Endgame, page 11
‘Just a very little give to it, but it’s something,’ Troy reluctantly added.
‘OK then, let’s do this.’ I had no idea how we were going to do ‘this’ and waited for Troy to enlighten me.
He placed one edge of the lid on the floor, holding it at a forty-five-degree angle away from him. ‘Libby, I need you to jump on the bottom bit.’
OK … ‘Ready?’ I asked, still dubious.
Troy nodded. I leaped forward, feet together, and landed on the crate lid, then immediately fell backwards onto the ground.
‘Ow! Well, that bloody hurt.’
I wasn’t the only one in pain. Troy shook out his left, then right hand, wiping them against his trousers. I wondered if it had jarred his ankle as the sweat beads on his forehead had come back.
He looked determined though. ‘Try again, Libby, only this time more focus, less enthusiasm.’
Scowling at him, I scrambled up, setting one foot on the crate lid that Troy was still holding. Only then did I see the blood dripping from one of his hands.
‘Oh my God.’ I grabbed for it, horrified to see a deep gash in his left palm where the lid and my efforts to break it had caused more damage to him than anything else.
‘For Shaka’s sake! Why didn’t you say something?’ I asked.
‘Like what?’ asked Troy. ‘I’m not going to whine about a couple of cuts and bruises.’
Which made me feel even worse. Maybe Troy was right – I did think about myself too much.
‘We need to clean this wound,’ I said. ‘I’ll pour a little of our water over it—’
‘Are you drunk? What little water we have left is to go down our throats, not over my hand,’ Troy argued.
‘It could become infected—’
‘If we don’t get out of here soon, I’ll be dead long before an infection can finish me off,’ said Troy. If he said that to make me feel better, he failed epically. ‘Come on, Libby. The sooner we get this crate broken up, the sooner we can dig ourselves out of here.’
I nodded, watching as Troy placed his good hand over his bad to steady the crate lid.
‘Ready?’
‘Ready.’
I put my foot back on it and stomped. Troy winced, but managed to keep hold of it this time. Deciding that it was best to do this as fast as possible, I stomped and stomped until the wood cracked and fractured into three pieces. My foot hit the floor, sending a jarring pain up my leg. Whoever built these crates wasn’t mucking about. Troy’s hands were a mess. He slowly wiped them on his trousers, wincing as he did so.
‘Are you all right?’ I asked.
‘I’ll live,’ was all he said.
I was hot, thirsty, smelly and thoroughly pissed off, but I kept it to myself. If Troy could suck it up, then so could I. When we managed to escape and were at the harbour wall, how I wished I’d just pushed him into the river to swim and get help, but the truth was I’d been terrified of being alone with our kidnappers. That’s how I’d lived my life – scared all the time.
But no more. The next chance we got to escape – if there were another chance – I’d make sure that both of us took it, no matter what happened to me. I owed Troy that much at least.
twenty-four. Tobey
* * *
‘Sir, there’s a Jon Duba down here at the front entrance. He insists he has an appointment with you, but he’s not on the list.’
‘Get out the way.’ Jon pushed Michael to one side, his face looming into view on my video cam. The fisheye lens and the angle of his face meant I had a clear, unwelcome view up his nostrils. ‘Durbridge, you wanker, you gonna let me in or what?’
Michael, my Cross close-protection officer, was too much of a professional to punch Jon’s lights out. He did, however, firmly body-push him to one side until Jon was no longer in front of the lens. ‘Do you know this man, sir?’
Keeping my expression neutral, I replied, ‘My apologies, Michael. What with one thing and another, I forgot to inform you that he was coming. Please send him up.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Michael’s image disappeared off my phone. I opened my door, noting Deli, another of my close-protection officers, seated beside the lift. Her discreet earpiece meant that she’d heard every word of the conversation I’d just had with Michael. I nodded in her direction. She nodded back.
