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Someone came out. Coco the Clown. He saw her, and bowed his head.
‘Ms Martinez, please accept my apologies.’
He walked towards her and held out his hand. His eyebrows were tilted upwards into his high domed forehead, his expression mournful.
‘Ashford is the name,’ he said. ‘Chief Executive of KWC. You were treated very badly in there and I assure you the individuals in question will be reprimanded for their lack of professionalism.’
Harry ignored his outstretched hand. ‘Since when does the Chief Executive sit in on routine IT meetings?’
Ashford dropped his hand. ‘Good point. Very well, I admit it: I was curious. I wanted to meet you.’
The lift pinged and the doors opened. Harry stepped in and jabbed at the button for the ground floor.
‘I’ve known your father for over thirty years,’ Ashford said. ‘Salvador’s a great personal friend and a fine man.’ He smiled. ‘You’re very like him.’
The lift doors started to close. Harry glared at him through the shrinking gap.
‘I’ve known my father all my life,’ she said. ‘And I can assure you, I’m nothing like him at all.’
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Cameron knew he didn’t blend in well with his surroundings. It was the colour of his hair that did it. Half a shade short of albino, a girl had once called it, as he’d rammed himself into her scrawny body. Afterwards he’d tightened his fingers round her throat and squeezed till she’d stopped moving.
He pulled the black woolly hat further down over his eyebrows and looked at his watch. He needed to get going before someone noticed him, but his instructions had been to wait for another hour.
He’d never been to the International Financial Services Centre before. As far as he was concerned, it was a place where rich people came to get richer. He could remember this part of the city before it had been redeveloped, when it was still the old Custom House docks. He’d preferred it then; vast faceless warehouses spread across bleak tracts of land. Now it was a landscaped city within a city, playing host to banks from all over the world.
Cameron stared up at the multi-storey office buildings, all made from the same green glass blocks that sparkled in the sunlight. Like the fucking Emerald City of Oz.
He leaned against the steel barrier near the edge of George’s Dock. It used to be a real dock that smelled of tar and dead fish. Now they’d transformed it into an ornamental lake. Jets of water crashed down on its surface from five spurting fountains. The noise was deafening, but it was the perfect position for observing the building opposite.
Cameron straightened up as a young woman stumbled through the revolving doors. He checked her out against the description of the Martinez girl. Five foot three, slim, with dark curly hair. Face kind of heart-shaped. She was clutching a black satchel with some kind of silver logo on it. It was her all right. She reminded him of the Spanish waitress he’d had in Madrid last year. He felt himself harden.
Cameron fell into step behind her. It was late on Friday afternoon and the city was clogged with people. He stared at her without blinking, fixing her in his sights.
He’d received his instructions by phone, his bowels clenching as he’d listened to the familiar voice. It was a voice he’d taken orders from many times before. He told himself he did it for the money, but he knew it was more than that. The blood had pounded through his body as he’d listened to the voice on the phone, anticipating the hunt.
The girl moved as if she was on the dodgems, slamming shoulders with other pedestrians, but she seemed not to notice. She walked out of the IFSC grounds and back on to the city streets. The crowd pressed in closer and he burrowed through, closing the gap between them.
‘Will I do it like last time?’ he’d asked on the phone. He’d savoured the memory of last time; the squeal of brakes, the smell of scorched rubber, the sickening crunch of metal and shattered bone. But the voice had cut into his thoughts.
‘Not yet. I need her terrified, but I need her alive.’ As if sensing Cameron’s disappointment, he’d continued, ‘But don’t worry. Next time, you can kill her.’
Next time. Cameron swallowed hard as he gained on the dark-haired girl. Why did he always have to obey orders? He risked a lot to carry out his instructions. He needed gratification, and he needed it now.
The girl picked up the pace, and he lengthened his stride to keep up with her. His first chance would come at the busy intersection marked by the Eternal Flame sculpture, where the cars wheeled past the Custom House at top speed, heedless of pedestrians. It was less than twenty yards away, and she was headed straight for it.
Suddenly, she stopped and swung around. She stared straight at him, and then retraced her steps back towards him. What the fuck was she doing? She couldn’t have seen him. He kept on walking.
She was face to face with him. Her breasts brushed against his arm, and he could feel her warmth.
‘Sorry,’ she said, without looking up, and swept on past.
He ran his tongue over his lips as he watched her walk away.
