Killer Instinct

Five

The New Adelphi Club looked different in daylight. Seedier, somehow. Less inviting. It was certainly quieter than it had been that Saturday, though, which had to be a bonus.

I parked up the bike at the front of the car park. I noticed with approval that security cameras had been installed overlooking the parking area, although I couldn't remember whether they'd been there before. I made sure the Suzuki was covered by one of them.

Even so, I stuck my roller-chain round the rear wheel and swinging arm, just to make sure. The insurance premiums I pay on the bike, considering it's coming up for seven years old, are stratospheric. I don't want them going into low earth orbit because of a theft claim.

The main entrance was locked up tight when I arrived. There didn't seem to be a doorbell, and hammering on the door itself produced no signs of life. After a few minutes I gave up and wandered round towards the rear of the building.

The back entrance was where the old kitchens had once been and nothing much had changed. Where the front of the Adelphi had been grand and sweeping, the back was a hotchpotch of styles. Hasty additions built for function rather than form. It was interesting to see that Marc hadn't bothered spending his valuable money on tidying things up back there.

The old kitchen door was propped open with a broken breeze block, and a Transit van was pulled up close to it. As I approached Gary came out, carrying a crate of bottles, which he dumped into the back of the van. He was dressed in a T-shirt and jeans, and looked much more at home in them than he had in his penguin suit of the weekend.

“Nice to see somebody working,” I said by way of a greeting.

He spun round with a start. “Christ, Charlie, you frightened me to death!” he cried. “What are you doing here?”

“Well, it was your idea, actually,” I told him. “I'm here to see Marc about a security job. You suggested it.”

Gary was pale and sweaty. I think his idea of physical exercise is lifting the arm holding the remote control for the TV. “Marc's coming here this afternoon?” he demanded now. I nodded. “Oh hell, we're way behind today. I was supposed to have all this lot swapped over this morning. Give us a hand, will you?”

Which is how I came to be lugging bottle crates between the numerous bars and the back of the van. I quickly came to understand Gary's breathless and perspiring state. I stripped off my leather jacket and dumped my helmet on a chair, but I couldn't do much about my leather jeans. By the time I'd made half a dozen trips myself I was in pretty much the same state as he was.

“How often do you have to do this?” I gasped as I reached the van with yet another crate of empties.

“Too often,” he grinned back, wheezing.

I picked up one of the bottles from the latest batch. It was vodka, I think, with nearly an inch of liquid remaining in the bottom. “Hey, you got a glass on you? There's still some left in this one.”

“Very funny,” he said, retrieving the bottle and ramming it back into the crate. “The bar optics don't always pick up the last dregs, and it's not worth the hassle of taking them down and pouring them by hand. Not with the amount of spirits we go through here in a week.”

He hopped out and slammed the van doors shut behind him. As we walked back through into the club he caught my arm. “Listen, Charlie, do me a favour and don't mention this to Marc, will you?” he said suddenly. “Like I say, I was supposed to have all this done this morning, and the boss can get really funny if you don't do things by the book.”

“No problem,” I said. “My lips are sealed.”

I collected my jacket and lid, and he led me back through to the main lower dance floor. Without the heavy musical overlay, milling bodies, and the clever lighting effects, the decor just looked tacky, overblown. The smell of last night's cigarettes hung on the air like a leaking gas main.

I perched on a bar stool and watched Gary work. His movements were quick, economic, as he worked his way along the line, fixing new bottles upside down onto the optics to replace the ones he'd taken away. I like watching anyone with such manual dexterity. Plasterers and pastry chefs fascinate me.

There was the sound of locks being worked and a heavy door opening on the split-level above us. It threw a shaft of natural light into the club that had been missing before. I looked up and watched three shadows growing larger as they advanced.

“Look, I better finish off upstairs,” Gary said hastily. “I'll see you later, Charlie.” And he scurried off.

The shadows finally took solid form on the gallery above the dance floor where Clare and I had had our first view of the revamped club. It was Marc, flanked by the two doormen who'd been working that night; the bearded one, and my old mate, Len.