A minute later, Jon was at my front door, having taken the lift up to the apartment. We eyed each other without saying a word. His greying-brown hair was ruffled and untidy, and his glasses were cloudy and in need of a good clean. I stepped aside to allow him to walk past. Jon took a quick glance around, then made himself comfortable on my sofa, legs outstretched, shoes up on my cushions.
‘Mine’s a Scotch and ice – just one cube – since you’re asking.’
I got him his drink, not bothering to comment on the hour. It was still early in the morning, for God’s sake. Handing it to him, I sat down on the sofa opposite to the one he had claimed and waited. The look Jon openly cast me was speculative, to say the least.
‘What’s our first move?’ Jon asked at last.
‘I don’t know what you mean or why you’re here,’ I replied carefully.
‘Bullshit! Callie has filled me in and asked me to help you, so that’s what I’m doing. I’m sure you have your own people, but you don’t strike me as the sort of man to put all his eggs in one basket, or to sit back and wait for things to happen, so I’ll ask again: what’s our first move?’
Silence. I was impressed.
‘Shane Stoats. He’s Eva’s new right-hand man so either he knows where Liberty is or he knows how to find out,’ I admitted at last.
‘You know about Shane Stoats?’ Jon’s eyes narrowed. ‘Eva Foxton is very careful to keep him out of the public eye. He’s her secret weapon.’
‘That’s the name I was given,’ I said.
Jon raised an eyebrow, the corner of his mouth quirking at the same time. ‘That makes you better informed than most cops in the Serious Crime Squad. Very few people even know his name, never mind that he’s now Eva’s second in command.’
‘You know,’ I pointed out. This guy knew a lot.
‘It’s part of my job to know,’ said Jon. ‘What d’you think I do all day?’
‘Take photos of unfaithful spouses or of whiplash victims faking their injuries?’ I ventured.
Jon’s pursed lips and immediate frosty air let me know my assessment had been way off. ‘None taken,’ he replied. ‘Actually, that’s a lie. Definitely some offence taken.’
‘Apologies if I’ve hurt your feelings. So would you be able to get me Stoats’s home address?’
‘You don’t want much, do you?’
‘Is that a yes or a no?’
‘Of course I can get it.’ Jon sounded affronted that I’d ever doubted his abilities. ‘But why d’you want it?’
‘I thought I’d pay him a visit and get him to help me find my daughter,’ I continued.
‘And if he says no?’
‘He won’t.’
‘What makes you so sure?’
‘I can be very persuasive.’
Jon nodded slowly. ‘Yeah, I bet.’
Not a compliment. This man really didn’t like me. He was trying his best to keep his expression amiably neutral, but my antennae were rarely wrong about such things.
‘Let me come with you when you visit Stoats,’ said Jon.
No way. I started to shake my head.
‘Hear me out,’ said Jon. ‘I want to work with you until your daughter and Callie’s brother are found, so put me to work.’
‘I don’t think so. You—’
Jon raised a hand to interrupt me. ‘You need me just as much as Callie does. I get things done.’
‘I don’t need—’
‘Did you hear what I said? When I’m on the job, shit gets done. And I’m not above … shall we call it bending the law a little – or a lot – to get results. If I’m reporting directly to you rather than Callie, I’m sure you won’t be as squeamish about how I get the job done as long as any fallout doesn’t land on your head. D’you read me?’
‘Like a baby’s picture book.’ We regarded each other. Jon’s smile was slightly mocking. As I’d said, the man didn’t like me much.
‘Plus I owe it to Callie to try and help. She’s been good to me.’ At my raised eyebrows, Jon shook his head. ‘For Shaka’s sake, not in that way. We haven’t slept together, if that’s what your eyebrows are suggesting. I mean that she took me on and gave me a job when no one else in her position would. Cross lawyers prefer to use Cross investigators. Even now, some of the lawyers Callie works with still try to tell her that I can’t be trusted, in spite of the fact that I’ve been working with her for years. Plus I messed up once, really badly, and she hauled my delectable butt cheeks out of the fire. I owe her. She’s worried sick about her brother and I suspect that you, like me, are a man who doesn’t let the grass grow under his feet. So here we are.’
