Twenty Twelve Page 10

  ‘You’re not going to get the social onto me, are you?’ Charlene called out.

  Clem looked around the filthy flat. ‘Like I said, I’m not interested.’

  Rory holds the mobile phone in his hand. He doesn’t like speaking to people on the phone. It’s not as bad as speaking to people face to face, when he can smell them and can’t concentrate on what they are saying. Or when they move towards Rory with their hand out and he has to move backwards. He hates that.

  He taps the keypad and writes a text message. The first text message was sent in 1992 by Neil Papworth. It said ‘Merry Christmas’. It was a good invention. Rory presses send on his phone.

  From: Rory

  To: Ronnie

  22.05

  Information

  Four seconds later his mobile rings. Rory places it at, but not touching, his ear.

  ‘Rory,’ says Ronnie.

  Rory doesn’t speak.

  ‘You have something to tell me,’ says Ronnie.

  More silence.

  ‘Is it about Joanna Connolly?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What has she done?’

  Rory clears his throat. ‘She used her Mastercard.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘The Station Hotel in Glasgow.’

  I’m dreaming about Davey. He’s called me up and is telling me about a TV show. It’s one we both used to love as kids.

  ‘It’s Friday. It’s five o’clock,’ he says, but can’t finish for laughing. One of those big Davey laughs that start as a gurgle in the back of his throat but soon turn into a bark that makes his whole body shake. Soon I’m laughing too.

  When I hear a noise I ignore it. I want to hold onto Davey. ‘Are you okay?’ I ask.

  ‘I’m fine, Jo,’ he says. ‘Don’t worry about me.’

  I’m not laughing any more. ‘I miss you.’

  ‘Don’t be sad, Jo,’ he tells me. ‘There’s a tin of soup for our tea.’

  I wipe the tears from my eyes. ‘What flavour?’ I know the answer but I want to hear him say it.

  Before he can, I’m pulled back to reality by a sickening pain as I’m thrown onto my stomach, both arms pulled tight behind my back. I try to lift my head but a knee presses hard into my kidneys.

  I try to call for help but a hand pushes firmly against the back of my head, forcing my face into the pillow. I shout into the foam, the noise blurring around me. I try to snatch a breath but my mouth is rammed full of my sweat-stained pillowcase. Lungs screaming, I realise I’m suffocating.

  I thrash like a fish on dry land, panic running through me. But the assailant is on my back, and with my head and arms pinned, I can do little more than judder. In seconds, I no longer have the energy for even that.

  As the oxygen leaves my brain, I see Davey once again, his hand reaching out to me. I’m just about to grab it, when a different hand takes a fistful of my hair and drags my head backwards. My neck is pulled into an unnatural position but I don’t care. I gulp down air. As my lungs fight to take in as much precious oxygen as possible, I barely register a sharp sting in my thigh.

  When the room begins to sway, I realise I’ve been drugged. The hand lets go of my hair and my head flops forward, my spine unable to take its weight. The television is still on, a senseless noise in the background.

  ‘Do exactly as I say.’

  It’s not the TV. The voice behind me sounds as if it has been through a machine. Deep, slow and unreal.

  ‘If you don’t do exactly what I say, I will kill you. Do you understand?’

  I nod.

  ‘I’m going to stand you up and we are going to walk out of here.’

  My entire body has gone flaccid and numb. There’s no way I’ll be able to walk.

  ‘If you don’t do it I will kill you.’

  I nod again and allow myself to be hauled upright. A strong arm around my waist prevents me from sinking into the ground.

  ‘If you say one word, I will kill you.’

  I know that even if I tried, my tongue would not be able to work its way around a sound, let alone a word. But I’m not going to try. Instead, I concentrate every fibre of my being on putting one foot in front of the other.

  For I have learned some key lessons during these last few days. I want to do more with my life. I want to sort things out with my dad. I want to take control of my own destiny. And if I’m going to do any of these things, I must stay alive.

  Chapter Nine

  Rebecca is screamin’ and cryin’ and cryin’ and screamin’. ‘Hush up,’ Isaac tells her.

  But she ain’t gonna stop until her throat gives out.

