they turned up at my flat with machine guns.
Market Street, even on a Saturday lunchtime, isn’t going to deter them. The stress of constant fear is taking its toll. I take little joy from life, and I’m even scared to be with my own child in case his five-year-old body becomes collateral damage when they come to get me again.
The man is vaguely familiar, his proffered hand is empty. He’s only got a Marks & Spencer bag in the other. This isn’t today’s assassin. He used to work with me at Landers Hoffman, I think.
‘Jenny,’ he says, ‘how are you?’
‘Fine,’ I lie, ‘never better.’
‘You should come by the office and see us. We could go for a drink after work.’
‘That would be great,’ I lie again. I’ve no intention of ever taking up his offer – the prospect of sitting among that bunch of self-opinionated ignoramuses is about as attractive as spending time in a nest of cockroaches. That’s if cockroaches have nests; I’ve only actually seen one or two at a time. The last time I went for a drink with Landers Hoffman staff was after my lover, Martin’s, funeral. That’s when my whole life began to unravel and my downhill slide went out of control.
Whoever he was, whatever his name is, he melts back into the crowd, leaving me shaking with anger and frustration at what I’ve become. A thirty-five-year-old who jumps at shadows, like a nervous child.
Lottie is perched on a small stool at an already overcrowded table in Starbucks. Her tiny black skirt is drawn up almost to the top of her thighs revealing her long slender legs and a flash of scarlet between her legs. Her flimsy top clings to her unfettered breasts. She’s attracting the attention of every male in the place. The queue for coffee reaches all the way back to the street. The rituals associated with dispensing overpriced steamed milk are being conducted without any sign of haste, despite the growing backlog of customers hovering around the collection point.
‘Lottie,’ I greet her.
She looks up from her phone and screws up her face as if in distaste. ‘Chris said you wanted to see me,’ she says.
‘I could have come to the house.’
‘I don’t want you at the house,’ she replies.
‘Please, Lottie. You know how terrible I feel about everything. I’m really sad for you and your family. And it wasn’t right what happened to you in Ukraine. They had no right to lock you up, it was me who hit that policeman. I’m sorry, I was trying to help you all.’ I am very conscious of the other people at the table and the way they’re giving us their unashamed attention. Lottie seems not to care; her posture is slack and her face disinterested. I walk outside, stand by the big shoe shop, try to connect with her. Not so long ago, we had wonderful fun here, shopping and laughing. Now, the shadow of her twin sister’s disappearance is all we have between us. ‘I’m trying to help now, Lottie. I’m doing my best. I haven’t given up.’
‘My father’s dead because of what you told him to do.’ Her eyes meet mine for the first time and I’m almost overwhelmed by the shock of her deep despair.
‘I’m sorry. I had no idea he would put himself at risk and confront those thugs. He was trying to find his daughter, he was a brave man and a good father. But you can’t hold me responsible, Lottie.’
‘So where is my sister? Why hasn’t she called? I thought you were going to find her.’
‘I’m trying,’ I say. My mind fills with visions of the terrible things I saw in that brothel a few weeks back. How I believed it was Kat being brutally raped, how that could be happening to her right now and day after day. ‘I persuaded the authorities to help me find your sister. I’m having to do things for them in return, things that may get me into very bad trouble. Believe me, I’m doing everything I can.’
I want to hold her, comfort her, reaffirm our friendship but she stands back, stiff and unyielding. Her youthful beauty is a thin mask over the intense sorrow she’s holding. All I can do is mutter reassurances and strengthen my own resolve to find her twin.
I trudge up the stairs to my second floor apartment, head full of the ways my life needs to change for the better. My heart is still weighed down by Lottie’s anger and misery. It’s difficult to keep my resentment under control. The injustice of it all threatens to engulf me.
My door is refusing to budge again and I hurt my shoulder trying to dislodge it. I try kicking it but can’t get any purchase in these shoes and almost end up on my backside. The damn thing looks reasonably okay now, the bullet holes have been filled in and painted over, but the whole door is still twisted out of line. Most of the time a good shove is all it takes. Today it chooses to have one o
f its more awkward moments. Maybe it’s affected by temperature or humidity. Perhaps it reacts to the mood of the person trying to gain entry. A psychic door, that’s what I’ve got. A magic portal that admits only the positive, designed to keep negativity out of my home.