I studied Jon. Though he was no spring chicken, he looked like he might be useful in a fight. And he clearly had certain connections and information at his fingertips, data I could obtain if I went through the proper channels, but only by answering a whole heap of questions and arousing a number of suspicions first. My hands were already being tied by Libby’s kidnappers. I couldn’t afford any of the delays that moving this to official channels would bring.
‘Very well, let’s do it. But let me tell you this: you get in my way and I’ll step on you before I step over you,’ I warned.
Jon smiled. ‘I believe you’ll try.’
I walked over to the wall cabinet and removed a smartphone from the left-hand drawer. Switching it on and entering the code, I turned to throw it at Jon who caught it one-handed.
‘The code is six sixes, no thumbprint or face scan required.’
‘What’s this for?’
‘I want to be able to talk to you, text you and leave messages without worrying about who may be tracking or hacking my calls. I know that phone is clean so that’s the one I’ll be using to contact you. It’ll be just you and me using it.’
Jon pushed the phone into his jacket pocket. Good. I wasn’t in the mood for an argument about it.
‘Have you talked to Callie recently?’ I asked, keeping my tone casual.
‘Not recently. Spoke to her mum though.’
‘Sephy? About what?’
Jon frowned. ‘About none of your business.’
This man … I shook my head.
‘What?’ said Jon, swinging his legs round so his feet were back on the floor. ‘You think, just because you’re PM, I should bow down and kiss your buttocks?’
‘I’ll pass, but nicely put.’
‘I have a way with words.’
‘You know, given my title and status, most people are a little more polite when they talk to me,’ I pointed out.
‘That’s why I don’t like most people. And, Tobey, I shouldn’t need to remind you that acquiring power and keeping it are not one and the same thing.’
‘I know,’ I said. I wasn’t a complete fool.
‘And, even if you are exonerated of Daniel Jeavons’ murder, when it all comes out, there’s plenty will say there’s no smoke without fire. You want my advice?’ Jon continued without waiting for confirmation. ‘Get ahead of the chatter.’
‘How d’you propose I do that?’
‘You need to change your image. You’re single and not even in a stable, long-term relationship.’
I shrugged. ‘I can’t really do much about that. My soulmate has proved to be … elusive.’
‘My arse she has,’ Jon snorted. ‘Do yourself a favour, Tobey. Tell Callie exactly how you feel about her and put a ring on it to seal the deal.’
‘Callie hates my guts.’ I didn’t even try to deny that’s who we were talking about.
‘Of course she doesn’t. She’s mad at you, sure, but a clever man like you can find a way round that,’ said Jon. ‘And think how it would play to the masses. Think of the headlines. Nought Prime Minister marries dual-heritage lawyer of renown. A lawyer whose grandfather was a respected politician. The traditional meets the modern in a new wave of change, and other such nauseating clickbait, tabloid bullshit. The press will view it as a marriage made in heaven and it’ll spike the guns of all your opponents. You’ll be seen as a representation of change, of the future. Anyone speaking against you will seem like dusty relics.’
‘Just one problem with that,’ I said. ‘Callie would never go for it.’
‘She will if you play your cards the right way,’ Jon insisted.
‘And what right way is that? I’m not exactly flavour of the month.’ Or anywhere near.
‘Listen, Tobias,’ said Jon, leaning forward. ‘Callie will have cooled down by now. She didn’t mean what she said to you. It was heat-of-the-moment stuff, though you had it coming for blackmailing her into staying on as your lawyer. Real classy move there, Durbridge.’
This bastard actually had me blushing like a schoolboy. Callie had confided in him? I took a moment or two to digest that. ‘Did she also happen to mention that afterwards I told her to recuse herself from being my lawyer?’
‘Yeah, like that was ever going to happen,’ Jon scoffed. ‘Callie cares about you, Tobey, in spite of all your shenanigans. God alone knows why. She believes that there’s still something decent deep inside you.’
