The only thing worse than not escaping is almost escaping. I’m so close to getting away from this place I want to scream. Instead, I drive my elbows back and try to squirm free, but he punches me in the kidneys and I can’t breathe.
‘She’s got fight, that’s good,’ Nicotine Man rasps.
His voice sends shivers through me and I’m so tired. Tired of fighting. Tired of struggling. All I want to do is lie down–
That’s what she did. The grinning corpse lay down, probably just for a moment–
Defiance sparks inside me and I screw up the last scrap of energy I have left. I grab Nicotine Man’s arm, the one he’s got over my shoulder, and use my hip to spin him. He yells in surprise and his back crunches against the floor.
I’m free.
As he counts the tweety birds, I seize the pipe, which I dropped when his stinking fingers dug into me. I heft it, feeling the weight and clutching it like a baseball bat.
‘Stay back,’ I warn, my mouth dry, like I’ve been shovelling dirt into it.
He runs his tongue over his lip. He must’ve bitten it. Good, it’ll match the busted nose, which he’s stuck a plaster over.
‘Girl, you wanna run? You run. Nowhere you can hide I won’t find you.’
The steely glimmer in his eyes gives me chills.
‘Come any closer and I’ll bust that thing off your face for good.’
‘My my, got your panties in a twist.’ Nicotine Man’s lounging against the wall now. A lazy jungle cat waiting for a moment to strike. I notice a bunch of keys attached to a loop in his jeans.
His van.
If I get the keys…
I swing the pipe. It crunches into the side of his head and he almost topples over. He quickly regains his balance and now his eyes are raging. He hurls himself at me and I don’t have time to get out of the way.
The ground tilts and comes up to crack against the back of my skull.
I see every star in the universe. They swirl in front of me and when they pop and clear, Nicotine Man’s rubbery mask of a face is pressing close to mine.
‘Time we got you back in that pit,’ he snarls, clasping my wrists.
The pain of him squeezing the rope burns jolts me to. I thrash against the floor, digging my heels in.
‘Just – making – it – difficult – for – yourself,’ Nicotine Man grunts, but I barely hear him.
Then he’s got me by the throat.
‘STOP!’ He sprays spit in my face. ‘Just like your goddamn mother.’
I stop thrashing, but he doesn’t stop squeezing. I see the rage whirling in his eyes. Did everybody meet my mother but me? He’s so angry he won’t stop. He’s going to crush my windpipe and then he’s going to smoke a cigarette over my corpse.
Nicotine Man looks up suddenly. Has he heard something? The pressure at my throat lessens and I gasp a breath. Then, using the last of my strength, I bury my fist in his face. He makes an ‘oof’ sound, the way he did when I hit him earlier. I never get sick of that sound. I hit him again and grab the pipe, swinging it at him, bludgeoning the side of his head and he collapses on top of me. His sweaty cheek slides against mine and I grit my teeth, heaving him off me and struggling to my feet.
He’s out cold.
A sound like creaking metal. I turn towards it and spot a spindly figure on the other side of the space.
Skinny. Blood’s smeared across his face and his baggy T-shirt. He looks as knackered as I feel.
My gaze snaps immediately to his hands. They’re empty. No rusty nail-dagger.
‘Get the hell away from me,’ I wheeze. It hurts to swallow, like I’m trying to gulp down the nail Skinny had pressed to my throat.
He ignores me, taking a step forward.
‘Stay back!’ I shout, then wince.
‘You’re welcome,’ Skinny says.
‘For what?’ I sit up. I thought I ached before. My body feels like it’s been put through a spin cycle. There’s not a single spot that doesn’t throb or ache or spike with pain.
‘Got us out.’
‘I got me out,’ I snap. Nicotine Man isn’t moving. I crouch by him and roll him over; a smelly sack of potatoes.
‘You wouldn’t have if it wasn’t for me,’ Skinny says.
‘Just keep back.’ I fumble with the keys at Nicotine Man’s belt. I keep expecting him to jerk into life. He’s still breathing, as far as I can tell. Assuming I didn’t cause any permanent brain damage – or more brain damage than this guy already had – we don’t have much time.
‘What you doing?’ Skinny asks.
I yank the keys free and get to my feet, limping a few steps before steadying myself against the wall. For a moment I feel delirious, as if I’m not really here. I swear I see Frances smiling at me and I don’t know where I am, but I’m not here in the warehouse. I blink and Frances is gone.
‘You got a ride?’ Skinny asks, snapping me back to the present.
‘No passengers.’
Straightening, I begin to make my way back through the warehouse, hoping I’m headed in a direction that leads to the van.
‘Play fair!’
‘This isn’t a game!’ I wince again, rubbing my throat.
