by Mark A. King
She had recognised Leo. Not at the time of the robbery, but from the news reports. He was someone Robbie knew.
Frigging Robbie. Why did everything have to come back to him?
Her mind was full of images. The robbery replayed. Different outcomes were processed. Noah. Ultimately, it was all about him. Forget the robbery and Jimmy and the criminals and especially Robbie. Only her boy mattered. She needed to get home. He wouldn’t be safe until she did.
Nurse Ciarán approached Charlie, snapping her away from her thoughts. “What’s going on? You haven’t been quite as motivated as usual.”
“I got freaked out last time I was up,” Charlie replied. “Fancy helping your favourite patient to get back on track?”
He smiled uncertainly. “Did something happen?”
She paused. “No. It’s nothing to worry about. But I do really want to go home. I need to go home. For my boy.”
“There is only one way we’re getting you home,” he replied. “You’re well on the way to beating the infection. Your recovery is somewhat miraculous, but we need to tick some items off the list.”
“Feeding—ticked. Toilet—ticked. Small steps—ticked—sort of.”
“We need to manage the stairs,” he replied.
Charlie bit her lip. “You’re joking me, right?”
“No,” Ciarán replied. “It’s your choice. You can do this the way that most people do it. Day by day. Step by step. But it’ll take time. Or, you can push yourself harder, faster and further than you ever thought possible. But, I’m here for you. Not just to stop you from injuring yourself, but also to get you home. If that’s what you want, of course.”
“You know it is.”
“Then what are you waiting for?”
After another excruciating transfer to the wheelchair, the nurse wheeled Charlie to the hall near staircase to allow her to walk a few short steps before trying the stairs. “Better get used to supporting your weight before we even go near the steps.”
Standing in front of her, continually checking his surroundings, Ciarán held out his arms. Charlie gently grasped them and eased herself up. She hunched, ready to fall back to the safety of the chair if needed.
Ciarán moved his arms higher and further away. “That’s it.”
Her legs felt like stilts in quicksand. Pain came in dark waves tumbling against her ribs and chest. “Just give me a minute.” Ciarán looked behind her, towards the chair. “No! I can do this,” Charlie proclaimed, pushing her body to a full standing position and trundling tentatively forward.
The stairs, only a few feet away, looked ominous. It seemed like an almost impossible feat to reach them, let alone try a descent. I can do this. For Noah.
In the bourgeoning darkness of her vision Charlie didn’t notice the gap she’d managed to close.
She found herself standing over the precipice. The rubberised edges of the stairs called warnings to her broken bones.
Ciarán placed her left hand on the stair-rail. “Don’t go anywhere,” he said.
Shaking, barely able to support her weight, she grimaced. “Is that supposed to be a joke?”
He retrieved the wheelchair and placed it against her legs. “Take a rest. You’re going to need it before the next bit.”
Charlie hadn’t expected expect to hit her limits so quickly.
She could have waited there in the chair for minutes or even hours. The thought of standing, let alone attempting the steps, caused the tendons in her legs to tighten like coils—the nearby muscles trembling under the strain.
“We can go if you want,” the nurse said. His voice was dull and lifeless.
“But that’ll mean trying again tomorrow. More hours and days of waiting. Noah needs me.”
He said nothing.
Charlie gathered herself again. She stood, quick and certain this time, despite the involuntary shaking in her muscles.
Teetering on the edge of the stairway, she thought of her boy and how she’d let him down. Most kids would be delighted that their mum had tried to be a hero. But she knew how different his life could have been. Inches of a knife wound had separated outcomes for both of them.
She took the first step, gingerly, as though her legs were made from glass and her torso from lead. Why hadn’t she recognised the criminal, Leo, in the newsagents’? Would it have made any difference if she’d recognised him? Robbie’s so-called friends were capable of almost anything.
Nurse Ciarán was a step in front of her, his shoulders level with her outstretched arms.
