The Wreckage

24

A note flutters beneath the wiper blades of the Mercedes. Not a parking ticket. The doors are unlocked. Ruiz glances inside and sees a large orange envelope on the passenger seat.

Walking slowly around the car, he crouches to peer beneath the chassis, checking the wheel arches and drive shaft. Four years in Northern Ireland taught him to be careful. Standing upright, he studies the street. Opposite there is a school with an asphalt playground. Boys kick a ball between painted posts on a brick wall and girls sit in groups on the benches. A dark blue Audi is parked on the corner. Engine running. Ruiz is no expert on cars. He doesn’t watch Top Gear because Jeremy Clarkson is further right than Donald Rumsfeld and only half as funny.

The car is too bright and shiny and new. Out of place. Stepping on to the road, Ruiz walks towards it, but the Audi begins rolling further away from him. As he speeds up, so does the car. Cutting a corner, he tries to close the gap. Twenty feet away, the Audi accelerates. Gone.

He chastises himself. Dogs chase cars. His knees are hurting, a dull thudding pain, muscle memory from the rugby field, old injuries. Holly’s clothes have spilled from the plastic bags he dropped. He gathers them together and tosses them on to the back seat. Then he pulls the note from beneath the wiper blade; a single page. Handwritten.

Dear Mr. Ruiz,

We think this was stolen from you recently. You should have it back. This should pay for your daughter’s wedding and make up for any losses. It’s an intelligent alternative to poking your nose into somebody else’s business. We think you have something of ours. If you return it promptly you can double your reward.

The envelope contains two neat bundles of banknotes: four, maybe five thousand pounds. It’s not the money that worries him. It’s the fact that these people know about Claire and the wedding. It’s less a bribe than a warning.

Flipping open his mobile, he dials the number at the bottom of the note.

“Nice of you to call,” says a voice. American. Educated.

“Have we met?”

“I know you by reputation.”

“You left me a package.”

“Money owed.”

“I don’t think so.”

“It can be a down-payment for services rendered.”

Ruiz turns full circle, surveying the street. Something tells him he’s still being watched.

“Pardon me for saying this, but you’re making as much sense as a kosher pork chop.”

The American chuckles. The guy won’t be laughing when he gets bounced off a few walls, thinks Ruiz. He has memorized the number plate of the Audi. He’s going to find him and they’ll talk properly, face to fist.

“The girl has the key.”

“What key?”

“I would like to talk to her personally.”

“My person will call your person. We’ll do lunch.”

“You’re not taking me seriously, Mr. Ruiz.”

“Did you kill Zac Osborne?”

The question warrants a pause. “We’re not animals, Mr. Ruiz. Your young lady friend is in danger. I can protect her.”

“That’s very gallant of you. The price is twenty-five thousand.”

“That’s more expensive than I expected.”

“Inflation.”

“I’m sure we can agree on a price when we meet. I’ll give you an address. You can bring the girl.”

Ruiz can hear a barge horn sounding in the background. He’s heard it before on the river, closer to home. The American is keeping Ruiz on the phone. Trying to drag out the conversation. The question is why?

“Call me when you have the money,” says Ruiz, hanging up.

Holly is watching television, Wife Swap USA. It’s about a woman who raises pigs in Arkansas swapping with a belly-dancing Bohemian who has the fashion sense of Tinkerbell.

The phone rings. She presses the TV mute button and waits for the answering machine to pick it up. Ruiz’s voice: “… leave a message after the tone…”

The beep.

“Get out now, Holly! Not the front door. The back. Over the fence. Mrs. McAllister lives in the house behind. Tell her you know me. Don’t frighten her. Go now. They’re coming for you.”

Holly doesn’t ask questions. She’s up, grabbing the leather satchel, her shoes, she can’t find her coat… it must be upstairs. She turns to the front door. A shadow darkens the frosted glass. Another at the window, crouching but not crouching low enough.

She runs to the kitchen and flings open the back door, jumps down the low stairs and sprints across the garden. Behind her comes the sound of glass breaking.

Hurry, says her inner voice, fearful and strangled. Throwing the satchel over the fence, she scrambles up and over. Her jeans catch on a climbing rose. She falls backwards, bracing herself. Soft earth. A dog barking. They’ll know where she’s gone.