“Charlie? You're early,” Marc said when he caught sight of me.

I glanced at my watch. “No, actually I believe you're late,” I said calmly.

I saw Marc's head come up at that, surprise tinged with a trace of anger. Well, tough. The job would be useful, but I didn't need it. No way did I want to be scuttering around like Gary, afraid of treading on the boss man's toes.

Even from that distance, I saw Len's big hands instinctively curl round the top rail of the balustrade. You didn't have to be a psychologist to work out he'd rather have them round my neck. What's your problem, sonny? I made a mental note to be careful around him.

The trio moved down the stairs to my level and Marc came across to shake hands. “Regardless of the timing, I'm glad you're here,” he said. “I believe you've already met Len and Angelo.”

We nodded to each other. Angelo didn't look like he belonged to his name, but I wasn't about to point that out. Today they were both in their civvies, black bomber jackets and trousers, and vaguely police-issue rubber-soled boots.

Angelo was shorter in stature, but just as broad as Len. At first glance, he looked mildly less psychotic than his partner, but that wasn't saying much. They took up station a respectful distance from their boss.

Marc offered me a drink as he waved me to one of the tables. I asked for coffee. “Of course. There's a filter machine in the office. In fact, I'll have one, too,” Marc said. “Len, would you mind?” I glanced up and was surprised to see that the big man moved instantly to fulfil the request. No sullen hesitations at being asked to play waitress. Marc obviously commanded respect as well as obedience.

“So, Charlie, how do you come to know so much about security?” Marc asked now, sitting back in his chair to study me, head tilted to one side. He was wearing a dark suit that he hadn't bought on his local high street, over a hand-stitched shirt that even someone with my limited sartorial knowledge could tell was Italian, and damned expensive.

“I picked it up, here and there,” I said cautiously. I wasn't about to tell him about the rather specialised training I'd been through. It felt as though it was all a long time ago, in another life.

Before you can attack a building, they'd taught me, you have to know how to secure it. Points of entry, minimum number of personnel, and their most effective positioning. The New Adelphi had too many twists and turns, too many dark corners. It would not have been my first choice of somewhere to try and make a stand. It was too perfect for an ambush.

“Here and where would that be?” Marc pressed now.

“Army, mainly,” I said and watched his eyebrow lift.

Behind him Angelo made a succinct and uncomplimentary remark about the Women's Royal Army Corps. I turned my head to meet his eyes without flinching, but then, I'd heard them all before, and worse. Much worse. Angelo stared back at me as he put a match to the end of a cigarette, challenging.

Marc backed him down with a single look, then turned back to me. “How long were you in?”

I knew to the day, but I shrugged. “Long enough,” I said.

“Why did you leave?”

“I was asked to go,” I said, forestalling any further questions on that tack by adding, “It's personal, and I'm not prepared to talk about it.”

He heard the finality that flattened my voice, and those pale eyes searched my face for clues. I didn't give him any.

“So after you were asked to go,” he went on, putting emphasis on the last three words, “what have you done since?”

“I've done a bit of keep fit and aerobics training, a bit of personal training at the local gym, but mostly I teach self-defence to women.”

Len reappeared at this point. He obviously had more domestic graces than I'd given him credit for, because he neatly placed two plain white cups in front of us. Individual portions of cream and sugar were balanced with the spoon on the saucer of each. I was impressed.

Len ignored my murmur of thanks, but Marc's nod of approval seemed to keep him happy. He retreated to a bar stool next to Angelo, holding station a discreet distance away.

“Textbook theories are all very well,” Marc said, stirring the cream into his coffee, “but unfortunately the sort of opponent you'd have to deal with in a nightclub has probably never come any closer to martial arts than watching a Bruce Lee film. They have an unpleasant habit of not playing by the rules, don't they Len?” he called.

Len came to his feet again and moved back across the dance floor with a nasty swagger, flexing his fingers by his sides. He was grinning in a way that made sweat break out on my palms. “Martial arts, eh?” he said. “Load of bollocks. Go on, then, how about you try having a go at me?”

