Zero Hour (27 page)

‘What the
fuck
?’

‘Please,
please
…’

She had a wad of euros clutched in her hand.

‘Please, the money. Take it. I—’

I grabbed her and bundled her over the threshold, then followed her in. She fell against the stairs. I shoved my face right into hers. ‘Wait here!’ I needed her off the street, as well as the Passat. I’d get rid of her later.

She shut up. She was going to do what she was told. She wanted me to help her. She was going to be compliant.

I moved as fast as I could into the loading bay and down the metal steps towards the shutter. I banged the button and it started to grind open. I didn’t turn on the lights. As soon as there was enough clearance I bent down and eased myself underneath it. It still stretched my wound and another jolt of pain shot through my body.

I slid behind the wheel. There was a smear of blood on the driver’s seat, but there wasn’t a pool of it. The capillaries withdraw after the initial trauma and the deeper muscle mass closes the wound. After a while the site is just gooey, not running with the stuff. But there was still one fuck of a hole in my right buttock and every move I made felt like I was sitting on a red-hot poker.

I drove in and parked alongside the Panda. As soon as the shutter came down I went back through to the front door and closed that too.

As the lights flickered on, she clambered to her feet, the cash still in her hand. ‘Take me. You leave tonight, yes? Help me. Please.’ Her eyes had filled with tears.

I stood with my back to the door. ‘Why the fuck didn’t you go to the airport? The woman, the blonde woman, my friend, was waiting for you.’ I dug into my jeans, dragging out more cash.

She slumped to her knees and threw her arms around my legs, squeezing them tight. The red-hot poker got busy again and I pushed her off more vigorously than I’d meant to.

She saw the blood smeared on her hands from round the back of my jeans and must have smelt the bile. ‘Let me help you. I will help you.’

I leant against the door. My mouth tasted of puke. My leg throbbed excruciatingly. I clenched my teeth and breathed deeply through my nose. ‘Right - go upstairs. Get the kettle on.’ Fuck it, it would all be over in twenty-four hours.

‘Kettle?’ Her face relaxed. She didn’t know what it meant, but she knew I wasn’t kicking her out.

‘Boil the water.’ I mimed drinking. ‘For tea.’

She nodded and jumped up, eager to please. She bounded up the stairs.

I turned and locked the front door. I didn’t bother with any new telltales.

Pushing myself off it, I shuffled back through the fire door and into the loading bay.

I took off the Passat’s fuel cap. There was nothing to tell me if it took diesel or petrol. I gave it a sniff. Good: it was petrol. I’d need an extra bit of accelerant for what I had in mind.

I retrieved the Bergen from the front passenger seat and hauled myself upstairs to what I hoped was going to be a brew.

2

I checked the remaining telltales as I made my way gingerly up the stairs. I did all I could to avoid bending my leg. They were all in place.

The girl was standing with her back to me as I hobbled into the room. She seemed to be preparing the brew as if it was a three-course meal. Anything to look indispensable, I supposed. The roll of cash I’d given her sat on the drainer beside the open box of Yorkshire Tea.

I shrugged the Bergen strap off my shoulder and let its weight drag it down my arm. I didn’t have the strength to lift it off properly. I leant against the wall in a vain attempt to relieve the pain. I didn’t want to sit down and stretch the wound site any more. I was fucked, and I was glad to be here.

I let the Bergen drop to my feet and spoke to the back of her sweatshirt. ‘What’s your name?’

She didn’t turn. Perhaps she still thought I was going to show her the door. She really was just a kid, doing the brew-making version of dragging the duvet over her head.

I didn’t know if she hadn’t heard me or if it she was ignoring me. I said it louder. ‘What is your name?’

Her hands flew around in front of her as if she was conducting the Philharmonic rather than just squeezing out a couple of tea bags. ‘Angeles.’

‘Like the city?’

She finally turned and smiled.

‘Where are you from, Angeles? Nationality? Your country?’

‘Moldova.’

‘Why didn’t you go to the airport, like I said? You could be safe now.’

She turned back and mumbled something into the drainingboard.

‘What?’

She got stuck into the sugar bag and finally came towards me with two steaming mugs of the black stuff.

