He turned to face Jones.
‘And you, ma’am. I’m going to open these doors and get my ass out of here, while you just stand quietly over there. I don’t want you even thinking ’bout running off or nothing. Do you hear?’
Jones nodded. Norman/Dom pointed to the far end of the garage. Jones meekly walked to the exact spot.
‘Right on. So you just stay there, ma’am, or you’ll be hellish sorry. Got it?’
‘Got it,’ said Jones, being careful to stand very still.
‘Now Norman, there’s no need for that,’ said Mrs Middle America reproachfully.
‘Mebbe not,’ responded the big driver. ‘But I ain’t taking no chances. Not with you, Aunt M, sweetheart.’
He glowered at Jones one last time before pointing a handheld remote control at the garage doors which once again opened obligingly. He then climbed back into his cab, and set off into the street. But he stopped outside, and Jones could see that he was still watching as the doors closed again.
Jones stood so motionless she might have been rooted to the ground.
Only when the doors were firmly shut, and Dom/Norman safely locked outside, did she allow herself the luxury of lifting a hand to her head in order to wipe away some of the sweat that had gathered on her forehead.
‘I really must apologize for all of this,’ began Mrs Middle America. ‘But we couldn’t think of an alternative.’
‘We? We?’ Jones found she was suddenly angry. Her relief at the departure of Dom, or Norman, or whatever he was damned well called, appeared to have given her some temporary bravado.
‘Who the fuck is “we”?’ she yelled. ‘Who the fucking fuck is “we”? And what fucking right do you think you have kidnapping a British citizen in broad daylight on the streets of New York. Eh? Eh?’
She spat the words out.
Mrs Middle America took a step backwards. Emboldened, Jones took a step forwards.
‘Well?’ she shouted. ‘Well? Are you going to answer me, woman, or what?’
As she spoke she was aware of the smaller door at the far end of the garage opening yet again.
A second figure stepped into the dimness there. Again all Jones could make out was a shape. But when that shape spoke Jones felt her already extremely wobbly knees buckle.
‘Stop making such a goddamned fuss, you Limey lamebrain.’
Jones peered into the gloom, straining her eyes. It couldn’t be. Yet it had to be. It could not possibly be anyone else. Not only had nobody else ever spoken to her like that, but she would recognize that voice always. Any time. Any place. And under any circumstances.
Even when the person it belonged to was supposed to be dead.
‘Connie,’ she whispered, half under her breath.
Then louder: ‘Connie?’
‘Who the hell else do you think it is, chowderhead?’
The figure moved further into the garage. It was Connie Pike, all right. An older, slightly broader Connie, but, by and large, a remarkably unchanged Connie, standing there looking as if nothing much had happened, and still with her trademark mane of unruly red hair.
‘I don’t believe it,’ said Jones. ‘I just don’t believe it. What the fuck is going on? You’re supposed to be dead.’
Connie smiled, and her face lit up just the way it had the very first time Sandy Jones had seen her. She still had a great face. Never beautiful, but strong boned, sharply defined, and kind.
‘You’re not wrong there, Sandy,’ she said. ‘I sure am supposed to be dead, and the longer I can remain so, the safer I am.’
‘Jesus Christ, what’s going on, Connie?’ Jones asked. ‘What on earth is going on?’
‘Now that’s one hell of a long story,’ Connie replied. ‘One hell of a long story.’
She was dressed in a vivid orange shirt and baggy purple trousers. She clearly still had the same penchant for bright colours which fought each other. And she still appeared to have the same absence of any awareness at all of the impact she had on those around her, with her startling clothes, her big red hair, her flashing green eyes, and her way of looking right into your soul. This was the same wonderful old Connie. And this time she really was a miracle on legs.
Jones was probably in an even greater state of shock than she had been at any stage over the previous couple of days. And that was saying something. She was also totally confused. She began to fire questions at Connie.
‘Why all the cloak-and-dagger stuff? How did you escape that explosion? I’ve seen the mess the lab’s in. Nobody could have survived. Why the fuck aren’t you dead, Connie?’
The smile faded.
‘Now that would be funny, really funny, if only...’ She paused. ‘If only Paul were here.’
Jones didn’t say anything. Connie’s eyes were full of pain. Jones stepped forwards. Connie held out her arms. They hugged. Jones felt close to tears again. Her nerves were in bits. But Connie Pike was clearly not going to allow herself to break down. So neither must Sandy Jones.
‘I’m so very sorry, Connie,’ she said as calmly as she could manage.
‘I know.’
‘But you’re alive. I can’t believe it. Connie, you’re alive!’
‘Yup. And I can’t believe you’re here. That you came.’
‘Of course I came. Too little too late. I can’t explain why I stayed away so long, but—’
‘It’s all right,’ Connie interrupted. ‘You don’t have to explain.’
Jones glanced around.
‘But you have to,’ she said, after a pause.
She gestured at Mrs Middle America.
‘Who’s she? Who’s Norman, or is it Dom? And why did you hijack me off the streets? I nearly died of shock. I’ve been in America less than forty-eight hours, and I seem to have spent most of the time being terrified out of my wits.’
Connie smiled. ‘I’m sorry, we couldn’t think of another way.’
Jones gestured towards Mrs Middle America again, pointing an extended thumb at her.
‘That’s what she said.’
‘That’s Marion,’ said Connie.
Marion smiled. Jones waited to be told who Marion was. Instead Connie ushered her towards the door at the back of the garage.
‘Right. Well, come on in. We’ll have coffee and talk properly.’
She led the way up several flights of rickety stairs to a huge loft style apartment. They entered directly into a vast open-plan living area, which included a kitchen at one end and a huge oblong wooden table surrounded by a set of quite formal dining chairs.
The floor was of polished dark oak and most of the furniture was made of tubular steel, the soft furnishings black leather. A couple of in-your-face abstract paintings, one predominantly green and the other mainly pillar box red, were the only adornment on bare brick walls. The grey painted ceiling was criss-crossed with huge wooden beams. Big arched windows gave a magnificent view across the rooftops of Lower Manhattan towards the famous high-rise buildings around Fifth and Sixth Avenue and Madison.
The whole place was minimalist and scrupulously tidy — apart from a messy pile of newspapers and magazines scattered across the big glass-topped coffee table which stood between two black leather sofas. Jones could not imagine that the apartment had anything at all to do with Connie, and the accumulated clutter which had always been so much a part of her.
‘Wow,’ she said, at the same time glancing questioningly at the two women.
‘Norman’s place,’ said Marion. ‘He’s staying with his girlfriend, given us the run of it.’
‘Norman’s place?’ Jones echoed. ‘A New York cabby with a Mohican haircut owns this?’
‘Norman is not quite what he seems,’ responded Marion.
‘I think I’ve gathered that. He seems to have more than one name for a start.’