Shadows to Ashes

by Tori de Clare

  She began to wander down the corridor, not sure which way was out. Mindful of the folder and where it was, she was anxious to leave. Definitely couldn’t afford to get caught up with her parents right now. ‘All good, yeah. He’s gorgeous. Fair hair, not much of it. I didn’t notice the colour of his eyes.’

  ‘His eyes will change colour. As long as everyone’s OK. Your mother and I have been worried. And what about you, petal? I’ve been worried about you too. How are you feeling?’

  She was about to lie. Seemed easier to tell him everything was fine. But the words never came. Around the next corner, a tall guy was walking towards her. She stopped dead. A small jolt of something like remembrance mixed with fear, tingled at the back of her neck.

  She looked down at his hands and feet, the way he walked. If she was in any doubt about who it was, it dissipated when his eyes found hers. There was recognition in them. A micro-moment of hesitation, where everything appeared to stop and there seemed to be no air to draw, and she had a rush of images. It was like a folder opening up in her mind and the images spilling randomly. The scent of coal. The street. The snow. The woman in tan boots. The van. The cellar. Him.

  And here she was with him in the dead of night on a quiet hospital corridor. She glanced around for somebody. Anyone. They were alone.

  A flood of energy and she turned and ran, retracing her steps, past the toilets, towards a set of double doors. He started after her. The walls were a blur of white with a grey rail on each side. She hurled herself at the double doors, but they resisted. So she grabbed a handle and yanked it towards her and snatched a glance over her shoulder as she took flight through the door.

  He wasn’t far behind. She was running the length of another long corridor, her keys rattling in her pocket, her phone in her hand. Same white walls with grey rails. Loads of labelled doors in between and intermittent squares of light on the ceiling. At the end of the empty corridor, the options forked left and right. She glanced to the left and saw more heavy doors with a midwife in blue uniform beyond a glass panel, so she accelerated down the opposite corridor with no clue what was there.

  As footsteps pattered behind her, she asked herself why. Why right and not left? Because she needed a way out, was why. And she was searching now. Desperately trying to read signs as she ran.

  A green label right ahead, above a door, like a beacon. Exit. She took it and found herself in the midst of two lifts opposite each other, or a door leading to the stairwell. No choice to be made. She ducked through the door and he was close. How close, she didn’t dare assess. The air was chilled out here, the lighting dim in comparison. Naomi was short of breath and there was nothing to absorb sound. Just a sterile staircase leading down and down and her desperate footsteps echoing round the walls.

  Barely registering the feel of her feet on the stone, she flew down the first stretch of stairs, the air bursting from her. She could hear it heaving from her lungs before she sucked it in again. His movements seemed eerily stealthy and silent in comparison. He was gaining on her and her mind was wildly chasing a question. Which floor was she on? How many flights to the bottom?

  ‘Just stop,’ he said. ‘I’m not here to hurt you.’

  His words had no impact. She kept propelling herself forward as fast as she dared, but she was certain that he was almost upon her now. Every second staircase offered the option of returning to warm corridors. Posed the possibility of finding people. She had to abandon the stairs. She’d never make it to the bottom. She made a dash for a set of doors that would take her onto the first floor, but he seized her jacket from behind.

  Naomi screamed. He clamped her mouth shut and pulled her away from the door and was pushing her back to the stairs. She was fighting for air.

  ‘I’m going to take my hand away. Don’t scream, got it?’

  She nodded. Anything for immediate oxygen. He let go and she panted until her breathing began to recover. They were walking now, him directly behind her, still holding a fistful of her jacket, steering her, his knuckles shoved into her back. His breathing was steady and measured; he was unquestionably fit and strong. He said nothing during the final set of stairs. The dread of what might happen next seemed to loosen her bowels.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ Naomi asked him.

  ‘It’s complicated,’ he said.

  He was taking her towards a fire door which would lead outside.

  ‘Has Vincent sent you?’

  ‘I’ve told you before, Vincent doesn’t own me.’

