When both stopped, there was an eerie silence, punctuated only by the choking sounds from Dreyfuss, the squeaking noise his shoes made as he sought purchase on the floor, and the shrill breath of the small man who was slowly but steadily murdering him. Dreyfuss’ whole head felt aflame, his eyes watering, ear canals singing like the sea. His chest felt tight as a drum skin. The thought of dying in this antiseptic place was appalling.
A picture flashed in his mind: Hes Adams’ fingers around his throat. The picture gave him strength, and he lashed out again, but with his left foot this time, sending it backwards with a donkey kick into the small man’s knee. The man gasped in pain but did not release his grip on the wire. Dreyfuss tried again, his eyes blurrily fixed to the mirror, hypnotised by the blood that was now dripping from his hand onto his shirt. His lips were drawn back from his teeth, the grin of a monkey. Monkeys grinned when they were terrified. This time the kick landed high on the man’s soft thigh, causing no reaction. Dreyfuss tried to cry out but couldn’t. He was losing strength, his whole body tingling with electricity. Movement was becoming difficult. Inside his head, someone opened the door of the furnace. He was on fire, and hell-bound. But he’d take the little bastard with him. He threw himself backwards, slamming the killer against the hard partition edge between two cubicles. Then he reached a hand around again. The hand was becoming numb, and it scrabbled over the man’s clothes like a tiny blind animal, finding the crotch. He used the last of his strength to squeeze. The killer howled.
Then, from the corner of his eye, he saw the door swing open and Parfit enter. From then it was as if everything was happening in slow motion. Parfit approached the man from the side and gripped him by his furthest shoulder, pinning him against his own body sideways on. Then he brought his arm back in a straight line and sent it thudding towards the man, heel of palm connecting with ear. The man’s head whipped to one side and there was a horrifying snap, as though a dog had bitten into a bone. The hold on Dreyfuss tightened further still, then relaxed.
He realised that Parfit was holding the small man — now a dead man — upright while he attempted to ease the cord away from Dreyfuss’ throat. He did his best to help, then, suddenly released, staggered to the basin, gripping its edge with his left hand while he stared at his crippled and bloodied right hand. He ran more water and held the fingers beneath the cold spray. As he stared in the mirror at his purple face, the colour of a newborn baby, he felt his stomach wrench, sending a spume of vomit into the basin.
Parfit had eased the corpse to the floor. He was staring at it as though it were something unbelievable, something out of his ken. But the way he had dealt with the man proved to Dreyfuss that it very much was not out of his ken. It was what he did, when necessary, as part of his job description.
‘Are you okay?’ Parfit came to the basin and examined Dreyfuss’ neck, then his bleeding hand. ‘Run more cold water. Keep it under the tap.’ He went over to the corpse again. ‘We need to get rid of this bastard before somebody wants to use the facilities.’
There was only one sensible hiding place. He heaved the body upright in one swift movement and walked with it into the furthest cubicle, where he dumped it unceremoniously onto the pan. Closing the cubicle door, he examined the lock. It was a simple thing, made simple so that no one could stay locked in. He brought a coin from his pocket and inserted it into the screw thread next to the ‘engaged’ indicator. Holding the door closed, and turning the coin in the thread, he moved the indicator from green to red: the cubicle was locked.
He allowed himself a moment’s pause, then turned back to examine the rest of the interior. There were drops of blood on the floor, but they couldn’t be helped. What worried him more was Dreyfuss’ injured hand, and the fresh bloodstains on his shirt. He checked his watch, wondering if they could last out the time until boarding. If the body was found before then... or if Dreyfuss’ wound was too deep...
‘I’ll be all right,’ Dreyfuss said, then gagged. His throat was like fire. Hadn’t he been through this before and survived?
‘You’ve got more bloody lives than a cat,’ Parfit acknowledged, smiling. Then, seriously: ‘But this was my fault, and I’m sorry.’
‘Don’t be,’ whispered Dreyfuss — the least painful way of talking. ‘I’m beginning to enjoy strangulation.’
‘How’s the hand?’
He lifted it from beneath the water. The cuts on each joint were clean and deep. He tried flexing the fingers. Blood began to pour again.
‘Fine,’ he whispered. ‘What do we do now?’
‘What do you want to do?’
Dreyfuss thought it over. What choice was there? ‘Get on the plane,’ he said.
‘Then that’s what we’ll do. But first I have to make a phone call, and this time you’re coming with me.’
‘What made you come back?’ asked Dreyfuss.
‘They’d run out of Glenlivet,’ said Parfit, attempting levity. ‘Now let’s see that hand.’ He inspected the damage. ‘It’s bad,’ he said, ‘but I don’t suppose I need to tell you that, since it’s so bloody obvious.’
‘And bloodily obvious.’
‘Another joke,’ Parfit said appreciatively. ‘You’re tougher than I thought, Major.’
‘The name’s Stephen,’ said Dreyfuss, ‘and don’t you forget it.’
They wrapped wads of toilet paper around each finger, then Parfit’s handkerchief around the whole hand.
‘We’ll get some sticking plasters at the sky shop,’ he said. ‘The hand will keep bleeding, but you probably won’t die before we land. If we get ice with our drinks, we’ll make up a pack with the cubes and you can press that against it. Okay?’
‘Never better,’ said Dreyfuss, his voice laryngitic. ‘Who are we going to telephone?’
‘There’s only one person I can think of right now. Frank Stewart.’
The telephone was one of a row of four. Parfit brought a paper napkin from his pocket. The napkin was from the café, and on it Stewart had scrawled a telephone number.
‘He’s going to be a bit surprised to get a call so quickly,’ said Dreyfuss.
‘He’s going to be absolutely furious,’ Parfit said, having pressed home the digits, awaiting a response at the other end.
Dreyfuss was intrigued. But he was also full of pain, and couldn’t separate the two. They’d used a packet of cotton wool and a whole box of plasters on his hand, but he could feel the blood soaking through already. They’d also bought aspirin, and he’d swallowed half a dozen. He needed a drink.
‘Stewart? It’s Parfit. Listen, I need some help. No questions, just help. I’ll explain later. What?’ Parfit listened. ‘No, we’re at the airport. Yes, flying out.’ He held the receiver away from his ear as Stewart’s stream of invective flew out. Then, as briskly as it had started, it ended. Parfit returned the receiver to his ear. ‘I couldn’t tell you, Stewart. It would have meant too many other people knowing about it. Anyway, the point is, we’ve encountered a slight problem. That problem has been dealt with in the short term, but some cleaning-up needs to be done.’ He listened again. ‘In the gents’ toilets,’ he said at last. ‘International departures. Last cubicle along.’ There was another pause. ‘How long will it take?’ He nodded and smiled. ‘That’s great, Stewart. What? No, he’s fine. I will. Goodbye.’