Zero Hour (2010)

I staggered into the shower. As I turned on the water and waited for the steam, I struggled to peel off my trainers and jeans.

3

I almost screamed with pain as the hot water hit the puncture sites. But it was the only way. I had to get them clean.

I cupped my hand below the wounds and scooped the water over them. It was the best I could do for now. I’d get it sorted when I’d lifted Lilian and waved goodbye to Flynn and his silo.

Once the important stuff was done, all I wanted to do was get the smell of puke off me and brush my teeth. I could almost feel where the acid had burnt into the enamel.

I stuck my head out from behind the curtain. ‘Can you bring me those bits of towel?’

I ducked back under the trickle of water and worked shampoo into my hair. It wasn’t long before the door opened and in she came. I turned to face her. I didn’t want her to get the wrong idea, but I didn’t want her to see the stab wounds either.

I climbed out of the shower and used the part of my sweatshirt that wasn’t covered in puke to dry myself. She stood there with the door open, staring at the ‘blunt trauma’, as Kleinmann had called the knife, bullet and dog-bite scars that covered my body.

‘Get your clothes off.’

She stared at me.

‘Take them off. I need them.’

I tried to work the strips of towel around me like Gandhi to give my arse some kind of dressing. It wasn’t happening.

Angeles handed me my jeans and sweatshirt before leaving. I put them on, then folded one of the strips and shoved it down the back of the jeans as best I could to get some protection over the punctures. I’d seen lads in Africa with much bigger wounds, big machete cuts that had taken chunks out of their arms and thighs, and they were still going strong. All I had to do was crack on for another couple of months.

As I pulled the sweatshirt over my head, I realized that in a curious way the pain felt good. It was from a proper old-fashioned wound, not some cancerous growth that I hadn’t asked for and couldn’t do much about. It was the sort of pain I could handle, and an aspirin or two would help. I wasn’t going to run short of them any time soon. Perhaps the Smarties would too.

And then I realized something else: I’d left the Smarties at 118.

Fuck it, I’d be with Anna soon and I’d sort it then. Right now I’d just have to crack on.

Angeles was sitting on the airbed with the sleeping bag draped around her shoulders. The rest of my clothes were wet with blood or covered in vomit. I’d bin them eventually, but for now I was going to put them in one of the spare offices. The smell was making me want to gag even more. I started to gather them up. She jumped up to help. She grabbed whatever she could and wrapped it all in the brown nylon coat.

‘Are you going home to your family? Your children?’ She smiled. ‘You have a baby seat.’

‘I said no questions, remember? Don’t ask. Do you understand?’

Her face fell. I kept forgetting she was only fifteen.

‘Yes. I’m sorry.’

I took the bundle from her and reintroduced my feet to my Timberlands. ‘I’m going out for a little while.’

Her world was falling apart once more. ‘Please - can I come? Please don’t leave me. You are coming back?’

I scrabbled about in the Bergen for a couple of aspirin. ‘I’m going out to get some food, all right? I’ll see if I can get you some clothes too. What do you want to eat? Meat? Bread?’

‘Anything. Thank you.’

‘Just sit down and rest. Do not leave the room. Understand?’

She wrapped herself up once more and settled on the airbed. She started to shiver.

‘Look, I will be coming back. All my gear’s here. I’m coming back. It’s OK.’

In an ideal world it would be better if she came with me so I had control of her all the time, but I didn’t have enough clothes for her. And I had a phone call to make.

I dumped the Bergen in the loading bay and locked the door. I headed down past FilmNoord XXX towards the market. I felt a lot better with my boots back on. The market itself wouldn’t be open just yet, but some of the shops would be.

The all-night store I landed up in could have been anywhere in the Middle East. Big sacks of spices sat alongside crates of weird fruit and veg. The Arab version of Starsky and Hutch blared out from a TV mounted over the counter. Behind the checkout a young guy, with shaved sides to his gelled jet-black hair, munched pistachio nuts and watched the car chase. Half a souk’s worth of bling hung down the front of his T-shirt, and the Iranian flag hung proudly behind him.

I walked up and down the aisles and filled a basket with pitta bread, cans of salmon with ring-pulls and cartons of UHT milk that sat alongside 25-kilo bags of rice and huge aluminium cooking pots. There were cheap plastic buckets, dustpan and brush sets, ironing boards and, more importantly, kids’ clothing - cheap cotton shirts and jumpers, most of them with old Disney themes like Lion King or anything else that had passed its sell-by date. There were a few things that I thought would fit her and I threw them in the basket as well. I couldn’t see any decent bath towels, just small ones the size of dishcloths, but they’d have to do.

I got back to the counter as the cars drew level and bad guys with seventies haircuts and spear-pointed collars drew their weapons and fired at each other. The soundtrack sounded like belly-dancing music on steroids. A dozen or so phone cards were displayed in clear plastic wallets behind the boy with the bling. The point-of-sale poster showed little arrows aiming at all the different world flags, and a sentence or two in Dutch that I guessed told me it only cost two euros to call Iran or the USA. I grunted and pointed, as most people do if they can’t speak the language, and managed to end up with a fifty-euro one.

I headed out with my shopping in thin carrier bags that dug into my fingers. The good thing about poor areas of any city, especially those with a migrant population, is that most of the phone boxes are still working. The mobile-phone network hasn’t taken over completely because the locals don’t have the cash.

I went into a call box and scratched the strip off the back of my brand new if slightly grubby card. I dialled the company number, and then the code. Finally, I dialled her mobile number.

I got a ringing tone, and then her recorded voice in Russian. I waited for the bleep.

‘Anna - it’s Nick. I’m going to keep trying to get hold of you.’ I hit the receiver and rang straight back. If I’d woken her, she might have been too slow to pick up. After three rings I got the Russian version of hello.

‘It’s Nick.’ I only told her as much about the girl as she needed to know for now. This wasn’t the time for a full rundown and you never know who or what is listening. ‘Her name is Angeles. She won’t leave me. You have to come and pick her up.’

‘She is scared, Nick. She’s scared of everything and everyone - except for you right now. You’re probably the only friendly face she’s seen for months. I can get a cab and pick her up, but she could still run. Why should she trust me? She’s probably been handed from person to person, and each one has made her situation worse. Can’t you hand her over to the contact with Lilian?’

‘No. I’ll explain later. Could you lock her in the room?’

She thought for a few seconds. ‘She is young, yes?’

‘Fifteen.’

‘Jesus. There’s no saying what she will do. You are her only friend. Just think, Nick - chances are, the reason she is here is because of strangers. I have already called Lena. She will be able to help. She has contacts in the city. But you’ll have to take her, Nick - you’re the one she trusts.’

I stood with the phone to my ear while I tried to forget the pain in my arse and do some thinking.

‘Nick? What do you want me to do?’

‘OK, I’ll keep her with me. Can you set up the meeting with Lena’s people at your hotel, say three hours before the flight?’