by Tom Bale
The guard couldn’t kneel, because of the blood, so he had to bend
over, crouching awkwardly while he reached one hand towards her
face.
Then he hesitated. 'Don’t try and bite me.’
Priya gave him a meek, reassuring nod. The guard tried to prise
away a corner of the tape, his gloved fingers struggling to get it loose.
Angela watched, bracing herself for the unpleasant sight of Priya
expelling the vomit that filled her mouth. But as the tape finally tore
loose there was a blur of movement, and then an outpouring of
something very different.
Blood.
Priya had never given up hope. Even when her plan took much longer
than she expected. Even when the pain almost made her vomit for real.
She went on, undaunted, twisting and pulling until she had eased
her hands apart by half an inch. Not far, but enough to get a better
angle for her fingers to pluck at the tape. Her nails had been filed down
so she could wear the latex gloves, but as Priya dug them into the tape
they started to split, creating sharp edges that she could use to dig further.
It took her twenty minutes of constant surreptitious activity. By the
time the tape came apart her wrists were slick with blood. She wiped
her hands against the back of her boiler suit, then rested, easing her
arms apart a fraction to release some of the tension in her shoulders.
The guard had done her a favour by retreating to the far side of
the garage. Every now and then his attention wandered for a moment.
Priya waited for her chance, then carefully retrieved the knife that she
carried in the back pocket of her suit.
During the assault on the garage the guard had patted her down
while simultaneously cutting off her utility belt. With so many weapons
on the belt he hadn’t given much attention to the body search. The
knife he’d missed was a push dagger, a broad three-inch blade on a
T-shaped handle. It was designed to be gripped in the fist, with the
blade protruding between the second and third fingers.
Once Priya had it ready, it was simple enough to fake a choking
fit to lure the guard over. The pool of Eldon’s blood meant he couldn’t
approach her directly: instead he was forced to stoop alongside her,
in a posture that hindered the use of his MP5.
He was on her right-hand side, fumbling with the tape. Priya readied
herself, looking up at him with big pleading eyes, and as the gag was
ripped from her face she swung her left arm round and punched the
knife into his inner thigh, aiming for the femoral artery.
A jet of blood told her that she’d hit the target. One of the prisoners
screamed. The guard didn’t make a sound. He was staring dumbfounded
at the spurting blood.
Priya pulled the dagger free and stabbed him again, this time in
the groin. He let out a howl and stumbled backwards, desperate to
get away. Priya moved with him, clutching his injured leg with her
right hand, and as he overbalanced she clambered on top of him,
stabbing him in the abdomen. The MP5 hit the floor, and her heart
missed a beat as she waited for a burst of accidental gunfire.
Then the moment passed and she was grabbing the tiny microphone
at his throat. Ripping it free, she hurled it across the garage,
pushed herself up and reached for the MP5.
Leaving the guard to bleed out, she shuffled backwards, ignoring
the smears of blood over her legs. She used the dagger to cut the tape
from her ankles, and then she was on her feet.
She took a couple of deep breaths, studying the mess she’d made
with her wrists. There was a lot of skin scraped off, and her fingernails
were broken and bloody, but it was superficial. It generated
the kind of pain she welcomed. The kind that told her: I’m alive. The
kind that told her: Never give up.
The guard was dead. Priya smiled. Angela and the other prisoners
were staring at her, transfixed. But it wasn’t their reaction that interested
her.
It was Turner’s.
The flash of the blade didn’t make sense until the blood started to
flow. Then Angela understood many things at once: Priya wasn’t
choking. She hadn’t been sick. Somehow she’d freed herself.
She had a knife and she was attacking the guard with a ferocity
unlike anything Angela had ever seen. It was a savage, inhuman assault;
in some ways more shocking to witness even than Donald’s murder
for its sheer brutality.
And she, Angela, had made it possible. An unbearable truth: she
had been suckered into helping Priya kill a man.
Angela thought she would pass out. She heard herself groan and
felt the room tilt and spin. Then Terry was bumping against her, whispering
her name, doing his best to comfort her.
When it was done, Priya got to her feet, panting from the exertion
but otherwise unruffled. Her boiler suit was plastered in blood.
It was in her hair and on her face, but she seemed not to know or
to care.
She glanced at the prisoners, and now Angela deciphered the look
she’d seen a few moments ago.
Not gratitude, but contempt.
You used me.’
Priya snorted, as if to say: Of course. Angela drew in a breath to
speak again, but Terry hissed: 'Leave it.’
He was right, of course, though it took a while for Angela to accept
that. He was only expressing what the other prisoners were thinking: Don’t antagonise her.
But for now Priya showed no interest in them. Her focus was upon
Turner. Angela could only see her face in profile, but it seemed calm,
composed.
