Target

by Simon Kernick

  From the tight angle I had, I could see the bottom quarter of the bed and the area immediately in front of it, which was taken up with what looked like a large cleaning trolley. I could also see Jenny's bare legs from the knees downwards, now missing the jeans she'd been wearing when I'd left her just a few minutes earlier. The intruders were nowhere to be seen. I could only assume they were going to rape her, the bastards, although I knew they wouldn't have had time to undress her. She'd clearly been undressing for me and I was filled with anger at the thought of these bastards violating her.

  I moved away from the curtain's edge, looking round for something to use as a weapon. Amid all the clutter round the bath there was an antique brass soap dish shaped like a giant goldfish, and I picked it up, feeling a satisfying heaviness. It wasn't a lot but it would have to do.

  Gripping it in my right hand, I slowly peeked out again. Now I saw one of the intruders properly for the first time. It wasn't the one who'd taken a leak. This guy was big and well built, with a shaven head and the kind of face that didn't waste a lot of time on pity. He was dressed in a blue boiler suit and was carrying a prone, unconscious Jenny over to the cleaning trolley. She was in her bra and underwear, and she'd been gagged with a handkerchief and had her hands tied behind her back. There was something so vulnerable about her in that position that it made me shake with rage.

  Yet still I didn't move. Even when he stopped and dumped her into the trolley like a sack of rubbish. Because I was so damn terrified. Because, in the end, I knew that I wouldn't have a chance fighting this man, let alone two of them, and I kept telling myself that there was no point intervening now because it wouldn't actually benefit Jenny. That it would be far better simply to wait until they went and phone the police.

  I couldn't see the other one, but then I heard him speak from somewhere behind the door, his words, delivered in that hard Northern Irish accent, cutting through the room like a knife. 'Whose is this, then?'

  And then, as he came into view with his back to me, my heart sank.

  Because the bastard was holding my jacket, and in the last second before I slid back behind the curtain, I saw both men turn to look in my direction.

  Three

  Every muscle in my body tensed, and I held on to the soap dish like grim death. I was cornered, and there was absolutely no way out. My jacket's a faded brown leather, distinctly male, and a good three sizes too big for Jenny who was no more than five five and at least eight inches shorter than me. So these guys would know a man was here somewhere, and there weren't exactly a lot of places he'd have to hide in.

  Or would they? There was a chance they'd assume that someone had left it here. Maybe I was going to be OK.

  But if so, why did the guy pick it up?

  The terror I was feeling was worse than anything I'd ever experienced. My legs felt weak and I thought I might collapse at any moment.

  What should I do? Run? Stay put? Run? Stay put? I was completely and utterly torn.

  The two men were silent for what felt like a long, long time. Then I heard quiet footfalls, first on the bedroom carpet, then on the tiled bathroom floor, and I saw a silhouette appear.

  The shower curtain shot back and I was face to face with a man in his forties whose malicious smile was like a bloodless slash across a pale, wraith-like face stretched so tight by plastic surgery that his big saucer-shaped eyes looked like they'd long ago lost the ability to close. Thinning, wiry hair sprang from his scalp like jet-black brush wires.

  This was the Irishman, and he was still holding my jacket in one gloved hand, while in the other was a six-inch gleaming stiletto.

  I wanted to piss myself; to curl up and die; to let my legs simply collapse under me.

  But I did none of these things. Instead, as his eyes widened with an unpleasant glee and the slash-like smile twisted up at the edges, I smashed the soap dish right into it with every ounce of strength I had, knocking him backwards into the sink.

  He grunted in pain and dropped the knife as a deep gash opened up on his cheek.

  There was very little room for me to get past him but I didn't think about that. I was out of that bathtub like a greyhound out of a trap, and charging into the bedroom.

  The big guy with the shaven head was standing on the other side of the trolley, in the same position he was in earlier, except now he was pulling a large knife from the pocket of his boiler suit and glaring at me with cold, confident eyes.

