Target

by Simon Kernick

  It could have been a brief throwaway conversation, the kind people who don't really know each other have all the time, but I'd been feeling pretty lonely lately, and maybe it was the booze too, because the attraction that had probably always been there began to kick in again, and pretty hard too. So, as we shouted in each other's ears over the noise and I caught the soft scent of her perfume, I took the plunge and asked her if she fancied going somewhere else.

  To be honest, I wouldn't normally have been so forward, but again, I think it was the booze. I wasn't expecting a yes either. The chances were she was here with friends who were more reliable than Ramon, and she wasn't going to leave them to go off with her ex-boyfriend's mate.

  But she said she would.

  And in that one moment, my fate was sealed.

  We went round the corner to a quieter, more traditional pub where there were plenty of spare tables. I bought the drinks – sparkling water for me, a dry white wine spritzer for her – and we caught up on things.

  Jenny worked for a web-based travel agency and she'd just come back from a nine-day trip to Mauritius and the Seychelles checking out hotels, which she told me, rather unconvincingly, was harder work than it sounded. That was the cue for us to talk about travelling and share the usual backpacker stories.

  The thing I found about talking to Jenny was that the conversation always flowed naturally. I never felt like I had to put on a front, or be someone I wasn't. Maybe that was because as Dom's girlfriend she'd always been untouchable so there'd never been any need. But tonight we both avoided any mention of Dom, and when we finished our drinks Jenny bought another round, insisting I have something alcoholic so she didn't have the guilt of drinking alone. I plumped for a vodka Red Bull, hoping it would perk me up.

  'So,' she said, returning to the table with the drinks, 'did you ever finish that book you were writing?'

  A little bit of background here. In the days when Jenny was seeing Dom, I was working on a book. In fact, I'd been working on it for a grand total of three years, ever since I'd cashed in my share options and left the investment bank where I was employed to begin a new life in rural France with Yvonne and our then one-year-old daughter Chloe. It had always been my ambition to be an author, and I'd done enough writing in my spare time to think it was worth trying to make a go of it. It was going to be my retirement plan. Pen a succession of popular and critically acclaimed novels while growing organic fruit and vegetables on our idyllic patch of Burgundy countryside.

  Unfortunately, it hadn't worked out quite like that. The book in question – Conspiracy: A Thriller, a high-octane page-turner set in the murky world of high finance (that was my tag line) – turned out to be one hell of a lot harder to write than I'd thought. I just couldn't get the plot right, and when I did, the end result was seven hundred pages long and possibly the most unthrilling thriller I've ever had to read in my life. During all this I'd become almost impossible to live with, and the idyllic Burgundy countryside, all those hundreds of square miles of it, had begun to drive me mad. Worse still, Yvonne loved it.

  You can probably guess the rest. We argued like crazy as my dreams, held for so long during those long-drawn-out days in the office, steadily fell apart. I was selfish. I kept threatening to up sticks and head home. One day, Yvonne decided she'd had enough and told me I was welcome to go. We agreed to have a three-month trial separation. I returned to England, staying in Dom's spare room, hoping that the change of scenery would provide the inspiration I needed for Conspiracy. But it didn't. Instead, just as I was about to ask to move back in with Yvonne, having finally realized that living without her and Chloe would only make me unhappy, she announced that she'd met someone else. His name was Nigel, and he was another ex-pat. She and Chloe are still living with him, except now they've moved south, to Montpellier.

  And my high-octane page-turner set in the murky world of high finance?

  'No,' I told Jenny, a rueful smile on my face. 'I never did finish it.'

  'That's a pity,' she said, looking disappointed. 'After all the work you put into it.'

  'Sometimes you've just got to know when to quit.' I took a decent gulp of the vodka Red Bull. 'But,' I added, keen to keep her interest, 'I'm not the kind to give up. I'm writing another one now, and guess what?'

  Her face brightened. 'What?'

  'I've got an agent, a guy who thinks he can sell it. I sent him the first ten chapters and he took me on on the basis of them.'

