by Mick Herron
She kept hearing creaks and aching floorboards overhead. The house, complaining about interlopers.
Connor said, ‘Is this nearly done?’
‘Hungry?’
‘Of course.’ This without an edge: it would have been amusing in other circumstances. That he was polite enough to refrain from voicing irritation, but not so much so he’d refrain from killing her when the need arose.
She reached towards a cupboard.
‘Don’t.’
‘What’s your problem?’
‘Tell me what you’re after.’
Exaggerating it – plucking each consonant like a harp-string – she said, ‘I was reaching. For some. Pasta.’
‘Let me get it for you.’
‘Where have you been all my life?’
She pointed to where the pasta lived. He came round, opened the cupboard, lifted down a bag of tagliatelli.
‘Not that. The spaghetti.’
Connor handed her the packet of spaghetti, then moved back to where he’d been standing.
. . . He’s worried, she thought. He thinks the kitchen’s a woman’s ground.
That was okay. She could work with that.
‘I need to boil some water,’ she said. ‘Is that going to be a problem?’
‘Just so long as you don’t get clever.’
‘I’m cooking pasta,’ she said. ‘It’s not rocket science.’
He didn’t respond. She reached down another pan from the overhead rod, this one a stainless steel pot: big, round, twin handles at the lip. Filling it with water made a circus-worth of noises. She closed her eyes, and imagined this was ordinary – another day, another meal with pasta. She’d open a bottle of wine, and share the past few days with Russell. What had she done, these past few days? Being in London was like something she’d once heard about. Toting the pan back to the range, she set it on a ring, and added a splash of oil and a sprinkle of salt.
Outside, in the big world beyond the window, nothing happened. She was utterly alone. Whatever came next, and whether it made things better or worse, was entirely down to her. Living with the consequences was the best possible outcome.
The Sarah she wasn’t glanced back at her from the window. She could have sworn there was a degree of dark knowledge in the look, as if the view from the other side took in all available futures.
Standing directly in front of the range, blocking Connor’s view, Sarah turned the gas off. ‘I could do with a hand here.’
‘Doing what?’
‘I need the back ring.’ She turned to face him. ‘The one with this pan on. It’s too heavy for me to lift.’
‘There are six rings,’ he said.
‘And this is the one I need for the pasta. Unless you can wait another half-hour, while I use the slow one. But I expect the troops are getting restless.’
He put something down on the mantelpiece: Sarah wasn’t sure what. Something he’d picked up, weighed in his hands, turned over; something of hers or Russell’s, or else just something that had wandered among their possessions and settled there, but was soiled now, and always would be. Maybe the whole house was. Nothing remained that wouldn’t always remind her of the casual slaughter of an ostrich she’d saved from the abattoir. But she couldn’t even tell now what it was he’d handled, because he’d put it down without her seeing, and he was coming towards her.
She stepped aside. ‘That one.’ The big, cast-iron Le Creuset, which was too heavy to trust to the overhead rod.
‘Where do you want me to put it?’
‘I just need it out of the way,’ she said. ‘So I can get at the ring.’
He gave what was almost a smile, as if there were this conspiracy they shared in, one that underlay all male/ female dealings, regardless of surface kindness or violence: one that ruled that, when the bottom line was reached, there’d always be a woman asking for help; always be a big strong man to give it. And, still believing this, he gripped the cast-iron pan by its cast-iron handle, and lifted it clear of the range.
It was curious how long this lasted: Connor holding the pan, that slight edge of superiority painted on his face. Sarah thought afterwards that even in the moment of lifting, that edge was melting; giving way to the suspicion that she’d wrongfooted him somehow, the way women always did, when that same bottom line was reached. And the big strong men always fell for it, didn’t they? But that was afterwards. While it was happening, what she was mostly aware of was the beating of her heart, and the curious absence of noise. Though the first thing he did, of course, was make noise. It took a moment or two to get through to her, that was all.
In the same moment, lights burst on all around the house.
The two men – Ross and Burke – emerged from the house and split: Ross to Zoë’s right; the other to her left, where he disappeared round the corner after a moment’s hesitation – there’d been a noise from the house, something like a woman’s scream, just as the lights went on. Zoë tensed, but stayed flat on the ground, hands shading her eyes in case reflection gave her away. She was a yard or so inside the gate to the ostrich pen, which she’d fixed open by jamming the shears in the ground like a tent peg. Cutting through the chain hadn’t been the hard part; the hard part had been doing it quietly – when the shears’ blades met the thin chain between them, the crack sliced the air, and somewhere behind her, the birds – roaming the pen; frightened and curious – ruffled their feathers and spat.
After pinning the door, she sprinted back, flapping her arms to scare the birds through the gate, towards the house. Zoë heard, rather than saw, them leave; they made a noise like something falling down a flight of stairs. A hot stink hung behind them. Then they were gone.
She dropped to the ground an instant before their movement triggered the burglar lights. It was as if God had flipped a switch, and lit everything at once. Seconds later, the two shapes came out: Ross to Zoë’s right; the other to her left, and she watched them flat on the ground, on the dark side of the brightness.
