The Way Back

by Dominique Kyle

  I stood frozen to the spot. “I can’t come, Mizo,” I hissed at him. “Alan’s throwing his toys out the pram about me being sent all over the shop…”

  Mizo rolled his eyes. “The guy’s a control freak – but I guess that’s why he’s in charge of the mechanical side of things – keeps his eye on the detail… Any news?”

  I shook my head. I thought it best. I had no idea how much Mizo had been told, and Alan would be back out any second. As Alan opened the door to his office, Mizo swiftly made himself scarce. “Heskett says he’s too busy to talk to me right now,” he reported with a face like thunder. I said nothing.

  “Right, you and I are going through a shed load of stats, and you are going to get to grips with every variation that we have to take into account for set-up on practice, qualifying and race days, and how we set about planning a race strategy.”

  Shit, I thought, as he led me back into his office, I hope I can concentrate. I was so tired and stressed I could barely think straight. But I was desperate to make a good showing…

  In the end, it was probably the best thing he could have done for me. Three and a half hours and two cups of strong coffee later and I hadn’t had a moment to think or worry about anything else. In the afternoon I was sent off to have a tour round the Williams Hybrid Power Department to get a handle on the innovative kinetic energy recovery system (KERS) that Williams had developed for their race cars and had now been taken up by other top companies. And then at the end of the day he pounced on me and tested me on the figures. At the finish he looked really hard at me and put a couple of hypothetical situations to me to come up with a solution. I sifted everything I knew, including everything I’d learned from Mizo, and my previous rotation in aerodynamics, and what I’d picked up out in the real pit situations. And then I summed up my point of view to him. He was silent. I waited for feedback. None came. “Right,” he said, slapping a hand down on his desk. “Time to go home.” And he got up. So I never found out how I’d done…

  Any news? I texted Sappho.

  No.

  But then that’s what I’d said to Mizo earlier. So how could I tell if it was true or not? Maybe she’d been sworn not to say or she knew now that her phone was being monitored.

  It felt completely gutting to have to not turn in the direction of Nish’s flat. I’d been doing it so often after work these past few weeks. But I knew better than to be seen anywhere near it. They’d have it under surveillance. I went home to Quinn.

  “Run, Quinn?” I demanded.

  “Oh God, really?” He moaned. He’d already done a long one that morning, he claimed, before getting on his tablet to do some ‘personal admin’ and song research. (I hazarded a guess that translated into a bit of banking and then hours spent on YouTube…)

  “If I don’t run off some of this nervous energy then I’m not going to sleep tonight,” I said. “You don’t have to come if you don’t want.”

  He came.

  When we got back into the house, and after we’d showered, Quinn drew something out of his pocket. “I want you to wear this,” he said.

  I took it from him and looked down. It was the GPS locator that I’d used last year when I’d gone undercover to investigate the grooming gang, still in its small cloth bag on a piece of string. I frowned. “I thought I threw this out?”

  “You did. But when I saw you do it I went and fished it out of the bin.” He handed me a small red, black and white striped cube. “And here’s the panic button.”

  I stared at him.

  He shrugged. And then he gave a wry grin. “I know you, Ginty. You can never keep out of trouble for long! I figured we might need it again one day.” And then the humour faded from his face. “And you never know do you? You never worked out why they broke into your flat as well his… Let’s just be on the safe side shall we?”

  Quinn obliged me with a back massage to help with all the tension that was making my shoulders and neck muscles rigid with tension, and I fell asleep even before he finished. Next day at lunch Sam said to me, “Who’re you looking for, Eve?”

  I frowned. “What do you mean?”

  “You keep looking around, staring up corridors, glancing up when people pass the door…”

  God, I did, didn’t I? I was waiting for Heskett or Mizo to come rushing in with some news.

  Ben glanced a bit slyly at me. “So where’s Gilbraith at? Not seen him about for a few days…”

  My heart began to thump hard at the sudden mention of his name. I shrugged. “He’s away for a bit,” I said a little too casually.

