Untouchable (26 page)

Then feel something well up inside. ‘But they’d get away with it,’ I blurt, more loudly than I intend. Knowing how silly I sound. ‘Pulling off corrupt deals. Insider trading. Abusing government office. Breaking international arms agreements – you name it.
Ordering Elisa’s execution, for fuck’s sake.
’

Tony nods, slipping on his jacket and heaving the rucksack on to his back.

‘Yeah, you’re right. They’d get away with it, Stella. I don’t want to sound harsh, but boo hoo, it’s an ugly old world.’

He eyes me one last time before heading for the door.

‘But look on the bright side, kiddo – at least you’d still be alive.’

38

Thursday, 9 April

This time, when I hand him the cash, the clerk doesn’t turn a hair. Just takes the form I’ve filled out and puts the keys on the counter. Points to a beige Volvo out in the car park.

It’s not the same car I had before. I’ve splashed out on something more substantial. Something with a bit more clout. And satnav.

I drop my bag on the back seat, turn on the ignition and program in the address. The satnav talks me through central London and out on to the M25. Another thirty minutes and I’m cruising up the M1, passing signs to Milton Keynes and Northampton, Rugby and Leicester.

Clouds loom, growing denser and darker as I head further north, eyes focused on the endless grey tarmac of the motorway. I stay in the slow lane with the articulated lorries, driving at a steady sixty miles an hour, overtaking only when they slow to a crawl on the hills.

Another hour passes. I fiddle with the radio, searching for something to distract me. Find nothing but music or news. I’m in the mood for neither.

It’s not too late to turn back.

The thought rises unbidden. I could go home. Pack my bags. Take the tube to Heathrow and buy a ticket to somewhere. Anywhere.

I keep on driving, watching the speedometer chalk up the miles between me and my escape route. I count off the junctions, stopping for half an hour at Donington Park services for a pee, a cup of tea and a soggy tuna sandwich.

Ten minutes past Nottingham it begins to rain, a sudden deluge that slashes visibility to a few yards and forces all but the most reckless to cut their speed. I put the windscreen wipers on full, keeping my eyes trained on the tail lights of the red lorry just ahead. The sun is setting, the sky fading towards dusk.

It’s not too late to go back.

The thought mirrors the rhythmic sweep of the wipers. Back and forth, back and forth. The lorry in front grinds to a walking pace, and I see a string of red lights curving up the road in front of me. Possibly an accident up ahead.

Half a mile later, the traffic speeds up again. I switch into the middle lane to overtake. Just as I draw level with the red lorry, it indicates and starts to pull out. I check my mirror and try to move into the fast lane, but a black Range Rover appears alongside me, blocking my path.

I smack my hand on the horn for it to let me in, but the car doesn’t alter its speed. Inside the front passenger window I glimpse a man looking right at me, his face impassive.

Shit
.

I hit the brakes at the exact moment a light goes off in my eyes, like an internal firework. I can’t see a thing. I pump the brake, already feeling the car going into a skid, the scream of car horns as I careen across the carriageway.

I’m dead, I think, as I lose control of the steering, still half blind. No fucking way I’ll survive this.

No way at all.

The car hits the verge on the other side of the hard shoulder and goes into a spin. The blare of more horns, and my vision clears just in time to glimpse a juggernaut thundering towards me.

I close my eyes and wait for everything to end.

‘You OK, miss?’

I open my eyes slowly. A police officer is tapping on the car window.

‘Miss? Can you open the door?’

I can’t breathe. My chest feels crushed, stamped flat. I can’t inhale.

‘Miss?’ I look at the officer. He’s pointing at the button that releases the central locking. ‘Open the door.’

I stretch forward, just reaching it with my hand. A click as the locks release and he opens the driver door.

‘Handbag,’ I manage to stammer, nodding towards the back seat. He leans over and hands it to me. I find my inhaler. Squirt salbutamol into my rasping lungs.

‘You OK?’ he asks again. I nod, closing my eyes as I wait for the drug to work. A minute later I can speak.

‘Jesus.’ It’s all I can think to say.

‘What happened?’ asks the officer. I peer out the windscreen. A squad car is parked on the hard shoulder in front of me, a minivan a few yards behind it. I realize I’m facing the wrong way, towards the oncoming traffic.