  Yelling as loudly as I could in a desperate effort to panic him, I lobbed the soap dish at his face without even breaking stride. He threw up a hand to ward off the impact but it hit him on the elbow and he yelped in pain as it bounced off. Half a second later I charged into the trolley and slammed it into his lower abdomen, sending him off balance, though not quite knocking him down.

  It was enough to buy me a second and a half, though, and that was all I needed as I ran at the half-open bedroom door, keeping my head down and dodging the knife as he lashed out wildly, charging through it and into the lounge, feeling a wild surge of hope. I was going to make it. I was going to get out of there.

  'Leave him, he's mine!' came a barked command behind me. It was the Irishman with the saucer eyes, and there was an icy calm in his voice that made my heart lurch.

  I jumped the coffee table, clipped it, and almost fell into the front door, grabbing at the handle and yanking it as hard as I could, only noticing at the last second that the chain was on. Incredibly, I didn't panic, just flicked the chain across in one movement, threw the door open and ran out into the corridor.

  I felt something swish through the air behind me. The knife. It touched the material of my shirt but didn't break it. He was right behind me, just feet away. I could hear him breathing.

  I started running, realizing as soon as I did so that I was going the wrong way from the lifts, and that the corridor ahead seemed to be a dead end. I yelled again, hoping someone would hear me, thinking that if I made enough noise my pursuer would panic and turn back; but there was nothing, just an intensely loud silence. It was like I was suddenly in the middle of a nightmare.

  Behind me he kept coming, his breath almost on my neck, and it was his patient, predatory silence that terrified me the most.

  There was a door at the end with a staircase sign above it, and I felt another surge of hope and accelerated, shouting as loudly as I could into the silence. I hit the door head on in a way that would have made Maxwell proud. Because it was a swing door, it flew open and I stumbled, almost losing my footing before swinging hard right and charging down the staircase, taking the steps three at a time, knowing that if I fell I was dead, no question.

  Every part of me seemed to ache from the exertion of running, and in my semi-inebriated state I wasn't sure how long I could keep it up for. I could still hear him, ever so close, and I had a desperate urge to look round, but knew it might cost me a precious quarter second which might end up being the difference between life and death. Instead, I started taking the steps four at a time, praying that the doorman was at his desk so at least he might be able to help. Praying that I made it that far.

  The knife suddenly appeared right in front of my face as he jumped on my back and I was flung forward, tumbling down the steps, doing a somersault, smacking my head painfully on the hard linoleum steps. I knew that any moment I was going to be stabbed. But then I heard the knife clatter against the wall as he was thrown clear.

  He landed hard against the wall at the bottom of the steps but somehow he still had the weapon in his hands, and now he was in front of me and blocking my way while I was lying on my stomach on the steps, only five feet from the tip of his blade. His face was bleeding where I'd cut him with the soap dish and his wiry hair was slightly askew. But he still wore the cruel, predatory smile as if it had been etched permanently on the stretched skin, and the expression in his eyes was one of chilling confidence, as if he knew that whatever I did it would make no difference because, in the end, the outcome was inevitable.
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br />   But I wasn't finished yet. I used my hands to push me upright as if I was doing some kind of springing press-up. Somehow I managed the process slightly quicker than him, before vaulting over the banister on to the next set of steps, stumbling down them, ignoring the savage pounding in my head.

  Once again he was right there with me, and I knew he wasn't going to give up, so, summoning up every last ounce of whatever feeble reserves of energy I had left, I jumped the whole of the next staircase in one, landed hard on my feet, swung round using the banister as support, and did the same thing on the next one, and the next, feeling a kind of delirious adrenalin-fuelled excitement at the prospect of escape.

  And at that exact same moment the stairs stopped and I realized I'd missed the ground floor, and possible safety. Instead, I was in the basement.

  Panting, I looked back up just as my pursuer arrived at the top of the last flight of steps. 'Oops,' he said playfully, waving the knife in front of him like a wagging finger. 'Bad move.'

