Ugley Business (10 page)

“Did you see which direction they took?” Luke asked, and I shrugged.

“Those woods the other side of the next field. Could be anywhere now.”

He nodded and sat up, but then his eyes unfocused and he flopped back down again. “Maybe I’ll just stay here.”

I touched his temple where the blood was thick. “Probably you should get that x-rayed. Are you hurt anywhere else?”

Luke’s eyes darkened, and I knew what he was thinking. “Try anything and you’ll be a lot more hurt,” I warned, and he made a face.

“When I think of things I did for you when you were hurt…”

This was true. A couple of months ago I was in a building site that fell down on me, and when I came to, Luke was there, kissing me and pulling off my clothes. And then when I got back from the hospital after the splintered wood incident, he made a housecall and we barely left the bed for the next day and a half.

“And look how that all turned out,” I said, getting the shoulder strap of his Kevlar undone and tearing through the bloody sleeve of his T-shirt. “You were hit,” I said, staring at the bullet wound.

“You think? I hate these fucking things.” He pulled at the Kevlar. “No one ever shoots at your body when you’re wearing one. They go for the head or the arms or the legs or anything.”

I was only half listening. The bullet had gone in cleanly, slipping through the muscle of his bicep, and from the hole at the side of his arm I’d guess it had come back out again.

I found it in the hard earth between barley stalks and held it up. “Souvenir.”

Luke didn’t look so impressed. Figuring Janulevic was out of the picture for now, I helped him to his feet and back to Ted, putting him in the passenger seat which still had bits of Petr’s blood on it, and pulled a small first-aid kit out of the cubby box.

And then I heard another shot and ducked into the cab, reaching for my gun again. Luke and I stared around, but all we could see was open field on one side and trees on the other.

And then someone banged on the back door and yanked it open, and I nearly shot at him before I realised it was Harvey, and he was breathless and pointing off to the left. From the trees on the other side of the field, a car burst out and bounced away over the mud.

I dropped my gun, started Ted up and floored it.

Janulevic was in a Subaru Impreza, a goddamn rally car. It was bouncing and rolling, and had the earth been wetter he’d probably have got stuck. But yesterday’s rain had steamed away instantly, and the Scoobie roared off in a cloud of dust. Ted couldn’t keep up.

“Can’t you go any faster?” Harvey said anxiously, and Luke and I both snapped, “No.”

“How the hell has he got himself one of those?” Luke muttered, feeling the wound on his head where he’d hit one of those Ice Age rocks on the way down.

“And why?” I added. “Not what you might call a stealth car.”

“Neither’s yours.”

“He has other uses,” I said, and demonstrated by rolling down a steep bank onto a little back lane and swerving up the hill after the Impreza. But after a couple of near misses rattling round sharp corners, it became pretty obvious that we were way behind. We came to a junction, and I nearly cried.

“Tyre marks,” Luke pointed with his good arm, and we set off, following a trail of skid marks, battered hedges and even a smattering of headlamp glass. But I knew we’d never catch up. I hadn’t seen clearly what spec the Scoobie was, but even the basic model could go a good 20 MPH faster than Ted, and had so much horsepower it really should be in the Grand National.

I skidded round a corner that would have made a hairpin look straight, and the last thing I saw was the Subaru skewed across the road, before Luke started yelling. I slammed on the breaks and we spun up and over, crashing and bleeding, and then everything went black.

Ted was on his side and I lay there looking at his undercarriage, mud-spattered and complex, like a dead beetle. My head was bleeding but I didn’t think anything was broken—which was more than I could say for Harvey, who had dispensed with a seat belt and had been chucked around like a Lotto ball in the big back of the car.

I pulled myself to my feet. I’d been the first to wake up, tangled in my seat belt, sure we were all dead, but I’d found a pulse on Luke’s wrist and Harvey’s neck, and managed to scramble out through the shattered windscreen before I threw up.

The Subaru was totalled, thrashed right into the bank, but I couldn’t see anyone inside it. Janulevic had left it there as a trap. All I could say was that it was a damn good job it had been us who came across it first, not a mad kid in his mum’s Fiesta.

