hate to put you to any trouble.’
Freddy ignored the PC rolling his eyes and once more gazed at Viv and Ginger. In the doorway, beyond, a burly fellow looked over the pub. Apparently not finding what he was searching for, the man walked over to their table and barged between Viv and her obsession. After a brief discussion, Viv pointed him in the direction of the bar.
Nodding his thanks, the burly fellow ambled over to the bar counter, where Loach was chatting with Toby Armstrong.
‘Loach?’ inquired the burly.
‘That’s me.’
‘I’m Detective Inspector Dutrow …’
Loach’s eyes widened. This wasn’t quite what he had expected.
‘Now what the hell are these messages I’ve been getting all over town?’ Dutrow demanded, his own eyes narrowing. ‘Who the hell are you?’
Loach was confused. If Dutrow didn’t know him, how did he know enough to find him?
‘You got my note?’
‘What note?’ asked Dutrow, plainly ignorant of whatever Loach was talking about.
Queasy all of a sudden, Loach had a sick feeling deep inside. He looked up at the clock above the bar counter. It was the witching hour … which he had almost been able to make himself forget.
The pedestrian underpass was dark, almost always empty, always lonely. No doubt that’s why it had been chosen as a rendezvous, but that was no help to Jackie. The cement walls covered with graffiti gave her no refuge. And Dutrow gave her little assurance, not much of a straw to grasp. But she needed to hang on just a while longer, to make the connection. He would understand right away – after all, he wasn’t that stupid – and he would pay in order to get Diesel. Then she could get out of here, get away, find something else. At least she wouldn’t be trapped in this desolate black hole, a walking target in a deserted underpass waiting for a fat cop to rescue her. Fat chance.
As the last chimes of the church clock died away, she heard footsteps in the distance … one set of footsteps. For the first time that night she allowed herself a small sense of relief, closing her eyes in thanks to the spirits of the darkest hour. She straightened up, ran a quick brush through her hair, and tried to make herself look nonchalant, like a slut who didn’t give a damn about anything.
When he got closer, her composure disappeared instantly, overcome by complete horror. It wasn’t Dutrow. It was Diesel. The wrong man.
Sheer panic paralyzed her. No place to run, no place to hide … he was coming after her, taking his time. What could she say to him? She had to think of something, fast. She had to put her face back together, stop shaking, try to smile, think of something to say, anything.
Maybe Dutrow was on his way, maybe he would get there in time to save her. She had to stall Diesel. She had to come up with some kind of a story, just to hold him off for a few seconds until Dutrow got there. Fast! She had to think, think! Up until the last moment, her mind was a blank: she couldn’t think of anything at all.
A shadow loomed over her. Above her, alone with her in a lonely place, stood the nightmare she dreaded, in the flesh, a lop-sided grin on his grotesque, pitted, sadistic face.
‘Not thinking of running out on me, are you, Jackie?’ inquired the beast who had sexually abused her time and time again.
The blood drained from her face, and she was afraid she would pass out before she could think of an excuse to stall him just a little longer.
‘I don’t know what you mean, Diesel …’
‘’Course you do,’ he soothed her. ‘I need you, Jackie. In fact, I can’t live without seeing your pretty face on the pillow next to me …’
Jackie closed her eyes.
In the kitchen the next morning Anjali had breakfast in the presence of her mother and Uncle Ram, though in total silence. Yet she knew him well enough to know he was building up to something. After he had settled in with his tea, he began to fold the newspaper he had been reading (or failing to read, more likely) in half, then again, and again, until he finished with a neat square. Finally he looked at her.
‘I have come to a conclusion regarding last night.’ He paused once more, deliberated, then resumed. ‘I may have made an error of judgement regarding the young man we met. It struck me at the time that he was most definitely not a wise choice: agewise or classwise. After all, what is he? No more than a purveyor of baked beans!’ He went no further; that was his speech.
Anjali arose from her chair at the table and went to his side, kneeled next to him and gave him a kiss. Sometimes, she had learned, when personalities in a family were unalterably opposed, the only answer was love, however irrational. Uncle Ram made a fuss of pushing her away, but it was crystal clear to her that he enjoyed this moment of being loved by the niece he had sheltered as his own child, whatever their differences. She resumed her place a much happier individual.
‘I’m glad, Uncle Ram, that you accept that my private life is just that – private.’
The cup froze on Ram’s lips. ‘That is not what I said. If you ask me what I said, I will tell you what I said.’
She groaned in anticipation of another petty dispute. ‘So what was it you said?’
Ram cleared his throat and assumed his full dignity. ‘It is still my responsibility to see that you are married. But I realize I will need to do things differently.’ He made a small, deferential nod in her general direction. ‘Clearly, what you require is an older man, a father figure.’
Anjali growled, too annoyed to put her immediate reaction into kinder words. Ram simply ignored her.
‘And there is something else.’
By now she was numb. ‘Something else?’
His duty done, Ram now returned to the sore subject of a prior insult in a different matter entirely, yet a grievance he could not forget, not let go unspoken, and thus unpunished. ‘I am thinking about sueing your hospital for being manhandled and suffering loss of dignity.’
Anjali wavered between laughing aloud and barely retaining her temper. ‘Oh really. Then let me warn you.’ She was galled by his utter gall. ‘You were very lucky not to be arrested. The very idea that you think you can peep through windows at middle-aged ladies wearing no clothes!’
Stunned, Uncle Ram’s mouth opened and shut like a soundless goldfish gulping water. Her mother was horrified.
‘Ram? Is this true?’ she asked in fearful shock.
Continuing his fish impersonation, he floundered.
Holding a wrapped bunch of flowers, Bob Loach walked slowly along the corridor looking for one particular ward he didn’t particularly relish the thought of finding. Just up ahead he saw something – or, rather, someone – and his progress became slower. Sitting in a chair was Big Jess, as if she were a dead load dumped in place, a pile of
