He nodded and laughed. ‘Oh . . . see what you mean.’ He took a couple of steps towards her, successfully blocking the doorway out of the room. ‘So, what’s so wrong with me? I’m what? Five or six years younger than you? I got all my hair,’ he paused for a moment, gathering his thoughts, and reaching out again for a wall to steady him, ‘not a fat bastard like most blokes . . . wear nice clothes. Shit, I’m top salesman at Medi-Tech Supplies UK . . . meaning I’m a rich bastard.’ He looked at her, arching his eyebrows curiously. ‘None of that good enough for you then?’
‘No. Because right now, sex is the last thing on my mind.’
He recoiled, hurt, irritated. ‘Guess you are . . . a stuck-up bitch, then. Thought you were a sport . . . stupid me,’ he said, taking a step forward. ‘You know, it’s been a lo-o-o-ong time . . . for me, a long time. My ex was a fuckin’ tease, ripping me off, spending my money, never let me near her though. Bitch. I thought you were different. Not another fuckin’ tease.’
Jenny pulled herself back on to the bed, there was no room to step past him. ‘Rape’s a crime, Paul,’ she said, knowing full well she wasn’t going to be able to reason with him. ‘Even now, whilst everything’s a mess out there, it’s still a crime.’
Paul giggled. ‘Oh, right . . . well you know what? I think this week in particular . . . maybe the normal rules don’t apply. I think, that’s what everyone else has figured out too. Know what I’m saying?’
Jenny shook her head.
‘That’s why everyone’s behaving so un-British. Eh?’ He giggled again. ‘No rules this week, ladies and gents . . . so you’ll have to amuse yourselves till normal service can be resumed.’
‘Come on. Let’s forget about this. You go lie down and sleep it off. And then we’ll get going down to London, when you’re feeling fit enough to travel.’
He pursed his lips, thinking about that for a moment.
Jenny realised how silly she’d been to allow herself to wind up in this situation; alone with a man who was essentially a stranger, who was drunk, during a chaotic and lawless time like this. She should have guessed that at some point travelling with him, there would end up being a moment like this.
‘Sorry love . . . need a shag . . . you’ll fucking well do.’
He took another step towards her. Jenny kept her distance, retreating back across the bed, putting her feet on the floor on the far side.
‘Think what you’re doing,’ she said. She hated the wavering, shrill sound creeping into her voice; it was a pleading, begging tone. To his ears that was going to sound like submission.
He smiled as he started to unbuckle his belt. ‘Maybe a fucking crime, love, but who’s going to know now, eh?’
He put a foot on the bed and stepped up on to it, wobbling precariously. ‘Here’s Jo-o-o-n-n-y!!’ he announced excitedly peeling his shirt off.
Sod this.
Jenny leant forward and slapped him hard across the face. It was more a punch than a slap. Her hand had been balled up into a fist. He fell backwards, rolling off the bed on to the floor with a heavy thump.
Not waiting around to see if that was a KO, or merely going to buy her a few seconds, she ran around the end of the bed and out of the room into the corridor.
What now?
She had decked him. But now she could hear him struggling to his feet. ‘You fucking bitch!’ she heard him shouting inside the room. ‘I’m going to bloody well get you!’
‘Who’s going to know now . . . eh?’
Those words chilled her. It meant the bastard had crossed a line. He was beginning to realise what every other potential rapist . . . bully . . . abuser . . . murderer . . . must be aware of. Here was a window of time in which he could do whatever he wanted, indulge any fantasy, certain in the knowledge that when - if - order was restored again, evidence of his deed would be untraceable; lost amidst the chaotic aftermath.
And I’d be that evidence . . .
She could imagine . . . her body stuffed in a cupboard somewhere in this motel, perhaps never to be discovered, or maybe chanced upon months from now when the clear-up operation began in earnest.
Paul? He’d do something like that?
Possibly. She didn’t really know him at all.
