Promises of Blood

by David Thorne

  ‘How?’

  There must be a scalpel in here. Something to cut my ties with. ‘Can you get out of bed?’

  She rattles her arm behind her. I cannot see but I can tell by the way she moves that she, too, is attached to the bed she is lying in. ‘Daniel.’

  I remember the promises I made, to Ms Armstrong, to the man who ran the shelter, to CJ herself. That I would keep her safe. ‘Lie still,’ I say.

  ‘That doctor. I keep going to sleep.’

  ‘Nothing wrong with sleeping.’

  ‘I’m so tired.’

  She blinks and I smile at her. She looks pale and her hair is limp and dirty. ‘Teenagers,’ I say.

  But she does not smile back. ‘I heard you,’ she says. ‘Talking to Maria. These people. What did they do to my sister?’

  ‘How did you get here?’

  ‘I came on my own. Wanted to find out. They asked me who I was and then I woke up here.’ She takes a breath then loses her control and her face pulls into an ugly sob. ‘Why are they doing this?’

  ‘How long have you been here?’

  ‘I don’t know. A week?’

  ‘CJ,’ I say. ‘These people are bad people. They are worthless people. You must not be frightened of them.’

  CJ watches me in silence, blinks the tears out of her grave eyes.

  ‘You’re strong. You’ve had worse.’ This I doubt, but I want CJ to believe that she has some power, if only that of moral superiority. ‘Don’t let these people break you. Don’t let that happen.’

  ‘What are they going to do to us?’

  ‘Nothing,’ I say. ‘Because I’ll do it to them first.’

  Still CJ watches me and I know that she is trying to believe me, trying to persuade herself that I can rescue her. Me, drugged and weak and cuffed to a bed. What can I do? The only thing I can do is give CJ hope and strength. If that.

  ‘And when we get out,’ I say, ‘we’ll go home.’

  CJ blinks again, coughs to test her voice. ‘Will Maria be there?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘You argued.’

  ‘People argue. It doesn’t have to mean anything serious.’

  ‘I can stay with you?’

  ‘For as long as you want.’

  CJ is silent for a moment, thinking. ‘Maria told me that you were the kindest man she knew. Although you hide it well.’

  ‘She said that?’ I think of Maria and I feel the burn of tears behind my eyes, feel my throat swell, a pebble in it. ‘She might be exaggerating.’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  CJ and I talk to each other of the things we will do when we are outside these walls, when my promise to get her out of here is realised. CJ tells me that she regrets all the things that have happened to her in her life; that she is tired of regret, tired of hating her past. I tell her that everybody has regrets, but that life is long and what has happened to her so far will one day seem like the blink of an eye. She thinks about this for a long time and before she can think of anything to say in response, she closes her eyes and is asleep.

  40

  TIME PASSES IN a fog of voices and shapes and darkness and light. I feel like a whale which occasionally breaches the surface only to submerge once again into the deep. At one point I believe that I am talking with Saskia Gove about money. At another I feel her touch on my cheek, leaving its warm tingle. I dream of CJ and Maria and Saskia Gove, and in my dreams Saskia Gove has the white skin and dark eyes and seductive smile of a vampire. In one dream I am in Unit 5 of the Goves’ estate and I realise that it is not a dream and that I recognise the white breeze-block room because I have been in one just like it before. I am lost in a sea of drugs and stupor and time seems endless, without limits or reason.

  I come to with a rush as if I have fallen through space into cold water, as if waking from a bad dream. I open my eyes and feel my heart beating against the blanket covering me. My muscles are tense and I feel powerful, my arms taut and strong against the restraints attached to the bed.

  ‘Daniel?’

  ‘What’s happening?’

  ‘That doctor. He injected you.’

  ‘Where is he?’

  ‘He’s gone.’

  I wonder what he gave me. Some kind of amphetamine, a dose of adrenalin. I feel supercharged. Stratospheric.

  I look over at CJ. She is holding a scalpel. ‘He gave me this.’

  ‘Can you cut yourself free?’

  CJ turns over, saws at her restraints.

  ‘Did he say anything?’ I ask.

  ‘He was totally freaked out. Said he was a doctor, not a murderer. Other day he tried to speak to that woman, Saskia, told her there were too many people, said it was out of control.’