  'Can you tell me what it's about?' she asked, leaning forward in her seat, sounding genuinely interested.

  So I told her all about Maxwell.

  Maxwell was something of a legend in north London underworld circles, a former loanshark and enforcer now in his fifties who was reputed to be as strong as an ox and possessed of the highly useful loansharking talent of being able to punch open doors. In other words, not the kind of man you wanted to cross. I'd met him a few months back at a party in Hoxton hosted by one of Ramon's salsa students. Maxwell was standing around dealing coke and generally looking menacing, and somehow I'd ended up talking to him.

  When I told him I was a writer (which strictly speaking was true, even though I'd never been paid a penny for it), Maxwell had suddenly become very interested. 'I've got plenty of stories to tell,' he growled, following this revelation with the immortal line 'you could turn my life into a book', which, even as a rank amateur in the literary world, I must have heard a hundred times before, usually from people whose lives would have made a bloody awful book. But in Maxwell's case, I'd seen a degree of potential.

  By this time, Conspiracy was already pretty much down the pan, so I'd gone to the cottage in Berkshire where Maxwell had retired on his ill-gotten gains to interview him, not entirely sure what to expect. What I got was a friendly charismatic guy who was a hugely gregarious storyteller with a never-ending stream of original anecdotes, who'd clearly lived the kind of life that would make a perfect book. I envisaged it as a kind of British riposte to Goodfellas: a thug's journey through Britain's seedy underbelly from childhood to middle age, encompassing the crimes he'd committed along the way, and adding in a few he hadn't, including a couple of murders, just for good measure.

  Maxwell hadn't taken much persuading. Since he loved talking about his exploits it stood to reason that he'd jump at the chance to make some money from them. And so, a couple of months earlier, we'd finally got down to work, and I'd produced the first ten chapters, focusing on his early life, which was the part that got me my agent. Since then I'd been ploughing slowly through the rest of it, trying to ignore the fact that what little money I had left in the world was rapidly running out. I'd even contemplated tapping Maxwell for a loan, but had quickly thought better of it. My front door was flimsy and I didn't think he'd grant me any special favours if I didn't pay him back.

  When I'd finished talking, having thrown in a couple of choice Maxwell anecdotes, Jenny shook her head in amazement. 'God,' she said, draining the last of her second spritzer, 'it's incredible to think people like that exist.'

  'I can promise you they do.'

  'He sounds awful,' she said with a mock shudder, but I could tell from the look in her eyes that a part of her had found hearing about him exciting.

  'He's like a lot of criminals,' I answered, trying to sound authoritative. 'They can be great fun right up until the minute you piss them off. Then they're not very nice people at all.'

  She looked at me and smiled, and I was sure there was something suggestive in her expression. The pub was shutting and, apart from the barman who was collecting up the glasses, we were the only ones left.

  I suddenly realized that I didn't want this evening to end. I hadn't been out on my own with a woman for months, and I was enjoying her company. 'Do you fancy going on somewhere?' I asked, trying to sound as casual as possible. 'I know a couple of wine bars round here where we can get a late drink.'

  'I would do, but I've got work in the morning and I could do without the sore head.'

&nbs
p; Jenny got to her feet, and I followed suit. I was disappointed, but I didn't show it. It was probably for the best: she was Dom's ex-girlfriend and it didn't feel right being too interested in her.

  But as we stepped out of the pub and into the chilly night air, she surprised me by asking if I fancied popping round to hers for a nightcap. 'I'm only a five-minute taxi ride from here.'

  It was difficult to tell from her tone and demeanour whether she meant the invitation as an extension to our chat or something more, but either way I forgot my earlier inhibitions, hesitating for all of a second before answering, 'Sure, that'd be great.' After all, it could do no harm. Just a drink. See what happens.

  How wrong I was.

  Two

  Jenny lived in a flashy-looking new-build apartment block in one of the nicer parts of north Islington which, with its bright lights and reliance on tinted glass, looked more like the head office of some trendy management consultants than the kind of place anyone in their right mind would want to live. It also looked extremely pricey, and I remember thinking that I ought to become a web-based travel agent if it paid that much, but knowing at the same time that it didn't.

