by T. J. Lebbon
She heard a sound that brought her instantly back to the moment – sirens. Sliding her window down a couple of inches, the sound came in clearer and grew rapidly louder.
Grin shifted in her seat. Rose smacked the pistol against her injured shoulder again, twice, three times, feeling the wet give in the woman’s body where bone had been broken and blood flooded the flesh. Grin screamed.
Rose leaned over, hooked her arm around the woman’s shoulders, and pulled her down into her lap. She pressed the pistol against her temple, nudging the nail protruding there. Grin whined.
The police car appeared around a bend in the road and roared uphill towards them. Rose slowed but did not stop, tried on a smile, then when the car drew closer she let go of the steering wheel and waved, spreading her fingers in an attempt to obscure her face.
The police car powered past without slowing. Rose breathed a sigh of relief and shoved the woman away, steering with one hand and using the other to push Grin back into an upright position. She did not fight or resist.
Rose glanced at her, back to the road, at the woman again. She’s hurting. Hands still bound, numb, probably useless by now. And she’s barely conscious. It didn’t seem to Rose that she was feigning. But she had to decide what to do, and soon. The further she drove with Grin trussed up beside her – with both of them bleeding and suffering – the more chances there were of something going wrong.
The road dipped down a steep hill, turned a sharp bend, and they were in a small huddle of houses and buildings. A shop stood on one corner, displays of fruit and vegetables on a rack outside, windows filled with posters advertising local events. A little chapel sat further along the road. Several cars were parked on either side, and a few people milled around, some on their own, a small group chatting outside the shop.
Rose slowed. They’d expect to see someone they knew driving this van. One woman raised a hand, a man smiled, and then the hand and smile dropped away.
‘I killed the kids first so your husband could watch,’ Grin said. ‘The girl, knife behind the ear, slowly. Then the whimpering little shit. Last kid, he’d crawled to your husband for help, so I grabbed his hair and—’
Rose plucked the pistol from between her legs and slammed it into Grin’s mouth. Teeth broke and the litany of horror ended. Goading me teasing me trying to force me to make a mistake …
She almost pulled the trigger.
The woman and man still watched aghast, shocked, terrified, and they didn’t deserve to see anything like this. That was part of the reason why Rose’s finger eased from the trigger. But the main reason was that she was still in control. This moment was always going to be hers, and she would not let Grin dictate the time and manner of her own death.
As Rose drove quickly from the village, the woman beside her groaned, spitting teeth and blood. The police would be looking for them now, and the van that had proved such a convenient disguise would stand out, a bright red flag on the landscape.
A mile from the village she took a lane to the left, leading past a huddle of derelict farm buildings and down towards the valley floor. It was overgrown and unused, and several times Rose thought the van might become stuck. But then she reached a wider area beside the river, shielded by heavy trees and with a beautiful view across the valley to the hills beyond. She stopped the van, lowered the windows, killed the engine, and sat listening to the sounds of nature.
For a moment she turned away from Grin and pretended that she was alone, but then the woman snorted. Rose looked at her again. The woman was staring at her, smiling through gashed lips and shattered teeth, her tongue shifting like a swollen slug in the mess of her face. Perhaps she was trying to talk, but Rose no longer cared. She looked hard into her eyes, one clear, one bloodied, searching for a reason for all of this. But there was no regret there, no sign of weakness. Grin was already resigned to her fate.
Rose pressed her gun against Grin’s right eye and pulled the trigger.
The woman’s head flipped back against the door frame.
Rose fired again to make sure, and one more time just because she could.
She leaned back and closed her eyes for a few seconds. She no longer felt any pain in her hip or arm. She felt very little.
She considered simply leaving the corpse in the van and fleeing on foot, but whoever discovered it would be traumatised for life. So she took a good, long look at what was left of Grin, then went to search for somewhere to hide a body.