  ‘I need to think,’ Isaac says, more to himself than to any of the others. Yet he can’t think. Not with all the noise and the blood.

  Mama and Isaac had gone out into the yard to meet the policemen. Him shaking with fear, Mama with righteous indignation.

  The fat one stepped forward. ‘Mrs Pearson, let’s talk about this like sensible folk before things get out of hand.’

  There was a light in Mama’s eye and Isaac knew she was past talking. She pointed her rifle right at them.

  ‘Ma’am.’ The other narrowed his eyes at her. ‘You need to give us the guns before someone gets hurt.’

  Mama laughed. ‘You can’t hurt us. God has asked us to be here today.’

  Isaac gulped hard, hand around his own rifle.

  Mama had her finger on the trigger of hers. ‘He shall gather together his elect from the four winds . . .’

  ‘Ma’am.’

  ‘. . . from the uttermost part of the earth.’

  ‘This is your last warning,’ he said.

  Then she squeezed.

  Or at least she meant to, but out of nowhere the policeman drew his own weapon and shot her. He was fast. The bullet clipped Mama’s shoulder and she stumbled backwards. Yup, he was one fast shot.

  But anyone will tell you, even Noah, that Isaac is fast too. Without even lining him up, Isaac fired back. The policeman made an ‘oof’ sound. Like when someone’s punched you good. Then he dropped to the ground, a ripe apple in the fall.

  The fat one panicked, dropped his gun and fell to his knees over his friend. Isaac took his chance and dragged Mama back inside.

  Now here they are in the dark. Mama on the kitchen floor, her back leaning against the range. She’s holding a cloth against her collarbone.

  ‘You all right, Mama?’ Veronica-Mae asks.

  Mama smiles and strokes her hair. ‘Just winged me, darlin’.’

  Veronica-Mae looks at Isaac and he tries to smile, but he can see it’s a whole lot worse than Mama’s letting on. The blood is soaking right through, pooling on the tiles by Mama’s side and she’s panting hard, like a dog in July.

  He creeps to the window and peeps through the chink in the shutters. The fat one has dragged the injured one under the trees and left him there all alone. Behind him, the sun is setting, covering the already stained yard in yet more red. Isaac just prays Daddy gets back soon.

  The lights in the hotel staircase seem to flash. It’s as if someone is using a strobe and my eyes strain to see the stairs and the handrail. I can hear my steps loud and thudding, the noise crashing in my ears, then it drifts away to silence. My arms are still held in place behind my back, and the hand holding me upright still feels firm.

  At the bottom, three fire exits swirl in front of me. I can’t say which one is real. We pass into the street outside. It’s darker, but the beams from a lamp post skid towards me.

  When I was much younger, I went through a clubbing period. Long nights spent dancing in hot warehouses. Most of my friends kicked off the evening with a pill or three, but not me. I was into my running and didn’t want to feel like shit the next day. Sometimes, though, when I started yawning around two, my legs beginning to ache, I envied them, still up for it, bathed in sweat, yapping ten to the dozen. Well, if this was how they felt, good for them. I’m struggling not to vomit down my chest.

  I’m led
to a car and the boot pops open.

  ‘Get in.’

  I sway in front of it. I don’t want to die, of that I’m sure. But I don’t want to get in the boot either.

  ‘I said get in.’

  I try to lift my head to look for help, but I can’t even manage that. I can’t run. I can’t shout. ‘I can’t get in,’ I slur.

  I needn’t worry. The strong arms lift me up and I’m thrown roughly inside. I’m facing inwards, my nose inches from the far side. My knees are bent, my heels touching the back of my thighs. Then the lid is slammed down.

  The sound of metal crashing into metal beats across my head and I see stars. I know that’s a phrase you read in books without ever giving much thought to what it means. Well now I know. It means that all you can see is ink darkness punctuated by thousands of pinpricks of white light. Like the universe.

  The car starts and I take a deep breath in a vain attempt to calm myself. The smell of disinfectant fills my nostrils. Someone has thoroughly cleaned this boot recently. Not a comforting thought.

  Clem left Charlene’s flat, grateful for a mouthful of fresh air. His emotions towards the poor kid were mixed. Part sadness, part revulsion.

