by J. S. Law
She moved across the storeroom quickly, moving straight to the door, then doubling back and shining her light into the office area to make sure there was no one hiding in there; there wasn’t.
She moved to the door that would lead through to the main shop and listened.
Nothing.
She felt the way she had as a child, daring herself to go to the toilet in the dead of night. Each time, nothing attacked her, yet every night she was just as terrified as she’d been the night before.
She waited by the door.
She knew there were shelves directly opposite her, running the whole length of the shop. If she went right, that took her to the fire escape; left headed down toward the tills and was closer to where she’d fought with Simmons.
She looked down at the handle, opened it quickly; no point in hesitating or messing around.
The door came open easily and she stepped back and out of the way, grabbing her baton from her pocket and extending it in a single movement.
Nothing came through the door save a stream of light.
The shop’s main lights were on and they made Dan blink as she looked out into the brightly lit space. Those lights hadn’t been on a few minutes ago. They hadn’t been on a few seconds ago.
Her heart thumped and she took a step backward, edging toward the door.
She heard a noise, a whimper like a trapped animal, and listened again, her senses hyperaware. She moved back to the door and leaned her head to look as far through it as possible in one direction, seeing nothing but shelves and stock. Then she moved into the doorway and looked the other way and waited. Animals didn’t turn lights on.
She turned and moved quickly back to the door she’d entered the storeroom through. She’d go back, phone for help from the car, get other people up here, Roger, Josie, and some of the team. They’d go in together.
As she reached the door her heart skipped a beat.
It was shut.
She tried the handle. It was wedged shut, the door wouldn’t move at all.
Dan turned, put her back to it, and held the baton out in front of her.
No one was coming, no one was sneaking up behind her, so she turned again, took a deep breath, and tried the door, pushed it, pulled it, levered the handle. It was wedged tight; she wouldn’t be going out that way.
She had two choices, the fire exit and up onto the roof, and trying to get out one of the front windows and doors. Both meant heading back through the main shop.
She walked over, her baton resting on her shoulder, her flashlight on but becoming less useful as she approached the lights in the main shop.
She looked in again. There was nothing there—well, nothing that shouldn’t have been there. The shop looked dusty but ordered, identical to how it’d looked the last time she’d been here, though this aisle hadn’t seen any of the action.
She looked to the right, toward the fire escape door, and saw it was shut. The bar was there and she knew it should open from the inside, but she also knew how easy it would be to block it. Then she looked to the left, considering whether to check out the shop first, but the door was there, tempting, and she needed to know if it was locked, needed to eliminate that route from her mind before she spent time looking elsewhere.
Whoever turned the lights on knew she was coming anyway.
She stepped through the door and turned right, walking slowly along the aisle and listening to the sounds around her as she took each step.
The shelves ended about six feet from the far wall, and the fire escape door was set into it. As Dan reached the end, she changed course, moving away from the shelves, swinging out wide toward the exit, so anyone waiting at the end of the shelves would need to show themselves before they could be on her. She had the baton raised, and became aware of the aching and tension in her shoulders, suddenly feeling weak and tired, thoughts creeping into her mind telling her to just sit down, get some rest, put her back to a wall and wait.
She flexed the baton down, stretching out her shoulders and taking a deep breath; then, raising it again, she steeled herself, ready for anything, and stepped away from the cover of the shelves and into the area at the end of the shop, heading for the fire exit.
It hit her instantly, but not from close, not from behind the shelves as she’d expected.
Dan stumbled back, dazed, dropping her left arm as pain shot through her shoulder. She gasped. The impact of something heavy and hard, combined with a clattering noise and another human screaming, was overloading her senses and her vision blurred for a moment, the room whirling around her. Her legs felt weak, as though she might go down, might collapse there and then.
She staggered back behind the shelves and looked down, rubbing her shoulder. It felt dead, as though she’d been punched hard, and it’d left her with no feeling in that arm. She looked at the floor and against the wall, saw a can of food lying there that hadn’t been there before.
She took some deep breaths and tried to listen above the sound of her own breathing, her own heartbeat, and a screaming in her body, from her head and her shoulder, that was degrading all of her senses. She readied the baton in case someone rushed her, but her left arm wouldn’t go up past her shoulder now, and so she held the baton ready with her right arm and listened.
Nothing.
“Who is that?” shouted Dan.
She edged closer to the end of the aisle and turned her head so she could peek in the direction that the projectile had come from. She readied herself to recoil quickly in case another tin was coming down the same flight path, but there was nothing there, no one there.
Footsteps sounded, but she couldn’t place them. They stopped again and there was silence.
50
Thursday, February 5
Dan froze, the baton raised in her right hand, and waited.
There was nothing now, no sound, not even breathing.
She looked at the fire exit, so close yet now seeming impossibly far away. She’d try it again, but first she needed to know for sure who she was in here with. She’d prefer a straight-up confrontation to all the sneaking around; if it’s coming, let it come.
Turning slowly, glancing back over her shoulder at every step, she moved silently toward the tills.
