Authors: Helen Black
Rory looks puzzled. ‘Then I’ll only have three towels.’
‘I will buy another one to replace it,’ says Ronnie. ‘Then you’ll have four as normal. Is that right?’
‘I like four,’ says Rory.
‘I know that,’ Ronnie replies. ‘So shall I clean you up?’
They gaze at one another, Ronnie patiently and silently holding out the towel.
‘Okay,’ says Rory.
Ronnie exhales. ‘Excellent. Now let’s move into the bathroom.’
Rory shuffles in, a trail of blood following him. Ronnie turns to me and pulls out a gun. ‘Don’t move a fucking muscle.’
I lie still and listen as Ronnie talks Rory through every move.
‘I’m putting the towel under the tap.
‘I’m going to wipe your face with downward strokes.
‘I’m going to hold the towel against the bridge of your nose.’
I have to get out of here. But how? My hands are tied and the door is locked. I breathe through my panic to keep my mind clear.
When they emerge, Rory is bare-chested, his flesh hanging in rolls, skin criss-crossed with stretch marks, his nostrils plugged with toilet paper.
‘You should lie down on your bed, Rory,’ she tells him.
He stops short and shakes his head.
Ronnie presses her lips together. ‘I’ll change the duvet cover.’
With impressive speed, she rips off the bedcover I was lying on earlier, and whips on an exact replica.
‘Lie down now,’ she says, and Rory does as he is told.
When she closes the door, my heart thuds. The look in her eye is one of wild, dark fury. ‘I should kill you.’ She towers over me. ‘I’d fucking enjoy it, too.’
I grit my teeth, anticipating a kick in the ribs. Or worse. Instead, Ronnie strides away to the kitchen. My mind turns to carving knives, but when she returns she is carrying a glass of water.
She pulls me into a sitting position with her free hand, throwing me against the wall. I’m tempted to kick out at her, but I sense she’d just smash the glass in my face. Her eyes glitter as she watches me over the rim.
‘You’ve been trying to locate me,’ she says, a drop of water shining on her lower lip.
‘No,’ I reply.
‘Don’t fuck with me,’ she warns.
‘I’m not.’
With a snap of her wrist, she hurls the glass against the wall and it shatters above my head, showering me with shards. ‘I said don’t fuck with me.’
‘Okay, okay.’ My heart pounds, the crash ringing in my ears.
‘Why have you been following me?’ she asks.
‘I spoke to Miggs before he died. He mentioned you.’
She narrows her eyes. ‘He would never tell you anything.’
‘He thought I was you.’
She looks me up and down. ‘Not exactly flattering.’
‘He was pretty out of it.’
She rubs a knuckle against her teeth, a silver ring rattling against the enamel.
‘What did he say?’
‘That I – you – should get away.’
Her face is impassive. If she is moved by Miggs’s protectiveness, she doesn’t show it. ‘What made you start digging up old files at Social Services?’
‘Miggs mentioned an orchard,’ I say. ‘I just dug around on the internet until I found a children’s home in Glasgow. It seemed like it might fit.’
‘Why?’
‘Why what?’
‘Why bother with all this crap? Tracking us down? Coming to Glasgow? When was the last time someone like you even left Westminster?’ There’s malice in her voice. ‘What makes someone like
you
interested in people like
us?’
‘I was nearly killed in the Plaza bomb.’ The vehemence in my voice shocks me. I’m scared shitless, but I refuse to be cowed by someone like Ronnie. ‘I’ve seen up close what people like you are capable of.’
‘Why not leave it to your little friends in MI5?’ she asks.
I think about Clem, solid and serious. Why didn’t I just leave all this to him? Then I picture him with Benning and the PM, and recall all the double dealings, the unanswered questions.
‘They told me Shining Light was responsible for the bomb attack and that you were in charge,’ I say. ‘I wanted to be sure you weren’t a scapegoat.’
She leans towards me, her eyes empty, her skin so white she could be one of those left for dead in the stadium. ‘A scapegoat,’ she repeats.
Then she shrugs. In that shrug I can see she doesn’t care. The mangled bodies of children being stretchered away mean nothing. I could kick myself, and the old man for good measure, for all the doubts and soul searching.
‘And now you’ve found me,’ she says, ‘what do you think?’
‘I think I’ve been wasting my time.’
