Absent Light (30 page)

He wasn't listening. He was standing up, looking at her with venom. He was holding her responsible, it seemed.
All that time
. “I never grassed on 'em.”

Them, she thought?

“We were in it together. The ‘A' team. It's what I do, see. My speciality. I wouldn't touch a Rembrandt or a Van Gogh. Nothing that's gonna send alarm-bells ringing, only good shiftable stuff that people pay decent loot for. No point in stealing the Mona Lisa and trying to flog it on the open market,” he smiled caustically. “The Art and Antiques mob would be down on me faster than shit off a shovel.”

“You mean,” Helen said, her voice very small. “The Roscoes were in it with you?”

“Had a good thing going with Robyn,” he said with a louche grin. “Not that I ever tried anything on. Wouldn't, would I? But she was classy, cut above. Flogged most of the stuff to the States, not so easy to trace.” The grin faded. His pale eyebrows drew together in outrage, his face contorting with anger. “Roscoe saw me all right, see, promised I could pick up where I left off when I got out, but then you goes and shops him, destroys his career, his marriage and balls up everythin'.”

She thought she was going to pass out. She'd been such a fool. How she'd clung even now to the conviction that Adam was a good person, misguided, perhaps, but straight and with a heart. She hadn't betrayed him. He'd betrayed her. “I'm sorry,” she whispered.

“
Sorry
?” he advanced on her.

She backed away, huddled for safety, waiting for the inevitable blow, racking her brains for a way to divert him. “Which prison were you sent to?”

“Featherstone,” he thundered.

That was it, she thought, mildly rallying. That was the connection.

“Been there just over four years, eatin' shit, watchin' me back twenty-four seven, wankin' off,” he raged. “Then,” he paused, suddenly casting her a clever, disarming smile. “I got me big break.”

Suddenly, it all became crystal-clear. “You met Lee,” she said.

“Shared a cell. All he did was fuckin' talk. Talk, talk, talk. Drove me fuckin' crackers. He could bloody whine for England. I had to hear all about his miserable life, and his fuckin'
stoopid
ideas, and how he'd fucked up. Thing is, see,” he said, his eyes shining with spite, “he had a plan. It was fuckin' brilliant.” He let out a laugh, a rattle that came from deep in his throat, “and the sad fuck didn't even realise it.”

“He told you about us,” she said wearily. Old pattern. New twist in the design.

“Before he got banged up, he discovered he had a family. Droned on about it all the fuckin' time, about how much it meant to him, that he'd got a home to go to at last. 'Course, what he really liked, was that mummy was one rich bitch. Had ideas above his station, see. As soon as he got out, he planned to visit and slot back in where he belonged, he said, get his feet under the table. Like a dog with two tails, he was. Stoopid tosser didn't realise he was the last person on earth she wanted to see. Didn't know he was spawned by his grandpa. Mind some of the varnish wore off when he found out about you. Couldn't believe he had a half-sister who'd stoop so low, batting for the other side, and being a grass. Couldn't get his head round it. Went dead quiet then.”

“You mean the Jacks case?”

“Lost count of the villains who fancied getting their hands on you.”

It had come full circle, she thought, but not in the way she'd imagined. “So you impersonated Lee.”

He fixed her with a chill expression. “Had to get rid of him first.”

They were plunged into darkness again. She didn't know how long they had. She didn't know whether Ryan was planning to drive all the way to Birmingham, or would orchestrate the drop from the cottage. Either way, she knew that at some stage he'd have to go and collect the money, and that meant he'd be gone for at least a couple of hours. She already knew that he had a good geographical knowledge of the Midlands. That was his stamping-ground. It was where he did business. So there was a chance he'd go closer than might be expected, which would take longer. Not too close, though. That would be dangerous.

She wasn't much of a gambler but, if he played further away, she estimated that they had three, no more than four, hours alone. Up until that moment, escape seemed a remote possibility. Now they were in with a chance. Ryan had unwittingly provided them with it.

“Siena,” she hissed.

“Mmmm.”

“You have to wake up.”

“Why?” the girl said sleepily.

“Because I can get us out of here.”

