‘Jesus Christ,’ she said.
‘What?’ said Charlie.
‘Those women,’ said Famie. ‘Behind Amal. Let’s say his wife. And his wife’s friend. The one with the scar.’
Hunter finished the sentence. ‘The women in the shower. The women on Seth’s laptop.’
Famie briefly held one hand to her mouth. She spoke through her fingers: ‘Seth was screwing Amal’s wife. And whoever the scar-nose woman is.’ The all-too-familiar feelings of loathing and revulsion flowed again. She stared at the image. The younger face, the smiling, amused eyes. ‘Let’s hope it’s the nanny.’
They all stared at the screen. Espie straightened then stepped away. Hunter followed. Famie saw the glances between them.
‘Now can we go?’ she said.
75
AFTER DECIDING NOT to use Gregor’s phone, Hari did sleep after all. He dreamt of his sisters, a bloodied Mary Lawson and a funeral procession where everyone was, for some reason he couldn’t fathom, running. He woke with a start, drenched in sweat. Some had seeped into his chest wound, then oozed out again. Two lines, deep crimson, forked their way down and around his rib cage. He glanced to his left. The phone was gone. To his right, Collins knelt, facing the wall, eyes closed. The room was bright now. He squinted through the jagged shards of the broken windows. An electric-blue sky, no clouds. Framed in steel. The sun was up, the day was here.
Hari looked at the silent, intense preparations underway around him. He remembered an old documentary he had watched with his grandmother about the Indian cricket team. One section had featured the meticulous pre-match preparations of their star player Sachin Tendulkar. In the changing room he would unpack his kitbag, taking out his gloves, pads and shoes from polythene covers. He would check the photographs of his children, his flag of India. When he was settled, he would inspect the pitch, checking it intently for firmness and moisture. He would play a short football game. Play a few cover drives with his bat. When he was happy, he would retreat to the changing room. His grandmother had smiled broadly at him. ‘You know what he is now, Hari?’ She pointed at the figure of Tendulkar. ‘He is ready for battle. That’s what he is.’
In the warehouse, Gregor, Binici and Kamran were all going through their own preparation rituals. Getting ready for their battle. Gregor was inspecting, then polishing his knife. When he had covered every millimetre, he started again. Inspect, polish. Inspect, polish. Binici, naked, was anointing himself with oils. Different bottles for different parts of his body. He was paying particular attention to his thigh muscles, pressing his thumbs, then his knuckles, deep into the tissue. His skin shone. Inspect and polish. Kamran had a stretching programme. Flat on his back, he pulled each leg to his chest. He twisted, rolled, balanced. A makeshift bandage across his chest showed fresh bleeding, an oval of red spreading across the coarse cloth. He unwound the strip, dabbed then wiped the wound with a corner around the broken skin, then retied. Inspect and polish.
Hari didn’t move. He had no routine, no ritual, no ‘state of mind’ to achieve. With shaking hands he drank water from a plastic bottle, then immediately vomited it all back up again. The acrid stench filled his lungs within seconds. He was about to apologize but no one else took any notice. Not even Collins, who was barely a metre away.
Part of my ritual, thought Hari.
He threw the rest of the water on the vomit, swilling it away as best he could, then sat back down. He reached for his shirt and eased it over his head, pulling and picking it away from his scabbing wounds. He felt the cotton settle against them. Sensed his racing heart. Wondered how much longer he had left.
Hari assumed he was the only one quite this scared, though Collins did look grey. He caught her eye, she looked away.
No one spoke.
Tattoos, Teeth and Red Head appeared from the upper room. Each was stripped to the waist, each had shirts over their right shoulder, each with their Böhler knives held in their right hand. Their appearance signalled the start of something. Kamran stopped the stretching, Binici got dressed and Gregor seemed to accept his knife wasn’t going to get any cleaner. He pocketed it. Hari pocketed his too. Binici approached him, jangling the car keys.
‘I’m getting the van,’ he said.
‘Third floor,’ said Hari. ‘Behind a pillar.’
Binici left with Gregor. Hari felt relieved it wasn’t him and Collins again. He wondered if Binici knew what had happened with Collins. Or had guessed.
‘Where’s Hussain?’ he whispered, as soon as Collins appeared open to the idea of conversation.
Her face was taut, her lips pressed tight. She wiped sweat from her nose with a thumb and forefinger. ‘Left a while back,’ she said. ‘When you were asleep.’ She looked away as though the act of speaking had been too much for her.
He felt for the photo in his shirt pocket.
Hussain was with Millie and Amara.
Hari vomited again. This time he retched till his stomach was empty. He slumped back against the wall, the exertions opening up his cuts again. Fresh blood ran, only some of it absorbed by the cotton of his shirt. Hari resolved to stay as still as possible. He breathed as deeply as his cuts allowed.
The sound of an engine drifted through the broken windows. It stopped outside. Everyone stood. Collins walked away. Hari hauled himself to his feet.
Oh Christ.
Ready for battle.
76
7.59 a.m.
ROBERTS CLAMBERED THROUGH the broken window of number 26. He stood briefly, feet crunching the broken glass, eyes adjusting to the room’s curtained near-darkness. An ordered room. Quiet suburbia. Sofa, small wooden table, a pile of coasters, two worn armchairs. There was an empty bookshelf, a candlewax-covered gin bottle positioned nearest the