  A little late for an attack of conscience, I cannot help thinking.

  ‘He told me he was sorry, injected you, then did one.’ CJ stops sawing, lifts both her arms. ‘Done.’

  ‘Can you come here?’

  CJ kneels up. She closes her eyes briefly as if dizzy or nauseous. She is wearing a nightdress. She climbs slowly out of the bed, stands, holds on to the side for support.

  ‘You okay?’

  ‘Yes,’ she says. ‘Don’t feel too good.’

  ‘Can you come here?’

  She crosses the white floor to my bed.

  ‘You need to cut me out.’

  CJ saws at the restraint on my right wrist. ‘Gently,’ I say.

  She cuts through and I take the scalpel from her, cut my other restraint. I pull the needle from the catheter in the back of my hand, sit up. I am wearing only shorts. I put my feet on the floor, stand up. Duncan Gove shot me in the shoulder, arm, ribs. There is dressing where he hit me. My ribs ache, the rib that was broken at Tilbury Docks stabbing. I do not care. I feel flooded with power as if some demigod has granted me immortality.

  I cross to the door. It is open and gives out into the space of Unit 5, where last time I was here stolen cars were stored. I go back into the room where CJ and I have been kept. At the far end is the bed behind the curtain. I do not want to look at what is there. I cross to it, pull back the curtain.

  Lying in the bed is a girl who I think must be Anica Antonescu. She is small and pale and skeletal and at first glance I cannot believe that she is alive. I can see the sharp outline of her hips, femur. Can count all of her vertebrae. She is naked and so emaciated that she looks more like a little boy than a young woman. I watch her for a moment and see the minute rise and fall of her chest. She is still breathing.

  ‘Daniel?’

  I turn to where CJ is standing. ‘Can you walk?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  I pick her up and walk out into Unit 5. It is dark, the only light spilling out from the open door of our room. We cross the space and I try the door at the side. It is open too. We walk out into the night air. It is warm. Above us a security light comes on, throwing bright white light over the concrete square. CJ shivers against me. We need to get as far away as we can. Back the way I came in, all those nights and weeks ago. My feet are bare but I do not care.

  ‘Daniel? Let’s go.’

  But of course I cannot leave without Anica Antonescu. Cannot leave a young woman at the mercy of these people. They will devour her, kill her. For a second I imagine the face of Sabina Antonescu breaking into a smile, picture her dropping her hoe and rushing to embrace the daughter she believed she had lost for ever. I put CJ down.

  ‘Wait.’

  ‘Daniel?’

  ‘Two seconds.’

  I run back through Unit 5, back into our ward. I pick up the blanket from CJ’s bed and go to Anica. Take the needle from her hand, wrap her up. When I lift her I am as careful as if she is made of spun glass. She weighs so little it is hard to believe I am carrying a human being; she feels like a collection of sticks in my arms. I walk back out, cross Unit 5 once again. Cold concrete beneath my feet. Anica Antonescu does not move, does not wake.

  Outside Unit 5, Duncan, Luke and Saskia Gove are wa
iting for me. Duncan is holding a shotgun. Luke Gove has his arm around CJ, who is struggling against him. I stop in the doorway. They are brightly lit by the security light. Behind them it is pitch black, as if they are on a stage set.

  ‘You can keep her,’ Saskia says, nodding at the pitiful bundle in my arms. ‘She’s no good to me any more.’

  Duncan Gove lifts his shotgun, but Saskia holds up an arm. ‘Not here. Take them somewhere else.’

  ‘Let her live,’ I say.

  ‘Can’t do that,’ says Luke Gove. ‘She’s got a story to tell.’ CJ tries to get away from his hold. ‘And we still need this one.’

  ‘Move,’ says Duncan Gove, raising his shotgun.

  I shake my head. ‘No.’

  ‘Okay,’ says Saskia. ‘Whatever. Duncan, just get rid of him.’ She looks at me, shakes her head. ‘It’s been fun.’

  The light above us reaches into the darkness, fading gently. Behind Saskia Gove I can see a figure on the edge of the gloom. I try not to look directly. The Goves have not seen or heard him. The pool of light is maybe twenty feet and I wonder how fast Gabe is, how quickly he can cover that distance. Duncan Gove only has to turn and shoot. Gabe will be lit up. But of course I have known Gabe for a lifetime and he knows me. Knows that he can rely on me.

