He hadn’t. ‘That’s not a thing,’ he said.
‘Oh it is,’ she said. ‘Before and after. If you choose it, it’s fine. If someone demands it, it isn’t. It’s biological, Hari. End of the world stuff.’
She turned to face him. He made himself turn to face her. She took off her shirt.
‘Would you like me to show you?’ she said.
Hari nodded.
59
IT TURNED OUT there was such a thing as terror sex. Loud, wild and brief. Very loud. Extravagantly wild. Incredibly brief. All the fear, rage and grief of the last eight weeks overwhelmed Hari.
Afterwards, he apologized. Collins told him it had been just fine by her. Full mount and submission. They had rearranged the rug and blanket so that no one would notice. Not that they thought anyone would be looking.
They walked back from the car park in silence. Hari and Collins were back in the warehouse within sixteen minutes.
60
2.45 p.m.
AFTER PIZZAS, AND with the room still smelling of cheese, garlic and steamed cardboard, Binici nodded to Collins. ‘You’re up,’ he said.
She jumped to her feet, looked at the men. The large windows behind her faced south-east. Despite the decades of grime, there was a hazy intensity to the light. With the door shut and only the feeblest of breezes coming through the broken windows, everyone had chosen to sit in the shade.
Sat against a wall, Hari was between Teeth and Kamran. Then came Tattoos and Red Head. Collins, bouncing on her feet, was flanked by Binici and Gregor, who held a small holdall. She stood for a moment, hands on hips. A power stance. Grey shirt, denim shorts. She pulled her hair back into a short ponytail, snapped a rubber band around its base. Hari noticed she’d missed a button on her shirt. The second one up from her waist.
‘I teach martial arts,’ she said. ‘Silat from Indonesia, Systema Spetsnaz from Russia, American Marine Corps martial arts and tantojutsu from Japan. I know you don’t need to be told how to use knives but tomorrow will be intense. Gregor thought some close-quarter practice might be in order.’
She looked to Gregor, who unzipped the holdall.
‘You each have a knife,’ she said. ‘Italian stilettos.’ She held up a twelve-centimetre black handle finished with steel. The merest whisper of a click and the blade appeared, a nine-centimetre black-finished bayonet. ‘These are AGA Campolin Zero Bayo Leverlock automatic knives. Carbon-fibre handles. Böhler N690 steel blade. It has rock-solid blade lock-up, and snappy automatic deployment. I don’t know where we’ll use them yet, we’ll get told that soon enough. But get to know the knife. Feel the balance and weight. If you’ve brought your own, fine. But these will be better.’
Gregor dispensed the knives as though they were the Holy Eucharist. Slowly. Reverently. Personally. He even muttered each recipient’s name as they took their gift. Binici first, then Red Head, Tattoos, Kamran, Hari and Teeth. Hari stared at his, weighed it, inspected it. It had a textured and shaped handle with stainless-steel bolsters at each end. A small lever snapped the blade into position. Hari thought it managed to be both the most beautiful and the most terrifying thing he’d ever held in his hand. Next to him, Teeth seemed impressed too. He whistled his admiration as he flicked the lever. Hari watched as the blade sprang from the handle then was reset and sprung again. Teeth ran his finger across the cutting edge of the open blade. Another whistle.
Collins had collected the pizza boxes and now lined them up, square face on, against the far wall. Hari counted ten in total. Some of the lids fell open, spilling crusts and used paper napkins to the floor. She closed them up again, removed the rubbish. ‘Throwing practice,’ she said. ‘The Russians have each recruit trained to hit the target three consecutive times from four metres away. Help yourselves.’
Teeth, Red Head and Kamran jumped to their feet, blades in hand. Hari had put his knife down when his hands started to shake. He closed his eyes. Folded his arms. Tried to make it look as though he was meditating before the rigours of the next twenty-four hours. But the reality was that he felt he was crashing. He couldn’t stop the nightmare. He couldn’t end it without risking the lives of Millie and Amara. If he walked, he disappeared; if he talked, a knifeman would pay a visit. Probably one of these knifemen in front of him now, with their new Böhler N690 steel blades. The sound of pizza boxes being ripped to shreds made him shudder.
And Collins had used him, he knew that. She had needed sex with someone, and he was the safest option. He had said yes, so it was his fault. And it had worked for her. She had smiled a lot since their return. But it hadn’t worked for him. He felt drained, exploited. He re-ran her little foreplay speech about the Angry Brigade – it turned his stomach. When the moment came, she would be a butcher too.
And tonight they were supposed to be ‘together’. To protect her from rape. Or gang rape. That was the logic of what she had said. Someone had warned her. She wasn’t taking any chances.
Hari heard her exclaim and opened his eyes. Collins and Kamran were sparring. He was advancing, step by step, knife in his right hand. She was backing away, balls of her feet, biding her time. Smiling. Only one winner here, Hari thought. Kamran began an attack, turning, reducing his angle, but she had read his body language, spotted the feint. His move was telegraphed. She crashed a fist on his forearm and he dropped the knife. Then, for good measure, she tipped him off his feet. Full mount and submission. The room’s floorboards shuddered and cracked. Hari closed his eyes again. She wouldn’t be needing