  The driver was checking a crack in his windscreen.

  ‘Will it hold?’ Clem asked.

  ‘We’ll soon see.’

  Clem nodded and got in.

  ‘Where to?’ asked the driver.

  It was a fair question. Connolly had been here hours ago and learned exactly the same as Clem. Paul Ronald was not Ronnie X. What did she do next? Head back to the smoke? He pulled out his phone and called Carole-Ann.

  ‘Hey, Mr Grumpy,’ she said.

  ‘I need some information about Jo Connolly.’

  ‘The Jo Connolly?’

  ‘One and the same.’

  Carole-Ann gave a gravelly burst of laughter. ‘Now there’s a girl with buns of steel.’

  ‘I hadn’t noticed.’

  ‘Of course not,’ Carole-Ann chuckled.

  ‘I need to know where she is,’ said Clem.

  ‘Do you now?’

  They both knew she wasn’t meant to access this sort of information without clearance.

  ‘It’s important,’ he said.

  They both knew it went on every day of the week. Their job would be impossible otherwise.

  Clem heard her nails tap a keyboard. He’d noticed they were a strange square shape and unnaturally white at the tips.

  ‘She got a return rail ticket to Glasgow,’ she said.

  ‘Has she come back yet or is she still in Glasgow?’

  ‘Let me check.’

  Her fingers were still tapping furiously. ‘Oh yeah, here we go. She used her credit card earlier tonight in Glasgow.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘You going to tell me why you want to know this, Clem?’

  ‘Ask me no questions, I’ll tell you no lies.’

  There was a small pause. Carole-Ann insisted on knowing the exact location of her field operatives at all times. She also demanded to know what they were doing. However, she accepted that there were times when it was best for all concerned if that were not the case. ‘The Station Hotel,’ she told him.

  The receptionist swallowed a yawn as Clem approached.

  ‘Can I help?’

  ‘I believe a Miss Joanna Connolly is staying here,’ he said.

  ‘I’m afraid I can’t give out any guest information,’ she answered.

  Clem gave a polite smile and laid his ID on the desk. The girl gave him a now familiar look of alarm and intrigue.

  ‘Actually, I recognised her when I made the booking.’ She glanced at the front page of the newspaper lying on her desk. ‘I didn’t let on, of course – that would have been unprofessional.’

  Clem reached for the telephone. ‘What room?’

  ‘Two three one,’ she said.

  Clem punched the numbers and listened. Six rings and Connolly hadn’t picked up.

  ‘Could she have checked out?’

  The girl shook her head. ‘I’ve been on all night. She hasn’t been down here.’

  Clem let the phone ring three more times.

  ‘She might be asleep,’ the girl ventured. ‘She was a bit, you know, merry.’

  Clem laid the receiver back in the cradle. Was it possible Connolly had passed out? ‘Can you take me up to her room?’

  The girl squirmed. ‘I’m not allowed to leave my post. Mr Radley, the manager, gets annoyed.’

  ‘I’ll square it with Mr Radley if I have to,’ said Clem.

  She smiled and left her station. ‘I’m glad to stretch my legs as it goes.’ She led Clem into the lift. ‘It gets awful boring.’

  Clem wished, just occasionally, that the same could be said for his job.

  They exited on the second floor and the girl hustled over to the door of room 231. There was a newspaper on the floor, the front page ripped as if someone had trodden on it. The picture of Jo’s face had been torn in two.

  ‘That’s odd,’ said the girl. ‘She didn’t order a paper.’

  Clem kept himself in check. Connolly was probably sprawled on the bed, a rom-com on pay-per-view.

  The girl gave three raps with her knuckle. No answer. She rapped again, more quickly. ‘Miss Connolly,’ she called. ‘Miss Connolly.’ She looked at Clem, concern knitting her eyebrows.

  ‘Do you have a pass key?’ Clem asked.

  ‘Yes, but Mr Radley . . .’

  ‘Forget Mr Radley and open the door.’

  She frowned and did as she was told, opening the door with her left hand and reaching in to turn on the light with her right.

