KATE GENTLY LOWERED herself into the near boiling water, letting her skin adjust to the heat in tiny increments, her lips pursed with the pleasure of pain.
When she was fully submerged, only her head poking up through the bubbles, she lay there for minute or two with her eyes closed and focused on her breathing. She took long, slow, deep breaths and pictured the cares and stresses of her day dissolving out of her into the bathwater. Then, her heart rate slow, her head clear, she stretched out a languid hand for the glass of red wine perched on the windowsill above her. She took a sip and moaned softly in blissful contentment.
It had been an awful, wonderful day. Her first shift at A&E. She’d trained for years in preparation, and had some training yet to complete. But all that study, that sacrifice, the sleepless nights and double shifts, the practical exams and psychological probes, the stuck up consultants, insolent orderlies and endless, endless paperwork, had led her to this day; an afternoon spent dressing a huge abscess on the back of a homeless alcoholic who smelt like he slept in a supermarket skip full of rotting meat.
She was going to have to scrub herself raw to get the stench out. The smoke from her joss stick merged with the steam from the bath. It smelt the way she imagined a hookah pipe would, and it made her feel exotic and elsewhere. Plus, it masked the rank odour that still haunted her nostrils.
The flat was silent. The students upstairs, for all their exuberance, rarely partied until 4am. They were asleep, as was her flat mate Jill, a plain, bookish girl who kept herself to herself, liked early nights and slept with earplugs in. Kate liked being awake when everyone else was asleep. It made her feel secure, confident that no-one was watching or expecting anything of her.
The world was asleep, and Kate felt free as a bird.
When she heard the gentle knock at the front door, she initially thought she must be imagining it. But no, there it was again, louder this time. Her hard-won calm evaporated, but she decided to ignore the intrusive noise. It was probably just some pissed up student who’d got the wrong flat. Just ignore it, she told herself. They’ll go away.
The knocking got louder and more insistent. Kate muttered: “La, la, la can’t hear you.” Then she heard the rattle of the letterbox and her name being whispered through it.
“Kit,” said the voice. “Kit, I know you’re in there. Open up.”
Kate sighed. “For fuck’s sake,” she cursed under her breath as she lifted herself out of the foam. “What now?” She towelled herself down and pulled on her bathrobe, the moth eaten old silk one with the holes in it, and went to let in her brother, James.
“What bloody time do you...” Her half-angry diatribe died in her throat as she pulled the front door open and saw the woman.
“Thank God,” said James. “Help me get her inside.”
Kate’s brother was not tall – about five foot seven – and the woman dwarfed him. He stood in the cold hallway, holding her up. Her head lolled on his shoulder and her feet dragged across the threshold as he and Kate manhandled the unconscious woman into the flat. James kicked the door closed behind him.
“Bedroom,” said Kate.
They gently lowered the unconscious woman onto Kate’s bed. Just for a moment, Kate hesitated. She looked at the woman’s face in the light and was suddenly taken aback. Despite her height, this was the face of a child. Kate mentally re-categorised her – this wasn’t a woman, not quite yet. If she was eighteen, it was only barely. This was a girl; a girl wearing white stilettos, stockings and suspenders, a red basque torn open to reveal her left breast, and nothing else. She had been severely beaten. Her hair was long and blonde, her cheekbones high and her lips full. Kate thought she looked Eastern European.
Her training kicked in. “Call 999,” she said as she lifted the girl’s eyelids and shone the bedside lamp into them, checking pupil dilation.
“I can’t, Sis,” said James, who fidgeted nervously at the end of the bed.
“Fine, then I will.” Kate lifted the handset from its cradle on her bedside cabinet, but James scurried across and made to grab it from her before she could dial. They struggled for a moment before Kate let the phone go and returned to the girl.
“James, this girl needs a hospital,” said Kate, checking the airway for obstructions. “What the hell is going on here? Who is she?”
James was hovering at her shoulder, putting her off.
“For God’s sake, sit down and tell me what’s going on,” she barked as she took the girl’s pulse.