  As the taxi pulled up outside, she reached into her handbag to pay the driver but, chivalrous to the last, I gave him my last ten-pound note, which, with London cab prices being what they are, only just managed to cover it.

  'There's something I ought to tell you,' she said when we were standing on the pavement.

  The last time I'd heard that line it was followed by my ex-wife dropping the bombshell that she'd fallen in love with a man called Nigel. Trying not to let that bother me, I adopted the most neutral expression I could manage and asked Jenny what it was.

  She put a hand on my arm, and fixed me with those big brown eyes. I noticed she was a little unsteady on her feet. 'You know me and Dom broke up a while back?'

  'Uh-huh,' I said, conscious that I was wobbling too.

  'He's been trying to get back with me recently. Phoning up. Calling round. Things like that.'

  I had a sinking feeling. I'd thought the two of them were history. Dom hadn't been mentioned all evening, and now, hearing his name spoken out loud, I experienced a sudden rush of guilt.

  'I know you and he are very good friends,' she continued, 'so I thought it was fair to tell you that. He's really interested in us starting up again. But I'm not.' She moved closer so our faces were only a few inches apart. 'That's why you're here.'

  I wasn't sure what to say, so I plumped for saying nothing. Nor did I resist as she took me by the hand and led me up to the front entrance of the building, although I now knew this was going to be more than just an extension to our chat.

  Inside, the foyer was empty, and I noticed Jenny frown as she swiped a card through the space-age-looking reader, releasing the lock on the double doors. 'There should be a doorman on duty,' she said. 'That's what we pay our maintenance for.'

  I wasn't quite sure what you needed a doorman for if you had to use a key to get in the building, but I was pleased he wasn't there. I didn't want any witnesses to what I knew was going to be the betrayal of my oldest friend, especially if – God forbid – Dom and Jenny ever did get back together. Although to be fair, that wasn't sounding too likely.

  As we got inside and she pressed for the lifts, I heard rapid footsteps coming from the hallway behind the front desk. It sounded like the doorman was returning, so as the lift doors opened I hurried inside and pressed myself against the wall, still worried about being seen.

  Jenny followed me in, standing in the middle, and as the doors began to shut she called out, 'Hello, John, I thought you'd gone on strike.'

  'Toilet break,' I heard the doorman call back, and then the doors closed, and she pressed for Floor 9.

  We looked at each other for a long second and I knew immediately what was going to happen. She leaned forward. So did I.

  The first kiss was hesitant, just like it always seems to be in the movies, and I felt my last twinge of guilt evaporating.

  The second kiss was harder, longer, and I hardly noticed the lift doors opening again. We paused for a couple of seconds, then she took me by the hand and led me down a short corridor to her front door, kissing me once again before we manoeuvred our way inside, still attached to each other at the mouth.

  Jenny's place was nice, as befitted a swanky building like this, opening directly into a spacious, neatly furnished lounge with floor-to-ceiling windows offering views across the park.

  She let go of me for a moment and took a step backwards. 'I'm not always this forward, you know.'

  'I know,' I said. Which I didn't, of course, but I thought this was probably what she wanted to hear.

  'It's just I've always had a bit of a soft spot for you.'

  'I guess I've had one for you as well,' I admitted.

  'Do you want a drink of something?'

  I'll never forget my next words, mainly because they were so hackneyed, and did whatever reputation I had as a romantic or a wordsmith no good at all. 'No,' I said, 'I just want you.'

  Something about it must have worked, though, because the next second we were kissing again.

  We remained like this for several minutes, our hands running up and down each other's bodies, exploring hungrily, before she whispered huskily that it was time to go to bed.

  I wasn't arguing, and we walked sideways, crab-like, still locked together, through to a spacious bedroom with mirrors on the walls and a king-sized bed with black satin sheets which, I have to say, looked to be designed for just this kind of encounter.