  “That’s a bit of a tell-tale blush,” Zak teased me.

  I stared at him then I got up sharply and left.

  “Oh ho,” I heard Duncan laugh. “Trouble down’t mill?” He put on a broad comedic northern accent. “Do you think they’ve had a lover’s tiff?”

  I turned sharply into the ladies toilets and slammed my hand over and over again against one of the doors. Then I kicked it. Then I found myself throwing up down the toilet. Shit, I was really stressed, wasn’t I? I was trying so hard to be good and keep eating and drinking. But my body couldn’t cope with food when I was upset.

  Back home that evening, Quinn persuaded me to eat a tin of Ambrosia custard. Weird, I know. But it did kind of work. Why, with the combined weight of every big hitting agency in this country had they not found him yet? This was agonising.

  About nine o’clock I got up. “I’m going down the offie to get a bottle of whisky,” I told him.

  He grinned at me. “That sounds more like the Ginty I know and love. Let’s just get smashed, shall we?”

  I pulled on my leather and my driving gloves and picked up my lid. “See you in a bit,” I said.

  I went for a bit of a spin in the balmy September air and came in on the other side of town to pull up at the small supermarket there that stayed open until eleven. As I went to walk in, I spotted a dark blue Renault 6 with a scrape along one side and a slight dent in the back bumper, parked two spaces up. I stared at it. No. A completely different number plate. But a spooky spit. Really it was. I tried the door handle on the driver’s side. It was locked. I peered in. Nothing of note. Old and dirty. Worn tread on the back tyres. Barely legal. I left it and walked towards the brightly lit door of the supermarket and went to lift my lid off. Then I hesitated, left my helmet on and backed away into a dark pool just up from the car. I couldn’t believe that they’d still be so close to Wantage, but then, what a great double bluff that would be… It would make for a quick getaway and no-one would think to search the immediate neighbourhood. They’d assume they’d gone off somewhere really remote…

  A leather jacketed young man came out of the shop carrying a bulging plastic carrier bag. My heart beat a little faster. I couldn’t get a good look at him but he was Asian colouring and had his head ducked as though he was trying to keep it away from any CCTV in the area. He passed close to me without appearing to notice me pressed back into the shadows. I froze. That aftershave! It was definitely the same guy! I just knew it was without being able to pinpoint exactly why. He unlocked the door of the car, got in and slammed it shut. The engine sputtered into life. That needs a good overhaul, I thought.

  I waited until he had pulled out of the parking space and I was sure he wasn’t going to turn the car round to come back this way, then I rushed over to my bike. The engine throbbed under me and I pulled out after him.

  Until we reached the outskirts of town I was able to keep a couple of vehicles back, but once out on the dark country roads we were on our own, and I was scared that it would seem particular. I allowed a battered Land Rover to turn out of a side road in front of me, but I began to regret it as it chugged along at annoying Land Rover pace, and the tail lights of the Renault gradually pulled away ahead of us. I ended up having to do a bit of a risky zip past on a blind bend, and sped up just in time to see the Renault turning down a side road. I shot after it. It turned again, stopping at a gate leading into the yard of a perfect
ly ordinary looking brick and flint farmworker’s cottage with roses and honeysuckle over the porch. The lad got out, leaving the car door open and the engine running, and lifted the latch of the catch mechanism on the big farm gate. Oh shit, I thought. This is so embarrassing. This is some completely innocent local chap gone out for late night supplies. I’m such an idiot!

  But by now it was too late. No-one could just accidentally turn down here, this late at night. I’d have to make something up. He was staring suspiciously across at me from his position by the gate, his feet shifting noisily in the gravel.

  I drew up the bike, letting the engine tick over, and I lifted my visor. “Hey, mate!” I called. “I’m looking for Number Two, Honeysuckle Cottages, could you set me right?”

  It was something about the motionless way he continued staring at me that made me get off. I switched off the engine but left the key in the ignition for a quick get-away. He had the gate half open. I walked casually towards him and then quickly slipped through the open space and got between him and the house. It was the tenseness in his face and the flicker in his eyes and the way he glanced towards the one lit window in the house that made me lean towards him. “Gilbraith?” I hissed. “Where have you got him?”