‘But I am safe. I want to stay with you.’

It wasn’t much more than a whisper. Her hair fell across her face. I found it even harder to understand her now I couldn’t see her mouth.

I was desperate to sit down, but leant my weight against the wall instead. She stood in front of me.

‘How old are you?’

‘Fifteen. I will cook for you. I will look after you. Anything. Please let me stay …’

I nodded and started drinking. The brew was hot and sweet and right at that moment it was as good as anything I’d ever tasted.

She sipped hers like a bird, then started waffling like a madwoman. ‘I will help you, yes. Will you take me away from here? I can go with you tonight?’

I raised a hand to encourage her to slow down. ‘I want you to do something for me. Get that towel and tear it into strips.’ I held my thumb and forefinger about three inches apart. ‘Like a bandage, yeah? I’m going to go and clean myself up.’

I started to move, but winced as the pain shot through my arse.

‘Please - let me help. What happened?’

‘Don’t ask. Don’t say anything. Just do what I say and I’ll help you, OK?’

‘Yes. Thank you.’

I staggered into the shower. As I turned on the water and waited for the steam, I struggled to peel off my trainers and jeans.

3

I almost screamed with pain as the hot water hit the puncture sites. But it was the only way. I had to get them clean.

I cupped my hand below the wounds and scooped the water over them. It was the best I could do for now. I’d get it sorted when I’d lifted Lilian and waved goodbye to Flynn and his silo.

Once the important stuff was done, all I wanted to do was get the smell of puke off me and brush my teeth. I could almost feel where the acid had burnt into the enamel.

I stuck my head out from behind the curtain. ‘Can you bring me those bits of towel?’

I ducked back under the trickle of water and worked shampoo into my hair. It wasn’t long before the door opened and in she came. I turned to face her. I didn’t want her to get the wrong idea, but I didn’t want her to see the stab wounds either.

I climbed out of the shower and used the part of my sweatshirt that wasn’t covered in puke to dry myself. She stood there with the door open, staring at the ‘blunt trauma’, as Kleinmann had called the knife, bullet and dog-bite scars that covered my body.

‘Get your clothes off.’

She stared at me.

‘Take them off. I need them.’

I tried to work the strips of towel around me like Gandhi to give my arse some kind of dressing. It wasn’t happening.

Angeles handed me my jeans and sweatshirt before leaving. I put them on, then folded one of the strips and shoved it down the back of the jeans as best I could to get some protection over the punctures. I’d seen lads in Africa with much bigger wounds, big machete cuts that had taken chunks out of their arms and thighs, and they were still going strong. All I had to do was crack on for another couple of months.

As I pulled the sweatshirt over my head, I realized that in a curious way the pain felt good. It was from a proper old-fashioned wound, not some cancerous growth that I hadn’t asked for and couldn’t do much about. It was the sort of pain I could handle, and an aspirin or two would help. I wasn’t going to run short of them any time soon. Perhaps the Smarties would too.

And then I realized something else: I’d left the Smarties at 118.

Fuck it, I’d be with Anna soon and I’d sort it then. Right now I’d just have to crack on.

Angeles was sitting on the airbed with the sleeping bag draped around her shoulders. The rest of my clothes were wet with blood or covered in vomit. I’d bin them eventually, but for now I was going to put them in one of the spare offices. The smell was making me want to gag even more. I started to gather them up. She jumped up to help. She grabbed whatever she could and wrapped it all in the brown nylon coat.

‘Are you going home to your family? Your children?’ She smiled. ‘You have a baby seat.’

‘I said no questions, remember? Don’t ask. Do you understand?’

Her face fell. I kept forgetting she was only fifteen.

‘Yes. I’m sorry.’

I took the bundle from her and reintroduced my feet to my Timberlands. ‘I’m going out for a little while.’

Her world was falling apart once more. ‘Please - can I come? Please don’t leave me. You are coming back?’

I scrabbled about in the Bergen for a couple of aspirin. ‘I’m going out to get some food, all right? I’ll see if I can get you some clothes too. What do you want to eat? Meat? Bread?’

‘Anything. Thank you.’

‘Just sit down and rest. Do not leave the room. Understand?’