He lingered for a moment then went to sit at the foot of the bed, wringing his hands anxiously.
“I’m in trouble, Sis. Really bad.”
“Save it,” snapped Kate. “The girl.” Check skull for evidence of blunt trauma.
“Her name’s Lyudmila. She’s a prostitute. Kind of.”
“Not your type though.” Examine limbs and ribs for signs of breakage.
“She’s from where I work.”
“You’re a student. You don’t work, you scrounge.”
He didn’t say anything more except: “Is she going to be okay?”
Kate focused on her patient. When she’d assured herself that the girl was in no immediate danger, she pulled the quilt over her and left her to sleep it off.
She grabbed a pair of jeans and a t-shirt, ushered James out while she dressed, then joined him in the living room. He was boiling the kettle in the kitchenette. She nipped into the bathroom, collected her wine, then returned to the cracked leather sofa, tucked her legs underneath herself and said: “Get your tea. Sit down. Start at the beginning.”
James plonked himself down at the other end of the small sofa, cradling the mug and biting his lip. Kate had seen her brother up against it more than once – the time he’d been attacked on the street by gay bashers; the day he was expelled from school – but this twitchy nervous wreck was barely recognisable as her flamboyant, devil-may-care, overconfident younger sibling. As he opened his mouth to speak she had an inkling that everything in her life was about to change. She felt a rush of butterflies in her stomach.
But before James could begin, there was another, louder knock at the door.
“Oh, fuck,” he whispered. His face went even paler, his eyes widened with fear and he stared at Kate like he’d just seen a ghost.
“Who is it?” she asked, but he wasn’t listening.
“They must have followed me. Oh, fuck, oh, fuck, oh, fuck.” He leaned across and grabbed her wrist. “Don’t open it. Just stay quiet, maybe they’ll go away.”
The knocking came again, louder this time.
“James, it’s 4am and the lights are on. They know we’re here. Who is it?”
“They’re looking for her.” He pointed to the bedroom.
“Why? What are they going to...”
There was a sudden loud crash from the front door, which rattled on its hinges.
“Fuck!” cried Kate, suddenly, finally, scared.
There was another crash and this time she could hear the wooden door frame begin to splinter.
The door to the second bedroom opened and Jill stood there in her sensible flannelette pjs, rubbing her eyes and digging in her right ear for her earplug.
“What the bloody hell’s going on?” she asked sleepily.
Kate leapt up and reached for the phone. “Sod this,” she said. “I’m calling the police.”
“No, Kate, please,” shouted James as he rose to his feet.
Another crash from the door. This time it flew open with a huge crack of shattering wood. All three of them turned to see an enormous man framed in the doorway.
With a square head and haircut to match, the man’s shoulders were so wide he had to turn a little bit sideways and stoop to fit through the doorway. His suit was large and baggy, more like a tent, and he lumbered into the room, his eyes narrowed and threatening.
James stepped forward, putting himself in front of Kate and Jill. He hunched his shoulders like a dog that’s about to be told off by a pack lead
er, lowered his head, held out his hands in supplication, and started to beg.
“Petar, mate, I’m sorry. I didn’t know what else to do. Nate was out of it and Lyudmila needed help, y’know. At least I didn’t go to a hospital, right? Right? I mean, I did good not to go...”
The man raised a huge, ugly paw and backslapped James across the face with such force that he flew sideways, crashing into the sideboard and collapsing to the floor in a dazed heap, the silhouette of the man’s hand etched onto his face in livid red.
“Hey,” shouted Kate, stepping forward and jutting out her chin defiantly. “You leave my brother alone.”
He raised his other hand and gave her the same treatment. It felt like being hit in the face with a girder. It lifted her off her feet and sent her sprawling into the kitchenette, scrabbling for purchase on the lino.
It was the first time in her life that anyone had ever hit her. She sat there, stunned, so surprised and shocked that she had no idea how to react. Out of the corner of her eye she registered Jill stepping backwards into her room and closing the door. The giant ignored her, instead opening the door to Kate’s room where the injured girl was still in the bed.