  A small part of me felt like giving up there and then. Admitting the fact that I wasn't going to make it out of there and throwing myself at his mercy. Except that I knew there wouldn't be any.

  And it was only a small part of me. Self-preservation won through, and as he jumped down the last of the steps I turned and ran for the fire door in the corner – the only way out. I had no idea whether or not it was open, or where it led to, just relied on my instinct to live to keep me going. Running right into it, I pulled down the metal handle, felt it give, and half fell, half scrambled through into a cold and cavernous underground car park.

  He was still with me, almost as if he was glued to my slipstream, but this time I took the offensive and turned and slammed all my weight against the fire door, catching him by surprise and trapping his knife arm in it.

  But before I could do any real damage, he pushed from the other side and, being one hell of a lot stronger than me and with momentum on his side, he sent it flying open, and me stumbling backwards.

  I turned and ran through the dimly lit, silent car park, not knowing where I could turn. Ahead of me was one of those big roller doors that I knew was either the entrance or the exit, but it was shut. My legs felt weak and I just couldn't seem to get the pace up to put any distance between us – the bastard was like some kind of automaton – and I'd barely gone twenty yards before he leapt on my back for a second time, sending me crashing into the concrete.

  Sitting astride my back, he yanked my head up by the hair and I knew in an instant that he was going to cut my throat like some kind of animal. I bucked and thrashed as the knife suddenly appeared right in front of my face, and managed to pull free a hand. I immediately grabbed him by the wrist, forcing the blade away from me. I also jerked my head forward, trying to bite him, but his grip on my hair was too strong. This guy had the better of me, and both of us knew it. My arm was shaking with the effort of holding the blade away, and right then my life expectancy could be measured in seconds.

  The sound of hydraulics interrupted our deadly duel, and a second later the roller door began to open. I think it surprised both of us because I felt his grip on my hair momentarily ease, which gave me the chance I needed. I sank my teeth into his knife wrist, biting down hard, knowing that while his arm remained in my mouth he couldn't use the blade on me.

  He yelled and grabbed my hair again, tugging me backwards, but this time I wasn't letting go and I kept biting down, remembering something I'd once read about the strength of a human bite being something like two hundred pounds of pressure per square inch. I tasted blood and his yells became more urgent.

  And all the time the roller door kept opening. It was now five feet above the tarmac and I could see the headlights of a big 44 just outside, waiting to come in. There was no way it wouldn't see us. I was going to make it. I felt a rush of hope, kept my teeth clamped on his wrist.

  But then, in one swift, savage motion, he yanked his wrist free from my jaws. I clenched my teeth, waiting for the knife to slice across my flesh, but instead the weight lifted from my back, and a second later I heard his footfalls on the concrete floor as he ran back the way he'd come.

  Exhausted and battered, I lay where I was, looking up at the 44 as it nudged its way inside before turning left and disappearing from view.

  The driver hadn't seen me. Did this mean that my attacker was going to come back and finish the job? Was he just waiting?

  I didn't hang around to find out. I ran wildly through the open roller door and up the ramp, hitting the fresh night air of the street and breathing it in as if my very life depended on it.

  But my life depended on nothing any more. I'd saved it. Now I had to think about Jenny's.

  I kept running up the dark, silent street until I came to an alleyway on my right. I turned down it and, exhausted, took refuge behind a pair of wheelie bins, leaning against a wall and slowly sliding down it until I was sitting down. I had to phone the police straight away and tell them what I'd just witnessed, so, after taking a few seconds to get at least some of my breath back, I reached into my pocket for my mobile.

  And cursed. It was in my jacket, back at the apartment.

  Something else too...my wallet. With all my ID in it.

  Which meant they were going to know exactly who I was.

  Four

  A part of me wanted to keep running. To put as much distance between me and Jenny's place as possible, knowing how close I'd just come to death. Another part wanted to go back and keep watch on it, hoping that I might be in time to see the two men leave and pick up any vital clues I could then give to the police.

