Nula was unscrewing the cap of a fresh bottle, glaring at him. ‘You’ll do just what I tell you and so will she.’ Nula pushed the bottle between Lorraine’s lips, tilting it. The vodka dribbled down her chin covering her chest, ‘Drink it, Lorraine! Swallow it?
The vodka hit the back of Lorraine’s throat. She had to swallow but she turned her head away. Nula slapped her face hard and pinched her nose so that when she forced the bottle between Lorraine’s lips she had to swallow. The liquor made her body feel as if it was on fire and the room began to blur. ‘That’s a good girl, come on, let’s see you finish the bottle.’
Lyall was frightened. ‘Christ, you’ll kill her.’
Nula laughed. ‘What the fuck do you think I’m trying to do? Get those bags down to the car.’ He opened the door and suddenly Nula sprang off the bed and ran towards him. ‘No! I don’t want you pissing your pants and driving off. ‘We’ll go together. Open the other bottle.’
‘I’m not doing it!’
Nula punched him and pushed him up against the wall. ‘We got to do this, we’ve no choice. She knows enough to get them sniffing round us and if they pick me up I swear before God you’ll go down with me.’
Nula sat astride Lorraine pouring the vodka down her throat. Lorraine heaved as if to vomit and Nula withdrew the bottle and again slapped her hard across the face. Her eyes closed and her body went limp, and Nula poured the rest into her slack mouth. The liquid dribbled down her face, into her hair, saturating her.
Nula got off the bed, Lorraine was motionless. ‘Let’s go,’ Lyall pressed. ‘We’ll miss the plane, Nula! Gome on?
Rosie, meanwhile, was on the third floor, edging along the fire escape, peering into one window after another, as Nula and Lyall got into their car and drove off. Her legs were shaking, her hands cut from the rusted rails as she inched towards the landing window, She’d break the glass if need be — she was not going to go any higher or climb down. Now she didn’t even care if she was arrested for breaking and entering. She got to her knees and began to crawl the last few yards. It was then she saw Lorraine.
She banged on the window. Lorraine half turned her head but then went back to untying her legs. She kept flopping over and she was giggling. Rosie banged on the window again but Lorraine seemed oblivious. Rosie attempted to open the window but it held firm. She pressed her face closer as Lorraine tried to stand, lurching into the wall, then into the dressing table. She rolled around laughing and then she saw the bottle of vodka that had fallen off the bed.
Rosie kicked at the window. The glass cracked but only after she had used both feet was there a hole big enough for her to undo the lock.
Lorraine paid her no attention. She was trying unsuccessfully to drink from the bottle. Rosie heaved her bulk through the window. The glass cut her leg and she was gasping for breath from the effort. She reached Lorraine as she lifted up the bottle to drink and grabbed it. Lorraine screamed and tried to hold onto it but Rosie wouldn’t give way. She tore the bottle from her, ran with it into the bathroom and poured the contents down the sink.
She became aware of an ominous silence from the other room and dropped the bottle. Lorraine had passed out. She looked green, her breathing rasping, rattling. Rosie was terrified that she was choking and dragged her to the bathroom, hung her over the bath, then ran water over her, pushing at her lungs. Lorraine heaved and coughed, then vomited. Rosie forced her under the cold water tap. She was like a pitiful rag doll, unable to fend Rosie off, unable to do anything as she retched.
Rosie got her to her feet and forced her to walk up and down. Her head lolled on her chest; she couldn’t speak; her eyes were unfocused and she didn’t seem to know who Rosie was. She mumbled incoherently and then slithered to the floor. ‘Lemme sleep.’
Rosie dragged her up again, walking her up and down. She was crying — she was so afraid. She didn’t know if she should call an ambulance and she kept asking Lorraine her name but she couldn’t reply, just kept saying that she wanted to sleep. It wasn’t until she had been violently sick again that Rosie helped her to the bed. She stripped off Lorraine’s clothes and drew back the sheets, rolling her naked body further onto the bed.
‘Lorraine? It’s Rosie.’
Lorraine’s eyes drooped and she gave a weak smile. Rosie went into the filthy kitchen, where she brewed some coffee. She went back to the bed and shook Lorraine, who moaned and flapped at Rosie to leave her alone. But Rosie persisted, made her sit up and tried to get her to drink the coffee. After half an hour, Rosie could tell she was coming round. She asked where she was and Rosie said they were in San Francisco but it didn’t seem to sink in. She closed her eyes again but Rosie still wouldn’t let her sleep: she pressed ice cubes wrapped in a pillow slip to Lorraine’s head. ‘Rosie, I have to sleep. Leave me alone.’
Finally, Rosie lost patience. ‘Right. I’m going to leave you. You disgust me — just as you got everything going for you. Why did you do it?’
Lorraine threw aside the sheet. ‘I got to have a drink, Rosie, I’m going crazy, my head aches. Just get me a drink.’ She held her head in her hands. ‘I got to make a call — got to call Bickerstaff. Is there a phone here?’
‘The state you’re in you can’t call anyone.’
Lorraine squinted up at her. ‘They forced it down me.’ She tried to stand but the room spun and she had to sit down again. ‘Nula, you got to get her arrested, she’s with that photographer Craig Lyall. I got to call Bickerstaff.’
Rosie didn’t know whether to believe her or not. She stood with her feet planted like a solid oak. ‘Well, you can’t do nothin’ about that now. They’ve gone.’
‘Shit.’ Lorraine picked up the ice pack and rested it against her head. ‘You saw them leave?’
‘Yeah.’
Rosie poured more coffee and a glass of water. ‘Start drinking this and as much water as you can take — go on, take it.’
Lorraine did as she was told but when she attempted to move off the bed she felt faint. ‘Rosie, start looking in the garbage. See if they left anything that might tell us where they’re heading.’
Rosie found nothing in the kitchen but in the bedroom she spotted a small trash can by the dressing table filled with cotton-wool balls and tissues smeared with make-up. She tipped them out onto an old newspaper and poked around. She found nothing and wrapped up the mess in the newspaper — then opened it again. There were marks around the air-flight ads. ‘There’s this. What do you think?’
Lorraine forced herself to look at the paper: two airlines had been underlined and there were crosses against them. ‘Call these airlines, see if any flights are leaving this afternoon with a Mr Lyall on board.’
‘They won’t tell me. They never tell you what passengers are boarding — that’s a law, isn’t it?’
Lorraine craved a drink — her whole body screamed for one — but she gulped the water. ‘Say it’s an emergency, something to do with kids... Anything, just find out which airline they’re with.’ Lorraine hung on to the bedhead as she stood up. She inched her way into the bathroom where she saw the vodka bottle and reached out for it. A single drop remained in the bottom and she drank it before she retched again, clinging to the wash-basin. She saw herself in the mirror: her face was pale green, her eyes red-rimmed and her lips swollen.
Rosie barged in. ‘Two seats booked by Mr Lyall for the four-fifteen flight to Las Vegas. Now what?’
Lorraine’s eyes were closed. ‘Did they go off in a cab?’
‘No, a car. So, now what do I do?’
She told Rosie to call Ed Bickerstaff. ‘This is what you say to him. Tell him you’re my partner — Jesus, just tell him anything — that it’s to do with the murders of David Burrows and Holly, you got that?’