Goodbye, Kate, page 3
A child for a child.
To do that, he needed me. It was my job to discover every detail of her life, her routines, her whereabouts, and report them back to Arthur so he could use the information to intimidate his rival. I wasn’t particularly comfortable with my task, Kathryn - or Kate as she was known to most - was an innocent after all, but I didn’t say no to Arthur. Ever. I owed him my life.
It worked, of course it did, until Fletcher thought he’d eliminated the problem by killing the man he believed had been following his daughter and circulating some bullshit rumour about his daughter moving to Italy. Even if that had been true? Like a couple of borders could’ve stopped us getting to her. The idea is laughable. Unbeknownst to Fletcher, he’d also killed the wrong man. Greg Daltry. Still one of Cowan’s, but Daltry had never heard of Kate. Daltry was also a prick and not particularly missed by Arthur or anyone else who worked for him.
Did he find the right man this time but miss out on his revenge due to a traffic holdup? I don’t know, but Fletcher is my target now. And I don’t miss.
Daltry’s murder was ten months ago now and, bizarrely, Arthur decided to give Fletcher his moment, offer him some respite in the hope it would make him sloppy. From then on, Arthur decided the daughter was more important than ever and that he would keep her tucked away in his pocket as his secret weapon, ready to fire at a moment’s notice, shattering Harold Fletcher when he least expects it.
After losing Marcus, Arthur has decided that moment is now.
I spot Kate leaving work about twenty minutes after her finish time. She’s talking to a colleague, a young woman with red hair. Kate smiles, using her hands to animate the conversation and it makes me wonder what they’re discussing. She looks so…happy. So normal. She has no idea who she is or what she’s part of. That must be nice, to live in a world where danger and fear only exist in stories or on the news. It’s a shame I have to take that away from her.
Not quite yet, though. It’s far too busy here. This car park is swamped with CCTV and witnesses. I need a quiet street, just like the one she’ll be forced to park on very soon when her usual spot outside the Chinese takeaway is occupied. She goes there every Friday on the way home, parking on the curb in front of the shop door. Tonight, though, I’ve arranged for four cars to block that curb meaning she’ll have to park around the corner in front of the boarded-up Post Office and derelict pub.
A feeling starts to build in my gut when I ease out of my parking space, trailing her car onto the main road. It’s a nauseating sensation. A heaviness. I know what it is because I’ve been feeling it more and more over the last few months. Sometimes it’s so strong I feel like the weight of it might drag me to the ground. It used to bewilder me. I’d never felt it before Kate, or if I had it’s been long forgotten. She was just another mark. A job. Business. There was no explanation for the physical reaction she started stirring inside me and it certainly piqued my curiosity, made me pay closer attention to her.
Eventually, I realised that feeling was guilt.
Guilt because she doesn’t deserve what’s about to happen to her, what’s been happening to her for the last two-and-a-half years while she flutters her way through life blissfully unaware.
With a frustrated huff, I swallow that guilt down. There is no place for emotion today. It’s easy to switch off and focus on the task at hand. You need that ability in this job, which is why I’m so good at it. If I’m carrying out an assignment a person is either a target or an asset. Kate is no different. Today, she’s not the bright young woman with the silky brown hair and endearing smile that curls up slightly more on one side. She’s not the ‘normal’ girl living a normal life. She’s not innocent.
She’s a Fletcher, and she’s in my sights.
Heavy traffic draws out our journey to the takeaway. Every set of traffic lights work against us and I curl my fingers a little tighter around the steering wheel in frustration. I stay several cars behind out of Kate’s line of vision, but every time a car in front veers into another lane and I get a little closer, I see her head bobbing from side to side. She’s dancing as she drives. I wonder if she’s singing too.
We arrive at last, thirty-three minutes after setting off. As expected, Kate strains her neck while she scans the street for a parking space before giving up and taking a turn around the corner. I carry on to the next turning, giving her time to get out and go into the Chinese before I circle back and park further up the street.