Distracted in her thoughts, she was halfway down the stairs when she saw Robbie bounding up towards her, his gait upright and confident, his head high. He was smiling, something Charlie hadn’t seen in months. He stopped on the landing a few steps below her.
“You’re doing great, Charlie,” Robbie said.
Instead of feeling relaxed and assured, Charlie gripped the handrails. Something was wrong. She barely remembered the times he had shown her care or concern.
“I’ve come a long way, Robbie,” Charlie snapped. All she could think about was how one of his friends had put her, and subsequently Noah, in this position.
Nurse Ciarán moved aside. Charlie edged down another step, determined to finish her final task, regardless of Robbie standing in the way.
Robbie rose on his toes to kiss her on the cheek. She turned away, looking at Ciarán. “Is that enough for you to be able to tick my box to go home?”
Ciarán glanced at Robbie and then nodded to her.
“What’s the matter, Charlie?” Robbie asked, his smile fading from euphoric to bemused.
The colourful tattoos of battle scenes and cursive biblical text on Robbie’s neck and arms seemed to be vibrant and almost alive. His prematurely grey hair, an issue he was sensitive about, seemed to glitter with his upbeat mood.
The last time Charlie had seen him look this positive was when they’d first met. He’d worshiped the ground she walked upon. Back then, he hadn’t yet hurled veiled insults about Noah’s father, upbringing, genetics, or sense of mischief. He hadn’t started to take his frustrations out on inanimate objects, which these days he flung, punched, kicked, dented or ripped. But he’d always envied the life of his friends, who weren’t laboured with his unwanted responsibilities.
“The matter?” Charlie said. “Is that I was nearly killed. Some low-life scumbag held up a small newsagents’ and killed a mother, almost murdered me. Noah almost lost his mum. What would have happened to him?”
Robbie still stood firm and positive, but it now looked more pretence than genuine. “I’d have taken care of him. You know that.”
“Really?”
“You know how hard I’ve worked. What’s any of this got to do with me?”
Charlie was feeling weak. Her grip on the rail was wavering and her ankles were unable to support her swaying body. She thought about Robbie’s inability to step up, his childish need to feel like a real, proper, man—whatever that meant. Then there was Leo. She had to confront Robbie about Leo. But all Charlie had protecting Noah at the moment was Robbie. She shuddered. Robbie’s new link to the crime only intensified the threats from the suited thug, Ryan, and his boss, Jimmy. Charlie gripped the handrail, but all her strength had gone.
Her ankles juddered and her knees tipped like a bloated raincloud releasing its weight.
She collapsed.
Iona
Still groggy from partial concussion, Iona cursed herself. How had she become so distracted that she could be attacked that easily?
She’d attacked and then escaped the rhino-man, but her head was spinning and her sprint had become an exhausted, uncoordinated run.
The sunlight, white and unforgiving, stung her eyes. The heat-haze in the foreground was a blurred ghost, like the pain behind her forehead. As she ran, the buildings of the city jostled along with each desperate step.
The guy who had attacked her was ill-equipped for running. Even though she was slow, she could hear him som
e way behind her. “Come back here, you little bitch.” She couldn’t hear the rest. His voice was contorted and hoarse.
The combination of head injury and uncoordinated sprinting turned her vision into a first-person roller-coaster replay. What little she had left in her stomach heaved into her labouring chest. She tasted it at the back of her throat. No. Not now. She pushed it down and kept running.
What did he want with her?
She had made enemies. It was part of the job. You can’t hack criminal organisations and expect them to take it lying down. But she’d normally seen it coming; she could trace their communication lines, monitor their reactions and plans. This was different, she’d been blindsided. Despite the heat, her forearms pimpled with a cool chill Iona couldn’t attribute to sweat cooling her.
She heard him gasping, trying to shout, but coughing and wheezing. His short, bulky body, was better built for intimidation and bursts of violence than catching a fitter, younger more agile target.
The empty industrial estate provided plenty of places to hide. But why hide when she held the advantage? Iona thought about going back and incapacitating him further, but the risks were too great, and her senses were misfiring.