Although it’d serve him right. And maybe it would have been slightly better if a tractor had found the car first.

Head reeling, I wobbled back to Ted, reached in through the hole where the windscreen used to be, and touched Luke’s bloody shoulder. The Kevlar had once again stopped any serious damage, and he woke up after a few light slaps.

“What the hell happened?”

I unfastened his seat belt. “Janulevic is gone. But he left his car for us to find.”

Luke gazed unsteadily out at the wrecked Scoobie. “It’s upside down.”

“No. We’re on our side. Can you move?”

He rolled his shoulders and moved his legs, and I hauled him out through the windscreen.

“Jesus.” He looked Ted over. “This is why I told you not to get emotionally attached to your car.”

“He’ll be fine.” I patted a balding tyre. “He’s resilient.”

“Sophie, nothing’s that resilient.”

“Ted is,” I said stubbornly, and limped around to the back of the car to open it up and get to Harvey. He wouldn’t wake up, but I pulled off one of his trainers and tickled his foot, and his body jerked.

“Back not broken,” I said to Luke, who was leaning outside, looking pale. “Help me get him out and we’ll see if we can get Ted back on his feet.”

Luke looked at me like I was mad, but he helped me drag Harvey out of the car and tie my very useful rope to the roof rack, and then he helped—not much, because he was sweating blood, but he tried—to pull Ted back onto his wheels.

Ted rocked and swayed, then righted himself with a thud and sat there, looking a little more battered and a little less capable than before. I got in and turned the key, and he started up.

I looked out at Luke triumphantly.

“Fuck me,” he muttered.

“Really not a good time,” I replied. “Help me get Harvey back in.”

It wasn’t the first time Ted had driven the bloodwagon route, and I had a sort of suspicion it wouldn’t be the last. His steering was a bit soggy and he was wheezing more than usual, but he’d taken a hell of a lot more body damage than Harvey and he was moving a damn sight more.

I emerged from the hospital with sixteen stitches in my calf and two butterfly clips on my forehead, rattling a bottle of painkillers. Luke insisted on coming home with me and threatened the nurse with his gun if she made him stay overnight, and we left Harvey with a pretty young Asian doctor who assured us that he would be absolutely fine.

We came out into the sunlight, surrounded by curious glances, and stood and stared a bit at Ted, who had massive crumples and scratches all down the passenger side.

“Gives him character,” I said, and had to wrench the bent door open for Luke.

I took him home to his place and watched him key in the codes to open his front door, then disable the alarm inside. His arm was in a sling, shoulder heavily bandaged, he had stitches on his forehead and a splint immobilising his knee. He looked exhausted, and as always when tired and in a bad mood, irresistible. I pulled off his shirt and the jeans that had been cut open, watched him swallow some painkillers and fall asleep.

I sat on the edge of the bed, looking at him and thinking how unfair it was that even in such a state he just took on the air of a wounded masterpiece, elegantly wrecked, like a film star on heroin. And finally, shock and exhaustion overwhelming me, I put my head on his warm, hard chest and fell asleep.

It was my phone that woke me, hammering out a happy tune from
Moulin Rouge!
, swelling my brain to exploding point. I forced my eyes open and heaved my bag up onto the bed.

“Hello?” I tried, but it came out as “Mmellow?”

“Sophie? Am I keeping you up?”

It was my mother.

“No, no, I’m fine. I was just, erm, eating.”

“So you’ll not want to come to tea tonight?”

“Erm.” I thought about it, the warm comfort of the kitchen, the cosy bickering, the soft glare of the TV, and sighed. I couldn’t face the questions about me and Ted. “No. I’m on my way out.” I held my wrist above my head and peered through the darkness at my watch. Three-fifteen. “It’s early.”

“It’s half past eight.”

I frowned at the darkness. I hadn’t thought three-fifteen was quite right. “My watch stopped. I’m going out with Angel, Mum. Sorry.”

“Anywhere nice?”

“Erm. Just drinks in town. People from work.”

“Is she better, then?”

What was she on about? “Uh, yeah.” That’s right, I’d said she was ill, that’s why we weren’t working… “Much better. Needs to get out.”

