The Doll’s House (35 page)

‘It's one of those nights,' the restaurant manager said. He liked Jan and felt like relieving his feelings. ‘I've had two dishes sent back, one noisy bugger who'd had too much to drink upsetting people at the next table, and customers trying to get in at the last minute when it's close to our last orders.

‘I'll just have to give Mr Oakham's table away. And Mr Zarubin's – he hasn't shown up either and he's not in his room. I'll be glad when you're back on duty.'

The line buzzed clear before Jan put the phone down. Rilke wasn't at Croft Lodge. Zarubin had disappeared. Harry had gone out of the hotel to look for the girl and vanished.

He was in trouble. Jan stood up. His hands were sticky like his forehead with nervous sweat. Trouble. Harry wouldn't let him down, miss the flight … Jesus Christ, why had he wasted time, sitting there, boozing and feeling sorry for himself when Harry was in trouble?

He sprang up, stood for a moment, trying to remember where he kept it hidden.

Of course – bloody fool losing control of his memory – among the books in the shelf beside the fireplace. Which shelf? The top? He swept them all off and they clattered to the ground. Nothing there. Below then? Yes, that's where he'd put it. A small Luger, fully loaded. That was another legacy of Cracow Special Unit. He'd kept a gun ever since he was pensioned off. He'd used some of his meagre gratuity to buy it on the illegal firearms market. It made him feel safe. If anyone ever came for him again, he insisted, when the panics and the shaking started, he'd shoot himself before they got him. Not even Harry knew he had the gun.

Harry saw her in the harsh light. Her head hung to the side, strands of hair masking her face. He saw the straps biting into her arms and across her body and bloodstains on the front of the pale dress. He cried out, and as he did so, Rilke drew his right foot up, ready to kick the door shut. Harry Oakham didn't think, he launched himself into the room, calling out to her, reaching for her. He didn't even hear the door slam. ‘Rosa … Rosa … Oh Christ …' His hands were fumbling with the straps. Before he had time to release one of them, he was almost jerked off his feet. The chair started moving, spinning against his weight. He shouted, just as the light above them flickered and died, leaving them in thick darkness.

Oakham was fighting the chair, throwing his weight against the movement, trying to slow it down, using his body as a counter weight.

The mechanism wasn't strong enough to throw him off, but his strength was taxed to the limit. The blackness disorientated him; he shut his eyes, fighting the sensory loss, straining to hold the chair in check. It juddered and rocked, and he heard a moan as Rosa regained consciousness.

He wasn't going to win. In the end, his body would tire and he'd have to let go. In the end, Rosa would die from shock.

Terror gave him a surge of strength that almost stopped the chair; for a few seconds he halted it. If only he could do it again, he might jam the mechanism. But suddenly his muscles knotted in a vicious cramp, and his grip slackened. He lost his footing, his feet slithered on the ground. He held on in desperation, his body moving in a circle. But slower, much slower because of the double weight …

He hooked an arm round the back, feeling for the place where the strap joined the frame of the chair. He dug his fingers into the space, seeking a purchase strong enough to hold him. With his left arm he fumbled for the buckle that held her across the body, tearing at the strap, trying to pull it loose.

The strain on his right arm was becoming agony. The buckle was heavy, too heavy to yield without two hands. He couldn't free her.

He tried once more to bring the movement to a halt, fighting for a foothold on the floor. He couldn't get his balance; his arms and back were wrenched in pain, fighting a battle that he was slowly losing. He sobbed her name in the darkness and through the mist of nausea and terror, Rosa heard him.

Outside the door, Rilke had paused for a moment. It was a beautiful climax. A fitting finale. It would be a long time before anyone found them.

Oakham would hear her death throes, even if he couldn't see them. And he would be on his way to Portugal, and from there to Brazil.

Zarubin was right; Rilke had made his own arrangements. As soon as the team left for London, he had a private plane on standby at Ipswich Airport to fly him out if the mission failed.

From Portugal to Brazil. A new life, papers, and a lot of money transferred from Switzerland. His mother would love living in a warm climate.

He turned away and started down the stairs. Zarubin's body hampered him; he was heavy to move and Rilke heaved for some minutes, cursing with the effort. In the end he succeeded in dislodging a leg from between the banisters and the Russian slid down and fell in a heap at the bottom.