Ahead—a shadow. Or was it a man—tall and smart? She blinked and it—or he—was gone. She shook her head to sharpen her vision. She wished she hadn’t—that sick feeling again—like seasickness on top of a hen-party hangover.
Her body powered through the dizziness. In survival mode, it reacted instinctively—while her mind wanted to dither.
As she neared where she thought the shadow had been, she heard a crunch, like heavy boots on crushed glass.
The building to the right loomed skywards, caked in square shadows, where there once were windows. The empty spaces gawped like blind eyes; glass fragments sparkled like dropped tears on the floor.
There was someone there.
She remembered her mistake from earlier and she slowed. The man bounded into the open, misjudging her position. Another two or three feet and he’d have knocked her out.
Iona guessed he must have been working with the other guy. He was tall and thin. If they were dogs, this one would be the poodle and the other one a bulldog.
Poodle’s momentum took him towards the rough concrete floor.
With two assailants to worry about, Iona didn’t want to take her chances hoping this new, leaner, fitter thug would crack some bones as he hit the pavement.
She twisted, her slower pace allowing her to dart hard left. She was a few feet behind Poodle. He stumbled, ripping his flashy suit. Just as he toppled towards the concrete, she made his descent certain and landed a flying kick to his lower spine.
He jolted with the force before slamming into the brutal surface of the industrial estate.
There was no shout. No scream. Not even a whimper. The guy was out cold.
At least that’s how it appeared.
Iona eased towards him, keeping her weight on her trailing leg in case she needed to escape quickly. She prodded him with her forward leg—anticipating him catching it and reeling her in. There was no reaction. She prodded again. Nothing.
Iona cautiously crouched down. She should have left him there, but her desire to know why he wanted her compelled her forward.
She grabbed a handful of his oil-slick hair and yanked his head up from the concrete. Blood drooled from his nose and seeped over his lips.
“Who are you?” Iona demanded. “Wake up, you piece of scum. I want answers.”
Nothing.
With his head tilted back, she could see the pulse in his neck, so she knew he was still alive. She released him, his face crashing back against the unforgiving surface once more.
She heard a noise behind her. Bollocks. The bulldog. As she turned, his fist hit her between the shoulder-blades. Winded, she was unable to escape or defend herself.
Iona slumped on top of the lanky thug. Neither of them could move, but she was, at least, still conscious.
The ham-fisted bulldog dragged her off his colleague. Face down, she could feel him tying her wrists tightly.
She wanted to shake her arms to get the blood flowing into her hands again, but she couldn’t move.
“You stupid bitch,” Bulldog said. “We’re trying to fucking help you. Don’t you get it? Our boss, for some reason, thinks you can help him.”
Iona could only manage gravel-tinged gasps.
“Don’t try to talk. I’m not interested. Think I’m scared of the cops? You’re having a laugh. If you weren’t protected by my boss, I’d be enjoying this. I’d think of it as recreation time. You’re coming with us whether you want to or not. This time, you sit in the back where I can keep an eye on you.”
The bulldog bent, rolled Iona onto her side, and hefted her into a fireman’s lift.
He must have driven slowly up behind her when she was distracted by his partner. The car was only twenty or thirty feet away, glaring in the sunlight. A retro monstrosity—blinding white, red piping, big sporty graphics.
Bulldog chucked her into the back seat, warning her not to move. Sleep was calling. Iona’s head lulled like a baby about to face-plant into his dinner. She closed her eyes. Peace. Rest. It felt good. A few moments later, she heard raised voices, an argument. Bulldog opened the door and his tall partner stumbled in beside her, shoving her hard against the opposing door.
“You’ll pay for that, you cow,” he slurred. He reached across, buckled her seatbelt, then his. “Wouldn’t want Mr. Kinsella’s precious cargo to get damaged now, would we?”
Mr. Kinsella? Jimmy?
