Authors: Rohan Gavin
The second henchman charged Bill but bounced off the Scotsman’s mid-section.
‘Here, have a Glasgow kiss,’ said Bill, and headbutted the henchman on the nose.
The two goons fell together in a heap.
‘Boggers?’ Bill called out, then kicked the bathroom door clean off its hinges.
Sitting cross-legged in the shower cubicle was Bogna,
still in her holiday attire, her hands tied behind her back and her mouth gagged. ‘Mum-ty!’ she mouthed, trying to articulate his birth name: Monty.
‘Stop bumpin’ yer gums. Ah’m here, mah wee clootie dumpling.’
Bill leaned over gently to unharness her, accidentally turning on the shower with the shoulder pad of his jacket. Cold water gushed down over their heads, spraying everywhere and causing them both to shriek loudly.
‘Baltic – ! If it ain’t a Scottish shower!’ Bill cried, soaked to the skin, before adding, ‘Sorry, hen, mah fault …’ He wrestled with the gag, removing it from her mouth.
‘You took your times, Monty,’ she remarked.
‘Ah’m not as young as ah used to be,’ Bill replied.
They looked at each other, both drenched and restricted by their dripping garments. Then Bogna yanked Bill into an embrace, so hard in fact that the Scotsman fell over and shattered the shower cubicle with his outstretched foot. Ignoring the cold water and the broken safety glass, Bogna’s lips pressed against Bill’s, resembling two goldfish squabbling over a pellet of food. Then they came up for air.
‘Belter,’ panted Bill. ‘A’right, let’s find the others and gie ootta here.’
‘Others, Monty …?’ Bogna’s voice trembled. ‘Tell me you didn’t bring Darkus and Tilly here?’ Bill went quiet. Bogna shook her head, her face drawn with anxiety. ‘This plot isn’t about me. It’s about
them
. If they’re here, they are in grave dangers.’
Tilly woke up to find herself in a neatly appointed room with twin beds and a table with a plate of cupcakes on it. Her last memory was the lights going off in the corridor, and a falling sensation. Someone must have knocked her out. Confused, she looked around, finding the door locked from the outside, and no other means of exit. She quickly patted down her pockets for her phone, then breathed a sigh of relief, finding it in her back pocket where she’d left it.
She pressed the home button and checked the screen. The timer had reached zero and she had signal. Precious seconds had already been lost. She urgently tapped an icon, checking her email inbox. There was a message from Mike, her associate from the dark cloud. She impatiently stabbed the screen with her finger to open it. It read:
T*
Dunno how to tell u this. It all blew up. The rest of the data’s gone.
^M^
Tilly felt a disgusting, nauseous feeling in her stomach. If all this waiting had been for nothing …? If it was all just a trick …? She saw red; then raised the phone in her right hand and prepared to hurl it through the window, until –
The phone
ping
ed politely, informing her she had a new email. She lowered her hand, tapped on the screen and saw it in her inbox. Strangely, it had no subject heading and no sender. She stabbed the screen again to open it.
It was empty.
‘What?!’
She repeatedly stroked the screen, faster and faster, scrolling down the contents, until a single line message appeared at the bottom:
Are you ready for the truth?
Tilly felt even sicker. It was such a simple phrase, with so many complex possibilities. She scrolled further, but the screen kept bouncing back up, indicating that she’d reached the end of the message.
She looked at the sentence again and the letters evaporated before her eyes in a preset self-destruct sequence, turning to pixels, then to a blank screen.
‘What’s going on –?!’
She gripped her phone, threatening to crush it, then jammed it into her back pocket and looked around, helpless, her fists clenched. Overcome with hunger – for answers as well as food – she spotted the cupcakes and picked one up. She examined it for a second, cautiously, then took a large bite, giving herself an icing moustache. It tasted incredible. She took another bite.
Then, at that moment, a door opened in the wall. A door she hadn’t previously noticed. She dropped the cupcake and cranked her head to see who it was …
Dougal ordered his second dessert on room service, figuring that he deserved it after the epic trek through the badlands, not to mention attending to the every need of an unconscious detective. He checked his watch, then leaned back on the bed beside Knightley and stared vacantly at the large TV screen on the opposite wall. The boxing match was under way and two muscle-bound fighters were pummelling each other in the ring, watched by several thousand spectators and several million TV viewers. Dougal’s head rocked back and forth, imitating the boxers, dodging and weaving.