Turner, on the other hand, was petrified. He stared at Priya as
though she was all his nightmares come to life. When she leaned
towards him he shrank back and made a high-pitched pleading noise
beneath his gag.
Priya tore the tape from his mouth so roughly that everyone winced.
Blood oozed from his lip and into his mouth. He spat it out, and said:
'Jesus! Thanks.’
The gratitude seemed heartfelt, as did his relief, but Angela felt it
was misplaced. Priya straightened up, her body language still wary,
hostile.
Turner wriggled away from the wall, trying to give Priya access to
his bound hands. 'These are killing me. How d’you manage to get
free?’
Without responding, Priya lifted the MP5 to chest height and examined
it carefully. There was some sort of switch on the side of the
gun, and she idly flicked it back and forth a couple of times while
Turner made another desperate pitch.
'That was a fucking good move. Always thought you had hidden
talents.’ A brief snigger, cut short when he registered her blank expression.
'Come on, then. Are you gonna untie me?’
'Why would I do that?’
'Wha—?’ Turner looked incredulous. 'Because it’s one against Christ
knows how many. With two of us, we’ve got a real chance.’
'So we abandon Liam? And Valentin?’
'They’re probably dead anyway.’
'But if they’re still alive?’
Turner gave a dismissive sh
rug, as if he thought it unlikely. 'Why
not? Just you and me. We deserve it, after all this shit they put us
through.’
Priya tipped her head to one side, as if deep in thought. Then she
said, 'I don’t think so.’
She hefted the gun into a firing stance. Turner looked from side
to side, then back at Priya. He was close to tears. Angela felt Terry
nudge her, another warning, but this time it wasn’t necessary. She had
no intention of getting involved.
Turner changed tack: tried exasperation. 'Think about this, eh? You
want to get out of here, don’t you? Because I’ll tell you something,
love, you won’t get far on your own, even with that big fucking gun.’
'Really? You must have forgotten what you said to me earlier.’
At first Turner was confused. 'What?’ Then he remembered. 'Hey,
come on. I didn’t mean — '
Priya’s finger wrapped around the trigger. She was smiling.
'They’ll never see me coming, will they?’
Fifty-Four
Joe heard Valentin shouting his name. For a nanosecond he wondered
if he’d dozed off on the couch and Jaden had crept up on him. It
would be typical of the boy to leap onto his chest and playfully strangle
him.
But the weight on his body was immense. The hands around his
neck were thick and meaty and extremely powerful. This was no game.
It was Yuri. Squeezing hard and intent on killing him, while Felton
and Valentin watched from the gallery, enjoying a show which was
about to climax with Joe’s death.
The urge to react was overwhelming. It took every ounce of his
self-control not to open his eyes and try to fight Yuri off. But he had
to be disciplined. He couldn’t afford to squander the one small opportunity
the Ukrainian had given him.
For this was the first time he’d had Yuri in such close proximity,
with his defences lowered. Yuri believed the fight was as good as won;
that Joe would die without ever regaining consciousness.
The pain in Joe’s neck made him want to throw up. His head was
starting to throb and his lungs were burning from the lack of oxygen.
He knew he was in danger of blacking out again. Couldn’t wait too
long . . .
Another second to run it through his mind, visualise the manoeuvre
so it could be performed smoothly and quickly. And then he struck.
He didn’t think he’d ever moved so fast in his life. With lightning
speed his arms flew up and his hands slapped against Yuri’s head.
Anchoring his fingers around the Ukrainian’s ears, he rammed both
thumbs into Yuri’s eyes. Joe heard the tiny exhalation of surprise choked
off by a much harsher sound: an involuntary scream.
The grip on his own neck was suddenly relieved, but Joe knew this
was no time for half measures. He couldn’t afford to be tentative, or
squeamish, or compassionate. He went on digging his thumbs as deep
as they would go, feeling the gelatinous tissues yield beneath them.
With a primal screech, Yuri reared up, swatting blindly at Joe’s
arms. Joe ignored the blows, allowing himself to be lifted by Yuri
until both men were sitting up. Then Joe released his right hand,
his thumb emerging from Yuri’s eye with a wet sucking noise and a
gout of blood.
Joe curled his fingers over and with an upward trajectory he drove
the heel of his palm into Yuri’s nose. He heard a satisfying crunch of
bone and followed through, forcing Yuri’s head back while at the same
time pulling his own body to one side, enabling him to get out from
under the Ukrainian.
They broke apart with another gloopy popping sound as Joe’s other
thumb came out. Joe caught a clumsy punch to the side of his head
and rolled away, quickly jumping to his feet. While he carried out a
swift assessment of his own injuries, he watched Yuri backpedalling,
still blinded, blood gushing from his eyes and nose.
He had to be in agony, Joe thought. Surely this was enough to put
him out of action.
