Stella Rimington: Breaking Cover

‘What did you make of that?’ asked Jasminder Kapoor as she and her friend Emma Wickes extricated themselves from the crowd leaving the Almeida. The theatre, an elegant Victorian building converted from a semi-derelict factory, was in a narrow Islington side street where the audience could hang around chatting and arguing about the performance they had just seen. The Almeida specialised in sharp-edged productions of new and well-known plays and there was usually much to discuss. As ever the audience was a mix of well-heeled, middle-aged local residents who lived in the once run-down and now very valuable Georgian and Victorian houses nearby and young professionals who occupied the trendy flats newly built around the Angel, the centre of this now prosperous North London borough.

‘I couldn’t take my eyes off that great big crack in the back of the set,’ replied Emma. ‘It was so huge by the end, I thought the whole thing was going to fall down.’

‘It was supposed to symbolise the cracking up of his personality,’ said Jasminder, who took her theatre seriously.

‘I’m sure you’re right, but it almost had me cracking up. Still, it wasn’t the weirdest thing we’ve seen here. Do you remember the one where they all sat round a big wooden box drinking champagne, while we knew, and they didn’t, that there was the body of a murdered man inside?’

‘It went on to the West End and was a great hit.’

‘Can’t think why,’ said Emma.

Walking side by side now, the two young women made an interesting contrast – Jasminder tall, slim and elegant, her long glossy black hair framing her face with its striking dark eyes and smooth light brown skin; Emma much shorter and chubbier, cheerful-looking with blue eyes and cropped light brown hair. They had been friends since meeting at Durham University where they had both studied law. They had kept in touch, though their careers had gone in different directions. Emma worked in the legal department of a big software company while Jasminder had stayed in the academic world. They both lived in Islington now, not far from each other, and were regulars at the Almeida.

As they turned into Upper Street, the wind, which had swung round to the north, was sharp in their faces. Emma shivered. ‘Let’s go for a drink,’ she suggested as they reached the brightly lit doors of a pub.

‘I think I’d better go home,’ replied Jasminder. ‘I’ve got an early start tomorrow and some papers to read.’ She pointed at the briefcase she was clutching in one hand.

‘You work too hard,’ said Emma, hugging her and kissing her cheek. ‘You care too much.’

‘Probably,’ replied Jasminder. ‘That’s just how I am.’

‘There’s a great film at the Screen on the Green. Maybe we can go this weekend if you’re free. I’ll give you a ring,’ called Emma as she walked on.

Jasminder turned into Barnsbury Street, reflecting that she didn’t have any other plans for the weekend, except doing the washing and cleaning her flat, and – she sighed – writing another lecture.

Though Upper Street had been busy with cars and buses and people going in and out of the pubs and restaurants, there were very few people around in the side streets. Lights were glowing in the windows of the terraced houses but the basement areas were dark. Wheelie bins lined the pavement waiting for the collection in the morning. The lid of one was open and something, a cat perhaps or a fox, had dragged out its contents, littering the ground with what looked like bits of a chicken carcass. Jasminder glanced at the mess, wrinkling her nose in disgust, and hurried on, conscious now of the weight of her handbag on her shoulder and the briefcase in her hand. She was looking forward to a bath and a warm bed and wondering if she could put off opening the briefcase until morning. Perhaps if she got up very early…

She passed the church on the opposite side of the road and walked along by the railings of the square’s gardens, where the children’s playground was, though the bushes and the lime trees overhanging the road obscured it. She could just see the tops of the climbing frame and the slide through the leafless branches. The empty street suddenly seemed slightly spooky, and she was thinking of crossing to the better-lit side when she saw a man coming towards her. His face was in shadow but she could see he was wearing dark trousers and a leather jacket. Jasminder moved to the inner side of the pavement to let him go past, but the man moved with her, blocking her way.

‘Excuse me,’ she started to say, when she became aware of someone else at her side. Alarmed, she turned just as something metal flashed only a few inches away from her face. Almost instantaneously she felt the strap of her bag, tight over her shoulder, give way.

The man ahead was suddenly on her, grabbing her arm and twisting it round until Jasminder faced the entrance to the gardens. He pulled hard and pressed her tight against him, then forced her forward, his legs controlling hers so she could only move when he did, like a marionette. The other man, holding the knife, went ahead and kicked open the gate to the gardens. He was holding her bag in his other hand – and her briefcase, which she must have dropped in fright.

If they were mugging her, why hadn’t they run off when they’d got her bag? Why was this man pushing her into the gardens?

As if reading her thoughts, he tightened his grip, lifting her arm behind her back until Jasminder bent forward with a scream of pain. He reached around her with his other hand and cupped it over her breast, squeezing and kneading. As he pushed her towards the open gate he pressed his hardening groin against her. She could hear him panting and felt him breathing against her neck. A wave of panic struck her as she realised that once inside the gardens no one else would see her. These two could do whatever they liked to her and no one would know.

She drew in a breath to scream, but the man moved his hand from her breast and clamped it over her mouth. He was wearing gloves that smelled of camphor; Jasminder retched as she struggled for air. Then someone called out sharply, ‘Get off her! Leave her alone!’

It was a man’s voice coming from further down the street. But it did not deter her attackers. They pushed her through the gate, towards the nearest patch of shrubbery. The voice called again, ‘Let her go!’ And she heard the sound of running feet, and this time the man with gloves reacted. Pushing her so hard that she fell into the bushes, he and the man with her bags moved quickly towards the gate. Scrabbling to her feet, Jasminder lifted her head in time to see a male figure running towards them. He slowed down as he approached her assailants, and she could see that he was tall and well built and wore a dark overcoat.

The man with the gloves had taken charge of Jasminder’s bag and briefcase now, while the other man moved to confront the new arrival, waving the knife menacingly. The newcomer came on and when the knife swung towards his face, he lashed out with a fierce sideways kick. The knife flew into the air. The newcomer kicked again, this time catching the other man in the groin – he crumpled in pain, and fell to his knees.

The man with gloves on dropped Jasminder’s bags and ran at the newcomer, who stood stock still then suddenly threw a short straight punch that hit the gloved man flush in his Adam’s apple. He went down, clutching his throat and making a horrible choking sound. For a moment Jasminder wondered if her rescuer had killed him. But he rolled over and, staggering to his feet, ran off into the darkness of the gardens.

His friend was also on his feet by now, looking dazed. He took a tentative step towards the tall newcomer, but seemed to realise that he no longer had a knife and that his accomplice had gone. A second later, he too was running away.