Scott Andrews - School's Out Forever

“I said enough,” Kate snapped. “I need to think. Figure out the angles.”

“There aren’t any, Kit. This guy, he’s smart and ruthless and he’s got a fucking army working for him. He even gets a whiff of betrayal and we’re dead. Both of us. Just like that. No warning, no second chances. And that’s if he’s feeling generous. Coz if he’s not, we’ll end up in one of those dungeons, Sis. And no-one — no-one! — gets out of them alive.”

“There’s always an angle, James. Always,” replied Kate. But she wasn’t sure if she believed it, not in this case. The only thing she knew for certain was that her stupid, self-destructive, funny little brother, who she loved more than anything in the world in spite of his manifest flaws, was in trouble and, like she had done all his life, she was going to have to rescue him from himself.

“Get me another coffee, eh. And a chocolate muffin.” Kate handed James a tenner and sat staring out of the window as he went to the bar. It took a minute or two for her to realise that she was being watched by the man sitting at the window bar in Pret directly opposite. When their eyes met he smiled and nodded slightly, then finished his coffee, left the shop and walked away.

“Oh, James,” she whispered. “What have you done?”

THE NEXT FEW days passed in a blur of A&E shifts and deep, dreamless sleep. Spider had said he would call when he needed her, but her phone didn’t ring.

Jill moved out of the flat without warning two days after the invasion. Kate came home from a long shift and found the flat half empty. No note, nothing. Bitch hadn’t even left the rent. So Kate dug out the most recent itemised phone bill and called every number she didn’t recognise until she reached Jill’s Dad, who was not amused to hear of his daughter’s midnight flit. He promised Kate that his little girl would be at her door in an hour with the rent in full. She was too, sullen and angry and refusing to speak. She held out an envelope full of cash and the second Kate took it she turned on her heels and stalked away.

“Don’t be a stranger,” Kate yelled at her retreating back, laughing.

She didn’t seen the man who had been watching her, but she was constantly on the lookout for him. She was convinced she’d be seeing him again.

After a week she almost convinced herself it had never happened; that it was business as usual, that she hadn’t been beyond the looking glass and seen a girl murdered. But then on Friday, as she sat in her track pants and t-shirt eating Pot Noodle on the sofa, watching Loose Women on her day off, there was a sharp knock at the door. She considered not answering, but whoever it was would be able to hear her telly.

The giant stood in the hallway, waiting patiently.

“Boss says you got to come.”

“Okay, give me a minute to…”

He reached in and grabbed her wrist.

“Now.”

“Okay, Jesus, can I at least get my coat?”

But he was pulling her across the threshold. She tried to grab her keys from the hook on the coat rack before the door closed behind her, but he pulled her too firmly and the door swung shut.

“Fuck, how am I supposed to get back in without my keys, dispshit?” she yelled as he dragged her towards the lift. He stopped dead, turned and looked down at her. He didn’t say a word, just stared until she said: “Okay, lead on.” He turned again and started walking. Outside the air was chilled and Kate felt goosebumps rising on her bare arms as she was bundled into the back seat of a waiting car with tinted windows.

“Look at the floor,” said the giant as they pulled away. Kate did so without question.

They drove for about forty-five minutes. When they pulled up the giant reached across and snapped a sleep mask across her face so she couldn’t see a thing. Then she was shoved outside and led across what felt like a cobbled street and into a cold, damp space that she was willing to bet was a railway arch. She was led down steps into a narrow space with dead acoustics and dust in the air. Down a corridor, then left and right and left again, and more steps.

“Mind head,” said the giant a moment after she scraped the top of her head on what felt like soft brick. She stooped as she was led down a narrow stone staircase. By now, she knew she was deep underground. Another corridor, still stooping. She felt, then heard a gentle rumble somewhere off to her left. It took a moment to realise it must be a tube train.

Kate heard a key turn in a lock followed by the squeal of old hinges, then she was shoved through a doorway and her sleep mask was ripped off.

She was in a brick-lined cellar, barrel vaulted. Narrow but long, it stretched away, its vanishing point lost in darkness. There was a pervasive smell of damp and a distant sound of running water. An oil heater blazed away by the door, so at least it wasn’t cold, but in every other respect it was probably the least healthy place in London. Trying not to think about the horrors of Weil’s disease or the agony of hypersensitivity pneumonitis, Kate noted the bed, table and wind up lamp, the bucket in the corner with a tea towel draped over it and, finally, the girl sitting on the chair, dead eyed and listless, sallow cheeked and pale.

Kate turned to the giant, who was bent almost double in the corridor outside.

“People pay to come down here?” she asked, incredulous.

“No,” he replied. “She come up for work. Stay here rest of time.”

“Okay, well that’s got to change. You need to get her out of here now.”

“You stop her coughing.”

“I can’t. Not if she stays down here.”

“You stop.”

“I told you, I can’t. Even if I can alleviate her symptoms, they’ll come back if she stays down here.”

The giant considered this. “Stop cough. Only need to stop coughing for afternoon. After that…” He shrugged.

Kate sighed. “Okay, I’ll need prednisone.” The giant looked confused. “Give me a pen, I’ll write it down.”

He handed her a biro and a receipt. She briefly considered ramming the pen into his throat and trying to make an escape, but dismissed the idea as ludicrous. She scribbled the name of the drug and handed him the piece of paper.

“I come back in hour.” He slammed the door closed. Kate was imprisoned.

She stood there for a moment, then the girl on the chair burst into a fit of awful, hoarse coughing that went on for over five minutes. Kate held her shoulders as the spasms wracked her. There were flecks of blood on the girl’s lips when she finally finished. Her breathing was ragged and rasping.

“What’s your name?” asked Kate.

The girl stared at her, uncomprehending.

“Do you speak English?”

No response. Kate pointed at her chest and said “Kate” then pointed to the girl, who just stared back at her as if she were mad.

“I feel like I’m in a bad Western,” muttered Kate. Another ten minutes of trying failed to illicit any response. The girl was in deep shock, nearly comatose. There was no reaching her. Kate explored the depths of the tunnel, but found only rubble and rats. In the end there was nothing to do but wait for the giant to return. The girl had moved to the bed when Kate walked back from the far end of the tunnel. Kate sat next to her and put her arms around her bony shoulders. They sat there like that for a few minutes, then the girl rested her head on Kate’s shoulder until she fell asleep and slumped into her lap. Kate sat there, with the head of this sick, lost, broken, doomed girl nestled in her lap. She stroked her lank, greasy hair and cried.

As much as she had been forced to confront brutal reality on the night she met Spider, it was during that long hour in that awful place that Kate changed forever. Parts of her psyche scabbed over and hardened, unexpected resolve made itself known, and the well of her compassion was exposed as deeper than she had ever imagined.