When the man was sure he had found everything he picked up the Bible and the cross and held them in front of Jack’s face.
‘What’s this, then?’
‘Mine,’ he said.
The twist the man gave his arm caused another yell of pain.
‘You just bought them. I saw you. They’re for her, aren’t they! She told me.’
Another twist, another yell. Followed by a turning throw that landed him on his back on the floor.
‘Not a good notion, sonny. Not a good idea.’
The man stamped down hard on his stomach. Another bellow of pain and he was fighting for breath.
But before he could recover, the man dragged him to his feet and threw him against the wall between the door and the wardrobe. His head came down to meet his knees as he gasped for breath, but as he bent, the man hit his forehead with a sledgehammer fist, which knocked him upright and banged his head against the wall. The blow dazed him. The pain weakened him so much his legs gave way and he slithered to the ground, panting, slavering bile.
The man was preparing another assault when a hard crack exploded on his head.
The man buckled, sagged, and collapsed.
The girl was standing over him with the remains of the bedside lamp in her hands.
No one moved.
The man lay facedown. The naked woman’s raised arm was impaled in the back of his head. The rest of her body, broken off at the knees, rose into the air as if she had dived into the man’s skull. Blood was running down his neck onto the floor.
Jack was the first to regain his senses. He pushed himself to his feet, went to the girl and eased the base of the lamp from her hands. Still she didn’t move or take her eyes off the man.
‘We’ve got to go,’ he said. ‘We’ve got to get away from here.’
No response.
He threw the remains of the lamp onto the bed and, taking her by the shoulders, turned her to face him.
‘Nadia,’ he said, ‘Nadia, listen. We’ve got to get out of here.’
Still nothing. A blank stare.
He picked the cross and the Bible from where they had fallen on the floor, his wallet and mobile, and the money from the bed and stuffed them into his pockets. He fetched Nadia’s coat from behind the door and held it in front of her.
‘Nadia,’ he said firmly, ‘put your coat on.’
It took a long moment for the instruction to seep in. But slowly, robot-like, she turned and like a child allowed him to put her coat on for her.
He turned her to face him again and buttoned the coat.
‘Is there anything of yours in the room?’ he asked. ‘Anything personal? Anything yours?’
Again his words took an age to sink in. But then her eyes came back to life. She looked round as if seeing the place for the first time, and shook her head.
‘Nothing,’ he said. ‘You’re sure?’
She nodded.
‘Come on, then. We have to go. Now.’
He took her hand and, pulling her after him, rushed out of the room, down the stairs and out of the service door at the back of the flats.
Here he paused, holding her by both arms, facing him.
‘We must get away from here. We’re going to the station. We’ll think what to do when we get there. OK, Nadia? . . . OK?’
She nodded, her eyes full of fear, her body stiff and trembling.
‘We have to look normal,’ he said. ‘Don’t rush. Just walk. OK?’
She nodded again.
He took her hand and led her to the alley.
In the station forecourt he made straight for one of the cafes and sat her at a table inside and out of view of the door, then ordered tea for them both into which he poured an overdose of sugar. He realised they were in shock and knew from First Aid classes at school how hot sweet tea was good for that.
He had to persuade her to drink. She was still unable to say anything, as if her breath was locked up, and reacted slowly to anything he said. Her hand was cold and damp.
Now he began to shiver and broke into a cold sweat as well.
Delayed reaction, he told himself. He’d felt it before whenever he’d suffered an agora attack.
Keep a grip, he thought. I’ve got to keep a grip. Breathe slowly, make yourself relax from the feet up. Don’t let it get a hold on you.
He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Made his body go slack.
I have to decide what to do, he thought. The man’s dead, that’s for sure. Someone, the boss, another thug, will come looking. They’ll find the body. But what will they do? Call the police. But would they? The girl’s an illegal immigrant they smuggled into the country. They’re using her in an illegal business. Not just using her, abusing her. And the other girls. It’s a racket, a criminal business. If they call the police they’ve had it. The police will arrest them and close them down. The last thing they want is the police to get involved. So what will they do? Get rid of the body. Clear up the mess. Keep it to themselves. But they’ll know the girl has gone. They won’t like that. They’ll look for her. If she went to the police, they’d have had it. If she’s trying to escape, the nearest station is one place they’ll look pretty quick.
So they mustn’t stay here. But where could they go? He knew no one in the city. A hotel? He wouldn’t know how to handle checking in and it would be too risky anyway. He couldn’t afford it. They couldn’t stay for longer than a day. And what about his parents? He’d have to phone them. What would he tell them?
He finished his tea. Made Nadia finish hers.
She leaned to him with frightened eyes.
‘He is dead?’
He nodded and squeezed her hand.
‘I think so.’
‘I kill him,’ she said.
She began to cry. He handed her a paper napkin from the container on the table. She wiped her eyes, blew her nose, and said, ‘I wish to go home.’
And suddenly he knew there was only one thing they could do.
