‘We can’t agree on anything … politics … my job … her job … sex … not even this lot …’ He gestured to the remains littering the room beneath their feet. ‘So we thought … sod it … if we can’t agree who owns what, then neither of us is going to get anything.’ On this, and perhaps on this alone, his young wife seemed to agree.
Loach thought he’d heard it all, but this one had to take the cake. Stunned by their lunatic display, he leaned back against the only object left standing in this universe – an antique table. It crumbled under his weight, taking him with it. After hitting the floor hard, he struggled to climb back up while looking at the young couple with what he was sure appeared to be a sheepish and apologetic grin. ‘Oh well. I’ve saved you doing this one.’
Yet they did not seem to be sharing his amusement, their mood having suddenly changed. Once again, they agreed. And in fact, they were appalled.
‘You bloody barbarian!’ the young wife spat at him.
‘You know what you’ve done?’ her husband demanded.
‘What?’ Loach asked rather innocently, though with considerable apprehension at this point.
‘That was a Georgian table, you cretin!’ the young wife informed him.
There was cold anger in the husband’s intonation. ‘I hope you’ve got good insurance cover, guy. Because you’ll need it before I’m through. And right up front, I’ll have both your numbers.’ He looked down, aiming his gaze at Loach. ‘And I want your name most of all, Sunny Jim …’
Helpless and hopeless, Loach exchanged glances with a grim-faced Toby. Another fine mess he’d gotten them into.
The Pub on 4th was busy later that evening with a full complement of both regular Police and Specials. At one of the tables Viv Smith was having a drink to pass the time while waiting with Freddy Calder and a group of PCs and other Specials. When a PC with distinctive ginger hair entered and started to look around the room, Viv shrieked, jumped up, and, in her haste to join him, upset and nearly spilled the table and its contents into their laps.
‘What’s going on?’ asked one of the PCs at the table.
‘Ginger …’ Freddy answered, as he watched Viv possessively embracing the object of her affections. Now that’s the proper way to treat the chap in your life, he secretly smiled, happy for Viv in his own way. ‘The walking no-smoking zone,’ he added, also a bit jealous of Ginger himself.
The PC kept his eyes on Viv. ‘By the way,’ Freddy interrupted his reverie, trying to distract him from Viv, ‘you seen anything on your travels of a nice bachelor flat?’ It was time for him to think about making plans for his own paramour … should he ever be fortunate enough to find her.
The PC gave Freddy the same old-fashioned look of mild disbelief, followed by a patronizing smile. ‘Give over, Freddy, and pull the other one. If I’d a quid for every time you’ve asked me that, I’d …’
‘Okay, fair enough,’ Freddy surrendered, raising his hands. ‘I’d hate to put you to any trouble.’
Freddy ignored the PC rolling his eyes and once more gazed at Viv and Ginger. In the doorway, beyond, a burly fellow looked over the pub. Apparently not finding what he was searching for, the man walked over to their table and barged between Viv and her obsession. After a brief discussion, Viv pointed him in the direction of the bar.
Nodding his thanks, the burly fellow ambled over to the bar counter, where Loach was chatting with Toby Armstrong.
‘Loach?’ inquired the burly.
‘That’s me.’
‘I’m Detective Inspector Dutrow …’
Loach’s eyes widened. This wasn’t quite what he had expected.
‘Now what the hell are these messages I’ve been getting all over town?’ Dutrow demanded, his own eyes narrowing. ‘Who the hell are you?’
Loach was confused. If Dutrow didn’t know him, how did he know enough to find him?
‘You got my note?’
‘What note?’ asked Dutrow, plainly ignorant of whatever Loach was talking about.
Queasy all of a sudden, Loach had a sick feeling deep inside. He looked up at the clock above the bar counter. It was the witching hour … which he had almost been able to make himself forget.
The pedestrian underpass was dark, almost always empty, always lonely. No doubt that’s why it had been chosen as a rendezvous, but that was no help to Jackie. The cement walls covered with graffiti gave her no refuge. And Dutrow gave her little assurance, not much of a straw to grasp. But she needed to hang on just a while longer, to make the connection. He would understand right away – after all, he wasn’t that stupid – and he would pay in order to get Diesel. Then she could get out of here, get away, find something else. At least she wouldn’t be trapped in this desolate black hole, a walking target in a deserted underpass waiting for a fat cop to rescue her. Fat chance.
As the last chimes of the church clock died away, she heard footsteps in the distance … one set of footsteps. For the first time that night she allowed herself a small sense of relief, closing her eyes in thanks to the spirits of the darkest hour. She straightened up, ran a quick brush through her hair, and tried to make herself look nonchalant, like a slut who didn’t give a damn about anything.
When he got closer, her composure disappeared instantly, overcome by complete horror. It wasn’t Dutrow. It was Diesel. The wrong man.
Sheer panic paralyzed her. No place to run, no place to hide … he was coming after her, taking his time. What could she say to him? She had to think of something, fast. She had to put her face back together, stop shaking, try to smile, think of something to say, anything.
Maybe Dutrow was on his way, maybe he would get there in time to save her. She had to stall Diesel. She had to come up with some kind of a story, just to hold him off for a few seconds until Dutrow got there. Fast! She had to think, think! Up until the last moment, her mind was a blank: she couldn’t think of anything at all.
A shadow loomed over her. Above her, alone with her in a lonely place, stood the nightmare she dreaded, in the flesh, a lop-sided grin on his grotesque, pitted, sadistic face.
‘Not thinking of running out on me, are you, Jackie?’ inquired the beast who had sexually abused her time and time again.
The blood drained from her face, and she was afraid she would pass out before she could think of an excuse to stall him just a little longer.
‘I don’t know what you mean, Diesel …’
‘’Course you do,’ he soothed her. ‘I need you, Jackie. In fact, I can’t live without seeing your pretty face on the pillow next to me …’
Jackie closed her eyes.
In the kitchen the next morning Anjali had breakfast in the presence of her mother and Uncle Ram, though in total silence. Yet she knew him well enough to know he was building up to something. After he had settled in with his tea, he began to fold the newspaper he had been reading (or failing to read, more likely) in half, then again, and again, until he finished with a neat square. Finally he looked at her.
‘I have come to a conclusion regarding last night.’ He paused once more, deliberated, then resumed. ‘I may have made an error of judgement regarding the young man we met. It