Lost

“You knew I was in the car with Rachel.”

“No. Not after we made her change vehicles. And we didn't expect anyone to be foolish enough to follow the ransom through the sewers.”

“During the ransom drop, I heard the sound of a child's voice. It was you, wasn't it?”

“Yes.”

The room has grown darker and she seems to be turning to shadow. The distance between us has grown wide and cold.

“When the shooting started, I thought it must be the police. Then they just kept firing.”

“Did you see the sniper?”

“No.”

“Did you see anyone?”

She shakes her head.

Although exhausted she looks almost relieved to be talking. She can't remember how long she spent in the water. The tide carried her east past Westminster. Eventually she crawled onto the steps at Bankside Jetty near the Globe Theatre. She broke into a pharmacy and stole bandages and painkillers. She slept in a shop that was being refurbished, lying beneath painter's sheets.

She couldn't run and she couldn't go to a hospital. Aleksei would have found her. Once he knew who had kidnapped Mickey he was never going to stop looking.

“And since then you've been hiding?”

“Waiting to die.” Her voice is so soft it might be coming from another room.

The cloying smell of sweat and infection thickens the air. Either everything Kirsten has told me is the truth or an extraordinarily elaborate lie. “Please move away from the window,” she says.

“Why?”

“I keep seeing red dots. They're burned into my eyelids.”

I know what she means.

Taking a chair beside the bed, I pour her a glass of water. Her finger is no longer curled around the trigger of the gun.

“What were you going to do with the ransom?”

“I had plans.” She describes a new life in America, making it sound almost irresistible—the idea of walking away and never looking back, the romance of the clean slate.

I have thoughts like that sometimes—wanting to be someone else or to start afresh—but then I realize I have no desire to see most of the world and I have enough trouble keeping old friends without meeting new ones. What would I be running from? I'd be another dog chasing its tail.

“We were foolish. We should have walked away and counted our blessings that nobody knew the truth about Mickey. Now it's too late.”

“I can protect you,” I say.

“Nobody can.”

“I can talk to the Crown Prosecution Service. If you give evidence against Aleksei they can put you—”

“What evidence?” she says harshly. “I didn't see him shoot anyone. I can't point to a mug shot or pick someone out of a police lineup. So what if he paid two ransoms—it's not against the law.”

She is right. The most Aleksei is guilty of is withholding information from the police about the first ransom demand.

Surely there must be something more. A man organizes to have people executed and nobody can touch him.

For the first time in a long while, I have no idea of what to do next. I know I have to call the police. I also have to keep her safe. There are witness protection programs for IRA informers and organized crime witnesses but what can they offer Kirsten? She can't give them Aleksei. She can't link him to the executions or any of his many crimes.

“What if we arrange a meeting?”

“What?”

“Contact Aleksei—organize to see him.”

She puts her hands over her ears, not wanting to hear. Her skin is like metal, shining at angles in the light from the bedside lamp.

She's right. Aleksei would never agree.

“You can't save me. If I were you, I'd phone him now and tell him where I am. You might win a reprieve.”

“I'm going to call an ambulance.”

“No.”

“You can't stay here. How long before your landlady gives you up?”

“We're old friends.”

“I can see that! How much has it cost you to still be here?”

She holds up her fingers. Her jewelry is gone.

We sit in silence and after a while I hear her breathing find a steady rhythm. She's asleep. Moving to her side, I gently take the revolver from her lap before covering her with a blanket. Then I move to the landing and call “New Boy” Dave. My hands are shaking.

“I've found Kirsten Fitzroy. I need an ambulance and a police escort. Don't tell Meldrum or Campbell.”

“OK.”

Back in the room Kirsten's eyes are open.

“Are they coming?”

“Yes.”

“The cavalry or a hearse?”

“An ambulance.”

Gritting her teeth against the pain, she swings her legs off the bed and sits facing away from me. Her black shirt is stuck perfectly to her body with sweat and it looks as though someone has poured oil over her.

“You might be able to protect me today but it is just one day,” she says, managing to stand and shuffle toward the bathroom. Sensing I'm about to follow, she stops me. “I have to go potty.”

I'm expected to wait on the landing, which I do—pleased to escape from the sickroom smell and the hypocrisy. The sheer number of lies and depth of betrayal is staggering. Mickey is dead! I failed. I want to crawl back into the sewer where I belong.

There's a knock on the door downstairs. Mrs. Wilde answers. I look over the banister half expecting to see “New Boy” Dave. It's a courier. I can't make out what he's saying.

Mrs. Wilde turns away from the door holding a bunch of flowers. In that same instant I hear a blunt sound, metal on bone. She topples forward, crushing the flowers beneath her. A motorcycle courier in leathers and a gleaming black helmet steps over her body.

I hit the redial button on the cell phone. Dave's number is engaged. He must be calling the ambulance.

I can hear the courier searching downstairs—kicking open doors. I can imagine him crouching and swinging the gun in a wide arc. He's a professional. Ex-military.

Kirsten flushes the toilet and walks from the bathroom. I signal for her to get down and she drops to her knees with a groan. She sees something in my eyes that wasn't there before.

“Don't leave me,” she mouths. I hold my finger to my lips and point above my head.

The courier has heard the toilet flushing and the cistern filling. Now he's at the bottom of the stairs. Turning away from Kirsten I climb to the next landing. Again I hit the speed dial. Engaged.

A floorboard depresses and releases. The noise vibrates through me. Kirsten fired two shots. Assuming the gun is fully loaded, I have four bullets left.

I should be scared but maybe I'm beyond that. Instead I think of the past three weeks and all those times that Aleksei has toyed with me. I'm not angry or bitter. This is like one of those children's stories, Goldilocks and the Three Bears, where Goldilocks gets chased out of the house for eating porridge and breaking a chair. Only in my new version she comes back with a gun and she's going to make sure she aims not too high and not too low but just right.