She heard him stumbling across her room, into that armchair, cursing.
What now, come on . . . what now?
Jenny decided to go for the car and leave him behind. She really couldn’t trust him now, not even if he got down on his knees this instant and pleaded for her forgiveness, and swore he’d never even look sideways at her again.
Up the corridor for the stairs down -
‘Shit, the keys,’ she whispered.
Paul had them in his room, and she knew exactly where they were; sitting on the little writing-desk, next to the television. She remembered seeing him tossing them on there when they entered the room, by the light of his palm pilot.
She ran down the corridor to the open door of his room, 23. Behind her, he staggered out, calling after her every name he could drunkenly think of.
She stepped into the room, over to the writing-desk. They weren’t there.
‘No . . . no,’ she muttered, a desperate panic beginning to get a hold of her. She could hear him lurching up the corridor towards her, weaving from side to side, pissed out of his tiny little mind. Jenny decided she could probably take him on. He was all over the place, his judgement and reaction time shot to hell. But he had the ace card, as all men do over women - brute strength. If he got a good grip on her, it wouldn’t matter how much faster she could move. It wouldn’t matter one bit - brute strength was everything.
‘Come on, come on!’ she hissed. ‘Where are they?’
She looked all over the desk, trying both of the drawers, before finally spotting them on the floor. He must have knocked them off during the last few hours, during his binge. She scooped the keys up into one hand and was turning to leave just as he appeared in the doorway.
‘A-ha!’ he grinned and wagged a finger at her. ‘I got you!’ he cheerfully announced in a sing-song voice as if they were playing a game of playground tag.
‘Paul,’ she tried a scolding tone, ‘this is unacceptable.’
He laughed. ‘What are you? . . . My mum?’
He started towards her. Jenny realised this might be the last opportunity left to her, to catch him off guard. She ducked down low and charged towards him, crashing into him like a battering-ram, sending them both out through the doorway into the corridor, sprawling on to the floor together.
He was winded, but he still managed to grunt, ‘Bitch, bitch, bitch’, his hands scrabbling to get a firm hold of both of her arms, which she was frantically flailing, landing soft ineffectual blows on his face; slaps, scratches and punches that were achieving nothing.
He swung a leg over hers, instantly trapping them both in a vice-like grip on the floor.
Oh God, he’s getting hold of me.
She kept her hands and arms moving, but he managed to grab one wrist, and then very quickly the other. He rolled over, moving his body weight on top of hers, his face - stinking of every different liquor that could be found in the cabinet - was close to hers; close enough that the tip of his nose was touching her cheek.
‘Why the fuck . . . was this . . . such a big problem, eh?’ he whispered.
She struggled. There was no answer she could give that he’d understand.
‘Eh? I just wanted a one-night stand. You’d have . . . had a good time too. Now . . . look at us.’
Jenny realised she had one last chance.
She turned her head towards him, towards that breath, towards that face of his; a face at any other time, under different circumstances, from a distance, she might have even thought was vaguely attractive, but instead was now a vicious, snarling mask - one hundred per cent frustrated testosterone. Fighting to keep the sense of revulsion and anger inside; struggling to produce something that was almost impossible right now . . .
She managed
to smile.
‘All right then, let’s do it,’ she whispered.
As if she’d uttered a magic password, the effect was almost instant. The thigh-hold he had on her legs loosened.
‘You sure about that?’ he muttered, his voice suddenly changed, the anger gone and now, in its place the considerate tone of a gentleman seeking consent.
Jenny struggled to keep the solicitous smile on her face and nodded.
He let go of one of her wrists, his hand travelling down to the zip on his trousers.
Her loose hand could punch him right now, scratch him, jab at one of his eyes. But she decided that just wasn’t going to be enough. She needed to really incapacitate him with something much more effective.
She head-butted him. Her forehead smacked hard against the bridge of his nose and she heard it crunch and crackle.
