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  The muscle in my right calf develops some kind of twitch, from being too long in the same position I guess. The more I think about it the worse it gets, so I try to distract myself by working out the relative distances between the staircase, the front room and the outside door. Supposing Edona should be sent down to collect her next fuck, I’m calculating the possibility of letting her walk past me then springing up to bundle both of us out of the front door and away before the goon on watch knows what’s happening.

  But Edona doesn’t show before the next scene in the drama, which is played out on the screen at my elbow. I recognise Emmanuel straightaway as he reaches the front entrance, even though the camera angle slightly distorts his image. The white guy behind is new to me, but he also looks a big bugger, a fact confirmed when the door opens and the two of them walk in, filling the hallway. Boris stays silent, just nods once in my direction from his place at the banister, and the two heavies make space for me to stand between them.

  There’s a certain inevitability about what’s unfolding now and I’m experiencing something very like déjà vu as we file along the garden path, leaning away from the wet hedge, to the silver BMW parked outside the gate. Which is strange because I’ve never been anywhere near a situation like this.

  The one thing that does surprise me is that Emmanuel sits next to the driver in the front of the car, leaving me on my own in the back. I’m assuming the rear doors are child-locked (family-friendly, ha), but I ain’t about to test them, or to try winding a window down to haul myself out. It’s not just that I’m afraid of hurting myself (I know I’ve got that to come anyway) or that they’ll recapture me (which they surely will, big as they are). Something in me has decided I have a responsibility to sit there and take what’s coming. I think I’m on a guilt trip for Edona. I still have her scent on me. It’s as if she’s sitting with me in the back of the car.

  Being resigned to what’s happening doesn’t make me any less scared. When my eyes aren’t drawn to the thick necks and shoulders of the pair who are about to demonstrate whatever form of punishment they’ve devised for me, I’m anxiously peering out of the window, trying to second-guess where it’s going to take place. The men supply me no clues. All I learn from their desultory conversation is that the driver’s name is Stefan.

  The Beemer soon leaves the suburbs and seems to be following the AA signs to the new tunnel, but then Stefan turns right onto the coast road in the same direction I drove Marni just a few days ago. Get Carter comes to mind. Funny how the brain works; in the middle of this nightmare ride I start thinking about what made the original so much better than the remake, then I have a mini panic attack, brought on by not being able to remember what happens when Carter gets to the beach.

  The car slows significantly, though we’re still on the open road, and my heart leaps into my throat. Looks like they’re going to do what they’re going to do here on the hard shoulder. I twist in the seat, my body tucking into some sort of futile protection position. False alarm, the driver doesn’t pull over – Emmanuel seems to be explaining something to him, one hand on Stefan’s shoulder to talk in low tones, pointing with his other hand to where a graffiti-covered flyover crosses the motorway, as if he’s describing a route – but when the driver picks up speed again we don’t turn off the coast road. Not until we reach the Tesco car park.

  Yes, the very place where I first set eyes on Edona. On Emmanuel for that matter, and this other guy was probably driving the car that night as well. I suppose there’s a neatness to it, something appropriate about this being the spot they’ve chosen to knock me senseless, even if they don’t appreciate the connection. I expect to be driven to the far corner, beyond where the huge lorries are parked, where we won’t be seen. But we roll up to the main entrance of the store and park in a handy disabled bay, ignoring the hundreds of other spaces available nearby. The driver gets out and disappears through the big sliding doors as if he’s on an ordinary shopping trip, and I’m just thinking this is a temporary reprieve when Emmanuel gets out the passenger side and opens the back door for me to step out.

  “The cash machine is this way, sir,” he says, politely.

  “Sorry?”

  “We need you to take out some cash.”

  “Oh, right. Yes, of course. No problem.”

  I follow him past the stacked trolleys to the cashpoint and he waits discreetly while I sort through my wallet to find the right card, my whole body tingling with relief. Of course, the money is much more important to them than teaching people a lesson – that’s for amateur thugs. I check my current cash limit, just two hundred and fifty, but that should leave me more than enough after I’ve settled up to pay for a taxi to get me to the other side of town.