I make sure her car is empty when I drive past and then move quickly after pulling up, popping open the boot on my car and stuffing what I need into my pockets. This would be so much easier in winter darkness, though I’m lucky we’ve been graced with quite an overcast day. The dark clouds and threat of rain not only reduce visibility but also keep more potential witnesses indoors. I remain confident with my chosen location, however. The deserted street, lined with abandoned businesses, leads to a dead end and the cars parked in front of the takeaway should be gone by now in case anyone else needs to stop by. There’s really no reason for anyone to come down here.
While I wait for Kate’s return, I step into the small alley that leads to the back of the row of old shops. My tools are in place to make my move. A syringe pre-filled with etorphine, which I’ve double-checked several times as the slightest oversight could kill her on the spot, is tucked up my sleeve. Currently, my right hand is busy holding the small bottle of chloroform which I will apply to the cloth in my left hand at the very last second. Any sooner and it will be rendered practically useless after exposure to the oxygen in the air.
My breathing slows as I focus, assessing my surroundings. It doesn’t falter even when I see her round the corner, the plastic carrier bag in her hand swinging low by her knees. She clicks her key fob, unlocking her car doors from a short distance and I take that as my cue to unscrew the white cap on the glass bottle in my hand. I replace the cap with the cloth immediately, turning it upside down until the clear liquid begins to seep into the material. The pungent smell drifts up to my nose, sweet with veins of alcohol running through it.
I take cautious steps towards her. She has her back to me as she pulls open the rear door of the car. She’s just about to put the bag of food on the back seat when I shove the bottle back in my pocket, reach around to her front and press the cloth firmly over her mouth and nose so fast she doesn’t even have time to flinch.
Her fight-or-flight response kicks in automatically and she makes the typical, futile mistake of trying to pull my hand away from her mouth. I’m clearly stronger than her. She should push backwards, drop and roll, use her legs. Still, I let her claw at my hand while I quickly work the needle free from under my sleeve and push it into the vein in her neck, which is bulging from her attempts to scream. She can’t, of course. Any sound is muffled by the cloth.
While the drugs take effect, I grab both of her arms and cross them in front of her, securing her to my chest while she struggles. It’s not like in the movies – one sniff, one jab of a needle, and they’re out for the count. She squirms, kicks out, and struggles to breathe for a couple of minutes before I feel her muscles weakening against mine. Only when she’s limp beneath my arms, do I lift her exhausted body and quickly carry her to the back of my car, laying her gently on the back seat. Once the doors are closed, I return to her car to pick up the takeaway and check for any other evidence of our time here, and as soon as I’m satisfied I text the signal to my contact that it’s safe to collect and dispose of her vehicle.
Finally, I take her away.
Chapter Three
Kate
My eyes are still closed when I wake up. I’m not sure whether they’re physically unable to open or if I’m too paralysed with fear. I consider the possibility I may have been dreaming but dismiss it almost straight away. If the bitter taste in my mouth and the intense throb in my head weren’t confirmation enough then the soreness in my arms from being restrained ought to do it. It really happened. It really happened and there was nothing I could do to stop it. I don’t want to admit why I’m doing it, but deep down I know what I’m checking for when my flattened hand wanders down my body, feeling for…
Clothes. I’m still dressed. My pants are still on. Thank God.
Someone attacked me. Robbed me, maybe. They could’ve killed me. Why didn’t they?
Did they bring me here to do it?
Have they dumped me and left?
I have two options; stay here and die or open my eyes and find help. Open your eyes, I tell myself. My breathing quickens as I summon the courage to see where I am, terrified of what I might find. I peel my eyelids open slowly, blinking back the coating of fog, and start to glance around the room. I’m on a bed, lying on my back with my head resting to one side. There’s a bed next to me, too. It’s got a rusty metal headboard and the peach-coloured covers draped over the mattress are tatty and threadbare. Taking what feels like a huge risk, I start to turn my head…and then my heart hammers so fast blood pounds in my ears.
