The ravening, p.17
The Ravening, page 17
Holly was by the door, which she’d opened an inch or so, right hand in one of the cargo pants’ pockets. Her left was fumbling at another, longer pouch on the other leg, unfastening the flap that secured it. “Come on, babe. No time.”
She pulled the door open. Jenna followed her out into the corridor outside. “Just walk, Jenn,” Holly said. “That’s all you’ve got to do.”
Jenna tried, but was shocked to realise how unsteady she still was. Holly circled around behind her back and linked her left arm through Jenna’s to support her, right hand still shoved in her pocket. Jenna squirmed, but Holly’s grip tightened. “Don’t be stupid, babe.”
Jenna gritted her teeth. But Holly was right. “Fine,” she said. If nothing else, she could play along for now. “What’s the plan?”
The corridor outside her room was short. There was another door in the wall in front of her. At each end of the corridor was another still, with a panel of glass reinforced with wire mesh. The one to Jenna’s left looked into another corridor; beyond the one to her right, she could make out the night sky. It was marked FIRE EXIT – EMERGENCY ONLY.
“This-a-way,” said Holly. “Think you’ll agree this counts as an emergency.”
Jenna grunted out a weak laugh.
“We use that, cut across the lawn. Then we’ll have to go through some trees. Think you can handle that?”
“I’ll manage.” This couldn’t be real. Couldn’t be. She was dreaming. Hallucinating from the drugs they’d given her. Or she’d gone mad in the cellar after all and none of this was happening; maybe the story Whitecliffe had told her earlier had all been a lunatic’s fever dream as well.
She’s tricking you. Don’t trust her.
Jenna knew she shouldn’t. Yet how she wanted to.
“My car’s parked up outside the fence,” said Holly. “Just get through that and we’re away–”
The door at the other end of the corridor crashed open. Jenna lurched round to face it, almost tumbling over. A louder clamour of alarms blared through the open doorway, and with them came Angela.
Her earlier friendly manner was gone; she came barrelling towards them at speed, head down. Something seemed to be wrong with her face, but Jenna couldn’t quite tell what. “You, you bitch,” Jenna heard her shout. She pointed as she ran. Not at Jenna, but at Holly.
Holly pushed Jenna aside and went to meet her. Her left hand dipped into the pouch and came out holding a long, narrow tube. She flicked her wrist with a loud snap that Jenna could hear even over the fire alarms, and it suddenly tripled in length.
Extendable baton.
Holly swung the baton at Angela’s head. Jenna winced; it was a wild, clumsy blow that had no hope of landing, and it didn’t. Angela dodged it easily. But Holly’s right hand came out of her other pocket clutching what looked like a small aerosol spray, and when she thrust it into Angela’s face and pushed the nozzle down, the other woman had no chance to avoid it.
That was what had been wrong with her face, Jenna realised. It had been red, the eyes streaming and bloodshot. As if sore, and stinging.
A hiss and a reddish mist, and then Angela reared back, clutching her face and screaming. Holly went after her, still spraying her, then scrambled backwards, stuffed the aerosol back into her pocket, and grabbed Jenna. “Come on!” she shouted.
Jenna let herself be steered towards the fire escape. “Was that fucking pepper spray?”
“No, it was Chanel No.5.” Holly kicked at the fire door. “Course it was bastard pepper spray.”
Jenna looked back. Angela was writhing on the floor, clutching her face and bellowing obscenities between her fingers. There was a crash and cold wind blew into the corridor; Jenna spun round in time to see the fire door swing open.
Holly turned back to Jenna with a shaky grin and nodded to the fire door. “Come on, princess, let’s fucking motorvate, eh? Or d’you want me to carry you down?”
“In your fucking dreams, darling,” said Jenna, and stepped through the door into the cool night air.
36.
A small concrete platform surrounded by railings overlooked the yard beside the main building; steel steps zigzagged down the whitewashed brickwork to the ground. Ahead of them was a gravel forecourt, then the lawn.