I extract the screwdriver from my handbag, jam it into the crack and twist. A splinter of wood detaches from the doorjamb, that’s all. I push it further in, wiggle it about, try to persuade the recalcitrant door to give. Nothing. Another mark on the frame but no movement at all. I vent my frustration with feeble kicks that leave dark smudges as their only effect.
Footsteps clatter on the stairs. I look round to see Alex, grinning as he takes in the scene. An angry woman trying to jemmy her way into someone’s apartment. If he didn’t know me, he’d have to call the police for sure.
He envelops me in his arms and I feel the tension drain out of me. I soften everywhere, even my knees buckle slightly in his life-giving embrace. He squeezes slightly harder and then releases me but I cling on, unwilling to disconnect, needing him to hold me for ever. In Alex’s arms I feel safe and whole. The world feels good again, my sadness disappears to be replaced by active hope.
He gently extricates himself and examines the door. ‘Sticking again?’
‘Obviously.’ I give it another little kick.
Alex twists the handle and the door swings open obligingly. There, I knew it was psychic. It does have excellent taste, though.
Inside, I ignore the disarray to focus my attention on Alex. I lie down on my back and he cradles my head in his warm hands. As my breath deepens I begin to feel sensation returning to my body. I focus my attention on the feelings flowing up my legs and dispelling the numbness. His hands are still; he doesn’t need to caress me or make any movement at all. Somehow he’s drawing energy up through my whole body and restoring my life force.
I can feel my thighs and buttocks tingling, and then my whole body joins in: I’m aching for his touch now. I imagine those soft hands moving gently downwards and I reach my arms up to touch his shoulders and offer myself to him. My head is gently released, his hands run slowly down my arms. His touch is so delicate, I might be imagining it.
My breathing is deep and luxurious. The cares of the day are being released with every out breath. Alex’s touch flows into my body every time I inhale. By the time he reaches my breasts I’m full with arousal. The blood is rushing to my groin and when he gently brushes my nipple the feeling intensifies to become almost unbearable. His touch on my breast is transmitting all the way down to my groin and I gasp for him, open to him, beg him to enter and then receive him hungrily.
7
‘What’s happening with my investigation?’
Alex’s eyebrows rise in alarm at my question. ‘I really have no idea, Jenny. Even if it were passed over to the National Crime Agency, I’d be the last one to know.’
‘No you’d be the first, Alex, think about it. Your girlfriend under suspicion for a major money-laundering exercise? They’d tell you, they’d have to.’
‘Okay, you may be right. In that case as I’ve heard nothing, it must still be with the police.’
‘Or dropped entirely,’ I say.
‘I hope you’re right, but things move so slowly. They could be taking their time putting a case together.’
‘Charles said he’d get them to leave me alone as long as I did what I was told.’
‘Look Jenny, I’ve told you before, the security services have no jurisdiction over whether you are prosecuted or not. They’re probably using the slowness of the system to get your cooperation. It can take months for this sort of thing to be investigated and even longer to decide whether or not there’s enough evidence to get a conviction.’
‘He also said they’d protect me, get the contract on me lifted, stop them killing me.’
‘I know. You told me. I don’t see how he can do that either. Unless he knows who’s involved he can’t do anything. Your Mr Smith is a bit of a bullshitter if you ask me.’
‘I don’t really have much choice though, do I?’
What Alex is telling me makes perfect sense. All of it has already crossed my mind. The trouble is, I’ve agreed to help now. If I stop cooperating I’m under no illusion what will happen. Even if Alex is right and they can’t make things better for me, I have no doubt they can make them worse, much worse. It’s not Charles Smith I have to worry about, though, it’s Hector who bothers me most. Since he purchased my business, I’ve discovered that he’s the man with all the influence. Hector isn’t a man to be messed with. It seems my only option is to go along with them, but will I be getting myself into even more trouble?
‘You know they still want me to investigate Peter O’Brian?’
‘Have they told you why?’
‘No, but they’re barking up the wrong tree with him. O’Brian’s no master criminal, it shouldn’t be too hard for them to see that. I suppose if I keep telling them he’s okay they’ll just put someone else on his case.’
