Hannah reached the top. A wood-panelled corridor led to the toilets. Tilly was standing outside the door to the ladies. Hannah stood still, fearful that any further approach might cause Tilly to move away again.
The door was opened, and the sound of a hand dryer rushed out, closely followed by a woman who was still rubbing her hands together. The woman smiled at Hannah as she passed by. Behind her, the door began to close slowly. Tilly slipped into the bathroom before it shut.
Hannah ran to the door, shoved it fully open again.
The room looked empty.
There were three stalls. Two of the doors were open; the middle one was half-closed.
‘Tilly?’ she said. ‘Are you in there?’
She went to it and opened it wide.
Nobody.
She sighed.
The blow to the back of her neck was merciless. She pitched forward into the cubicle. Unseen hands grabbed her by the hair, landed another couple of punches on the side of her head, and then her face was being forced into the toilet bowl and she could see grey water and foul stains beneath, could feel the fumes forcing their way into her nostrils, and her arms flailed for something, anything, that could help her. She tried to yell for help, but her attacker must have pressed the flush button, and she had to take a deep breath and hold on to it for dear life as the water covered her face, and all sight and sound left her as she focused on staying alive. She put her hands on the sides of the bowl and desperately tried to push herself up, but he was too strong for her, and the water wasn’t retreating and she thought she would die there.
But then sound returned, air returned, and she breathed again – a huge rasping inhalation as she filled her lungs. She could hear the cistern filling all too rapidly, and she knew he would try again to make her drown, and she really didn’t want to suffer such an ignominious death, or any death for that matter, and she opened her mouth to call out once more, but this time it was choked off by something rough and sharp and bristly, and she realised that he had grabbed the toilet brush, the shit-covered, bleach-soaked toilet brush, and he was forcing it into her mouth, across her teeth, jabbing at her, into her eyes and her ears. She kicked out wildly, hoping to catch him in the groin or the thigh, to inflict enough pain to make him stop, even for a second. But then the water cascaded in again, covering her head, cutting off her senses, and she knew that this was it, this time it was surely the end.
And then he was gone, the weight of him disappearing as if he had never existed. She pushed herself out of the water and sucked in huge lungfuls of oxygen and tried to squeeze the foul water out of her eyes with her fingers, and she coughed and spluttered and spat as she crawled on her hands and knees out of the cubicle, not caring about the whereabouts of her attacker, but so, so grateful to be alive.
He was still there.
He was on his back on the floor. Straddling him was a man who was landing punch after savage punch, extracting blood and teeth and screams of pain as he roared his fury.
And that man, her saviour, was Ben. Mild-mannered, violence-hating, love-thy-neighbour Ben.
She had to stop him. Had to place her hands on his wrists and tell him softly that it was enough, it was over.
It was her first opportunity to get a proper look at the coward who had attacked her from behind not once, but twice.
And although his features were caked in blood, she recognised him immediately.
40
Ronan Cobb stood beneath the oak tree and watched the distant car headlights slow to a crawl and then stop. A minute later he caught glimpses of torchlight as Scott Timpson made his way up the lane towards him.
He genuinely hoped that Scott had somehow managed to get the money together.
But he doubted it.
His expectation was that his mother’s so-called Plan B would have to be put into action, and he really didn’t want that to happen.
She had surprised him with that one, all right. He hadn’t realised how well connected she still was, how she had maintained a finger on the pulse. How dangerous she was. Behind the alcohol was a woman who still commanded respect.
He wished that her recent actions could have been driven by love rather than ruthlessness. Joey was dead. She didn’t seem to realise that they would never share jokes and meals with him again. The only hole in her life was one that needed filling with money. Ronan found that disappointing and sad. He would do exactly what she told him to do – of course he would – but something about this rankled. It felt wrong.
He decided it was better not to think about it too much. There was a job to be done.
He watched the light from Scott’s torch as it arced over the stile and then glided towards him. Ronan switched on his own torch. What he saw shocked him.
Scott was practically dragging himself up the hill. He was having trouble putting weight on one of his legs, and he was clutching his side as though in agony. He looked like a wounded animal.
Jesus.
‘Okay, Scott. You can stop there.’ Ronan closed the gap himself. He shone his torch into Scott’s face and watched him recoil from the brightness. ‘What the fuck happened to you?’
‘Long story. I won’t bore you with the details.’
‘That’s fine. I can manage without the foreplay. Have you got the money?’
Scott hesitated, and Ronan knew instantly that the news would be grim. He watched as Scott withdrew an envelope from his jacket.
‘Toss it over.’
Scott did so, but grimaced with the pain of it.
Ronan turned his torch on the envelope. It was smaller than the previous one. He picked it up, hefted it in his hand. It was far too light.
‘How much, Scott?’
‘A thousand.’
Shit. One thousand. One measly thousand.
‘Why’d you even bother? This is an insult.’