“Well, tell her to take it easy. Lots of fluids. No alcohol. Will you be coming for tea tomorrow?” my mother added hopefully.

“I, er, I don’t know. I’ll text you. Text Chalker,” I added, remembering that my mother thought her phone was broken when it displayed the message “text”. “Bye, Mum.” I ended the call and dropped the phone on the floor where it thudded and lay still.

“Drinks?” Luke asked, and I jolted. I’d forgotten he was there. In fact, I’d forgotten I was there. The room was dark and it hadn’t occurred to me that I might be anywhere but in my own bed.

“Had to tell her something,” I mumbled, and sat up, every muscle in my body aching. “Why do I always seem to be beaten up?”

“You get in the way of collapsing buildings and abandoned rally cars.”

“Hey,
it
got in
my
way.”

“Sure.” Luke had an arm over his face, but then he lifted it, and I winced at the sight of him.

“That bad?”

“I’ve seen worse.”

“On who?”

“Rocky.”

He closed his eyes. “I haven’t felt this bad since my abseiling rope broke when I was training.”

“Ah, youthful memories.” I pushed myself to my feet and shoved my hair out of my eyes. I’d managed to kick off the DMs and lose the Kevlar, but I was still mostly dressed, unlike Luke who was down to snug-fitting boxers.

I swung away from the bed before I started getting inappropriate. Luke was patterned with bruises and cuts—a lot of the windscreen glass had apparently gone his way, but I’d escaped the worst of it—he had a bullet wound and a sprained knee and a dozen stitches in the cut on his forehead. Besides which he was an emotional disaster. Getting naked with him would not be a good idea.

I stumbled into the kitchen, needing coffee. Luke’s flat is a big loft with one bedroom sectioned off, and the rest open to the old oak rafters. His kitchen is modern, his media equipment expensive, and his furniture classic lived-in leather and oak. He’s a security freak and has laser sensors on his windows, double locks on his door and double keypads too.

I made a two-spoon cup of coffee for me, another for Luke, and carried them back in. He was sitting up, the waffle-weave duvet pulled to his waist, and he looked grateful for the coffee.

“So is this how you felt when the building fell down?”

I shrugged. “Probably. Like someone’s taken a giant meat hammer to you and you’ve been tenderised?”

He nodded painfully.

“Yep. That’s what it felt like. At least you weren’t concussed.”

“And at least I didn’t ruin an expensive dress.”

Ahem. The dress was borrowed and I still haven’t told the owner what happened to it. Mainly because she’s my friend Ella’s boss, and she doesn’t even know I took it.

I sipped at my coffee and looked Luke over. God, even under those bruises he had a fabulous body. Was it stupid of me to give that up just because of a romantic dream about a “proper’ relationship”? Which could never live up to my expectations anyway. He’d hate my family, my dad wouldn’t trust him, Chalker would think he was a loser (but then Chalker thinks everyone’s a loser), my mum would probably terrify him. If I went and fell for him, he’d break my heart. If I slept with him again, I’d fall for him.

Luke was looking at me like he was thinking similar things. Maybe not relationshippy, future things, but like this would be a good chance to jump me.

“No,” I said.

“No what?”

“No sex. You’re—”

“I had sex with you when you were hurt.”

I stared at him. He winced.

“Yeah, I heard that too. Sorry.”

“So you should be.” I looked at my watch again before remembering that it had stopped. “I should go. Tammy’ll be starving.”

Luke looked reluctant. “Don’t,” he said.

“She’ll start eating the furniture.”

“Come back. Please.”

I hesitated. Oh, hell, who was I fooling?

“We can watch
Buffy
,” Luke offered.

“Do you have ice cream?”

“Well, no, but you could take a fiver from my wallet and get some on the way…”

I rolled my eyes.

“I have Pringles,” Luke coaxed.

Sold.

I went home and fed Tammy, showered and changed out of my sweaty, dusty, bloody Lara outfit into joggers and a T-shirt, all clean and soft and smelling like fabric conditioner, checked my cavernous bag for overnight things—I started carrying these after about a week on the job, I hardly ever sleep at my own place—chucked my sleeping bag on Ted’s torn and bloody passenger seat, and clunked back to Luke’s.