I’m not alone.
There’s a man by the window. My vision is still a little cloudy but there’s no mistaking his masculine frame. He turns around torturously slowly. At least, it feels that way. The second he takes a step closer, his face becoming clearer, I gasp, sucking in the biggest breath I’ve ever taken.
I’m going to be okay.
“Simon!” I attempt to yell his name, relief flooding my veins, but it emerges as a strangled croak. Jumping up from the bed, I forget how weak I am and stumble, catching myself on the broken chest of drawers before rushing over to him.
Tears well in my eyes the second I make contact with him. “I thought I was going to die. I-I thought…I thought I was going to die,” I repeat, the words getting lost in the sobs leaving my mouth. “Th-the police. Are they here? Are they coming?” I cling onto him for dear life, my arms wound tightly around his back, my face pressed against his chest. I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to let go of him.
“No, they’re not,” he answers. He doesn’t sound right. His voice is eerily monotone. It scares me.
Loosening my grip on his back, I lift my head up to look at him. “W-what do you…when are they…” Oh, God. “He took you, too.” The thought crashes into me like a bulldozer, so forceful my legs start to give way. He holds me up and I tighten my grip on his waist again. “What does he want with us? I-I don’t understand.”
My head keeps shaking from side to side. I’m frightened. My body hurts. Simon’s here. Nothing makes sense.
“We need to get out,” I say, determination overtaking my fear as I walk behind him to check the window. It’s too small. We’d never fit. There must be someone on the other side of the door trapping us inside. Simon would’ve sought help otherwise, so the door isn’t an option. My mind spins, a thousand scenarios and ways to escape – none of which would work - racing through it all at once. Then, I notice a phone on the rickety table between the two beds. I can’t believe I didn’t see it sooner. I run straight over to it. “Or call the police.”
“You can’t do that,” Simon tells me, so calmly, so matter-of-fact.
“What is wrong with you?” I whisper-shout in case anyone is listening outside. “Why the hell aren’t you trying to get us out of here?” What have they done to him? I assume it’s more than one person. I can’t imagine Simon being easy to take down by one man. Simon’s strong. He has to be in his trade. It keeps him incredibly fit. Just as I’m about to yell at him again for giving up, I see that he’s right, and the phone wire has been severed. “Oh,” I mutter.
Knees weak, I fall back onto the bed and let my head drop. “Have you even tried the do—” The rest of the word sticks to my throat when I raise my head and see Simon staring out of the window, with what looks like a…gun…tucked into the back of his pants. “Simon?” His name falls nervously from my lips. “Where did you get that?”
He knows what I’m referring to even though he can’t see me because he reaches around to his back and slides it out before turning to face me. When he starts walking my way I flinch, scooting back a little further onto the bed. “Simon?” This time his name is so quiet I’m not sure I’ve even said it.
Still, he keeps moving forward before perching on the edge of the opposite bed, facing me. He places the gun, Christ, a gun, on the mattress just next to him and I can’t stop staring at it. It’s terrifying. I’ve never seen one in real life before. It’s matte black with lines on the side and a rectangular handle. A handgun of some sort, I know that much. It’s truly frightening.
With my gaze firmly fixed on the weapon, Simon’s voice startles me, making me jump. “It’s a gun, not a bomb. It won’t discharge on its own.”
“I…” Hell, I don’t even know what to say. My eyes narrow as I look at him with a mixture of confusion and disgust. “Where would you even get one of those?”
“I know people.”
“You know people? You know people?” A laugh saturated with hysteria escapes my throat. “What the hell does… You’re not making any sense!”
“You should lie down. I’m sure you have a headache.”
“What?” I shake my head, as if somehow it will unscramble some of this madness.
Simon looks at me as if I’m missing some huge point. He cocks his head to the side slightly and just…stares at me. He looks intrigued, almost. “Kate,” he breathes. “You’ve realised who took you now, yes?”
“I don’t…” I can’t finish my sentence. There’s nothing logical I could say.