Chapter Thirty-Four
thirteen days
‘Mummy, when are we going home?’ It was Megs’ usual question when they woke up, but today the answer was different.
‘Today,’ their mother said.
‘Mum?’ Gemma asked. ‘Really?’
Her mum nodded. She was already dressed, and she looked exhausted. Earlier, Gemma had listened to the low mumble of voices as she spoke with someone in the adjoining bedroom. For the thirteen days they had been there that had happened most mornings, and most afternoons and evenings too. Some of them were police, some social workers. Health workers, too, who would come in and sit with them all, ask questions, talk about a variety of things which were, she knew, all about what had happened.
Her dad’s brother and sister had been there, seeing them in the Cardiff hotel after visiting him in hospital. They told her mum that they’d been helping the police with their inquiries. Both of them had looked scared, as if this had all happened to them.
What she struggled to get over to everyone was that she was fine. Her mum and Megs were alive and well, and sharing the hotel suite with her. Her dad was alive, still in hospital being treated for his wounds under police protection. Under arrest, in fact, although no one had told her that outright, and none of them really knew what came next for him.
So she was fine.
Because it could have been so much worse.
‘What about our house?’ Gemma asked. They’d been told that it was a crime scene.
‘They’ve finished there,’ her mum said. ‘We’ve had people doing work while we’ve been away, too. New carpets, fresh paint. It’ll be nice.’ She frowned, voice going quieter as she said, ‘We’ll have some policemen staying with us, for a while.’
‘How long?’ Gemma asked.
‘I’m not really sure,’ her mum said, the uncertainty etched on her face.
‘Will we have to move?’
Her mother didn’t reply.
‘I broke the shower curtain,’ Gemma said.
‘I’m sure that’s been fixed too, sweetie.’ Her mum hugged her, then slipped across to Megs’ bed and lay down beside her. Gemma’s little sister had been unnaturally quiet since those bad days, and their mum spent a lot of time with her, talking, playing games, sometimes just lying there hugging.
‘Can I go for a last swim, Mum?’ The hotel had a pool and sauna area, and Gemma had been twice every day they’d been staying there. She thought it was thirteen days. She’d lost count.
‘Just don’t be too long. They’re sending a car for us at one o’clock, and I thought it’d be nice to have lunch in the restaurant first.’
‘Will Daddy be coming home with us?’ Megs asked, and Gemma turned away and started packing her swimming things. No one knew the answer to that for sure, her mum had recently revealed. Their solicitors were working on it, but the police were eager to continue questioning, and it could be that he’d be held in custody while they did that. Gemma hated the idea of their dad being held anywhere against his will. She knew what that was like.
She heard her mother’s calming, soft voice as she whispered to her sister, and then Gemma said goodbye and left the room.
A man was sitting outside. His name was Dave, and he was a policeman. He was friendly enough, but she could not bring herself to trust or like him. His being outside their room was just another indication of how big a deal this was. And she didn’t want anything about this to be a big deal – not that they were taken, not that her dad had been hunted like a bloody fox,
not that a strange woman had come along to help him and killed people up in the mountains, and more around the farmhouse where they’d been kept prisoner. And not that she, Gemma, had stabbed a woman in the side of the face with a nail.
She slept well, but sometimes upon waking, Gemma knew that she’d been dreaming of Vey.
No one knew where their kidnapper was now. She’d spoken to her mum about it, during their fourth or fifth night here. They’d all just returned from the hospital, leaving her dad in a fitful sleep, and Megs had gone straight to bed. Her mother opened a bottle of wine, and after a glass she’d had a sudden, explosive fit of sobbing. Gemma had cuddled her, rocking her back and forth on the double bed.
‘Don’t be scared,’ she’d said. ‘The police will find her. She can’t have gone far. I banged a nail in her head.’ The weak attempt at humour had seemed to bring her mum around. She’d wiped her eyes and laughed softly.
‘Oh, I’m not worried about her. She’ll be dead by now.’
