FIFTY-SEVEN

‘I don’t understand why she ain’t dead. It offed Bennet pretty quick. And she’s trashed the place. Why’s she so special? She was wanted in here. That’s what they wanted. I don’t get it. Why does she get to come out?’ It was Fergal’s voice that brought her round; it sounded like he was talking to himself.

Stephanie opened her eyes and blinked in a thin, grey light that stung her mind as though she stared directly into the sun. Through a squint she could see smashed crockery, kitchen utensils and shards of broken glass scattered across the kitchen lino.

Perhaps she should have been relieved to see her captors but she felt nothing.

Fergal put his long hands under her arms and pulled her into a sitting position. Her clothes were filthy; they smelled of dust, sweat and urine.

Fergal’s long fingers dabbed inside the pocket of her hooded top and patted down her jeans with the swiftness of an expert thief. With one foot he slid the kitchen knife away, then dragged her backwards and across the threshold.

In the dim ground floor hallway, the first thing her vision settled upon was Knacker’s face; it was blanched with fear and twitchy with anxiety. He looked at her like she was a traffic accident.

Fergal carefully pulled the door shut and locked the ground floor rooms. His own expression had remained rigid with concentration, and he hadn’t adjusted his focus from the door that led from the kitchen to the black room before he sealed the place. Once the rooms were secure, he rested his forehead and the palms of his hands against the door, his eyes closed. From the rise and fall of his back, Stephanie saw how hard he was breathing.

While she blinked away her grogginess, wincing at the dull band of pain that thumped like a drum behind her eyes, Fergal turned his head from the door and looked down at Stephanie. And she saw an expression she had never seen on his face before: suspicion tinged with caution, even incomprehension. ‘It’s all gone very quiet in there. Get her upstairs while I fink this froo.’

Knacker hesitated. He didn’t want to touch her. When he gingerly reached for her she slapped his hand away. He flinched, stepped back.

Fergal tensed; in the closeness of the hall he smelled dreadful, even worse than she did.

Knacker fumbled the little glass bottle out of the pocket of his ski jacket. ‘Yeah?’ Showed it to her. ‘Yeah?’

Stephanie got to her feet and began walking down the corridor. Both men stared at her without blinking. Knacker shuffled away from her approach.

She turned and climbed the stairs.

Knacker followed warily.

Through the banisters, Fergal watched her every step upwards towards the first floor. ‘I’ll be right behind that twat so don’t even fink about nuffin’.’