  They stepped inside. Nothing was out of place. The bedclothes were wrinkled but that was all. Connolly’s laptop, mobile and purse were all still on the bedside table. But there was no sign of the woman herself.

  The girl checked the bathroom. ‘Where could she have gone?’ she asked.

  Clem was wondering the same thing and glanced again at the items on the bedside table. Something was very wrong.

  ‘Is there a bar? A gym?’

  ‘All closed,’ she said. ‘Anyway, she would have had to come past reception to get there and I would have seen her.’

  ‘Is there any other way out of the hotel?’

  ‘Only the fire exit,’ she said. ‘But where would she go without her stuff?’

  ‘Show me,’ said Clem.

  She gestured out of the room and down the corridor to a door at the far end. Clem jogged over and opened it. The stairwell was cold and concrete. Empty. He hurried down, scanning for any sign that Connolly had been there. At the bottom was the door leading out onto the street. He threw it open and looked outside. Nothing.

  Back on the second floor, catching his breath, Clem heard raised voices from Connolly’s room. A man with slip-on shoes worn away at the heel was giving the girl a telling-off.

  ‘How many times have you been told, Iona? You cannot leave the front desk.’ His hands were on his hips, half hidden by the flesh overhanging his belt. ‘It will have to be a warning this time.’

  ‘Mr Radley, no,’ she said. ‘If you’ll just let me explain. I . . . I—’

  ‘There is no “I” in team,’ he said.

  Clem snorted through his nose. No ‘I’ in team! Who made this crap up? ‘Mr Radley,’ he said. ‘I think I can help.’

  The manager threw Clem a look of disdain. ‘And who might you be?’

  Clem flashed his ID. ‘Christian Clement.’

  ‘MI5?’ The man’s eyes were wide in his pink face.

  ‘I elicited your receptionist’s help. I needed immediate access to this room.’

  ‘I see. May I ask why?’

  ‘No, you may not, and in the meantime I need to borrow her further,’ said Clem.

  He grasped the girl’s elbow and drew her into the corridor. ‘Is that CCTV?’ He pointed to a camera high on the wall.

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Film in it?’ Clem crossed his fingers.
Half these security measures were all fur coat and no knickers.

  ‘Put it in myself this afternoon,’ she beamed at him.

  ‘Excellent.’

  She gave Mr Radley a backwards glance. ‘Some people say it’s a waste of time and money.’

  ‘Some people don’t know what they’re talking about,’ Clem replied.

  Rory rocks back and forth, his hands over his ears. He has been doing this for an hour but still has a pain in his chest. A doctor once asked him if the pain felt like having something heavy placed there, but Rory was not able to confirm this as he has never had anything heavy placed on his chest.

  He reaches into his pocket and pulls out the string. He holds one end between the finger and thumb of his right hand and drags the thumb and finger of his left hand along the length. When his left thumb and finger reach the end, he drops the other end. Then he drags his right thumb and finger along the length. He repeats this process until the pain begins to ease.

  He has had the pain since Ronnie called him.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Ronnie said. Ronnie knows Rory does not like speaking on the telephone.

  ‘It’s an emergency,’ Ronnie said.

  Rory knows what an emergency is. He once cut his hand on a knife and tried to stop it bleeding with a scarf. Four days later his hand swelled up and he kept being sick. Ronnie took him to hospital. When the nurse peeled away the scarf, there was a lot of yellow pus. She said he had septicaemia. This is an example of an emergency.

  ‘I need to come back to your place,’ said Ronnie.

  Rory didn’t answer.

  ‘I’ll have someone else with me,’ said Ronnie.

  That’s when the pain started.

  Clem looked over Iona’s shoulder at the screen. She pressed fast-forward until she reached 21.09. ‘This is her arriving,’ she said.

  Indeed, there was Connolly unlocking the door to her room. She dropped her key and bent to retrieve it, her left hand leaning heavily on the wall.

  ‘Told you she was a bit pished.’

  Clem nodded. Connolly did look tipsy. But drunk enough to wander off into the night without cash or phone?

  Iona fast-forwarded again until two figures came out of the lift.

  ‘Stop here,’ Clem instructed.