A TV commentator delivered a rapid, blow-by-blow account: ‘And he comes in with a jab, connects, inflicts some damage … This is turning into a street fight.’
A second commentator responded: ‘That’s right. What we’re seeing is a
combination
of skill and
rough-housing that is going to be very hard to defend against.’
Knightley Senior grunted from behind Dougal, giving the Scotsman a fright.
‘Alan …?’
‘The Coh …’ Knightley muttered. ‘The Combi–’
The first TV commentator carried on: ‘There’s no doubt, it’s a lethal
combination
of blows.’
Knightley’s arms suddenly raised up in a parody of a zombie coming back to life.
Dougal leaped off the bed, nearly tripping over himself. ‘Aye, mah auntie! Alan …?’
Knightley’s legs sprang to life, pivoted and swung to the carpet, ready for action. ‘Bill?’
‘It’s Dougal,’ the Scotsman corrected him. ‘We came tae save ye, Alan.’
‘Where’s Bill? Where are Darkus and Tilly?’ Knightley looked around desperately, then gaped through the inclined window of the suite, which was blurred by a film of rain and neon light. ‘Where am I …?’
‘Yoo’re in Las Vegas, Alan.
Sin City
. Darkus and Tilly are investigating strange goings-on awn the thirteenth floor. Jackie and Clive are here too.’
Knightley’s brows dipped with surprise, meeting anxiously at the bridge of his nose, then raising inquisitively. He staggered from the bed to the closet, his limbs
like jelly, barely supporting him. He located his bumbag, his trusty tweed hat and coat, and began teetering on one foot, trying to clothe himself.
‘I have to find them,’ he mumbled. ‘
Now
.’
Moments later, Knightley spilled out of the Presidential suite, bow-legged and using the walls for balance, occasionally clutching his back, which was in several varieties of spasm following the unceremonious ride through the desert on the back of Dougal’s horse. Panting with pain and jiggling from exhaustion, he found his way to the lift and pressed the call button. The doors opened and he selected the thirteenth floor. Glancing up, he noticed a discreet CCTV camera watching him from above. Not surprisingly to him – though it would have been extremely surprising to his son – the lift descended to the thirteenth floor with no problems, and the doors opened obligingly. Then, like a chess piece crossing the chequered board, Knightley stepped out.
The corridor was empty, except for the bizarre and deliberately disorienting carpet design leading in one direction, overlooking the atrium, then turning a corner into the adjacent side of the building. There was no sign of life on this floor. No sign of cleaning staff or waiters delivering refreshments; no movement in any of the quarters.
‘Doc?!’ he called out hopefully.
He received no reply over the hubbub of the guests in the lobby below and the distant bells and whistles of the slot machines.
Knightley walked past the beehive-like row of rooms. He tried a few door handles but found them locked, then passed a suite with the door hanging ajar. He gently pushed it open as another thunderclap resounded through the pyramid. He edged inside, one shoulder at a time. His catastrophiser was thumping in his chest – for Knightley Senior had one of the devices too, which is where his son inherited it from.
As Knightley cleared the entrance, a lightning flash outside the window illuminated a bizarre romantic scene. His ex-wife, Jackie, was sitting at a candlelit dinner table, set for two. Her current husband, Clive, was sitting opposite – except he was inexplicably wearing a hotel bathrobe with only a pair of trunks underneath.
‘Alan, glad you could make it,’ Clive said in an oddly strained tone.
‘Alan …?’ Jackie pleaded, strangely frozen on the spot.
Knightley approached with caution, glancing down to see that his ex-wife’s ankles were tied to the legs of the chair, and her hands were tied to its arms.
‘There’s something wrong with him,’ she blurted,
until Clive leaned over and clamped a hand over her mouth.
‘Don’t listen to her, Alan, I’m ab-solutely fine. Per-fectly normal. Fan-ruddy-tastic as a matter of fact.’
‘Clive, have you been reading things that have confused you again?’ Knightley enquired gently.
‘Read?
Moi
?’ He shook his head. ‘Everything’s confusing these days, Alan.’
‘Maybe you just need a break. A nice, long break in a mental health facility somewhere.’
‘I recognise I’ll never be the man you are,’ Clive sneered. ‘Even though you’re crazier than a bucket of bat guano. I know Jackie will never love me the way she loves you. I’m not a complete idiot.’