  I lift Anica Antonescu above my head as if she is a trophy, as if I am offering her up for sacrifice. I throw my head back and fill my lungs and roar up at the night sky. I think of the American policy of shock and awe. I must be a deeply unsettling sight.

  But it is the diversion that Gabe needs. When next I look at the Goves they are watching me with unnerved confusion. Gabe has appeared like an evil visitation from the shadows, stolen up behind them. He swings a baseball bat at the back of Duncan Gove’s head. The contact is brutal and Duncan Gove is unconscious before he hits the ground. Gabe takes the barrel of Duncan Gove’s shotgun as he falls, lifts it from his hands. He takes a step back, lifts the shotgun, covers Saskia and Luke Gove.

  ‘You okay?’

  I nod.

  Gabe cocks the shotgun, aims it at Luke Gove’s head. ‘Now.’

  Luke Gove lets go of CJ, who runs to me. I am still holding Anica Antonescu and CJ puts her arms around my waist.

  ‘Now then,’ Saskia Gove says, smiling, ‘this is interesting.’

  ‘Shut up,’ says Gabe. Saskia’s smile disappears in the face of Gabe’s cold disdain. Her beauty and charm will find no purchase with him, his icy façade, and for this I love him. He takes out a mobile. ‘Danny, you need to call the police.’

  He crosses to hand the phone to me. Saskia and Luke Gove glance at each other. Saskia nods slowly at her brother.

  ‘Gabe,’ I say.

  Saskia lunges at Gabe, her hands going for his face, scratching at his skin, his eyes. He turns the shotgun and clubs her in the temple with the stock. She falls, but by the time she is down Luke Gove has gone, run beyond the pool of light we are standing in as though performing for an unseen audience. Saskia smiles up from the ground, a crazed satisfaction in her eyes as if, despite what is playing out, she has somehow won.

  We wait for the police to arrive. Saskia does not say anything. Duncan Gove is still out cold. I go back into Unit 5, find blankets for CJ, one for me. Whatever the doctor gave me is wearing off and I am tired, weak.

  ‘How long was I gone?’

  ‘Five days,’ says Gabe. ‘Maria was frantic. Told me about what you’d been working on. So I did me some surveillance.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  Gabe shrugs. ‘Beats daytime TV.’

  From behind the Goves’ house we hear a whine, the lazy whup whup of a helicopter’s blades beginning to turn. Saskia closes her eyes and smiles as if thanking some unscrupulous god for saving her brother, allowing him to escape. We stand and listen as the beat of the blades gets faster and the whine of the turbines louder. Then we see Luke Gove’s helicopter lift into the sky, four, five hundred metres away, lights flashing on its tail and undercarriage. It climbs higher and then its nose dips and it pulls away, heading for anywhere but here.

  But it has not gone far before the engine note stutters and dies, starts again and then cuts out completely. The helicopter tilts lazily to one side and drops as if tumbling off the edge of a cliff.

  ‘Oh,’ says Gabe, casually. ‘There she goes.’

  Saskia watches her brother’s death in silent horror, then turns to Gabe with an otherworldly fury. But the bleak amusement in Gabe’s eyes is unassailable, his utter indifference to her grief nothing she can match. She watches him in silence and eventually turns aside and weeps quietly until the police arrive and take her away.

  41

  THE QUESTION OF who cut the fuel lines on Luke Gove’s helicopter was one that the police never found an answer to; nor was it a question they seemed too interested in once they learned that Luke Gove had been complicit in the murder of two young women, the attempted murder of two more. Saskia Gove is dying and Duncan Gove is in prison, and the Gove dynasty is finished after three centuries, ending in a stew of decadence, immorality and cruelty that would have put Caligula to shame.

  We are at the tennis club, watching the county finals where our first team is getting battered by a pair from a club up the coast. I know our players; one of them works in shipping, the other is an ex cricket professional. The guy who works in shipping is accepting their outclassing with good grace, cracking jokes during the crossover, looking to the spectators for help and encouragement. His partner, a man who used to play sport for a living and has competitiveness ingrained in his psyche, has not spoken for four games.

