It didn’t take long before Davis crept from the dark corner concealing her from the kidnappers. She was nervous at first, cautious in case it was them coming back for her. As soon as Davis grasped it wasn’t, she couldn’t wait to scramble towards me. I must have appeared an unusual sight in the impending gloom, wearing dark glasses, a large hat and the floppy blonde wig I’d borrowed from Cross’s wardrobe. But she didn’t care or notice, grateful I wasn’t one of her abductors.
‘Can you take me to the city?’
The bruises on her throat were visible even in the dark, her voice more rasping than when she’d smoked twenty cigarettes a day. I moved closer to her, seeing the finger marks embedded in her flesh, smiling at the thought of her trying to strangle Davis. It was another indicator of how her mind was slipping from its usual precision, which was precisely what I’d wanted.
‘What did you do to upset her?’ I asked.
My right hand was clenched, not for a punch because it was possible I could break my hand on her face, but to lift my arm and catch her on the neck. But not yet; I wanted to hear her speak first. There was no rush to get to Portsmouth. The spyware on the laptop meant it was no secret where they were going, and they wouldn’t be heading to the gallery before it opened in the morning. I knew how her mind worked better than she did; how could I not?
‘What?’
Davis stumbled towards me, splashing through puddles and dirtying those nondescript shoes she always wore. She hadn’t seen me in some time, but recognition stole out from behind her eyes, then something else: anxiety. She was in the grip of silent panic, face growing wild, pupils dilated large enough to fall out of her eyes, internal organs throbbing at a thousand beats a minute. The place stank of chemicals and petrol fumes, the alleyway darker than my past, surrounded by the sour relics of abandoned buildings. I put my hand onto the fresh pain on her neck and forced her to the floor, until she was kneeling at my feet in agonised supplication.
‘There is misery in this country, desolation and gloom glued to the insides of all its citizens. It has seeped out of its industrial heritage in great waves, washing over the majority of the population to the point where most of them don’t even realise they’re drowning in mediocrity and despair.’
Davis stared at me as if I was mad, looking like she wanted to be back in that car with those that took her. The phone was in my hand as I snapped away at her.
‘Who are you?’
‘The misery is endemic and everywhere, transforming good people into bad, the hopeful into the desperate. The only respite from their pain is a flickering screen like this digital device which present the trivial and mundane as modern religion. Is it any wonder we believe the only way to fend off the unknown abyss is to find solace in someone else’s pain, in someone else’s death?’
I didn’t expect her to answer or understand; I just needed a body to talk to. I brought my forearm down into her right cheek, knocking her to the floor, not quite unconscious as her lips dripped blood into the water.
There was damp in her eyes, but it wasn’t from the splashes of the puddle, her face grasping the truth as I removed the plastic bag from my pocket, pulling it over her head and caressing the bruises on her neck. Her eyes grew larger as I squeezed the bag tighter. It was only as her orbs popped that she truly understood who I was.
Astrid rubbed the sleep from her eyes as excited birds chattered outside the window. It hadn’t been the most comfortable of beds, but it had done the trick when they’d collapsed into it. The gallery didn’t open until midday, giving them time to get refreshed.
‘How come artistic types never get out of bed in the morning?’ Laurel said without humour when she returned from getting breakfast.
Astrid stared into the phone Laurel had picked up during her early morning excursion outside the hotel. The first thing she did was access the hotel’s free Wi-Fi service, checking the latest news, pleased to find no updates on the Reaper or their escapade in Brighton. The talking heads were more concerned with another Royal baby, and some celebrity’s extra-marital activities caught on video and posted online.
She dropped the phone on the sofa bed under the window.
She needed the bathroom.
‘I’ll get a shower, and then we can have a wander around the Quays.’
Laurel emptied her bag onto the table against the back wall, moving the cups and tatty looking kettle to one side as she retrieved the fresh sandwiches. Astrid resisted the temptation to invite Laurel into the shower, having noticed tension from the younger woman during the night. She’d put it down to the stress of escaping from George’s house and their interrupted excursion with Davis, plus the news of Frank Delaney’s murder.