He rolled off her, both hands now on his face, blood instantly beginning to stream down over his lips on to his chin. Jenny was up on her feet and running before the shock of the blow had subsided enough for Paul to let loose the first enraged howl of pain.
Two-thirds of the way down the corridor was the entrance to the stairs. She flew down them, out into the foyer, through the doorway into the morning light and was heading towards Mr Stewart’s car before she allowed herself to believe that she had actually managed to escape him.
The car fob made it easy to single out the key from the rest on the key-ring. The headlights flashed and the car squawked as she unlocked it and quickly hopped inside.
She wasn’t going to scramble to insert the ignition key as danger raced towards her, as she’d seen in countless teen slasher movies. No. She sensibly locked the car first; all four doors responded simultaneously, securing themselves with a reassuring thock!
Through the windscreen she suddenly saw Paul, emerging from the foyer of the hotel, a crimson stream of blood down his nice, expensive shirt, one hand cradling his broken nose, the other waving frantically at her to stop.
She started the engine.
He rushed over to the car. If he’d had a bat or a brick in his hand, she would have thrown the car into reverse and got the hell out of there before he could even try and smash his way in. But he didn’t. All he had were his two soft office-hands - good for tapping out emails on a Blackberry organiser, or shaking on a big deal - but not quite so good for smashing, bare-knuckled, through a windscreen.
He splayed his hand out on the driver-side window. ‘Jesus! I’m sorry Jenny. I’m really, really sorry!’ The thick slur was gone now, the adrenalin rush had instantly sobered him up. His snarling manner, now one of genuine regret.
She looked at him through the glass, and shook her head.
‘Please! I . . . it was the drink,’ he pleaded, ‘I’m . . . I’ve worked it off now! I don’t know what the hell came over me!’
His splayed hand was leaving blood smears on the window.
‘Come on Jen . . . we’ve got to stick together . . . you and me. It’s a . . . it’s a jungle out there!’
That’s right.
She felt a pang of guilt as she threw the car into reverse and pulled out of the parking slot. He stumbled after her. She could hear him calling, pleading, bleating, over the whine of the engine and the sound of her crunching the gears into first. But there was no way she could feel safe again with him - booze or no booze. She spun the steering-wheel round and headed towards a sign pointing towards the slip-road that led on to the M6, southbound.
CHAPTER 70
12.31 a.m. EST New York, USA
The line connected. There was a solitary ring before it was answered by a male voice.
‘Cornell and Watson Financial Services, how can I help you?’
‘I want to book an appointment,’ he replied quickly.
‘I’m afraid we’re booked up for the foreseeable future, sir.’
‘How about Christmas Day?’
A pause. ‘What time sir?’
He sighed. ‘A minute past midnight.’
‘One minute.’
It was a necessary ritual. They were as much at risk of being exposed and destroyed by them; more so in fact, since their resources were dwarfed by those of their quarry. The agency was small, tiny in fact . . . a staff of no more than about thirty agents operating out of the rear offices of a discreet back-street firm in New York. The firm, seemingly, offered walk-in financial services, but never quite seemed to be able to fit an appointment in to anyone who might actually walk in off the street.
He heard a male voice. ‘Jesus! We thought you were dead! We’ve been trying to contact you since Tuesday!’
‘If you must know, Jim, I’ve been through a shitting war zone. My—’
‘No names remember.’
‘My fucking sat’ phone got blown to pieces on Tuesday, and I’ve been shot at God knows how many times since—’
‘We’ve had a breakthrough. A huge goddamn solid gold breakthrough.’
‘—this whole crazy thing . . . Breakthrough? What are you talking about?’
‘Our target, the one you’re with right now . . . he’s not who we want.’
‘Well I’m not with him right now, not any more. We got separated. I’m waiting for the military to find me space on a flight out of Turkey right now.’
‘It’s his daughter. It’s the target’s daughter.’
‘What? What the hell are you talking about?’