  Or so I thought. As I turn with the wad of fresh notes Emmanuel takes one pace forward and nimbly extracts it from my fingers. He removes a leather glove and riffles through, his lips moving minimally as he counts the money.

  “I think it’s, er, one ninety-five I owe,” I say, staking my claim. “Well, call it two hundred, cos I already paid twenty, so that leaves…”

  Emmanuel flashes me his gold tooth as he pockets all my cash. “No, sir, it’s exactly right. Includes travel expenses.” He indicates the BMW. “Expensive motor,” and he laughs, inviting me to join the joke. When I don’t, he follows up with, “You have a issue with that, mister?”

  I back off. “No, honestly. Just a slight logistical problem.”

  “Huh?”

  “Oh, just trying to figure out how to get myself home, that’s all.”

  Too much information. I instantly regret it as Emmanuel slips into public relations mode.

  “No worries,” he says expansively, like some character from The Lion King. “Stefan and me, we will give you a ride for sure. No extra charge,” he adds, with a wink. “Where do you live, sir?”

  Now that really would be too much information. I’m caught in a quandary. It’s around one in the morning. Getting all the way back to my place from here with nix in my pocket is a challenge to say the least. On the other hand, do I really want to take my chance in the car with these low-lifes? (Listen to me talking.) There again, if I refuse, Emmanuel is more than likely to take offence and I could still end up flat on my back behind the lorry park. But there’s no way I’m going to give them my address. Somewhere fairly close, public.

  “Mmm, if you could drop me off anywhere near the Western General...”

  “Western…?”

  “The hospital, you know? West end of the city.”

  A light goes on in Emmanuel’s eyes. He takes a step towards me, a finger raised, face wreathed in smiles. “I knew it. I knew I had seen your face. You are the doctor.”

  “Well, no, not a doctor…”

  “Look! Look!” He lifts both arms, showing off his black leather gloves. “I got them this afternoon. You were right. My hands feel so much better already.”

  He smacks his right fist into his left palm, either in triumph or to demonstrate, I’m not sure which. Behind him I can see Stefan coming out of the store, keeping a newspaper in place with one elbow as he tries to light a cigarette on the move. Emmanuel follows my eyes and turns to call out to his buddy.

  “Hey, Stefan, this is the doctor I was telling you of.” He checks briefly with me, “Dr Oliver, isn’t it? Come on, Stefan, we have to take my friend home to his hospital.”

  Emmanuel opens the back door for me much more elaborately than he had the first time, gracing me with the status of a minor royal, then takes his place in the front alongside Stefan. This VIP pantomime must have triggered something off in Stefan, who jams his fag in the corner of his mouth and pulls away as if we were trying to shake off the paparazzi. He takes the speed bump on the way out almost as hard as I did the other night, and my eyes flick automatically to the floor under the dash as if I expect to see a broken wine bottle there.

  What I see instead gives me another jolt. Directly under Emmanuel’s feet, where Stefan must have thrown it
as he climbed into the car, is the newspaper he has just bought at the supermarket. Tonight’s Chronicle. If Emmanuel takes it into his head to have a browse during the journey he can’t fail to see the article and my V-flashing photo on page three. Even if they spot it later I wouldn’t put it past him to come and track me down just for taking the piss. I mean, I don’t know what he did to Edona after she tried to run away, but he certainly put the fear of god up her.

  I lean forward into the space between the two front seats.

  “Er, I don’t suppose I could have a glance at your paper, could I?”

  “Sure, Oliver. Why not?” says Emmanuel, reaching down for it. As he picks it up there’s a slow-motion moment when his eye is caught by a teaser pic of a scantily-clad female on the front page. He angles it for Stefan to see.

  “Eh?”

  Full story page seven. Don’t go there. He shows the picture to me, through the gap.

  “Oliver, eh? Good fuck or no?”

