The room itself was easily three times larger than the cellar I had been in, though the walls were the same whitewashed brick. Long benches ran down either side, filled with shiny stainless steel and glass items. I recognized none of them, except for the pill press at one end and a laptop at the other.
At the far end of the room were piled drums and open packing crates, presumably the raw materials and the likely source of an acrid smell. I was relieved to see a door in the far wall. It made sense that Canoso would want another way out, but there was no guarantee of that. All my efforts so far might have done no more than enlarge my prison.
The centre of the room was occupied by a long table. In the middle of it, piles of plastic bags spilled from an opened cardboard box onto the table top. Small ones, with a resealable opening. The end of the table closest to me had a precarious mound of them, but these weren’t empty.
I stepped into the room and went to the table for a closer look. Each sealed bag contained a pinkish-white capsule, about the size of a standard paracetamol. There must have been hundreds piled up on the table. More were stored underneath in a dozen plastic crates. At the far end of the table, several deep trays contained hundreds more pills, loose and waiting to be bagged. Each had a peace symbol on one side and the letters LP on the other.
“So this is La Paz,” I said to myself.
I felt Laney’s presence here, as though she were standing right next to me, her hand reaching out to take a tablet. Two tablets. Three, even. She raised them to her mouth and swallowed them, one after another, washing them down with the little bottle of water from her bag, which she had brought for the purpose. She gave me a look full of fear and despair and determination and courage, slowly fading to impassive calm as the drug gripped her. Then she walked out of the door, going up to the pub to write her final poem. The few she’d taken would not have been missed from that pile. The stock-taking didn’t appear to be rigorous.
In spite of the pain in my head, things were coming together for me. June had told me how La Paz had been distributed in Spain. Canoso had been annoyed because he couldn’t use Laney to do the same here. Her access to schools and colleges and community centres was what he wanted to use. Of course Laney would refuse, but somehow he’d found a way to put pressure on her, bend her to his will. Until the only way out she could see was to step in front of my van.
It wasn’t me who had killed her. It was Canoso.
The thought struck me with such power that I actually gasped. The guilt I’d felt had become familiar, so much a part of me that it didn’t simply lift off me but was wrenched away. I’d told myself and had been told so many times that it wasn’t my fault, to no effect. Realizing that it was someone else’s fault freed me.
But that still left the question of why she hadn’t simply gone to the police. Why did she not only have to kill herself but do everything she could to make it look like an accident? Why did she disguise her suicide note and the location of the drug factory in a poem?
I put the questions aside, along with the relief I felt. None of this changed my immediate situation: trapped, beaten half to death, and with a seriously nasty criminal coming back to finish the job at any time. Escape was the priority.
I turned to the door in the back wall. A perfectly ordinary door, unpainted wood and no lock. I turned the handle, the thought that it might just be a cupboard sending a new pulse of fear through me. But it opened onto a long, dimly lit brick corridor with a flight of stairs just visible at the far end. A way out! And to judge by the length of the passage, it couldn’t be back into the pub. The cellar itself must run under the alley that bordered the Prince William, probably part of the original pub building and pre-dating the surrounding structures, perhaps by hundreds of years. The tunnel exit could well be in the next street along. Which suited me. The further away I could get the better.
But I paused before entering, to think. Once I got out of here, I planned to go straight to the police. But could I prove my story? Once Canoso discovered my escape, he’d start covering his tracks. If he sealed up the hidden door it might be hard to convince anyone. My tales of a secret drugs factory would sound like the ravings of a lunatic, especially as the place had already been thoroughly searched. I doubted if they’d break down the wall just on my word alone. They’d have to investigate the assault, but I had no proof that it had even taken place in the pub.
So I needed evidence. Fortunately there was plenty of that lying around. And this was probably the only chance I’d have to get it.
I returned to the first cellar, collected Laney’s bag, and stuffed the contents back inside. Then I added a handful of Lappies in their plastic bags. On the way through I noticed a button next to the door, on the inside, and pressed it. The door obligingly shut itself. Of course, they’d soon realize where I’d gone, but there was no need to make it obvious.
I stopped by the trays of unbagged pills and wondered if taking one or two would help me, but quickly decided against it. Right now, I needed painkillers, not emotion suppressants. Fear of what Canoso might do when he came back was the only thing that kept me moving.
Shutting the door behind me, I went down the passage, up the stairs. The door at the end matched the one in the cellar: metal and securely locked. But with a promising-looking button next to it. To my great relief, it fulfilled its promise. The door swung open as smoothly as the one in the cellar had, and I stepped out into freedom.
My timing was lousy. As I stepped out, Mateo Canoso was about to step in.
The sudden opening of the door must have taken him by surprise, which was the thing that saved me. That and the fact that it opened outwards. If he’d been far enough back for it to miss him, I would have been dead.
As it was, he was directly in front of it when it began to move, perhaps reaching for a keypad next to it. It opened into his face and he stumbled backwards, arms flailing as he tried to keep his balance, and I had a bare second of advantage.