  I saw the recoil and the look of panic. I had him. This was definitely him.

  “Take me to him,” I snapped.

  He turned and darted towards the car and launched himself across the driver’s seat. I thought for a second that he was about to leap in and drive away, but instead he withdrew from the car and lifted something large and black in one hand. He put it to his shoulder and looked down the barrel with meaningful intent. Whoops, I thought. What an idiot I am! Do bike helmets stop bullets? Probably not… And then he let out a huge yell in the direction of the house.

  The door of the house was wrenched open and two older men came running out. Dark hair and beards, huge military looking rifles in hand. They skidded to a halt and pointed them at me. There was a long silence. No-one moved. A large white moth fluttered around us in the pool of light thrown out from the open front door. Very slowly, I put my hands in the air. It seemed almost corny to do such a thing, like something from a film, but when it came to it, it came completely naturally, how else could you indicate that you had no intention to go for a weapon?

  The guy behind me went through the outer pockets of my leather and plucked out my phone. Then he forced me to my knees on the painfully knobbly gravel. The other two stayed in front of me and kept the guns levelled at my head. The guy behind me wrenched my helmet off. Then there was a total silence. I looked up at the two men in front of me who stared at me, then glanced at each other. The younger one half dropped his gun. The older one behind me said something sharply to him and he lifted it again. It was too late now to think that I should have just driven on by and rung into Williams to report that I’d potentially spotted the car and let the police take over. Too late to wish I’d stopped for a moment to ring Quinn to tell him what I was doing.

  “Take me to Gilbraith,” I said steadily.

  As the guy behind me yanked me up with a hand under one arm, my phone started ringing in his pocket. Quinn, I thought. The man took the phone out of his pocket and looked down at it. After a moment he ripped the back off and took out the sim. He threw the phone away from him into bush. Then he took my arm into a viciously tight grip and shoved me ahead of him into the cottage. He chucked my sim card into the bowl of water in the sink as he passed. Would that destroy it? I thought. I realised I didn’t understand enough about phones to know. But I still had the GPS locator on me. Whatever happened now, Quinn would have a fix on me. He’d work it out, I knew he would.

  The next few minutes were a bit surreal. Inside the cottage had that achingly perfect, but completely bland, holiday-hire look, but was definitely not the appropriate back drop for three men holding three huge guns. The oldest male jerked a chair out from the table and indicated in a brief mime that I should take my jacket off. I sighed and slipped my bike leather off and handed it to him. Thankfully I had a completely decent and modest long sleeved, high necked top on. He pointed at the chair, so I figured I was meant to sit down. He went through the rest of my jacket. Found my purse and took out the cards from it and stared at my name. He handed one to the youngest lad – the guy I’d followed here – presumably for him to check the name on it, because the lad nodded as though he was confirming something. He pulled my penknife out from the inner breast pocket, opened and closed the blade a couple times, then tossed it onto the draining board. He found the red, black and white cube, but chucked it to one side as unimportant. Damn! Why hadn’t I at least set that off? A screwed up oily tissue, and a useful looking nut that I’d picked up off the pavement, and that was it. I was so glad I’d found that tampon in there the other day and put it back into my bedroom drawer. That would have been embarrassing. He handed me back my jacket, and I put it on and waited politely to see what would happen next, trying hard not to give myself away by staring too fixedly at the alarm button on the draining board. I still had the locator on me. Quinn would be able to see my GPS location on his phone. He’d work it out when I didn’t return, I knew he would...

  There was some heated discussion. The oldest one was slamming his hand on the table. The guns were being held really loosely now. The young one had left his propped against a cupboard. As threats went, a small blonde girl with no weapon or surveillance equipment making no effort to struggle or run away, was clearly considered extremely low risk. On the other hand I was highly inconvenient, and a worrying signal that they were far too easy to find.

