Thurston raises his eyebrows in a question to Janie. ‘Problem?’
Janie shrugs. ‘They haven’t been here long. Couple of beers, nothing much. Out-of-towners. Tourists. Probably nothin’.’
‘They don’t look like fuckin’ tourists,’ says Lenin. ‘I don’t like ’em.’
Thurston agrees. Now he’s had a chance to study them a little longer the group don’t look like tourists.
They look like trouble.
One of them, a guy with cropped hair and a thick black goatee, sees Thurston looking their way. Black Goatee holds Thurston’s gaze for a few seconds, smiling without warmth. Thurston looks away. There’s never any point getting into a pissing contest with a drunk.
‘There’s another one,’ says Janie. ‘You’ll see. He’s in the bog.’
Two more customers come to the bar and Thurston serves them. Sofi Girsdóttir, the V’s chef for tonight’s shift, comes up shivering from the cellar carrying a can of cooking oil. She mutters something sweary in Icelandic and pats Thurston on the shoulder before heading back into the kitchen.
Which is when Thurston sees the monster.
CHAPTER 4
THE GUY WHO comes out of the bathroom, dipping his head under the door frame, is huge. A giant.
Thurston hesitates for a fraction of a second and then resumes pouring drinks.
‘Unbelievable, hey?’ says Lenin. ‘Incredible ’Ulk, innit?’
Thurston shakes his head a fraction and glances again at the big man as he joins the rest of the crew at the pool table. Thurston sees Black Goatee point to the giant’s upper lip. The guy wipes something off with a hand the size of Nova Scotia. Black Goatee laughs and says something to another guy in the group.
Janie’s right: these fuckers are trouble.
As another evening wears on, the V fills, the noise level rising steadily as the alcohol takes hold. Thurston likes it fine that way. The more noise the better, the busier the better.
Less time to think.
An hour in, Black Goatee rocks up to the bar with another guy. The group have been ordering drinks from Janie so far, so it’s the first time Thurston’s had any reason to hear them speak.
‘Five beers, three double Jack and Cokes, mate.’ Black Goatee speaks with an American accent and says the word ‘mate’ in what he imagines is a London accent. He stares at Lenin coldly.
The American voice surprises Thurston.
Black Goatee’s skinhead sidekick mutters something under his breath. Thurston can’t make it out but hears a Russian accent. They are talking about him, that’s clear, but Thurston lets it go. It happens every night.
Thurston completes the order in full Buster Keaton mode. When he asks for the money Black Goatee looks up.
‘What’s your accent, champ? Scottish?’ He hands over a fifty.
Thurston notices a faded tattoo creeping out of the end of his sleeve: an eagle of some kind with German-looking text underneath.
‘Aye,’ he says, handing over the change but saying nothing else.
Black Goatee frowns, aware he’s being punked but unsure exactly how. ‘Yeah? Don’t sound real Scottish now I hear it again.’
Thurston shrugs. ‘Born and bred.’ He turns to another customer. In his peripheral vision he sees Black Goatee getting wound up.
Before anything else happens, Sofi pushes open the door to the kitchen.
‘Cody,’ she says, ‘have you—’
As she sees the American on the other side of the bar, Sofi stops dead, the colour draining from her face.
‘Hey, lollipop,’ says the American. He’s smiling.
Sofi Girsdóttir turns without speaking and stumbles her way back into the kitchen.
‘Sofi?’ says Thurston.
‘We got to catch up soon, honeybun,’ says Black Goatee to the closed kitchen door. He mimes putting a phone to his ear. ‘Call me, y’hear?’ He and the Russian crack up.
‘Do we have a problem here?’ says Thurston. There’s an edge to his voice that wasn’t there before. The exchange worries him. Thurston knows Sofi well enough: she’s feisty, independent, and not the sort to scare easy.
‘No,’ says Black Goatee. ‘No problem, chief. Just one old friend catching up with another in jolly old England.’ The guy stares at Thurston for a few seconds before letting the Russian drag him back towards the pool table. Thurston has to fight the urge to leap across the bar and wipe the smug smile from Black Goatee’s face.
‘Forget it,’ says Janie quietly, appearing at Thurston’s shoulder. ‘But keep an eye on them. They give me the creeps. I’ll go and check on Sofi.’