The second man disappeared round the corner. Ross, though, came forward to stand on the edge of the darkness: to stare into it somewhere off to her right. That must be where the birds were: they’d disappeared in a mad flap once the lights came on. She hoped Ross wouldn’t see them. She doubted she’d get a second shot at drawing him from the house.
Ross had his gun out, aiming at the night. The heavy wooden door to the farmhouse was behind him. It had seemed like a plan at the time: get the bad men out by triggering the lights, then sneak in when they weren’t watching. But she’d been banking on more than just two of them emerging: getting inside, even unseen, wouldn’t leave her much better off than she was now. But she had to take a chance on moving. Any moment, he’d figure the birds were loose.
She crawled forward; put her hand on something sharp: a stray shard of gravel. Pain was okay, though. Pain would keep her focused. She kept moving.
I’ll be there.
It’s not just words, that’s the important thing. It’s not just words and it’s not just music: it’s a promise. So here he is, keeping his promise.
The man he’s watching he saw earlier, crossing the meadow between house and treeline. He hadn’t got more than halfway before falling to his knees and trying to bury himself in his hands. This had been moving, but at the same time laughable – like watching a one-man theatre company stage Lear – and anyway, what he’d mostly been interested in was the certain knowledge that somewhere among the trees, Zoë was watching too. And he wonders what her feelings were then; whether she felt for the man – his pathetic display to an audience he didn’t know he had – or was simply noting him as the weak link. The latter, he thinks. His Zoë, his Zoë: she is tough. She’s tough, but she needs him.
And now this weak link stands in the half-world of the light bordering the house; the light that offers security as long as you’re wrapped inside it, but makes everywhere else darker. And he feels alone. Talmadge knows this. He feels alone because he’s weighed down
with the guilt of everything he’s done; he’s lain awake all night every night since doing it; lay awake last night in whatever godawful ringroad hotel these men crashed in, nursing their wounds, and working out where Zoë had gone. And all he’s waiting for now are words; words he’ll recognize because they’ve been sheltering in his memory for years; words that will speak to him as if they’re his alone . . . Words he’ll walk towards, because he’s nowhere else to go.
Talmadge licks his lips, opens his mouth, and breathes deliberately, feeling cold air channel through his throat.
. . . It’s easy, giving comfort. It’s a matter of letting people know they’re not alone.
He moves through the dark, and knows himself unseen. The policeman stands in the lee of the house, and wouldn’t have noticed a battalion approaching. He’s supposed to be looking for Zoë, but it’s obvious his focus is inward, on the demons gnawing his emotions. This is brutally revealed by the lights hanging from the guttering, and if he gets close enough, Talmadge will be able to describe the man’s every last pain. Won’t even need the light. Will be able to spread his palm across the man’s face and read it in his fingers like Braille; every line an ache, every wrinkle, regret.
Sometimes, it’s clear that people need music.
And it isn’t just words, that’s the important thing. It isn’t just words and it isn’t just music: it’s a promise.
In a perfect world, the last voice you heard would be somebody singing.
People say I’m the life of the party
’Cause I tell a joke or two
Talmadge pauses, and watches the words reach the man, crossing from the darkness to the light; carrying with them everything such words always carry – everyone knows the old songs. Everyone attaches a moment to them. He doesn’t just think this: he knows it to be true. He’s not been wrong yet. So before his own moment closes, he opens his mouth and sings again.
So take a good look at my face
You’ll see my smile looks out of place
If you look closer it’s easy to trace
The tracks of my tears
And standing there on the dark side of the lights, he waits while the other man comes to join him.
All pain involves a stripping away of identity; it pulls the sufferer down a level, nearer to where the unmasked live. This had gone a step further, searing Connor’s fingerprints; erasing his individual loops and whorls while filling the air with the stench of scorched meat. The pan handle had been so hot it had taken Connor a moment or two to understand it – he’d had time to lift it clear of the range before pain reached him. Half an hour at least, Sarah had had the gas flamed high, hidden by her body and the pan in front; the acrid smell of warming metal masked by gently cooking sauce. And then he’d screamed and dropped the pan, that expression peeled from his face as if she’d used a blowtorch on it. The pan might have hit his foot. Sarah didn’t notice. She grabbed the other pan and hit him on the temple. Bolognese sauce splashed everywhere: if it had been paint, you could have called this decorating. Connor’s peculiar, high-pitched scream died instantly. Sarah dropped the pan, dropped to her knees; even before going to Russell, she was going through Connor’s pockets. First things first. Outside, the lights had gone on. Here in the kitchen, they went out. A shadow hung in the doorway: Maddock. She scooted to one side; came to rest with her back against the sink unit. The left leg of her jeans was soaked in meat sauce.
Maddock didn’t crouch. He stood framed in the light from the hallway. From behind him came a draught: the others had rushed out when the burglar lights went on. Which meant Zoë was nearby; which meant the other pair were hunting her. They’d found her once before, and much good it did them. But this time they had guns.
There was a thing . . .
Sarah said, ‘I’ve got his gun.’
‘I don’t believe you.’
