Over the next few minutes, she looks at her watch several times.
She should have asked Terry Stack if he could bring a couple of Valium with him, or a Xanax, or something. She wishes, at the very least, that she had a cigarette. Not that she smokes anymore, but in the last few weeks she’s had the old craving more than once, and each time she resisted. If there were a pack in front of her right now though, she wouldn’t resist for a second.
Then it occurs to her that maybe he has some.
She gets off the crate and walks over to Ratface again. Seeing her coming, he goes rigid. His eyes bulge and he mumbles something through the cloth. It’s as if he’s expecting her to kick him – which she’s still tempted to do, but instead she bends down, holding a hand out in front of her for protection.
He makes a sudden movement and her heart lurches.
But it’s not as if he’s going anywhere.
The gash on the side of his face is awful-looking. It’s deep and messy. But what can she do? Her concern is genuine, just misplaced – because does she really imagine that when Terry Stack arrives he’ll be busying himself with washing the wound in warm water and gently applying disinfectant and a bandage?
Avoiding eye contact with him, she reaches down to his other pocket. The first thing she extracts from it is a mobile phone, which she places on the floor beside her. Then she extracts a packet of twenty Major and a Zippo. She’d prefer something milder – in another lifetime she used to smoke Camel Lights – but Major will do.
She puts the cigarettes and lighter into her own pocket and looks down at the mobile phone. She should have thought of this earlier. What if it rings?
Shit.
It’d be liable to give her a heart attack.
She picks up the phone and strides across the warehouse. When she gets to the steel door, she opens it and steps out into the cold air. She raises an arm and flings the phone as far away as she can. She just about hears it land – on the other side of the floodlit yard somewhere.
She turns back.
When she gets inside the door again, she stops for a moment and looks around.
They are alone here, aren’t they?
On the far side of the warehouse there is another door. She goes over and tries it, but it’s locked. Then – and conscious of not letting Ratface out of her sight – she goes over to the office unit and pokes her head around the door.
It’s empty.
Walking back towards the wooden crate, she takes the cigarettes out of her pocket and lights one up. Her hands are shaking, but the first drag is exquisite, more than she could reasonably have expected. Her brain chemistry seems to go through a rapid series of changes and her mood elevates.
But this lasts only three or four seconds.
With the next drag, and the one after that, it’s business as usual. After another couple, she looks at her watch.
How much longer before Stack gets here? Five minutes? Ten minutes?
And then what?
When she finishes the cigarette, she throws it on the floor and stubs it out with her foot.
She picks up the gun from beside her and examines it. It’s the first time she’s ever handled a gun and it feels strange. Is it loaded? Is it ready to use? Do you just pull the trigger? What about blowback and recoil? She’s not even sure she knows what these terms mean – but then again, does she really want to know?
Isn’t that why she called Terry Stack?
She puts the gun down again. She walks over to Ratface.
He turns his head slightly and looks up at her.
‘Listen,’ she says, ‘I’m going to ask you one more time, OK?’
She pauses, waiting for him to indicate that he understands, but he just keeps staring up at her.
‘Right. Where is he? What have you done with him?’
Ratface appears to mumble something, but Gina isn’t sure if he’s answered the question or not. She leans down and pulls the rag out of his mouth.
‘Where is he?’ she says again.
‘Get stuffed, you bitch.’
Gina stands back up. ‘That call I made a while ago? Do you know who it was to?’
‘Phone a fucking friend, was it?’
‘Yeah, right. Ever heard of Terry Stack?’
He doesn’t react in an obvious way, but Gina can tell from his eyes that he’s stunned.
‘Yeah.’ She nods her head. ‘I thought you might have.’
But then she looks up, hearing something outside.
A car.
‘That’ll be him,’ she says, and turns away.
She picks up the gun, the mobile and the photos from the crate and stuffs them into her pockets. She walks over to the steel door, opens it and looks out into the yard.
An unmarked transit van is parked a few spaces along from the Saab. The driver and passenger doors open at the same time and two men get out. As they approach, Gina sees that one of them is carrying something by his side, a briefcase or – oh God, of course – a toolbox.
When he gets to the door, Terry Stack smiles and says, ‘Gina, how’s it going? I’m glad you called me. You did the right thing.’
Gina shrugs her shoulders. She’s cold and tired, and suddenly feels way out of her depth. What she wants to do more than anything else right now is cry, break down and sob, but Terry Stack would love that. He’d love nothing more than to be putting his arms around her and going, ‘Ssshhh, there, there, love, it’s all right.’
She stands back, holding the door open for them, and points. ‘He’s over there.’
Wearing an overcoat, Terry Stack struts in, followed by the other guy, who is younger and wearing the standard-issue grey hoodie. This younger guy is the one carrying the toolbox.
Terry Stack turns to Gina and says, ‘You work in software, right? That’s what you told me, data retrieval?’
She nods but doesn’t say anything.
‘Well, I’m pretty good at data retrieval myself, so don’t worry love, we’ll sort this out.’
Gina wants to stop everything right there, to reverse this, but -
‘I just need to find out -’
‘I know, Gina, I know. You told me on the phone. It’s all right. It’s under control.’
She sighs and then trails behind the two men as they walk over to where Ratface is lying on the floor.
Terry Stack leans down and takes a look at him.
‘Ah, well Jaysus,’ he says, half laughing. ‘Will you look who it is?’ He straightens up and rubs his hands together. ‘Fitz, me auld flower, how’s it going?’
Fitz.
They seem to know him. Is that good or bad?
As though in answer to her question, Gina glances over and sees that not only is this Fitz wriggling now, but he’s trembling, and has just pissed himself.
Lightning quick, Terry Stack kicks him in the stomach.
Gina gags.
‘Open the box up there, Shay, would you?’ Terry Stack says. ‘And see if you can find the nearest socket for me as well.’
Gina shakes her head and says in a sort of strangled whisper, ‘I’m… I’ll be outside.’
Without looking back, she makes straight for the steel door, opens it and heads out into the cold night air.
Having extracted a promise from Norton that he’ll look into the optical-turnstiles thing, Ray Sullivan now embarks on an anecdote about his father, the apparently legendary Madison Avenue advertising executive Dick Sullivan. It’s about how some town in California during the sixties decided to change its name for commercial reasons and hired Sullivan Sr., who ended up sketching his ideas out to members of the County Board over lunch on the back of a cocktail napkin.
But Norton has never heard of the veteran adman and is barely listening anyway.
By the time their coffees arrive, Sullivan Jr. has moved on to another story and is getting quite animated. There are gestures involved, and funny voices. For his part, Norton occupies himself with the cream and sugar. At one point, noticing a sudden lull, he looks up. Sullivan is staring at him, and has also – it quickly becomes apparent – asked him a question.