Thurston walks down the bar and takes an order from another customer.
Tonight’s going to be a long one.
CHAPTER 5
JANIE WAS RIGHT predicting trouble, but when it comes, it isn’t from the direction Thurston was expecting.
Three guys in rugby shirts, who’ve been drinking heavily all night, get into a political debate with, of all people, Lenin. Things escalate when an enraged Lenin punches one of them in the nuts. The men laugh but the guy who cops one to the balls tips Lenin out of his chair.
Thurston is round the bar before Barb can give him the nod.
‘Out,’ he says, his voice flat. It’s a statement, not an invitation.
‘Fuck off, Crocodile Dundee,’ says the guy whom Lenin hit. His voice has the plummy English accent Thurston hates.
‘Out now,’ he says.
‘Or what?’ says one of the others. ‘What, precisely, will you do, cobber? Throw another shrimp on the barbie?’
Thurston doesn’t reply. Instead he steps forward, pulls a pen from his pocket and jams it tight against the throat of the guy who tipped Lenin from his chair. With his mouth close to the guy’s ear, Thurston whispers, ‘Apologise. Or you get a second hole in your windpipe.’
The plummy-voiced loudmouth is about to react when he looks at Thurston and sees something in the Australian that keeps him still.
‘Get your hands off him, you fucking oik!’ One of the other rugger buggers takes a step forward. Thurston stops him with a quick shake of the head.
‘The night’s over, gents,’ says Thurston. He drops his hand to his side but knows he’ll have no more trouble. ‘Go on, out you go. Nice and quiet.’
‘Yeah, fuck off,’ hisses Lenin, back in his chair. He singles out one of the group and points a finger. ‘Come the revolution, bro, you’re going down. Believe it.’
Thurston closes the door of the V behind the troublemakers and returns to the bar.
‘A pen?’ says Barb, one thickly drawn eyebrow raised to within an inch of her dyed hairline.
‘Worked, didn’t it?’
Thurston looks towards the pool table and, as he knew he would be, Black Goatee is looking in his direction.
CHAPTER 6
THE ALREADY FERAL atmosphere in the V curdles further as the night wears on. From what Thurston can see, a blizzard of coke is being snorted in the toilets. One sneeze and there’d be a white-out.
‘You want me to do something about this?’
Like everyone at the V, Thurston knows coke is a fact of London life. Mostly, so long as there’s no obvious dealing taking place, the cops turn a blind eye to the occasional recreational toot. Tonight, though, the group at the pool table are flat out taking liberties and Barb could find herself shut down so fast it would make her nose bleed. Which, from the look of some of the customers, is also a fate they’ll be experiencing soon.
‘You better tell them to go.’ Barb looks at Thurston. ‘You sure about this one, Buster? These guys don’t look like they’ll take a hint.’
‘I don’t plan to be subtle,’ says Thurston. ‘There won’t be any hinting.’
He wipes his hands on a cloth and moves towards the bar lid. He’s about to go through when he stops, hearing a muffled noise in all the cacophony which, without knowing exactly why, sounds out of place. Wrong.
‘What is it?’ asks Barb.
‘Where’s Janie?’ says Thurston, but he doesn’t wait for an answer.
Following some base-level instinct, connecting the dots as he runs – Janie taking a cigarette break; the giant glancing her way as she heads to the back of the pub; a couple of knowing looks between Black Goatee and the Russian – Thurston ducks past the toilets and pushes open a fire door to the alley.
Next to the dumpster, Janie Jones is on her knees. The giant from the troublemakers inside is holding her hair bunched in his massive fist. His other hand is unzipping his flies.
‘Private party,’ rumbles the giant. ‘Fuck off.’
Janie, tears running down her face, moans. She moves her mouth but no words come.
‘Shut up, bitch!’ growls the giant.
Thurston retreats. ‘This isn’t my scene, man,’ he says, holding up his hands. He turns to go. ‘Sorry, Janie.’
‘That’s right, little man, run along and let the grown-ups play.’
Thurston moves away and then, as the giant turns his attention back to Janie, picks up a length of wood leaning against the dumpster, whirls around and cracks it across the man’s windpipe.