Clem stepped away from Iona’s desk, pulled out his mobile and punched in the number for Glasgow Social Services.
‘Debbie McAndrews.’ She sounded tired.
‘Christian Clement.’
‘Oh.’ Mrs McAndrews had obviously hoped never to hear from him again. He often had that effect upon people.
‘Did any girls stay at The Orchard?’
‘For the most part, residential units were single sex,’ she said. ‘We found there were fewer problems that way.’
Clem could well imagine that a house full of uncontrollable teens with their hormones popping would be a force to be reckoned with.
‘There was, however, a short period when government policy overrode good sense,’ she continued.
‘When was that?’
‘2003.’
That would have coincided with Miggs’s placement. ‘Could you send me the names of every girl that stayed there, and their file?’ he asked.
‘Fine.’
Seconds later he was scrolling through a short list of names.
Fiona Anderson
Bonnie Fairfax
Ann-Marie Ireland
Catriona Keith
Margaret Lawrence
Lara MacDonald
Veronica Pearson
Lindsay Rae
Chloe Wilson
Nine girls. All troubled, unwanted and damaged. One grew up to become a terrorist.
Where are you?
He read the list again and smiled. Veronica Pearson.
‘Hello, Ronnie.’
Ronnie straightens abruptly and stalks back to the bedroom door, which she taps gently.
‘I’m going to come in,’ she calls.
She opens the door and I catch a glimpse of Rory curled in the foetal position on the bed, his hands covering his face.
‘We’re going to leave now,’ Ronnie tells him.
Rory doesn’t move.
‘Don’t answer your phone or open the door to anyone but me,’ she says. ‘I’ll be back when I’ve figured this out. Okay?’
‘She hit me.’ Rory’s voice is muffled.
‘I know,’ she replies and casts me another look of contempt.
‘You owe him,’ she tells me.
As quietly as possible, she closes the door, then springs towards me. Her movements are more animal than human,
‘Come on.’ She drags me to my feet and pushes me down the hallway, pieces of glass falling onto my face from my scalp. I blink to protect my eyes.
‘Are you going to do as I say, or do I need this?’ She extracts a syringe from her pocket.
If I’m going to find a way out of this I must avoid being drugged again. ‘I’ll do as you say.’
‘Good.’ She opens the door and leads me outside, her hand keeping pressure on the rope around my wrists. I glance at the deserted street, calculating how long it would take me to run to the crossroads.
‘Don’t even think about it,’ she says and I feel the cold metal of her gun in the small of my back.
There’s a car on the street outside and my stomach lurches at the thought of getting in the boot again. ‘Please let me sit in the back,’ I beg. Panic is starting to rise in my throat.
Ronnie doesn’t answer, but checks up and down the street, assuring herself that there is no one around.
‘I won’t speak,’ I say. ‘I won’t even move.’
She pauses as if she’s thinking this through, then moves to the back and opens the boot. She presses a piece of tape across my mouth. ‘Forget it.’
The plane was ready for takeoff, engines roaring, when Clem boarded. The other passengers threw him annoyed looks and checked their watches.
His phone rang as he was shown to his seat.
‘No mobile phones, sir,’ the stewardess told him.
‘Safe network,’ he informed her and answered the call.
‘Hey, Clem.’ It was Carole-Ann. ‘How’s the friendly north?’
Clem looked up at the stewardess, who was scowling at him.
‘Cold,’ he said.
‘Well, I hope you’re hauling your ass back here,’ she said. ‘You’re due to see the PM in an hour.’
‘Tell him I’m going to be late.’
‘Your funeral,’ she said.
‘Trust me, a funeral would be light relief from the sort of day I’m having.’
‘Did you need anything else?’ she asked.
‘Information on Veronica Pearson, date of birth 6 April 1989.’
‘What sort of information?’
‘Anything and everything.’
He hung up and waited. Hopefully, Carole-Ann would have something for him soon. In the meantime, he tried to make sense of last night’s events. Why had Ronnie risked coming out into the open? Connolly had tried to dig around but had met with a dead end. Perhaps Ronnie was worried that with her connection to The Orchard, it was only a matter of time until Connolly worked it out. Perhaps she needed to know how close Jo had got.
Or perhaps it was too good an opportunity to miss. A kidnapping on this scale would be a coup for small fry like Shining Light.