Cameron waited till she had put ten yards between them and then set off after her again. She headed back towards the river and crossed over the bridge. He followed her as she turned left along the cobbled quays. He could smell the rotting seaweed that hung like a fringe of oily hair along the river walls.
The girl turned down a narrow street lined with poky cottages and grimy blocks of flats. Cameron dropped back. There were fewer people here, less cover. He kept his distance until he heard the familiar whine of speeding traffic. They had reached the intersection with Pearse Street, where cars thundered in and out of the city centre.
The girl joined the knot of pedestrians by the kerb and he slipped in close behind her.
An old woman in a raincoat swayed in front of him. She was carrying a plastic bag full of old tennis shoes, and smelled like a urinal. He elbowed her out of his way and edged into position behind the girl. He could see the logo on her satchel more clearly now. The word DefCon was engraved in silver, the letter ‘O’ framing a black skull and crossbones.
It meant nothing to him, nor did he care.
He shot a glance at the lights and then back at the whirling traffic. Cars and motorbikes sped along Pearse Street. The lights changed from green to amber. A red truck barrelled on through. Behind it, a black BMW gunned its engine and prepared to make a run for it.
Cameron’s scalp prickled. He raised his hand.
Now.
An elbow jabbed at his arm and threw him off balance.
‘Look at that speed. Should be locked up.’ The old woman shoved her face into his. He could smell the stale wine on her breath.
The BMW roared past. The pedestrian lights bip-bip-bipped as the crowd spilled out on to the road.
Cameron glared at the stinking bag lady who had robbed him of his climax. The old woman widened her watery eyes and took a step back from him. He jerked away and strode across the street, squinting through the crowds.
There was no sign of the dark-haired girl anywhere.
He weaved his way through the bodies, straining for a glimpse of her. Then he stood still and dug his nails into his palms, ignoring the crush as he watched the flow of commuters, looking for patterns. They were scurrying past like rats, flooding from different directions. But they surged as one into the cavernous entrance on the left.
Cameron smiled and relaxed his fingers. Of course: Pearse Station.
What could be better?
He barged through the queue of people blocking the entrance and scoured the area. She had to be here. Trains rattled overhead and the air was a mixture of dust and sweat. Then he spotted her, on the other side of the ticket barriers. She was stepping on to the escalator for the southbound platform.
He checked the ticket queue. Ten bodies deep and it wasn’t moving. He could vault over the ticket barrier, but that would get him noticed. He had to get to her before she boarded the next train.
Narrowing his eyes, he inspected the ticket barriers more closely. They were automatic turnstiles, all except for the one on the end. Passengers poured through it past a middle-aged man in a sloppy blue uniform, who flicked a glance at every second ticket.
It was Cameron’s only chance.
He searched the crowd, looking for cover. Two Japanese students strolled past him, heading towards the barrier on the end. The taller boy held a large map of Dublin out at arm’s length, as if he was reading a newspaper. Cameron ducked in behind them. They stopped in front of the ticket collector and wrestled with the folds of the map as they fumbled for their tickets. Cameron slipped unnoticed behind them through the open barrier.
He raced up to the southbound platform, taking the escalator steps two at a time. He reached the top and held his breath.
The station was huge, like an aircraft hangar. People were lined up on both sides of the tracks, staring into the open mouths of daylight at either end.
The girl was near the edge of the platform, twenty yards to his left. He exhaled, and a familiar ripple of heat licked up his body. He basked in it.
He slunk over towards her, glancing up at the display that counted down the time until the next train.
Two minutes.
He sidled up behind her. Other commuters staked out their space on the platform beside him. He edged forward so that no one could get between them.
He was close now. Close enough to touch her. He could smell her flowery scent. He inhaled deeply, and was aware of his own musty sourness mixed in with her fragrance. He longed to press himself against her. He thought about what he’d whisper to her, just before she went over the edge.
The air moved. The rails clacked. Something small scuttled across them.
He looked up at the display. One minute. He raised his hand.
Any second now.
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Keep behind the line. Harry never bothered much with rules, but this was one she paid attention to. She stiffened against the bodies that packed in behind her, nudging her forward.
A pigeon curled its toes over the edge of the platform, dipping its head for a look at the three-foot drop to the tracks below. Her own toes curled just watching it. She checked the display: Dun Laoghaire, one minute.
She thought about the KWC meeting again and winced. Damn Dillon and his pop psychology.
‘I thought it could help if you went down there,’ he’d said to her over the phone, as she’d picked at the moss on the canal wall. ‘You know, confront things.’