‘Listen, Nadia. We’ve got to get away from here. They’ll be looking for you. You’ll have to come with me. We’ll catch the first train that gets us on the way home, to my home, to where I live. You’ll be safe there. I’m going to buy a ticket for you. Can you wait here while I do that? They won’t know me, but they do know you. So you have to stay out of sight. OK? Understand? Can you do that?’
She shivered as he asked, but said yes she could do that.
‘You mustn’t move. OK? Promise?’
‘Yes,’ she said.
It was only then he remembered the cross and Bible. He took them from his pocket and handed them to her. She gave a little cry of relief, took them, put the Bible on the table in front of her, unhooked the chain of the cross and hung it round her neck, before opening the Bible and gazing at the pages, turning them over, as if she had recovered an old friend thought to be lost.
He went to the ticket office.
When he got back she was still there but looking terrified, deathly pale and wild eyed and gripping the Bible in her hands.
He’d checked the train departures. There was one in ten minutes that would get them halfway. They’d have more than an hour to wait for their connection, but they’d be a long way from the city and safe.
‘Come,’ he said.
She jumped up, no longer sluggish now but overanxious, wanting to run, wanting to flee.
He found them seats on the side away from the platform. He sat her by the window, himself on the aisle. He was afraid she might panic and run off.
The train started. Nadia was trembling. He took her hand and stared out of the window at the blur of buildings.
They were out of the city and speeding past fields when Nadia turned in her seat.
‘He was dead?’
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I think so.’
‘I kill him,’ she said, tears in her eyes again.
‘No, no.’ He put his other hand over hers. ‘You didn’t mean to. You were protecting me. He’d have
killed me. You saved my life.’
‘You shall not kill.’ She said it as if that was all there was to it.
He hadn’t the energy to argue.
‘I do,’ she said. ‘A sin.’
She opened her Bible and began to read.
The farther they got from the city the more frightened he began to feel. The adrenaline, or whatever had kept him going and given him the energy, the clarity of mind, to take action, had drained away.
What am I doing? he asked himself. Why did this happen to me? Why did I go to her room? What am I going to do now?
Doubt weakened him still more.
They reached the station where they had to change trains. He bought coffee and sandwiches for something to do. They drank the coffee but left the sandwiches unopened.
Nadia said she had to go to the toilet. He showed her where it was and used the men’s loo himself, then waited outside the ladies’. She took so long he began to fret and was about to go in and find her when she came out. He could see she had been sick. She was deathly pale, with brown rings round her eyes, her lips violently red, and she smelt sour.
They went outside to a seat near the end of the platform well away from other passengers. It was cold but they didn’t care. The fresh air was cleansing.
They sat close together holding hands.
He stared down the tracks in the direction their train would come.
The horror of what had happened began to torment him. He needed help. Someone to talk to. Someone who would know what to do. He thought of phoning his father but remembered he was away on business until that evening. His mother would be teaching. He couldn’t ring her till after school.
Trains came and went.
The silence between times was cold and heavy.
The minutes passed like hours.
He’d never felt so miserable in his life.
At last they were on their way. Nothing said.
For a few minutes Nadia drifted into sleep but woke when the train stopped at a station.
‘Half an hour and we’re there,’ he said to reassure himself as much as her.
It was after five when they arrived. He thought of ringing his mother to pick them up, but that would mean explaining on the phone and how could he do that in a few minutes without panicking her? Better to walk.
They set off.
They were almost home when they came to a church.
Nadia stopped in front of it and said, ‘I kill him.’
He said nothing.
‘I confess,’ she said.
There was a new determination in her voice.
‘Now?’ he said. ‘It’s a Roman Catholic church. Is that your kind?’
‘Orthodox,’ she said. ‘But the priest understand. I must. I am damned if I do not.’
She went to the church door. It was locked.
They went to the presbytery and rang the bell.
An old priest in a shabby black suit and clerical collar opened the door.
Now Nadia couldn’t say anything.
‘Yes?’ the priest said.
‘She wants to speak to you,’ he managed to say.
‘Come in,’ the priest said, standing aside.
The hall smelt of polish and dust. The furniture and floor were dark old wood, the strip of carpet was threadbare.
‘Wait here,’ the priest said to him.
‘Come with me,’ he said to Nadia.
He waited. There was a picture on the wall. Christ with his bleeding heart. He thought of the man lying dead on the floor. The image made him tremble and break into a cold sweat again. How could anyone like anything so gruesome, he wondered and tried not to look at the picture, but there was nothing else on the walls.
There was a chair under it.
He sat down, feeling lost.
He checked his watch many times before the priest emerged.
He stood up.
The priest looked at him with a wry smile.
‘What’s your name?’ he said.
‘Jack Hudson.’
‘You live round here? I’ve seen you sometimes.’
‘Yes. Somerset Gardens.’
‘Right, Jack Hudson. This is a pretty pickle.’
He nodded.
‘Tell me your side of the story.’