She heard the rustle of clothing, listened to the girl surface from slumber to consciousness. “How?”

“I want you to wiggle the rope on your wrists as much as you can, until it hurts, try and loosen it up a bit. Then we listen.”

“For what?”

“For signs of Ryan leaving, a car door slamming, an engine starting up.”

“Then what?”

“There's a broken piece of bottle over by your foot. I need you to roll it gently towards me.

“Can't see anything,” the girl said crossly.

“But I can. I have a torch in my pocket.”

By jack-knifing her body, and running her elbows from the top of her right knee towards her groin, Helen gradually eased the torch from her jeans pocket where it dropped satisfyingly onto the mattress. She sat on it until she heard the four-by-four start up, then she slipped it between her fingers and, after a couple of attempts that set her teeth on edge, flicked it on with the tip of her nose.

A thin light spooled eerily over the cellar floor. Her watch told her it was twenty minutes to one in the morning.

“Stand up,” Helen instructed, “and walk as far as you can straight ahead until you can't move any further.” She watched the girl stagger to her feet, saw her take a few nervous paces. “That's good,” she said encouragingly. “Hold it right there.” Helen lined up the light with the tip of the girl's foot and the edge of the bottle.

“All right,” Helen said. “Remember, no sudden movements. Easy does it.”

“Wouldn't it be simpler if I try and pick it up and free myself first?”

“Too risky, you might cut yourself.” A small wound in the right place could lead to serious blood loss. Considering the girl's already weakened state, it wasn't a chance Helen was prepared to take.

“I want you to raise your foot and rest it gently on the glass.”

The girl lifted her leg and began to wobble frantically. “I can't,” she let out, slamming her foot heavily back down, centimetres away from the edge of the bottle. “Feel woozy.”

Helen bit her lip. “It's all right,” she said calmly. “Just squat down for a few moments. Breathe in and out, nice and slowly, big breaths.”

“But it stinks,” the girl wailed.

“Pretend it doesn't. Think of green fields and flowers. Your mum was into all that kind of stuff, wasn't she?” She tried not to sound cynical.

“Visualisation.”

“That's right, give it a go.” She watched the girl's shallow chest move in and out. “Great,” Helen said. “This time stand up very slowly. Think of a plant growing,” she said, remembering some faraway kindergarten lesson, “then when you feel secure, raise your foot but don't move it so high. It's just a slight movement, a few inches. That's it,” she said, seeing the girl's tongue poke out in concentration. “Can you feel the glass under your foot?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Now very gently roll it towards me. Think of sending a ball straight down a bowling alley, but make it slow. We're not going for a full strike.”

Helen held her breath, hardly daring to watch, her anxiety turning to joy as the glass rolled towards her and stopped just within reach of her grasp.

“Did I do it?” the girl said excitedly.

“You did great,” Helen said, stretching out her foot and moving it closer. By wriggling her fingers, she was able to upturn it so that the bottom of the bottle rested flat on the floor. The hard part was resting enough of the rope against the jagged glass without taking a slice out of her hands. Taking a deep breath, she sawed tentatively back and forth against the glass. Not a lot seemed to be happening. She tried again with a little more vigour, wincing as her right hand almost skimmed a piece sticking up.

“How you doing?” the girl said.

“Not bad. Nearly there.”

It seemed to take for ever then it all happened at once. One minute she was bound. The next, her hands were free. With a deep thrill in her heart, she took off her boot and sock, wrapped it around her hand and, picking up the bottle, set about the rope tethering her to the strut. It was much harder. The rope was thick and durable. It took a good ten minutes to cut through it but, when she did, she felt exultant. She ran over to the girl at once.

“Take off my blindfold,” the girl said, elated.

“In a minute,” Helen said, not wishing her to see the distressing sight of the mess on the far side of the room. “Let's get you free first.” Carefully slitting through the binds pinning the girl's wrists together, Helen handed her the torch. “Scarf next,” the girl said, raising her slender fingers to the back of her head. Helen rested her hands on the girl's bony shoulders. “Keep your eyes on the outer door, Siena.”

