Captives

    'Maybe another night,' he said. 'Tomorrow, perhaps?'

    She nodded.

    That's it, just keep him dangling.

    'I'm sorry,' she said. 'I just feel a bit rough.'

    Lying bitch.

    'You go home and get some rest. I'll see you tomorrow,' he said. 'You'll feel better then and we can talk.'

    About what? About how it's all over?

    She turned to leave but he crossed to her, put one hand on her shoulder and made her turn around. He bent forward and kissed her, aware once again that she was keeping her arms by her sides. He took one arm and draped it over his shoulder, then repeated the action with her other.

    'Not too painful, is it?' he smiled.

    She smiled back.

    Don't hurt him.

    They finally parted and she said goodnight. He told her he would see her tomorrow, he had some things to do before he left.

***

    Carol closed the office door and made her way down the corridor. As she drew level with the dressing room the payphone inside began to ring. She opened the door, walked in and picked up the receiver.

    'Hello,' she said wearily.

    Silence. Only the odd pop and hiss of static.

    'Hello,' she said again. 'Can I help you?'

    'Carol Jackson.' It was a statement rather than a question.

    'Yes,' she said after a short pause. 'Who's this?'

    'I'm watching you.'

    She held the receiver away from her ear for a moment and glared at it, as if her anger could somehow be transmitted down the line to the caller. When she pressed the receiver to her ear again she could hear soft breathing.

    'If you're going to do it then do it properly, you useless bastard,' she hissed. 'Heavy breathing, it's supposed to be.'

    'I'm watching you.'

    'Then what am I doing?' she asked.

    'You're about to leave and I'll be waiting for you.'

    This time her response wasn't quite so swift.

    Other girls had received calls like this. It was almost an occupational hazard. She was about to speak again but the caller got there first.

    'I'm waiting.'

    There was a click as the phone was hung up and she was left with just the buzz of a dead line in her ear. Slowly she replaced the receiver. Then, wrapping her coat around her, she climbed the steps to street level and stepped out onto the pavement.

    It was still raining, a thin, miserable mist of drizzle.

***

    High up in his office, Scott watched her scuttle off towards Shaftesbury Avenue.

    But his were not the only eyes that watched her.

THIRTEEN

    It was almost 1.30 A.M. by the time Scott finally got home.

    He trudged into the main entrance of the block of flats where he lived, heading towards the lifts. Behind him he-left wet footprints on the tiled floor. As he reached the lifts he noticed that a sign had been affixed to the door: OUT OF ORDER. Beneath it, in biro, someone had scribbled: THEY ALWAYS FUCKING ARE.

    Scott sighed and made for the stairs. Fortunately his flat was on the sixth floor; it wasn't too much of a trek. He wondered, briefly, how those on the fifteenth and sixteenth floors were managing. The block where he lived, like many others in Brent, was home to a wide variety of people. One-parent families, those in temporary accommodation, the usual ethnic mixture and, of course, long-term residents like himself. As he climbed the stairs he glanced at some of the graffiti sprayed or drawn on the green painted walls.

    TORIES OUT ARSENAL FC ARE CUNTS

    As he reached each landing he glanced out of the large glass windows looking across to the other blocks that thrust upwards into the sodden night sky like pointing fingers. He saw the anti-collision lights of a plane high above in the blackness. It was leaving London, heading north. Scott wondered where its passengers were bound for.

    He finally reached the sixth floor and rummaged in his jacket pocket for his key. As he stood in the corridor trying to find it he heard shouting from the flat next door. A man's voice, then a woman's, swapping obscenities and insults. Further down the corridor behind him a baby was crying.

    Scott finally found the key and let himself in, shutting the door behind him, slipping the bolts across. There had been a spate of burglaries in the block lately. He didn't want to take any chances. He was, however, better prepared for intruders than most of the residents of the block. Locked away in the cabinet beside his bed was a 9mm Beretta automatic 92S.

    He pulled off his jacket and trousers and hung them on a hanger over a radiator to dry off, then stripped down to his underpants and padded through into the kitchen to make a cup of tea.

    From next door he could hear the couple still rowing. Scott didn't know their names, despite the fact that they'd lived next to him for more than five years. He'd never taken the trouble to get to know them or any of the other residents. He didn't want to know them, he wasn't interested in their lives and he was damn sure they weren't interested in his. He filled the electric kettle and pressed the 'play' button on the radio-cassette that stood beside it, adjusting the volume so that he could no longer hear the rantings from next door. Noisy fuckers.

    '… All alone now, except for the memories.

    Of what we had and what we knew.

    Every time I try to leave it behind me,

    I see something that reminds me of you…'

    He stood staring at the kettle as if willing it to boil. Then he pulled open a cupboard and searched for the tea bags, dropping one into his mug.

    He thought about Carol.

    The image of her floated into his mind unbidden. He savoured it for a moment, his thoughts interrupted by the clouds of steam that began to billow from the kettle.

    Carol.

    He wished she was with him now. She seemed to be on his mind constantly, whether he wanted it that way or not.

    Couldn't he do anything without thinking about her?

    That's what it's like when you're in love.