Adrenaline is amazing. I’d staggered slowly and painfully along the corridor, dragged myself up the stairs with teeth gritted against the pain. Now I charged out from the doorway like an Olympic sprinter, head down and straight into Canoso. There was a meaty thunk as my head smashed into his face. He went over backwards and I fell on top of him, my knee driving into his stomach as I did so. I scrambled back to my feet, while Canoso curled up gasping for breath.
“Yes, I know what that feels like,” I told him. I was pleased to see his face covered in blood – at the very least, I’d split his lip. “You’re going to have to change your shirt again,” I added, looking round me. We were in a deserted yard, surrounded by high and featureless walls and lined with garages. A smart BMW – presumably Canoso’s – was parked nearby, and just beyond was the exit: a solid-looking metal gate, topped with barbed wire, sliding smoothly closed.
“I…’ll… kill… you…” Canoso gasped.
“Like you weren’t going to anyway!” I sneered, and ran for the exit. I didn’t even take time for the goodbye kick I owed him – the thought of getting trapped inside with him had pumped up my adrenaline again, and I sprinted for the closing gap. Helpless he might be for the moment, but I didn’t rate my chances of keeping him that way. All I needed to do was get outside and find a phone – or anyone with a mobile.
I slipped through the closing gap with a foot to spare, and looked round for help. The street curved gently away to left and right. In both directions it was deserted. On my side it was lined with blank walls topped with broken glass, and punctuated only by occasional doorways. On the opposite side was a fenced-off industrial wasteland – weeds growing in piles of broken brick and cracked concrete, a few walls still standing, windows gaping emptily.
I went right, towards the nearest doorway. Not sprinting now. I knew where I was. The locally infamous Delford Mills Reclamation Project. A huge Victorian factory, derelict for years and finally demolished with huge fanfare and extravagant promises of major development. Except that all
the money had mysteriously disappeared, along with several senior members of the project. There was much outcry and many pointed fingers, but the money had never returned and the project remained officially “on hold”. As part of that project, much of the surrounding area had also been scheduled for demolition and redevelopment. Streets and streets of grimy terraced housing had been cleared, boarded up, then left empty.
Laney had written a poem about it, making a vivid contrast between the bustling town centre and the deserted wasteland, less than half a mile apart. More importantly for my present situation, I wasn’t going to find any help here. I wasn’t going to find anyone.
I’d reached the first doorway. Its wood was old and weathered, it had no latch or handle, and probably hadn’t been opened for years. Nevertheless, I hammered on it.
“Help! Open up! I need help!” My shouts sounded thin and hollow, disappearing traceless into the silence. The adrenaline was wearing off now. I was panting, every breath another stabbing pain. I could hear distant traffic, a dog barking, but nothing from behind the door.
A car started nearby. Very near. Looking back the way I’d come, the curve of the street enabled me to see the metal gate to the yard sliding open. Canoso would be after me in less than a minute. I looked round wildly. There was nowhere to hide on the street. But the chain-link fence opposite was broken down or torn open in several places.
I forced myself to run again, pushed through the biggest hole I could see, with loose strands of wire tearing indiscriminately at skin and clothes, and scrambled up a pile of loose bricks, the scream of a car doing a hi-rev reverse in the background. It changed gear just as I flopped over the top of the pile, and accelerated along the street as I half rolled, half slid down the opposite slope.
It went past, engine noise fading, which meant that Canoso hadn’t seen me, but he wouldn’t have to go far before realizing he’d overshot. Then he’d search in the other direction, but only for a short distance. After that, he’d know which way I’d gone.
I was in agony, but I had to keep moving, had to lose myself in the wasteland before he started searching for me. I put aside the pain, forced myself to ignore it, and headed deeper into the ruins.
The car came back up the street, and went past, searching in the other direction. I felt a vague satisfaction at having predicted that. If I could outguess him, I could stay hidden. If I could survive until it got dark, I might have a chance to get away. I wasn’t sure how long that would be. Without my watch or phone, I had no idea what time it was. Even the sun was hidden behind a hard white veil of cloud. Nonetheless, it was a warm day. I was sweating and gasping for breath, going slower.
There was no telling where Canoso would enter the project from. He could come through the fence almost anywhere; he could be approaching from any direction. I had to find better cover than the random piles of rubble in this area – perhaps where the walls were still standing? Getting there, however, meant crossing a more open stretch, patches of grass breaking through crumbling asphalt. I felt my exposure. At any moment, I’d hear Canoso shout. Or perhaps I’d just hear his footsteps.
It wasn’t more than a hundred yards. It felt like a mile before I collapsed, panting, next to a wall. It wasn’t good enough. I was still too visible. But further along, another upright section formed a right angle, and a few first-floor beams remained intact, giving at least the illusion of security. More rubble screened off the corner, making for an even better hiding place. I hauled myself upright again, and used the wall for support as I moved towards it.
As I came closer, it became obvious that I wasn’t the first person to see the possibilities there. The bricks across the corner weren’t a random pile – someone had placed them there in a crude wall. Sheets of dirty plastic had been draped across the first-floor beams to provide a roof.