He leaned to one side, she thought. That would be the wound Zoë had inflicted, down by the canal: sticking him with her penknife, and twisting it till it caught.
‘I don’t want to shoot you.’
Maddock moved forward. ‘I don’t want you to shoot me either. But I still don’t believe you.’
He was measuring the gap, she knew. The gap between where she sat and where Connor lay; the gap she’d have to close to get hold of Connor’s gun, if she didn’t already have it. That was what his mind was working on: the maths. Could he get to her before she got to Connor? He had no idea how fast she was. All he knew was their relative sizes, and the fact that the last time he’d jumped on a woman, she’d scraped his bone with a knife.
This time, he’d take no chances. He was a big man; she was an average woman. He’d pound her like meat. That would be his plan.
Of course, he had to get round the kitchen table first.
Whichever way you looked at it, she didn’t have time for elaborate schemes. Ross might be back any moment, and then there’d be two. Whatever happened had to happen in the next few seconds; and so thinking, she made her move.
When Zoë looked up, Ross was gone.
It hadn’t been more than two seconds, a quick glance away while she navigated rough ground, but when she looked back, he was nowhere. She stayed as motionless as she could. He was too big, too rough, too one-eyed right now to creep quietly up on her, but still . . . One close encounter was the best she could hope to win. If he caught her again, there’d be no leeway. He would finish her.
But there was no future, either, in remaining where she was . . . A breeze ruffled her hair; carried a frightened snickering that might have been the birds again. And there was something else, too, that grew quieter when the wind blew; something like singing. It was out of her mind before she could focus; besides, there were things she had to do. Like move. She waited one beat more, then pushed to her feet and made for the light.
Visualize your goal. Didn’t Joe used to say that? Along with Understand your own strengths and Learn to grow, grow to learn. Whatever he’d picked up from Reader’s Digest, really. What she needed to do now was visualize herself reaching the door unscathed; see herself stepping through and locking it behind her. That there were more men beyond it was a different problem, and she would visualize how to deal with them next. What mattered now was reaching the door. So that’s what she pictured as she sprinted for the house; herself reaching safety, or what would pass for it in the next five minutes. She saw her hand on its wood. She saw herself closing it behind her, and activating its lock.
She saw a shape loom up on her right, and what felt like a shovel, but was only a fist, strike the side of her head.
And then she saw stars; she saw continental drift. She saw everything she’d hoped might happen in the next thirty seconds collapse to the size of a squash ball, with a squash ball’s ability to be everywhere at once.
‘Bitch.’
She rolled before his foot hit her, but that was sheer instinct; nothing to do with preparation.
He swung again, and this time connected, but she was surfing on adrenalin, and her hip went numb instead of screeching in pain. Knowing what would happen if she stayed on the ground, she scrambled to her feet. If she ran, he’d be on her. If she didn’t, the outcome would probably be the same, but once you’d identified yourself as victim, the game was over. Stand, and look like you know what you’re doing. It wasn’t much of an edge, but beat lying down and taking it.
But she wished she’d picked those shears up.
When he came forward; she moved back. A little dance on the edge of the light, as if this were nothing more than stage business; a distraction from the main event. His lips moved again, but she was concentrating on his feet and shoulders: the giveaways. Though knowing which way he’d lunge wouldn’t help much, once he’d lunged.
He spoke again. ‘I’ve been looking forward to this.’
‘You’re a fucking gorilla.’
‘And you’re meat.’
Save your breath. She saved her breath. Maybe the lights would die, blanketing everythi
ng in darkness again, but that wasn’t really going to happen. The lights were triggered by movement. She watched his shoulders, watched his footwork. He was going for her left, so she went right. It wasn’t a complicated decision. But he went for her right anyway, and the next thing Zoë did was walk into his reach, and his gun was fixed firmly under her chin.
Sarah made her move, and Maddock was quicker than she’d expected; was round the table before she was on her feet. Connor’s prone form lay between them, and instead of reaching for her, Maddock went for Connor. She let him fall to his knees, where he groped for Connor’s pocket, then showed him the gun she’d been holding since the moment he’d appeared in the doorway.
‘I’d have to be an idiot to miss,’ she told him.
He appeared to be about to say something, maybe something along the lines of I don’t believe you again, or You wouldn’t dare. And she was ready to ask him, You want to bet your life? But in the end he said nothing; he simply subsided, more or less, into a heap next to Connor, who was starting to stir now. Stir, she thought. That almost worked as a joke, given that he was covered in Bolognese sauce. Holding the gun steady, she moved out of Maddock’s reach, but close enough that she’d still have to be an idiot to miss. And all the while she was keeping an eye on the door, and wondering who’d come through it next.
She’d had moments lately when she’d almost have welcomed this: being half a squeeze from nowhere. But not here, not now . . . His hand gripped her tightly above the left elbow, and his big face was inches from her own. Zoë could smell his wound, and guessed it was seeping below its patch; a light she’d mostly put out. The grip tightened. ‘Happy now?’ he said.
It was so nearly the question she’d asked herself, she couldn’t have replied if she’d wanted to.