Jenna stumbled down the steel steps, clinging to the railing. Holly followed, still clutching the baton. Jenna ducked; the way the other woman was brandishing the weapon, she seemed far more likely to do herself or Jenna an injury with the thing than anyone else. Nonetheless, as they reached the bottom of the steps and crossed the forecourt onto the lawn, Holly’s face was pale and set and determined. “With me, now,” she said, then took off in a straight line towards the trees.
More fucking trees.
Jenna didn’t move. She’d no idea who this Holly was, what relation she bore to the woman Jenna had first met at Ron’s gym. Maybe that woman had never existed. Not a new thought, but it seemed far more credible now. She’d never suspected the existence of this ruthless, determined version of the woman she’d thought she’d known. That woman had to have been a trick. A long con. The only question was whether she was in business for herself or a professional, hired by another Whitecliffe, another James.
Either way, she could only be leading Jenna out of this particular frying pan and into a fresh fire.
Holly, realising Jenna hadn’t followed, turned back and stared. “Jenna, for fuck’s sake!”
Any minute now she’d drop the mask and get out the pepper-spray again, or come at her with the baton. Move, bitch, now. But while she looked annoyed, exasperated, desperate, there was something else there, very like the Holly Jenna remembered. Something like the hurt that had been in her eyes during the row about the pregnancy tests; something like the tenderness that’d been in them afterwards, as she’d cradled Jenna in her arms.
Maybe, just maybe–
No. It wasn’t real. Couldn’t be. Whitecliffe behind her, Holly in front of her: Jenna needed to strike out on her own, but which way was that? Holly was her only way out, but that was just leading her to another trap. Unless–
Holly looked up, past her. “Jenn!”
Jenna half-turned, but too late; someone piled into her from the side and drove her to the ground, pinning her arms behind her back. “Got her,” a voice shouted. A woman. Her breath smelt of Juicy Fruit gum.
“Nice one, Zoe.” Another voice. A man.
“Yeah,” Zoe grunted, wrestling Jenna to her feet. “Sort the other bitch out.”
Two more white-overalled figures moved past Jenna towards Holly – men, this time. She couldn’t see their faces.
“Get the fuck off her!” Holly bellowed, and Jenna saw her advancing, the baton raised. Moving apart, they bobbed and weaved, so Holly had to swing clumsy, flailing blows at first one and then the other of them. One man laughed.
“Get the fuck back,” shouted Holly.
The one who’d laughed moved closer. “Why? What’ll you do if I don’t?”
Holly swung the baton towards him, but he didn’t flinch. He was redheaded, with a scarred, thickly bearded face. Probably ex-army, in which case he’d faced people with weapons before – far more lethal weapons, and people far likelier to use them than Holly.
“Go on!” yelled Redbeard. Holly jumped, stumbling back. “Go on, then.” But still she didn’t; the baton shook in her hands, almost slipping from them.
Redbeard stepped forward and she swung at him, but it was, once again, a clumsy sweep and Redbeard dodged it easily, then slapped the baton, almost casually, out of her grip; his companion, a pig-faced man with greasy yellow hair, jumped aside and muttered “Fuck” as it flew past him. Redbeard’s hand swung back, cracking Holly across the side of her face. She went sprawling with a shocked, childlike cry.
Don’t you fucking do that to her, Jenna thought.
“That’s what you get,” said Redbeard. “Big boys’ games, big boys’ rules.”
Holly looked past him at Jenna, eyes streaming tears, and opened her mouth to speak; Jenna wasn’t sure what she’d have said and she never said it anyway, because Redbeard said, “Stupid cow,” and kicked Holly in the stomach.
Jenna was sufficiently dazed, so much having happened so fast, that she might otherwise have been dragged unresisting back to her room, but the sight of Holly kicked when she was down and helpless broke through the fog. Even more than the kick itself, there was the noise Holly made – a winded cry of pain and a hurt, sobbing wail. It wasn’t a sound a trained, cold-blooded professional would make; it was the cry of a woman who’d taken a step off the path into a world that was strange and dark and frightening.
Jenna recognised it, because that had once been her too.
It felt like waking up.
I know who I am.
And I know what to do.
Jenna lifted her right foot and raked the heel down Zoe’s shin before slamming it into the other woman’s instep. Zoe cried out in pain, her balance going, grip weakening. Jenna hit her in the ribs and stomach with her elbows – half a dozen blows, as fast as she could.