She’d fallen asleep as soon as they’d hit the bed, while Astrid had to go through her usual routine of clearing everything from her mind before she could get any rest. It was a process which took some time, during which it was amusing to hear Laurel snoring like a baby pig and watch her sink into a delicate dream state. Every once in a while, Laurel would mumble some incomprehensible words, all apart from one: Reaper. She’d stroked the younger woman’s hair until she fell asleep.
The hot water covered her head and ran down her back, reinvigorating her senses as she examined the map in her mind. The Reaper had followed them from the Agency to Frank Delaney’s house, that much was clear.
They must have been tracking me since the park.
It seemed likely considering they’d followed her during the trip to Europe and in Manchester. Astrid bent her neck so the water flowed down her head, grabbed her hair and covered it with shampoo. She’d forgotten how good it was to get a shower every day, to cleanse her body of unwanted thoughts and villainous memories. She thought again about who hated her so much, returning to the seven names from the list. What if she’d been wrong all along and it wasn’t an individual woman tormenting her? What if it was somebody inside the Agency? It made more sense, with all the resources they had at their disposal. What if it was Lawrence? What if someone from the Agency was working with him? The thought sent a shudder down her spine. Davis said she knew him, so maybe other agents did as well.
She turned the shower off and shook the damp fog from her head. She wrapped a towel around her waist and draped another over her hair. As she stepped out of the bathroom, Laurel was putting the finishing touches on their morning meal, pouring cheap coffee next to two sandwiches long enough to feed a small family. Astrid snatched the bread from the table, biting it in half as the water slid down her chest. She expected Laurel to smile at the sight, but she devoured her food while looking miserable.
Astrid placed the sandwich on the table and dried the rest of her hair. She let the towel around her waist slip to the floor as Laurel licked her lips and grinned.
‘We’ve got some time to kill before the gallery opens.’
They left twenty minutes later, striding past the receptionist with the patent leather face, and headed towards the DV8 art gallery Annie Dvorak had run for the past five years.
‘That’s a pretentious name for the place.’
Laurel stared at the website on the phone as they headed towards the sea. Noisy gulls hovered overhead as the finest retail stores, cafes, restaurants, and bars sailed past them on both sides.
‘Be careful when you meet her. She’s rather choleric and rises to insults quickly.’
‘You won’t be there?’
Astrid grinned, remembering how much of a rookie Laurel was when she was out from behind a desk. ‘You’ll need to have a word with Annie before she sees me; prepare her for the shock.’
She grabbed Laurel’s hand as they made their way to the gallery, both sets of eyes dragged towards the giant stuffed animal coming in their direction. It wasn’t every day somebody waddled towards her dressed as a humongous furry frog. The creature was a light shade of blue, no green anywhere, with eyes bigger than its head and a mouth which could have swallowed them in one go.
Laurel nodded in acceptance of Astrid’s request. The tall frog marched past them as a group of school kids ran behind it, giggling and screaming in its wake. Astrid found a bench next to the clock and opposite the art gallery. She sat, staring at the kids as they disappeared into the distance. Olivia was never far from her mind. So much so, she’d started to create a second escape map inside her head, but this one was for her niece and her options to get her away from Courtney and, potentially, Astrid’s father.
‘I have a niece. That’s who Davis threatened when I grabbed her.’
There was a longing in her voice which hadn’t been there before. They held hands as if they were kids waiting for their first day at school, staring at the unassuming entrance to the art gallery, with its plain white curtains draped against the inside of the window and an ordinary-looking door. If there hadn’t been an intricately designed business logo sitting above the front, she would have believed it was another run-down residential property.
‘You love her.’ Laurel gripped her hand as the clock ticked closer to twelve. ‘She loved you.’
‘Who loved me?’ There were another five minutes before the gallery opened.
‘Annie Dvorak.’
‘I didn’t know what love was.’
She stood, took in a large breath, and prepared for another reunion. Laurel got to her feet as well.
‘And you do now?’
‘Yes,’ Astrid said as she strode forward. ‘It’s very much like hate.’