Femme Fatale

by Dominic Piper

  Chudwell steps up to Gable and shakes his hand. I look for some sort of unusual masonic handshake, but it looks like an ordinary one to me. Perhaps they save that sort of thing for people they don’t know. Well, of course they do. That’s the whole point.

  ‘Goodbye, Mr Beckett. Not your lucky day,’ says Chudwell. I’m disappointed. I was hoping for a dramatic speech.

  Gable grips my arm and pulls me to my feet. Tansil hands him the keys to the cuffs and tells him to bring them back when he’s finished. Tansil takes the lead. We follow him to the front door. He opens it, has a good look around, and then walks across the road to where a black Ford Transit van is parked. Lights flash as he unlocks it. He opens the back doors up, takes another look up and down the street and then returns to the house.

  Gable is to my right, still grabbing my arm and Tansil walks next to me on the left as we cross the road. This tactic is presumably so that no casual observers can see that I’ve got handcuffs on. The fresh air is making me feel unsteady. There are a few people around, but it isn’t too busy. I can hear an angry girl arguing with her boyfriend about a hundred yards away. Black cabs and ordinary vehicles appear now and then, but it’s nothing like it was when I got here.

  No one says anything. I’m quickly bundled in the back of the van and the doors are slammed shut and locked. It’s dark. The van smells new. I can hear Tansil and Gable talking, but can’t make out what they’re saying. Then Gable laughs at something and says, ‘You randy old sod!’

  I lie on my back. I’m worried about Paige. I feel someone get in the driver’s seat, and I can tell who it is from the effect of his weight on the suspension. There’s something wrong with this van. Gable has to turn it over half a dozen times before it starts. Finally, it catches. The engine doesn’t sound right. He gives it a couple of revs and we’re off. So it’s just me, Mark Gable, his oil and his thong. Now if that’s not everyone’s idea of a good night out, I don’t know what is.

  We’re heading west, towards Regent Street. He’s keeping to the speed limit, occasionally putting his foot down and hitting forty or fifty. If I wasn’t feeling so damaged, I’d attempt to kick the back door open and roll out, but that’s really only a good idea in films. In reality, hitting the floor after leaving a vehicle travelling at thirty miles an hour or more can be terrifically bad for your health, particularly when you’re handcuffed. Apart from the high-speed impact when you hit the road, there’s also the danger of getting run over by other vehicles who may not hit the brakes in time, if they see you in the first place.

  Trying to kick at the doors when you stop at traffic lights or junctions is also a bad idea. Whoever’s driving would just get out and give you a smack. I’ve had enough for one evening without being on the receiving end of a punch from someone built like Gable.

  I’m trying hard to work out where we’re going, but it’s difficult. I know when we hit the Euston Road, and we’re heading east, but then he takes a sudden right turn that rolls me over to the left side of the van. Are we going to Camden? Belsize Park? I really can’t tell; I’m simply not switched on enough. On top of that, I’m starting to get motion sickness.

  Of course, there’s nothing I can do about these cuffs, which puts me at a huge disadvantage. There are no convenient paper clips or pins in here. If there were, I could be out of them in five seconds flat. I decide to lie on my back and wait; keep attempting to recover. At least my hands are not cuffed behind my back, which is something. I start wondering about what they’re going to do with Paige. Are they just going to lay her on the bed next to Lady O and hope for the best? Will she be a living security blanket for a very disturbed woman?

  Why did Paige answer the door to Gable? She has a security spy hole in her front door. Did she not recognise him from my sketch? Or did he flash a phony police warrant card at her and she just opened up? That bruise under her jaw. Perhaps she opened the door and he sucker-punched her, just like he did with Jamie Baldwin. I think of Julita Jaworska, the woman Gable beat into a coma.

  We drive over a couple of bumps in the road. I can feel my brain moving around in my head. Apart from that disquieting sensation, I realise that I feel a bit more ‘in the room’, or perhaps ‘in the van’. I hear a police siren a few hundred yards away, but the sound soon fades, so it’s not about us.