So not all local residents had moved out. I crept up cautiously in case anyone was at home. But also hopefully, since even tramps had mobile phones nowadays. Peering through the gap that served as a front door, I found the premises vacant, though there was evidence of occupancy, mostly in the form of empty plastic bottles and lager cans. Two litres of cheap cider seemed to be the drink of choice, and the discards were piled knee-deep in the far corner. There were smaller piles of cigarette ends and empty packets, along with the occasional fast food wrapper, all arranged round the only piece of furniture: a filthy mattress.
The smell was worse than the sight. The main component was human waste product, with undertones of booze and ash. A blackened area in the middle of the floor was probably the main source of that.
“Look, they’ve even got central heating,” I said to myself. But the attempt at humour failed to get any response, even from me. Holding my breath, I went inside.
A flat slab of concrete stuck out of the makeshift wall that blocked most of the corner from sight. Not much of a seat, but anything was better than standing up for a moment longer. Laying down would have been preferable, but there wasn’t much space to stretch out – apart from on the mattress, and I wasn’t yet so far gone that I’d even touch that, let alone lay on it. Sitting up also had the advantage of keeping my head where I could breathe relatively fresh air. Even so, the stench was incredible. I concentrated on breathing through my mouth. Actually, I didn’t have much choice, since half my nose seemed to be blocked. Probably with blood, if it wasn’t broken. Hard to tell, with my whole face throbbing. It said something for the strength of the smell that it still got through.
I settled back against the broken masonry, trying to find a more comfortable position. Laney would have found the right word to describe the stink, I thought. Something like “miasma”, for example. I’d come across that in one of her poems. Not a word I’d ever have thought of otherwise. I looked around me again, wondering where the usual resident was. Probably out begging, or buying another bottle of rotgut to drink himself to sleep with.
I let my eyes drift shut. Laney would have had a lot to say about this place, I thought, and not just the smell. She’d have thought past that. She’d have found a way to describe it, and show the squalor. But beyond that, she’d have made people see the sadness of it, the loneliness of a man sitting in the ruins drinking himself to death. An abandoned person in an abandoned landscape.
I pictured her sitting next to me, taking her notebook out of her bag, beginning to write. She glanced up and met my gaze with a smile. Then she looked at what she’d written, and switched to a frown.
“What’s wrong?” I asked her.
She held up the notebook to show me: “You’re not safe here.”
I jerked awake, twisting round and trying to look in every direction at once. Nothing had changed. But she was right. Or my subconscious was, at any rate. I might be hidden from view here, but it was too obvious a hiding place. Once Canoso realized that I wasn’t wandering around in the open, he’d start looking into corners like this. And if he found me here, I’d be trapped. Plenty of places to hide a body. Just shovel enough bricks over me and I’d disappear. Forever, perhaps, or at least until they actually got round to the redevelopment. Which would be about the same time.
I crept out, wary as a rabbit, and feeling horribly exposed – though also glad of the fresher air. There was no movement out in the wasteland, no sound but distant traffic.
No more running. I didn’t have it in me. Now I was in stealth mode, slipping along the wall and then cautiously out among the rubble heaps. Like a ninja, I thought. A knackered ninja, with busted ribs, carrying a woman’s bag. Well, why not? Who said I had to conform to the stereotype?
My thoughts were wandering, my head felt light. Full of blood and air and the worst ache I could remember.
“Focus!” I told myself. And shut up, I added mentally, realizing I’d spoken aloud.
I came to another wall. At least, I hoped it was another wall, otherwise I was going in circles. This one seemed lower. I followed it, reminding myself to be careful, to be quiet.
A good thing too. As I cam
e near the end of the wall, I heard voices.
I stopped moving. Almost stopped breathing. I couldn’t make out the words, but it sounded like three of them. None of them were Canoso.
I moved cautiously further along the wall, testing each step. The voices got louder, and I started making out individual words. They were talking about football. The local team were useless. Not a single decent player among them. It was the manager’s fault. He was useless. They weren’t talking about me, which meant that they weren’t looking for me. Not Canoso’s voice, not Canoso’s men.
I reached the end of the standing section of the wall, and risked a quick peek round the edge. There were indeed three of them, sitting on a collection of old car seats about ten feet away. None looking in my direction, fortunately. They were all wearing hoodies – black, grey, and blue – so I couldn’t see much of them, but they seemed quite young. Teenagers. Sixteen or seventeen at the most. They were drinking out of cans and smoking. Not tobacco – even through my badly abused nose I could smell that. I could hear them better now. The topic had switched to girls, and they were comparing pictures on their phones.
If they had phones, they could call the police for me.
I stepped from behind the wall. “Hi,” I called. It came out as a croak, but loud enough that they all turned to look at me. There was an outburst of expletive-laden surprise that could be summarized as: “Who are you and where did you come from?”
I went towards them, coughed, and tried again. “Hi.”
They were all standing up now, staring at me with a mixture of shock and curiosity. Their initial reaction was to hide their smokes behind their back, but as it became clear that I was on my own – and didn’t look like a copper – they brought them out again.
“You look like hell! What happened to you?” That was Grey Hoodie, who was a bit bigger, perhaps a bit older, than the others.
“Ran into some trouble; got a bit of a kicking. Need some help.”
Local Poet Page 13
