The larger boy had the footwork. He seemed able to dance out of his opponent’s way, deflect shots intended to damage one part of his anatomy to another, less painful one. This just infuriated the smaller one. He began to throw out shots faster, harder. Wilder. One connected with the bigger boy’s ear and he fell to the ground, cracking his head on the concrete.
That was it, thought Marina, the fight would be stopped.
But it wasn’t. The fallen boy put his hand to his ear, cried out in pain and anger. The referee was holding back the smaller boy, who was mad-eyed with rage, dancing about, trying to get at his opponent.
The bigger boy climbed back to his feet, blood trickling from his ear. Marina wasn’t an expert, but she thought that could be dangerous. The referee thought differently, however, and, after consultation with the fighter, allowed the bout to proceed.
The smaller boy had seen his advantage. His own bloodlust was high. He pressed forward. The bigger one stood his ground, tried to fight off the blows, but Marina, and the rest of the crowd, could see it was just a matter of time. The smaller one kept hitting. One blow connected with his opponent’s nose. Marina heard bone and cartilage shatter. She closed her eyes. The crowd cheered. The small boy jumped out of the way as blood fountained out. He skipped to the side, threw a punch against the damaged ear. The other boy went down. Didn’t get back on his feet this time.
The fight was over, the smaller boy declared the winner. He was jumping up and down, dancing while still in the ring, face a mask of his own and his opponent’s blood, looking like the fight was just a prelude, ready to take on anyone, everyone.
He was led away.
The crowd’s bloodlust temporarily sated, the noise in the barn dampened down to an excited hubbub. More money changed hands as bets were called in and placed for the next bout. Marina, still sitting by herself, felt physically ill.
She checked the phone in her hand. No call.
She looked back at the ring, at the blood on the straw. Couldn’t believe her own brother was going to be in there soon. Couldn’t believe she was here to watch him.
Fresh straw was thrown over the bloodied straw. She looked round once more. Still no sigh of Josephina. She couldn’t even see Sandro. She waited.
The next fight was announced and two more fighters were brought into the ring. The same procedure as before started. Marina wasn’t sure she could watch it all again.
She didn’t have to.
She grabbed the phone, put it straight to her ear. Turned away from the action.
‘Where is she?’ she shouted. ‘Where’s my daughter?’
The voice on the phone sucked in air. ‘Well played.’
‘What d’you mean?’
‘You must think you’re so clever. Arranging to meet here. Thinking that you’d be safe amongst all these people. That you’d be able to snatch your daughter and make a run for it. Not agree to your part of the arrangement. Am I right?’
‘Where is she? Where’s my daughter?’ Marina was screaming now. No one could hear her above the baying crowd.
The voice gave no reply.
‘Where is she?’
‘Look.’
‘Where?’
‘At the back of the hall. Right at the back. Behind you.’
Marina turned. The crowd were on their collective feet, shouting and screaming and fist-pumping. Marina tried to look through them, look past them. The bales of hay had a gap between them, making a narrow passageway. It was in almost virtual darkness, but she concentrated, managed to separate the shadows. She made out a figure. A small figure. Her heart almost pounded its way out of her chest.
‘Josephina … ’
She started to run towards her, pushing, fighting her way through the crowd.
‘Not just yet,’ said the voice on the phone. ‘Stay where you are.’
Confused and apprehensive, she stopped running.
‘Look. Look again at your little girl. What else can you see?’
Marina looked. And saw a flash of light in the darkness, glinting from something metallic.
A gun.
Pointed at her daughter’s head.
77
Helen Hibbert pulled her coat closer to her neck. She didn’t think it would make much difference, but she felt like it was doing something positive to keep out the cold, damp and fog.
She had reached Harwich with plenty of time to spare, constantly checking her mirror in case those two coppers were following her. She hadn’t seen them or noticed any car that gave any indication of following. Although since her knowledge of that came exclusively from Hollywood movies, she wasn’t entirely sure.
And now she walked, the only person out, her heels clacking and crunching, echoing all around. Behind her were houses, flats. Both old and old-looking. In keeping with the local character. The land stopped the other side of her. She could make out shapes in the fog, lights over the water from the port. It looked like something from a science fiction film, a hulking, crash-landed mothership sitting ominous and indistinct in the mist.
She walked along the footpath towards the agreed spot. A lifeboat station was on her right, the runway positioned on the stony shingle beach. On the other side of her were landed wooden boats. Pulled in and piled up. The dark disguising the fact that most of them, holed and rotting, would never set sail again. Their final resting place. Their graveyard.
She kept walking, away from the houses and flats now, finding herself alone. The boats were now piled up on both sides. Her breath caught from something more than cold. The overhead street lights cast deep, dark shadows, providing perfect cover for muggers and rapists. She could see ahead to where the path was clear and open, where it rejoined the rest of the town and her assignation was to take place, but to get there she had to walk through this first.
She moved slowly, eyes darting, alert for any sudden movement, any attack, listening for changes in sound. She could hear only the white-noise drone of the waves breaking against the shingle beach. That and the beating of her own heart.
She tried to joke with herself, think of it as a final test to go through before starting her new life. Go into the darkness, come out in the light. Just her and the weird sister. How was that going to work? Would they get on? Have much in common? If Helen had been asked earlier, she would have said no. Definitely not. But now she wasn’t so sure. There had seemed to be a connection when they talked. Kindred spirits, and all that. And there was the money, too. That was probably what would keep them together.
She clutched her coat more tightly about her, kept a firm grip on her suitcase. Despite telling herself there was nothing to worry about, she wished she had something else to hold, something she could use as a weapon if she needed to.
And then she heard something. Or someone.
She turned. The sound came from her left. Movement, someone coming towards her. Helen froze. Then heard a voice.
‘Hello, Helen.’
She turned. It was Dee. Sliding out of the shadows.
Smiling.
