Mark Burnell - The Rhythm Section

It took Joan ten seconds to waddle through the door. She looked at the body on the floor and then at Stephanie, who was crouched over him, still clutching a fragment of the bottle’s neck in a way that suggested she might yet drive it into him.

Joan put a hand to her mouth. Stephanie turned to look at her, not a trace of an emotion on her face. Through her fingers, Joan muttered, ‘Oh shit, what’ve you done?’

Stephanie walked past her without a word and headed for the room next door. She shrugged off her gown and picked up her coat. Joan followed her into the room. ‘What’re we gonna do with him?’

Stephanie looked for the small rucksack that contained her worldly belongings. She opened it, checked nothing was missing and then fastened the straps. Then she started to put on her coat.

‘West’s gonna go fucking mental,’ Joan said. ‘We’ve got to get this wanker out of here.’

Stephanie looked at her. ‘If I were you, I’d get out of here. Right now. That’s what I’m going to do.’

‘You can’t just walk out. He’s downstairs, for God’s sake. For all we know, he could’ve heard it. He could be on his way up here right now.’

‘Exactly. And when he finds out about this, how do you think he’s going to react? Do you think he’s going to look for an explanation? Or do you think he’s going to look for someone to take it out on?’

Joan’s expression darkened. ‘Well, it won’t be me, love. I ain’t the one that done it.’

‘Fine. That’s your decision. But it’s not mine.’

‘I ain’t going. And you ain’t, neither.’

Joan reached for the phone. Stephanie grabbed her bag and ran.

Whoever answered the phone on the third floor took their time. The door was still shut when Stephanie passed it. The heels on her shoes slowed her on the uneven stairs but she reached the ground floor and was halfway to the front door when she heard the shout from above, followed by the multiple thump of descending boots.

She knew she had to lose them immediately. If her pursuers saw her, they’d catch her. She turned right and then right again, out of Brewer Street and into Wardour Street, before taking the first left into Old Compton Street and another first left into Dean Street. She never dared look back.

It wasn’t yet ten in the evening. The area was busy, which was a blessing. She turned right at Carlisle Street and only stopped running when that led into Soho Square.

The distance covered wasn’t great but her lungs were pleading for mercy. She slowed to an unsteady walk. It was then that she noticed that her coat was still only half-buttoned, which explained some of the astonished looks she’d seen on the faces that had blurred past her. Black underwear and a suspender-belt were all she had on beneath the coat. And given her appearance, she suddenly realized that if her hunters were asking pedestrians for the direction she’d taken, she’d be the freshest thing in the memory of just about everyone she’d passed.

She fastened the remaining buttons to the throat and forced herself into another run. She’d known she was unfit, but she’d never guessed that her physical decline had become so acute. For the moment, fear compensated but she knew it wouldn’t last.

She took Soho Street out of the Square and then crossed Oxford Street before turning round for the first time. There were no obvious signs that she was being followed. She headed up Rathbone Place and turned right into Percy Street. Her mind was starting to function again. The immediate danger appeared to have been averted but there was a more sinister threat ahead. If her pursuers returned to Brewer Street empty-handed, West would use his network to try to locate her. The word would go out and the search would be on. When that happened, anybody she passed on the street would be a potential danger.

She wondered how long she had and where she should go. Chalk Farm was out of the question. In fact, anyone she knew was out of the question; it was too risky to involve them. Which was why she chose Proctor. She felt nothing for him.

At the junction with the Tottenham Court Road, she turned left and headed north. She found a working BT phone-box outside the National Bank of Greece. She dialled and luck was with her.

‘It’s Stephanie Patrick.’

If surprise had a sound, it was to be found in Proctor’s silence.

She said, ‘Can we meet?’

He was trying to gather himself. ‘I guess … sure. Sure. When?’

‘Now.’

‘Now? Er, that’s not very convenient. I’m busy. Working –’

‘I’m in trouble. I need help. And I need it right now.’

I am drinking a cup of coffee in the McDonald’s on the corner of Warren Street and the Tottenham Court Road. I keep my head bowed, aware of the strange looks that I am attracting from some of the other patrons. I should be standing in the entrance to the Underground station across the street, but it’s cold outside. I’ll return there when it’s time to be collected .

I am trying not to think about the man I hit or the situation in which I find myself. Instead, I am thinking about the trigger .

I am wondering what it is like to be in a plane crash. To be going down and to be conscious of it. To know that you are doomed. What does that feel like? What does it sound like? These are matters that I’ve considered on too many occasions to count. The images creep up on me in the night. I see Sarah, my sister, her hair on fire. David, my younger brother, looks at the stump on his shoulder from where his arm used to hang. And my parents are ash, instantly incinerated and scattered on the wind .

These are the things that wake me at night. They’re the reason I drink myself to sleep. That’s where they belong – in the sleeping world. But tonight, they crossed over .

I looked at Grant – whoever he really was – and I thought about what we were going to do. For seventy pounds – not even eighty – since I would have discounted myself in the end. Except, it never came to that. Instead, I imagined my parents were in the room too, with David on one side, Sarah on the other, the smell of charred flesh everywhere, the floor slippery with their blood. I saw myself on all fours, Grant drunkenly ploughing into me from behind, my family watching, their total disappointment evident through their hideous wounds .

It has never happened before. I have never seen them when I’ve been selling myself. Some instinct has always blocked them – and anything I have ever cared about – from my mind. But lately, there has been something wrong. I’ve felt it building within me, a pressure in search of release. And now I know the cause .

Proctor. Proctor and his far-fetched conspiracy theories. He has resurrected the ghosts. He is to blame .

Outside, on the Euston Road, running over the underpass, there is a construction of concrete with a metal grille set into it. Perhaps it is some kind of ventilation unit. I don’t know. Anyway, beneath the grille, there is some graffiti which I noticed before coming in here .

It says: NO ONE IS INNOCENT .

Proctor was driving a small, rusting Fiat. Stephanie had imagined he’d be in the latest BMW or Audi, something sleek and German. He leaned over and opened the passenger door. Stephanie stepped out of the entrance to Warren Street Underground station and crossed the pavement.

‘You’re twenty minutes late.’

‘The car wouldn’t start.’

She looked at it disdainfully. ‘You don’t say.’

Proctor’s surprise was self-evident. ‘For someone in trouble, you’ve got a crappy way of saying thank you.’ When she failed to speak, he said, ‘Are you getting in the car, or not?’