  He pushed the fire door open and it closed by itself and cold air blew against her face and they were walking on a path somewhere, Naomi a step in front, him with his fist in her back. She couldn’t get her bearings. Didn’t know which side of the hospital they were on. A few cars peppered the car parks. Lots of empty spaces. Could be anywhere in the hospital grounds.

  ‘What do you want from me?’ she asked.

  ‘Information. That’s all.’

  ‘I’m not telling you anything.’

  They turned a corner and everything happened at once. He stopped walking and ground Naomi to an abrupt halt and she looked up and saw Camilla right ahead, frantically searching, head twisting left and right. She was looking for someone. In a flash it occurred to Naomi that Camilla was looking for her. At the same time, a motorbike was steaming at speed towards them.

  ‘Mum!’ It was an instinctive yell. She doubted that Camilla heard it above the din of the engine, but the bike drew her attention and Camilla watched where it was heading. The guy pulled Naomi against the wall and stood in front of her and the bike roared to a stop. The engine was being revved aggressively.

  The guy was so big, he was blocking her view completely, crushing her to the wall, her head twisted to one side. The wall was smooth and cold and his jacket smelled of leather with undertones of aftershave.

  A voice yelled. ‘Let her go. Now.’

  Vincent?

  The guy said, ‘Not going to happen, Vincent.’

  So they did know each other.

  ‘Let her go! Last time I’ll ask.’

  The guy didn’t move immediately. His upper body had stiffened. He said, ‘Whoa. Calm down. Just put the gun away.’

  Gun? Crap!

  The pressure eased and Naomi realised she had the freedom to move. She stepped to one side. Her legs were weak. A person that didn’t resemble Vincent Solomon was holding a handgun with his arm stretched out. His feet were planted on the ground either side of his bike. Not polished shoes, but lace up clunky ankle boots. He was speaking from inside the helmet, but she could see his eyes. It was him!

  Camilla was running down the path yelling Naomi’s name.

  Naomi said, ‘Don’t hurt him.’

  Vincent didn’t stop pointing the gun right at the guy, with a very steady hand.

  ‘Get on the bike, Naomi,’ he said.

  Without hesitation, she made moves to escape the guy and climb onto the back of the bike.

  Camilla yelled. ‘No! No! Let my daughter go.’

  As soon as she was behind him, Vincent shoved the gun inside his jacket and the bike lurched forward and began to screech away. Camilla’s shrieking was the last thing she heard as they swung around a corner.

  For fear of falling off, she clamped her arms around his sides. Her hands made contact with the edges of something solid beneath his jacket at the front. Something thick and square with straight sides that felt very much like Vincent’s folder. The realisation seeped into her, poisoning her veins, polluting her blood. They both knew that she was touching it as she held him. Both knew, as he twisted around this corner and the next without speaking, where she’d been, what she’d seen, what she’d intended to do with that folder. And they both knew that in this sudden turn, with his secrets spilled, that Vincent had the upper hand. That he’d taken control again. And as all the realisations swilled in her head, what was screaming at her was this: without this evidence that was right beneath her hands, there’d be no freedom for D
an. Not now. Not ever.

  From her position here, she could taste the full flavour of his mood. Could feel the fury pulsing from him and sense the turmoil of his thoughts. Even the engine seemed incensed. They were in it together, the bike and him. He slammed it rapidly up the gears, demanding speed and the bike answered back, pushing maybe fifty, sixty miles an hour in seconds, whipping up the wind then slicing through it down a straight road, while Naomi’s hair trailed out behind them.

  Only now did her mind run over what might have happened with Lorie that night. All she knew for sure was that he’d responded by taking a gun and setting out to look for her during hours when normal people slept. No one crosses Vincent Solomon. She guessed that that applied to her too. And Vincent continued to tear through the night, with Naomi silently clinging to him for her life.

  Because it was either that, or die.

  52

  On Vincent’s drive, Lorie had dressed, stepped into her shoes and got away from the house as quickly as she could. What to do at this hour of the morning with no phone and no money? Well, self-pity wasn’t useful, so she half walked, half trotted until she reached Elm Road and then hurried to the end of the street and turned onto Church Road where she paused and glanced about her for inspiration. She found none. No people. No cars. Which effectively meant no help.

