cartwheel, arms and legs flailing, until he dropped to the floor. He’d been shot. He’d been fucking shot! He screamed like a rabbit in its death throes. ‘You fucking shot me!’ he yelled at Vince.
Vince paused for a moment, regarding him dispassionately, and then he was on the move again, still coming towards Andy, still with that mad look on his face. Andy scrambled to his feet and stumbled on, despite the burning pain in his – in his what? Lung? stomach? His heart? He realized he knew nothing about the anatomy of his own body. Bit late to start learning now. Fired by nothing but fear, he lurched along the corridor, bounced off a couple of walls, into another corridor and then dragged himself up the stairs, all the time expecting a hail of bullets to follow and finish him off. None came, thank God, and now he was taking shelter in one of the rooms. A room that, to his surprise (although for surprise nothing could top being shot), was also housing all of the girls. Tommy must have herded them in here, like cattle, to make moving them easier.
The girls were still handcuffed with their plastic ties and were in various states of lethargy, which was a relief to Andy because he was the prey now, wasn’t he? Foxy had gone to ground. If they had been in better shape the girls might have turned on him like hounds and ripped him to pieces.
The two Polish girls from last night were huddled together by the window. They felt like old acquaintances, but he didn’t suppose they would give him help if he asked for it. One of them, Nadja, half opened her heavy-lidded eyes and gazed sightlessly at him. Her pupils were great black funnels. He was frightened they might drag him in and swallow him whole. ‘My sister?’ she murmured to him. ‘Katja?’ and he said, ‘Yeah, yeah love, she’s right there next to you.’ Nadja muttered something in Polish and then fell asleep again.
He took out his phone, very slowly, while trying to disassociate himself from the excruciating pain – and dialled Tommy. The signal was always terrible inside Silver Birches. He wondered if it was something to do with the walls being so thick. It was the kind of thing that Vince would know. No answer from Tommy. He dialled Steve and got his voicemail. (Did no one ever answer their phone any more?) ‘Steve, Steve,’ Andy whispered urgently. ‘Where are you? You’ve got to get to Silver Birches. Right now. Vince has gone postal. He’s got a gun. He fucking shot me. Get here, will you? And find Vasily and Jason.’ He muted the phone, he’d seen enough horror films to know that your phone always rang loudly and signalled your whereabouts just as the deranged killer was about to give up hunting you. Vince on the rampage. Jesus, who would have believed it? Wendy, perhaps. Rhoda was right, he must have killed her as well. All this time they’d been playing golf with a psycho murderer. One with a crap handicap.
He heard the sound of a car engine starting up and managed to get himself over to the window in time to see Tommy’s Mercedes crunching gravel and gears and disappearing round the drive. The bastard must have heard the gunshot, surely? And now he was leaving him here alone to die. So much for friendship.
He could actually see the blood pumping out of his side like an uncapped oil well. He had nothing to staunch it with, but then he remembered the pieces of Maria’s scarf, still in his pocket. He managed to extricate them, every little movement an agony, and pushed them up against his wound. He regretted not keeping her crucifix as well. He had forgotten about God during the course of his life. He wondered if God had forgotten about him. He knew every sparrow, didn’t He? But did He know the rats?
His phone vibrated angrily and Lottie’s poker-face flashed up on the screen. He wished it was Lottie on the other end of the phone, she’d probably be more helpful than Rhoda, she’d certainly be more sympathetic to his current predicament if he tried to explain it to her. (‘You’ve been shot? By Vince Ives? Because you’re a sex trafficker? Because a girl is dead? Well, good luck with that, Andrew.’)
The conversation now raised Katja from her apathy. She started muttering in Polish and Andy whispered, ‘Go