  As it happened, I could do neither. I was too exhausted, and for a full minute I concentrated simply on getting my breath back.

  As my panting began to ease, I was suddenly jolted back to reality by the sound of a car moving ever so slowly along the street.

  Jesus, they're still here. Looking for me.

  I turned round, looking for a way out, saw only a high wall I was never going to be able to climb. I was stuck up a dead end. Knowing I was hopelessly exposed, I lifted up the lid of one of the wheelie bins and wriggled inside, landing loudly on a pile of stinking binbags.

  The sound outside was muffled but I could hear the car stopping and knew that it was at the end of the alley.

  A car door opened. Shut again.

  I began to pray. I'd never really believed in God, but now that I'd arrived at this single most terrifying point in my life, I desperately begged forgiveness for any sin I may have committed and promised faithfully that if he got me out of this I would be a much better person. That I would give money to charity, help people . . . anything.

  Stop. Don't breathe.

  I could hear stealthy footfalls on the concrete. Approaching me. Something plastic in one of the binbags made a cracking sound beneath me and I clenched my teeth. The silence was killing me. Was one of them right outside now, knife in hand, getting ready to strike?

  I strained, listening.

  Silence.

  The wait seemed to last for ever. Seconds ticking like dull, bored hours.

  And then I heard the car door slam again and the car pull away.

  I exhaled sharply, but didn't move. It could have been a trap.

  Gradually I began to breathe more easily but I continued to lie exactly where I was, listening to the quiet of the night. At some point I think I even drifted off to sleep: I remember opening my eyes and getting a shock because I was still in darkness, and the smell was terrible, and my mouth felt like someone had been sandpapering it. At first I didn't know where I was. Then it all came back to me in a huge rush like some kind of horrible hallucination. Someone had tried to kill me, and they'd come very close to succeeding.

  I took a couple of deep breaths to calm myself, then clambered to my feet and climbed out of the wheelie bin into far fresher air. The alley was quiet, even the night-time sounds of the city seemed strangely muted. I stretched, and looked at my watch. It had just turned twent
y past one – over an hour since it had all happened. An image suddenly came to me of an unconscious Jenny being casually flung into the cleaning trolley, and I felt a renewed burst of anger and guilt. I could have done something to help her. And I hadn't.

  Rubbing my eyes, trying hard to focus as I felt the first stirrings of an early hangover coming on, I walked back to Jenny's street and, recalling the route I'd taken earlier, turned left. I stopped in front of her apartment block. Nothing looked any different from when we'd arrived together, which now felt like a lifetime ago. Except that this time the doorman, a middle-aged man in a jacket and tie, was sitting at the front desk, reading a paper and eating a packet of crisps. It looked a perfectly natural scene, and, standing there, I had this bizarre feeling that maybe nothing had actually happened. Perhaps I'd dreamt it all.

  But no. It had happened all right. I was sure of that.

  I started towards the door, then stopped. There was no point trying to talk to the doorman. I looked and smelled pretty awful, having fallen asleep in a dustbin, and he hadn't even seen me earlier. He'd probably think I was mad. I had to speak to the police. But with no phone, no ATM card and only a handful of loose change in my jeans pocket, that was going to be a lot easier said than done.

  I memorized the apartment address and walked out on to the main road, heading in a general southerly direction. There was still traffic around but most of the taxis ignored me, and those few that did stop pulled away again as soon as I told them I needed to get to a police station and almost certainly didn't have enough money for the fare. At last I found a driver charitable enough to give me directions to the nearest one, before advising me to take a bath as soon as possible and disappearing pretty sharpish.

  It wasn't far, but I still managed to get lost several times, and it was past two o'clock when I finally walked through the door of Islington police station and straight into a scene of bedlam of the sort I suspected was played out in stations like this most nights and which reminded me graphically why I'd left England in the first place.