  Part way down Church Road, houses melted into shops and restaurants and she was in the village centre now, passing black windows, wondering if public telephone boxes even existed anymore. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d seen one, but then she hadn’t been looking either.

  As she passed a large tree whose roots were buried beneath the pavement, she heard the belch of a motorbike in the distance. Her hopes rose initially and then a warning bell chimed inside her head and she swerved, on impulse, to her left, and ducked inside a dark alleyway that sliced a gap between a bar and a barber’s shop.

  The bike passed. She watched it carefully from her hiding place, and recognised Vincent in his rarely-worn clothing, heading out of the village towards the motorway. He’d be at the hospital shortly. Lorie had no way of getting word to Naomi. No real clue what to do now. When the bike had disappeared, Lorie slumped on the stone flags and sat there, head in her hands, thinking the night through, what had happened, what might happen next. In all honesty, she was giving Vincent time to escape, before the police got wind of his departure.

  A few minutes went by, hard to tell how many. No traffic passed her on the road. She stood up and brushed the cold and dust from her backside and stepped out onto the lit street again. She continued on towards the end of Church Road where she intended to see if there was any sign of life in the pub on the corner.

  She reached the Prince of Wales pub. It had a beer garden at the front littered with wooden tables. It was deserted. No lights. No sound or movement. She turned to her right. On the other side of the road was a little supermarket and then the most glorious sight, a phone box to the right of it beside another giant tree. She ran now – darted right across the road in pursuit of the phone.

  The phone box stank of cigarette ash and urine, decades’ worth of both. She snatched the phone off the cradle and held it to her ear. No dial tone. She put it down, picked it up again. Like the village, it was cold and dead. She smashed the earpiece into the number pad then let go. It was swinging helplessly when she left the booth and ran across the road again.

  Past the pub the road opened onto the village green. Two segments of grass were bordered by neat hedges dotted with trees and benches. A walkway ran through the middle. She knew it very well. She scanned the houses beyond the green and actually saw a light in a downstairs window. Without another thought, she ran towards it, along the path which divided the green, trees to her left and right, the house straight ahead.

  She was mildly out of breath when she arrived at a black gate, beyond which, two paces later, was the dark green door of a terraced house. The window to the left of the front door glowed with light. The curtains were closed. She crunched on gravel beneath the widow and lightly rapped. At first, nothing. She imagined that whoever was inside had frozen with the shock. So she tapped again, called hello. A female voice should help. This time, a boy pulled one curtain aside. A lanky teenager, lots of messy hair, looked about sixteen, seventeen maybe. His face was blank with uncertainty. He just stood, stared, didn’t know what to do.

  She motioned to him to open the window and he shook his head a couple of times. She’d have to do better.

  ‘My bag’s been stolen,’ she said, with exaggerated lip movements, trying to keep her voice low. She held her hand to her face, thumb to her ear, little finger to her mouth, standard sign language for phone. Then she held up her forefinger – sign for number one.

  ‘One call? Please?’

  He registered a little comprehension now and reluctantly stretched out an arm and lifted the window handle and pushed it open a couple of inches.

  ‘Please can I just borrow your phone for a few seconds? I need to call my mum.’

  Deliberate use of the word mum – to put him at ease. ‘My parents are in bed,’ he said, tone anxious. Perhaps he was thinking ahead to when he’d have to relate this tale and how he’d managed things.

  ‘I won’t wake them. I’ll leave in thirty seconds if you’ll just let me make a call. If you don’t want to pass me your phone, I’ll use the house phone. Whatever. It’ll work from here.’

  He considered this and the muscles in his face relaxed a bit. Next thing, he was holding his phone in front of his face and his thumbs were skimming over the keypad. He handed it over, ready to make a call.

  ‘I need it back.’

  ‘Sure. I’ll be quick. I promise.’

  She rang her mum. It was the only number she knew from memory. Her mum would be asleep and she just hoped . . .