Ah shit, I thought. Just what I need. I glanced back at Marc, but his face was shuttered, withdrawn. It was clear this was a test, and I was on my own to prove I could pass it.

I slid a fairly big smile onto my face and forced myself to stay sitting down. I didn't want to put forward any form of provocation. If I stood up now, took up any sort of stance, or appeared to be taking him seriously, things were going to get way out of hand.

I knew little about the sort of ability Len had. I had to guess from his behaviour the other night that he'd started – and finished – more than his share of brawls. If he'd been working club doors for any length of time he was going to know at least as many dirty tricks as I did, and probably more. He was also maybe twice my weight, and a good six inches taller.

I was further handicapped by being dressed in bike leathers and boots, which would cut down my speed. Plus the fact I had no real desire to hurt him. That is not a good way to go into a potential scrap.

It's one of the things I stress hardest when I'm teaching my classes. By the time events reach the stage where you have to stand and fight, you have to be fully prepared to put everything you've got into it and not hold anything back. You might only get one chance.

Most important of all now, was the fact that I didn't want him to damage me.

Most people would have taken his expansive stomach as their first objective, but he looked like he was packing too much muscle. That left me with the smaller, harder to hit targets – ears, eyes, nose, throat and groin. These required less strength, but more accuracy and speed.

I've found from experience that even the most slow-witted of men have pretty good reactions when you go for their wedding tackle. Often out of all proportion to the value of the equipment.

While I didn't think for a moment that Len would go so far as to beat me to a bloody pulp right there on the dance floor, if I didn't come up with something pretty quickly, it was probably going to hurt. Lateral thinking was called for.

I rubbed my hands together and glanced around me. “So, do we fight here or shall we go outside?” I said briskly, looking expectant. “Only, I'd hate to bleed on the furniture, seeing as the cleaners have obviously been round already today.”

I glanced at his face and saw the faintest flicker of surprise. “Eh?” he said.

“Well,” I went on, looking doubtfully around me at the floor space available. “I suppose we could have a go here, but if we're going to do the thing properly, there's not much room. I'd hate to crack my skull on the table leg when I fall over. Not on top of you already having broken my nose,” I added cheerfully. “God, they'll be mopping bits of me out of here for weeks. I hope your cleaners aren't squeamish, Marc?”

Len was looking less sure of himself. I pressed the advantage, such as it was, for all I was worth. “Are you left or right handed? I only ask because I've been having a bit of trouble with a tooth on this side,” I said, gesturing to my mouth. “If you're going to clout me hard enough to knock a few teeth out, do you think you could make it on the right, about up here? It might just sort it out.”

Len's hands had stopped clenching at his sides. He was starting to grin, which was not a pretty sight in itself. Thank Christ for that.

I got to my feet, dragged my chair a little way from the table, and stood on it. I purposely didn't stand up straight, so that it only lifted me slightly higher than my opponent. “That's better,” I said. “Now I can reach.” I put my hands up in the classic mock-fisticuffs position. “OK, guy, whenever you're ready!”

That did it. He threw his head back and laughed out loud. Then he turned and strutted to his bar stool. “See,” he said to Angelo, “I told you it was a load of bollocks.”

I climbed down from my chair slowly and moved it back, feeling drained. You don't realise how much adrenaline you've been pumping round your body until suddenly you don't need it any more. My legs were wobbling so much I had to sit down. When I looked up Marc was watching me carefully. “Nice act,” he said quietly, with a cynical smile. “So, is this martial arts thing a waste of time, then?”

I shrugged. “I don't know,” I said tiredly. “I don't teach martial arts. I teach self-defence.”

“And what's the difference?”

“Self-defence,” I said slowly, looking him straight in the eye, “is all about getting out of dangerous situations without getting hurt.”

The smile faded gradually and he looked rueful. He nodded, understanding. “Like that?” he asked, inclining his head in Len's direction.