Of course. The tall guy beside her was Ryan Thistle. It all made sense now.
Perhaps she’d stepped too close to the criminal network again and this was her reward. She knew Ryan Thistle was involved. But her director, Verity Armitage, was right. Ryan worked for Jimmy, and it wasn’t Jimmy’s M.O. to be involved with robbing newsagents’ to pay for a human trafficking exchange. In her dazed state, she also remembered she knew Jimmy from her childhood.
Iona trawled her memory. She knew Jimmy was a gangland boss, but Jimmy had also known her mum. The last time Iona saw Jimmy he been there on that night.
If the tall guy was Ryan, then the bulldog must be Josh, Jimmy’s other trusted shadow. As Josh drove, the rumbling vibration of the car and the rocking motion made Iona heavy and docile.
Ryan leaned into her, whispering in a voice only she could hear. “When the old man is dead, I’ll come back for you. You’ll pay. I’ll make sure of it.”
Words. They were just words. Words couldn’t hurt her. She needed to recover. Become stronger. There was only one thing she needed—sleep.
Iona returned to her memories. Visions of the childhood she had suppressed came and went with the roil of the car shifting through the streets.
She runs from the creep who had tried to grab her at the burger place.
Her laptop is gone. Her only joy in the world. Perhaps she’s just a kid after all, and not as streetwise as she thought she was.
Slumped in the car, Iona was defenceless, unable to move or save herself, as helpless as she had been that day as kid, abandoning her laptop to escape a creep with cloying fingers and stinking breath.
Certain the greasy creep wasn’t following she heads for the flat Scarlet, Mum, likes to call home.
The door is open. Smashed, kicked in, perhaps.
Iona is scared, and for the first time she needs her mum, but Iona is petrified what awaits her inside the flat.
In the car, the muscled oppression of the thug’s arms pinned her down.
In her recalled vision, Iona calls out for her Mum.
Her young legs tremble as she walks through the doorway. Iona smells smoke. Then she sniffs deeply, to be sure, but coughs violently as the acrid smell burns her lungs.
In the car, the movement made her feel sick and woozy.
In her dreams, she’s in the hallway of her flat. Her eyes widen in fear, then they sting. Underneath the kitche
n door, twisting smoke reaches for her like outstretched fingers of a ghost.
“Mum?” she calls again, careful not to breathe in too deeply.
The heat is unbearable. But behind the door is her mum. She can be nowhere else. Iona touches the door handle and screams as the burn is instant and punishing.
She shouts for help but the fire is alive—cracking, creaking, and growling.
On the backseat of the car, underneath Ryan’s weight, she tried to call for help. Her lips moved but no sound came out.
Iona grabs her mum’s tatty coat and uses it to turn the door handle, turning her face away and shielding it with her free arm.
The smoke stings her eyes. She tries not to breathe. The heat singes her hair. The smell is like nothing she can describe.
The shape on the floor is unmistakable. Iona can just make out the dark liquid pool by her mum’s head.
Her skin sends screaming signals of pain.
Something crashes behind her. Is that the ceiling collapsing?
The thugs in the car were taking her to see a man, a criminal overlord. Jimmy Kinsella. Whatever happened to Jimmy?
In the inferno, a man rushes in and grabs her, scooping her away from the fierce heat.
He lowers her onto the balcony. The heat is less intense now. The arms of the dirty-smoke-ghost pass her by and fly into the night as if trying to escape the horror of the fire.
The man tells her not to move. He rushes back in.
The man once saved Iona. Without him, she would not have survived. Yes, he was a criminal, the underworld kind, the same kind who might be hunting that other girl through the streets of London right about now—Maria Mathan. Maria also needed saving, and who would save her?
The man, Jimmy, Jimmy Kinsella—he comes crashing out of the flat with her mum slung over his shoulder. His arm is a smoking, tattered mess, angry red liquid and skin bubble and seep through what is left of his sleeve.
The fire engine wails below.
Jimmy Kinsella runs away.