From Felton, there was a bloodthirsty roar of encouragement. 'Go
on! Finish him off!’
Whether this was directed at him, or at Yuri, Joe wasn’t sure. He
spat in disgust at Felton’s depravity even as he saw, to his dismay, that
Yuri had no intention of conceding. Of course not. A creature like
Yuri never accepted defeat.
Felton shouted: 'Fight, you buggers! Fight!’
Yuri nodded. Scraped blood from his eyes and blinked furiously.
The skin around his nose was swelling fast, but he seemed to have a
little vision in one eye, at least. He wiggled his fingers at Joe, taunting
him: Come and get me.
And, like a fool, Joe accepted the bait. He took a few cautious steps
towards Yuri, hands up in a boxer’s stance, thinking he could now
settle this with his fists.
Yuri wiped his eye again, while his other hand drifted behind his
back for a second. For Yuri it was quite a subtle movement, but Joe
spotted the misdirection. He took another step forward, inviting Yuri
to reveal whatever surprise he had in store, then dodged sideways, out
of reach.
As he did, he heard a click and Yuri swung his hand into view,
jabbing at the space that Joe should have occupied. Joe had good
reason to be grateful for reading the move in time, because Yuri was
holding a knife.
Lurking just outside the gymnasium, Oliver watched the fight with a
mixture of fascination and revulsion. There was something extraordinary
about seeing two grown men beat the living shit out of each
other. It had an integrity, he thought. A kind of primitive nobility that
you rarely saw any more.
At least, that was how it seemed until Yuri pulled a knife. A typically
underhand move, and one of which his father would no doubt
approve. Robert Felton appeared to be delighting in the role of a
modern-day Roman emperor. To Oliver it was the final confirmation
that his father was beyond redemption.
Now that Yuri was armed, Oliver guessed the fight was heading
towards a suitably barbaric conclusion. He was debating whether to
stay and watch when he heard a noise from behind him.
He turned, but there was nothing to see. The noise had come from
around the corner. It sounded like someone trying to cross the marble
hall without being heard.
One of Dad’s storm troopers? Maybe, but they had no obvious
reason to be stealthy. They ruled the roost.
With some reluctance, Oliver left the fight and went to investigate.
Felton laughed when he saw the knife, but Valentin was incensed.
You did not say he had a weapon. This is not fair.’
'As it happens, I didn’t know he had it. Anyway, what’s fair is what
I say is fair.’ But a moment later he gestured towards the guard standing
outside the court. 'Give him a racquet.’
Joe frowned. He was trying to follow the conversation going on
overhead, at the same time evading Yuri’s clumsy but forceful attempts
to stab him. The one eye that was working seemed to be having difficulty
focusing, and Joe s
uspected he had done some serious damage
to the Ukrainian. Only a supreme act of will kept Yuri on his feet,
hence his desperation to finish Joe off with the knife.
Joe was aware of the guard fetching something but had to turn away
as Yuri thrust the knife forward. Once again Joe managed to avoid it,
this time by an uncomfortably narrow margin.
He only has to get lucky once, Joe thought. If he catches me with
the blade, or even gets a hand on me, then it’s all over . . .
Yuri’s momentum sent him hurtling into the wall, but he immediately
rebounded, slashing the blade through the air like a demented
butcher. As Joe backed away, there was a clattering from behind him.
Turning quickly, he saw that the guard had thrown a squash racquet
onto the court.
'Thought that would even the score,’ said Felton.
Joe snorted. 'A gun would be better.’
But after dodging another attack he snatched the racquet up. It was
a good, sturdy model. Not only could it be used to deflect the knife
but, more importantly, it extended Joe’s reach.
He gripped the top of the handle just below the racquet head and
held it at arm’s length, using the head as a shield. Yuri growled in
frustration at this new obstacle, but refused to countenance any other
option but attack.
His face was a mask of blood. His breath rattled noisily in his chest.
He was unsteady on his feet, and yet he kept on coming. Determined
not to be beaten.
As Yuri lunged and overreached, Joe leaned back but kept his feet
where they were, planted well apart. He parried with the racquet head,
then turned his wrist and smacked the butt of the handle into Yuri’s
face. It caught him just below the good eye, where his cheek was
already swollen and purple.
Yuri roared with pain. His knife hand dropped to his side and Joe
danced closer, striking him another half a dozen times in quick succession,
aiming for the face and the neck. Yuri started to buckle, but still
he wouldn’t go down.
Joe swerved to Yuri’s right and stamped on the side of Yuri’s knee.
There was a terrible cracking noise and Yuri’s leg gave way and he
dropped, hitting the sprung floor with enough force to shake the room.
Joe kicked the knife out of his grasp and watched it skid across the
blood-splattered court. Then he looked down at Yuri. At last the
