STANDPOINT a gripping thriller full of suspense (31 page)

He wanted to pray, the whole shebang. To kneel down right now on the bath mat, asking for intercession and atonement for his sins. But the thing that stopped him cold wasn’t a lack of faith — patchy as that could be. No, he still didn’t know what he’d done wrong in the first place, not where Miranda was concerned.

He brushed his teeth, did the necessary and confronted the bed. He chose Miranda’s side of the duvet. And okay, he wasn’t proud of it or anything, but the bedside cabinet was just too tempting. And it wasn’t like he was going to search through the whole room or anything. But he was restless and it was still early . . .

The top drawer was a mass of little yellow post-its, built up over time. He flicked through, tracing Miranda’s neat, round handwriting with his fingertips. Underneath that little memory sculpture, he found some old lunch menus from Caliban’s and even one from its former incarnation. Was chicken and chips ever really that cheap? This was stupid, he told himself, and carried on anyway. Just the top drawer, he promised himself, digging deeper past the tampons and some paperback called
Perfumed Garden
. Below all that was a ‘confidential counselling’ leaflet with a date and time scribbled on it. He blushed and lifted it out, along with a couple of postcards — both from Bermuda, from Miranda. One, to Mum and Dad, read:
Everything will be alright. Miranda x.
The other, to the whole family, said:
Looking forward to coming home again. I love you. Miranda x
. He put everything back in order and shut the drawer.

Chapter
38

Miranda, Christine and Alice sat on the sofa together. In any other setting, this could have been a mid-week girls’ night in — complete with chick flick, pizza and red wine. Posh Bloke, now identified as Nicholas, had been a right misery about the choice of film; he’d claimed his share of the deep-pan and left them to it. Jack had stopped for a while then announced he was going to patrol the perimeter. Silently, Miranda presumed, like he did everything else.

It was an okay film — they’d let Miranda choose it. When Jack had fetched it back with the food, it was missing a label, a receipt and a bag. Maybe they’d shoplifted it to order. Still, she’d resolved to make the best of it.

Everyone laughed or held their breath at the right places; they just didn’t speak to each other, except to move the goodies around. Just at the point in the film where the sassy-yet-caring girl-next-door realised that her best friend was a better match than the scuzzball of a boyfriend, a small green light in the wall flickered into life.

Christine jumped up, barked a code word to Alice and shouted for Nicholas and Jack. It didn’t take Brain of Britain to work out that all was not well. “Jack — comms room, now!”

Miranda sat and watched the mayhem play out. She wondered if Christine had spoken like that to Thomas; maybe she still did during office hours. Then the penny dropped: they had a comms room — probably hidden cameras outside. What if Thomas was out there?

She stood up — on the pretence of stretching — and hugged herself like an orphan, in the centre of the room. Alice had her gun drawn and looked very, very scared. “You’d better go to your room.”

The door sprang wide open, almost as wide as the look on Alice’s face.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake, stand down,” In a single sentence, Christine turned Alice into a child.

Miranda looked at Christine through narrowed eyes; what was really going on here? Christine twitched and broke eye contact. Nicholas strode into the room like a lion. He did everything but spray the place, and by the look on his face, he was thinking about it.

“May I have your attention everyone; my colleague will be staying with us for a couple of days.”

The stranger waited at the doorway until he had everyone’s attention. “Ah, my dear,” he crossed the floor to Miranda and extended a well-manicured hand. “Such a pleasure. You may call me Yorgi.”

She accepted graciously — no sense getting off on the wrong foot. Nice watch, if you were into retro.

“And you,” Yorgi clicked his fingers at Nicholas, “you will join us in the interview. The rest of you are not required.” Then he laughed; the kind of laugh that makes you check where your children are.

Miranda found herself complying, meekly following them to the interview room. No one else had moved. Earlier, she’d thought that she and Christine had made some kind of connection. Well, maybe that was just a mind game to soften her up for the big one.

* * *

Yorgi didn’t take prisoners. Initially he was all charm and sophistication but, Jeez, the cruelty in that man’s eyes. He looked at her with the cold gaze of a predator; a woman gets to know the type, if she’s unlucky.

At first Miranda figured she’d ride out the storm and basically wear them out. But this guy was good; he asked the same question ten different ways. No drinks, no comfort breaks and no one to help her. Nicholas seemed to relish every minute, watching the master at work. And even though she knew she had nothing more to tell them, after an hour in their company, she wished she had.