  I try a noncommittal ‘Uuhh’ and he follows up with, “How much you pay?” which gives me a chance.

  “Dunno. Let’s see.” And I thrust my hand out so he’s not tempted to turn to page seven on my behalf. He posts the paper between the seats and I grab it quickly. For form’s sake I thumb quickly through to page seven and turn the bigger photo towards Emmanuel, putting a lads’ night out ogle on for him and saying, “Not bad. I’ll give it eight out of ten. You’d get two hundred for her, easy.” Hating myself and apologising to Edona in my heart. But it works well enough and Emmanuel, laughing, turns to watch the road ahead as I sink back into my seat with the newspaper.

  I sneak a look at Philip Mann’s piece to confirm which page it’s on, then grab the bottom of the sheet between my thumb and forefinger, aiming to ease it out covertly as I pretend to read the paper. It’s a slow, tedious task. I’m concerned that we’ll get to the end of my ride before I make it, or that they’ll catch me in the act. I look up to check where we’ve got to, and meet Stefan’s eyes in the rear-view mirror.

  “There’s a reading light behind you,” he says through the mirror. “’S OK to switch it on.”

  “I can see well enough, thanks.” (But I’m hoping you can’t.)

  Once Stefan refocuses his attention on his driving I manage to slide the double page out onto the seat beside me. Holding the rest of the paper with my left hand and making a show of studying the back page, I very quietly fold up the loose sheet with my right, anchoring it under my backside until it’s small enough to stuff into my coat pocket. I deliberately mess up what’s left of the Chronicle, pretending a close interest in the racing results as an excuse for folding it out of its normal order. Then I casually set it aside, inner pages uppermost, just as the hospital comes into view.

  “Anywhere here will be fine, thanks.”

  “Take him right in,” Emmanuel directs Stefan, gesturing towards the main gates.

  “No, really…”

  “Hey, no worries, doctor. At your service.”

  Stefan sweeps through the gates, up the hospital road and hangs a right, parking next to the ramp over the Ambulances Only markings, though to be fair there are no ambulances or people in sight. I shuffle across the back seat, crumpling the newspaper a little more, but I can’t get out of the car until Emmanuel springs from the front to release me.

  “Thanks. I’d give you a tip, but you’ve got all my money already.”

  Emmanuel roars with laughter and, to my great surprise, clasps me in a bear hug. “I like you, Oliver. You’re my man.” Thinking about it later I have to admit that, leaving aside the real Oliver, this is the friendliest anyone has been with me for weeks. His hug has put the seal on it. I’m now officially best mates with a pimp.

  He eventually lets me go and, with a playful punch on the shoulder, returns to his seat, calling out just loud enough to embarrass me, “Take care for yourself, sir. Do not forget to come back and see us. Good fun, eh?”

  I watch his door close and wait with my hand on the ramp rail as if to see them off, but the Beemer doesn’t move immediately and I’m marooned between the road and the hospital entrance. Through the windows of the car I can see Emmanuel put his cell phone to his ear. Anxious that it may have something to do with me, I move further up the ramp towards the main doors. I have no choice, with the baddies still obstinately out there, but to walk into the building. I’ll try and find a public toilet to hide in until they drive off.

  The reception desk nearest the door is unmanned, but I haven’t moved three yards inside the entrance before a porter or security man, one of those semi-retired types, emerges from a cubby-hole behind it. I’m rapidly working up an excuse that will persuade him not to heave me out when he speaks up quite cheerily, addressing me like a long-lost friend.

  “Hello, it’s Marc Niven, isn’t it? How’s that for a coincidence?”

  “Sorry?”

  “I was just reading about you in the Chronicle. What a load of nonsense.”

  “Oh, storm in a…”

  “Exactly. You did right to stick your fingers up at ‘em. They’re not going to get rid of you over that, are they? Fools if they did. Best asset they’ve got.”

  “Kind of you to say so.”