Rilke stepped over him. As he did so, Jan came through the open front door.

Croft Lodge. There had been no reply from Croft Lodge. Rilke was missing; Zarubin gone. Harry had said he wasn't going to warn them. They must have found out. And God knew what they would have done to Harry if they'd caught him unawares.

Jan reasoned it all out as he ran to the car park with Harry's car keys in one hand, and the other gripping the Luger in his pocket.

Croft Lodge was the place to look first. He drove at seventy down the long drive, crashing over the speed bumps, crouching at the wheel, just keeping control. He was too tense to notice the hideous noise. He had broken the exhaust loose when he hit a bump and the engine was roaring like an express train.

He saw the lights on at the house and brought the car to a skidding halt that half turned it round. He jumped out. The front door was open. He shook violently with nerves. Then he started to run.

Rilke looked at the gun. The Pole was holding it in both hands, pointing it at him. It wavered even so.

He was trembling, breathing hard. Panic was near, Rilke saw that. When it climaxed it could make him shoot, or drop the gun and collapse.

‘Give me that!' He spoke loudly in a voice of command. ‘Give me that at once!'

He took a step towards Jan. He knew all about conditioned reflexes. He had made a special study of the technique when he was breaking a man's mind and spirit. Ten years in Cracow Prison under the regime of the Special Unit would have conditioned the Pole to obey any order given in that tone of voice. Instinctively.

And that was all Rilke needed. Just one automatic reflex, and he would disarm him.

Jan looked at him. Sweat was running down his face, his eyes stung. His body felt as if it might snap with tension. It shook out of his control.

Obey. You heard the order. Obey!

The beatings followed. The kicks, the days spent lying in your own filth. He glanced down for a second at Zarubin's body, huddled awkwardly a few feet away. Harry had been there. Harry must be dead or Rilke wouldn't be alive. Dead …

He took a deep, deep breath and pulled the trigger. He watched Rilke fall as if it were a film scene shot in slow motion. He fired again as the body hit the floor; it twitched and the mouth opened …

Jan stepped close and stared down at Rilke. He had killed Harry … He went on shooting, and now the bullets were hitting every guard who'd beaten him and the officers who'd stood and watched them do it. The gun was empty. It was very quiet after all the noise. He slipped the Luger back into his pocket.

He filled his lungs with air. He had stopped shaking. It was strange but he felt calm. He stepped over Rilke's body. Then he heard the sound. Coming from above.

Oakham heard the shots. They were muffled, but he heard them. They cracked and cracked as if someone was letting off fireworks. He gathered his strength and shouted at the top of his voice.

‘Help me,' Harry was gasping for breath. ‘Help me get her out …' It was Jan who wrestled the biggest straps free while Harry clawed at the ones tying her arms. She fell forward and Harry caught her.

‘It's all right,' he kept saying. ‘It's all right, darling. Just hang on to me.' Jan helped her to stand, but her legs buckled.

‘I've been sick,' she moaned. ‘Oh God …' They held her while she retched helplessly.

‘Doesn't matter,' Harry comforted, ‘Don't worry, it'll stop in a minute.'

Over his head Jan said, ‘Did you know about this?'

‘No.' Oakham had got his breath back. He met Jan's eye. ‘I didn't. It was his show, I let him get on with it. I didn't
want
to know.' He steadied Rosa. She couldn't stand. He drew her arm round his neck and supported her round the waist. He said to Jan, ‘We've got to get a doctor.'

On the landing outside he whispered gently to her, ‘Rosa? Darling, listen to me.'

She tried to look at him; everything was blurred, nausea threatened again as she tried to focus and stop the sensation that everything was going round and round.

‘I want you to keep your eyes shut,' he said. ‘Just hold tight to me, we're going downstairs but you mustn't open your eyes. Understand? Tight shut and don't worry, you won't fall.'

He didn't want her to see the dead bodies. No more shocks. He could only pray that she hadn't been tortured for too long.

He dared not think she might be permanently damaged. He held her close, guiding her carefully down the stairs with Jan ahead of them.

The Pole was heaving the bodies to one side. The floor was slippery with Rilke's blood.

