Scott Andrews - School's Out Forever

When the giant opened the door and handed her the drugs, it was a different woman who took them from him. Harder, colder, angrier and less afraid.

Kate administered the drugs and told the giant that she had done all she could. The sleep mask was replaced, and she was led away from a girl she was sure would be dead by nightfall.

A tiny part of Kate remained behind in that cellar. The tiny piece of Jane that had been born there left in its stead.

She was driven back to her flat, back to the world she knew. But it felt different. Distant. Changed forever. She walked up to her front door and reached into her pocket for her keys.

“Oh fuck it,” she cursed, remembering that she had not had time to grab them. She stood and stared at the door and then stepped back and took a running kick at it. She felt the wood give and heard the sharp crack as it splintered. She kicked it again, and again, then shoulder charged it, yelling as she did so, smashing into the door time after time, hating it, wanting to annihilate it utterly, as if it was mocking her. The facia caved and split before, after one almighty crash, it flew off its top hinge and collapsed inwards.

Kate stood there, breathing hard, teeth clenched, eyes wide, her heart pounding, ignoring the pain in her shoulders and legs. She heard a slight cough to her left and turned to see the old biddy from flat four peering anxiously out of her door.

“What?” snapped Kate. The woman’s head disappeared inside and the door was firmly closed.

“Didn’t you just pay a lot of money to have that door fixed, Miss Booker?” said a soft voice to her right. She spun, suddenly alarmed. But whereas a week ago she might have given a tiny yelp of surprise and felt a jolt of nerves, now she didn’t make a sound and stood ready to fight.

The man from the coffee shop stood there in the corridor. Short for a man, about the same height as Kate, he wore a black leather jacket, white shirt and blue jeans above waxed black Docs. He looked about forty, blond hair slightly receding but not too much, with laugh lines around his mouth, and deep crow’s feet framing his blue eyes. Kate’s first thought was ‘he fancies himself.’

“And who the fuck are you?” she snarled.

He reached into his jacket and pulled out a small leather wallet which he flipped open and held up for her to inspect.

“DI John Cooper. Metropolitan Police. Can we go inside and talk? That is, if we can get the door to close behind us.”

HE HELPED HER prop the door back up in its frame and shoved a dining chair up against it to keep it in place, then sat on the sofa as she made him a cuppa.

Her mind was racing as she fumbled with mugs and teabags. She’d been considering going to the police, obviously, but Spider had been clear that James would die very slowly indeed if she did so. He had sources within the police, he said, and he’d know the instant she broke ranks. She had looked at her brother’s pitiful, tear-stained face as he crouched on that stage, handcuffed to the stripper’s pole, and she’d known that she had no choice. This organisation was big and complicated; there was every chance that Spider was telling the truth, that he did have some bent copper on the take. No, she’d decided that if there was a way out of her situation, she’d have to find it herself.

Nonetheless, she slowed her step ever so slightly every time she passed a police station, and felt a jolt of butterflies at the thought of stepping across the threshold and spilling her guts, of sharing the problem, making it someone else’s.

The man on her sofa made her almost as nervous as Spider had. Her first thought was that she had made some stupid rookie mistake, given the game away without meaning to, drawn needless attention somehow. Her second thought was that he could be Spider’s enforcer, sent here to warn her to keep her mouth shut.

She wasn’t sure which outcome would scare her the most.

She took the two mugs through to the living room, handed one to Cooper and sat in the armchair opposite him, sipping her own. She couldn’t think of anything to say, so she sat there as he studied her, waiting for him to make the first move.

“Is that brick dust in your hair? Been on a building site?” he asked, not unkindly. His accent was hard to place. He didn’t have the Southern glottal stop or the rounded vowels of the North. He spoke precisely, his words chosen with care and delivered in RP, as if maybe he’d attended a posh school as a boy but had then had the edges knocked off his cut glass vowels by years living below his station.

Kate didn’t reply, but she gripped her mug with tight, white knuckles.

“And you’ve got mould or something very like it smeared down the arm of your sweater.” He cocked his head to one side and bit his lip thoughtfully. “Underground then. Maybe a railway arch or a cellar. Somewhere old, wet and crumbly, that’s for sure. You smell a bit dampy, if you don’t mind me saying.”

Still Kate did not say a thing, unsure where he was going with this.

“Could you lead me there, or did they blindfold you?” he asked.

The question was so bluntly put that Kate answered it almost in spite of herself. It seemed he already knew everything anyway.

“Blindfold,” she said, her mouth dry. She took another sip of tea.

He nodded. This was the answer he’d been expecting. He considered her carefully for a moment and seemed to come to a decision.

“You are in very deep shit, Miss Booker. These are bad, bad men your brother’s got himself, and now you, involved with. I take it you know the basics of their operation?”

Kate nodded once. She thought her face must be as white as a ghost’s.

“Then you know that they eat people like you up for breakfast. You’ll work for them as long as you are useful, but the first time you make a mistake, or they get suspicious of you in any way, or they just decide that they want someone fresh for their evening’s entertainment, you will disappear as completely as if you had never existed.”

“Why…” Her mouth was dry again. She took another sip of tea. “Why don’t you just arrest them then? Isn’t that your job?”

“It’s not that simple. This gang doesn’t exist in isolation. There’s a chain stretching right across Europe. This is a huge operation, involving the police of twelve countries, many of which have police forces that see bribes as a normal part of their pay packet. Plus…” He hesitated.

“Plus?”

“Plus, there’s someone in our own force looking out for them. I think. Perhaps. I can’t prove it.” He looked up at her, momentarily suspicious, as if asking himself why he was telling her all this.

“That’s why I’ve approached you like this, at home. Anyway,” he continued. “Recently we had a bit of setback. Our… channel of information dried up.”

“Nate, yeah? The doctor?”

Cooper looked shocked, as if he’d been caught out. Then he nodded, a little surprised she’d put a name to their mole so easily. “Loathsome little junkie, but easy to manipulate.”

“Oh. I see. You want me to take his place.”

Cooper sat back in his chair. “Where did they take you just now? What did you see?”

“Nothing useful. An old underground cellar. Damp, as you say. I could hear tube trains and, I think, a river nearby. But that could be anywhere in London, couldn’t it?”

Cooper nodded thoughtfully. “And what did you do there?”

“Listen, my brother…”

“We know all about your brother.”

“They told me they’d kill him, if I came to the police.”

“Most likely. You too.”

“Then what the fuck is with turning up at my front door? If anyone sees you… I mean, what kind of fucking amateur are you?”