“It was me, Kate. I brought you here.” He follows that statement with a long sigh and I can’t tell if he’s feeling guilty or frustrated. I can’t tell because…I don’t know who he is. I don’t know what’s happening.
“But…I was attacked,” I refute, forcing my eyes closed. I can’t look at him. I don’t recognise the man I’ve been in love with for the last two years of my life. “Someone attacked me.”
“You wouldn’t have come with me otherwise, and I needed you to, to keep you safe.”
“Safe? Safe? My arms are starting to bruise! My head feels like it’s about to explode. I thought I was about to be murdered for Christ’s sake! You did that to keep me safe?”
“Your arms will heal, Kate. The headache will wear off over the next few hours. I did—”
“Is something wrong with you?” I interrupt. “Are you, I don’t know, having some kind of breakdown? Psychotic episode? Is that what this is?” I’m no longer afraid, I’m bloody angry. Maybe a little worried, too. He’s lost it. He needs help. “I need to get out of here,” I say, standing quickly and storming over to the door.
A firm hand slams onto the scratched wood in front of me before I can reach for the handle. “I can’t let you do that.”
In an instant, the fear returns.
“S-Simon, please,” I whimper. “This isn’t right. I don’t…I don’t know what’s going on.”
“You’re in danger, Kate. I can explain but you need to step away from that door. Now, will you come willingly, or do I need to make you?”
I’m afraid to breathe in case I choke on the tears trickling down my throat.
“I don’t want to hurt you,” he adds. “But I will if you make things difficult for me.”
This can’t be happening... “N-no…please. I’m sorry. I’ll sit down.” I do as I’m told because I don’t have another choice.
This isn’t Simon. I don’t care what he looks like, it’s not him. My fiancé would never threaten me. There is no explanation for this, despite what this stranger says.
At least not one I am ready to hear.
“Danger,” I say, returning to the bed. There’s nowhere else to sit. “Who could I possibly be in danger from? And if that were true, why didn’t you just tell me? What you’ve done…this isn’t…” All I can do is shake my head some more. “This isn’t normal.”
“I couldn’t risk you not coming with me.”
I’m growing frustrated with his clipped answers and cool attitude. “Don’t be ridiculous.” I actually roll my eyes at him. I’m sitting here with a man who’s lost his goddamn mind, facing a gun that grows more intimidating every time I look at it, and yet I still have the balls to roll my bloody eyes. “And talk to me properly. Not like this…” I motion my hand up and down. “This…hardman you’re trying to be.”
“You’ve got it all wrong,” he says. “Simon is who I was trying to be, who I was employed to be.”
An ice-cold shiver rolls through my spine.
“And yes, you might have come with me, but you may have also called your father, and I couldn’t have that.”
“My dad? I…” My thoughts and words are so jumbled in my head, I can’t seem to pick them out in an order that would sound coherent. “I…I wouldn’t have called my dad.” I believe that, too. I would’ve phoned the police, not my father.
“Perhaps.”
Perhaps? Is that it? “You’re not doing a great job with this explanation you said you’d give me. Am I going to have to drag every single thing out of you? Jesus Christ, Simon, tell me why I’m here!”
“I was sent to kill you today. I decided not to.” Something startles him and he grabs the gun, holding it low by his thigh before dashing to the other side of the room. He stands with his back to the wall, peering sideways out the window.
Meanwhile, hot blood pools in my neck, almost suffocating me. I feel sick. Physically, violently sick. If I move, if I even breathe too sharply, the entire contents of my stomach will spill all over the stained carpet beneath my feet. I can’t help but look over to the door again, wondering just how fast I’d need to be. Maybe I could whack him with something first…
Seeming appeased, Simon’s stiff posture visibly relaxes and he comes back to the bed, although now he sits against the headboard with the window in view. Cocking his head, he catches me snatching my gaze away from the only exit in the room and narrows his eyes. “You can’t get out, Kate. And if you did, I’d find you.”