‘If you use the word “cathartic”, I’ll scream,’ she said.
‘Come on, you never talk about your father. You haven’t seen him since before he went to prison. What’s that, five years?’
‘Actually, it’s six.’
‘There you go, you see? You need catharsis.’
She laughed. ‘Look, I appreciate the concern, but I’ll sort it through in my own way.’
‘You mean you’ll put a lid on it and bury it alive.’
‘Maybe.’ She flicked a piece of velvety moss on to the canal bank. ‘Look, my father comes and goes a lot in my life. Now he’s just gone again. It’s no big deal.’
‘I’ll put someone else on the pen test.’
‘No, Dillon, I’ll handle it. You just took me by surprise, that’s all. Seriously, I’m fine.’
But she hadn’t been fine. She’d been touchy and, worst of all, mouthy. Not an unusual combination for her, she’d be the first to admit, but she hated to let herself down like that. She’d tried to walk it off, turning away from the train station near the IFSC and choosing instead to march along the Liffey. She’d given up after ten minutes. Kitten heels just weren’t built for cleansing power-walks.
Harry looked at the display again. The minute was up. A draught sliced at her cheek. The pigeon flapped into the air as though it had just seen a cat. People crushed in around her. Someone pressed against the length of her body and catapulted her six inches forward.
‘Hey!’ She made to turn her head, but felt herself rammed forward again, forced out on to the edge of the platform. She caught sight of the black tracks below and squeezed her eyes shut. Digging her heels in, she leaned backwards and drove her elbows into the crowd.
A shout came from behind her. ‘Stop pushing!’
Hot breath whispered against her ear. A hard fist shoved her in the small of her back, and she pitched forward, weightless. Her eyes widened, transfixed. Steel rails accelerated towards her. She thrust out her hands and braced herself for the fall.
Her body slammed into the ground. Sharp stones pierced the palms of her hands, and her knee crunched against the concrete crossbar of the track. Somebody screamed.
Harry lifted her head and gaped at the winding tracks ahead. Her limbs were paralysed. The rails click-clacked.
Move!
She grasped the rails and tried to heave herself up. Hot pain shot through her knee as it gave way beneath her. She collapsed back on to the track, stretched across it.
The rails vibrated against her hands. A horn shrieked. She snapped her head up. A train roared round the bend into the station, blinding her with its headlights. Sweat flashed over her.
Harry dropped to the ground and rolled. Her shoulders hammered against iron and stone. Something yanked her back. She looked over her shoulder. Her bag had snagged on a bolt in the rail. The train thundered towards her. She whipped the strap off over her head and threw herself clear of the track.
She lay face down, breathing in the smell of dust and metal and gripping on to the northbound track. Her whole body trembled. The first carriage crashed past. People screamed at her, but she couldn’t move. Not yet.
Then there was another sound. Tick-tack, tick-tack. The rails buzzed beneath her fingers. She forced her eyes open, and her heart raced. Another train was screeching into the far end of the station and she was right in its path.
A yell froze in her throat. No time. She shot a glance at the northbound platform. She’d never make it. Behind her, the southbound train was still hurtling past.
There was nowhere to go.
She looked at the space between the two sets of tracks. It was only a few feet wide, but she had no choice. She flung herself down on to the stones separating the north and southbound rails. She knew she had to stay level with the ground. Any mistakes and the trains would slice her in two.
Harry turned her face to one side and stared at the black stones, waiting. Her breathing had almost stopped.
The two trains screamed past each other, catching her in their crossfire as together they blocked out the light. Gusts of air whipped her face. The huge roar of the engines filled her body and made her want to hunch her shoulders and cover her ears. But she had to stay still.
The joint in the rails beside her crick-cracked as each giant wheel pressed down on it. She focused on the undercarriage of the train, a mess of iron blocks and corrugated tubes charging by, inches from her face.
Brakes scraped against the tracks and the carriages hissed, until finally the trains squealed to a halt. Harry lay there trembling. The engines rumbled alongside her, like two old lorries. Her mouth was dry and tasted of iron and coal dust.
Doors slammed. People were screaming. Feet crunched over the stones towards her.
‘Jesus! Miss? You all right?’
Harry closed her eyes. Bad idea. She snapped them open again. The back of her neck felt clammy and the world roared in her ears.
God, she couldn’t faint now.
Strong arms lifted her to her feet, half-carried her across the tracks. More hands grabbed at her, heaving her on to the platform.
‘Get back! Give her room!’
‘Someone call an ambulance!’
