‘They’re on the way,’ said Jules, ‘what happened then?’
I was silent.
Within seconds I heard the sound of the siren followed by the pulse of blue light. I moved aside to let the ambulance men past.
They checked Chris, exchanged some words with each other and one of them went back out to the ambulance.
‘What happened here then?’ asked the other.
A beat or two. No one spoke then I said, ‘He was attacked.’ I nodded towards Ricky. ‘Beaten up. We called the police as well.’ I looked at Chris McPherson. ‘Will he be all right?’
‘I think so. He’s got cracked ribs, a broken nose, and his eye’s a mess. They’ll need to look at that. They’ll keep him in, check for concussion, internal damage. He’s still conscious, that’s a good sign. You a relative?’
‘No.’
He looked at Jules; she shook her head. He didn’t bother asking Ricky. His mate returned with a stretcher. They lifted Chris onto it and covered him with a cellular blanket. ‘Going on his own then?’
‘Nah, I’ll go with him,’ said Jules. ‘Can’t leave him by himself. There might be people he wants to tell. Poor sod. I’ll get me bag. And you,’ she paused on her way out, looked at Ricky, ‘yer sad bastard, I hope they send you down for a good stretch.’
The police arrived and talked with one of the ambulance men in the hallway. They came into the room.
‘Bit of a mess,’ commented one of them, referring to Chris.
‘Come on, son,’ said his mate in a thick scouse accent. ‘You come along with us now.’
Ricky still looked dazed. ‘But Debbie said he lived here.’ As if it would all have been hunky dory if only he’d battered the right guy. ‘I thought-’
‘No, you didn’t,’ I said. ‘You didn’t think at all. You just…’ I couldn’t continue.
They’d all gone. I sat on the bottom stair, my arms wrapped tight around my knees. Trying to warm up inside where my guts were iced with rage and fatigue and fear. The front door was still open and I could hear the noises of the city; a plane climbing steeply, the squeal of a bus braking, the sibilance of cars on wet tarmac. I could see the drizzle floating down beneath the street-lamp.
Where was Gary Crowther tonight? Round at Debbie’s again, keeping vigil, watching, waiting? Thrilled by his obsession. Mentally composing more fevered letters of spite and sexual hatred to write on his return? Or off on some mundane business, working shifts, visiting family, catching a late-night movie?
I sat and let my mind meander. Recalled the sound of crying, my own voice screaming at Ricky: ‘It’s the wrong man!’ Joey D, dead now, Joey with his shades and his knife. Joey watching, yelling: ‘Ahktar! Ahktar! He needs an ambulance.’ Siddiq’s sidekick shrieking; ‘You done wrong, man.’ The wrong man…wrong man. Zeb and Ahktar, side by side, by the dance floor, matching jackets. Not wrong man…the wrong man. And then I knew.
So tired. I ought to leave the house in Ayres Road but the effort of getting up seemed beyond me. In a minute, I promised myself. In a minute.
It took five. Before I left I dialled Ray. Told him I wouldn’t be long.
I put my face up to the sky, charcoal-grey now, and let the mist fall on my skin. My throat was raw from roaring at Ricky. I moved to the car but he caught me by the arm.
I turned, sudden anger flaring again. I was ready to shake him off. Tell him about the injunction, tell him about Chris McPherson. No longer frightened of the sad man in the old suit and his cruel infatuation.
I turned and Rashid Siddiq said, ‘We’ll take my car. There’s somebody wants to see you.’
Chapter Twenty-Eight
He kept my arm bent up behind my back to steer me towards a dark car, a Volvo, parked nearby. Of course, they wouldn’t just have the white van, they could use that to spook me but they had plenty of cars to choose from. It hadn’t even occurred to me; I’d only been looking for the transit. Stupid.
I debated whether to try getting out of his grip. The knowledge that he was in charge of security for Jay, that he had been used to send a little warning when required made me hesitate. I didn’t think my limited self-defence moves would be adequate to escape.
When we reached the car he clasped both my wrists together behind me in one of his huge hands and frisked me with the other. He removed my mobile phone, purse and personal alarm and pocketed them.
‘Hey,’ I started to protest.
Swiftly he grabbed my hair and slammed my face against the car. The wave of pain made me retch.
‘Shit.’ He moved back a little, freaked at the prospect of vomit on his shoes. My nose began to bleed; I couldn’t wipe it. He held onto my wrists and tied them together with what felt like nylon rope.
‘Quiet,’ he admonished in a whisper. ‘In the car.’
He opened the back door and steered me in. He sat beside me. Zeb Khan was at the wheel.
Neither man spoke. We drove north skirting Hulme where the infamous crescents had been demolished ready for rebuilding. Thirty years earlier the slum terraces had gone to make way for the shiny new walkways in the sky. Broken concrete, broken dreams. Cracked by poverty.
Siddiq used his own phone to make a call. ‘We’re on our way.’ Short and sweet.
We followed the diversions through town. Lights were rigged up to enable the crews to continue to clear the debris from the bomb and prepare for demolition. The Marks & Spencer building would go; there were rumours about the Corn Exchange and the Royal Assurance building. Surveyors were still assessing the structural safety of the Arndale Centre.
Blood dripped onto my coat. It pooled above my lip and I licked some of it away I did not allow myself to wonder where they were taking me or what they would do. I knew it would unmake me and I needed all my wit and wariness, every ounce of sense and intuition. Whenever my mind veered towards the questions, I blocked it.
On Cheetham Hill Road, Zeb took the car round the back of the J.K. Imports building opposite the petrol station, where I’d once trailed Siddiq. It felt like months ago.
We went into a compound fenced round with chain link. There were two Portakabins along one edge, illuminated by harsh security lights.
Siddiq escorted me from the car. Gripping the top of my arm, he pulled me towards one of the Portakabins. Zeb passed us, mounted the two wooden steps and knocked on the door.
‘Come in.’
We crowded into the room. The man behind the desk rose. ‘Miss Kilkenny, Jay Khan. Your nose is bleeding.’
‘Yes.’ I was surprised my voice still worked, ‘comes of having it slammed against a car.’
‘I’m sorry,’ Jay said. He spoke to Siddiq in what I guessed was Punjabi, then English. ‘Rashid, please, untie the lady.’ He turned back to me. ‘I’m afraid Rashid overreacts. There is no need for this, surely?’
My hands free, I rubbed my wrists where the cord had left deep grooves and then foraged in my pocket for a hanky. There was one in my jeans, back pocket. I pulled it out. Peter Pan, one of Maddie’s. No, oh no. I felt a swoon of dizziness. Caught myself.
‘I didn’t bring you here to hurt you,’ he said. His Mancunian accent was tinged with southern vowels as though he’d been spending time in London and acquiring new habits.