Redbeard and Greasy Hair, as if in slow motion, turned.
Zoe’s grip went slack. Jenna stepped forward, breaking free easily, but the other woman was still on her feet. Jenna pivoted and saw her opponent for the first time: a mixed-race woman with cropped, frizzy hair and a square, determined face. Zoe moved towards Jenna, but Jenna was already aiming a roundhouse kick at her jaw. Zoe’s head snapped sideways and she fell.
Ron would have found a hundred things wrong with Jenna’s technique, but, she thought – letting the kick’s momentum spin her back round before falling into a halfway decent fighting crouch – she was a little off-form. Besides, she didn’t need Zoe dead. Just down and out. Which she now was.
All of that felt as though it had taken several minutes, but Redbeard and Greasy Hair had only advanced a couple of steps, their hands outstretched. Bullet time, soldiers called it: everything happening both grasshopper-quick and treacle-slow as the adrenaline kicked in. Reflexes, responses and perception all sped up, slowing the world around you to a crawl.
Redbeard and Greasy Hair spread out as they ran in. Tackling one would mean turning her back on the other.
Two-to-one odds. Not good in your state, babe.
But an equaliser lay a few feet away in the grass: the baton. Jenna took a step towards the two men, then dived and rolled. Her hand clawed through the grass and found cold metal.
Greasy Hair barrelled towards her, swinging his foot back for a kick. Jenna tucked and rolled forward, cannoning into his other leg, and he flew over her with a cry of pain, thudding into the grass.
Jenna collided with something warm and soft and yielding, that gave a little squeak of pain and fright. When she opened her eyes, Holly stared back at her, red-eyed and crying. For that moment, at least, there was no doubt: this was the Holly she’d met at the gym, the one she’d gone camping in Wales with, who’d held her all night after the pregnancy test, whose memory had got Jenna through the nights in the cellar.
And Redbeard had kicked her when she was down.
Bastard.
Jenna scrambled to her feet, suddenly clumsy again now, as Redbeard studied her. For a moment he was quiet, still, then he held out a hand. “Give me that.”
She was holding the baton left-handed, by the wrong end. She grabbed the handle with her right, then wrapped both hands around it.
“Put it down,” said Redbeard. “Before you get hurt.”
“Won’t be me getting hurt,” said Jenna, hefting the baton.
“Yeah, right, love.” Redbeard laughed and extended a hand, fingers grasping. “Come on, before I get pissed off.”
Just myself and four nurses, Whitecliffe had said. Three of the nurses were here. Zoe was down on the ground; Greasy Hair was now getting up again. Angela made four; she was hopefully still rolling around in the corridor with her eyes on fire, but then again, she’d recovered once already. And then there was Whitecliffe herself. That made two more opponents who could show up at any moment; she and Holly had to be on the move before they did. “Last chance,” she said, and stepped forward. “Move.”
Redbeard stepped forward. “We both know you’re not gonna–”
They obviously didn’t tell him anything about me, Jenna thought, then swung the baton with all her strength. The blow connected with Redbeard’s upper arm; he yelled in pain and staggered, clutching his shoulder. “You fucking bitch,” he said, and charged.
Jenna dropped to one knee and swung again, aiming lower. The baton caught Redbeard across the shins, and he screamed and crashed to the ground.
Greasy Hair came at her from the side, maybe hoping she was too shocked by what she’d just done to react. If so, he was wrong. Jenna surged up onto her feet, driving the baton up ahead of her like a spear. Greasy Hair doubled up screaming, clutching his belly.
Jenna stood, and got her first proper look at Stonebrook. It didn’t look like a clinic; it was a big, whitewashed farmhouse, with a stone outbuilding over to one side of it at an angle. But that was a detail; there were more important things to deal with. If Whitecliffe hadn’t already guessed where she was, these two were screaming their heads off. Zoe lay motionless in the grass – still out for the count, with any luck, unless Jenna had broken her neck. Be hilarious if the men she’d belted with a club survived and the one she’d kicked didn’t.
Holly grasped her hand, scrambling to her feet and pointing towards the trees. “This way.”