When he’d finished, the priest said, ‘What were you thinking of doing?’
‘Take her home. Ask my parents. I don’t know. Maybe she could stay with us. I just don’t know.’
He started to feel the same sort of panic as when the agora attacked. Like then, he felt confused, nothing making any sense. But this time there was nowhere to go.
He started to breathe faster and was close to tears.
‘Are you a Catholic?’ the priest asked.
He shook his head and wiped his eyes and was gasping now.
‘Stand up,’ the priest said. ‘Take three deep breaths. After me. OK? Now . . . one . . . two . . . three.’
He did as he was told. The panic began to subside.
‘You’re not Catholic. Are you anything? Church of England. Methodist. Any of the mad cults.’
He shook his head again. ‘Nothing.’
‘No faith at all?’
He burst out, ‘I don’t know what to do! It’s like a nightmare.’
‘All right. All right. You’re safe here. Try again. Three deep breaths.’
He felt calmer.
‘Now listen to me,’ the priest said. ‘I believe both of you. The girl’s confessed and I’ve absolved her. She’s as innocent as the day is long. More sinned against than sinning. She has nothing to answer for. And neither have you. There’s no way this poor child can be given up to the authorities without somebody to speak for her. But what she’s told me in there is under the seal of the confessional. I can’t reveal it to anybody. You understand what I mean?’
‘Yes.’
‘But what you’ve told me isn’t. So that leaves me free to help, if I can. The trouble is she could be charged with murder, or at best manslaughter. And you could be charged as an accessory. You understand what that means?’
He nodded and sat down.
‘There’s only one thing I can think to do. Have you ever heard of the law of sanctuary?’
‘No.’
‘It was a law that said if a fugitive from justice gets to a church he can claim sanctuary, and the law can’t touch him while he’s in the church. Trouble with it is, the law went out four hundred years ago. But it still has some moral authority. It’s been used a few times in recent years to protect people unjustly threatened with deportation. It’s not legal. It has no power in law. But it has a lot of power as publicity. Draws the attention of the media. Newspapers, TV, radio. Stirs up public opinion. The authorities don’t like that. Not keen on it one bit. Makes them think before acting. Gives us time to prepare a good defence and raise money for it. You see where I’m going?’
‘You think Nadia should stay here in the church?’
‘Not just her. You as well.’
‘Me!’
‘It’s the only way to protect you.’
‘I don’t know . . . What about my parents?’
‘Right. You and the girl stay here. I’ll go and talk to your parents. Bring them here to talk to you and meet the girl. Take it from there. One step at a time. Nobody else needs to know anything yet. You’ll be safe here for a while. Then I must contact the police. And get a doctor to look at that poor girl. After what she’s been through God knows—’
They looked at each other.
‘I was only trying to help,’ Jack said.
‘Yes, well, you’ve discovered there’s a cost for everything. Even saving somebody.’
The priest glanced at the picture and added, ‘Especially saving somebody.’
Jack said, ‘I don’t know what to do.’
‘Go to her,’ the priest said. ‘You need her now as much as she needed you before.’
He went into the room.
It was dim
, smelt of dust and a lingering of what he didn’t know was musky incense brought in day after day, year after year, on the priest’s clothes after mass and infused into the fabric of the curtains, the ancient furniture and the foot-worn carpet with its faded colours in a flowery design. Holy pictures were on the walls and a large crucifix above the empty fireplace, an old clock ticking on the mantelpiece.
But what he saw was not the surroundings, only Nadia, who stood up as he entered.
She looked clean, as if recently bathed, her eyes bright and her face no longer bleached with worry.
She smiled widely at him.
‘Father Thomas absolve me,’ she said.
‘Good,’ he said, but there was no goodness in his voice.
‘You do not believe,’ she said, the smile gone.
‘No.’
She shrugged.
‘It is a mystery,’ she said, and sat down.
‘Too mysterious for me,’ he said.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said.
‘What for?’
‘You see only on top.’
‘On top?’
She waved her hand side to side, as if polishing something.
‘You mean the surface?’ he said.
‘Yes. The surface. You see only the surface. Not under. Under is where all is.’
‘Well, thanks.’
‘Please. You help me. I thank you. I am dead without you.’
‘And you saved me. I don’t know about—what you call it?—absolved. But I do know what you did was self-defence and to save me. Isn’t that good enough?’
‘It is wrong to kill. You did not kill. I kill. I did not want to, but I kill. Killing anyone is a sin. All killing. I have confessed. I repent. Father Thomas absolves me. God forgives me.’
‘That’s what you believe. All I know is, it’s right to save your own life and it’s good to save the life of someone else. You did both, and that’s all I can say.’
‘There is more than you say.’
‘I’ll take your word for it.’
‘One day you find out.’
They contemplated each other, she in the chair, he standing in front of the fireplace.
‘You have much to learn,’ she said, and smiled.
The Kissing Game: Stories of Defiance and Flash Fictions Page 12
