Roth frowns and I share his confusion. 'Isn't that something to do with hay fever?'
'It's what you have when you have an allergy - like hay fever. So it restricts muscles and basically it slowed everything down. Slept a few days after that.'
She lets the words just linger in the room as Roth and I turn everything over for a moment.
As I slowly begin to smile, Roth laughs.
'How the hell are we supposed to get it into them?' he says.
'Yeah. We get close enough to inject them, we're basically dead anyway right? Certainly they won't react well to actually being stabbed, at which point, it won't really matter how much it slows them down because the very next thing they do is fuck us up,' I say agreeing with Roth's point.
Carla shakes her head. 'Either way, it’s our best chance. Or one of you two come up with something. And judging by how fast they tend to track you down Laing, I'd say we're not big on thinking time.'
'They're too strong. Too fast. And we don't just want them to relax a bit do we? We want them dead.'
'We do. And this is the only thing that will make it even close to a fair fight.'
Roth shakes his head.
'How long does it take?' I ask.
'I felt it working pretty much straight away. Not asleep-working, but I mean I could feel it. Slowed me down pretty fast.'
'But like I said,' Roth jumps in, 'getting close enough to do it will be hard enough, getting away before it really kicks in - if it even does anything to them - I can't see how.'
'Well perhaps we don't administer by injection. Maybe an oral dose would work better.' Carla looks a little uncertain when she says this.
'Spray it in their mouth?' says Roth, like he immediately prefers the stabbing idea. Figures.
She shakes her head.
'How else orally? A pill?' Roth hasn't got it yet. But I have.
'She means that one of us takes it first so that they don't realise they're getting it when they feed on us. Set a trap and drug the bait.'
No one says anything for a while. Carla stares at the floor, like the apology she seems to want to offer is written there. Roth looks back and forth between us but though his mouth keeps starting off a sentence, it never forms. Because he, like I, like Carla, knows that she is right.
'I guess that gets them nice and close,' he says.
*
We kick around the idea of who will dose themselves up with the histamines. We all see that it is as close as we'll get to suicide. If the dose doesn't kill us, it will render us as good as useless against Frost and Stanford, which is almost the same thing. The window of escape is tiny.
One of us will need to allow them to feed on us and rely on the other two to step in as soon as it’s clear that Frost and Stanford have both taken on the contaminated blood. We agree that perhaps a signal might be given by the victim, though we all acknowledge such a thing may not possible. I also point out that it may suffice for just one of them to do so, since it will at least increase our odds of success if we can take out one and then focus on the other.
Carla insists that a counteractive shot of epinephrine can be administered quickly after the trap has been sprung but we all know that the chances of getting that far are slim.
Roth is quiet throughout. He seems less than keen on the plan in general and less so on volunteering, but cannot, or does not, offer any alternatives. I get the sense that this has all blindsided him and he is struggling to adapt to this new reality. He has been crying out for a response from Frost and Stanford and when all he got was me, the fact he has had to stifle his hatred and keep his anger under wraps is clear enough. He came to the hospital intending to tear me apart and Carla's intervention and the information we have given him has thrown him completely.
But that anger has been brewing inside him for some weeks now, fermenting and building. He has forced the cork back in the bottle, but it shan't stay there for long.
'It’s Roth they want most right? He's the one they really want,' Carla has spotted his reticence to engage but this clumsy hint won't sway him, I can see that.
'Yeah, but they're pissed with me. Badly. They'll want to take me out first and fastest, satisfy their frustration. I have a feeling that they want to save Roth for last. Like the brandy after a meal or something,' I say and wonder if a little levity will coax a response.
'So what then? He's out?' Carla seems reluctant to let him off, even if she can see that he's more likely to be useful attacking them.
'They'll go for me first Carla. Roth is built for a fight anyway,' I say. There's a flicker of a frown on his face, so I look him in the eye. 'Come on, what's the first thing you did to me? Knocked me down and started beating me up. In fact, you pretty much advertised us to them. They were looking for two people like that for their little experiment and you set it up. So excuse me Roth but you can go fuck yourself.'
He shrugs. 'Didn't say anything. And maybe take it easy with the go-fuck-yourself stuff. You do want me to come and save you right?'
'Or maybe you want to offer an idea, or man up and put yourself in harm's way? Maybe stop having a tantrum and demanding attention for a second and do something vaguely constructive you fucking meathead.'
Roth was willing to let this whole situation roll along but I've lost my temper and though I'm happy that what I've said is on the money, Roth isn't the kind of man that let's that kind of thing pass.
He stands and starts across the floor to me. I stand too, square my shoulders. It's clear he is more powerfully built, more experienced in this but I've hit a wall. After what he's done to land me here, what he did to Issy. After the profile and attention he has courted with the authorities, killing innocent people in broad daylight. It's one thing to make a deal with someone you'd rather see dead, but I don't have to like it. And I don't have to pretend I do.
'Meathead is it? Tantrum?' he says as he steps closer. 'You want to see me get upset Laing? Keep talking big man.'