  Gabe is watching them in silence and although he does not say anything I can tell, by the set of his jaw and the raised muscles on his forearms, that he believes we would do a better job on court than these two. Quiet disgust radiates from him. Maria cannot help but laugh, sitting behind him and watching his rigid disbelief. I cannot help smiling either. I wonder what emotions roil beneath Gabe’s cool exterior; wonder if anybody will ever know.

  ‘Thinking of taking up croquet,’ says the guy from shipping, taking a drink at the net.

  ‘Only five–love down,’ I say. ‘Plenty of time.’

  He laughs and his partner looks at me darkly from under his sweating hair and forehead. Maria nudges me, shuts me up. But I believe Gabe’s unspoken feelings are correct: together we could take the game to these other players, grind them down, out-think them. Another day.

  CJ comes back from the bar where she has been sulking, playing with her phone and pretending that the boy behind the bar is of no interest to her, which Maria tells me is very far from the truth. CJ has told us that tennis is both boring and pointless, something which caused Maria’s eyes to go large and for a moment made CJ worry that she had said something inexcusable, something that cannot be forgiven.

  ‘How long?’ she says.

  The guy from shipping is still at the net, drinking, and he overhears her.

  ‘Not long,’ he says, pull a rueful face. His partner does not laugh. CJ looks away in embarrassment.

  Gabe turns around. ‘Drink?’

  ‘Go on then,’ says Maria.

  I hand him my glass. He takes a look at the court, thinks about saying something about what is going on out there, cannot find the words. Instead he shakes his head, walks to the bar. Maria watches him go, laughing softly.

  CJ spent a night in hospital before coming back to us. Anica Antonescu remained in hospital for weeks, her body fighting to replace the goodness which Saskia Gove had sucked from her, had fed on for so many months. Maria insisted that I pay for her mother to fly over, that we put her up so that she could visit her daughter daily until she was better. Sabina Antonescu sat by Anica’s side for hours, days, weeks, her dark eyes watching her daughter’s face as if she were a miracle that could once again disappear in the blink of an eye.

  My promise to Ms Armstrong that I would look after CJ, would keep an eye out for her, was one which, ultimately, I was able to keep. My
promise to Maria, that I would keep violence out of our lives, was not. But I was the only person to care about what had happened to four missing women; was the only person who did not give up on them, ignore them, pretend that their fate was of no importance or consequence. Maria has told me that she is sorry for forcing me into a promise I could not keep, sorry for accepting me on a provisional basis, based on rules created to please her. I am who I am, she told me, and that is enough for her. She told me that she was proud to know me, and with those words I felt more alive and worthwhile than I have done in months.

  Gabe comes back with drinks as our first team’s opponents win the match with an ace. He watches it with sullen contempt, then turns and puts the glasses down, sits. He shakes his head silently and helplessly, Maria watching him with delight.

  For the past nights I have been haunted by thoughts of buried bodies. Hicklin has told me that neither Duncan nor Saskia Gove will talk, that they will not say where the bodies of Jessica Farrell and Stacey Millar can be found. The Gove estate will be sold, redeveloped, and one day a JCB or spade will uncover that mystery. These thoughts naturally lead me to the fate of Kane and Halliday who, as of three weeks ago, vanished off the face of the earth, leaving a vacuum in the local underworld which, my father told me with nasty pleasure, has resulted in fucking chaos. Let them lie wherever they are. They are of no more interest to me or to the world, as irrelevant and forgotten as the bodies which lie underneath my apartment building. Unlike Saskia Gove, I believe that death is inevitable and, occasionally, not something to be mourned.

  ‘We’d have destroyed them.’

  I look at Gabe’s bleak expression, the cords of muscle on his arms, his lean face. I look past him at the victorious players and nod, smile at him. I do not doubt it for a moment.

  David Thorne has worked as a writer for the last fifteen years, originally in advertising, then in television and radio comedy. He has written material for many comedians, including Jimmy Carr, Alan Carr, David Mitchell and Bob Mortimer. He was a major contributor to the BAFTA-winning Armstrong and Miller Show, and has worked on shows including Facejacker, Harry and Paul and Alan Carr: Chatty Man. Promises of Blood is his third novel in the Daniel Connell series.