The Touch of Innocents (33 page)

Paulette pounced, her fury lending springs to her feet. She hurled herself at her tormentor, intent on gaining by strength what she could not extract through sympathy. Two women, two lives, collided, one touched by evil, the other by innocence.

As she saw Paulette leaping for her, Izzy drew back her hand and crashed it full into the other’s face. Paulette flew across the room, her head crashing into the wall, blood spurting from a badly split lip. Without respite, Izzy was upon her, shaking her, forcing reality back between the closed eyelids.

‘Where is she now? Where?’

Paulette mumbled, Izzy propped her against the wall, the girl’s eyes tightly closed.

‘With one of our fosterers, don’t know which. Waiting to be handed over to the new owners.’

‘Owners?’ Izzy flared, brutalized by the language. ‘Bella’s not some piece of second-hand furniture.’

But of course, for Paulette, she was.

‘Owners?’ Izzy repeated breathlessly.

‘Foreigners.’

‘Foreigners? From where?’

‘Abroad.’

‘Where abroad?’

Izzy slapped her cheek hard and Paulette’s eyes flashed open. They were soulless, empty.

‘Somewhere in the Gulf. Not sure where.’

‘Why on earth would they want a baby like Bella?’

There came no answer, but Izzy thought she knew. Judi had told her, igniting a bonfire of fears. White flesh. The ultimate status symbol. To be raised in the traditional way. And even if it were for some other reason, it scarcely mattered. They had sold her baby.

She wanted to crush Paulette’s head against the wall, to scatter her brains and her life across this stinking drug den of hers, to inflict agonies to compensate in some small degree for the pain suffered. But even as she held Paulette up, ready to strike, to pound her head and life into oblivion, she knew there could never be any compensation, that she could never make Paulette suffer enough. Not like she had suffered. And the real enemy was not Paulette, but time. Once Bella was taken from the country, obliterated behind the mysterious sandstorms of the Middle East, Izzy knew the door would be closed on her baby forever. The thought numbed every muscle.

Thank God she still had time. Bella was still with foster parents. Here. Close.

‘Where is Bella?’ she insisted once more.

‘Waiting to be delivered,’ the girl repeated. ‘A
nurse will fly her out to the Gulf. Hand her over there.’

‘But that’s not possible,’ Izzy protested, remembering Fauld’s words. ‘The parents are supposed to be here. For reports.’

‘Supposed to be,’ Paulette agreed hollowly. Reports. Another deception. Like so much else in her life.

‘But they can’t do that …’

‘Paperwork,’ came the fumbled reply. ‘All paperwork. They paid extra. Door-to-door delivery.’

‘The court hearing. The judge …’ Izzy protested.

‘The new parents might fly over for it. Or not. Probably not. Why bother, for a two-minute hearing? Maybe pay someone else to do it for them, like a driving test. Fool of a judge would never know.’

‘So, when is the handover?’

‘Can’t remember.’ She was mumbling badly now.

‘Then throw that rubbish out the window, Daniel,’ Izzy snapped, not taking her eyes from Paulette.

The girl beat her head, protesting, trying to clear the haze and sickness that enveloped her mind. ‘Gideon wanted it to be when everyone was busy. No time for questions. Just rubber-stamp and run.’

‘So when, woman? Remember! You must remember. Remember. Then you can have what you want.’

The girl’s eyes were far away, as though in trance. Then she shivered, clutched her stomach once more, her lower lip bitten almost to blood.

‘Christmas shopping,’ she whispered.

‘What?’ screamed Izzy, fearful that Paulette’s mind had gone completely.

‘Christmas. When everyone was busy, he said. Rushing to do their Christmas shopping. Rubberstamp and run …’ She was panting now, exhausted
by pain and effort. ‘Friday. Exactly a week before Christmas. Fly her out to the Gulf. Abu Dhabi. From Gatwick when it’s choked with charters. Friday before Christmas.’

