Killer Instinct (11 page)

I remembered Ailsa telling me a few details when the girl had first arrived. She'd been raped by a friend of the family, and when she'd told her parents, their first reaction had been of disbelief, and denial. Betrayed, Nina had run, ending up at Shelseley.

I put my hands on her shoulders. “Nina, listen to me,” I said, my voice sharp enough to cut through the layers. “It's not your fault. Nothing that has happened to you is your fault. Don't let it destroy you, or he's won. Do you hear me? Is that what you want? To give up?” I ignored Ailsa's murmur of protest and plunged on. “Come out fighting, Nina, come back stronger. Stop giving him this power over you, otherwise you'll never be rid of him.”

She twisted weakly in my grasp. “You don't know what it's like,” she moaned.

“Oh yes I do, Nina,” I said, and my voice was grim enough to register. “Trust me, I know exactly what it's like.”

There were certain similarities. I'd also known the men who had raped me, all four of them.
Donalson, Hackett, Morton, and Clay
. The names ran through my mind like a mantra. They'd been on the same military training course and while they hadn't exactly been my friends, I was supposed to have been able to trust them with my life.

I still don't know why they picked me. There were only two other girls on the same course, so I suppose that cut down the odds a little. I spent months afterwards wondering what weakness in me they'd recognised. What had marked me out as a victim.

Eventually, I'd realised that I was not special, nor fatally flawed. I'd simply been in the wrong place at the wrong time. Sometimes, it's easier to believe in fate. That the story lines of our lives are already written, you just follow the script. But maybe I just didn't want to believe that my whole reason for being was to be raped and beaten by a group of drunken squaddies.

People told me I'd been lucky to survive, but it took me a long time before I could begin to view that state of affairs with any sense of happiness. Fear had evolved very slowly into anger. A desire followed first to learn self-defence, and then to teach what I'd learned to others. It gave me back control of my own existence.

I stood up, letting go of Nina's arms, and watched the top of her bowed head. She'd stopped caring much about her appearance since the attack, never wearing make-up and letting her hair grow unstyled. It hung lankly around her face, so fine that her ears stood out through it. Her shoulders were rounded. I don't think I'd ever seen anyone look more utterly defeated.

Ailsa made “leave now” motions with her eyes. I nodded silently, and headed for the door, picking up my helmet and rucksack as I went. Tris got up to show me out.

“Don't you think you were a little hard on her?” he said quietly, once the living room door was closed behind us.

I shrugged my way into my rucksack. “She's had months of hand-holding and sympathy,” I said. “She's physically recovered, the memory's fading. What she needs now is pushing until she starts to push back. She needs to face what she's been through and deal with it, not bury it under layers of cotton wool and hope it all goes away.”

Tris considered that for a moment. “Not everyone responds the way you expect to that kind of stimuli,” he pointed out gently. “Not everybody has the strength of character to cope.”

“They have to,” I said, glancing at him as I turned to go. “What else is there?”

Despite my words, I looked around me carefully as I walked down the steps again and across the gravel to the bike. The screen of rhododendron bushes looked quiet, but to be truthful, for all I could see through it, it might as well have been one-way glass. I jammed my helmet on, feeling suddenly vulnerable as it cut down my peripheral vision.

The Suzuki started up first kick. For once I didn't linger to let the motor warm up fully, paddling it backwards out of its space and moving quickly towards the road.

All the while, I could just feel a set of eyes on my back. It might be paranoia, but I couldn't seem to shake it.

I rode straight home, taking the shortest route. On the way I passed Terry's video van parked up on his round. You couldn't fail to recognise that revolting colour-scheme, even in the dark.

When I reached the flat I had just enough time to hurriedly tidy my usual debris before Sam was due to arrive. As I passed the answering machine I noticed that the message light was blinking and I hit the rewind button.

It was Clare. “Hi, Charlie. I've got the details on that, er – story you were after. I can't give them to you over the phone, but if you want to call round, I'll let you know what I've managed to find out.” Her voice sounded strangely solemn as she added, “I hope you've got a strong stomach.”

I almost rang her there and then, but a glance at the clock told me there wasn't time. As it was, Sam rang the bell just after six, armed again with a box of computer disks and a big grin.

He was wearing his usual scruffy bike jacket and battered AGV lid, together with dusty black trousers and trainers. He had a long college scarf wrapped round his neck to keep out the wind, but no gloves and his fingers were white from the cold. I don't know how he stands it.

He presented exactly the sort of image that people like my parents hate so much about motorcycling. The fact that Sam has a very good degree in something to do with computers and could probably be earning a fortune as a programmer instead of tinkering at the Uni has nothing to do with it. A lout in a suit with a sharp haircut would get their vote every time. Even if, when you asked him a difficult question, someone else had to push his chest in and out.

Sam unfolded the lap-top on the coffee table and his fingers started dancing over the keyboard. I put the coffee on and left him to it. I had to admire his concentration. By the time the coffee had filtered and stopped making blocked drain noises, he was still tapping away. He barely turned his head when the mug went down beside him, just murmured his thanks and carried right on.

I was in the kitchen, staring moodily out of the skylight and thinking about Nina when Sam gave a sudden whoop of triumph. I moved back through to find him sitting back and taking a swig of his coffee, looking pleased with himself again. The Cheshire cat would have been a manic depressive by comparison. “OK, we're in,” he said. “What am I looking for?”

“Some clue as to the original owner of the machine,” I said.

Sam put his mug down and scanned the list of files that had appeared on the screen. “Of course, some of these are incomplete, but I should be able to find something,” he said.

“Great.” I hesitated, fought briefly with myself, then gave in. “Have you eaten? I was going to chuck some pasta together if you fancy it? Nothing outstanding.”