‘We think she could be able to identify one or more of them.’
He suddenly found his pulse racing. ‘You’re shitting me. What’s happened?’
‘She called him on his cell, Tuesday morning. Christ, you might have even seen him take the call.’
He tried to think back. Tuesday morning, they’d been fighting for their lives in that pink compound, all hell breaking loose. He couldn’t specifically remember Sutherland taking any calls, but then that whole day was a jumble of blurred, panic-stricken memories.
‘And listen, we think she saw several of them.’
‘Several? Several of the One Hundred and Sixty?’
‘No, better than that . . . several of the Twelve.’
‘My God!’ He looked anxiously around the communications tent. No one was close enough to hear him talking, no one was even watching. The soldiers were all too busy holding the razor-wire perimeter or hustling. He spoke more quietly all the same. ‘We have to find her.’
‘I know, we have to re-deploy very quickly. They may know what we know. They might even be closing in on her as we speak.’
‘We’ve got to try.’
‘Yes.’
‘She’s in England?’
‘That’s right, London.’
‘I can try and swing the next plane out of here heading that way. I’ll do it somehow. Can you get some more assets on the ground over there?’
‘It’ll be difficult under current circumstances. We might be able to fly a couple of men in to help you.’
‘Do it. Do it now.’
‘We will.’
Mike was about to hang up; the Marine colonel had said he had just a couple of minutes, no more.
‘What’s it like there?’
‘Here? New York? It’s shit. The place is falling apart, just like everywhere else. We get power for a couple of hours a day, and there are riots everywhere. Not good.’
CHAPTER 71
7.31 a.m. GMT Guildford
Ash was awake with the first light of dawn. The thought of spending another twenty-four hours in Kate’s apartment, waiting for her to show up, was an agonising prospect. He had the patience of a saint, if he was waiting on a certainty, but this was a long shot. This woman might never return.
But she would try, wouldn’t she? It’s the homing instinct. In a time of crisis, that’s exactly where everyone tries to get - home.
And the delay could be quite legitimately rationalised. Tuesday afternoon things went pear-shaped. Kate would have decided after seeing the riots, and finding out the trains weren’t running, to camp ou
t at work overnight. Wednesday came - she’d have been hoping the police had restored order, and perhaps a limited train service had returned. But there’d been no sign of that. There’s a canteen at work maybe? So another night camping there, basic food and drink laid on. Thursday, same thing again. Only by then the canteen would be running low on food, and everyone would be getting very anxious to return home. There’d still be no news on the radio, and no sign of police retaking the streets. Friday, it’d be obvious to her and her colleagues they couldn’t stay there forever, the rioting must have died down once everything that could be looted, had been looted.
At some point today, Ash decided, she’ll set off for home, walking with other wary pedestrians along the main arteries out of London. It’ll take her seven, eight maybe nine hours on foot? Provided nothing stops or delays her.
She’ll arrive sometime today.
That sounded very much like wishful thinking to Ash. But there was not a lot else he could consider doing. Perhaps, he could return to the Sutherlands’ house and wait there? Pointless . . . Sutherland had warned her to stay well away. There were many other names in the phone book he could try, one by one. But most of the places - he’d looked them up on a road map he had found by Kate’s telephone table - were a long way out of London.
He decided the best course of action would be to hang on until tomorrow. And then if she still hadn’t turned up, he would camp out at the Sutherland home. Sutherland’s daughter, or his wife, or even the man himself might come by, just to pick up one or two essentials . . . that ol’ homing instinct was very, very strong.
Yes, that would do then. First thing tomorrow morning, Ash decided he’d head back up.
CHAPTER 72
7.51 a.m. GMT Shepherd’s Bush, London
‘Please don’t go outside Lee!’ Jacob whimpered, putting down his knife and fork heavily. They clattered noisily against the plate, and on to the dining-table. He hopped off his chair, scurried round the table and held on to her arm. ‘Please don’t go!’