She wrapped herself up once more and settled on the airbed. She started to shiver.

‘Look, I will be coming back. All my gear’s here. I’m coming back. It’s OK.’

In an ideal world it would be better if she came with me so I had control of her all the time, but I didn’t have enough clothes for her. And I had a phone call to make.

I dumped the Bergen in the loading bay and locked the door. I headed down past FilmNoord XXX towards the market. I felt a lot better with my boots back on. The market itself wouldn’t be open just yet, but some of the shops would be.

The all-night store I landed up in could have been anywhere in the Middle East. Big sacks of spices sat alongside crates of weird fruit and veg. The Arab version of Starsky and Hutch blared out from a TV mounted over the counter. Behind the checkout a young guy, with shaved sides to his gelled jet-black hair, munched pistachio nuts and watched the car chase. Half a souk’s worth of bling hung down the front of his T-shirt, and the Iranian flag hung proudly behind him.

I walked up and down the aisles and filled a basket with pitta bread, cans of salmon with ring-pulls and cartons of UHT milk that sat alongside 25-kilo bags of rice and huge aluminium cooking pots. There were cheap plastic buckets, dustpan and brush sets, ironing boards and, more importantly, kids’ clothing - cheap cotton shirts and jumpers, most of them with old Disney themes like
Lion King
or anything else that had passed its sell-by date. There were a few things that I thought would fit her and I threw them in the basket as well. I couldn’t see any decent bath towels, just small ones the size of dishcloths, but they’d have to do.

I got back to the counter as the cars drew level and bad guys with seventies haircuts and spear-pointed collars drew their weapons and fired at each other. The soundtrack sounded like belly-dancing music on steroids. A dozen or so phone cards were displayed in clear plastic wallets behind the boy with the bling. The point-of-sale poster showed little arrows aiming at all the different world flags, and a sentence or two in Dutch that I guessed told me it only cost two euros to call Iran or the USA. I grunted and pointed, as most people do if they can’t speak the language, and managed to end up with a fifty-euro one.

I headed out with my shopping in thin carrier bags that dug into my fingers. The good thing about poor areas of any city, especially those with a migrant population, is that most of the phone boxes are still working. The mobile-phone network hasn’t taken over completely because the locals don’t have the cash.

I went into a call box and scratched the strip off the back of my brand new if slightly grubby card. I dialled the company number, and then the code. Finally, I dialled her mobile number.

I got a ringing tone, and then her recorded voice in Russian. I waited for the bleep.

‘Anna - it’s Nick. I’m going to keep trying to get hold of you.’ I hit the receiver and rang straight back. If I’d woken her, she might have been too slow to pick up. After three rings I got the Russian version of hello.

‘It’s Nick.’ I only told her as much about the girl as she needed to know for now. This wasn’t the time for a full rundown and you never know who or what is listening. ‘Her name is Angeles. She won’t leave me. You have to come and pick her up.’

‘She is scared, Nick. She’s scared of everything and everyone - except for you right now. You’re probably the only friendly face she’s seen for months. I can get a cab and pick her up, but she could still run. Why should she trust me? She’s probably been handed from person to person, and each one has made her situation worse. Can’t you hand her over to the contact with Lilian?’

‘No. I’ll explain later. Could you lock her in the room?’

She thought for a few seconds. ‘She is young, yes?’

‘Fifteen.’

‘Jesus. There’s no saying what she will do. You are her only friend. Just think, Nick - chances are, the reason she is here is because of strangers. I have already called Lena. She will be able to help. She has contacts in the city. But you’ll have to take her, Nick - you’re the one she trusts.’

I stood with the phone to my ear while I tried to forget the pain in my arse and do some thinking.

‘Nick? What do you want me to do?’

‘OK, I’ll keep her with me. Can you set up the meeting with Lena’s people at your hotel, say three hours before the flight?’

‘What flight?’

‘Our flight to Moscow. We need to be away from here as soon as we can on Saturday. You should book the flights. Still

got my card details?’

‘Yes. But—’

‘But what?’

‘The other girls. What about them?’

‘Don’t worry. I have that sorted.’

4

My fingers were numb and throbbing from the carrier-bag handles by the time I got back.