‘Mr Cook,’ a gravelly voice from behind him.
Cook turned. The man was standing. Not the optimal situation. So Cook stood. It was Mr Jones – tailored suit and immaculate tie.
‘You’re becoming a nuisance,’ Mr Jones said. ‘I’m going to have to ask you to leave.’
Cook wasn’t worried about Mr Jones. He was an elderly man, his days of being a physical threat long behind him.
Mr Jones stepped aside, and another man stepped out of the shadows. The giant from the hotel.
Cook looked up at the giant. It was a novel experience. Cook was a tall man, not often he found himself looking up. He didn’t like it.
This was the point where an adversary would provide a clue as to his intentions. A man who knew what he was about, who knew how to use violence and the effect it produced on others, would proceed straight to action. A head-butt, perhaps, or a blow to the stomach, doubling over the adversary to be followed up with a knee to the face. A less serious man, one who played to the theatre of the role but didn’t follow through, would talk. Threatening words would be exchanged, like two dogs barking at each other, both safe in the knowledge their owners wouldn’t let them fight.
The last time they’d met, the giant had seemed open to talking, which Cook saw as promising. Nevertheless, while hoping for the best, he prepared for the worst. He set his legs, one slightly forward, thigh muscle tensed, so he could spring back if it was a head-butt. He kept his eyes on the giant’s arms, waiting for a swing – a fist, or a knife.
The blow came from the giant’s right hand, a fast movement, a jab to Cook’s solar plexus. Cook tensed his stomach muscles. Ten years of swinging bales of hay and sacks of grain, if he’d tried to design a better regimen for this exact moment, he’d have struggled to improve on his life on the farm. But even so, the blow was as powerful as Cook had ever felt. Like a horse had kicked him. If he hadn’t been tensing his stomach muscles, it would have crippled him temporarily, doubled him over. Perhaps even left him with fatal injuries. Internal bleeding. The kind they said finished off Houdini. As it was, Cook reeled, stepping backwards, but didn’t go down.
The giant looked down, ready for Cook to double over, ready to put his knee into Cook’s face. So Cook reached up, grabbed the back of the giant’s head and forced it down, bringing his own knee up into the man’s face.
The giant staggered back, his nose disintegrated, hardly any cartilage there to start with. Blood sheeted down his shirt front. The immaculate suit ruined. Cook stepped forward with a quick rabbit-punch to the man’s throat, turning slightly with the punch, giving it the weight of his whole body. The giant gasped, fell back against the far wall of the corridor, clutching his throat.
‘Bloody hell,’ the girl said, stepping out from behind the staff door. ‘You’ve done him in.’
Cook turned back to her.
‘Tell me something else about Ruby,’ he said.
‘Whoever she was working for,’ she said, ‘I think she was trying to get out of it, but they wouldn’t let her. I heard her on the phone once.’
‘Anything else?’
‘No. Honest.’
Cook believed her. There were plenty of reasons for her to lie to him, but he believed her nonetheless. A weakness, perhaps.
‘You should stay for a dance,’ she said, winking at him.
‘Another time,’ Cook said, turning back to check on his assailant, who’d gone quiet.
But there was nobody there.
From the corner of his eye, Cook saw the weapon. A crowbar, perhaps. Large, black, incoming.
*
Cook could see the musicians playing, but the angle was wrong. They were far away, and yet looming over him. The music sounded like it was coming at him from underwater. A blessing, at least. He was looking up at the dancer. She was shouting. She was angry. But he couldn’t hear her. Then someone must have turned the lights off because everything went dark.
81
Ruby hadn’t thought she would sleep – every time she turned her head on the thin pillow she felt a wave of pain that made her want to scream. But eventually sleep had come. Until the crows had started their cawing. Even then, Ruby had fallen back to sleep. But then another sound cut through her dreams. A sliding sound, followed by a thump. It had taken the longest time to work it out – someone was digging a hole.
Every time the spade slid into the earth, Ruby pictured it. From the sound of it, the ground was full of stones, scraping against the steel blade, frustrating the digger.
Ruby opened her eyes and squinted at the door. A tiny gap around the metal frame showed her it was daylight outside. Her stomach growled.
A clang of steel on rock resulted in a scream of anger from outside. A woman’s scream.
‘Brought you a cuppa,’ he said. Ruby could just make out the words, through the corrugated iron walls. The digging stopped. Ruby pictured the two of them, standing in the garden, sipping tea, eyeing the grave-in-progress.