He looked inside, assured himself that she was in there, then turned and walked out. She heard him bark a terse order in a language she did not recognise, and then three men entered the flat. They wore similar suits to the giant, and their faces were hard and cruel, but that wasn’t what made Kate cry out in fear.
All three of them were carrying guns.
Kate had never seen a gun before. Not a real one, not up close and personal. She’d seen them on telly, of course, and in news reports about gang violence. She’d been trained what to do if a gun was pulled in the hospital, but there was no panic button here, and no guaranteed minimum response time.
The sight of the small, black, stubby metal objects paralysed her. She knew exactly the damage a bullet could do. Her mind was suddenly filled with images of herself lying on the floor, bleeding out from ruptured arteries, lungs filling with blood, choking on her own fluids, twitching and convulsing as she voided her bowels, wet herself and lost control of her body, dying on a black and white lino floor in a pokey flat with the smell of a tramp in her cooling nostrils.
What the bloody hell had James got her mixed up in?
She instinctively crawled backwards into the corner, as if cramming herself between the MDF cabinets would help. One of the men went into her bedroom, another grabbed James and dragged him to his feet, the third came for her. By the time her reached down to take her arm, Kate was hysterical. She began kicking and screaming, flailing around with her fists and shaking her head wildly. She didn’t see what hit her across the temple, but if she’d been able to think about it, she’d have realised it was the handle of the gun. Her head swam, her vision sparkled, she went limp with the sound of James’ protests ringing in her ears.
She didn’t entirely pass out, though. She remained vaguely aware as the man grabbed her wrists, spun her around and pulled her out of the flat by her ankles. Her head bounced off the doorframe with a horrible thud, scraping the back of her scalp so it bled through her hair; it was thickly matted with blood by the time they reached the lift.
She was thrown into the lift like a sack of rubbish and ended up in a foetal heap in the corner. As the doors slid shut, she finally blacked out.
IN YEARS TO come, Kate would grow accustomed to waking from unconsciousness. The sharp pain in her head that revealed the site of the blow; the dry, metallic taste in her mouth; the shock of bright light; the fear that maybe this time some permanent damage had been done. The most important lesson she learnt, though, was not to panic. To take a moment to assess the damage, establish her capabilities.
The first time she awoke from such an ordeal, she didn’t have this experience to draw on, so she sat bolt upright and looked left and right quickly, terrified. The sudden movement caused a spike of agony in her head, her vision blurred, and she slumped back down onto what she realised was a red leather sofa, groaning as the room spun around her. She clutched her hands to her head as if that would stop the wild rotation of the room and make the pain go away. It didn’t.
“Here, take these,” said a voice above her. She squinted up and saw a man looking down at her. He had a glass of water in one hand and a packet of Nurofen in the other.
Slowly, she sat up and reached out for the medicine, gulping them down hungrily, and draining the glass of water. As she handed back the glass she instinctively opened her mouth to thank the man, but then realised her mistake.
“You’re welcome,” he said softly, with a smile. She registered an accent, but couldn’t place it. Russian, maybe?
Kate wanted to run, to scream, to try and escape, but she guessed she wouldn’t get five metres. She leaned back into the comfy sofa and took in her surroundings.
The lighting was low and red. She was in a large room, a hall of some kind. No windows, so possibly a cellar. There were sofas and armchairs dotted around on the thick carpet, arranged in horseshoes with glass tables at their focal points. At the far end was a bar and on either side were raised platforms with metal poles that ran to the ceiling. She was in a strip club. An upmarket one, but not one of the majors. Probably central London. Even through the headache she knew what that implied about the management.
There was one more detail, too – handcuffed to the stripper’s poles, sitting on the floor with their hands behind their backs, were James and Lyudmila. The girl was out for the count, but James was conscious. She couldn’t be sure in the half-light, but Kate thought he’d been beaten up.
