Die for Me (Killing Eve #3) - Luke Jennings Page 0,10
Vaguely, I become aware of one of Villanelle’s arms lying across my back. And then, just meters away, something slams shut, a truck engine grumbles into life, and there’s the distant screech of un-oiled gates.
For several minutes, neither of us moves. Then I feel the arm slither away, and the bales shifting. Even so I remain frozen to the container floor, not daring to hope that we’re alone. It’s only when I hear Villanelle’s voice that I open my eyes and glance upward.
“Hey, dumbass,” she whispers, directing the beam of a red-light torch at my face. “It’s OK. There’s no one here.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes. Come out.”
Hesitantly, I feel my way to the open doors of the container, find my glasses, and look around me. We’re in the loading dock of a warehouse the size of a cathedral. Above us, strip lights suspended from rusting joists give off a sick, sulfurous glow. To our left are the dim outlines of the steel doors, now closed, through which the container truck entered and exited. A razor-cut of light shows around a judas gate let into one of the doors. Ahead of us, vanishing into the shadows, stand serried ranks of industrial garment rails, all holding wedding dresses. It looks like an army of ghostly brides.
Villanelle beckons and I follow. I stop after a few steps, dizzy and light-headed. I feel bloated, and there’s a sharp pain lancing through my guts.
“Are you OK?”
I stand there for a moment, swaying. “Just need to get my balance.”
She frowns, then turns back and jabs a finger into my side. “Sore?”
“Yes, how did you know?”
“It’s obvious. You can’t just not shit for a week.”
“I’m sure I’ll get round to it soon. Anyway, it’s stopped hurting, so let’s go.”
We walk the perimeter of the warehouse, but there’s no quick way out. There are a couple of steel fire doors, both immovably locked. The windows are way out of reach, at least ten meters from the ground, and the skylight that runs the length of the building is even higher. A small office, accessible by a stairway, is suspended above the shop floor. We climb the stairs. The door is unlocked, and on the desk there are invoices and other documents indicating that the warehouse is owned by a company named Prekrasnaya Nevesta. Beautiful Bride. The desk also holds a cheap TeXet phone and a paper bag containing a stale sausage sandwich.
“Have it,” Villanelle says. “I’m not hungry.”
She’s lying, obviously, but I wolf it down anyway.
“Just don’t expect me to kiss you anytime soon,” she says, pulling on a pair of the latex gloves that she always seems to carry around with her. “That thing stinks. It’s probably donkey meat.”
“I won’t,” I tell her. “And I don’t care.”
She turns the phone on. It has 1 percent battery life left. Before it dies in her hands I check the time against my watch. Twenty to six.
“What time do you think people start work here?”
“I saw a punch clock by the entrance. Let’s go back down and have a look at the employees’ cards.”
It turns out that the first members of the workforce arrive at six, or shortly after. We have barely a quarter of an hour. “When they come in, that’s when we need to make our move,” Villanelle says. “If we try and stay hidden we’ll definitely get caught.”
As I search the container, removing the evidence of our stay—rucksacks, empty water bottles, food wrappings, shit bags—Villanelle prowls round the warehouse, examining the ranks of wedding dresses. Massive electrical heaters mounted on wheels stand at intervals in the floor’s central aisle, and one of these seems to particularly interest her. After a couple of minutes she returns to the container, collects the neatly knotted bags of her own shit, and directs me to a hiding place among the garment rails, about ten or twelve meters from the gate. “Wait here,” she says, passing me the rucksacks. “And don’t move.”
The minutes pass with agonizing slowness. I’m terrified that people will arrive early, Villanelle will be caught out in the open, and I’ll be discovered crouching among the wedding dresses. Eventually, however, she reappears beside me. “When I give the word, run like fuck for the gate,” she tells me, as we put on our rucksacks. “Don’t speak, don’t look back, and stay close to me.”
“That’s the plan? Run like fuck?”
“That’s the plan. Remember, they’re civilians. Factory workers. They’ll be much more scared of you than you are of them. They won’t