Gemma’s blood ran cold at the memory of what her mum had said. It had come from her dad. Such knowledge to carry.
Everything had changed. They were all together again, but she feared that her old family was gone forever, and nothing would ever be the same again. Gemma was starting to understand that, and the reporters who hassled them whenever they left the hotel made that clear. Sometimes she wasn’t sure just who the police were guarding them against. She was too afraid to ask.
‘Going for a swim,’ she said to the policeman.
‘Don’t be too long. Your mum tell you?’
‘That we’re going home today?’
Dave smiled and nodded. ‘That’s nice news for you, kid.’
Gemma couldn’t help smiling back. Maybe he wasn’t so bad after all.
There were three other people in the pool. She recognised two of them, older women who had been staying at the hotel for the past four days. They might have been sisters. They swam side by side, but Gemma had never heard them speak a word to each other. The third person was a young boy, maybe her age. When she entered the pool room he glanced at her, then did a double-take. He smiled. Gemma turned away, aloof, and walked to the deep end.
The cold embrace when she dived in was welcome, and she glided underwater for a few metres. When she broke the surface she fell into a smooth, economical front crawl, pulling herself towards the shallow end, performing a perfect tumble roll, then settling into a comfortable rhythm. She was a good swimmer. Though she’d had lessons when she was younger, it was her dad who’d really taught her how to swim properly. He’d said that one day maybe they’d do a triathlon together, and the idea excited her.
Gemma had no idea whether that could happen now. Her dad had been shot. Shot! And though he was recovering well from his wounds and ordeal, the doctors had said he faced a long rehabilitation, with physical and psychological therapy.
She swam, and tried to let her worries drift away. The rhythm, the stroke, the regular movements, were all calming and almost hypnotic. Ten lengths, twenty, thirty, and she paused in the deep end and held on to the side of the pool.
The two women had gone. So had the boy. She hadn’t noticed any of them getting out, but she was glad to have the pool to herself. Soft music played. Machinery hummed. She swam ten more lengths, then hauled herself out, showered, and entered the sauna.
Her mum said she needed to open up and let out her emotions about what had happened. She said Gemma had grown cold, distant, and she was afraid that things had affected her far more deeply than anyone else. Sometimes she said these things directly to Gemma, but she’d also heard her mum talking about her in the next room, to the social and health workers who paid regular visits. Big Ears strikes again.
‘I’m fine,’ Gemma whispered in the sauna. She threw water onto the rocks and welcomed the loud hiss.
And she really thought she was. Soon she’d be home, and then she’d be able to talk to her friends again. She’d been allowed a few calls, but they hadn’t permitted any of them access to a phone or iPad. That had troubled Gemma more than what had happened; being out of the loop was hell. She could go to school, catch up, and start putting things behind her. Pull forward, like she did in the pool. She’d have to help her family, too, especially little Megs.
And her dad. When they visited, sometimes he looked at her and cried.
‘I’m fine,’ she said again, and the sauna door opened.
‘Hi,’ the boy said.
‘Hey.’
He entered and sat in the opposite corner, rubbing sweat from his face, sighing at the heat.
‘You here alone?’
‘Just stay the fuck away from me!’ Gemma snapped up the water bucket, wielding it in one hand, jumped to her feet, and kicked the door open.
‘Woah!’ the boy said, hands held out.
‘Touch me and I’ll smash this across your face. There are police here, everywhere, and they’re just waiting for someone to try anything!’
‘Wait! Gemma, I’m sorry, I—’
‘How the fuck do you know my name?’
He didn’t answer. He just stared at her, hands still held out as if to ward off violence.
She stood in the open doorway, half warm, half cold, feeling slightly ridiculous holding the bucket raised in one hand. I’m fine! Lowering it slowly, she raised her eyebrows.
‘Well?’
‘Some woman gave me something to give to you.’
‘What woman? What something?’
‘Dunno.’