There was nothing there that shouldn’t have been. No one there at all. Dan took the corner wide again, tensed and ready for another attack.
She looked at the tills and at the shuttered window across from her. She’d looked in that window last time and seen a woman trapped and beaten. Now she was that woman.
She turned and looked along the aisles.
There were several to choose from, but waiting wasn’t an option; she had to move forward.
One way stood out to her, familiar, and Dan went that way first, recognizing that she was going the same way she had when she’d come to find Evelyn Simmons. She looked ahead and saw the gap where the gift section had been, on the left-hand side. Dan remembered the rocking chair beneath the gift sign and leaned her head around a set of shelves to look.
Her stomach tightened, forcing a gush of air out of her mouth, and her arm fell limp, the baton hitting the floor as she almost dropped it.
She stepped around quickly, moving until the whole chair was in view.
The gift section sign was still there, but beneath it, arranged on the chair like a fetal baby, was Natasha Moore.
Dan looked around her, raising the baton again, ready to fight. She edged closer to Natasha, and when she could, she reached down and touched the girl, seeming to wait for an eternity to feel some warmth, some faint movement or sign of life.
It was there, though, something inside the girl was still fighting for her life, and Dan heard Natasha stir, wheezing as she drew in a breath.
Dan spun as she heard a sound, her mouth dropping open as she looked.
Sarah Cox was standing halfway up the aisle looking at Dan and Natasha, her mouth open as though she, too, was stunned to see them.
Cox was st
ill in her clothes from when she’d fought with Dan and John at the marina. Her shirt was literally soaked in blood, some of it dry, but on her right side, Dan could see a sheen of red moisture glisten as fresh blood poured from her ear and down her face and joined the dark patches of her shirt.
“You?” said Cox, her voice sounding thick and slurred.
She raised her arm to throw another object at Dan.
Dan stepped back, turning to shield Natasha with her body, to protect her.
The movement made Cox’s missile go wide, and Dan heard a scream as Cox charged toward her.
Standing up, Dan spun to face Cox, losing her footing as she stepped on something round. She was on her backside in an instant, scuffling away, her eyes flicking to Natasha.
“Sarah!” she shouted, but the reply was a glass jar exploding on the floor next to Dan’s hand, a red sauce splattering the floor and causing Dan to recoil and wipe her eyes as she tried to clear her vision.
Cox was almost on her, and Dan spun on the floor, trying to get her legs toward the woman so that she could kick her away, but Cox was there in a heartbeat, standing over her, her arm raised, and Dan could do little more than flinch away, covering her face and body as Cox hurled something hard and heavy at her from close range.
It hit the side of Dan’s shoulder, the pain was blinding, and Dan screamed as lightning shot down her arm. She turned away, her eyes shut, and she heard a dragging sound before she was hit by multiple falling items as Cox swept her arms across the nearest shelf.
Dan tried to roll away but felt a boot catch her on the back, and then something heavy against her head, and she felt her body go limp for a moment, on the edge of passing out.
Cox was standing over her. Dan could feel the weight of her shadow looming.
Natasha’s hand was at the edge of Dan’s vision, hanging limp off the edge of the chair, the ring finger missing, a bleeding stump where it should be.
Dan kicked out, her legs flailing wildly, and she turned to see Cox step away from her, her eyes wide.
Dan followed her eyes and saw Natasha look back at her, her eyes only just open.
“Natasha,” said Dan, kicking out at Cox’s knee, forcing her to take a step back.
Then Cox stumbled on some of the detritus she’d strewn around the floor. Her leg slid from under her, and Dan, acting on instinct, looked for her baton, grabbed it, and swung it hard at Cox’s supporting leg, striking hard at the side of her knee.
The baton made contact with a loud thwacking sound, and Cox cried out before she went to the ground.
Dan swung the baton again, aiming for Cox’s outstretched leg but landing only a glancing blow. She tried to push herself up, to get to her feet, but her left arm wouldn’t do it, seemed to have lost all of its strength, and before she could try again, Cox was on top of her.
Dan had been here before, knew she was in a lot of trouble, and scrabbled round, trying to grip her baton so she could swing it at Cox.
She felt Cox grab one wrist and then the other, stretching Dan’s arms out above her head like a playground bully.
“How did you find me?” said Cox, her voice odd, thick, muffled. “Why did you bring me here?”
“What?” said Dan as the questions sank in.
Dan struggled and kicked out, writhed and arched her back, but Cox was on top and holding her tight. She could feel her strength draining away as the heavier woman leaned down on her wrist and kept her pinned to the floor.
Dan stopped, looked up for just a second to see Natasha Moore grab the baton from the floor and swing it at the back of Cox’s head.
Cox rolled off as Natasha collapsed to the ground beside her, spent, all her energy used up in the one effort.
Cox looked as though she’d landed hard. She was lying on her back, her arms beside her, her body open and unprotected, her eyes wide in shock. She was already regaining her senses, her fingers working, clenching and flexing, and Dan moved quickly.
She stood up, grabbed the baton from Natasha’s open hand, and stepped to Cox’s side. She drew back her boot and made to kick Cox in the ribs.