“You must think!” Yorgi banged the desk again. Nicholas jumped too. Yeah, for all that alpha male act, he was as frightened of this bloke as the rest of them.

“Did Thomas mention a package — a delicate matter of security?”

She shook her head again then remembered his insistence on verbal responses. He made Nicholas write everything down, questions and answers. “I need the loo,” she was shocked by how small her voice was. She waited while Yorgi considered her request, didn’t leave the chair until he pointed to the door.

“Four minutes. No more.”

Nicholas marched her to the toilet; he looked smug, repeating the time span as if he’d thought it up himself.

She remained on the toilet seat afterwards, watching as her legs twitched. The tears came without warning; she pulled at the loo roll and dabbed her eyes furiously. Not now, not when that fucking savage was trying to break her down. She pinched at her arm — an old trick to displace her weakness in front of her brothers. God, she wished they were here now. She checked her watch — it was going to be a long night.

Chapter 39

Thomas jolted to attention as John rapped on the door and called out ‘six o’clock.’ He yawned and rubbed his eyes; he’d been awake for ages. He recalled being a boy, woken up on Saturdays for his paper round. Looking back, it always seemed to be raining — or snowing — everyone else still warm in bed. His dad would make him a mug of hot, sweet tea to see him on his way. ‘Mustn’t let ’em down, Thomas, mustn’t let ’em down.’ Those words seemed to have followed him around his whole life.

He showered, using Miranda’s gel, even though he’d brought his own along. Then he dressed and sorted through the bag for the fifth time. Shit — no protective vest; he’d left it at the flat. Well, he weighed the pistol in his hand; if push came to shove he’d just have to get the shots in first.

Diane was milling about in the kitchen; she looked like she hadn’t slept a great deal either. She kissed him on the cheek, same as she did all her children, and he felt his stomach twitch. Breakfast was a welcome escape from the possibility of conversation, and Diane had done him and John proud. She sat down with them, nibbling at the world’s smallest piece of toast.

John ran through the itinerary. “This early, I reckon an hour will be plenty.”

Thomas kept his thoughts to himself. An hour? Just to go ten miles up the A13. What was John planning to do, make him walk there?

Diane saw them to the door. The way that she and John held each other took Thomas’s breath away; he thought that kind of certainty only existed on television. It brought him up short — didn’t he and Miranda used to have that kind of relationship? He turned away, but not before he heard John promise Diane that it would all be okay.

“Bring them all back safe, Thomas,” she sounded like she was sending him off to war — and maybe she was.

* * *

John didn’t say much until they were on the A13, joining the other poor bastards travelling into work.

“I put extra clips in your bag while you were in the bog.”

Thomas smiled. He would have made a joke about firepower if his guts weren’t churning. He wondered about the gun again — about where it had come from, and its history. His stomach flipped another somersault; better off not knowing.

“Can I ask you something, Thomas?” John didn’t wait for permission. “Where’d you learn to use a gun? At the house, you seemed to know what you were doing.”

“Indoor firing range.”

John looked disappointed. Thomas thought about showing off his flesh wound, as credentials; bloodied in battle, as Karl would say. Yes . . . Karl. Would he have read the email by now? Would he even be able to act on it if he had? Great — something else to stress about.

“Listen . . .” John kept his eyes on the road. “What are you going to do when all this is over? I can’t see you keeping your job if you pull a gun on ’em!”

Yeah, that’s right, John; lap it up.

The lights hit red; John turned to face him. “Only, me and Diane were talking last night. And, if you needed a job, we could take you on, part-time, like — with the family. ’Cos sometimes people come to me with the sort of problems that someone like you can handle.”

Wow. Thomas locked eyes with John for a second or two. He felt the heat rise up his face and choke him. After all the shit he’d brought on Miranda and the family, they were still willing to chuck him a lifeline.

“No, er, need to commit yourself right now, Thomas.”

The lights turned green and his guts did more gymnastics. Back in Pickering, Ajit’s dad used to take them out on the moors. Often, on the way back, he’d wish that the car would break down, just to delay getting home. Or he’d count down every ten trees or street lights, surrendering territory in batches of ten. He was doing it
now
; he didn’t realise it at first, but he was still wishing for something he couldn’t have.