‘Jesus, you want them to hear?’ Skinny’s eyes are big as bottle caps. ‘Look, just get me back to the city. That’s all. Please.’
I realise he’s right. The prank he pulled in the pit was idiotic, but it got us out. Would he have slashed my throat? Desperate people have done crazier things. If he thought it would get him out, would he have killed me? I still don’t know what he did to piss off Reverend Mara. But if I leave him here, I’m condemning him to death, and then I’m no better.
Maybe I can save somebody for once.
‘Fine. Just hurry.’ Hesitantly, I add: ‘You first.’
He traipses over to a doorless rectangle in the wall and I can tell he’s badly hurt. He clutches his side and his movements are jolting, every step seeming to cause him pain. Sympathy tugs at me, but I’m aching enough myself without thinking of ways to make his life easier.
We go through the door frame into a garage. Black SUVs line up and Nicotine Man’s ride must be here somewhere. But I don’t see it anywhere.
I keep Skinny in my sight as we make our way between the cars. I listen out for Nicotine Man or his comrades, but it’s quiet as the grave – or the pit – with only the shushing trees outside making a sound.
Skinny’s stopped at the garage doors, which are open. Through them, I glimpse shapes moving across the tarmac. The place is swarming with guards.
Where are Nicotine Man’s wheels?
I stop by Skinny and scan the area outside the warehouse. Then I spot it. The van’s parked on the other side of the stretch of tarmac, by the trees. There’s no cover between here and there, though. If we make a run for it, we’ll be easy targets.
Skinny’s probably thinking the same thing. He flashes a look at me and I remember him pressing the nail-dagger to my throat. The meaty stink of his breath. Would he give me up? Trade me in?
Whoever Reverend Mara is, I get the feeling he doesn’t do trades.
‘I’ll distract them.’ His expression is uncertain. ‘You’ll trust me then, right? I’ll distract them, you get the van and pick me up. Then we get the fuck outta here.’
‘You’re crazier than I thought.’
‘Only option,’ Skinny says. He’s still gripping his side, like he’s stopping his guts from spilling out. This time, the sympathy’s like stabbing glass. I can’t let him do that. They’ll shoot him on sight and I’ll have to add another person to the list of people I’ve killed over the years.
At least one of us will get away. I hate myself for thinking it. He dies, it’s on me, and I’ve lost count of how many people have died because they got too close to me.
Skinny seems to give up on me handing him permission. Before I can stop him, he slips awkwardly out of the garage doors.
‘Hey! Ninja assassins! You want me?’
The guards spin towards him. There’s shouting and the sound of boots on tarmac and, in an instant, they’re after him. Skinny darts to the left, towards the dirt track that must lead out of this hellhole.
All eyes are on him.
I’m already panting, psyching myself up to run.
‘Don’t get shot,’ I tell myself. ‘Don’t even think about getting shot.’
I hurtle forward, squeezing the keys in my hand until it hurts. It’s impossible to be quiet when you’re in that much pain and my panting echoes all around me.
A few of the guards swivel in my direction. Prickly heat causes me to start sweating again. Sparks spit up from the tarmac. They’re shooting at me. They’re goddamn shooting at me.
The van bobs up and down as I race towards it.
Something whistles past my ear and I try to ignore it. It’s nothing. Definitely not a bullet. Definitely nowhere near my head.
I hurl myself at the van and the sound of boots is louder as the guards charge for me.
Psssewww ! Psssewww !
Angry little hornets buzz through the air. Some of them hit the van with a tinny pop, but I’m already at the driver’s door and wrenching it open. I clamber inside, slamming and locking it.
The keys shake in my hands and I shove one into the ignition. The rumble of the engine revving is sweet music to my ears.
Beside me, the window shatters and a gloved hand roves in.
I throw the van into reverse and rocket backwards, ignoring the thumps and bumps as guards get in the way.
‘Screw you,’ I say through clenched teeth.
There are guards everywhere. The van rocks as it’s riddled with bullets. I shift into second gear and rev towards the dirt track Skinny was heading for, though he’s either dead or captured by now. He can’t be anything else.
But then I’m racing down the dirt track and I see a pale white shape, like a rag attached to a flagpole, and it’s Skinny running. I reach over and throw the passenger door open. Skinny’s wincing face appears and he struggles, can’t lift his leg to get into the van.
I lean over the seat to grab his hand.
And I hear the bullet.
A second later, blood’s all over the door and Skinny sags, dropping heavily onto the grass.
My face is wet with something warm and the sound of the bullet echoes around the cab, or maybe just in my ears.
It went straight through the side of his head.
Another bullet cracks against the van and I snap to, slamming the passenger door and pumping the engine. Then I’m racing down the track again, racing ahead with the sound of bullets receding into the distance.