Nasreen bent and stepped through the once glass-panelled door. The building was dark, with a low ceiling. She was in a corridor that smelt of piss. The floor was littered with brown leaves, fag ends and beer cans, strewn amongst the roots of trees that pushed up through the decaying wooden floor. She kept thinking of the runner’s body lying under the tree in Greenwich Park. More trees. Another forest. Another body? She listened. She could hear movement. A low murmured voice. She glanced back over her shoulder. How long would back-up take to arrive? She glanced at her watch. Ten minutes for Freddie to reach the road, ten minutes for them to reach the building. T – 9 minutes. There wasn’t time to wait.
Heading away from the smashed glass side of the portakabin, she walked lightly towards where the noise was coming from. The scratched wooden door was heavy with graffiti and swollen from water damage; it lay ajar, the catch no longer biting. She could hear movement on the other side, breathing. The sound of a door closing? She paused, held her own breath. The voice was no longer audible. Everything was still. T – 8 minutes. Nasreen gently pushed the door open a crack. There was Lottie, still in her pink running kit, arms and legs bound to a chair, a gag in her mouth. Her head hung low to her chest, her shorn hair hacked patchy at the back of her scalp, but she was breathing. Still alive. A twig snapped and Nasreen looked up. A woman, blonde hair, also in running gear, fell forwards onto the ground. There’s another one? Another victim? She looked familiar. She was in her early twenties: the same as Nasreen.
‘Oh my god, help me! Please!’ She crawled towards Nasreen across the rubbish-strewn floor. Lottie’s head snapped up and she screamed through the gag, squirming to break free. ‘Please! He’s coming! Please help us!’ The woman stumbled up to her feet. Daisy? Mud and what looked like a scratch sliced across her face.
‘Don’t worry.’ Nasreen kept her eye on the far door; they didn’t have long. There were no signs of weapons or traps. A shelf ran the length of the front window, marking where the hide once was, and on it she saw a number of syringes. Lottie was still violently squirming, fear in her eyes. What had he done to her? ‘I need you to remain calm, Lottie. Help is on the way. You’re safe now.’
The woman on her hands and knees gave out a sob. Struggling up, she took a shaky step. ‘Thank you,’ she said, and tripped. Nasreen rushed to catch her as she crumpled, dropping her baton. Her blonde hair fell forward; Nasreen put her weight on her back foot, levered her up. She’d have to carry her out. ‘Thank you, thank you,’ the girl was saying. Tears were falling from her eyes. ‘Thank you, Nasreen.’
A cold chill ripped up Nasreen’s calves. The hairs on her neck stood to attention. ‘How do you know my name?’ The girl shifted from slippery liquid sack to solid strength, her hand in her hoodie pocket. Nasreen saw her baton on the floor and went for her pepper spray. Too late. She saw the girl’s eyes: clear, focused. The syringe flashed through the air. Lottie was screaming through the gag. Nasreen felt the needle punch into her chest, the plunger being pressed. Air forced its way out of her mouth. ‘Who are you?’ She stumbled backwards, wrenching at the plastic handle.
‘I’m Alex,’ the girl said. And then everything went black.