“I've seen dead people before,” the girl huffed crossly. “I saw Malak. I saw Gran.”

“Not like this.”

The girl let out a petulant sigh.

Beneath the dirt, the grime, the pallor of her skin, she was very pretty, Helen thought, tenderly stroking a lock of hair away from the girl's face. She had green eyes, almond-shaped, like a cat's. She studied Helen with curiosity, ran her dirty fingers over her face then suddenly clasped hold of her, almost knocking Helen off her feet. Unlikely friends, she thought, hugging the girl back.

“Now cut the other rope,” the girl cried, frantic to be free.

Helen handed her the torch, and set to it. She'd almost cut through when the bottle slipped, tearing through the sock and badly gashing the palm of her hand. “Christ,” she let out, alarmed at the fast flow of blood dripping onto the floor.

“What happened?”

Helen turned away, shrinking from the light. “Cut myself. It's nothing. Just a bit sharp.” She bound the remains of the sock tighter round her hand, helping to staunch the flow.

“But you're hurt,” the girl said, shining the light on the cellar floor then staring at Helen's hand and the blood already seeping through the sock.

“It's not serious,” Helen said, not knowing whether it was or wasn't. “One more hack at this should do it.” She braced herself, picked up the bottle gingerly in her left hand, and drove it through the remaining rope. The girl bolted free like a foal on the first warm day of spring. But they still had another obstacle: the door.

“How long will it take?” They were both out of breath.

Although the door was solid enough, the frame surrounding the lock was rotten and the brickwork was crumbling. While the girl attacked it with a garden fork, Helen picked at it with a hoe. It wasn't easy with her injured hand. Blood had soaked right through. She'd taken off her other sock to rebind the wound. She didn't dare examine it, not because she was squeamish, but because she was frightened of seeing how serious it was.

“Don't know,” Helen replied.

“How much time do you think we've got?”

I don't know that either, Helen thought. “Enough. Just keep on going.”

She supposed adrenaline must have kicked in. She felt no pain or discomfort. Her brain buzzed. Her body fizzed. She felt warmer for moving about. She felt strangely powerful, too, in spite of the weakening light from the torch.

“If we can escape,” the girl said breathlessly, “we can get into the cottage. I know where Gran kept the spare key. We can use the phone.”

And lock him out, Helen thought. She didn't know why she expected him back. One man against an entire police force stood no chance at all. The police would spring him, no doubt about it. Another voice deep inside told her not to hope too much.

“Did your gran have a car?”

“Didn't drive.”

“But there's a road?”

“More of a track.”

“How the hell did she survive out here?”

“Once a month a friend from Okehampton drove out with her groceries.”

“And how far's that away?”

“A couple of hours walk, maybe more.”

“There's no one nearer?” Helen said, creeping with fear.

“No one.”

They got a rhythm going. Helen striking first, the girl second, then repeating the sequence, one after the other. Bits of wood and plaster fell into a heap on the floor. Bricks crumbled. Dust flew up their noses and into their dry mouths. It was tortuously slow. Each time they thought they were nearly there, they discovered that there was another brick, another portion of wood to disable.

“If Ryan comes back,” Siena said, sudden fear in her voice. “What should we do?”

“Hide.”

“What if we're out in the open?”

“Run.”

“If he shoots at us?”

“Hit the ground.”

Without warning the lock sprang free, the door creaked and groaned. Together they pushed it open and were met by a rush of freezing night air. Euphoric, they breathed in great lungfuls, laughing, sucking in the icy chill, glad to be rid of the stench, overwhelmed to be free. Helen tilted her face up to a moon masked by cloud, and a sky barnacled with stars. She felt as if she were seeing them for the very first time. They seemed brighter, more abundant, and lustrous. The air smelt of winter, earthy and wet and bleak.

“Come on,” the girl said, tugging at her arm.

Helen smiled, handed her the torch, let her shine the way.

The frost-tinged grass crunched as they walked. They went round to what Helen presumed was the front of the building. The girl creaked open a wooden gate and disappeared from view for a moment, then reappeared clutching a key. She shone the light on the cottage, which was long and low. It looked as if it were made of stone or cob.