On the level Harry swung Rosa up into his arms. There was pain in every joint and muscle but he didn't care. He carried her like a child out into the clean night air.

‘All right,' he murmured to her, ‘open your eyes now. We're outside and it's dark. We'll drive back to the hotel and get a doctor for you. It's all over. You'll be all right now.'

She didn't answer. She raised her head to look at him and it drooped as she lost consciousness.

Oakham panicked. ‘Rosa! Christ …'

Jan said quietly, ‘She's passed out. It's a good thing. Nature's remedy when it gets too much.
She's not dead
, Harry …'

Not like Judith, whom he'd carried down from the ski slopes in his arms, with her neck broken. He caught Harry's arm and guided him to the car. ‘Put her in the front,' he suggested. ‘It's easier.'

They came through the door, supporting Rosa between them. She'd recovered consciousness and was able to walk a few steps when Harry set her down outside the hotel.

Jane gasped when she saw them. ‘Oh my God!' She ran from behind her desk to help. ‘Mrs Bennet – what's happened?'

‘She's had an accident,' Harry explained. ‘Phone through for Dr Harris – tell him to come right away!'

Jane was staring at Rosa. Her face was ashen, her eyes half closed as if she was going to faint. The lovely dress was spotted with blood and streaked with sour vomit.

‘Oh my God,' she said again. ‘I'll get through right away.'

Jan spoke over his shoulder. ‘It's not as bad as it looks, don't worry.' Harry was holding Rosa upright by the lift door. It was on an upper floor. He swore, feeling Rosa sag against him.

‘Do you want me to come up?' Jane called after them; she was on the telephone waiting for an answer.

‘No, I'll look after her,' Harry answered. ‘Just get the doctor!'

‘The surgery's closed,' Jane said. ‘I'll try the emergency number. Dr Frazer's on duty … I just hope he's not out on a call.' They had gone into the lift, and she hesitated. Perhaps she should call an ambulance if there wasn't a doctor available for some time … The poor thing, she looked so dreadfully ill.

She spoke into the receiver. Dr Frazer was on a call but his wife would get him on the car phone if it was really urgent. Yes, Jane insisted, it was. One of the guests had had an accident. How long would he be …? The doctor's wife promised to ring back.

Upstairs Rosa felt him lift her and lay her on a bed. But everything was blurred, and the nausea came over her in waves. She knew he had undressed her; she heard him murmuring to her, telling her she was safe, to just relax, let him look after her.

She rolled on her side and retched over the edge of the bed. It was a convulsion of her empty stomach, and it ended with a rage that shook her whole body. Harry pulled the quilt off the bed and wrapped her in it. He held her in his arms, trying to warm her and minimize the shock.

Jan went into the bathroom and wrung out a towel in hot water. ‘Here,' he said. ‘Wipe her face with that.'

I'll shake to death, Rosa thought. The warm towel touched her swollen cheek and she winced. She was aware of Harry Oakham's strength, of the hand stroking her hair, and his voice, urging her to breathe deeply, ride it out. It would stop soon.

And then the crisis peaked and the shaking became a continuous tremble. She was safe and he was holding her. She couldn't think beyond that. Tears welled up suddenly, and she began to cry.

‘Thank God for that,' Harry said, ‘Good girl, cry it out.'

Jan said quietly to him, ‘She'll be all right now. The worst is over.' He knew a lot about shock and what it did to people.

She didn't know how long she cried for; like the shaking fit, it was beyond her control. Then it ended in sobbing and exhaustion. And clarity of mind began returning, as her sense of balance adjusted.

She could open her eyes and her surroundings weren't spinning as if she were in a vortex. Harry had rescued her. Harry had saved her. She wanted to sleep, not think. Just shut her eyes and drift away from the horror. But something was fighting the temptation. Something that wouldn't let her escape.

Harry. Harry was part of the horror. Part of the nightmare. Rilke's face loomed up in her mind, the skin dewed with excited sweat as he wrenched the straps tight across her body.

You're a spy. Who sent you to spy on us
… the Russian's voice echoed in her head, the words running into each other. The sudden plunging into darkness and then the terror of the whirling, spinning …
Harry was one of them
. She gave a low cry, and immediately he gathered her close. ‘What is it, darling? Tell me … Is it dizziness?'