Blood Junction (7 page)

Stan pushed her inside, clanged the gate shut.

Mikey gave a muffled groan.

India shrank back and immediately her shoulders connected with the chill of steel bars.

The big black bat of fear returned to flutter through her entrails.

“Truly, you don’t have to do this,” Stan said, sorrowfully shaking his head at her.

You’ve been scared half to hell and back before, India told herself.
Don’t give in now
.

“Come on,” said Stan persuasively. “You don’t want to be shut up with the likes of Mikey, all for the sake of signing a little
bit of paper.” He was holding up the bunch of keys as if to tempt her outside, his expression sympathetic.

India glanced at Mikey, the way he was snuffling in his sleep. She shook her head. She’d never forgive herself for being tricked
into confessing to something she hadn’t done just to avoid spending the night with a man who—she reminded herself in panicky
optimism—she hadn’t even met yet.

Stan locked the gate. “Just give us a shout,” he said coaxingly, “and I’ll get you outta there pronto, no harm done.”

Dry-mouthed, India slid along the bars to the corner farthest from Mikey and slowly sank to the floor, listening to Stan’s
footsteps recede. She barely took in the walls, scratched with names and drawings of male and female genitalia. She was watching
Mikey the Knife sprawled on his bunk, sleeping sweetly as a baby.

I
NDIA WAS FIGHTING TO REMAIN AWAKE.

Mikey the Knife had slept continuously for about two hours now, and she had watched him, petrified of what would happen when
he regained consciousness. Would he beat her up first? Or would he rape her? Should she bluff it out and face him head on?
Or should she curl up in the corner and not move, and let Mikey kick the shit out of her until he tired of it?

But I know what broken ribs feel like,
she thought. I know what it is to have a man’s fist bury itself into your midriff so hard and fast you can’t help but vomit.
And when he punches you in your kidneys, just so, with a hard twist right up in the corner, I can recall exactly the thought
that goes through your mind: I want to die.

Don’t go talking like that, hon. It doesn’t do you no good.

Lauren?

Who else? And at the risk of sounding stupid, what the heck are you doing in there?

It’s a mistake, that’s all.

Well, just you watch out, girl. He looks mean enough to scare a scorpion into hiding.

I’ll act tough.

You do that.

India’s eyes suddenly flicked open. Mikey was still sprawled on his bunk in the same position. The fluorescent lights continued
to glare uncompromisingly.

It was just my imagination talking to Lauren
, she thought dazedly.
My subconscious can’t cope with the fact she’s dead. That she’ll never be coming to the rescue again. That I’m alone.

But what if I do have a grandfather here? Then I won’t be alone. Lauren said he was fabulous. Which means he’ll look like
Father Christmas with a shock of white hair, a thick curly beard and twinkling blue eyes … Huh! Knowing my family he may look
sweet, but he’s probably into chain-saw massacres in his spare time.

India closed her eyes. Almost immediately she fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.

She had no idea what time it was when Stanley Bacon returned. She was shocked awake by the loud jangle of the gate behind
her and immediately sprang to her feet, heart pounding.

“You look just about ready to do business,” said Stan with a sly grin.

She glanced at Mikey, who didn’t seem to have moved a millimeter since she’d first laid eyes on him. If a brass band had been
playing right by him, she reckoned he wouldn’t wake up.

“No, I’ll never ‘do business.’” She turned from him and sat down again.

Stan glared at her. “You’d better confess or I’ll wake Mikey. Then you’ll be in trouble.”

India scrambled to her feet, managed to remain calm. “That’s an empty threat if ever I heard one.” She checked Mikey’s recumbent
form. “He’s comatose.”

“He won’t be forever.”

She shrugged her shoulders.

“Have it your way. I’ll come back in an hour, see if you’ve changed your stubborn little mind.”

“Don’t bother.” She sat back down again. She was surprised at her own recklessness. “I can wait until morning, when Jerome
gets here.”

She was so absorbed in watching the policeman stride away that she failed to pick up a movement from the bunk.

“… the hell’s going on?” The voice was deep and gravelly and weighted with confusion.

India jumped. She strove to wipe her face free from all expression and to steady her ragged breathing.

Keep your cool, girl. Don’t let him see your fear.

She took three slow, deep breaths through her nose, and assumed a meditative position. She placed her hands on her knees and
set her shoulders straight.

With apparent indifference, she let her eyes travel slowly across the floor to Mikey’s well-worn leather boots and up his
grimy, bloodstained clothes until they came to rest on his face. It was a strong face, with a big beaky nose and a jaw like
a shovel. A scar ran up through one eyebrow.

“Are you talking to me?” she said, her tone unfriendly.

“Don’t tell me there’s more of you in here?” He swivelled his head to check the cell’s perimeter, and paled. A sheen of sweat
appeared on his skin and he fixed his bloodshot eyes on her, his expression oddly stricken.

“If you’re going to be sick,” India said, “could you make sure you aim in the middle of the bowl? I really can’t stand the
smell of drying vomit.”

Mikey stumbled to his feet and obediently stuck his head right inside the stainless steel toilet before throwing up noisily.

