No, no, no, this was not meant to happen.
‘Ben. Ben!’ I shouted raggedly. He was losing consciousness. Even before I turned my head, I knew who the figure was. He had been watching, waiting somewhere for me to arrive first.
Jago stood over us, the knife still in his grip, most of it hidden up his sleeve. He looked down at me, his eyes glinting with a lazy, self-satisfied sparkle.
‘Let’s go inside,’ was all he said.
I was about to call for help – there were still people walking past – but then Jago’s hand clamped around the collar of my coat and yanked me back towards his chest.
‘Say anything and I’ll kill you now,’ he whispered gently in my ear.
‘Please, please, just call an ambulance for him,’ I begged, my voice still shaking. Jago’s grip tightened, one hand clamped around the nape of my neck, the other pressing the knife’s point against my spine. He forcefully guided me forward towards Sabroso’s front door.
‘No,’ Jago said bluntly. ‘Hey, maybe he’ll get lucky, and someone will spot him. Itoldyou to come alone.’
Please, I begged any god who was listening,let someone, a jogger, a driver, a neighbour, anyone, find him and get him to a hospital before he bled out on a street without anyone even noticing. I couldn’t let him die, not like this.
‘Apart from your pal, are you alone?’ he asked. I could sense his gaze scanning around the surroundings of Sabroso meticulously.
‘Yes,’ I muttered as a few drops of rain began to patter down outside. ‘I didn’t know he was following me.’
‘And do the police know where you are?’
‘No.’
‘Good. Because if I see even a single flash of blue lights, well, wouldn’t you know it? Ruth Watkins is the TellTale Killer,’ he said in a ghoulish newsreader-like tone as we hung about in the smallwaiting area while I kept my eyes fixed on Ben outside. ‘She was caught red-handed having just murdered a dedicated police detective before killing herself in one final lethal crescendo.’
‘You took a detective?’ I asked, trying to sound surprised by the information.
‘Eh, she’s not a very good one. She never managed to track me.’
Present tense, that was good. I hoped that meant Detective Carlota was still alive.
We were met by the waiter’s courteous smile, obviously completely oblivious to what was going on. He told us they wouldn’t be serving food and led us to a quiet table tucked away at the back, no doubt internally deeming us a rather curious pair. What must we have looked like? A sobbing, dishevelled woman who looked like she hadn’t slept in weeks, and a man in a £1,000 Armani jacket wearing sunglasses in January.
‘Oh,’ I said, my voice regaining some of its strength again as I reached out to gently touch the waiter on the arm while he led us to our table. ‘There’s a chap outside who looks like he might be in trouble, just on one of the chairs. Would you mind going to check on him?’
The waiter turned and glanced at Ben outside, still appearing like he was slovenly slumped on the chair of the outdoor seating. I kept internally praying to anyone who was listening that the knife had missed all of the vital organs.
‘Oh, it’s probably just one of the local…’ The waiter was about to say ‘crackheads’, but caught himself. I think he figured right that I wouldn’t have enjoyed the use of that term. ‘One of that lot, you know,’ he mumbled dismissively as he laid the menus on the table.
‘Exactly,’ Jago murmured with a dry laugh. ‘It’s fine, Ruth. Come on, leave it.’
‘Oh, Jago, please,’ I said with a theatrical groan. I was trying to play the same game he was. I turned back to the waiter. ‘Could you check on him, please. I’m quite concerned?’
‘Of course,’ the waiter replied reluctantly after a small beat. I could tell he really wanted that tip. I watched as he made his wayto the outside seating to look at Ben, he gently tried to awaken him and then immediately called over a colleague who instantly had the phone placed to her ear.
Thank God.
Jago scowled at that as we both watched the scene unfold, furious that I had already undermined his authority.I reminded myself that despite Ben having just been stabbed, my own best chance at survival was to keep Jago talking.
‘I’ve thought of two headlines already, you know: “My Ten Minutes with a Monster” or “Eye-to-Eye with Evil”. I haven’t decided yet,’ Jago said, pitching each headline as if its letters were being inscribed into thin air.
‘You really think anyone would be stupid enough to believe that story?’ I asked, my voice quiet but trying to sound assured. I clenched the fabric of Greta’s old coat as tightly as I could in my pocket, really wishing I had brought a knife of my own.
‘Oh, I think you’re forgetting how good a writer I am,’ he said, smirking and chuckling to himself as he traced a crack that stretched across the width of the table with his finger. ‘The article’s already written, it’s sitting on my hard drive now, ready to go. I finished it while I was waiting for you. And you forget the most important thing, Ruth: how stupid people are. I can put out an article in thirty minutes, watch it go viral, and pouf, public opinion bends and twists exactly how I want it.Owning the narrative, that’s what they call it.’
The waiter returned then and Jago, wearing a sly grin fixed upon his face, requested, ‘A pot of tea for the table. No coffee, or I’ll never sleep tonight, and not in a good way.’ He flashed a smile, slick and greased lavishly with charm, the kind that left your skin feeling faintly sticky. The waiter chuckled obligingly.
