Sean Black: Lockdown

Eyes adjusting slowly to the gloom, he took a sip of beer. The label on the painkillers no doubt contained a warning about not taking them with alcohol but his vision was still a little blurred, and who could read that kind of small print in this light anyway?

The door swung open, and in strode Carrie. Seeing her, Lock felt suddenly buoyant. And even more light-headed. Without stopping to look around she made a beeline for him, throwing down her jacket and bag on the table, all business, like they’d never broken up.

‘Tough day?’ Lock asked her.

‘About average.’

‘How’d you pick me out so quick?’

‘Corner table with your back to the wall, a view of the door, and easy access to the back exit. It doesn’t take a genius.’

‘See, you did get something out of dating me after all.’ He stood and pulled out a chair for her.

She pantomimed a curtsy and sat down. ‘You always did have good manners.’

They looked at each other across the table, Lock suddenly wishing that the lighting was better.

‘Glad you made it out in one piece.’

‘Yeah. It was scary for a while there.’

‘It was,’ Lock agreed. The only people who claimed not to be scared in a violent situation were liars and psychopaths. Fear was hard-wired.

‘So how’s my hero?’

‘I’m your hero?’

‘Ryan, let’s not-’

He put up his hand in apology. ‘You’re right. So, let’s see, how am I?’ He took a sip, reflected. ‘I’m sore. If I’d seen it coming. .’

‘It wouldn’t have been sore?’

Lock wasn’t sure he had the energy to explain. Long ago he’d formed the theory that if you knew you were going to be hurt, if you expected it, the brain could send a signal of anticipation to the body which meant that when pain came it arrived with less of a jolt. Since then, every time he’d gone into a situation the first thing he told himself was, this is going to hurt. Bad . And somehow when he did that and the pain came he was able to manoeuvre beyond it and come out on top.

The shotgun rig had been a sucker punch. But then the world these days was all sucker punches.

‘Ryan? Are you OK?’

‘Sorry.’ He ran his hand across his scalp. ‘I was miles away.’

‘Evidently. Nice hairdo, by the way.’

He smiled. One of the many things he loved about Carrie was her ability to pull him out of what she chose to call his ‘tortured soul’ moments. ‘You like it?’ he asked.

‘ “Like” might be too strong a word. It’s certainly. . different. Let me get you a drink.’

‘Drinks are on me.’

He flagged down the bartender and ordered Carrie a Stoli rocks with a twist of lime.

‘Nice to see you remembered.’

The way she met his gaze as she said it held more than a hint of promise for later. In his current state, Lock couldn’t decide whether that was a good thing or a bad thing. On the one hand he couldn’t think of anything he’d like better than spending the night with Carrie, but on the other he doubted Carrie would be that impressed if he blacked out on top of her.

That, and it was complicated. They’d first gotten involved vowing that their relationship was only a bit of fun, then quickly realized after he’d stayed over at her place every night for two weeks that maybe it was shaping up to be more. Finally, they reached a mutual conclusion: right person, wrong time. No big argument. No recriminations. Just a slow realization that it wasn’t going to work out. Lock ached, then threw himself even deeper into his job.

The bartender brought Lock another beer and Carrie her Stoli rocks with a twist. Carrie’s finger circled the rim of her glass. She was thinking about something, Lock could tell.

‘Got some pretty good footage of you saving that girl in the wheelchair.’

‘No.’

‘I haven’t asked you a question yet.’

‘I know what it is, and my answer’s still no.’

Carrie sat back, smiling. ‘Will you give me an interview?’

‘You know what I think about media bullshit. Present company excepted. And you know what I think about guys doing the job who big-time it.’

‘But you saved her life.’

‘It’s what I’m trained to do. It wasn’t bravery, it was reflex. Listen, my job is to be the-’

‘Grey man. I know.’

Carrie had made the mistake of curling up on the couch with Lock one evening to watch the Academy Awards. She’d been treated to a stream of invective about the shortcomings of the various ‘bodyguards’ accompanying the cream of Hollywood up the red carpet. It was also the first time Carrie had heard the expression, presumably picked up from his former British colleagues, ‘thick-necked twats’.

‘Then you knew what I’d say.’

‘Can’t fault a girl for trying, can you?’ She drained her Stoli. ‘Why don’t we go somewhere else?’

Lock closed his eyes, tasting the moment.

‘You OK?’

‘Better than OK. You got some place in mind?’

‘Maybe.’

Over Carrie’s right shoulder, Lock watched a man in his early forties come into the bar. He wore a long raincoat buttoned all the way up but the hair matted to his head indicated that he hadn’t had the additional foresight to carry an umbrella. He scanned the bar quickly, clearly seeking someone out, but his manner was off, too much uncertainty around the edges.

The man stopped at the bar, leaning over to speak briefly to the barman, who nodded in Lock’s direction. As the man headed towards them, Lock edged his chair back a few inches, giving himself the room to be quickly up and on his feet should the need arise.

‘What’s wrong?’ Carrie asked, looking behind her.

The man got within a few feet of them and stopped.

Lock’s focus remained on the man’s hands, waiting for them to move inside his coat. But they didn’t, and when he finally spoke it was with a slightly affected WASPy accent, the words clipped and decisive. ‘Mr Lock?’

Another reporter, no doubt. Lock glared up at the man from his beer. ‘Sorry, but NBC already have me tied up.’

‘You should be so lucky,’ Carrie muttered.

Lock opened his mouth to tell the guy that they were leaving, then stopped as he saw his face up close. He had scaly black bags under his eyes and looked like he was about to burst into tears.

The man’s gaze flitted briefly to Carrie, then back to Lock. ‘Mr Lock,’ he said, his voice breaking, ‘I’m not a reporter. My name’s Richard Hulme. I’m Josh Hulme’s father.’

‘How did you find me?’ Lock asked Richard Hulme.

‘One of your friends at Meditech. Tyrone. He gave me a list of places you might be. I think he feels bad about Meditech not being prepared to help out.’

They were alone in a corner booth, Carrie having agreed to catch up with Lock later.

‘You want to tell me what happened?’ Lock asked.

Richard launched into his story, his voice contained and even. What many would have taken as a lack of emotion, Lock recognized as a father doing his best not to unravel; not through any overweening macho pride, but because stoicism on his part might help get his son back in one piece. Lock had been here before, and like anyone who’d dealt with a child abduction the memory had never abated.

However, as Richard began to lay out the sequence of events, as methodically as one might expect from a scientist, Lock became more unsettled. This wasn’t like any other kidnap case he had either been involved in or even heard of.

‘I didn’t even know he was gone until the next morning. I should explain. I was at a conference out of town. I’d called from my hotel but I just assumed that because Josh was in bed. .’

‘Your wife had turned the phone off?’