  I think about Paige again. When her presence has calmed Lady O down and stopped the screaming, what then? I don’t think dimwit Chudwell has thought that far forward. They need someone smart directing all their nefarious activities and Chudwell isn’t the man.

  I didn’t like the way Tansil was licking his lips as Paige was being carried up the stairs. The lip-licking was something Jamie Baldwin mentioned. I think the sooner she’s got out of that place, the better, and at the moment, I’m the only one who can do it.

  After about ten minutes, the traffic noise is dramatically reduced. It’s not that late, so I can only assume that we’re quite a way out of the centre of London and we’re not near any towns or villages. I have a rough idea that we’ve been heading north, but no real clue as to our exact location.

  The van slows down to ten miles an hour and then stops. Gable gets out, but keeps the engine running. I can hear the jangle of keys and then the sound of a metal gate being opened. He gets back in the van, drives forward about ten feet and then stops again. Now he’s locking up behind him. I wonder where we are?

  He drives slowly, maybe five miles an hour. After he’d locked the gate behind us, he turned the van lights off. I get the feeling this is a long driveway heading to some big house, but I could be wrong.

  After maybe five hundred yards we come to a halt and he kills the engine. I hear him get out, close the door and walk around to the back. He opens the doors and immediately takes a step back. Just being cautious in case I’ve got out of the cuffs and have managed to get hold of a handgun during the journey. He has a brown leather messenger bag over his left shoulder.

  ‘Right. Come on, pal. Out you come. I’m sure I don’t have to tell you to watch what you do. I don’t like sudden movements. I don’t like funny comments. I just want everything to go smoothly.’

  I don’t reply. I just get out and look around. There’s a quarter moon. It’s a graveyard. It smells of the countryside. We’re parked in front of what seems to be a mausoleum of some sort. Dirty grey concrete. One storey high. Fat Corinthian columns flank an ornate metal door with fake windows. Looks like the whole thing needs a lick of paint.

  ‘You didn’t have to go to all this trouble, darling,’ I say. ‘A pub car park would have done. I’m not fussy.’

  ‘Very funny, pal. Just keep cracking the jokes. See what happens.’

  ‘You’ll laugh?’

  ‘Perked up a little, haven’t you.’

  He grabs my bicep once more and guides me towards the door, which he then unlocks.

  It’s dark inside but not as cold as I’d imagined it would be. He closes the door behind us, locks it and flicks a light switch on. We’re in a single chamber. High-ceilinged, twenty foot long and fifteen foot wide. The floors and walls are white marble. There’s a brown marble altar in the centre with the masonic square and compasses displayed at the end in black. I hope I’m not going be sacrificed, but I’d put nothing past these people now.

  The walls are decorated with memorial plaques. Each one has a name followed by an esoteric title: Prince of Mercy, Intimate Secretary, Knight of the East and West, Knight of the Brazen Serpent. There are no windows, but there’s a door to the right of the altar. Gable releases his grip on my arm and pushes me towards it.

  ‘Open it up and go down the stairs into the room. No funny business.’

  I do as he says. The stairs and whatever’s below are lit up, presumably by the same switch that illuminated the altar room. As I descend, I’m increasingly aware of a bad smell. I know immediately what it is. Gable’s about six steps behind me.

  ‘Stop.’

  I stop just outside some sort of basement storage room. The
door is partially open.

  ‘Push the door open with your foot and go inside.’

  I do as he says. The storage room is full of stacked chairs and green plastic packing cartons. It’s cool down here but not that cool. From the look of things, I would say that Rikki’s been dead for about nine days, which would be about right. I walk around him and take a good look in case I ever get the opportunity to tell anyone about this. I breathe deeply to get my brain used to the smell.

  His face is bloated and green. His eyes are closed and the eyelids are purple, as are the dark shadows beneath his eyes. There’s an immense wound on the right side of his face which is crimson and black and crawling with maggots. His stomach is extremely bloated. I think of the girl in his flat, with whom he now has a lot in common. I admire the flies for getting in here and laying their eggs on him. Flies are smart creatures; they’ll always find a way.

