The girl went to swing the chair at him again, but Lennon forced himself between her and Paynter.
“What’s so bloody funny?” he asked.
“You swear to Christ? You think the Lord Jesus cares what promises you make?”
Lennon struggled for an answer. When one wouldn’t come, he did the only other thing he could think of: he kicked Paynter hard in the balls.
Paynter doubled up and rolled onto his side, his face turning first red then purple.
The girl lay curled against the wall, muttering something. Somewhere outside, in the cold night, sirens rose and fell. Lennon crouched beside her, said, “It’s all right. Help’s coming.”
Paynter groaned and squirmed.
“You move, and I’ll shoot,” Lennon said. “Understand?”
Paynter did not respond. Instead, he retched and spat on the floor.
Lennon kept an eye on him as he listened to the girl. Her words came tumbling one after the other, thick with her Slavic accent, a language he didn’t understand or even recognize. Lithuanian? Latvian? Polish?
Whatever she said, she repeated it over and over until it sounded like some mantra, a deranged prayer to an ignorant god.
Lennon spared her a glance. “Do you speak English?”
The sirens drew close, along with the sound of engines pushed into anger.
“What’s your name?” Lennon asked.
Still she repeated the words, blurring and smearing them until he couldn’t tell where the prayer ended and began again. It climbed in pitch, punctuated by desperate inhalations.
Lennon grabbed her wrist. “What are you saying?”
She gasped and stared as if woken from a nightmare. For a moment, Lennon thought he was looking at Ellen stirred from her night terrors.
The girl blinked and said, “Please, sir, I want to go home.”
68
STRAZDAS HAD BEEN sitting slumped on the floor for so long, his back against the base of the couch, he’d lost track of time. His head jerked up when his phone rang. He decided to ignore it for the moment. Instead, he focused on the suite’s large flatscreen television, unnaturally bright in the darkened room, the colors jarring his retinas with their intensity.
It appeared to be some old comedy show, with two men, one small and old, the other middle-aged but trying to play younger, both of them scruffy, arguing over Christmas decorations in a wretched house.
Was this what people here found funny? Pathetic men with miserable lives? Did it make them feel better about themselves to laugh at the poor souls who were unhappier than them?
The elderly wretch on the television screeched while the younger one scowled and grumbled, called the other a dirty old man.
Strazdas laughed, but he wasn’t sure why.
The phone fell silent, and in the absence of noise, Strazdas noticed the pain that nestled inside his skull, curled above his eyes.
What had he been doing sitting here?
Oh, yes. Drinking.
He had taken a bottle of wine from the minibar an hour ago. His nerves had been jangling more and more as this damned city fell into darkness, a heavy quiet settling on the street outside as it emptied. The silence had been so thick he imagined he could hear the blood in his veins charging around his body. A less sane man than he might have believed that the cold and the dark, borne on soundless air, were invading the hotel, creeping up its stairs, stalking its corridors.
But he was a sane man, and he believed no such thing.
Not really.
More cocaine did not make him feel better, and he began to suspect that it might even be the cause of his anxiety. So he had opened the little fridge that was hidden inside a cabinet and chosen a bottle of white wine. He had tried to read the label, but his eyes seemed unable to pin the words down. He unscrewed the cap, put the bottle to his lips, and swallowed. Arturas Strazdas did not drink alcohol often, so he did not find the taste, or more specifically, the sensation of the liquid in his throat, at all pleasant. But still, he persevered.
Going by the throbbing weight in his forehead, he supposed he had gotten drunk. A line or two would lift the fog.
His heart stuttered at the thought. No matter, it was the only appropriate medicine under the circumstances.
He wedged his elbows against the couch and pushed himself up on to his feet. The room felt lopsided for a moment until he extended his arms out for balance.
A fine sprinkling of powder still lay on the glass desktop, the hotel key card dusted with it, a fifty-euro note rolled and ready. Plenty for a line, he thought. Best be careful. He had some left in the bag, enough to see him through to the next day if he controlled himself. Herkus could fetch some more in the morning.
Herkus.
Had that been him calling? Had he found the whore?
First, the line.
Strazdas took the card between his thumb and forefinger. He swept it across the desktop, back and forth, up and down, shepherding the powder like a dog herding sheep until he had a thin streak of white.
Not much. But sufficient for now.
He took the fifty-euro note and inserted it into his right nostril, blocked the left with a finger, inhaled the line, and all was beauty and wonder forever and ever until eternity and beyond.
And then he coughed at the chilled snot running down the back of his throat, and his stomach groaned and cramped because he hadn’t eaten since yesterday.
Maybe he should phone room service and get some—
Phone.
His memory caught up with him, and he reached for his mobile to see who had been calling. The display said the number had been blocked.
Why would his contact call at this time on Christmas Eve? If indeed it was Christmas Eve, and the clock had not labored past midnight and into Christmas Day.
As if in answer, the phone rang, the vibration in his palm jolting him more than the sound. He brought it to his ear.
“Yes?”
“Your driver is dead,” the voice said.
Strazdas stared out of his window at the street below, his mind unscrambling what he’d just been told.
“What?”
“Your driver, the man who’s been charging around Belfast, searching for that girl you’re so desperate to find.”
“Yes?”
“He’s dead. Killed in a cellar in the west of the city. Gutted by some crazy bastard, from what I’ve been told.”
“Herkus?”
“But we have the girl.”
Strazdas retreated to the couch and sat down. “The girl,” he said.
“The one you’ve been looking for. She’s been taken to A&E, but in due course she’ll be in our care.”
“Your care,” Strazdas said.
“Listen, are you all right? Are you taking in what I’m telling you?”
Strazdas placed a knuckle between his teeth and bit down hard. The pain pressed against the confusion in his mind, but did not push it away. He tightened his jaw, felt something sinewy between his teeth. The fog cleared. He inhaled through his nose and released his knuckle. Deep red indentations lined his skin. He rubbed it against his