* * *

“We’re here,” John kept the car running. “I’ll check that website for any more phone conversations from that Peterson bloke and ring you if anything turns up.”

The breezeblock walls of the scrapyard were covered in graffiti, making it look like a techno-fortress. Thomas figured Sam and Terry weren’t fussed; he remembered Sam’s fondness for the spray can in his teens. What goes around, and all that.

Above the wall was a layer of corrugated steel. Some of that had been colonised by Street Artists Anonymous too. The E1 posse might be feerlezz, but he didn’t rate their chances if they ever went over the fence into the yard.

The door set within the main gate was open and waiting. He banged on the panelling and announced himself.

“Hey Thomas, how’s it going?” Sam could always be relied upon for a warm welcome. Terry though, looked like he was sizing him up. Sam elbowed him sharply.

“Alright, Terry?”

Terry sniffed aloud, like a Rottweiler gauging the scent of a rival. “Are you sure you’re up to this?”

Up to this? He took a few steps forward, into their domain. No question, because when it all came down to it, he’d
have
to be. He dropped his bag by the door. “I am, if you two back me all the way.”

Good answer. And true, as it goes. John Wright was a shrewd man. Now there were three chances of getting Miranda out, and if it all went pear-shaped he had people he could trust implicitly.

He closed the door behind him and drew the bolt across the gate. Terry led the way, through the scrapyard, deep among the junk-filled skips and piled up cars. In one derelict cul-de-sac, a series of crude targets had already been set up, ready for practice.

It took less than half a clip to realise that drawing from a shoulder holster was too slow. It was Terry who nailed it — too clumsy, too telegraphed; the way Thomas moved one arm across and the other instinctively backwards to give better access to the weapon. Plus, he’d hopefully be wearing a vest and that might slow him further.

He reverted to the basics and once he’d cleared a row of targets, both brothers seemed to lose their scepticism. Okay, they weren’t slapping him on the back or anything, but they listened now when he gave instructions for repositioning new targets. He shot from standing, kneeling, lying down; a crash course in ‘aim and fire’ — not ‘think then aim then think and fire.’ Think too much, on this occasion, and it could be the last thing he did. He yawned; fatigue and the constant spectre of fear were taking their toll.

Sam came to the rescue. “Don’t worry, Thomas, I’ll make us all a brew.”

Yeah, nothing like a nice cuppa after a hard day’s shooting.
They sat on planks raised up by milk crates, staring down at the makeshift targets — two shop dummies and beer bottles on poles.

“When are you ringing the geezer to make the switch?” Sam sounded so much like a cinema gangster that it was painful.

Thomas turned it over in his brain. Teresa wanted two days’ grace so was that the day after today? And how was he supposed to stall everyone? He scuffed at the ground with his boot. “I’ll contact him later today.” Sam and Terry nodded in unison and the three of them sought refuge in their mugs of tea.

* * *

All Thomas heard was a
click
, far behind him. It was the only warning before a shot rang out, shattering one of the beer bottles. The boys dived for cover; Thomas threw himself on the ground and scrabbled for the handgun, which he’d zipped up in the bag. He was still fiddling with the handle — jammed, naturally — when he heard the boots crunch against the ground towards him.

“See here, Tommo, is this a private party or can anyone join?”

Thomas saw Sam and Terry standing on the periphery, gripping metal bars: futile but admirable.

“Karl McNeill, at your service,” he took a bow and holstered his weapon, which looked like one of his beloved Brownings.

Sam and Terry gave each other a strange look, dropped their weapons and approached him.

“Terry and Sam, I presume? Is there anything left in the pot; I’m gasping!” Karl released a rucksack from his back and cricked his neck in several directions. He was dressed head to foot in black.

“What are you supposed to be?” Thomas thought it best to get in early.

“That’s a fine welcome for a man who’s driven half the night to be here. Seriously, how are you, Tommy?”

After tea, Sam and Terry did the decent thing and buggered off to the nearest café for supplies. Thomas set up new targets — under Karl’s instruction — and Karl unveiled the contents of his rucksack — a veritable armoury.

“So you obviously got my clever message. How did you get away?”

Karl laughed, rat-a-tat-tat style. “Well, my mammy wasn’t willing to write me a note so I did what any decent pal would do — I walked off the job.”

“Really? Shit.” Thomas floundered for words. “So what’s going to happen?”