Cox saw it coming and put her arms down, turning slightly to absorb the kick, but Dan had taken no chances, hadn’t overreached, and she raised the baton above her head and brought it down as hard as she could onto the front of Cox’s exposed shoulder, near her neck.
The sound of Cox’s collarbone breaking sent a sickening shudder through Dan.
Cox didn’t even scream.
The pain seemed to put her into shock, her face turning pale, her mouth opening wide, and her pupils dilating as Dan watched her.
Dan stood over Cox, holding the baton in her right hand and panting as she looked down.
“You’re done,” Dan said.
Cox’s eyes barely flickered, and Dan looked more closely at her, at her ear, where the blood was still trickling down. Something had been done there, Cox’s ear was a mess, it looked as though someone had attacked the side of her head with a cheese grater.
“What happened to you?” shouted Dan, assuming that Cox’s hearing had been affected by whatever had happened to her. “Who did that to you?”
Cox looked at her, rolling her head to look up into Dan’s face. Then she smiled at Dan and quietly laughed.
Dan watched and waited, saying nothing, not sure what was going on in Cox’s mind and waiting for clarity to come back.
“How did you find me?” said Cox, her voice a whisper, as though she were on the edge of passing out. “How did you find her?”
“I didn’t,” said Dan. “I didn’t.”
“You’ve no idea what you’ve done,” whispered Cox.
Dan looked into her eyes and saw a reflection flash across Cox’s wide pupils as something moved behind her.
In an instant, Dan felt an arm around her neck, the crook of the elbow underneath her chin, and she was picked up clean off the floor.
Her hands went to her neck, trying to free herself from the grip, but whoever had her, had her tight. She kicked, scratched, felt her legs clear the ground, before colored dots appeared across her vision and the strength drained out of her.
51
Friday, February 6
Dan was lying on the floor again, but comfortably now, on her back, something beneath her head and something draped over her to keep her warm. She tried to open her eyes, but then she heard a voice, not too far away, and froze, keeping her eyes tight shut, not moving at all.
“Dan’s in a bad way, but she’s going to recover.”
Dan recognized the voice, though her head was pounding and she couldn’t place it.
“The others?”
A second voice; she recognized this one, too.
“Whoever took them out wasn’t messing about. They hit the big one hard, she won’t come to for a while.” He paused. “They’re alive, and all three need help; the little one, though, whoever it was banged her, too, and she looked as though she was already in a bad way; she really won’t last forever.”
Dan’s body was inanimate, frozen in place, but her mind was whirling. Where had she heard those voices before she knew they were talking about Cox, who had to be “the big one,” and Natasha, who sounded as though she was barely hanging on?
“He’s here,” said the first voice.
“Fuck,” said the second, and Dan heard feet shuffling, and a sound that she was sure was a cigarette being sucked on one last time, and then being ground out under a shoe.
There was movement, a cold draft, and then more footsteps.
“Where’s my daughter?”
Dan didn’t know how to feel, what to feel, how to react. She now heard the voice she’d known since childhood, would recognize anywhere, and she was hearing it somewhere it just shouldn’t be.
“She’s over there, Taz, she’s okay.”
Footsteps approached.
“Taz, wait. She’s fine, I promise. She’s unconscious, looks like someone choked her out, but she’ll be fine.”
/> Dan felt her father’s presence near her and the warmth of his familiar hand on her face, as he looked down at her.
“I told you what would happen if either of my girls was hurt,” he said, standing up, his voice changing in tone. “I warned you, Jimmy.”
“It wasn’t us,” said the second voice, and Dan recognized Jimmy Nash’s cockney twang and gruff accent.
“It really wasn’t, Taz,” said the first voice, polite and well-spoken. Marcus.
“We were watching her,” said Jimmy, “just making sure she stopped looking into the business, that’s all, but this mess wasn’t us.”
“Then who?”
“We don’t know.”
“So why did you call me down here?” asked Taz, his tone clipped.
“I didn’t. I got a message from you to meet here. Wasn’t till I got here and found her that I knew you hadn’t sent it. I didn’t call this meeting,” said Jimmy.
They stood for a moment in uneasy silence.
“So who called us, then?” asked Taz, his voice quiet.
“I. Don’t. Know,” said Jimmy, and Dan detected something in his voice as he answered her father, a mixture of threat and maybe fear, the sound of a man who would only go so far.
“Tell me what happened,” said Taz.
“I got a message claiming to be from you,” said Jimmy. “Said to be here ASAP. So I came ASAP. Found your girl on the floor round there, unconscious. Found another one over there, on her front, cuffed. Found a little blond one, looked just like my girl, out cold on a rocking chair round the corner. Her finger’s missing.”
Jimmy paused.
“Which one?” asked Taz.
“You know which one,” said Jimmy. “And that’s it. We checked they’re alive, made Dan comfortable, and waited. You?”
“I got a message from you,” said Taz.
There was silence again.
Dan began to feel cold, to feel she might drift away again, back into a dream state instead of this crazy dream she was in now.