“Terrific!” Sam said. “I didn't know you could cook.”

“You shouldn't make rash statements like that until you've tasted it,” I warned and headed back to the kitchen. I dug out the dried tagliatelle, a tin of plum tomatoes, garlic, chilli, and the secret ingredient, a Hot Pepperami sausage. Not exactly
cordon bleu
, but then, I wasn't out to wow him with my cooking.

I threw the ingredients together quickly. It was my usual stand-by and I could do it in my sleep. I set the kettle boiling for the pasta and went back to see how Sam was getting on.

“I hope you don't mind breathing garlic fumes all over everyone at work tomorrow,” I said.

He looked up blankly. “Hmm?”

I shook my head. “Never mind. How're you doing?”

“Well, not as well as I'd hoped,” he admitted. “The most I seem to be able to get is some of the file names, but the contents might as well be Swahili for all the sense I can make of them. Look.”

He opened a file at random. All I saw was a string of smiley faces and the sort of squiggles that could have belonged to some complex algebra problem. He shut the file down again and tried another, with the same result.

“Here are the file names, if they mean anything to you – delivery dates, stock, distribution, contacts. It just looks like it's been used for standard accounts stuff. I assume they copied everything before they passed the computer on to your mate, otherwise somebody's going to have quite a bit of explaining to do to the tax man.”

“And there's no way of finding out anything else?”

He rummaged in the disk box he'd brought with him. “Well, if it's a very simple file I might have something here that would work, but it's a bit of a long shot,” he said doubtfully.

I heard the kettle click off and went back to the kitchen to pour the boiled water into a pan with the pasta. I stuck it on the hob and returned to the lounge.

By the time I got there Sam seemed to be having more success. “Here's what's in the delivery dates file, but it's not a lot,” he said. “Some of the data at the top of the screen is just totally corrupted. There's not much hope of getting anything out of that. Then we've just got a string of numbers. They could be dates, but it's not much to go on.”

I sighed, disappointed. “OK, Sam, thanks for trying anyway,” I said.

“No problem,” he replied, but didn't sound as though he meant it.

He was still frowning when I left him to go and see to the food. When I came back with two plates Sam had shut the computer down, in disgust presumably, and had left it on the desk. He was sitting on the sofa, chin in his hands, and looking deep in thought.

It didn't affect his appetite, though. He wolfed down the pasta making all the right appreciative noises. He ate with his fork turned round, scooping food onto it and into his mouth. My mother would have fainted at the sight.

Still, at least he was well trained enough to clear the plates away afterwards without being asked. He hadn't progressed past the stacking them in the washing-up bowl stage, but you can't have everything.

It was just after eight-thirty when he left. As soon as he'd gone I rang Terry. I tried his mobile number first. It was switched on and he picked up straight away. I told him we'd managed to get into the computer, and what Sam had found on it. It sounded pretty lame when I laid it out for him, but Terry seemed pleased.

“That's terrific! That should be just enough to worry the bastard!” he said, sounding devious. “Do me a favour and hang onto it for me for a few days, would you? I'll come and pick it up over the weekend. Cheers for that though, Charlie, you're an absolute doll!”

“Oh great,” I muttered as he rang off. “Now I'm inflatable.”.

Almost as soon as I put the phone down, it started ringing. I picked it up half-anticipating that it might be Terry again.

Even though I'd been thinking about her earlier, I certainly wasn't expecting it to be my mother on the other end of the line.

“Charlotte,” she said. She was trying for friendly warmth, but unease pitched her cultured voice a tad too high. I even thought I could hear the faint rustle of a nervously twisted string of pearls.

For a moment I almost panicked as I opened my mouth and nothing happened. No sounds emerged. I shut it again quickly.

“Charlotte?” she said again, a question this time, sharper. “Charlotte, are you still there?”

I cleared my throat. This time it worked. “Yes, I'm still here,” I said neutrally. “What do you
want
, Mother?”

She didn't ring so often now. Just after I got kicked out of the army and the fuss had started to abate, her attempts then to build a bridge between us had been more earnest, and more frequent. She'd written long letters that I pointedly returned to sender. She'd even driven over to see me a few times.

Now she'd fallen back on the telephone, and even that method of communication had become sporadic. She'd become slowly discouraged by my stubborn lack of cooperation, my refusal to acknowledge that the stance she'd taken had any basis in validity.

I don't know what irritated more. That in some ways she seemed to be giving up on her only child so easily, or that she doggedly persisted. Even with the constantly increasing timescale, I was dismayed to find that talking to her still actually hurt. A physical pain I hadn't been prepared for.

There was a mildly offended pause before she replied, swallowing my snotty behaviour, pouring oil, as she always did. “I don't want anything, darling,” she said soothingly. “I just wondered how you are, that's all. We haven't heard from you in a while, and I just thought—”

“Mother, you haven't heard
from
me for several years,” I interrupted, stony. “Why would I suddenly either want to get in touch with you now, or want you to get in touch with me?”

Another hesitation, like a fractured satellite link. “Well,” she stumbled. It was uncharacteristic, and unlike her. She valued her poise as much as she valued her classically understated wardrobe and her middle-aged Tory-politician's-wife hairstyle. “I just thought there might be something you needed, or—”

“There's nothing I need from you,” I said, appalled by the waver I let slip through unmasked. I closed my eyes with the effort of stopping back the tears. It was suddenly vital that I didn't let her know she could still get to me. “There's nothing I want that you can give me,” I went on, colder now, in control. “Unless there's something wrong, or either of you are ill, please stop calling me, or I'll have my number changed.”