“Hey, don’t sweat it, Tommo. We have other things to sweat about. Bottom line is, Miranda’s caught up in someone else’s fight — that’s unacceptable. You let me worry about my blistering career. Some things are more important.”

Thomas gulped some tea down to soften the lump in his throat. “So where have you come from then, if you’ve driven half the night?”

“Hey, hey, Mr Bladen,” Karl weighed the two Brownings in his hands, squinting one eye. “That’s confidential information. I’ll have you know that I’ve signed the Official Secrets Act.”

“Twat.”

Karl answered with a volley of two-handed gunfire, blasting bottles in all directions. “So how are you gonna tell Frank and Jesse James about the two-day hiatus?”

Thomas curled a lip. So, Karl had been speaking to Teresa as well. “Dunno — any ideas?”

“As a matter of fact, I have,” Karl exchanged weapons with Thomas for a try-out, “but I’m not sure you’re gonna like it.”

Thomas followed Karl’s drill to the letter, first kneeling then crouching, coming belly down to the ground, walking straight ahead, and all the while shooting. Karl was a natural; no, scratch that, he was an
un-natural
. His hit rate was mesmerising, against an assortment of bottles, headlights and shop dummies.

“You’re really serious about taking down these bastards?” There wasn’t a trace of mockery in Karl’s voice.

Thomas laid the weapon on the ground — safety on — and brushed dust off his jeans. “Yorgi’s definitely involved and he’s not the negotiating type.” He relayed the fruits of his intelligence gathering.

Karl poked his tongue out and licked his upper lip. “Hear me out now,” he made the pistol safe and passed it over. Thomas put it on the ground. “If we’re getting Miranda in exchange for the papers,
and
taking care of Yorgi — assuming he’s there . . .”

“Oh, he’ll be there,” Thomas felt a shiver run down his spine.

“You need to be somewhere safe; a place you know well. Your life could depend on it. And hers.”

Yeah, thanks for that.
Thomas opened his hands to catch some more pearls of wisdom from Guru Karl.

Karl got the message after a few seconds. “Oh, right. If it was me, I’d make the exchange somewhere secure — only one road in and out.”

Thomas wiped the sweat from his neck. “Yeah, but it’s not that simple, is it? They’ve got Miranda — I can’t take any chances; if anything . . .”

Karl brought his hand down hard on Thomas’s shoulder, as if anchoring him. “Do you trust me, Tommo? I mean,
really
trust me? I see a way through this, but you’ll need to do things my way.”

Thomas looked around him; everything was still. There was that feeling again; a sense that Karl knew this was coming and had always known. Still, weigh that up against any other options — precisely none — and what else did he have? Nowt. “I’m listening.”

“You have to dictate the terms. Name the place — and state your price. If you give them a price, they’ll have you down as a rank amateur — which you are not. This gives us a certain, minimal advantage.”

Thomas picked up the empty mug and stared inside. He felt like crying, and he could have filled it to overflowing. “I don’t know. I can’t afford to fuck this up,” he heard the panic in his own voice.

Karl play-punched him on his good arm and shook his head dismissively. “It’s like automatic doors. You keep right on walking at a steady pace and they just open — because it’s what they’re supposed to do.” He did an exaggerated slow march on the spot.

“No guarantees though,” Thomas wasn’t smiling.

And neither was Karl. “No, Tommo, no guarantees.”

He dropped the tin mug, the hollow clatter echoing in his brain. And shielded his eyes with his palms. He asked for guidance in the darkness, a solitary waiting, throbbing in his chest. But all he felt was the breeze stirring against the backs of his hands and all he heard was the hiss of his own breath. He lowered his hands and sighed. “Okay, how’s this going to work, then?”

By the time Terry and Sam returned, the guns were stowed away and Karl was making stick drawings in the dirt.

“Who wanted the runny egg?” Rely on Sam to break the tension.

* * *

Thomas sat down with Sam and Terry, as Karl repeated the plan for their benefit. As it was the second time he’d heard it, his mind began to wander. With hindsight, it was easy to see the choices he had made as inevitable. The mind played tricks, picking out key pieces of information and stringing them together like second-hand pearls. Wrap the parts in meanings they never had before and hey presto, it’s destiny. But mostly it was just making the best of a difficult situation at the time, and wanting to feel good about it.