There was a light flickering deep in the recess of one of the arches. She could hear young voices laughing. She was so angry she could barely speak.
She ran lightly up to them and spun them round with a vicious pull on each shoulder. All her anger was in the movement.
`I suppose you think you've been very clever.'
The two faces that swung round were startled and very young. Why, they're hardly more than children, Candy thought, startled in her turn. Her anger began to die.
`Where is it?' she asked more gently. 'Old Tozer's money? What have you done with it?'
They looked scared.
`Nothing,' said one.
`It weren't us,' said the other. 'He took it. Freddy.' And he jerked his head to indicate the deeper arches.
The other one seemed to have recovered his bravado.
`Had it coming to him, Tozer, didn't he?' he said loudly. 'Silly old fool. Walking along the road, counting it like that. I could've told him. It were a temptation, weren't it? Not fair, holding out temptation.'
He sounded so sanctimonious that Candy could have hit him. Instead she gave him a look which made him step back involuntarily. Standing behind his friend's bony shoulder, he said in a quick high whine, 'Anyway, we ain't got it no more. Freddy took it off us when he saw we had it. Hit me, he did,' he added, with one wary eye on her reaction.
`You shouldn't have put temptation in his way, should you?' Candy said fiercely. 'You get me that money now, you nasty little thing.'
They both looked so terrified that it would have been comical in other circumstances. There were, after all, two of them, and she was a lightly built girl without weapons. But as she took a step forward the taller of them shot backwards, crying out, 'Freddy. Freddy.'
And a voice like a rattlesnake replied harshly out of the darkness, 'Yeah. I heard.'
Candy spun round. Not fast enough.
Before she knew what was happening, he had her in a street-fighter's grip, forcing her right arm cruelly high between her shoulder-blades. Her body arched and she gave a grunt of pain. Freddy enjoyed that. She heard it in the way he laughed.
`My word, it's Lady Bountiful,' he said in tones of mock gentility. 'What are you doing out of the charity wagon, darling? Looking for a bit of rough trade? You're not really interested in old Tozer, are you? Now the boys and me are more your age group.'
And he twisted her wrist so that she cried out.
`I can live with the dossers. They don't get in my way. But you bloody do-gooders. Sticking your noses in when they're not bloody wanted. This is my patch, darling. People do what I say here. And no slumming Sloane Ranger is going to muck that up. Understand?'
Behind them Candy could hear running feet. Voices. She did not know whether it was Freddy's reinforce-
ments or someone that Mel had called up for help. They didn't have a phone in the van, so she'd have had to go looking for one. She'd have had too much sense to get out of the van and follow. Wouldn't she?
In Freddy's iron grip, Candy began to appreciate exactly how stupid she had been. She'd broken every rule they had: leaving the van, going into a dark place she didn't know, going on her own without proper care or support ...
Freddy jerked her arm again. It was a vicious movement, but the limb was going numb. She registered the fact that he wanted to hurt, though.
`Understand?' he repeated in a snarl.
It occurred to Candy that if this episode got widely reported it would be very bad publicity for the homeless, and the Centre in particular. Conscience-stricken, she had a sudden vision of Dave Tresilian being asked to comment on the manhandling of one of his volunteers on his smart chat-show. He wouldn't be pleased.
In spite of the intolerable strain on her arm, she gave a little choke of laughter at the thought.
The sound had an electrifying effect on Freddy. He must have gone into shock. For a moment he almost let her go. Then he caught her back in a ferocious hold, forcing her head round to face him His teeth showed.
`Laugh, will you? I'll teach you to laugh,' he said in a voice that sent a trickle of ice down Candy's spine.
His free hand flickered. She suddenly saw that he was holding a knife. The feeble firelight sparked along the slightly curved blade. She stared at it, mesmerised. This could not be happening. She did not believe it. All right, she had broken the rules, but real people did not behave like this.
The man called Freddy jerked his head at the smaller, meaner boy.
`Get out there and tell Love the World Incorporated that if they want their dossers' kitchen maid back it'll cost them,' he ordered. He grinned down at her, and the knife flashed as he flourished it. 'Not laughing now?' Over his shoulder he flung almost idly, 'Thousand quid, or I'll turn her into a jigsaw puzzle.'
Both boys gasped. For a moment Candy thought they were horrified by the violence of the threat. But she was soon disillusioned.
`Thousand quid?' The boy sounded as if he could not believe his ears. 'That lot haven't got a thousand quid. That old van of theirs is only good for scrap.'
`Then they'll have to raise it from their benefactors,' Freddy said in his mocking BBC announcer's voice. `They'll find a way, won't they, doll?'
Staring up into his eyes, Candy realised suddenly that he hated her. He really hated her. She had invaded his territory, challenged his supremacy; and then she had laughed. He was not, she saw, going to let her go without hurting her. He owed it to himself.
She felt a surge of real terror. It must have shown. in her body's involuntary reaction. Freddy smiled.
`Got a message for the world, doll?' he jeered softly. `Mummy and Daddy? Boyfriend?'
Justin. Dear God, she would never see Justin again. And he was going to be so hurt after the way they had parted. Her eyes filled with irrepressible tears. Fortunately she did not think Freddy would be able to see them in the uncertain light. She turned her head away as far as she could.