‘And you know that for a fact, do you?’
‘Yes, because she told me so,’ said Jon. ‘Not in so many words, but that was the gist.’
Jon now had my full, undivided attention.
‘When did she tell you all this?’
‘Irrelevant. It’s what she said that counts, not the exact hour and minute she said it. Anyway, enough chit-chat. Let’s get down to it. For the third and final time, what’s our first move?’
twenty-five. Troy
* * *
‘History, Government and Politics, English and Chemistry.’
Libby paused her digging for a moment to stare at me. ‘You’re doing History? Seriously? What a waste of time.’
I straightened up. ‘Excuse me?’
‘History is pointless.’
‘What the hell? How on earth is History pointless? It’s our past and tells us how we got to be where we are today.’
Libby sniffed. ‘Your past maybe, not mine.’
I frowned. ‘That’s not true.’
‘Of course it is. History is an erasure and an erosion of the truth about Noughts, so why should I care about it? It’s not my history, it’s yours.’ Libby resumed her digging.
‘History belongs to all of us,’ I argued.
‘Some more than others. Nought history shouldn’t begin with Crosses colonizing Albion. What about all the centuries of stuff before that? What about the Noughts who fought for our rights during the time of the eighth Ashanti empress? Or the Noughts who fought and died in the Great War only to see their contribution deliberately ignored? If you only read Cross history books, you’d think we Noughts have been sitting on our arses for centuries, doing bugger all except slaving for you lot and, more recently, receiving handouts. History is bullshit.’
Libby’s fiery eyes and raised eyebrows dared me to argue. I sighed. Life was too short. We both resumed our digging.
‘Troy, history belongs to those who get to write it. How many Nought historians can you name?’
‘I can’t name any Cross ones either,’ I told her. ‘So what’s your point?’
The wooden slat in my hand scraped my skin as I dug once again into the dirt by the cellar wall. When we’d finished digging, the blisters on my hands would be the size of beach balls. Dirt that had initially seemed soft underfoot was hard and unyielding now we were trying to clear it out of the way. I glanced behind me. We’d removed just a few centimetres of earth and we’d been at it for ages. Sweat was pouring off me, but with no fresh air or ventilation it didn’t evaporate; it just ran down my skin, soaking into my shirt and trousers. God only knew what I smelled like. And, with each accelerated beat of my heart, my ankle throbbed with renewed pain.
Beside me, Libby dropped her wooden slat and examined the palms of her hands. ‘This is shredding my skin.’
She wasn’t wrong. Beads of blood, dark and brooding in the cellar’s half-light, were dotted across her palms. As I took her hands in mine for a closer look, she winced. I immediately let go, but she pushed her hands back into mine.
‘Go ahead,’ she urged. ‘How bad are they?’
‘Not good. Let’s take a break for a while.’
I released Libby’s hands. After a quick glance, she wiped them on her trousers. My own palms felt like they were on fire, but at least after the first cut I hadn’t broken any more skin. The last thing either of us needed was to get an infection.
‘I have an idea.’ I took off my shirt and began to pull at the sleeves.
‘What on earth are you doing?’
‘Protecting your hands,’ I replied.
Except that was easier said than done. The bastard sleeves must’ve been sewn on with steel wire rather than cotton. After a lot of sweating and straining on my part, and suppressed giggles from Libby, the left sleeve I was tugging at finally began to give. It took far too long to rip it from the rest of the shirt and then tear it in two. By the time I’d finished, Libby wasn’t even trying to hide her laughter. So embarrassing! My face flamed as I wrapped the two strips of material round her hands, careful to tie and secure them at the back rather than the front.
‘What have you got in your upper arms instead of muscles? Overcooked noodles?’
‘Thanks.’ Lips pursed, I glared at her. ‘Next time, sort out your own hands.’
‘I’m just teasing, Troy. Thank you.’
Hmm!
‘How’s your ankle?’ Libby said with an unsubtle change of subject.