India sat there trying to look serene while he repeatedly flushed the toilet and then stood over the sink, splashing water
over his face and neck and hair and rinsing his mouth. He weaved back to his bunk and sat there, wiping his face on the shoulder
of his T-shirt. He looked marginally better, but she could see his hands were shaking and his skin was still gray.

India concentrated her gaze on a space on the wall ahead, as if meditating.

After a while he said, “What the hell are you doing in here?” sounding genuinely puzzled.

Slowly she counted to ten before turning her head and looking straight at Mikey. He had laughter lines at the corners of his
eyes and a generous mouth. His body was broad and lean and fit, his belly flat. If he hadn’t been so filthy and reeking of
alcohol and vomit he could almost be termed attractive.

“Come on.” He sent her what he obviously thought was an engaging smile. “Your secret’s safe with me, promise.”

“Put it this way, I’m not here to wash your socks or do your ironing.”

“Bloody hell,” he said. He was gazing at her as though fascinated. “Are you having a bad day or are you just a ball buster?
One of those women who think men are a subspecies?”

She pictured her father, then Red-cap, and the mob, and Stan. When she spoke she told him the truth. “I hate men.”

He stared at her for some time, seeming to pale further as he watched her. Eventually, he lay back and closed his eyes. When
India finally stole a look at him, he was fast asleep. She felt her shoulders slump as she exhaled with relief. More confident
now, she rested back against the bars and closed her eyes.

“Psst!” a shadow hissed at India, and nudged her.

This time India didn’t spring to her feet in a jet of fear. Instead, she groaned her protest at being disturbed. At a second
nudge, her consciousness crawled reluctantly out of the deep blanket of sleep and she opened her eyes. They felt as if they
had been rolled in grit, and her mouth was sour. She felt hungry, dirty and exhausted.

“I’ve brung you a coffee,” said the shadow, and pushed a steaming foam cup through the railings.

“Oh, Polly.” She was touched. “You’re a lifesaver, you really are.”

“You’re glad to see me?” The girl’s face was alight with so much eagerness that India recoiled a little.

“I’m glad of the coffee.” She saw the hurt in Polly’s eyes, but was too tired to care. Curled on her side, she started to
sip with her eyes closed. Thin and watery, it was probably the worst cup of coffee she’d had, but the heat and sweetness cut
the staleness of her mouth and after a while she opened her eyes and murmured, “Delicious.”

Polly’s face brightened as though a torchlight had been switched on from inside.

“So where’s mine then?”

They both looked at Mikey.

“Didn’t know you was here.”

“You know this man?” said India.

“Everyone knows Mikey.”

“Polly,” he said, “what time is it?”

“’Bout seven.”

“Bugger off and get Whitelaw, will you? I’ve had enough of sharing my cell with this woman.”

India half turned. Mikey was sitting on his bunk, his face swollen by alcohol, ponytail hanging limply down the back of his
torn T-shirt.

“You don’t like India?”

Mikey fixed her with a speculative gaze. “Not as yet, no.”

Polly squirmed like a puppy in distress.

“I’m sure she’s nice deep down, Poll,” he said wearily. “Go on, do us a favor and get Whitelaw. I just want to go home is
all.”

India kept an eye on Mikey as the girl scampered, soft-footed on her dirty bare feet, down the corridor.

Whitelaw appeared five minutes later, freshly shaven and crisply shirted. The clean smell of soap washed through the odor
of vomit and sweat like a rainstorm after drought. For a few seconds he stood there staring around him.

“Did this jail go dual-sex overnight?” he remarked. “Or am I seeing things?”

Mikey rolled off his bunk and came to stand by the cell gate. He was taller than Whitelaw, well over six feet. “Just get me
out,” he said.

“What’s your hurry?” Whitelaw inquired. “Your cell mate not pretty enough?”

Mikey flicked her a look. “As it happens I’ve never found her sort attractive. Too thin, too uptight and altogether too aggressive.”
He made a gesture of impatience. “Come on, Jed, get on with it, will you?”

The gate swung wide with a metallic groan. Mikey walked into the corridor. Cautiously, India followed him, stood at a wary
distance. There was a silence before Whitelaw said, “Miss Kane. Could you fill me in on what’s happened here?”

“Ask Sergeant Bacon.”

Whitelaw narrowed his eyes at Mikey. “What’s the score?”

“The usual.” He looked India in the eyes. “Can’t believe Stan was so stupid. He ought to have known she’d never crack. That
type never does.”

Whitelaw gave a sigh. “Let’s get you both processed,” he said. “Mike, Donna will deal with you. Miss Kane, if you’d follow
me, I’ll see if we can’t get you a shower.”

India followed the two men down the beige corridor. Whitelaw pushed the swing door back with a little rubber snap.
Too much sunshine.
It made her eyes ache and her head throb. Donna was talking on the radio, dark hair bobbed and shiny, shirt bright white.
The look she sent India made her acutely aware of the grime she’d picked up in the past twenty-four hours. India watched as
Donna turned her attention to Mikey, gave him a flirtatious little wave. Mikey ignored her and peered over the counter. He
pocketed a wallet, a bunch of keys, and hooked a mobile phone to his belt. He then peered at a pile of forms beside a computer,
ruffled them with a finger.