Another darker thought snaked in. Perhaps Ronnie had just taken Connolly somewhere and killed her, and a bleary-eyed postman would spot her leg poking out of a green wheelie bin this morning.
His thoughts were interrupted by an email from HQ.
To: Christian Clement
From: Carole-Ann Bowers
Re: Little Miss Nobody
No known address, no marriage or death certificate. No tax paid ever. No benefits claimed. No credit cards, no medical records. Not even a poxy driving licence
.
It’s as if after leaving The Orchard, your girl fell off the face of the earth
.
Clem exhaled. This wasn’t good at all.
His mood was grey as he got off the plane and made his way over to his car. Then he growled when he spotted the dent he’d made in the bumper. It looked worse in daylight.
When he arrived at Downing Street, the grey clouds turned to black.
‘You’re late,’ Benning, the attack dog, barked.
‘I told you I was going to Glasgow.’
Benning waved him away.
‘Have you seen the papers?’ asked the PM.
Clem clocked the array set out on his desk. Everything from the
Morning Star
to the
Telegraph
was headlining the shooting of Miggs. ‘It was bound to be the main story,’ he shrugged.
Benning shook his head. ‘Unless you’ve missed it, the Opening Ceremony starts later today. That should have been the main story.’
‘I guess the editors thought this was a bigger deal,’ said Clem.
‘We have to minimise this,’ Benning insisted.
‘I don’t really see how we can.’
Benning rolled his eyes. ‘For a start we need you here, Clem. We’re telling everyone we’ve dealt with this. That security is under control. Yet our man in charge of security is away on a jolly.’
Clem breathed out hard. ‘Security is the reason I was in Glasgow.’
‘You need to be visible,’ said Benning.
‘I think first and foremost you need me to catch the outstanding terrorist,’ said Clem. They might be telling everyone that things were tickety-boo, but that wasn’t the full story, was it?
The PM leaned forward. ‘How did you get on? Is the outstanding terrorist in custody?’
‘And where the hell is Connolly?’ Benning groaned. ‘She hasn’t been seen since yesterday morning and she’s not answering her phone. She should be here pressing palms and giving interviews.’
Clem pushed a hand through his hair. ‘I’m afraid I’ve got some bad news on both counts.’
Once again, I can’t say how long I’ve been in the claustrophobic prison of the boot. Even without the mind-bending effect of the drugs, it’s impossible to know how time is stretching. Instead, I concentrate on my breathing and assuaging my panic. The engine roars and I feel every bump in the road as my head lifts and crashes back against thinly covered metal.
At last, a different sound punctuates the rush of tyres and my heart swells. A siren. As the car slows and the blare of the siren nears, I almost whoop with joy. It’s the police. They’ve found me.
The car pulls to a stop and I listen intently.
‘Can I help you, officer?’ Ronnie’s voice is syrup.
‘Your left brake light isn’t working,’ says a man.
‘Oh dear.’ She’s a study in concern. ‘Is that very dangerous?’
I hear footsteps around the car and imagine her peering intently at the offending light.
‘It’s not ideal,’ the man replies. ‘Do you have far to go?’
‘Only a few miles,’ says Ronnie.
The policeman doesn’t know I’m in here and if I don’t let him know soon, Ronnie will sweet talk him into buggering off.
‘I’d get along home if I were you,’ he says. ‘But you must get it checked out immediately.’
‘I will.’
It’s now or never. I can’t shout out with the tape, nor can I hit the roof of the boot with my hands tied. Even my legs are bent in an impossible position so I can’t lift them and kick out. The only part of me I have any control over is my head. I lift it up as far as I can and whack it against the floor of the boot. The pain and noise ring through my skull but I lift my neck and try again. My ear feels as though it has been hit by a hammer.
‘What was that?’ asks the policeman.
‘What was what?’ Ronnie asks in return.
‘I thought I heard a banging.’
Ronnie laughs and whacks the boot repeatedly. ‘This old girl makes a lot of strange noises. Bit knackered, but well loved.’
I lift my head up and crash it against the metal for the third time. I know I won’t be able to do it again and hope the policeman has heard me.
In answer, Ronnie thumps the boot lid again. ‘Better be off,’ she says. ‘The sooner I get her seen by a mechanic the better.’
As the engine starts up and we drive away, I know I have made a huge mistake. My chest constricts with fear and I can’t force any air into my lungs.
When the car pulls over and the boot lid is thrown open I am gasping for air.