“Yeah,” I said, finding a smile of my own. “Just like that. I've just defended myself. The fact I didn't have to resort to violence to do it is just my good fortune.”

Marc looked thoughtful as he drained his coffee cup. He came to his feet. “I'm not sure whether your peculiar brand of diplomacy won't be lost on most of my customers, but I think I'd like to see you try it out,” he said, as he buttoned his beautifully tailored jacket. “You can start on Saturday.”

***

It only dawned on me afterwards that until Marc Quinn’s question I hadn’t thought much about my army career recently. The realisation came as a surprise. There had been a time when it seemed I’d never be able to forget a single day of it.

Things hadn’t started off bad. In fact, being in the regular green army had probably been the best time of my life. I sometimes wondered what might have happened if I’d stayed there.

But I had aptitude and ability that caught the eye of those further up the food chain. Worse still, I was ambitious. They decided to use that – and me – as a guinea pig. Afterwards, part of my guilt was not just at my own weakness, but the implied failure of all women looking to train in specialist branches of the military.

I felt I’d let them all down.

I could picture the start of that fateful training course like it was yesterday. Selection had been brutally tough, but I’d made it through. It was no secret that certain elements did not want females in anything other than support roles and they’d done their best to “discourage” us from succeeding.

Still, three of us made the grade, and I knew without undue bravado that I had the edge over the others.

And that’s when I met Sean Meyer for the first time.

He was there to greet us when we clambered, stiff-legged and weary, out of the back of the four-tonners, boots landing hard on frosted tarmac outside the barracks that would be our new home.

He stood and watched us, quiet, still. I’d already clocked the stripes on his sleeve and made him for an NCO – someone to be wary of. He wasn’t as big as I’d expected, either in height or bulk, but there was something unnervingly solid about him. Hit him with an iron bar, and the bar was likely to be what bent.

“Listen up,” he said when we were all out. He didn’t have to shout and he didn’t have to say it twice. “My name is Sergeant Meyer and it’s my dubious honour to be in charge of you little lot during your initial training.” He paused, let his gaze travel over us without expression. “Don’t worry – you’ll remember the name, because before this course is up, you’re all going to hate my guts.”

There were a few nervous laughs, but he’d spoken entirely matter-of-fact, without relish or menace. A straightforward statement, and all the more chilling because of it.

“If you don’t hate me, that means I’m not pushing you hard enough – and you’re not pushing yourselves hard enough either. Nobody slacks on my time,” he went on. “So, if you’re not prepared to put in total effort, total commitment, you might as well leave now – save us all a lot of pain.”

He paused again, as if expecting a few dropouts right there. His eyes never stopped ranging over us. I’m sure it was my imagination, but they seemed to linger longest on the three girls. I lifted my chin and met his gaze, unable to contain a hint of defiance.

He stared me out for a moment longer, nothing in his face, then nodded towards the gate we’d just entered by. It had already closed behind us, was guarded by sentries with guns and dogs. “You’ll notice the fences round this camp are designed to keep undesirables on the outside,” he said. “Any time you want to leave, go – you’ll find it’s a hell of a lot easier to get out than it was to get in.”

Again there were a few nervous smiles, even the odd chuckle. Meyer heard them and his expression darkened. “One last thing,” he said. “You can forget everything you’ve achieved so far, because now you’re going to have to prove how good you are all over again.” A pause, the timing deadly. “The bad news is you’re going to have to prove it to me.”

And with that he gave a curt dismissive nod, turned and walked away.

I remember watching him go, the effortless way he moved, and I recognised the danger he presented – on all kinds of levels.

“Whew, he’s a bit of all right, isn’t he?” said one of the other girls – I think her name was Woolley. She sniffed. “Mind you, he don’t half know it.”

But that wasn’t how I saw him. In fact, I’d never encountered anyone so self-aware. He had the air of a man who could close his eyes at any time and describe everything around him down to the last detail. There was a calm confidence, a coiled lethality. You just knew, without quite knowing how, that he could kill you without a flicker, but there was no swagger to him, only that deep stillness I’d first noticed, like a glacier. Implacable, immovable, and colder than the sea.

