Part Three: Nick
It must have been early evening when I came around. I had no idea where I was, and when I tried to sit up I had the most excruciating pain in the back of my head. It felt like the mother of all hangovers as I lay back down on that foul-smelling mattress.
I focused on my surroundings.
It was a dark, damp room and I soon recalled what had taken place in Bulmer’s office, however many hours or minutes ago that might have been. A wave of panic gripped me momentarily but it was soon gone. I should have been afraid but I was getting accustomed too quickly to unfamiliar surroundings and surprises. I was angry. Angry that I had been so submissive and allowed myself to walk straight into a trap. I had made things easy for Bulmer and his side-kick along with any number of other parasites on his payroll.
He was right. In this game you need to be one step ahead.
I then remembered all those films from my childhood about secret agents, and thugs and cowboys who all got knocked out and I never realised how easy it was do that to another person. I thought it only happened in films because if you hit someone hard over the head you were more likely to crack their skulls rather than make them lose consciousness. But you can knock them out and quite often without them needing to spend hours in casualty departments.
This was an altogether new world I was experiencing.
Very slowly, I raised myself onto my elbows and took a closer look at the place I was in. The room was damp, the smell was overpowering and I found it difficult to breathe deeply. There was a small, barred window close to the floor and this was frosted and wire-ribbed. The dim light in the room was from a single light bulb dangling from the wooden ceiling. The area was about three metres square and, at one end, there was a large metal door. The only items in the room were the stinking mattress I lay on and a dirty bucket, presumably for my waste.
I stood up – very slowly.
I was still shaky and my head was pounding again so I sat back down until the pain receded slightly.
It was possibly a full hour that I sat there looking around the room and attempting to make some sense of this situation. I thought how naive I had been to walk into Bulmer’s office and hand myself over to him, rather like a lamb to the slaughter. I was relieved though when I recalled what he had said about Sally and, somehow, I knew that she would be safe. How I knew this, I really don’t know, but I was confident even though Bulmer could have been lying. I had the impression that he too was a father and just like Eamon had thought, there was something quite likeable about the man.
Both Eamon and I were now prisoners but he would have no idea that I was being held. It occurred to me that his accommodation was probably better than mine and this made me snigger. I tried to remember the good times we shared together but the only image of him I could imagine was the last one. That was of him crying in the interview room and being taken out by the gendarme and back to his cell.
My thoughts then turned to Maggie, which surprised me. I had not given her a great deal of thought for some time but she would understand that. Before Eamon came into my life, for good or for worse, she was rarely out of my thoughts. It’s true that Sally looked much more like her in those days and I suppose subconsciously she was always there. But I had a sneaking suspicion that I would soon be joining her.
Then I remembered that magical day on the heath when Sally saw the rainbow for the first time. The image was like a breath of fresh air. How happy she was; how magical that time had been. Would I ever again chase a rainbow with her?
I sighed and attempted to put things in perspective and think of the future. I tried to make myself think the way that Bulmer might think, one step ahead. No doubt I was a useful pawn in this and Bulmer would somehow need to let Eamon know that he was holding me, perhaps through Chrissie or Jean-Pierre. If I was being held, he would not name anybody at a trial. Well, the one person the authorities wanted to get some evidence on, and that seemed to be the French guy. I don’t think anyone was interested in Eamon or Bulmer, or even me.
But then I knew all about the situation and who was involved. Would I be allowed free knowing that I would go to the police? Of course not. Bulmer would not take the risk and I knew little about any power or influence the French connection might have.
So I was strong again. I seemed to be certain I wasn’t going to be freed and resigned myself to the fact that I would be killed. Strange really – I wasn’t afraid. Perhaps I too was one step ahead.
It seems odd now to think back to that time when I thought Bulmer was the one in the centre of it all. I was so wrong. He too was just a pawn, a casualty of it all and being led. It was Fabrier who was pulling all the strings and held all the cards. Bulmer was simply easily impressed and perhaps way too ambitious.
There was a noise outside the door.
I heard heavy footsteps walk across a wooden floor and then a light thud as if something, not too heavy was being dropped. I shuddered as I heard the sound of metal rubbing against metal. The bolt on the back of the door was being moved.
It swung open and in the doorway, with the light behind him, stood the broad figure of a man. He was tall and wore a tracksuit. The man was black with tightly cropped hair and a small goatee beard. In his hands was a crowbar.
“Hey you, it’s time to eat,” he called over to me.
On the floor by his feet was a small, plastic carrier bag which he kicked into the room. It landed by my feet.
“Hope you like Chinese,” he said sadistically, “though it doesn’t matter if you don’t. It might be your last meal.”
He found this comment amusing.
I said nothing. I was worried the crowbar was about to attach itself to my skull rather violently.
“Eat it or don’t eat it, I couldn't give a fuck,” he added. “And if you wanna piss, use the bucket and not the fucking floor.”
I said nothing.
“Did you hear what I fucking said?”
I whimpered a short “yes” as he slammed the door shut and slid the bolt back into place.
“And Bulmer will be here in an hour,” he shouted through the door.
I heard him turn and walk up the stairs.
I sat motionless for about fifteen minutes until I had calmed down. He had frightened me and had that been a sketch in a Guy Ritchie film I would have found it rather comical. The language was typical, the food being thrown across the floor and the sound of the bolt. Yes all predictable. But this was not a film and, yes, I really did wet myself.
But I stopped being afraid. I had resigned myself to the fact that something terrible was going to happen and there was little I could do to stop it. I felt quite relieved in many ways. A strange emotion for an even stranger scenario. Perhaps I did not, could not, believe it was all happening. A lower-middle-class trendy single parent like me from Stoke Newington? No. This was just a small part in some low-budget, badly written gangster movie. Any moment the director would shout “it’s a wrap” and I’d receive my certificate that said I had starred, for a day, in Reservoir Dogs and Sally would frame it and put it on her mantelpiece. Accept it was not a dream, and when I realised that, I was hungry.
My whole body was sore, which seemed odd as I was sure I was only hit on the back of the head. I bent over and picked up the bag. It contained a foil dish and a can of Coca-Cola. Did the moron who threw it at me not realise I only drink Diet-Coke? Clearly not. Inside the dish were three pancake rolls – cold but the smell was tempting. I had not eaten anything since the previous evening and had then only played with the food on my plate. I found my hunger after the first mouthful and washed the food down with the soft drink.
Feeling more relaxed, I recalled that the moron who threw the pancake rolls at me said that the meal might be my last. I contemplated this as I lay back on the foul mattress, waiting for Bulmer.