The truth dawned slowly upon Izzy. For weeks she had been preoccupied, distracted, dates no longer meaningful. But Christmas is a date impossible to ignore. And it was precisely a week away.

Today. Today. Today. TODAY!

She had no more time. Her mind rebelled at the coincidence; the truth was beginning to fall in on her like a collapsing wall of hope, burying her alive.

‘I’ve let you have what you want. Now my stuff,’ Paulette demanded. Her eye had at last caught the syringe in Daniel’s hand.

‘Give it to her, Daniel,’ she cried, ‘and for God’s sake let’s get out of here.’

But even as she began to move for the door she saw that he was incapable of responding. His face had been transformed into a lurid, fear-wrecked mask. The hand that held the syringe was trembling, uncontrollably, and had been ever since his fingers had closed around the hypodermic. His head was shaking.

‘I cannot give it to her,’ he whispered. ‘Not this.’

He stood frozen, but not so Paulette. With astonishing agility for a body so badly abused she had once again flung herself across the room, this time at Daniel. But he was too far away; she fell short and he backed off, towards the balcony door, as though to hurl the drug away.

‘No. I can’t let you,’ he whispered.

To Izzy it would always remain the most mournful sound she had ever heard.

Through her pain Paulette could see nothing but the syringe. Every fibre of her body and mind was
set upon it; it had been held from her too long and nothing else mattered in her world. It was her lifebelt, her oxygen, her saviour. Survival. For she felt as though she were swimming in a pool of molten lead and someone had leapt upon her, forcing her down. Unable to breathe. Choking her. Panic. Syringe. Survival. Daniel. Needle. Now!

With the ferocity of a pouncing cat she had flung herself at Daniel, clawing for the hypodermic, her full weight meeting him in the chest.

She was not heavy but he had flung his arms wide to keep the syringe from her, placing himself off balance, and he was propelled backwards. As he staggered, the bottom of his heel hit the lip of the open balcony door. He tripped, fell back, his shoes scrabbling for purchase on the raw concrete floor of the balcony.

But they found nothing but fresh ice. Christmas frost.

His body slammed into the railing, his hands held above his head, centre of gravity high. As Izzy looked on, impotent in disbelief, his body performed a slow cartwheel around the railing.

Momentarily he seemed to hover, like a kestrel testing the winds, wings outstretched. Quivering. Reaching for her.

Their eyes met. He whispered her name.

Was gone.

Too late she had reached the balcony. Noise assailed her. Noise from the rail shunting yards, from the traffic that rumbled along an elevated section of motorway, from the pounding of a pile driver on the banks of the canal that ran close by. Above her, through the clouds, came the scream of engines from an airliner hitting the flight path into Heathrow, its undercarriage lowered. Drowning her own scream.

As she gripped the balcony rail and looked below, the sun burst through the cloud. A shaft of sunlight split the sky and travelled down, a stairway of celestial brilliance against grey winter, hitting the ground and glancing off a rail track into Izzy’s eyes. Like the opening of a great door.

Then it was gone.

And twenty-five floors below, on a dilapidated parking area, lay a crumpled form.

In the room behind her Paulette cursed once, then again, and fled. Through the door, pursued by demons – as Izzy was now and would ever after be pursued by demons. Daniel had asked only that he be allowed to love her. Yet she had demurred. Not now. Later. Tomorrow.

Never.

As Izzy looked once more to the scene below, there was sudden activity. Bouncing into the parking area came two police cars, lights flashing, screeching to a halt. Officers swarmed like termites around the body. Then another car drew up, a black limousine, the rear door opened and a man stepped out. He straightened, looked up.

Even from twenty-five floors up she knew him. No question. Below, beside the body of Daniel, her lover who would now never be, was standing Paul Devereux.

The car was forcing its way through the tumble south of the river, headed for the motorway and the airport. Gatwick was a bastard by road. Even with the screaming lights and sirens of the police escort it was proving slow progress through the early evening rush hour. Particularly on the Friday before Christmas.

Devereux sat composed. He knew what he had
to do. It took only seconds to reach the Divisional Commander of the Gatwick Airport police divisions on the phone.