'You both get one more go and then I'll start having a tantrum. See how that works for you. Big man.' Carla had appeared next to us swift and silent and the way she is eyeballing Roth, she seems about ready to repeat what happened outside the hospital. Roth's expression falters. He may be confident enough in taking me on, but Carla is an unknown quantity.
'Go and sit the fuck down the pair of you. Let's figure this plan out in the dwindling time we have left,' she says and walks away from us as we back away from each other and sit back down.
I sigh. 'Well you need to do the shots, neither of us know how, they'll be looking for me first and Roth is going to be much handier in the fight than anything else,' I say. 'So it's me. Hit me with it.'
'When?' says Roth. 'Will it wear off if we do it too soon?'
'No idea when they'll come. If we wait til they arrive, we won't have a chance to set the bait anyway. Do it now.'
Carla looks at Roth as I say this and she is weighing up the wisdom of effectively nullifying the one person in the room she feels is an ally. Trusting Roth comes easily to neither of us but the choice is not a luxury we have.
She drops her head and then raises it, nodding.
Behind her, away in the deep gloom of the auditorium, one of the double doors at the top of the aisle swings open and crashes back against the wall. The other one, at the top of the far aisle, bursts off its hinges, splintering the wooden frame and clatters and rolls end over end across seat-backs and comes to rest across two rows of seats.
Carla leaps up and spins to look and by the time I have focused on the dark thin shape stepping through into to back of the hall she has vanished from my sightline.
'Well this is quite a spot you've chosen Mr Roth,' says Frost as he makes his way down the aisle. Roth is up on his feet but his expression is a mass of confusion - delight and fear and hope and anger and desperation.
Stanford bounds in through the doorway he has smashed and vaults up onto the seat backs, holding his arms wide.
'Boys.
It’s showtime!'
Roth looks between the two of them, then at me. He seems unable to choose which emotion to focus on; his fear, his anger, the need for answers from these two whom he has been for so long seeking, and so hard. And in that glance to me he seems to be asking what we do now since our plan has not been put in action.
Carla has vanished and Roth is paralysed and it dawns on me that it will fall to me to take some sort of lead here, though Roth is stronger and better equipped for the fight and Carla better than us both together.
'I take it you have informed our poor limited little bulldog here exactly what the deal is?' says Frost and smiles at me. It may well have been designed to intimidate but I can feel the fear giving way to outright fury and a degree of conviction.
Stanford bounds across the seats with a deftness and grace that belies the brute lethality he possess and is bent on unleashing. 'Mr Laing, I really am going to enjoy this.'
Frost nods and levels a pointing finger at me. 'You first.'
I look across at Roth, whose feet remain rooted and face fixed and I give him a told-you shrug.
Frost and Stanford sweep in close, wraith-like and fast. There is nowhere for me to go and as Roth continues to stare I am thinking as fast as I can how it is that I am left alone and what possible chance there is left of me getting out of this one.
Carla gives me the answer. 'Wrong,’ she says as she steps out into the open behind them. ’I was first.'
The two of them look stunned and it takes some time before either can speak or recover their composure. For now they just stare.
'Surprised to see me?' she says and smiles sweetly.
Frost looks at me for a moment as though this latest development is down to me and he is filing it under the growing list of times he has not given me my due credit.
'Oh my word,' says Stanford finally and then just stands with his mouth open.
For a second it occurs to me that this is more than an unexpected surprise for them, an unseen twist. But rather their confidence is rattled. These two who are so utterly convinced of their unmatched skill, could not conceive of being outflanked and eluded this way. Carla, they must long since have assumed, would have fallen victim to the lethal circumstances they had placed her in. That she might have simply escaped and survived has not been part of their equation and now they must recalculate.
Frost exhales slowly and moves in her direction, smooth and careful. 'So many questions my dear. So much to know.'
'You know, it seems to me,' begins Carla, a note of sarcasm and challenge in her tone, 'that you two aren't actually very good at this.'
Stanford cackles, delighted that there is some resistance being offered, that they will be made to work a little harder for their prize.
'You have no idea how bad we are Carla,' Frost replies. His voice seems light and easy but there is something darker lurking in there too, malevolent and spiteful.
'You lost me. You lost this big drink of water,' she points to me, 'several times in fact. And I don't know what the hell you were thinking with this guy,' she says pointing at Roth. 'Not exactly handled it well has he? Not a roaring success.'
'The more they run, the better the chase,' says Frost. 'The more they cry and shout and lose the plot, the more delicious the downfall.'
It happens fast then and I'm frozen for a moment, as paralysed as Roth has been since they both came bursting in. Stanford flashes across the space and is on Carla who grabs at him and wrestles with his wiry frame but then Frost joins in and his smooth, languid movement seems at odds with the sheer pace he displays in covering the distance.
Her legs sag beneath the weight and a hand forces her head back and up. Her neck is exposed, pale and strained, the veins splayed out beneath the skin like a dark web. I see Frost's arm move around her back to hold her up as she drops away from them unable to withstand this onslaught and Stanford pins her right arm to her side and his mouth is open, lips tracing across her cheek.