  “Gilbraith,” I intervened at last, in a firm tone. “Can I see him please?”

  The youngest one glanced at the older two and said something to them. They shrugged. The lad jerked his head at me and I figured I was supposed to follow him.

  We went through the door out of the kitchen and into a corridor. There was a door to the right. He pulled back a bolt and pushed the door inward revealing a short flight of five concrete steps. He flicked on the light. I looked cautiously down into the small cellar. Lying on the concrete floor, bound hand and foot, and with closed eyes, was a body.

  I glanced worriedly back at the lad. “Is he ok?” I asked.

  He nodded slightly. That was the first clue I had that he could definitely understand some English. I walked slowly down the stairs. I didn’t want to do anything fast in case it upset the boy and set off some violent reaction. I knelt down by Nish. He didn’t look ok to me. His face was bruised and swollen with a trickle of dried blood on his temple. He was lying flat on his back and his breathing sounded rattly and laboured.

  “Nish?” I said softly.

  He didn’t move a muscle and his eyes didn’t even flicker. I tried to pull back an eyelid, rather unsuccessfully, but could see from my attempt that his eyes were rolled into his head. I touched his hands that were bound in front of him. His hands were swollen and cold as ice, his wrists red raw, the plastic cord biting in. I looked accusingly round at the lad at the top of the stairs. He took a couple of steps down towards me.

  “What have you done to him?” I demanded.

  He mimed an injection into his left arm.

  “Drugged him?” I established. “How long? Since Monday?”

  “Sunday,” he said. “Sunday night.” It was the first time he’d spoken. “He really strong. Really strong. He fight and would not give up, so…” He tapped his inner left elbow again. His accent was thick, but he could obviously both understand and speak a fair amount of English.

  “What about food? Liquids? Water?” I corrected myself. Keep the words simple.

  He shook his head.

  I worked it out. Four days without liquids? After five the bodily organs would start to go into distress. You could die in a week.

  “You have to let him wake up and drink something!” I urged. “Do you want him to go into kidney failure? And these!” I tapped the cord round his wrists. “You need to take them off
at once. You’re cutting the blood off to his hands. You could be causing irreparable nerve damage or oxygen deprivation!”

  He shifted his weight from foot to foot uneasily.

  “If he dies,” I said fiercely, “you’ve lost your bargaining chip. And even if it was an accident, and you say you didn’t mean to, you’ll be done for murder! Do you understand?” I demanded.

  He looked worried and glanced back up towards to the square of light in the corridor. “I go speak to them,” he said, and backed up the steps. The door shut on us and I heard him shoving the bolt home.

  I looked down at Nish’s battered face and found tears coming into my eyes. This was the nearest I’d come to panic since I’d got here. I needed to persuade them to stop the drugs and let him drink and pee to flush his kidneys through. I pinched his skin. It stood up in a big wrinkle and didn’t bounce straight back. That must mean he was really dehydrated. I knew about that because the nurses had done that to me when I ended up in hospital once. And what if parts of his hands had died through lack of blood flow and he got gangrene and had to have them amputated? I wasn’t sure if I was muddling up stories of Scott of the Antarctic and the amputations in the First World War that followed on from people leaving the tourniquets on too long, but whatever, those hands didn’t look too good and I needed to get the blood and feeling back into them pronto.

  While the lad was out, I took the opportunity to also rip up Nish’s shirt to see if he was injured anywhere. His ribs on the left hand side were absolutely black and blue. His stomach too. His skin was cold to the touch. He was lying directly on the cold concrete. He could easily be hypothermic. And if they hadn’t moved him at all in four days then he could have terrible pressure sores on his back. I placed my hand on his chest. His heart seemed to be erratic and a bit fast. Shit. If they didn’t let him wake up, he might die of general organ failure by the look of it. I crouched by his motionless form during the agonisingly long wait for the return of the boy. He was in a short sleeved shirt. I gently rubbed his arm as I waited. Even his arm was bruised. Around the inner elbow. Presumably where they jabbed him with whatever drug they were using.