Real Tigers by Mick Herron Read Free Book Online Page B

In those days, it usually did.
    And now, hearing someone rattling the padlock, she assumed it would be him, but the man who entered was a stranger; neither Donovan, nor the other soldier, but a third man: younger, stocky. He wore a once-white short-sleeved shirt, and up his arms crawled inky designs, which also peeped out from the collar, and crept onto the back of his hairless head. He held something in his hand: two somethings. One was the pair of handcuffs she’d been made to wear in the van. The other was a mobile—it looked like Catherine’s own.
    â€œPut these on.” He dangled the cuffs.
    â€œWhy am I here?”
    â€œLady, just put the cuffs on. And this.”
    He produced the gag from his back pocket.
    â€œIs that my phone?”
    â€œYes.”
    His vowels were flat, she noted: northern. She was no expert on regional accents, but thought North-West rather than East. She noted, too, that her own pronunciation had sharpened in response, becoming more BBC. Maybe Lamb was rubbing off on her. That was the kind of trick he’d play.
    â€œWhat’s your name?” she asked.
    â€œSeriously?”
    â€œIt was worth a try.”
    He said, “Let’s just get the cuffs on, okay?”
    Catherine said, “Well, since it’s traditional.”
    She offered her wrists, then he leaned across her to tie the gag round her mouth. She could smell him when he did this—sweat, inadequately masked by his deodorant, which was marginally less pleasant. When he’d finished, he stepped back and aimed her iPhone at her. She remained still while he took her picture, and stayed that way while he examined the result, nodding to himself. Good lord, who did he think he was?
    Perhaps he caught something of this in the blank gaze she levelled at him, because while he ungagged her, he said, “Just checking.”
    â€œThank you, David Bailey.”
    â€œWho?”
    â€œDoesn’t matter.” But he was Bailey now, which pleased her. Information, even the kind you make up yourself, gives you a handle on what’s going on.
    He uncuffed her and left, padlocking the door behind him. She wondered what time it was, decided after midnight, and wondered if they planned on feeding her. She wasn’t hungry, but to feed her someone would have to come back and maybe talk some more . . . Thinking about not being hungry made her thirsty instead, so she returned to the bathroom, where she cupped her hands and drank from the tap. Where would she normally be now? At home; most likely asleep. She didn’t always sleep well. Some nights she played music quite late, but softly. Alcohol used to blur the edges of even the roughest days. Now she had to rely on other comforts, and the days never quite became smooth.
    She must have dozed, or hovered on the border, because the noise of the door opening startled her; brought her back with a wildly beating heart. She sat up so quickly her head buzzed.
    This time, it was Donovan.
    He didn’t speak at first but surveyed the room, as if she’d paid a security deposit, and he was looking for reasons not to return it. While he did that, she studied him for signs of guilt. It was there, she thought. Whatever was going on, he felt bad about this part, at least.
    When he at last looked at her, his eyes were still the bad-times stormy blue.
    She said, “Bailey didn’t give much away.”
    â€œBailey?”
    â€œPrivate joke.”
    â€œGlad to see you’re making friends. I thought you’d given that up.”
    â€œIs that what this is about? Have you been nursing a passion for me all these years, Sean?”
    â€œIs that what you think?”
    â€œI don’t know what to think yet. What happened to you?”
    He laughed, or nearly did. It was a noise, anyway, and had an edge of amusement to it. “We’ve both come down in the world, haven’t we?”
    â€œOh, I get by. You, though. You look pretty