A fist rapped on the glass.
There was someone behind him, too, blocking his exit.
He reached for his mobile and fumbled it, dropping it into the footwell, when the fist bashed against his window once more. Words were shouted.
Open the door. Get out of the car.
Not going to happen.
He unclipped his seatbelt and bent for his phone. As he did so the fist hit the windscreen again, hard enough to make the car wobble, and causing Whelan to bang his head on the steering wheel. Sudden pain, and with it fear: What the hell had he been doing, driving into a mini-riot? And he sensed, rather than saw, other figures clustering round the car, casting shadows onto its interior.
Another thump. How much would the windscreen stand, and what if they used something other than bare fists?
He found his phone, slid back upright, and all four car doors rattled as their handles were gripped and tugged.
The San was open, light spilling onto its forecourt. And maybe these are patients, thought Whelan. Maybe this was a multiple-medication failure . . . But they were all male, and much of an age, not the diverse range of the damaged the San hosted, and how was this happening? Where was security, for god’s sake? Even as he had the thought a man in a blue shirt, dark trousers, came flying through the front door to land sprawling on the gravel. He’d barely hit the ground before one of the marauders leaped out after him and kicked him in the head. Then did it again.
Whelan’s innards tightened. If they pulled him out of the car, he’d be compost in minutes.
If Claire could see you now.
But she couldn’t, and nor could anyone, save this bunch round his car.
But the Park must know the alarm was ringing; help must be on its way. There was no one to call, nothing to do except leave, now, quickly. Dropping the phone into his lap, he grabbed the wheel with one hand, reached for the brake with the other, and the car lurched, throwing him forward again, and then he was leaving the ground—Christ alive, he was in Chitty fucking Bang Bang—and then falling back to earth with a crunch, an impact felt in his teeth, in his eyes, in his spine. He was surrounded by mad laughter, the men howling with glee as they pounded his car with their fists.
On the gravel, yards away, the security man tried to push himself upright, and someone stamped on him.
Whelan’s face was wet. Nose bleed. His glasses had disappeared. An image of Sophie de Greer careered through his mind, blonde, glasses, suit and tie, and who on earth was she really? Couldn’t they just grab her and run, leave him alone? And now the bastards were lifting his car again and Christ here goes they were dropping it—
Something came loose with that second crash, something broke. He shook his head, which was wrapped in gauze. Noises were muffled, and reached him through sound-baffling voids; vision helter-skeltered, a whirl of headlight and shadow. Figures spun, slowed, went into reverse, and then a shape rose out of fog and into focus, wielding a lump of rock. Whelan flinched, and the rock hammered down onto his windscreen. Safety glass spiderwebbed, and peeled away from the edges. Cold air swamped the car, and noise pumped back up to maximum, the fire alarm drilling into the back of his head. Hands tugged at the broken screen, peeling it away like a door on an advent calendar, revealing Whelan as the little surprise nestled inside.
The man had climbed onto the bonnet, and was reaching for him.
Whelan had only soggy thoughts left. Now they’d drag him onto that gravel, and stomp him into mush.
“Fucking copper, yes?”
This was the man crouching on his bonnet, his face inches from Whelan’s own, his fists wrapped round Whelan’s lapels.
“I fucking hate coppers.”
And then a body dropped from the sky and flattened him.
Her head pressed against the carpet, a man bent low over her, his breath hot in her ears: give or take a gender preference, it might have been a quiet evening in.
The kidney punch, though, was bang out of whack.
The carpet’s weave dissolved along with Shirley’s vision, and when she gasped for breath, it was all dust and hair.
She felt his hand on her head; his weight brought to bear.
“Shirley Dander. Know where she is?”
Right that moment, Shirley couldn’t have said for certain.
But a voice behind her could. “I do.”
The man raised his head to see who was speaking, so the book that hit him broke his nose.
His weight slipped off her and she rolled free. He was on his side, cradling his face in his hands, and the best she could manage was a two-fingered jab into his throat. Not her most powerful shot, either; not after being rabbit-punched. Still, her second go had a little more force, and the third was the charm.
“You might kill him,” said the voice, but not in a discouraging way. More like: FYI.
“Ungh,” Shirley said, partly in warning. The man who’d punched the woman in the lobby was coming up the stairs; not in a hurry, and apparently amused by the fate of his companion. He said something nobody heard.
The corridor was busy; all doors open, and nervous faces peeping out. Like Watership Down on fireworks night. Shirley got to her feet before Man One reached the top of the stairs.
Someone called, “Is this a drill?”
“Use the other exit,” Shirley’s saviour said. It was Ellie Parsons, the woman she’d met in the gym, and she was brandishing a bloodied book, One Hundred Things to See in Dorset. “I wondered why they left copies of this. Now we know.”
“‘Panic attacks’?” Shirley managed. Breathing was painful.
“Oh, I’m medicated up to the eyeballs, dear.” Parsons smiled, gently. “I’ve called this in. But I imagine some kind of response will be automatic, don’t you?”
I work in Slough House, thought Shirley. Expecting anything other than blind indifference was optimistic. But anyway, here he came, Man One, shaking his head. Man Two was prone and gagging, unless that was a death rattle. She couldn’t find it in herself to give a toss.
“It’s getting a little, uh, busy,” Man One said. He wasn’t kidding. The fire alarm, the crashing about outside, the breakage downstairs, some to-and-fro yelling. If he hadn’t been using the top of his voice, they wouldn’t have heard him. Given that he was, his accent was more noticeable. Uomo Uno, Shirley amended.
“Yeah, you might want to fuck off now. There’ll be men with guns in a minute.”
“For a care home?”
Parsons raised both eyebrows. She spoke to Shirley. “Do I look like I belong in a care home?”
“How do you think I feel?”
“We can sort this out simples,” said the man. “We’re looking for Shirley Dander. We find her, we leave.” He spread his palms. “Nobody needs to get hurt.”
“I’ll be the judge of that,” said Shirley.
Yet another pair were coming up the staircase; one bald and bearded, the other clean-shaven and raggy-haired, like alternates in an identikit parade. Both wore expressions bordering on glee, as if this wild rumpus were the stuff of daydreams. Without looking round, Uomo Uno held an arm out to stop them.
The corridor was bustling. The fire exit was at the far end, and dressing gowned figures were shuffling that way, though two men had approached Shirley’s end and stood behind Parsons now, evidently expecting trouble. One was elderly; the other Shirley’s age. He had thinning blond hair, a wispy goatee, and a nervous twitch that pulled his face to one side at irregular intervals. And he carried a bedside lamp, its shade removed, its flex wrapped round his wrist.
Uomo Uno regarded them with amusement. “If you want a fight, I can spare a few seconds. Don’t think we’re all as easy as him.”