  “Not at all. You pass the time nicely for me back there, mate.” He crooks a thumb at his cubby-hole. “I’m your number one fan, me.” He shakes my hand vigorously. “Norman Tait. Never miss a show when I’m on shift. I was here when you talked that feller down from the bridge. Watched the ambulance off in the middle of it. It was like having a part in a film and sitting in the audience all at the same time. So, what brings you this way, Marc?”

  I’ve been so busy soaking up this unexpected praise that I half-miss his question at the end of it. He has to jog me with another.

  “I say, what can we do for you?”

  “Oh, erm…” I sneak a look through the glass doors. Emmanuel is still on the phone, looking abstractedly in my direction. I turn my back on him, instinctively looking for an escape route. On the wall behind Norman is a board pointing to all manner of wards and departments.

  “Well, it’s a kind of a scouting mission, really. There’s a friend of mine, a regular listener actually, like yourself, has to come here and see about her cataracts in the morning. And I promised to be her eyes, as it were. Except I wanted to find out in advance where to go, so it’s not the blind leading the blind.”

  I’m torn between admiring my own inventiveness and shaking my head at the absurd idea of casing the joint in the early hours of the morning, but Norman seems to buy it readily enough.

  “Cataracts, eh? It’s Ophthalmics you want. Here, I’ll walk you along there so you’ll know.”

  He starts down a corridor with a spring in his step, turning just once to let me catch up. I’m pleased to get out of the sight of Emmanuel and Stefan, so I follow him pretty rapidly. He continues chattering happily as we go.

  “You’ll know Alex Ray pretty well, I suppose?”

  “Alex, yes. He’s on after me. You’re a fan of his as well, are you?” (Trying to tone down the disbelief.)

  “Oh, yeah. In fact, he’s the reason I started listening in the first place. Alex used to work here, see.”

  “So he did.”

  “Aye, you’ve got Alex to thank for me discovering you, Marc. Tell him I’m asking after him when you see him.”

  “I will.”

  “If they ever let you back in of course,” Norman laughs.

  “Quite.”

  We turn left down another identical corridor.

  “Well, I see you’re talking to the other party anyway,” says Norman.

  “Sorry?”

  “That’ll help clear things up.”

  “Norman, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Just those guys that dropped you off. They’re to do with the Asian woman, aren’t they? You know, the widow.”

  “What? I shouldn’t think so.”

  “Oh, right. Must’ve got my wires cr
ossed. Mind you, there was a lot of comings and goings at the time, hardly surprising.”

  “What time do you mean?” I can’t keep up with this. Norman talks as fast as he walks.

  “When your man was brought in. I mean the real one, not the joker you talked to. The one that was killed. Mr Malik. Nasty business that. Sixth degree burns, apparently.”

  I’m as confused by what Norman is saying as I am by the route we’re taking through the hospital. I’m still trying to make sense of his ramblings when we round yet another corner and Norman announces, “Ophthalmics Department. Always busy here during the day. You book in at this reception desk, waiting room over here. Consulting rooms just down the corridor.”

  As I’m feigning an interest in the details I notice what looks a set of glass doors, smaller than the ones at the main entrance, leading to a car park outside.

  “Is this another way out from here, Norman? Or in. I’m just thinking, this could be a bit less complicated…”

  “Oh, yes, this is all part of our new Out Patients suite. All built under PFI, heard of that? It means we’re in hock to some big company for the next fifty years. Smart though, eh?”

  “Very impressive. Norman, do you mind if I use that exit instead of the front doors, so I can work out where it is in relation to the rest of the site? It’s going to be a lot easier than finding my way along all those corridors tomorrow.”

  Norman contemplates the radical notion of using the entrance that has been purpose-built for the unit. “It’s alarmed though, that’s the thing. After hours.” For a minute I think he’s going to get all jobsworth on me and trail us all the way back to the main doors where Emmanuel and Stefan could still be camped out. Then he nods to show he’s made up his mind to demonstrate what power he has over his domain. He unclips his walkie-talkie from his belt clip.