On her feet, she turns and glimpses a figure in the second-floor window. Looking at her. Dressed in black. The dog is still barking. Small and white, it bounces behind the patio doors. Holly hammers on the glass. An old lady appears with blue-rinsed hair. Overweight. Shuffling on a walking frame.

“I’m a friend of Vincent’s,” she calls. “Somebody has broken into his house. Help me!”

Mrs. McAllister has to find the key. She’s flustered. Forgetful. Her dog won’t shut up. The man has gone from the window.

Key found, the glass slides open. Mrs. McAllister doesn’t step back quickly enough and Holly almost knocks her over. She apologizes and runs through the house to the front door.

Mrs. McAllister is a hoarder. The house is full of boxes, crates and excess furniture. Holly had a grandmother who was like that. Kept every margarine container, every empty jar, every magazine and brochure.

“Call the police. Don’t open the door.”

“Where are you going?”

“I can’t stay.”

Holly pauses in the shelter of the doorway. Looks out. Left or right? The inner voice tells her to get her bearings, but there isn’t time. A car swings into the street, dark blue, heavily tinted windows, travelling at speed. Decision made. She turns and runs, her bag bouncing against her spine. A footpath appears, too narrow for a car. It leads to the river.

Putting her head down, she pushes hard, hoping that nobody appears at the far end. Car doors slam behind her. Who are these people? Not the police. No warnings. Unmarked cars. She doesn’t want to go through this again. Too many bad things already, the bloody mess of her childhood, Albie, her mother, her father, now Zac-why can’t they leave her alone?

Emerging from the path, she crosses Rainville Road, ignoring a “don’t walk” sign. A car brakes hard. Sounds the horn. Holly slips and falls. Grazes her knee. Scrambles up.

Turns right into Crabtree Lane, then left, her breath rasping in her throat. Adam Walk is ahead of her, leading to the river. She swings on one of the metal poles to change direction.

In front of her, two women pushing prams, a toddler on a tricycle, a man reading a newspaper on a long bench; so normal. Something moves from behind the screen of foliage to her left, dressed in black, an object in his hand.

She kicks harder, dodging through the prams, hearing a cry of alarm from one of the mothers. The man on the bench seat has dropped his paper and found his feet, set himself to catch her. Confident. She has nowhere to go.

Holly swings her bag. It’s heavy. A half brick will do that. Zac’s idea. Always have a weapon. She has all the momentum. The bag hits him in the side of the head and he goes down, the newspaper fluttering across the concrete like an injured swan.

It’s low tide, the muddy bank exposed, gulls fighting over scraps. Holly is growing tired. Lactic acid building in her muscles, slowing her down. Ahead she sees a small wooden boat moving slowly. Two fishermen.

The jetty is ten feet below the path, supported by pylons buried deep in the mud. She doesn’t wait. Slinging the satchel around her neck, she goes over the side, face to the wall, holding on to the edge and then dropping, falling, landing hard. Her knees buckle. Bones jar. She’s up, running along the pier, waving her arms at the fishermen.

One of them nudges the other. Points. A brief discussion and he pulls on the tiller. The boat swings towards her, bouncing on the swell. Holly turns. She sees the silhouettes of three men on the path above the jetty. One of them scrambles over. The others grip his arms and let him down.

The boat is coming in straight, spinning at the last moment, the engine in neutral. The man at the tiller has a battered cloth cap and a khaki vest. He’s about to speak. Holly jumps, clattering into the wooden shell, landing amid tackle boxes and fishing rods. The boat lurches. The propeller leaves the water and whines.

The other fisherman catches Holly before she goes over the side, pulls her back, and she collapses between his knees. Her satchel swings loose. She tries to catch it but it lands in the water; floats for a moment before the brick takes it under.

The man on the jetty is twenty yards away. His forearm bent. A gun held upright.

Holly pleads, “Help me, please!”

So many questions, too little time. The first fisherman opens the throttle. It responds with a high-pitched roar, slow at first, picking up speed. The bow rises. The jetty sways in the wake.

Fifty yards… seventy… ninety…

Away.

Safe.