`No.' It was a thread of a sound.
He shook her. 'What's that? I didn't hear you. Let's have that one again—with a laugh, as you're such a funny lady.'
Candy said nothing.
His grip hardened. 'You answer me when I'm talking to you. You hear me?'
But her head was swimming and her mouth felt full of cotton wool. She could not have answered him even if she wanted to.
Although he muttered impatiently, he seemed to sense it, because he jerked his head at the boy and said, 'Get going.'
The fuzziness in front of her eyes got worse. The flames of the tiny fire seemed to be leaping up to the ceiling and down, and there was a sound like a waterfall in her ears. She thought Freddy was shaking her, but she was not really sure.
Then suddenly he seemed to lose his temper and throw her into the fire. She screamed and put out her hands to save herself. But there was no fire. Only merciful blackness.
I'm fainting, thought Candy, astonished.
And knew no more.
CHAPTER NINE
CANDY was falling. It was the dream: her half-contrived fantasy of Dave playing St George to her manacled princess. Only this time, even in the dream, Candy knew it was for real. There was no hero to step out of the shadows and beat off her enemies. She had brought the thing about with her own silly fantasies and it served her right. This time she was on her own.
She tried to move. She was stiff and terribly cold. She was also afraid. If she moved they would see. And that would remind them, and they might ... Even in the dream, her brain scuttled away from the thought of what they might do.
So she tried to move a tiny bit at a time, and found she could not. She was shaking convulsively. She could hear her own teeth chattering. But she could not move so much as her little finger.
Behind the rushing of the air and the skeletal rattling of her teeth there were other sounds. She stopped trying to move, and let her muscles go slack. The sounds came into focus.
They were voices. Angry voices, she thought, though they were not raised. Dave must be
angry with her for her stupidity. She had got them into this.
... reasonable offer,' a harsh, dry voice was saying.
She could not make out the reply. But there was something about the other voice that she recognised, like the note of a cello, deep and indistinguishable, but you knew it was there. It was a beautiful voice. But it had no place in the dream.
`Sure, you can try,' replied the harsh voice indifferently. 'But I know this place. You'll find her in the end. But by the time you do you might not want her.' His laugh was horrible.
She could hear steps, too. Someone was pacing on loose gravel or chippings. Not far away, but not immediately in front of her either. She thought they must be round a corner or behind a wall. She wished that her ears were not still ringing.
The second voice was clearer now.
`You'll have your money,' it said. It sounded calm. `Oh, sure. With a police car waiting to give me a lift to the bank. Wake up.'
`I'm not leaving without her,' insisted the other voice. `Nor am I. She may be your little helper, but she's my bloody life insurance. She stays with me.'
Candy frowned. Little helper? Did that mean Dave was there? But that wonderful deep brown voice wasn't Dave. If only she could remember...
`No.' It was quite gentle but very firm.
`You're not listening to me.' The harsh voice was rising. He sounded as if he might be afraid.
`Yes, I am. But it's not going to do you any good, Armitage.'
`How do you know my name?' No doubt about the fear this time.
`Records. Files.' The voice was smooth as silk. 'You're a famous man in your way. You've been around longer than the dossers, they tell me.'
`You bloody soup-kitchen types. It's all a front. You're the fuzz. You're spies,' spat the harsh voice. The pacing footsteps grew faster and more uneven.
The voice was as calm as a millpond. 'I just want the girl. Nothing more. I'll even pay. But I won't go without her.'
Candy found she could turn her head. She did so. Her cheek was resting on dry earth that had a suffocating smell. Her whole skull throbbed.
`She's not here.' Harsh Voice was rattled. There was a panicky note in the ugly tones.
`Yes, she is.' The voice was gentle; you might have said it was amused but for that note of implacability. Candy was sure her captor could hear it too. 'You haven't moved and neither has she,' it said quietly.
`I have associates—' the other began to bluster.
But the voice was unimpressed. It cut in, 'When you've planned a job, no doubt you have. But this was pure opportunism, wasn't it, Armitage? You were out collecting your dues, and she came into your parlour; so you snapped her up. But you're still here. And so is she.'
There was a sudden stamping sound, as if the man who was pacing had stopped dead and swung round with a spurt of gravel.
`You think you're so clever.'
`No.' The other sounded terribly weary, Candy realised suddenly. 'No. But I can work out time as well as you. And I know what I have to do.'
`Citizen's arrest? A chap like you?' Harsh Voice sounded scornful. It had a genuine ring to it. 'Listen, the last time I was done, it took three of the pigs to take me in.'
`I don't want to take you in, Armitage. I want the girl.'
But the harsh-voiced man wasn't talking any more. Candy could hear in the voice and the careful steps that he was placing himself to spring. She tried desperately to wrench herself out of the dream, into the real world, to dispel the awful danger that she could smell all about her.
But she could not move. And then there was a thud, a cry of pain—quickly bitten off—running feet that came closer.
The sweat broke out on her forehead with the effort to wake up. And then she saw, like a sequence from a horror movie, a wildly wavering beam from a pencil torch and huge running shadows cast on lowering brickwork. She broke out of the dream and it was real.