If a normal human had received the blow, it would have killed them. Instead, the giant buckles at the knees, his hands clutching his throat. Thurston takes two steps forward and, two-handed, cracks the wood over the man’s skull. He falls to the ground, motionless.
Janie Jones gets to her feet and kicks the guy full in the face. His nose explodes. She leans over him and spits at him. ‘Motherfucker!’ she howls, and kicks him again.
‘C’mon, Janie,’ says Thurston softly. ‘Let’s call the police.’
‘No!’ Janie jabs a finger in Thurston’s chest. ‘No fucking police! Have you got that, Cody? No police!’
‘OK, Janie. Whatever you want. No problem.’
He guides her back to the door of the V. Sofi and Barb appear in the doorway, their shadows dancing across the body of the fallen giant.
‘Jesus,’ says Barb. ‘Is he dead?’
‘I fucking hope so,’ says Janie, and she pushes through into the bar.
‘This is bad,’ says Sofi. She puts a hand on Thurston’s arm. ‘What does Barb want you to do?’
‘I’m getting those lowlifes out.’ Thurston looks at Sofi and raises his eyebrows in a question.
‘What?’ says Sofi.
‘Are you going to tell me?’
‘Tell you what?’
‘What all that stuff was back inside with your beardy friend?’
Sofi’s eyes flash. ‘He’s no friend, Thurston.’ She turns back and starts walking towards the kitchen.
‘So that’s it?’ says Thurston.
Sofi stops.
‘Be careful,’ she says.
CHAPTER 7
THURSTON WALKS DIRECTLY across to the group of Americans and Russians, takes the drink out of the hand of Black Goatee and jerks a thumb at the door.
‘Get the fuck out. Right now. All of you.’ The American starts to speak but Thurston talks across him. ‘No. Nothing to say. Get out before I hurt you. If that overgrown bear you’ve been hanging around with is still alive, take him with you. He’s in the alley considering his life choices.’
Black Goatee looks steadily at Thurston. Behind him, the Russian is thoughtful.
‘Come on, Nate,’ says the Russian. ‘We don’t need this, right?’
Black Goatee waits a couple of beats. ‘OK, cobber,’ he says, smiling. ‘We’ll go.’ He waves a couple of his boys towards the alley. ‘Go get Axel.’ He turns back to Thurston.
‘Listen, man. No hard feelings, OK? We’re all grown-ups here, right? You ever need a job, call me. Always on the lookout for someone who can add experience to the company.’ He holds out a hand. ‘Nate Miller.’
Thurston looks at Miller’s hand as though it’s been dipped in manure. ‘I wouldn’t touch your hand if you were pulling me out of the wreckage of a burning plane. Get the fuck out of here before I lose my temper properly and embarrass you in front of your dickwad buddies, Nate.’
‘OK, chief,’ says Miller. ‘All I’m gonna say is you might have call to regret that decision someday.’ He pulls back his jacket to show the handle of an automatic tucked into his waistband.
‘Good for you. SIG Sauer SPC 2022, nine nineteen,’ says Thurston. ‘I wondered what model it was. Must be kind of awkward walking round with one of those stuffed in your panties. Although I guess there’s plenty of room down there. You ever use that thing or is it for decoration only?’
Miller nods as if Thurston has confirmed something. ‘Not bad,’ he says. ‘Not bad at all.’ He holds Thurston’s gaze for a few seconds before brushing past, followed by the rest of his crew.
He is almost to the door when he spots Sofi huddled with Janie and Barb behind the bar. ‘You and me got some unfinished business, ice queen. You dig?’ Miller smiles and cocks his fingers into a gun. ‘Bang, bang.’
CHAPTER 8
‘YOU GONNA TELL me now?’
Thurston and Sofi are the only ones left at the V. Barb’s gone to bed and Janie’s been put in a taxi back home. She continued to refuse any contact with the police. Thurston’s locked up the darkened bar and is leaning against a steel table watching Sofi make her final clean-up in the kitchens.
‘Tell you what?’ Sofi doesn’t look up from her task. Her arm sweeps back and forth furiously. Thurston waits patiently for her to slow down.
‘C’mon, Sofi,’ he says. ‘You know exactly what I mean. You’ve got history with the guy with the beard. Miller.’