‘Be careful, that’s all,’ says Alex. ‘There may be more to Mr O’Brian than you know.’
7
The parrot-faced woman admits me with exaggerated reluctance into Hector’s outer office. Her top lip puckers into a hundred tiny wrinkles that radiate from the base of her hooked nose. I wonder if she knows that her boss is a secret agent and that I’m his latest recruit.
‘Mr Brighouse wondered if you would be happy with a working lunch served in his office, Mrs Parker?’ Her expression demonstrates the pain that this degree of hospitality is causing her.
‘I’m sure that will be fine.’ I beam a smile at her which bounces off and into the waste paper basket.
‘Jenny.’ Hector extends his hand as he ushers me inside and closes the door. Last month Hector paid me almost two and a half million pounds for my security business. That was after I found myself recruited to the covert security service in what seemed the only alternative to being assassinated by contract killers. When I discovered that Hector Brighouse was responsible for both situations I thought what a coincidence. After a lot of thought I’m now convinced that he leaves very little to chance.
‘You will be happy to hear that GOD Security is merging very nicely into Security Group. It’s business as usual for all your staff. I’m sure it will turn out to be a very good arrangement for all concerned.’
I recall with a flicker of panic how I’ve not been entirely frank over the details of the transaction, and needed to pay a substantial backhander to the head of SG’s accountants to cover up my tracks. I wonder how Hector will take the news if I tell him, or more realistically, if he ever finds out. I may already have his money, but I’ve no illusions about how little my life is worth without his continued support.
‘I’m glad to hear it, they’re a good bunch. Make sure you look after them.’ My smile is more of a teeth-clenching exercise. We both know that my ex-employees, bar very few, are generally untrustworthy and mostly indolent. Perfectly fine for security work but pretty ordinary in the main.
‘I also hear good things from Mr Smith about you, Jenny. He says you can take a hell of a wallop without even flinching.’
‘All we’ve achieved is to make me even more unpopular. We probably added at least one to the list of people who want me dead. Have you managed to find out who sent those gunmen to kill me yet?’
‘Not really. We have one or two ideas, of course. The word has been whispered into the most appropriate ears; however there are no guarantees that they’ll either hear or take notice. I strongly suggest that you maintain extreme vigilance, Jenny.’
‘It’s been a few weeks. Don’t you think they might have gone off the idea of murdering me?’
‘Perhaps. On the other hand, you left one dead, one dying and six more detained by the police. They may be waiting for reinforcements.’
‘Charles Smith promised I’d be protected if I worked for the security services.’
‘Did he, indeed?’ Hector twists his lips int
o a smile that looks more like a fleshy wound.
‘What do you mean, did he, indeed? Doesn’t he have any authority? Is that it, was he lying?’
‘It’s not as simple as we all might wish. Different factions, diverse interests are involved. Different departments have different priorities and jurisdictions.’
‘People are trying to kill me and all you can do is to offer to tie them up in red tape. Is that it?’
Hector laughs, a great booming noise from deep inside his large frame.
‘Very good, I like that. I promise to use it to good effect at the most appropriate time. Meanwhile, remain assured that we’ll do what we can to keep you out of harm’s way.’
‘It would help if you could find out who you’re protecting me from.’
‘Yes, of course. We have two likely candidates and several less likely ones. The most likely are foreign nationals of evil intent who carry out illegal activities in our towns and cities. The very people you have been – how should I put it? – ‘bothering’ of late.’
‘Ukrainians?’
‘Perhaps, or Hungarians or Romanians or Moldavians or Armenians, the list is quite long. Our difficulties lie in that we have to deal with such a diverse bunch. Mr Smith is of the opinion that one of these groups saw your interference as being on behalf of a rival gang who are trying to muscle in on their patch. If so, it might be possible to nip that in the bud, so to speak.’
‘What about the other likely candidates, who are they?’
‘Much closer to home and less tractable, I’m afraid.’
‘Who?’ I have a very cold feeling that’s making me want to shiver. I’m not sure I want to know the answer to my question. If it isn’t the Eastern European sex gangs who are after me, things must be very different to the way I think they are.