They dashed across the lawn, Holly clinging to Jenna’s arm and setting a decent pace despite the kicking she’d taken. Jenna slowed as they reached the treeline and the scent of pines enfolded her, but aided by Holly’s momentum, managed to keep going. You can do this, babe. You got over the wall and through the forest before, even with James and his dickheads after you.
“Jenn!” Holly shouted. Jenna turned and blundered through the trees. Holly crouched by the fence, pulling at the wire; as Jenna reached her a huge flap of the chain-link peeled back. “Go. Quick.”
Jenna squirmed through the gap on hands and knees, nearly pitching headlong down the grassy embankment beyond before landing in a heap on a tarmac roadway. Holly tumbled after her, then grabbed her arm to help her up. “Soz,” she wheezed. “Should’ve warned you ’bout that.” She pulled Jenna after her, across the narrow lane.
Branching off the lane was the entrance to another one, and the two of them stumbled down it. The night was clear and cloudless; in the moonlight Jenna saw a couple of houses that were either half-built or half-demolished, and a row of vacant lots each side of the street, thickly overgrown with grass, behind yet more wire fencing.
Holly pulled her down one house’s driveway, and Jenna saw a Kia Sportage parked there. There was a bleeping sound, indicator lights flashing, and a thunk as the locks unfastened. “Get in,” Holly puffed.
Jenna obeyed, running on a kind of autopilot now, dazed and numb, slamming the door behind her. She fumbled for her seatbelt as the engine roared into life, then realised she was still clutching the baton. She put it on the dashboard, but as Holly drove the Kia into the lane it clattered into the footwell between her feet. “Fuck.”
Holly glanced at her, eyes wide, then turned right and accelerated up the lane, away from the direction they’d come. “You okay?”
“Yeah. Just dropped the baton.”
“No problem. We’ll get it back later.” Holly glanced at her for a second. “Hang onto it if you want, if it’ll make you fucking trust me.”
The lane ended in front of them in a kerb and a low embankment, beyond which lay an empty field. The Kia bounced and jolted over the kerb, mounted the embankment, then slewed down onto the scrubby vegetation and rutted ground, slaloming across the uneven terrain.
Holly, glaring straight ahead, kept the accelerator floored, the speedo needle climbing past 70mph. Jenna hung onto the handle above the passenger door as she was flung about in her seatbelt. Then the field ended in a slope leading down to another road – a country lane, winding and empty and sparsely lit – and the Kia shot down it at full speed. It jolted and shuddered as they hit the tarmac, fishtailing wildly, but Holly spun the wheel and the car’s rear end swung back into line as she accelerated on into the night.
37.
With the immediate danger past, exhaustion swept over Jenna and she slumped in her seat, closing her eyes. She didn’t fall asleep, but instead entered a sort of grey twilight between wakefulness and slumber; she didn’t know how long she spent like that, but when she opened her eyes motorway lights were shining down through the windscreen.
She rubbed her eyes. Road signs flashed by, but she was too bleary to register any details. “Where are we?”
“Hey.” Holly glanced at her, smiled weakly. “You’re back.”
“Just about.” Jenna rubbed her eyes again. Wake up. Stay alert. Still don’t know you can trust her. No matter how much she wanted to. “Where are we?” she said again.
“Motorway.”
“I can see that.”
“Heading for Wales,” Holly said.
“Wales?”
“Why not?” Holly gripped the wheel, shaking, knuckles white. She didn’t look like someone capable of playing a long con, of cheating or betrayal: she looked terrified, like an innocent way out of her depth. That was the Holly Jenna knew.
An act. It’s all an act.
Jenna shook her head to dispel the voice. “You okay?” she asked.
Holly nodded. “Think so.”
“How’d you get in there?” And now all the questions tumbled out of Jenna. “How’d you find me? Why’d you get me out?”
“Why do you think, you stupid cow?” Holly glared at the road ahead. “Christ’s sake, a little fucking gratitude, but no, way too much to expect…”
Either the hurt and outrage were genuine or Holly was a world-class actress, and as Jenna had seen her audition – unsuccessfully and very painfully – for an amateur play, she knew that was unlikely.
All part of the act.
Jenna didn’t believe that.