‘Well, you’re at least half right,’ said Knightley.
‘The thing is, Alan,’ Clive hissed, ‘I’ve got orders. Orders from my superiors.’
‘Clorr Entertainment,’ Knightley deduced.
Clive nodded. ‘They’ve made life pre-tty stu-pendous for me lately, and I’m not about to let anyone get in the way of that. Not you, not Jax.’
Knightley swallowed, feeling the aftermath of his episode as tremors coursed through his limbs. He held the wall to steady himself. ‘I assume you’re going to stop me from rescuing her then.’ He nodded to Jackie, letting her know his intention.
‘Don’t do anything heroic, Alan,’ she replied. ‘Save yourself. And Darkus.’
‘Don’t worry,’ said Clive, ‘you’ll all be checking out … permanently.’ He lowered his brows and marched towards the detective, with a demented look in his eye.
‘Can’t we talk about this?’ implored Knightley, but Clive charged at him, taking him to the ground in a stranglehold, demolishing an ornamental coffee table on the way down.
Jackie struggled with her bindings, hopping up and down together with the chair.
Clive and Knightley wrestled on the carpet, rolling over each other again and again. Clive appeared to be possessed of near superhuman strength. He flipped Knightley on to his back, both hands locked around his throat, constricting the blood flow and restricting the oxygen supply. To make matters worse, a long string of drool descended from Clive’s gaping mouth and threatened to land on Knightley’s nose. The detective panted and blew at the string, trying to divert its course. Then Clive sucked it back up with an inhale, before expelling a fine spray of spittle with the exhale, tightening his throttlehold.
‘Damn it, Alan,’ he moaned, ‘why d’you and your son have to make everything so difficult?’
Knightley thrust his hips in the air, trying to buck the insane TV presenter off him, but couldn’t. Clive kept riding the rodeo as Knightley shuffled backwards across the carpet, his arms flailing for any weapon he could find. Clive continued astride him as they reached a heavy wooden cabinet containing a coffee maker and a minibar. Knightley managed to grab hold of it and topple it, turning aside as the entire cabinet crashed down on Clive, knocking him out of the saddle and dumping an assortment of beverages over him.
‘Ouch, Alan!’ he complained, rubbing his head, then examining his knees. ‘You’ve given me a case of third-degree carpet burn to go with it.’
Both men struggled to their feet. Knightley assumed a Wing Chun stance, with one hand extended forward and the other held near his chin in a guard position.
‘Hi-yahh!’ Clive shrieked and performed a flying kick at Knightley, who easily deflected the presenter, sending him ricocheting into a chest of drawers, which promptly splintered and collapsed under his weight.
Behind them, Jackie began hopping across the room in her chair, trying to enter the fray.
Clive got to his feet and charged again. Knightley turned his body sideways and extended his arm in an arrow punch, which connected with Clive’s jaw, sending
another spray of saliva flying out of the side of his mouth. But it had no effect. Clive kept marching towards him like a robot in a bathrobe.
Increasingly concerned, Knightley turned to his ex-wife, who was currently bouncing towards him in a valiant attempt to help.
‘Mind if I borrow you a moment?’ he asked.
‘Be my guest.’
Knightley picked up the chair, with Jackie strapped into it, and swung it around him in two full revolutions, picking up momentum, before slamming it into Clive – which had the threefold effect of smashing the chair to bits; freeing Jackie who yelped and flew off into a sofa; and knocking Clive backwards into a wall in a hail of plaster dust. But the presenter simply brushed himself down, grabbed Knightley and bulldozed him out of the hotel room, breaking down the door.
‘Across the line!’ Clive recited his catchphrase triumphantly.
The presenter kept charging out of the doorway, backflipping both men over the corridor balcony.
Knightley involuntarily screamed as he fell backwards over the edge into the gaping abyss, before reaching out and grabbing hold of the balcony rail with one hand. He looked down into the atrium to find Clive clutching on to his other arm, his eyes wild and pupils flexing, his
bathrobe flapping open and his legs dangling in mid-air, thirteen floors off the ground.
Guests in the lobby below shrieked, looking up at the spectacle.
‘Don’t let go of my arm, Clive,’ Knightley coached him, hyperventilating. ‘The odds of surviving a fall like this are …’ He performed a mental calculation. ‘Well, they’re not good. Hold on.’