Sloppy?’
‘My very great pleasure.’
‘No, you bloody idiot, Breslin’s company. Let me know if you hear any rumblings, pick up any rumours.’
‘A little light reconnaissance? My pleasure. But hope you’re not in too much of a hurry.’ He raised his glass and emptied it. ‘Got the rest of the bottle to finish.’
So they took care of the bottle, and another. Sloppy owned a chunk of the wine bar and was anxious to deal with ‘a couple of rather exotic bin ends’, as he put it, ‘to make space for the Christmas rush’.
And Harry was grateful for the diversion. The workmen had finished decorating the tree and the lights from around the market were beginning to burn more brightly as the afternoon faded into an early winter’s evening. Harry’s mood soaked up some of the rising festive spirit as he relaxed with his old friend. Then his phone rang. It was Mary Mishcon. Applying her own brand of gentle pressure. The Prime Minister anxious to hear about his decision . . .
‘Mary, can’t hear you well, the signal’s terrible here,’ Harry exaggerated, distracted, knowing he’d had too much to drink to tackle that particular obstacle course. ‘I’ll call you back,’ he promised.
‘You used to be much better at lying,’ Sloppy chided as Harry put the phone down on the table.
‘Hell, I used to be better at lying to myself.’
Sloppy looked at him quizzically. ‘That’s all rather cryptic. I’m almost afraid to ask,’ he said, reaching for the bottle and pouring with a heavy hand, ‘but I will. Tell me about her.’
Harry sighed. Sloppy was a persistent bugger, and Harry didn’t want to lie to him, too. He reached for his phone, intending to switch it off and avoid further disturbance, yet he hadn’t even touched it when it began vibrating again. In frustration Harry glanced at the screen, then muttered another colourful Arabic oath.
It was Terri.
Gingerly Ruari ran his fingers around his face. The swelling was slowly beginning to subside, but not the fear, least of all the choking sense of humiliation. His sight was improving as the puffiness around his eyes faded, and at last they had relented and given him one or two things to help him pass the time, a couple of old National Geographic magazines and a chess set with three black pawns missing. He didn’t mistake this as an act of kindness, he knew it was nothing more than a means of keeping him distracted and quiet. They had no desire to find themselves with a hysterical teenager on their hands.
What he was finding more difficult to deal with was the increasing pain from his wrist caused by his shackles – handcuffs that tethered him to a heavy chain, which in turn was fixed to the metal frame of the bedstead. Right from the first he’d tried to test it for any sign of weakness, but whenever he moved it rattled and chafed, leaving abrasions on his wrist that had already cut deeply through the skin. The chain allowed him to move no more than three feet, just enough to roll over in bed, or sit up, or use the red plastic bucket that was all he had as a toilet.
As the hours turned to days, his routine became set. They brought him three meals a day – porridge and pasta mostly, no meat, nothing that would need a knife or fork; he had to make do with a spoon. They also left him a bottle of tap water. And whether he ate, drank, peed, crapped, cried or slept, there was always a Romanian on guard, well armed, sitting in a chair on the far side of the room by the window.
Occasionally de Vries would descend upon them on a tour of inspection. He kept the guards on a tight leash, insisting they concentrate only on Ruari, snatching away the portable media players and reading material they used to while away the monotony. Harsh words were thrown in both directions. The guard was changed every two hours, but still they resented the South African’s interference. Whenever these arguments erupted, Ruari kept his head down, feigning sleep, afraid the
‘My very great pleasure.’
‘No, you bloody idiot, Breslin’s company. Let me know if you hear any rumblings, pick up any rumours.’
‘A little light reconnaissance? My pleasure. But hope you’re not in too much of a hurry.’ He raised his glass and emptied it. ‘Got the rest of the bottle to finish.’
So they took care of the bottle, and another. Sloppy owned a chunk of the wine bar and was anxious to deal with ‘a couple of rather exotic bin ends’, as he put it, ‘to make space for the Christmas rush’.
And Harry was grateful for the diversion. The workmen had finished decorating the tree and the lights from around the market were beginning to burn more brightly as the afternoon faded into an early winter’s evening. Harry’s mood soaked up some of the rising festive spirit as he relaxed with his old friend. Then his phone rang. It was Mary Mishcon. Applying her own brand of gentle pressure. The Prime Minister anxious to hear about his decision . . .
‘Mary, can’t hear you well, the signal’s terrible here,’ Harry exaggerated, distracted, knowing he’d had too much to drink to tackle that particular obstacle course. ‘I’ll call you back,’ he promised.
‘You used to be much better at lying,’ Sloppy chided as Harry put the phone down on the table.
‘Hell, I used to be better at lying to myself.’
Sloppy looked at him quizzically. ‘That’s all rather cryptic. I’m almost afraid to ask,’ he said, reaching for the bottle and pouring with a heavy hand, ‘but I will. Tell me about her.’
Harry sighed. Sloppy was a persistent bugger, and Harry didn’t want to lie to him, too. He reached for his phone, intending to switch it off and avoid further disturbance, yet he hadn’t even touched it when it began vibrating again. In frustration Harry glanced at the screen, then muttered another colourful Arabic oath.
It was Terri.
Gingerly Ruari ran his fingers around his face. The swelling was slowly beginning to subside, but not the fear, least of all the choking sense of humiliation. His sight was improving as the puffiness around his eyes faded, and at last they had relented and given him one or two things to help him pass the time, a couple of old National Geographic magazines and a chess set with three black pawns missing. He didn’t mistake this as an act of kindness, he knew it was nothing more than a means of keeping him distracted and quiet. They had no desire to find themselves with a hysterical teenager on their hands.
What he was finding more difficult to deal with was the increasing pain from his wrist caused by his shackles – handcuffs that tethered him to a heavy chain, which in turn was fixed to the metal frame of the bedstead. Right from the first he’d tried to test it for any sign of weakness, but whenever he moved it rattled and chafed, leaving abrasions on his wrist that had already cut deeply through the skin. The chain allowed him to move no more than three feet, just enough to roll over in bed, or sit up, or use the red plastic bucket that was all he had as a toilet.
As the hours turned to days, his routine became set. They brought him three meals a day – porridge and pasta mostly, no meat, nothing that would need a knife or fork; he had to make do with a spoon. They also left him a bottle of tap water. And whether he ate, drank, peed, crapped, cried or slept, there was always a Romanian on guard, well armed, sitting in a chair on the far side of the room by the window.
Occasionally de Vries would descend upon them on a tour of inspection. He kept the guards on a tight leash, insisting they concentrate only on Ruari, snatching away the portable media players and reading material they used to while away the monotony. Harsh words were thrown in both directions. The guard was changed every two hours, but still they resented the South African’s interference. Whenever these arguments erupted, Ruari kept his head down, feigning sleep, afraid the
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