The man in front of her sat down in an armchair. He placed his arms on the armrests very deliberately, as if arranging himself like a work of art ready for display. His movements were precise and considered, but Kate did not think it was vanity. She got a sense that he was so full of anger or violence that even the simple act of sitting in a chair required titanic effort and conscious control.
This man immediately scared her more than anything else that had happened on this bizarre, awful night.
She forced herself to meet his gaze, but his eyes were lost in shadow. He was middle aged, maybe in his forties. Short hair topped a high forehead above a long, straight nose and sensuous, amused lips. He was not overweight nor musclebound and he wore an expensive, well-tailored suit. He should have been attractive, but there was something cruel about that smile, and his body language screamed danger.
“What is your name?” he asked softly.
“Kate.”
“Hello Kate. People call me Spider.”
Of course they do, thought Kate. Can’t have a criminal mastermind with a name like Steve or Keith. She almost voiced her sarcastic thought, but didn’t, possibly because she was surprised to find herself capable of levity. She wondered if maybe she had a concussion, and then mentally chided herself; of course she had a bloody concussion.
“Interesting name,” she said. “Where’s it from?”
His smile widened. “I am from Serbia.”
“Oh.”
“Have you ever been?”
Kate shook her head.
“It is the most beautiful country on Earth.” He paused and Kate felt herself being appraised. “Maybe one day I will take you.”
The way he said it left Kate in no doubt that the double meaning had been intentional. There was a long silence. No sound penetrated this room from outside. All she could hear was her own breathing and the soft hum of ancient aircon.
“What do you do, Kate? I mean, for a living?”
“I’m a student doctor. You?”
“Oh, I do many things. Many things.”
“Is this your club?”
He nodded. “And let me say, Kate, that if you ever tire of the medical profession, I am sure we could find a place for you here.”
“If Lyudmila’s an example of how you treat your staff, I think I’ll pass.”
“Lyudmila broke the terms of her contract.”
“How?”
“She spat.”
It took Kate a moment to work out what he meant, but when she did she felt sick to her stomach.
Spider leaned forward, gently intertwining his fingers and placing them on his knees.
“How do you know her?” he asked.
“I don’t.”
Spider looked puzzled and then surprised. He swore in Serbian and despite the language barrier Kate could tell he was amazed.
“You mean James brought her to you on his own?” he asked, openly astonished.
Kate didn’t know what to do. If she said yes, would that make things better or worse? Eventually she nodded.
Spider turned to look at her brother and shouted, “Have you found a spine, Booker? I did not think you ever would.”
“She... she was hurt, boss,” wheedled James. “And Nate...”
“That useless junkie is gone. He works for the Albanians now.”
“I know that, boss. But she was hurt, she needed to be looked after. I didn’t know what else to do.”
“So you took her to this girl?”
“Yes.”
“And how...” Spider broke off and looked sharply back at Kate, then back at James. “Ha! She is your sister. You took Lyudmila to see your sister the doctor.”
James hung his head in shame and then gave one short nod.
“Sorry, Sis,” he said softly.
Spider turned back to Kate and leaned back in his chair again, once more placing his arms just so.
“I apologise for the way you were treated, Kate. I can see that this situation is not your fault.”
“But?”
“But I hope you see that I am now in a very difficult position. The business I run is not, entirely, legitimate. There are people who would like to see me locked up. You have seen my face. You know my name. You can identify some of the men who work for me. You are a problem. I think it would be sensible for me to kill you.”
“No! Boss, please!” yelled James.
As Spider rose from his chair, his precise movements made him seem almost robotic. He turned and walked over to James, who cowered on the floor. Spider stood above him on the stage and lashed out with his foot, kicking James hard in the face. It was a sudden, shocking action, an explosion of pent up rage. For an instant Spider’s limbs were flexible, his neck was loose, his body fluent and fluid. Then, when the blow had been struck, he stood stock still and kind of settled, his body returning to repose, an act of conscious thought, re-imposing order on the chaos he worked so hard to contain within himself. His momentary loss of complete precision seemed almost not have happened.
School's Out Forever Page 63