He was sitting on the sofa when I came back in, showered and clean and wearing a similar outfit to mine.

“How’d you manage a shower?” I asked, impressed, thinking of all his stitches and dressings.

He grinned and pointed to the kitchen. “Clingfilm. Remember? You taught me that.”

Oh, yes. Clever me.

I sat down on the big leather chesterfield and unzipped my sleeping bag to make a blanket. Luke piled up cushions and poured the Pringles onto a plate, and I opened up the ice cream I’d got on the way. Do we know how to have a night in, or what?

“What series are we looking at?” Luke asked, gesturing to the DVD boxed sets on the table. It was quite sweet, actually, he was an even bigger
Buffy
freak than me. And I have the soundtrack and everything.

“I’m thinking early stuff,” I said. “Pre-death.”

“Which death?”

“Well, the proper one, obviously. The first time was only for, like, a minute or two.”

“Series three?”

“Sounds good to me.”

It wasn’t long before I found myself curled against him under the sleeping bag, and then I was snuggled under his good arm, and then my head was on his shoulder, and then Buffy was kissing Angel and I was falling asleep, curled up with Luke, feeling safe.

My phone woke me again, but this time it was my Nokia, and I didn’t recognise the number.

“Hello?”

“Sophie?” A deep, dark, familiar voice. “Docherty. Where are you?”

“Erm. Home.” I blinked at Luke, who was playing sleepily with my hair. “What—how did you get this number?”

“Luke. I need you to come over to Angel’s. We have a problem.”

“What sort of problem?”

“You’ll see. Is Luke with you?”

“Erm, no,” I said guiltily. “But I can call him…?”

There was a very slight pause, and I could hear a smile in Docherty’s voice when he replied, “Sure. See you in ten.”

Ten was optimistic. It’d take us that long to get there, and that was without getting dressed and making ourselves look presentable.

“Docherty.” I yawned. “He says they have a problem. Wants us to go straight over.”

“What’s the time?”

I looked at my watch. “Three fifteen.” No. It was light. I looked at my phone. “Nearly ten. In the morning.”

Luke looked surprised. “How many episodes did we watch?”

“Half a dozen. Ish.” I stretched, feeling stiff, and stood up. “Coffee.”

We inhaled a couple of pints each and left the house. Luke’s flat is above a roofer’s yard and they all stopped to watch him limping down the steps without his crutches, which he said were stupid and he wasn’t going to use them. Men.

A bare twenty minutes after Docherty called me, we were outside Angel’s church, being scanned by the gargoyle.

“Mary, mother of God,” Docherty opened the door, “what happened to you?”

“Had a little run in with Janulevic,” I said.

“Almost had a run
into
Janulevic,” Luke qualified. “Sophie killed his car.”

“But not him?”

“Nowhere to be seen,” I said. “Well, maybe he was, but we were all unconscious at the time.”

“We all?” Angel appeared behind Docherty, looking pale and fragile. She was of the same mould as Luke: somehow adversity seems to make them even more beautiful. If I was crying or hurt or ill, I just looked white and stupid. “Who else was with you?”

“Harvey.”

“Harvey from yesterday?” Angel looked like she might cry. “Is he all right?”

“I think so. Actually if you’ll give me a minute, I’ll go and call the hospital—”

“Hospital?”

Docherty gave me a warning look. “I think you should come and look at these first,” he said, beckoning me over to the coffee table where a manilla envelope was lying with some glossy photos peeping out.

Uh-oh.

I leafed through them. They were pictures from Sunday night—the camera flash I thought I’d seen. Pictures of me and Angel watching
Pretty Woman
, pictures of us making enchiladas in the kitchen, all covered in tomatoes and vege-mince, pictures of us sitting in our pyjamas, talking. Pictures of us sleeping.

“Jesus,” I said, and glanced up at Luke, who was looking over my shoulder. “I told you I saw someone.”

“And he saw you, too.” Luke peered at the top shot, of me curled up in my sleeping bag. “That’s a close zoom from the bedroom window. These guys aren’t messing around.”