Towards the end of the journey, listening, reciting descriptions of stitches and remembering the geography of the place where they were going, she was less afraid, because she was the only one who knew it.
They parked the car and went towards the office at the back, past the Chinese containers. Hen’s hat, a green beret designed for a man with a large head, was rammed down over her hair and stuck to her scalp. Together with the boiler suit and its many pockets, it made for a businesslike ensemble, suitable for collecting storage or moving house. They were amateur kidnappers, careless with angry excitement, never checking the prisoner’s pockets, her mood, her cooperation, assuming her docility; they were pirates in pursuit of some buried treasure, ready to kill the messenger once they had found it. Hen was conscious of aches and pains and blood on her scalp. The one called Frank had taken the scissors that Rick Boyd had handed to him. He used them to prod her in the back on the way downstairs and he giggled at himself as if a man holding dressmaking shears was really as ridiculous as that. Driving the car had given him confidence. He was punch drunk, but he still carried weight and he pinched her arm with the sort of affection that made bruises as he swaggered across the car park with the intoxicated gait of a bow-legged, brain-dead cowboy coming out of the bar.
John, the manager of twenty years, was packing up to go home early, the way she knew he did on Saturdays. Hen knew he did that and he knew that Hen knew and Dad didn’t, a harmless conspiracy entered into a long time ago, when she used to help out. The three of them shuffled in like Siamese twins with an escort, the scissors in Frank’s pocket bumping against her hip, Rick standing apart and behind, pushing Frank into the line of the video cameras first while ducking to avoid them himself. Frank waved to camera, while clever bugger Rick turned his head. John the manager was not an observant man. He was simply pleased to see Hen.
Just got to get something from Zone A… Dad left it yesterday.
Fine, I’ll be off then. Hen had often been left in charge. Hen knew how to lock up after, and he was out of here. Hen could do no wrong. Hen was the boss’s daughter.
There was no rescue posse. The place was dead. John had never been clever, only reliable. The boss’s daughter could have whatever she liked and never told tales.
You haven’t got a fucking key?
No, I’ve got all the duplicate keys, so we’ll try a few, shall we? Peter Friel’s got the key, and I don’t know exactly which unit, so we might have to try a few. I didn’t load it in here, he did. And he didn’t remember the number, but it’s one of these, right, down here, this zone. Look, there’s no need to hold on to me, there’s no one else here, I’m trying to help you, right?
Right.
Hat down, she led them slowly along the straight lines of daylight-free corridors, with the small, signal lights winking from the walls – the same endless passages where she had once raced as a ten-year-old. Rick Boyd kept his head down, Frank looked around like a big bear off territory.
Left at the end, right, left again, down that set of doors, I think, then on the left.
She was going faster. Nearly there: they were breathless. Hen stopped at a door on her right, gestured for the keys Rick carried.
Could be this one.
He opened the door and almost fell through it. It opened inwards. Frank went in first, like a sniffer dog. Rick Boyd stood back, holding the door, ushering Hen in front, always keeping up the rear and blocking escape. If only there were not two of them. Frank’s scissors weighed down the jacket of his suit. The lights in here were dim, emergency lights only, until someone found the master switch – Hen was not about to tell them where she was.
They were in the neglected archive store, full of documents on unstable, free-standing metal shelves not bolted to the walls, a cheap storage job in a place so much ignored it scarcely mattered if it was safe. Rick stayed where he was, half inside the dark room, half outside, letting his trouble-shooter go first, waiting and watching as Frank moved in, looking for treasure which was his, not hurrying, ambling down the central aisle of a room hired by a local authority, as if he had been sent to value it. Other people’s stuff always fascinated Frank. Hen darted to one side, behind the back of the stacks, moving parallel to him, getting ahead, gauging the distance. Then she used all her strength to push. The central stack of ledgers swayed briefly and fell, hitting him even as he turned to watch in dull astonishment. While the noise reverberated in tune with his brief grunt of surprise, Hen was back by the door. She could see Rick Boyd’s hand still curled round the edge and she flung herself against the metal while he still held on. He was only just beginning to retreat when the door slammed against his hand.
He roared like an animal and tried to pull back. Hen seized the inner handle, opened the door fractionally and slammed it again. And again, and again, until it closed without resistance and she leaned against it. Listening to shuffling and a keening noise, then nothing.
She moved to the opposite end and turned on the lights. She looked around for any kind of weapon, searching in her pockets. Then she waited, she could easily wait. Frank had the scissors in his pocket after all, and they were the only weapon she feared. She doubted he was dead; he was not the first to fall between these shelves. She feared the scissors more than she feared the man. She had watched him run away before: she knew his smell now. For Frank she felt nothing more than an enraged puzzlement as to why he wanted to hurt her at all, and why the fool was letting himself be led by someone who ran away and left him. For a few seconds her mind wandered into speculation while she struggled to control her breath. The most dangerous things in her pockets were a reel of thread and two packets of needles. The only weapon she had was the place itself.
There was everything useful in here. Rubbish was useful. There were other weapons everywhere. Rick Boyd would find them, but Rick Boyd would not know his way in the dark, so she would have to find him first. In the car, she had been thinking of what he wanted, and what he was. Wily, cowardly, sadistic, obsessive, wanting something, but not wanting to be caught. Using the man Frank as a shield, thinking ahead to let Frank take the rap, making Frank strike the blows. It would be Frank’s blood on the Lover, Frank’s picture on the video camera, Frank in the frame, and maybe Rick would be worse without an ally like that, he did not have anyone to take the blame any more, and therefore not a lot to lose. Rick thought he was immortal; Rick would change tack and make himself believe that there were no consequences to whatever he did. It was Frank who was supposed to do the damage. Now it would have to be him. He would either stay and fight for Marianne’s mementos like a wounded savage, or the bully would run away as soon as he could find the way out.
However had he persuaded Frank to do this? Easy. She shivered. He had persuaded Angel to live in slavery and conspire in the mutilation of herself. He wanted any evidence of that eradicated: he wanted any knowledge of that destroyed. It was madness with a kind of sanity; it had nothing to do with conscience. He would not give up on what he wanted yet; he would not have run away. She should stay where she was and hide, but she could not stay stilclass="underline" she had never been able to do it for long, even when playing hide and seek. The door of the room remained shut, Rick Boyd on the other side or further away. The only sound was Frank moaning. Hen went towards him and looked down on him dispassionately.