‘Miss?’

‘I’m not sure.’ My voice comes out hoarse and shaky.

‘Sounds as if you had a narrow escape. This gentleman says you lost control and spun right across the carriageway.’ I look up to see a young bloke in a hoodie standing by the officer. The van must be his.

‘Do you remember what happened?’ the officer asks again.

I think hard. ‘I was overtaking a lorry, but it pulled out in front of me. Then I was dazzled by something, I couldn’t see.’

‘A light?’

‘Blinding.’

‘Did you notice anything?’ the police officer asks the other man.

He shakes his head. ‘Only the car going into a skid. Nearly got hit by an artic.’

‘It was like a torch,’ I say, remembering. ‘Like when somebody shines one in your eyes. But stronger. Brighter.’

‘A laser light?’ suggests the man. ‘Maybe it was someone on the bridge.’ He nods at the overpass in the distance.

‘Possibly kids,’ says the officer. ‘Wouldn’t be the first time.’

‘There was a black Range Rover,’ I add. ‘I tried to pull into the fast lane but it wouldn’t get out of the way.’

The officer looks over at the traffic belting along the motorway. I can see him weighing up what to do next.

‘There’s some services a few miles up the road. You can come in the car with me and my colleague will turn yours round and follow on behind. We’ll check it over when we get there.’

By the time the police have filled in the paperwork and given me and the car the all-clear, it’s getting late. I drive slowly, cautiously. Shouldn’t be driving at all, as the officer said, not till I’m over the shock. Although he had no idea how shaken I am. As Tony pointed out, strangled call girls attract attention – but not if they’re flattened on a motorway.

I’ve no choice though. I have to get there tonight. Whether what happened was an accident or deliberate, I still need to get a shift on.

Even so, it’s gone ten by the time I find the right road on the Leeds estate, and only street lights illuminate the long row of houses. It’s a cheap seventies terrace, the kind that appears to have been slung together with giant slabs of concrete, UPVC windows stuck in like an afterthought. All the front doors set into a glorified lean-to; the scraggy grass outside barely meriting the word lawn, let alone front garden.

I slow the car and peer at the number on the nearest property. Count forwards in twos until I spot the one I’m after.

Number 71. A bucket by the door and a red moped parked in front of the window.

I look around, study the road behind me in my rear-view mirror. Towards the end, up near the junction, I make out the back of a couple walking a Staffie. The dog stops, sniffs, cocks a stocky leg, moves on a few yards and goes through the whole rigmarole again. The man tugs at the lead and they disappear round the corner.

I check around again. No one. Grabbing my handbag, I get out the car, locking it behind me. My legs still feel trembly and I almost hobble to the front door, relieved to see the light glowing behind the curtains, the sound of a TV.

The bell doesn’t seem to work, so I tap on the window with my knuckles. A hand pulls a curtain aside and I glimpse the silhouette of a man’s face. A few seconds later the door opens and the hand gestures me inside.

Raffey’s standing at the foot of the stairs, eyeing me curiously. As he reaches past to shut the door, I’m assailed by a powerful smell of cooking fat and stale tobacco. And something underneath, something more pungent.

I pull my attention back to Raffey. Though it’s only been five, maybe six years, he looks older, the lines on his face deeper. He’s dressed in jeans and an old black sweatshirt – not much different from the prison-issue clothes I last saw him in.

‘So, Grace Thomas,’ he drawls in a voice craggy with age and cigarettes. ‘Never thought I’d see you again.’

I don’t bother with a greeting. It would be wasted on Raffey. ‘Do we have to stand out here?’

He studies me for a few seconds longer, then nods towards the living room.

The heat hits me first. Then the smell, the undertone in the hallway now transformed into the distinct reek of skunk and something earthier. I glance around. In the corner of the room I catch sight of the cages – wire mesh, three stacked one on top of the other.

Christ. What on earth does he keep inside them? Rats? Reptiles?

I decide not to ask.

‘You look rough,’ Raffey sniffs.

I don’t bother to reply. Raffey walks over to the TV and turns off the sound. ‘How’d you get my number then?’