  His left shoulder is noticeably lower than his right and his arm is twisted out at an unnatural angle. He’s wearing a black and white shirt with cowboys on horseback twirling lassoes. One of his shoes is missing. The area under his left armpit is dark with dried blood and it look as if most of his ribcage has been crushed.

  I turn around to face Gable, but I’m in no state to anticipate or deflect the punch to my face. I lose my balance, and as I fall, I attempt to take the main part of the impact on my left shoulder. But thankfully I don’t land on the floor. I land on Rikki’s abdomen, forcing foul-smelling gas and a thick black viscous substance out of his mouth. I’m really beginning to dislike today.

  40

  DIM MAK

  He lets me get up to my feet again. I have no idea what he intends to do. Is he going to beat me to death for fun? I make my breathing ragged and shallow. I allow my mouth to hang open. I defocus my eyes. It’s important that he thinks I’m in worse shape than I am.

  He takes out a small dark green towel and a bottle of something called Pro Tan Muscle Juice. I believe these products are known as Posing Oils by those in the bodybuilder competition world.

  ‘Does it have to be the oil? Can’t we try it au naturel for once?’

  ‘Shut it.’

  ‘Jamie Baldwin told me about your condition when you were cuddling him. What was all that about, Mark? What got you going? I’m baffled.’

  He pauses, giving me a hard stare. ‘It’s going to be even worse for you now, pal.’

  ‘Was it the violence? The iron bar treatment? Or have you got a thing for boxers?’

  He smiles and nods his head. ‘Just keep going, pal. Just keep going.’

  He takes off his t-shirt and looks for somewhere to put it. He lifts a chair off one of the stacks and carefully drapes it over the back of that. He never stops watching me; not for a second. As he’s taking his shoes off, I realise what I’m going to do. I cough. I fake a stagger.

  ‘You’re looking a bit fucked, son,’ he says, undoing his belt and laughing. ‘Even the little Chinkie looks in better shape than you!’

  I put aside all the pain and discomfort I’m in and without looking directly at him, focus on his whole body, on every miniscule movement he makes. As I watch him undo his trousers and pull the zipper down, it’s almost as if it’s happening in slow motion. Then he does it. He raises his right knee up to get the first trouser leg off. He’s standing on one leg. He’s wobbling. His left trouser leg falls towards his ankle.

  I quickly step forward and give the side of his knee one almighty kick. There’s a bad-sounding crunch. Immediately, I kick again, dislocating the kneecap. He screams. He’s on the floor. He takes the impact on his head and shoulder. He’s hyperventilating. He’s on his back. His hands scrabble for his knee to alleviate the pain. It won’t work.

  While he’s down, I kick him in the temple with my heel. This puts him on his side for a moment. He’s not unconscious or dead, which is what I was aiming for, but he looks angry.

  I attempt another kick to finish him off, but he’s too quick. He catches my ankle and gives it a painful twist. I come down hard, the side of my face hitting the stone floor. I can hear birds tweeting.

  Pushing himself up with both hands and swearing profusely, he puts all his weight on his good leg and stands. He manages to grab my lapels and pulls me to an upright position. He’s pale and sweating. The pain must be unbearable.

  ‘You fucking cocksucker.’

  He head-butts me and manhandles me towards one of the walls, his ruined leg dragging behind him, his mouth open and his teeth clenched in agony. In an alternative situation, I’d wait for him to pass out or go into shock because of that artery-tearing knee injury, but that may not happen quickly enough.

  The force he uses to push me against the wall is staggering, and for a moment I think it’s going to finish me off. Before I can recover from it his hands are around my throat and I can feel the results of all that gym time squeezing the life out of me. I can see the muscles in his forearms and biceps bulging. His face is red. He’s perspiring from the pain. His neck muscles are straining. There’s a murderous grin on his face. He’s using all his strength to push me backwards while his hands put incredible pressure on the side of my neck and his thumbs start to trash my windpipe.

  In a few moments, my peripheral vision is going and I can’t breathe properly. My temples throb. He’s standing side-on to me so there’s no danger of me kneeing him in the balls. Smart boy. This feels like it’s been going on for an hour, though it’s more like ten seconds. With the handcuffs on, my options are limited, but not that limited.

