Chris Simms - Killing the Beasts

'She's out of it!' the guy shouted. 'What's she taken?'

'Nothing much, 'Tom yelled back, wanting to get rid of him as soon as possible. 'Just a vodka too many.'

The man glanced at Tom, looking unconvinced. Then he turned back to Charlotte. 'Can you hear me, love?' he asked her.

'I told you,' said Tom impatiently. 'She'll be all right.'

'And who are you?' asked the man. 'How do you know her?'

Tom held up his wedding ring, then grabbed Charlotte's hand and showed him the matching ring on her finger. 'She's my wife, all right?' His voice was tight with irritation.

The man looked at their fingers and seemed reassured. 'Listen mate, I'm not being funny, but you could have been anyone. You know, I was worried. All this stuff about date rape drugs. She's totally out of it, after all.'

Tom could appreciate how dodgy the situation must have looked to a stranger. 'No, you're all right mate, I see your point. But she's my wife. A bit of a headcase, but still my wife.'

'OK. You sure you don't need help?'

'No, thanks anyway.'

For some reason they shook hands and the man disappeared back towards the dance floor.

Tom looked back at his wife. Her whole body was limp, eyes shut. 'Shit,' he said, pulling her upright and having to grab her jaw to stop her head lolling forwards. 'Charlotte, can you hear me?' he shouted into her face. She appeared to be totally unconscious. He placed a hand against the left side of her chest — her heart was pounding, but not ridiculously so. Looking around, he saw a bottle of water on the table in front of them. Leaning her back in the seat, he reached out and grabbed it. Then, holding her head back, he tipped a little into her slightly open lips. She coughed but didn't come round. Beginning to panic now, he poured some into his hand and splashed it against her forehead. The water dripped down her face and neck, running into her raised cleavage. He poured more into the palm of his hand and splashed it into her hair, then raised the bottle and poured some directly on to her head. Her eyes stayed shut. Not caring if the bouncers saw, he got one arm under her legs, one round her back and lifted her out of the seat; they had to get to hospital. As he made his way between the armchairs and sofas several people nodded in his direction. A couple of blokes grinned and one called over, 'She looks up for it!'

Then, as he neared the other side of the room, he felt her head begin to move. Away from the dance floor, the music was fractionally quieter. 'Charlotte, can you hear me?'

She moaned and her eyelids began to move. He sat down in an armchair with her on his lap. Getting his face close to hers, he repeated her name. Bit by bit she came round until, after a few minutes, she half opened her eyes and mumbled, 'Where are we?'

'You collapsed. Out on the dance floor.'

She seemed to think about that for a few seconds, then her eyes slid shut. Just as he started to worry that she'd passed out again, she whispered, 'Take me home.'

After folding the duvet around her, he scraped up her damp dress and underwear. The little plastic sachet of powder fluttered to the floor. Picking it up, he walked downstairs and put the desk lamp on. Two teaspoons' worth of fine white powder formed a triangle in the corner, a couple of lumpy bits where Charlotte's damp fingertip had been.

He lifted the phone, knowing Brain rarely slept at night. 'What the fuck was that powder?'

'Who's this?'

'Tom. I called in earlier tonight to pick up some shopping. You had a new… spice.'

'Oh that,' answered Brain and Tom could hear his grin. 'Knockout, isn't it, my friend?'

'Knockout? You could fucking say. My missus is completely asleep upstairs.' 'I told you — it's something new. I put it together using a recipe from the States.' He put on a Mexican accent. 'You only need a leetle beet, amigo. Es claro?'

'Yeah, you said,' Tom felt slightly sheepish, realizing Brain had warned him. He thought about the two large dabs his wife had taken. 'What is it?'

'I told you earlier. It's very popular with men who like their ladies a little more compliant, shall we say.'

'You're talking about date rape?'

'Watch what you say over the phone. Those were your words, not mine.'

Tom just had time to apologise before the line went dead. Hanging up, he looked at the little bag again, shook his head and tossed it on to the uppermost shelf above the computer, safely out of anyone's reach.

In the kitchen he opened up a beer and stepped through the French windows out on to the back patio. Hoping to try and spot The Plough once again, he looked up at the night sky. But all he could see was a greyish orange smear created by the massed lights of Manchester.

June 2002

The sleek nose of the Virgin train eased slowly along before coming to a halt just in front of the buffer at the end of the platform.

As one, the train's doors fell outwards before sliding to the side. Watching from the barriers, Tom was returned for an instant to the Seychelles, disembarking from the plane into a holiday that never happened. Taking one last glance at the photos from his client's company web site, he started scanning faces. Soon he spotted them, briefcases and bags in hands.

Folding the printout into his jacket, Tom walked over. 'James. Will. I'm Tom Benwell.'

The taller, slightly balding man smiled and held out a hand. 'Hello Tom, nice to put a face to your voice at last.'

Tom shook hands and turned to the dark-haired man whose stare was a little too intense. Noticing his hands were still at his sides, Tom held out his own, wondering if it would be shaken. 'Good to meet you, Will.'

He grasped Tom's hand for an instant in a featherlike grip, then dropped his arm. 'Likewise,' he said with a guarded smile.

Tom nodded. 'How was the trip up? You're actually a few minutes early.'

'There you go — miracles happen. I must say, this station is immaculate.' They all looked up at the gleaming new canopy of girders and plate glass arching over their heads.

'Yes,' Tom replied. 'The roof was replaced and the platforms revamped last year, I think. They're still working on the inner part of the station, but we're assured by countless notices it will be ready for the Games. Shall we?'

He held out a hand towards the doors leading into the main part of the station. Inside, a corridor of blue hoardings led them towards the exit. From behind them came the sounds of drilling and hammering as dozens of workmen fought to beat the fast-approaching deadline.

Taking it all in, James said, 'They'll really have this done in less than six weeks?'

In reply, Tom just raised his eyebrows as they made their way over the bare concrete floor. Out on the concourse the pedestrian walkway had been altered again to allow paving stones to be laid down.

'I'm parked just round the corner.' Tom led them towards the main road.

'What's that going to be?' asked James, pointing up at a tall aluminium structure being erected at the end of the concourse.

'It's going to support the second largest LED screen in the UK. They'll use it for electronic advertisements and flashing up info on the Games.'

The two visitors swapped a look that seemed to say, Why haven't we been offered space on it?

Tom spotted the exchange. 'The contractors have run into funding problems — there's been no word on its completion date yet. My guess is it will still be half-built well after the Games have finished.' He pointed to the line of trees stretching away up the middle of the road ahead, young leaves already covering their thin branches. 'This road leads up to Piccadilly Gardens, kind of Manchester's equivalent to Trafalgar Square. Like the station, it's also been given a complete overhaul, along with much of the city centre in fact. I thought we could go back to the office for our meeting then head into town for lunch and I'll give you a guided tour.'