And I swore I’d break through that cool, by being better than the rest – someone he’d remember. Shame things didn’t quite turn out the way I’d planned.

***

After I left the New Adelphi Club I just had time to call in at the supermarket before I was due at Shelseley Lodge. I was getting low on the essentials like toothpaste and washing up liquid and I couldn't put it off any longer. I went via the nearest petrol station. The Suzuki's a thirsty little sod unless you take it really easy, and I was running on fumes.

I suppose I'd enjoy shopping more if I had a car, or a big touring bike with hefty panniers. As it is I have to watch the size and shape of what I buy as much as the content. If it's a choice between dried packet peas or the tinned variety, I go for the packet just because it's easier to carry.

I usually go round with two baskets, because I know that's roughly what will fit in my tank bag and rucksack. When they're full, I have to stop, although there are occasions when I've ridden home with a box of cornflakes stuffed down the front of my jacket. Or had to eat some surplus item standing in the car park, purely because there was no way of carrying it. Such are the routine problems of everyday biking life.

I started riding a motorbike while I was in the army, mainly I suppose just to annoy my parents. Not that joining up hadn't done so enough already. Still, when you've been nothing but a big disappointment to them from the word go, you may as well go the whole hog.

My parents are typical upper middle class. Nice big detached Georgian house in the country, Volvo estate and Jaguar saloon on the gravel driveway. My mother even has the obligatory brace of Labradors and owns a pair of those green Wellington boots with the buckles on the side.

My father is a doctor – a surgeon. I failed to live up to his expectations from a very early age. I should have been the first-born of twins, a girl and a boy, but by some freak of fortune I came into the world alive and my twin reached it dead.

I think things began to go downhill as soon as the midwife turned to him and said, “Well congratulations, sir, at least you have a daughter.” He went off to cancel my brother's place at Gordonstoun and his interest in me was never really revived.

The cool and logical mind that makes him so good at his profession is carried over to his personal life. He and my mother must have had sex at least once – I'm an only child – but conjuring up the image of it defies my imaginative powers.

He never even flickered when I told him I was joining up. He asked in a detached manner where I was expected to do my training, and to please let my mother know in advance when I was coming home on leave, so she could get my room ready. Then he went back to his newspaper as if the subject was of no further interest to him.

My mother was horrified, but more, I suspect, for the social implications than anything else. A son in the army is one thing, although unless it's one of the more up-market regiments it doesn't hold quite the same kudos that it used to. A daughter in the WRAC is quite another thing. She even took me off to one side and asked me if I was gay.

I think it was about my third or fourth leave that I turned up on the first motorbike I bought after passing my test, a second-hand Yamaha 350cc Powervalve.

It provoked the strongest reaction from my father yet. He took me off into his study, sat me down, and handed me pages of case notes. They were all of people he'd dealt with who'd received injuries in motorcycle accidents. It was gory stuff, made all the more gory for being written in such a detached, clinical manner.

Case after case, they made me shiver. Eventually I looked up and demanded to know if my father thought this would put me off motorcycling. “I know the risks and I'm careful,” I said defiantly.

“I'm sure you are, Charlotte,” he replied. “I have no intention of trying to influence your decisions one way or the other. The only thing I ask is that you ride with the correct protective clothing.” Just when I thought he was showing signs of affection, he added, “It makes reconstructive work so much easier.”

In the end, though, it wasn't my fondness for motorbikes that curtailed my army career. I wonder if my parents would have found it easier to forgive me if it had been.

Or for me to forgive them.

***

By the time I came out of the supermarket, the light had gone and it was threatening to rain. The wind was a lazy one – it went straight through you because it couldn't be bothered to make a detour.

I rode quickly through the dwindling daylight to the Lodge and slotted the bike into a space at the edge of the gravel, near the overgrown tangle of rhododendron bushes. Lights were blazing from every window as I walked through the front door.

I called out as usual as I hit the hallway, but no one answered. I poked my head round the door into Tris and Ailsa's sitting room, but that was empty too.