‘What did she say?’
‘She said to tell you, Nailed her.’
Gemma blinked sweat from her eyes and dropped the bucket. It rolled on the tiles and came to rest. ‘Okay. Then give it to me.’
She followed him across the pool room and entered the male changing area with him. There was no one else there, but it still felt weird. Gemma focused on the boy, and what he’d said. It must have been her. Must have been. But what did she want?
‘Here,’ the boy said, handing her something from the kit bag in his locker. It was an A5 envelope, sealed.
‘You didn’t want to open it?’ she asked. ‘You know who I am, right?’
‘I do now. Don’t care. She gave me some money, and … ’ He shrugged, almost embarrassed.
‘She scared you.’
‘Just a bit.’
‘Thanks,’ Gemma said. She left the boy, and the changing room, and ten minutes later she was dried and changed and back in their hotel suite. Her mum and Megs were dressed, cases packed.
‘You were quick.’
‘Yeah, I’m excited to get home,’ Gemma said. ‘It’ll be good to get back to normal.’
Her mum’s expression hardened, her smile slipped. Gemma looked away.
In the bathroom, she looked again at what Rose had given her. There were two objects. The first was a memory stick, unlabelled. Gemma knew that in truth, nothing would ever be normal again. But perhaps whatever information the stick contained might take them halfway back.
The second object was a small square of thin paper. It carried a simple message.
‘If you or your dad ever need help, Tweet: Jane Doe was born in Sorrento.’
The memory stick she would hand over to her mum’s solicitors. The message she would keep to herself. After reading it three more times she tore up the paper and flushed it down the toilet.
Gemma stared into the mirror, and the girl looking back smiled.
Chapter Thirty-Five
moving
‘Is this the one that got away again?’
‘I thought you might call. So who am I talking to?’
‘You can call me John. How’s the arm?’
‘It’s doing okay, thanks. I can still shoot a gun.’
‘You showed that quite well in Wales.’
‘Yeah. Enjoyed that.’
‘And the hip?’
‘I can still run.’
There was silence for a moment, broken only by a crackle of static on the l
ine.
‘You did a lot of damage.’ He had an accent that Rose couldn’t quite place. Probably European, though she wasn’t even sure of that. ‘Most of the British cell wiped out, and the survivors mopped up with the info the girl passed to police. And they were one of the oldest, active for … a long time. So you know we can’t just let you go.’
‘I thought you might say that, too.’ Rose was nervous, but she didn’t let it show. Her voice was firm, and she was in control. She had to believe that. ‘So I’ve just got to tell you this, “John”. Or maybe you’re Hans Kluge. Or the husband of Chrissie Pinn. I could name quite a few more people you might be, because I know so much more about the Trail cells in other countries than you can imagine. Everything I know about the Trail beyond the UK is recorded, placed in safe keeping in several places around the world. And I learned a trick from you guys, here – if I don’t check in every week, that information is released to police and made public on the internet.’
John was silent for a while. Then he started giggling. It made Rose shiver, because it sounded so out of control. But really, she should know better.
‘What do you know? A few names? Some websites, email addresses?’
‘More.’
‘Addresses, maybe. A few bank account details, some of our suppliers, photographs. Details of some of our friends. If you reveal that, do you really believe it’ll do anything we can’t undo?’
‘Yes.’
‘Our clients have included businessmen, actors, drug dealers, models. Several politicians, mostly from Eastern European countries. Mostly. Also one high-ranking army officer, close to retirement and mourning the fact he’d never killed. We’ve used our network to rid your country of several undesirables. The UK cell was as good as state sanctioned! And we have fingers in industries, governments, and business organisations around the world, and no one finger knows what any of the others are doing. I’m in telecommunications. We have lawyers, financiers, doctors. We’ve been around for a very long time.’ He laughed again, but all the humour had gone. ‘So even if something did happen to you, do you really think you could hurt us?’
