"Remember me?" I say. I want to scream in his face, but there's no need to shout. Every whisper carries crystal clear.
No response. I reach the corner of the table and begin walking towards him, gun still aimed true.
"Remember Manchester?" Halfway, now. The outlines of his cloak emerging as I approach and the sunlight strengthens from above.
"Remember my brother?" And, oh, yes, I yelled that. And here comes the anger and the terror and the nerves. My stomach floods with acid, my veins race with adrenalin. My hands shake with the force of it.
But I keep walking.
There's a step at the end, just in front of the chair, and I mount it, shoving the gun under the fold of his hood into the black space.
And there I stand, unsure what to do. He's just sitting there, waiting for death. Where's the catch? What does he know that I don't?
I stand there for nearly a minute, the only sound is our breathing — mine hard and ragged, his soft and calm.
Then he murmurs: "I remember, Kate. I remember it all."
That voice. I feel faint at the sound of it. My arm drops for an instant as I go weak. My knees try to buckle, but I force them to lock again. Raise the gun level.
Then he slowly lifts up his hood and pulls it back, revealing his face.
And suddenly it's eight years ago, I'm a completely different person, and the Chianti is warm on the back of my throat.
Part Two
Kate gently lowered herself into the near boiling water, letting her skin adjust to the heat in tiny increments, her lips pursed with the pleasure of pain.
When she was fully submerged, only her head poking up through the bubbles, she lay there for minute or two with her eyes closed and focused on her breathing. She took long, slow, deep breaths and pictured the cares and stresses of her day dissolving out of her into the bathwater. Then, her heart rate slow, her head clear, she stretched out a languid hand for the glass of red wine perched on the windowsill above her. She took a sip and moaned softly in blissful contentment.
It had been an awful, wonderful day. Her first shift at A amp;E. She'd trained for years in preparation, and had some training yet to complete. But all that study, that sacrifice, the sleepless nights and double shifts, the practical exams and psychological probes, the stuck up consultants, insolent orderlies and endless, endless paperwork, had led her to this day; an afternoon spent dressing a huge abscess on the back of a homeless alcoholic who smelt like he slept in a supermarket skip full of rotting meat.
She was going to have to scrub herself raw to get the stench out. The smoke from her joss stick merged with the steam from the bath. It smelt the way she imagined a hookah pipe would, and it made her feel exotic and elsewhere. Plus, it masked the rank odour that still haunted her nostrils.
The flat was silent. The students upstairs, for all their exuberance, rarely partied until 4am. They were asleep, as was her flat mate Jill, a plain, bookish girl who kept herself to herself, liked early nights and slept with earplugs in. Kate liked being awake when everyone else was asleep. It made her feel secure, confident that no-one was watching or expecting anything of her.
The world was asleep, and Kate felt free as a bird.
When she heard the gentle knock at the front door, she initially thought she must be imagining it. But no, there it was again, louder this time. Her hard-won calm evaporated, but she decided to ignore the intrusive noise. It was probably just some pissed up student who'd got the wrong flat. Just ignore it, she told herself. They'll go away.
The knocking got louder and more insistent. Kate muttered: "La, la, la can't hear you." Then she heard the rattle of the letterbox and her name being whispered through it.
"Kit," said the voice. "Kit, I know you're in there. Open up."
Kate sighed. "For fuck's sake," she cursed under her breath as she lifted herself out of the foam. "What now?" She towelled herself down and pulled on her bathrobe, the moth eaten old silk one with the holes in it, and went to let in her brother, James.
"What bloody time do you…" Her half-angry diatribe died in her throat as she pulled the front door open and saw the woman.
"Thank God," said James. "Help me get her inside."
Kate's brother was not tall — about five foot seven — and the woman dwarfed him. He stood in the cold hallway, holding her up. Her head lolled on his shoulder and her feet dragged across the threshold as he and Kate manhandled the unconscious woman into the flat. James kicked the door closed behind him.
"Bedroom," said Kate.
They gently lowered the unconscious woman onto Kate's bed. Just for a moment, Kate hesitated. She looked at the woman's face in the light and was suddenly taken aback. Despite her height, this was the face of a child. Kate mentally re-categorised her — this wasn't a woman, not quite yet. If she was eighteen, it was only barely. This was a girl; a girl wearing white stilettos, stockings and suspenders, a red basque torn open to reveal her left breast, and nothing else. She had been severely beaten. Her hair was long and blonde, her cheekbones high and her lips full. Kate thought she looked Eastern European.
Her training kicked in. "Call 999," she said as she lifted the girl's eyelids and shone the bedside lamp into them, checking pupil dilation.
"I can't, Sis," said James, who fidgeted nervously at the end of the bed.
"Fine, then I will." Kate lifted the handset from its cradle on her bedside cabinet, but James scurried across and made to grab it from her before she could dial. They struggled for a moment before Kate let the phone go and returned to the girl.
"James, this girl needs a hospital," said Kate, checking the airway for obstructions. "What the hell is going on here? Who is she?"
James was hovering at her shoulder, putting her off.
"For God's sake, sit down and tell me what's going on," she barked as she took the girl's pulse.
He lingered for a moment then went to sit at the foot of the bed, wringing his hands anxiously.
"I'm in trouble, Sis. Really bad."
"Save it," snapped Kate." The girl." Check skull for evidence of blunt trauma.
"Her name's Lyudmila. She's a prostitute. Kind of."
"Not your type though." Examine limbs and ribs for signs of breakage.
"She's from where I work."
"You're a student. You don't work, you scrounge."
He didn't say anything more except: "Is she going to be okay?"
Kate focused on her patient. When she'd assured herself that the girl was in no immediate danger, she pulled the quilt over her and left her to sleep it off.
She grabbed a pair of jeans and a t-shirt, ushered James out while she dressed, then joined him in the living room. He was boiling the kettle in the kitchenette. She nipped into the bathroom, collected her wine, then returned to the cracked leather sofa, tucked her legs underneath herself and said: "Get your tea. Sit down. Start at the beginning."
James plonked himself down at the other end of the small sofa, cradling the mug and biting his lip. Kate had seen her brother up against it more than once — the time he'd been attacked on the street by gay bashers; the day he was expelled from school — but this twitchy nervous wreck was barely recognisable as her flamboyant, devil-may-care, overconfident younger sibling. As he opened his mouth to speak she had an inkling that everything in her life was about to change. She felt a rush of butterflies in her stomach.
But before James could begin, there was another, louder knock at the door.
"Oh fuck," he whispered. His face went even paler, his eyes widened with fear and he stared at Kate like he'd just seen a ghost.
"Who is it?" she asked, but he wasn't listening.
"They must have followed me. Oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck." He leaned across and grabbed her wrist. "Don't open it. Just stay quiet, maybe they'll go away."