Moving more cautiously now, I walked through the ground floor of the house, under ornate plaster mouldings muffled by years of magnolia emulsion. Where were they all?

The only logical place to look for the entire household was the ballroom, and that's where I headed now. It sounds grander than it is. At some point early in her opulent marriage, old Mrs Shelseley had commissioned an extension on the back of the Lodge specifically for parties. The structure the architects had devised was around forty feet square, elegantly proportioned, with a line of French windows down one side leading out into the gardens. A row of dusty chandeliers hung from the high ceiling.

Apart from children's birthdays, and at Christmas, the room was mostly idle now, although I understand that events there used to be the height of the local social calendar. Tris still calls it the ballroom, with hazy childhood memories of a more glorious age. Ailsa just calls it a bugger to heat. I used it for my classes and for that it was perfect. It even had a proper sprung wooden dance floor.

As I came in I found just about everyone gathered round where Ailsa was urgently speaking to them. Half the people present turned to glance at me, then shifted their attention back to Ailsa.

“Look, I'm sure it's just a coincidence,” she said. “The police would have said if there was any reason to be concerned, surely? There's nothing to worry about. Please.”

She was trying to be reassuring, but there was a note of strain in her voice that belied her soothing words. Like Tris, Ailsa wore her hair short, making her head seem too small for her body. She wore large silver hoops in her pierced ears, that caught the light and jingled slightly as she spoke.

Whatever the discussion had been, my arrival seemed to mark its closure. The women dispersed, muttering, clutching children who were unnaturally quiet and well-behaved. It was probably that which unnerved me the most.

“Ailsa?” I said, moving forwards. “What's the matter?”

“Oh hello, Charlie love,” she said. She sank onto an elderly brocade chair, shoulders slumped, looking more tired than I'd ever seen her. “Some of the girls are a bit bothered by this Susie Hollins thing, that's all.”

I must have looked a little baffled. Attacks on women happen, as most of the residents could testify first hand. It still didn't quite explain the council of war. Ailsa saw my expression and gave a heavy sigh.

“They were both here,” she said reluctantly.

“What do you mean, both here? Who was?” But even as I asked the question, I knew. It came to me with a sense of creeping awareness that as soon as Susie Hollins had climbed onto the stage at the New Adelphi Club, I'd known that I'd seen her before.

“Susie and the other girl who was raped,” Ailsa confirmed. “In fact, Susie was only here a month or so ago. That boyfriend of hers, Tony, has a hair-trigger temper and a jealous streak, which is not a good combination at the best of times. He'd convinced himself that she was seeing someone else, apparently, and beat her up. She spent about three days here, I think, swearing long and loud that she was finished with him for good. Then he came round grovelling and back she went.” Her lips twisted into a bitter smile. “Like a lamb to the slaughter.”

She suddenly seemed to realise the macabre aptness of the expression. Her mouth formed a soundless oh, and her eyes began to fill.

Tris patted her shoulder, looking awkward. “Come on, love,” he murmured. He was trying to be bracing, but there was a note of panic there that only men get when faced with a woman about to cry.

Ailsa gave him a wan smile, sniffed, and made a determined effort to pull herself together. “I'm all right,” she said. “Really. I must get on, there's so much to do. I just don't know what to say to them to convince them they're over-reacting, that's all.” She got to her feet, moving as far as the doorway before she paused. “Two of the girls have left already, you know,” she said. “Just packed their bags and went. They never even said goodbye.”

“It's their loss, Ailsa,” I said. “You put your heart and soul into this place. They won't find anywhere better.”

She nodded jerkily a couple of times, grateful for the support and still trying to hold back the tears. “I know, it's just—” she trailed off, then finished with feeling, “Oh, bloody men!” and stamped away down the corridor.

I turned to find Tris standing where she'd left him, looking downcast.

“I wouldn't take it personally,” I told him.

He sighed. “I stopped doing that a long time ago,” he said. “Otherwise I would have thrown myself off a cliff by now.”