The long dark jacket that Frost wears is swept back and open and his right arm raises into the air, a long, thin shimmering steel blade clutched in his fist. It is a vicious looking blade, an otherwise utilitarian implement designed for filleting meat or fish, but that makes it the more chilling for its simple, indifferent functionality.
Roth's eyes widen at the sight and he seems finally ready to make his move and I am ready to let him but as I turn back to Carla, swamped and vanishing beneath the crowding shapes upon her, I see a small movement in her hanging left hand.
Her fingers part and a small object drops to the floor. It is the histamine vial and it is empty.
The knife flashes into her throat and the blood, dark and thick, spews up into the air before two gasping mouths close over the wound and finally they collapse to the floor, Carla's arms clutching at them both and pulling them with her as she surrenders the fight.
I grip Roth's shoulder as he moves forward. His muscles tense and bristle under my hand. He is primed and it seems to me that there is a tectonic shift beneath the surface of all that pent up fury. Does he have answers enough now? Does he instead seek an outlet for his vengeance?
I wait and watch for agonising seconds. It is impossible to know how long to let them drink. How long will be enough? Or too long for Carla? I cannot know but do not need to wait because Roth cannot any longer. He bolts forward and springs over them with a roar and is up the sloping aisle and through the open doors in a flash.
Frost snaps his head up as Roth flees. The eyes are wild and the face streaked with red-black blood and I register the sight of Carla there beneath them, motionless in the press of bodies.
Frost rolls away and tries to scramble to his feet to give chase and I dash forward and swing a crashing right foot into his chin, snapping his head back, cracking it into the floor.
I don't let him gather himself and stomp feet into his chest and then drop my knees down heavily onto him and land fists into his face, like we're back in that field again. Stanford is still writhing with Carla on the floor and the moment that I turn to see the two of them Frost bucks his body beneath me, shifting my weight and then crashes a fist into my chest. I am lifted into the air and sent into a sprawling, sliding roll toward the from row of seats fully ten yards from Frost. He is upright and racing through the doors before I am able to draw breath.
Dazed and winded I draw myself up from the floor and see that Stanford remains entirely focused on Carla and his mouth is clamped limpet-like to her throat.
The long wicked blade lies on the carpet in the space between us and I see my chance.
Snatching up the knife I cover the gap in two strides and grab a fist full of his hair, wrenching his head back and with all the force I can muster I punch the knife deep into Stanford's throat.
There is a raw guttural scream of agony and terror and rage unconfined as Stanford breaks from the trance and sees that he has made a terrible, terminal error. I pull and dig the knife through the soft flesh and tough muscle, dragging it back and forth and deeper.
He thrashes and flails at me but as the blows land I can feel immediately that they lack anything like the strength that I know he possesses. Have the histamines worked? Has there been time enough for them to work into his bloodstream, or even Carla's for that matter? There is no time to analyse, only to act.
The rising scream from Stanford is suddenly silenced as I pull the knife out and start again from the front, sawing fast through skin to tissue and gristle all the way to the spine and I stop only once Stanford's head is wrenched and torn away from its body and his corpse drops away heavily.
There is a jarring moment where this finally registers through the frenzy of the moment and I drop the head in shock and revulsion, almost surprised to see it there in my hand.
Suddenly, one of them is finished and though I scarcely thought that such a thing might actually be possible, there is no feeling of triumph or vengeance satisfied, only horror and revulsion at the act.
&
nbsp; Carla lies still and unmoving and her skin looks pale as porcelain, has a delicate brittleness to it like thin ice. The black-red blood splashed and streaked across her neck stands out all the more.
I heave the heavy corpse of Stanford to one side and take her lolling face in my hand. The ice does not break but is soft and delicate and as I turn her face to mine, the eyes are empty.
For all her ingenuity, her elusive invisibility and the solution she has found to the question of killing, Carla has come to this.
Taken finally by her foul makers, succumbed at last and sacrificed in favour of another two she barely knew in me and Roth and neither of us worthy. I slip her eyelids closed and close my own.
Chapter 51
Through the foyer to the door Roth is flying. The surging, racing power in his veins and the pounding in his chest are deafening and exquisite.
The doors to the entrance hall are settling into place behind him and he pushes through the front door bouncing it back off the wall. Frost is not in view behind him but he can hear and sense that he is being pursued, and as he crashes out into the night he knows that Frost is utterly determined to take him down, a certainty he feels through each fibre of himself.
As he bursts out into the street, he pauses to survey the scene. The road is bright and busy though it is late. Shops line either side and there are open shop-fronts with heaving stands of vegetables and fruits of every kind and colour. The stark-lit neon floods the street with brightness and he sees people weaving between those grocery stands and chest freezers, meat counters and fast food shops.
Dark skinned women sit on leather seats and offer their nails for filing and painting, or recline with hair in foil strips and the hands of stylists. Shuffling drunks make their way off of and onto the loaded buses that file past and pedestrians criss-cross the busy road. Sounds of chatter and stereos playing, bass and percussion, the scents of food and hair-styling chemicals assail Roth's senses as he looks for an escape route and takes off.
Look back he catches sight of Frost who is fifty, sixty yards away and sees the blood streaked across his scowling face as sets off in pursuit of him.