‘A problem, Commander. Not too many details, not on a car phone, you’ll understand. But it’s possible we may have an incident on our hands at the airport. A potentially violent incident. May be a complete hoax, you understand, but I’ve been contacted personally by an American woman, recently released from hospital and known to be in a highly disturbed state. She’s believed to be on her way to Gatwick now, making threats of bloodshed. Mid-thirties, red hair. Possible Middle East connections. Wouldn’t normally have taken her too seriously, but it seems she is after all highly dangerous; already left one body behind her just an hour ago. Looks like a drugs-ring murder. Can’t afford to take chances, not with the holiday crowds. She’s disguised as an American correspondent called Isadora Dean. Dean is genuine but is known to be in America; the imposter may be on your doorstep any minute. I’m on my way there myself; if it’s a hoax we can clear the matter up the moment I arrive; if not … Yes. I agree. No point in risking a tragedy. Full security alert. Watch the Gulf flights in particular, is my advice. Anything you have to do. Stop her, Commander, don’t let her get near a flight and turn it into a Christmas hijacking. You’ll have my full personal support.’

He sat back in his seat, the influence of his position having won police co-operation yet again. Their questions would wait. And, once the flight had left, taking the baby beyond reach, their questions would be so easy to answer.

Beside him, curled like a foetus, slept Paulette. His daughter. The wax mask where once had been
a smiling face, the body, now withered, which he used to swing about his head on summer days, the scabbed and pus-pocked arms that every evening would fling themselves around his neck, the soreinfested mouth that once had launched laughter throughout the corners of his world. The wreckage of a life. Her life. Of all their lives.

‘For pity’s sake get a move on!’ he pleaded.

There was no time for subtlety. Scarcely any time left at all. Her taxi had been submerged in the same congestion as Devereux’s car; she had no telephone, nothing to allay her fears, no means of information or solace, nothing with which to fight back. Brake lights taunted. Intersections jammed. Car horns jeered. She had no thoughts. Every time she disengaged her mind from the numbness she felt only pain, remembered only Triumph Towers. It was safest not to think.

She did not think, therefore, about the open display of side arms and sub-machine guns and Heckler & Koch semi-automatics with laser sights that greeted passengers as they decanted into the terminal; after all, it was Christmas, the traditional season for terrorism when airports in many parts of the world automatically switched to a heightened state of alert. She did not remark upon the warnings issued at double the usual frequency about unaccompanied packages, or the squad of maintenance men removing the litter bins which could so easily be turned into bomb casings. The thought never entered her mind that running heedlessly through an overflowing terminal and causing throngs of pre-Christmas travellers to scatter like butterflies would attract undue attention. She did not think. But she heard. Above the voices of carol singers with their
songs of joy and Christmas nigh, above the rattling of coins in bright plastic buckets, above the chorus of hand-bells that rang out in praise, above it all she heard the announcement for flight KR 432. Boarding. London Gatwick. Direct to Abu Dhabi.

Her run became a sprint, her objective the Departures area, her progress devoid of thought for any other than Bella, ripples of protest swirling in her wake as she thrust aside all in her path – shouts of anger, bruised shins, a trolley turned over, the cries of a startled child – and she could see the huge board with lights flashing. KR 432. Final Call. She was almost there. One last surge.

She was swung violently around. A hand had stretched out from behind a pillar, grabbed her, the momentum of her chase almost knocking them both off their feet.

‘You!’ she gasped.

It was Devereux. Her eyes flashed from him to the Departure board, back again, as she sought to wrestle herself free.

‘Don’t worry. Your baby is fine. I’ve already sent instructions to have her brought here.’

His words left her reeling, her breath drawn in gasping rhythms, unable to respond.

‘You’ve won. Don’t you realize you’ve won?’ he continued. ‘She’s being brought from the gate right now.’

She shook her head trying to fend off what she thought must be trickery and lies, her head swivelling in every direction, desperately seeking some sight of the child.