Sofi stands upright and breathes deeply. Her dark eyes glitter. She’s been crying.
‘OK,’ she says. She puts down the cloth and runs the back of a hand across her brow. ‘I know him, yes. From Reykjavik. A long time ago.’ She takes off her chef’s jacket and hangs it on a peg.
‘And?’ says Thurston.
‘And what?’ Sofi pulls up a stool at the table and opens her ledger. ‘It is late, Thurston, and I still have to do tomorrow’s orders for Barb.’
‘I’ll quit bugging you if you give me some more information.’
‘This isn’t a movie, Thurston. Miller is bad news. OK? This I can tell you. Very bad news. And you being a big hero man didn’t help anything, you know? Not a thing. In fact, if I’m honest, it makes things worse. We done? I can finish my work now?’
Thurston pushes himself upright from the table. ‘OK, Sofi. I’m done. I don’t know why I’m asking. We won’t see Miller again.’
Sofi shrugs. ‘Maybe.’
Thurston stops in the doorway. ‘You good to lock up on your way out? How’re you getting home?’
‘I have my motorbike.’
‘OK. Goodnight, Sofi. And, so you know, I wasn’t being any kind of hero out there. I did what I had to, nothing else.’
He opens the kitchen door.
‘Thurston?’ says Sofi.
He turns back and sees tears welling in the corners of her eyes. ‘Yes?’
‘Miller …’
‘Miller what?’
Sofi Girsdóttir shakes her head. ‘Nothing. Forget it.’
CHAPTER 9
THURSTON IS WOKEN by a monster prowling outside his room.
He hears someone screaming, and opens his eyes to see fingers of flame creeping round the edges of his door. Below, a malevolent red line throbs. His room is full of smoke from the ceiling down to about two feet from the floor. An ominous restless roaring comes from the landing. The fire sucks up every available scrap of oxygen, gathering its strength for an all-out assault on his room at the apex of the house – the worst place possible in this situation.
Coughing out smoke, Thurston rolls out of bed, dropping onto his elbows. The floor is hot to the touch.
A woman screams and Thurston hears the door to his room start to buckle. He has seconds, no more.
Another scream. A sound from hell.
‘Barb!’ shouts Thurston, and he chokes on a lungful of smoke. Coughing, his eyes tearing
up, he crawls to the bathroom and finds the bath taps. He drags the towels under the water and soaks them. He wraps one round his head and another round his upper body. When he turns back to his bedroom, flames are licking hungrily under the bottom of the door. The pressure from the inferno on the landing bends the flimsy wood. If he opens the door to get down to Barb, the backdraught will blow him straight through the opposite wall. And keeping the door closed won’t be an option much longer.
He can’t hear any more screams from Barb but knows he has to try something. He makes his way to the window and punches out the glass, his hand wrapped in a T-shirt. Smoke is sucked upwards, giving him momentary relief, but the ventilation creates a sudden rise in oxygen. The fire on the landing howls in fury and renews its assault on the door.
Thurston steps out onto his tiny balcony and looks down. Barb’s room, one floor below, has an identical balcony some two yards to his left. Flames are already rolling upwards and over her window.
Thurston doesn’t hesitate.
He makes the calculation and leaps down, landing square on Barb’s balcony. The old concrete threatens to pull away from the brick wall but it holds. Just. The heat here is intense. Thurston puts his back to the wall, the bricks hot against his skin.
‘Barb!’ he shouts. ‘Barb!’
Nothing.
He braces himself. He ducks as low as he can and tries to look inside.
It’s like looking into a blast furnace. Even with the wet towel wrapped around his face, Thurston’s hair soon starts to smoulder.
‘Barb!’ he screams but gets nothing back. He knows Barb Connors is dead already and that he won’t be far behind if he doesn’t get off this balcony. The concrete shifts below his feet and Thurston feels the whole structure start to give. The V is disintegrating around him.
Above him, the fire outside his bedroom finally breaks down the door, and a massive backdraught blows a spume of glass and wood and flame into the cold night air. The blast knocks Thurston off balance. He stumbles dangerously, inches from tumbling over the edge of the balcony.
Absolute Zero Page 2
