his lips as he kissed her on the cheek. ‘Well, sweetheart, what does that make you?’
‘Touché.’ She gave him a hug, and watched as he turned and went in the opposite direction.
Rosie stood for a few seconds, gazing up at the rows of dismal tenements and feeling the sleet on her face. An unexpected image took her by surprise – of the night she and TJ stood in the downpour outside the restaurant after they had been on the brink of ending their relationship, but somehow couldn’t bring themselves to do it. A heavy loneliness swept over her, and she suddenly wished she could be back there, in the warmth of his arms that night on the pavement in the deluge. But so much had happened in the long time apart while he was in New York. It was months since she’d heard from him, and it was only recently that she had stopped picturing his life every day, wondering where he was at certain times, if he was thinking about her. But she still pined for him. Sometimes she thought TJ played more of a part in her psyche in his absence than he did when he was here. How screwed up was that? But she couldn’t help feeling the emptiness now that she was starting to move on, becoming less obsessed with him. He’d probably have moved on too, no doubt presuming she had. She’d convinced herself she had movedon, until moments like this. The sudden tears on her cheeks felt warm against the cold of the night, and she sniffed and pulled up her collar against the wind. Get a grip, woman, she told herself, as she walked up the road in the direction of St George’s Cross. The traffic was quiet and she walked briskly, blinking away tears. As she was about to cross the road, she became vaguely aware of someone in a shop doorway, but when she looked over her shoulder there was nobody there. She crossed the road, quiet, with little traffic and made her way along the deserted street and towards the car park which adjoined her block of flats. She looked over her shoulder again, uneasy, and thought she heard footsteps, but there was nothing. A little wave of anxiety punched her gut and she quickened her step. Maybe it wasn’t over yet with the UVF, or with Tam Dunn’s mob from the arms smuggling. No, she told herself, they were all in jail, and nobody would be mopping up after them. Thugs and gangsters just moved in like vultures when their leader was captured. No honour in them, they surrounded the spoils like hyenas, tearing it up for themselves. Nobody gave a damn about a journalist. But she walked quickly anyway. She’d be glad when she was in and safely inside the six-bar-locked fortress that her flat had become.
As she walked across the car park, she suddenly became aware of a bin moving. Then, in a second, someone was on her. She was grabbed from behind and dragged to the sideof the building into the darkness, away from the lights on top of the building and out of view of the CCTV cameras. Weirdly, her first thought was that McGuire would go nuts. He’d warned her so many times never to go home at night unless she was in a taxi right to the front door. But now, she felt a strong arm pull her back and her legs went weak as she felt the coldness of the steel on her neck. Christ! Outside my own house. How fucking stupid is that? She tried to speak, afraid to as much as move her hands. She could feel the knife and the pulse in her neck.
‘Please. What do you want? Take my bag. I’ve got money.’
Even like this, desperate and vulnerable, Rosie hated the sound of her begging, when all of her instincts were telling her to kick backwards between his legs. But she was too terrified to move.
‘Keep away from my family. You hear me?’
The Pakistani accent was crystal-clear, rasping in anger, and she could feel his hot breath on her hair. She was rigid with fear, waiting to have her throat sliced.
‘Keep away from my family or I’ll cut your head off, you bitch.’
The blade seared into her flesh, but she didn’t feel pain. Just warm
‘Touché.’ She gave him a hug, and watched as he turned and went in the opposite direction.
Rosie stood for a few seconds, gazing up at the rows of dismal tenements and feeling the sleet on her face. An unexpected image took her by surprise – of the night she and TJ stood in the downpour outside the restaurant after they had been on the brink of ending their relationship, but somehow couldn’t bring themselves to do it. A heavy loneliness swept over her, and she suddenly wished she could be back there, in the warmth of his arms that night on the pavement in the deluge. But so much had happened in the long time apart while he was in New York. It was months since she’d heard from him, and it was only recently that she had stopped picturing his life every day, wondering where he was at certain times, if he was thinking about her. But she still pined for him. Sometimes she thought TJ played more of a part in her psyche in his absence than he did when he was here. How screwed up was that? But she couldn’t help feeling the emptiness now that she was starting to move on, becoming less obsessed with him. He’d probably have moved on too, no doubt presuming she had. She’d convinced herself she had movedon, until moments like this. The sudden tears on her cheeks felt warm against the cold of the night, and she sniffed and pulled up her collar against the wind. Get a grip, woman, she told herself, as she walked up the road in the direction of St George’s Cross. The traffic was quiet and she walked briskly, blinking away tears. As she was about to cross the road, she became vaguely aware of someone in a shop doorway, but when she looked over her shoulder there was nobody there. She crossed the road, quiet, with little traffic and made her way along the deserted street and towards the car park which adjoined her block of flats. She looked over her shoulder again, uneasy, and thought she heard footsteps, but there was nothing. A little wave of anxiety punched her gut and she quickened her step. Maybe it wasn’t over yet with the UVF, or with Tam Dunn’s mob from the arms smuggling. No, she told herself, they were all in jail, and nobody would be mopping up after them. Thugs and gangsters just moved in like vultures when their leader was captured. No honour in them, they surrounded the spoils like hyenas, tearing it up for themselves. Nobody gave a damn about a journalist. But she walked quickly anyway. She’d be glad when she was in and safely inside the six-bar-locked fortress that her flat had become.
As she walked across the car park, she suddenly became aware of a bin moving. Then, in a second, someone was on her. She was grabbed from behind and dragged to the sideof the building into the darkness, away from the lights on top of the building and out of view of the CCTV cameras. Weirdly, her first thought was that McGuire would go nuts. He’d warned her so many times never to go home at night unless she was in a taxi right to the front door. But now, she felt a strong arm pull her back and her legs went weak as she felt the coldness of the steel on her neck. Christ! Outside my own house. How fucking stupid is that? She tried to speak, afraid to as much as move her hands. She could feel the knife and the pulse in her neck.
‘Please. What do you want? Take my bag. I’ve got money.’
Even like this, desperate and vulnerable, Rosie hated the sound of her begging, when all of her instincts were telling her to kick backwards between his legs. But she was too terrified to move.
‘Keep away from my family. You hear me?’
The Pakistani accent was crystal-clear, rasping in anger, and she could feel his hot breath on her hair. She was rigid with fear, waiting to have her throat sliced.
‘Keep away from my family or I’ll cut your head off, you bitch.’
The blade seared into her flesh, but she didn’t feel pain. Just warm
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