  I bring my cuffed hands up inside his arms and with my middle and ring fingers, strike him in the soft flesh beneath his jaw, a half centimetre each side of the thyroid cartilage. I push hard, upwards and inwards. I keep my fingers there for a count of two and then pull sharply away. He coughs, looks puzzled, laughs at me, keeps on throttling me. I was once told that this has a one in twenty chance of working. Let’s hope the odds are on my side.

  I know what it’ll feel like. The pain will start at the sides of the neck, then it’ll radiate down to the ribcage, a dull, awful pain like the worst kick in the balls you’ve ever had. Your jaw will clench and then your heart will stop. He’s still looking at me, but his eyes are glazed over. Give Rikki my regards, Mark.

  His hands are still around my throat. I peel them off, push him onto the floor, lean against the wall and have a coughing fit which lasts around two minutes. Once that’s over, I find his trousers, search the pockets, collect all the keys I’ll need and get the cuffs off. I get my mobile out, but there’s no signal, which isn’t too surprising.

  I get outside, but when the fresh air hits me, I feel nauseous and have to sit down on the floor until it passes, my head between my knees. When I think I can manage it, I get up and get in the transit van. Whatever else is going to happen, I think my first task is to get back to Berkeley Square and get Paige McBride out of the clutches of those diseased fucks. I put the key in the ignition and turn the engine over. It runs for four seconds and then stops. I try it again and the same thing happens. Now I remember. Gable had a problem starting it when we were in Berkeley Square.

  I look at the dashboard. No warning lights and almost a full tank of diesel. I turn it over again. For the few seconds that the engine comes on, it doesn’t sound right. Is it the timing chain? I think about opening the bonnet and taking a look, but it’s too dark and I don’t have a torch. I try it one more time. I get my mobile out. Now it has a weak signal. I try to discover my location but the app isn’t working. I give Doug Teng a call.

  ‘Hey, Mr Beckett!’

  I can hear the sound of machine gun fire and screeching car tyres in the background.

  ‘Hi, Doug. Listen. Where am I?’

  ‘You sound fucked! You’re pretty tanked up, huh?’

  ‘No. I can’t explain now. I just need you to tell me where I am.’

  ‘Hold on.’

  I listen to people screaming and police cars arriving. Is it always action/adventure films? Does he nev
er watch arthouse?

  ‘Sorry, Mr Beckett. Hold on. Can’t find you. You’re not on a road, yeah?’

  ‘That’s right. I’m in a graveyard.’

  ‘Whoa! OK. Got it. Bad triangulation out there. Must be all the trees. You’re in Saint Barbara’s Masonic Church near Highgate, right next to something called the Noachite Mausoleum. It’s Nowheresville. Hampstead Heath to the west, Highgate Cemetery to the east.’

  ‘Give me the location details. Latitude and longitude. Whatever.’

  ‘Okeydoke.’

  With those memorised and a promise to go out for a drink with him, I call Caroline Chow. Her mobile rings for quite a while and for a moment I’m worried that my mobile battery will run out. When she answers I hear her say, ‘Stop. Stop,’ to someone, in a high, breathless voice.

  ‘Caroline?’

  ‘OK, baby. Just give me a moment.’

  She’s put her hand over the phone, but I can still hear her panting. Then I hear an ecstatic moan.

  ‘OK. What’s going on?’ she says, her voice still cracking.

  ‘Where are you?’

  ‘I’m in your flat.’

  ‘Who’s there with you?’

  ‘Oh, it’s just this woman. It’s OK. She’s cool. High class girl, yeah? I just needed it and you weren’t around. My hotel isn’t cool about this type of visitor. Her name’s Qawaya. You’d like her. She’s hot.’

  ‘Listen. I’m stranded somewhere near Highgate. You have to come and pick me up. My bike’s parked around the corner in Burleigh Street, across the road from Daawat, the Indian restaurant. The keys are in the kitchen and there’s a helmet in there somewhere. This has to be fast, Caroline, but don’t get stopped by the police. Listen. I’ve found out what happened to Rikki.’