They were shouting, both of them. It echoed round the cavernous interior of the old arches. Candy dragged herself up on her arms and looked wildly round. She was engulfed by the hideous shadow of two men fighting. They rolled and heaved and bit and punched like animals tearing a carcase. And, unmistakably, there was the gleam of torchlight on steel.
She cried out in horror.
For an instant the writhing shadow froze. Then it broke apart. It resolved itself into two crouching figures. They approached each other with horrible intent. Candy put the back of her hand to her mouth and forced back another cry. Her eyes smarted with effort, but she could not make out which was which.
She would not even know, she thought bitterly, when her hero lost.
There was a lunge, a sudden stab, then a brutally rapid overturning of the lunging figure. He went down with an unmistakable crack of bone.
Candy slumped against the wall. She could feel the brick through her thin T-shirt. It grazed her shoulder-blades. She thought she had gone beyond fear, as the victor straightened and came heavily towards her.
The torch had gone out in the fight. But it made no difference. She knew she had brought this on herself. She had no hope of rescue.
He put his hand out to her, she thought, though it was difficult to tell in the dark. She could not see whether he still had the knife. She shrank away.
He said her name on a ragged breath. She did not recognise the voice and yet, somehow, everything that was in her opened and turned towards it.
And then, like the dream and yet not like the dream—because the fantasy hero used to swing her up in his arms, not stand in front of her with his chest heaving so that he could hardly get the words out—he said, 'Oh, my darling, I thought I'd lost you.'
She said in a disbelieving whisper, 'Dave?'
He stopped dead.
And, half a second too late, Candy realised she had made a terrible mistake. She moved forward in protest. But the uneven ground began to shake beneath her feet and the air to rush past her again. She reached him and his arms closed round her. She could feel that his body was shaking. She was trembling too much herself to do anything but cling. She held him to her, incoherent—with remorse and relief and other more complicated emotions. He held her, stroking her hair with a hand that was still not steady. But he did not say anything more.
And eventually people came with lights. And a stretcher for the fallen, groaning body.
She tried to say something to him. But she could not form the words. And she was ashamed of the blatant need with which she clung on to him. There would never be any disguising that ever again.
He turned her in his arms. His hands were gentle. Impersonal. 'We must go. Can you walk?'
She stared up at him, mute. He touched her cheek, brushing away the dirt from where she had lain on the coal.
' Candida? '
Her eyes filled with tears. She dropped her head, burrowing it into his chest.
`Hold me,' she muttered, half not wanting to be heard, half begging.
He tensed as if she had touched a torn muscle.
He said sharply, `Candida? Are you all right? Look at me.'
Behind them, another voice, kind and authoritative, said, 'Don't you worry, sir. She's had a nasty shock. Just a bit disorientated. She'll be OK after a cup of tea and a good cry.'
`Maybe.' He did not sound very sure.
He began to walk very gently back to the entrance of the arches, taking her with him. She leaned shamelessly against him, treasuring his strength. Once he dropped his head. She thought—imagined—he kissed her hair. She could have cried. She shrank closer to him.
There was an ambulance there, but they put her into the back of a police car. She held on to him, not wanting to be separated. But he detached her clutching hands.
He went down on his haunches beside the car. In the dark she could not read his expression, but his voice was kind. She hated the kindness. It hid the lack of love.
`Candida, you're all right now. Do you understand? It's Justin. You're safe.'
Someone brought her some tea
in one of the van's polystyrene cups. Her hands were shaking too much, but Justin guided it to her lips. When she had hold of it his hands fell away.
Candy looked at him, stricken. How could she have called him Dave. How?
`What I said back there ... I didn't realise ...' He gave her an odd lop-sided smile.
`Forget it.'
She gave him back the empty cup. He took it, looking down at it for a moment. Then he looked up at her with a curious smile.
`You've got a dirty face,' he said softly.
He reached in his pocket and offered her his handkerchief.
For some reason that hurt. It was as if symbolically he was telling her she was not his business. It was up to her to clean her own smudged face.
Candy shrank back. She knew her mouth was trembling, and despised herself for it.
Justin said her name in an urgent undertone. But it was too late. The others had come out of the arches, there were more police than she had ever seen before except when they were accompanying marches, and they were all getting into their cars and heading for the station.
Somebody said something to Justin. He rose to his feet.
`She's badly shaken. Can't it wait?'
`Just a brief statement tonight, sir. Then you can take your wife home.'
Home! Candy wondered desolately whether she still had any right to call Justin's flat home, and, if not, where he would send her. He would be kind, of course. The trouble was, kindness from him hurt like acid in an open wound. Not that he must ever know it.
She said, not realising she was saying it out loud, 'I have no home.'
`What?'
Justin bent down to her. But her head was dancing again, as the police cars switched on their headlights and their engines revved. Candy put a hand to her mouth.
`I feel sick,' she remarked conversationally.
And then, quite without warning, and for the second time in her life, fainted dead away.
She was never really sure what happened after that. There was a haze of light somewhere above her head. Out of the light there came voices—all angry this time.
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