  She pulled my jacket off and flung it into the corner, then tugged at my belt.

  Unfortunately, this was also the moment when, with impeccable timing, I experienced every man's nightmare in this situation: the nagging urge to pee. I really didn't want to say anything for fear of breaking the mood, but I also knew that, my bladder being what it was, I was going to have to, otherwise the urge would get steadily stronger, which would risk ruining everything.

  I waited another thirty seconds, hoping it would go away. It didn't.

  'I've just got to go to the bathroom,' I mumbled into her lips.

  'It's over there,' she mumbled back, pointing at a door to my right. 'Don't be long.'

  'I won't,' I said, breaking away.

  The bathroom was vaguely disappointing after the opulence of the rest of the apartment. It might have been en suite but it was windowless and way too small, as if the designers had made a mistake with their measurements and run out of room, and it was quite a squeeze to stand in front of the toilet without tumbling backwards into the bathtub.

  There are few things more likely to put off a first-time lover than hearing her partner peeing loudly, so I turned the sink's cold tap fully on to mask the noise. Then, once I'd finished and flushed, I washed my hands and inspected myself in the mirror, thinking that I wasn't looking too bad considering I'd been out drinking for the best part of the last eight hours. I even pulled a sexy pout, looking at myself sideways on.

  Which was the moment when I heard Jenny gasp once, very loudly, and cry out.

  I froze.

  The cry was stifled suddenly. Someone had a hand over her mouth. And then I heard movement outside the door and the unmistakable sound of two men whispering urgently to each other.

  'Hold her still,' I heard one of them hiss, his accent harsh and distinctly Northern Irish. 'I need to get the needle in.'

  Jenny's muffled cries suddenly became more desperate.

  'Shut the fuck up and stop wriggling!' I heard the other one snap in a rough London accent, followed by the sound of a hard slap.

  I had no idea what was going on in there but I knew I had to intervene because Jenny was being attacked. But I was absolutely rooted to the spot. I'm no hard man like Maxwell. I'm just an ordinary mortal coward who reads the stories in the papers every day about the senseless killings of those individuals brave enough to help victims of crime. I'd always said that I would never ignore some
one's cry for help because I'd never be able to live with myself if I did. But now that it was happening, only feet away, I found that I couldn't move as the fear and adrenalin coursed and swirled through my body.

  Jenny's cries stopped. Just like that.

  Do something! my inner voice roared at me. But what the hell could I do?

  'Thank Christ for that,' said the Londoner with a loud sigh, his tone suddenly more relaxed. 'She's a looker though, ain't she?'

  'Don't even think about it,' answered the Irishman dismissively, and this time his voice came from right outside the bathroom door. 'We haven't got time. Get her off the bed. I need a leak.'

  As he spoke, the door handle began to turn.

  Jesus Christ! The bastard was going to come in here, and I'd locked the door! As soon as he realized that it was locked, he'd know there was someone in the apartment, and that would be it. I was trapped. One minute preparing to make love to an attractive woman, the next praying for my life.

  The handle kept turning. The guy kept talking. My heart kept hammering.

  Do something!

  I leaned over and flicked back the bolt, hoping his voice would muffle the sound. Then, moving quickly and trying to make as little noise as possible, I stepped into the bathtub and pulled the shower curtain across so that I was hidden.

  Just in time. In the next second, the door opened and he came in, shutting it roughly behind him.

  I froze again, teeth clenched, not even daring to breathe as he stood in front of the toilet and unzipped, grunting loudly, only inches away. He was medium height, with the kind of contoured leanness that suggested he worked out a lot more than me, and if I'd put out my hand, I could have tapped him on the shoulder through the curtain – he was that close.

  He seemed to take for ever, and every single second I wondered if some sixth sense would alert him to my presence. But at last he finished, and as he flushed and walked back out, not bothering to wash his hands, I finally breathed again.

  This time he left the door open and, though I knew that in the interests of self-preservation, if not honour, I should stay exactly where I was until they left, then call the police, I couldn't resist peeking round the edge of the curtain.