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68
Ro
Still without removing his hand, he walked the short distance back to Mail Box City and stashed five thousand and six hundred of those dollars safely away in his deposit box. Then he walked back along the street until he found a clothing store, where he bought a couple of white T-shirts, a change of socks and underpants, a pair of jeans and a lightweight bomber jacket. A short distance further along he went into a souvenir store and bought himself a black baseball cap emblazoned with the words brighton beach. Then he popped into a sports outfitters and bought a cheap pair of trainers.
He stopped at a stall to pick up a hot corned beef sandwich with a gherkin the size of a small melon and a Coke for his lunch, then returned to his rooming house. He punched on the television and changed into his new kit, putting all his old clothes into one of the plastic bags his new gear had come in.
He ate his sandwich watching television. There wasn’t much that he hadn’t seen on the news already, just recaps, images of George Bush declaring his War on Terrorism, and comments from other world leaders. Then images of joyous people in Pakistan, jumping up and down in the street, laughing, proudly displaying crude, anti-American ba
Ro
He finished his meal, then scooped up the bag containing his old clothes and headed out of the door. A short distance down the street, he crammed the bag into a stinking garbage can that was already nearly full to the brim with rotting foodstuff. Then, with a spring in his step, he made for the Moscow bar.
It was just as empty as yesterday, but he was pleased to see that his new best friend, Boris, was sitting on what looked like the same bar stool he had sat at yesterday, cigarette in hand, mobile phone pressed to his ear and a half-full bottle of vodka in front of him. All that was different was his T-shirt, which today was pink and carried the legend, in gold lettering, Genesis World Tour.
The same shrimp of a barman was there, wiping glasses with a dishcloth. He acknowledged Ro
‘You back,’ he said in his broken English. ‘Thought you maybe gone to help.’ He pointed at the television screen. ‘They needing volunteers,’ he said. ‘They needing people help dig bodies out. I thought maybe you gone to do that.’
‘Maybe,’ Ro
He hauled himself on to the bar stool next to his friend and waited for him to finish his call, which sounded like some kind of business deal, then slapped him on the back. ‘Hey, Boris, how you doing?’
Ro
‘My friend! How you doing? You found the place last night? It was OK?’
‘It was fine.’ Ro
‘Good. For my friend from Canada, nothing is too much trouble.’
Without any prompt, the barman produced a shot glass and Boris immediately filled it to the brim.
Holding it daintily between his finger and thumb, Ro
The vodka went down well. It had a lemon flavour, which he found instantly addictive. The second one went down even better.
The Russian waved an admonishing hand in front of Ro
‘What was that?’
‘When you toast in Russia, you drink entire glass. All way down. Like this!’ Boris drained the glass.
Two hours later, after exchanging more and more outrageous stories about their backgrounds, Ro
Then suddenly he put an arm around Ro
Ro
‘Actually,’ he said, ‘I need another favour.’
The Russian didn’t take his eyes from the television screen, where Mayor Giuliani was talking.
‘For my Canadian friend, any favour. What I can do?’
Ro
‘Do you know anyone who could create a new passport – and a visa?’
The Russian gave him a stern look. ‘What you think this place is? An embassy? This just a bar, man. OK?’
Ro
‘Passport and visa. Of course. Don’t you worry. Whatever you want, I fix for you. You want passport, visa, no problem. I got a friend can fix this. He can fix you anything. So long you got money?’
‘How much money?’
‘Depends how difficult the visa. I give you his name. Me, I don’t want nothing, OK?’
‘You’re very kind.’
The Russian then raised his glass. ‘Carpe diem!’
‘Carpe diem!’ Ro
The rest of the afternoon became a complete blur.
69
Abby peered numbly through the windscreen of the grey rental Ford Focus. She hadn’t thought it possible for the nightmare to worsen, but now it had.
There was a broad stretch of clear blue sky over them as they headed up the A27 Brighton bypass, with Patcham to their right and rolling open downland countryside to their left. Freedom, she thought, still a prisoner, although her bonds had been removed and she was now in jeans, a pullover and fleece jacket and trainers. The grass looked lush and green from all the recent heavy rain, and if it hadn’t been for the whirr of the car’s heater fan blowing in welcome warm air, it could have been summer outside with that sky. But inside her heart, it was darkest winter.
To have got that recording, she realized, he must have bugged her mother’s phone.
Seated beside her, Ricky drove in angry silence, careful to keep within the speed limit, not taking any risks of getting stopped. It was an anger that had been simmering for two long months. The slip road was coming up ahead. He moved the indicator stalk. He’d already been here once this morning, he knew the way. She listened to the steady tick-tick-tick and watched the light winking on the dash.
Now she’d drunk some water and eaten a hunk of bread and a banana she was feeling more human and could think more clearly, despite being sick with fear for her mother – and for herself. How had Ricky found her mother? Presumably the same way he had found her, whatever that was. She was racking her brains, trying to think if she had left some clue back in Melbourne. How the hell could he have got her address? Not that difficult, she supposed. He knew her last name and she had probably mentioned at some point that her widowed mother now lived in Eastbourne. How many Dawsons were there in the Eastbourne phone directory? Probably not that many. Certainly not to a determined man.