  ‘Hello?’

  The relief! Her mum didn’t even sound tired. ‘Mum, it’s me, I’ve –’

  ‘Whose number is this? I’ve been worried sick. You never said you were staying out. Where on earth are you?’

  ‘Just listen,’ she said as quietly as she could. ‘I haven’t got my bag or my phone. I’ve just borrowed a phone, so don’t call this number back. I need you to ring Kerry Marshall and tell her to pick me up. Do you have her number?’

  ‘Kerry’s? Yes.’

  ‘Good. I’ll be outside the Prince of Wales pub in Gatley, got it? If you can’t get hold of her, then please can you come for me now?’

  ‘Of course I can. Are you alright?’

  ‘I’m fine, Mum. Look, got to go, OK? See you soon.’

  Lorie finished the call and handed the phone through the window.

  ‘Thanks a lot.’

  He nodded, muttered something, shut the window and the curtain snapped shut.

  With some relief, Lorie closed the gate, crossed the street and strolled back down the path towards the pub. No sense in hurrying. She hadn’t wanted to involve Kerry, but it had to be done. At some point, she’d have to admit to having broken terms. Might as well be now.

  About a quarter of an hour passed before Kerry Marshall pulled up in front of the beer garden. One look at her and Lorie knew she was outraged. Lorie dropped into the passenger seat like a moody teenager.

  ‘I can’t believe you’ve blown this, Lorie. This is going to have major consequences. What were you thinking?’

  ‘I was thinking it was time Naomi got out of there. Mission accomplished.’

  ‘It wasn’t your mission to take on. We have a legal system and you don’t understand how it works.’

  ‘She’s my sister and I’ve screwed her life up. I had to do something.’

  ‘Not the point,’ Kerry shouted. ‘Naomi is only one spoke in a whole wheel of serious and carefully constructed operations that we’re balancing here. We put you in that safe house to keep you out of harm’s way and, specifically, to protect you and your mum from Vincent Solomon. And then you go looking for him?’

  Lorie put her seatb
elt on, but Kerry persisted.

  ‘What happened there tonight?’

  Lorie flicked her a glance, then looked out of the passenger window at the pub. ‘He thought I was her.’

  A pause. ‘Oh, you didn’t!’

  ‘Yeah, we did.’

  Kerry smashed a hand against the steering wheel.

  Lorie added, ‘He’ll disappear. I doubt you’ll ever catch him now.’

  ‘Actually he rang me right before your mum did. I was already on my way out of the house, trying to call you.’

  ‘He rang?’ Lorie’s head swivelled round, looked at Kerry Marshall. ‘He has my phone.’

  ‘Which is obviously how he got my number,’ she said.

  ‘What did he say?’

  ‘He said he had a meeting at Queen 3. Where is that?’

  ‘The cemetery,’ she whispered. ‘Where Naomi was taken when all this started.’

  Kerry slammed the car into first and did a U-turn and skidded through the sleepy village.

  ‘Why the cemetery?’

  Lorie’s pulse was feverish. Assuming he’d recovered the evidence, why wasn’t he running? ‘I’ve honestly no idea.’

  53

  The lanes were sickeningly familiar. Memories were bursting out of papered-over cracks and flooding her mind now. Naomi clung to Vincent and felt a rush of the wind against her and knew with certainty what was sitting at the end of this journey. A tree-lined avenue and a cemetery.

  Sure enough, Vincent trundled down the final street, at the end of which the cemetery gates were standing guard in dim light. Not all of the lampposts were on. Even the moon had sloped off. At the gates, he didn’t stop, but twisted the bike to the right and, parallel to a row of railings, carried on along a dirt track, weaving between fat trees.

  When he’d gone to careful lengths to conceal the bike behind the trunk of an enormous tree, he cut the engine, removed his helmet and finally dismounted. Even in this light, she could see the bulge of the folder and the gun. Naomi got off the bike, but had no helmet to remove. She stood, waiting and exposed. Her hair was wild and she was fighting to keep her lips from quivering with cold and fear.