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80
Tom threw himself down onto the floor and frantically scrabbled across the hard stone surface with his hands, trying to find the cords. A torch beam stabbed the darkness; it briefly fell on Kellie, then on his face, then jigged against the wall, lighting up a row of chemical drums.
Including the one with its lid removed.
Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit.
He lay on his side, very still, holding-his-breath still, hands rigidly to his side, legs clamped together, dripping perspiration. He heard the clack, clack, clack of footsteps approaching. His heart was thudding, the roar in his ears of his blood coursing through his veins. The bitter bile of terror rose in his throat.
This was going to be the moment. As soon as he was discovered. Christ, maybe he had been stupid all over again? Stupid to have left the house, stupid to have let them into his car. And now, stupid, unbelievably stupid to have tried to escape.
Kellie was right, what she had said earlier. Calling him a failure.
For an instant he shut his eyes, praying, fighting down vomit. Was this how it was going to finish? All the dreams? Never seeing the children again? Never-
There was a loud clatter. He heard something rolling across the floor. Whatever it was, it hit him on the side of the head. A hard object, but light.
He turned, remembering to stay in his trussed-up position. The beam shone directly into his eyes for a moment, blinding him. Then he heard the same broken-English voice he’d heard a short while ago.
‘For urinate. No shit.’
The beam moved away from his face and onto an object lying on its side just a few feet away. It was an orange plastic bucket.
The footsteps receded. Tom turned to watch; he saw the flashlight beam swinging across the floor until the man reached the rectangle of light in the distance. He thought, fleetingly, that it did not seem to have occurred to the man how he was going to use the bucket with his hands trussed to his sides.
He heard the slam of a heavy-sounding metal door.
And then, once again, there was total darkness.
81
‘Are you out of your fucking mind?’ Carl Ve
Andy Gidney stared down at the cheap beige carpet, his eyes fixed on one tuft; he was trying to calculate how many strands of fibre might be in the tuft.
Ve
‘Ummm, I’ve been on my way here.’
‘So why didn’t you answer your fucking phone?’
‘Because you told me never to bring it here.’
To the Weatherman’s quiet satisfaction, that temporarily silenced Ve
Actually you have two, the Weatherman thought. One you don’t know about – yet. Not that he cared. Carl Ve
Ve
‘Cromarty, Forth, south-west veering north four or five, occasionally six in North Utsire,’ he informed Ve
‘What the fuck’s with this weather forecast crap?’
‘Ummm, actually – ummm – it’s the shipping forecast.’
Ve
‘Umm, yes. Umm, that’s right.’
Ve
‘I have it,’ Gidney said. ‘And the clone the High Tech Crime Unit made of the hard disk.’
Ve
‘Umm. Yes. Sort of exactly.’
‘You have the laptop back?’
The Weatherman nodded.
The fat man’s whole demeanour changed. He heaved himself up and shook the surprised Gidney by the hand. ‘You are one smart motherfucker!’ Then he sat back down, as if exhausted by the effort, clamped his cigar back between his lips and held out his hand, greedily, like a fat schoolboy wanting more sweets. ‘So, gimme! You have it in your rucksack?’
‘Umm, no, that’s my sandwich.’
One of the two silent Russians entered the room; he was dressed as usual in a black suit over a black T-shirt. He stood a few feet behind Ve
The Weatherman stared back down at the tuft of carpet, ignoring the outstretched hand, trying to pluck up the courage to say what he had come here to say. He thought about Q in Star Trek again, and muttered the words silently to himself. If you can’t take a little bloody nose, maybe you ought to go back home and crawl under your bed. It’s not safe out here… it’s not for the timid.
The Man Who Was Not Timid took a deep breath and, stammering, his face reddening, he blurted, ‘I don’t actually have them with me.’
Ve
Gidney sensed an almost silent footfall behind him. He detected the faintest shadow on the carpet. Ve
He would stand his ground.
He was shaking, his face burning, rivers of perspiration rolling down inside his white shirt. But he was standing his ground. ‘I have them in a safe place.’
‘Exactly how safe?’ Ve
‘Very.’
‘Good. Sensible.’
‘If you want them back, you have to pay me what you promised. And-and-and I,’ he was blurting now, gabbling, ‘I-don’t-want-to-dothisanymore.’
Then he stared at the carpet, gulping down air.
‘Is that right, John?’ Ve
‘Ummm, no.’
‘I’m really hurt! I figured we all got along so well! You know, John, I thought you and I were becoming real good buddies. I’m really hurt. Of course, you want to leave, you want your money, that’s absolutely fine.’
The Weatherman was silent; he had not been expecting this reaction. He had expected Ve
‘So exactly where is this very safe place you have the laptop and the cloned disk?’
Smiling proudly, Gidney looked up. ‘You would never believe it. No one will look there; no one will find them in a thousand years!’
‘That so?’
The Weatherman nodded excitedly.
‘Not even the police?’
‘Absolutely not!’
Ve
The movement puzzled the Weatherman. It appeared to be some coded signal. But he did not have long to fret about it.
‘Watch the birdie!’ Ve
The Weatherman felt increasingly confused. The Russian standing beside Ve
The Albanian, standing behind him, took two swift steps forward and, with one chop of the side of his hand, snapped the Weatherman’s neck and spinal cord in two.