Severed

But now he's going for something in the inside pocket of his suit, and I know it's going to be a weapon. I start to get up. The way I'm feeling I don't think I'm going to be much help, but he sees me out of the corner of his eye and it distracts him, allowing the blonde to come forward again and lash out with another kick, hitting him just below the knee.

I don't hear a crack, but it twists badly, and now Marco's deciding that whatever weapon he's carrying, it may not be enough under the current circumstances, and in one very awkward movement, he runs for the door, limping badly and making a lot of noises signifying extreme pain. The blonde grabs her shoe and something from a handbag on the floor, and a couple of seconds later I hear the front door opening and then slamming.

I realize then that somehow, yet again, I have managed to snatch defeat from the jaws of victory, and that with them both gone I'm pretty much back at square one.

I stand up, touching my cheek where Marco struck it. The skin feels tender, and it's already beginning to swell, but there's no blood, so at least I won't have to worry about changing my clothes again. There's an intense ache arrowing from my balls into my gut where Marco man-handled me, and it's that that hurts more than anything. I shake my head, trying to clear it, and start towards the bedroom door, moving faster now.

But as I come out into the hallway, there's a sudden movement to my left and I'm slammed hard against the wall. The next second, a knife blade is pushed hard against my throat.

'You know,' I say, not moving a millimetre, 'this isn't quite the thank you I'd expected for saving your neck.'

'Thank you,' she answers without moving the knife, her Eastern European accent sounding very strong. 'Now who the hell are you?'

'Someone who wants to talk to Marco.'

'What about?'

'I've been set up. I think he knows who by.'

She thinks about this for a moment, then lowers the knife. 'He's gone, but he'll be back soon, and with other people. You need to leave.'

'Well, the way you were getting on when I turned up, it looks like you shouldn't be here either. Why don't we leave together?'

She seems reluctant, so I give her what I hope is my most trustworthy expression. 'I'm not on their side, and I'm guessing you're not either. We've at least got that in common.'

'So whose side are you on?'

'Right now, I'm on mine. And I've got to tell you, it's proving a pretty lonely place to be.'

She looks at me closely for a couple of seconds. Finally, she nods. 'OK, let's go. Before he comes back with reinforcements.'

I squint as we get out into the sunlight, my eyes narrowing to slits against the brightness, and I feel a banging pain in my head. I worry that the punch has done me more damage than I thought. The blonde gives me a push up the steps, telling me that we need to hurry, and I go up them as quick as I can, trying to keep my legs wide apart to lessen the pain down there.

The gate at the top is shut, but she pulls a card from her jeans and inserts it into a slot next to the lock, which releases it. That's interesting, I think, as she uses a remote control to open an Alfa Romeo parked twenty yards down the street and guides me towards it. She's got a key to this place. Marco may have been trying to kill her, but they're obviously close enough that he's given her access to his home. So why the hell am I trusting her?

But the answer to this one's easy enough. As she opens the Alfa's passenger door and I manoeuvre myself carefully into the comfort of the passenger seat, my eyes close, and for a blissful few moments I no longer care about anything. Why the hell not trust her? I think. Why the hell not?

Which, when it comes down to it, is probably the stupidest reason there is.

26

Maybe I shouldn't have moved my head out of the way of Marco's fist. If he'd caught me full on, the blow to the skull might somehow have unlocked my memory. As it is, I've just got a crashing headache and a continuing blank where yesterday was.

There's only one other time in my life when I've blanked out completely and that was years ago in a bar in Germany when a bunch of us were doing tequila slammer races. Apparently, I drank twelve in the space of half an hour – which was something of a stupid move, but one I put down to youth and peer pressure. Everyone was doing it, although maybe they weren't doing it quite as quickly as I was. I only remember downing the first two, then nothing until ten o'clock the next morning when I woke up in a pool of my own vomit with a head that made even the one I had this morning seem mild by comparison. According to my fellow drinkers, we'd visited three separate bars during what was, by all accounts, a hugely entertaining evening. I'd slow-danced with a waitress on a table in one; burned my top lip on a flaming sambuca in another; and then, some time later, just as I was putting a fresh stein of lager to my lips, I'd keeled over backwards and hit the deck like a dead man. I was picked up by four of the boys, one limb each, and carried the two hundred yards back to the barracks. On the way back, one of the four had suggested that I might be putting it on, so they decided to check whether I was genuinely unconscious by repeatedly slamming me bodily into a lamp-post on the way. When I didn't flinch, even on the fourth or fifth go, they carried me the rest of the way, chucked me on my bunk, and returned to the bar to carry on where they'd left off.

The point is, I've never got that time back. That whole evening is a void, and it will be for the rest of my days. I'm thinking it's going to be the same this time round.

'Are you all right?' asks the blonde. She's looking at me with an expression that may actually be concern. That's what I'm hoping anyway.

I look at her properly for the first time. She's changed since the brothel and is now wearing a plain white T-shirt and a pair of navy blue jeans that look like they were painted on. The T-shirt's crumpled, and there's a three-inch tear running up the side stitching. There are thick red welts forming on her neck where Marco went to work, and her cheeks are flushed the colour of wine. She looks as tense as a coiled spring, and her hands are tight on the steering wheel.

I tell her I'm fine, and ask how she is.

'I'm OK,' she replies without looking at me, and gives me a thanks – a genuine one this time. 'You saved me back there.'

'Just returning the favour for earlier,' I say modestly.

'I couldn't let them kill you.'

'Why not? You must have known before what they were going to do.'

'I was made to use that stun baton on you,' she answers. 'Marco told me that if I didn't, he'd kill me.'

This time she does look at me, and I have to say that her ordeal has done nothing to obscure her looks. Straight away I'm drawn to her eyes. They're perfect ovals, the colour of polished bronze. There's something pure in them that makes me desperately want to trust what she says.

We've pulled onto the Edgware Road now, heading north in the direction of Kilburn.

'OK,' I say, nodding slowly as we stop at some red lights, 'so you were forced into attacking me?'

'Yes,' she answers, 'I was.'

'What's your name again?' I ask her.

'Alannah.'

And then I remember: that was how she introduced herself when she knocked on the door at the brothel to warn us about the fire.

'That's a nice name,' I say, 'but, you know, Alannah, I'm a little confused. You've got a key to an apartment belonging to this man Marco, and you were talking happily enough with him earlier after you'd dragged me up to that room in the brothel, which means that you work for the same outfit he does. But when my interrogator pulled a gun on me, you jumped on his back. Then a few hours later I come by and Marco's trying to kill you, and when I try to stop him and get knocked semi-conscious for my troubles, you suddenly leap into action again and do a very creditable version of the karate kid.' I sigh. 'Now you're looking at me all doe-eyed and innocent, and I've got to say it's a look that suits you very much, but it also makes me think, to use an English phrase you may not be familiar with, that there's a lot more to you than meets the eye. So, tell me, why should I trust you?'