‘I called in a favour. Someone at the probation office.’

‘Right,’ he says, sucking his teeth loudly.

‘So do you have it?’

He shakes his head. ‘Not yet. Tomorrow.’

‘OK.’

I keep my face expressionless, but he laughs huskily. ‘This isn’t Argos, sweetheart. These things take a bit of time. And money.’

I take the hint. Dig into my handbag and hand him the bundle of notes. I haven’t bothered with an envelope – Raffey’s not one for niceties like that.

‘It’s all there,’ I say, but he insists on counting out the used twenties one by one. He may have an IQ in the low eighties, but there’s clearly nothing wrong with Raffey’s ability to add up.

‘Not out the cashpoint?’ he confirms, evidently assuming such a large amount of cash would be a problem for me.

Little does he know.

‘So, what time tomorrow?’ I ask, when he’s finally reassured himself that I haven’t pulled a fast one.

He doesn’t reply. Goes over to the corner, opening a little door in the top cage and retrieving a metal tin from under a pile of hay. Stashes the money inside and replaces the tin in its hiding place.

Then he turns to me, letting his gaze travel from my breasts down to my crotch before swivelling back up to my face.

‘Should be here by five.’

39

Friday, 10 April

Where am I?

My eyes focus. Bed, desk, TV. Cheap plastic chair. The kind of bathroom that comes in one easy-to-install unit. The dismal internal vista furnished by budget motels across the world. I turn my head on the pillow to see if there’s anyone beside me, but I’m alone.

More alone, perhaps, than I’ve ever been.

I eat the buffet breakfast – watery orange juice, dry croissants, and the nastiest coffee I’ve tasted in a long time, bitter and burnt. I feel groggy, blurred at the edges, after half a night lingering between sleep and wakefulness, my nervous system still on full alert.

I check out, chuck my bag into the boot of the car and climb in behind the steering wheel. I rest my forehead against it, wondering if I’ve lost my nerve.

It’s not too late to go back.

I’ve no idea where I’m going. It’s only when I sit up and turn the key in the ignition that the inevitability of it hits me.

The one destination I simply can’t avoid.

Forty minutes later and I’m swinging into Sweetland Road. Another half a mile brings me face-to-face with the stark brick building. I drive past and pull up opposite the car dealership. Check I can still see the entrance in my rear-view mirror.

There it is. The crest above the doorway. Spirals of razor wire just visible above the high perimeter walls.

I take a deep breath, gripping the steering wheel with both hands. There’s a gritty pain in my chest, and my breathing feels strained. I lean over and grasp my handbag, find my inhaler. Aim it at the back of my mouth.

Nothing comes out. I shake the canister and try again. A brief hiss. The chemical taste on my tongue, not as strong as it should be. Obviously running low. I breathe slowly, deeply, until the urge to cough fades into a faint tickle deep in my throat.

Another glance in my mirror. Where is he, I wonder. I check the time – half past ten. Not in his cell then. In the gym, perhaps. Michael was always careful to keep himself in shape; not easy, given the prison diet. Or maybe he’s in one of the education classes. Though God knows I can’t think what anybody could teach him that he doesn’t already know.

I stare at the stone walls of the prison, estimating the distance between us. A hundred yards, maybe two? Even being this close makes me feel nauseous. I sit back in the seat and shut my eyes. Fill my lungs with air, inhaling through my nose, out through my mouth, all to a count of five. The same breathing exercise I taught to dozens of inmates inside that very building.

How many are still in there, I wonder. How many outside, picking up the shards of their lives?

I adjust my mirror, pointing it towards the main block. Remember the narrow corridors, the claustrophobic little cells with their metal beds and stainless-steel sinks and toilets. The ubiquitous scent of disinfectant. I can hear the barked commands of the prison guards, the endless chatter of the inmates, their comments and catcalls, echoing around the building like ugly bird song.

Michael.
My mind seeks him out again, his face surfacing like an old photograph. Young still, those carved cheekbones, those soulful blue eyes.

‘Michael.’ Just saying his name again after all these years feels like blasphemy, but it springs to my lips like a mantra.
Michael.

I imagine the days, weeks, months stretching out before him. I know how that must make him feel. Know how much he hated being inside.