Brock Steele Sphere Page 15

  “She’s got a garage,” Ty said, gesturing to the car. “All been arranged. And unlikely she’ll grass. Police are after her too.”

  Sarah let out a weary sigh and got out of the car.

  Ty leaned over to Brock. “Hope all goes well, mate. See you at the lay-by tomorrow. The search will probably be stale by morning. I’ll do some digging on Horizon Cabs.”

  Brock looked back at him. “Don’t.” A helicopter hovered in the distance, breaking up the silent forest. “We need to make a move sharp.”

  Ty slammed the door, the engine came to life and he drove off. Sarah and Brock trotted into the forest rustling their way through the trees.

  “You don’t trust him, do you?” said Sarah.

  “I do, but we need to be careful. With all his criminal activities, he must be wanted by the police. He sure keeps a low profile. My main concern is getting my head around who is says he is. I’ve no recollection of him, and something doesn’t seem right.”

  “You never mentioned that before. He knows where we’re heading!”

  “We’re safe enough.”

  “How do you know? We might be seen at the hotel, or worse still recognised,” said Sarah, stepping over some fierce brambles. “Maybe we should have taken the road. And his dodgy credit card. They could come for us in our sleep.”

  “At least we’ll get a hot shower. I’ll make sure the card doesn’t give us away.”

  “What makes you so sure?”

  Brock just smiled in return. Street lamps were visible shining through at the other end of the wood. Sarah pointed up towards the road.

  “This hotel is posh and I’m starving. We should call for room service, order some food.”

  “Only the best for you.”

  “A hot shower and warm cosy room, satin sheets. If we stay out in the heath, we’ll catch our death.”

  They stepped into the road. The wind blew rain into their faces.

  “Are you sure nobody followed?” said Sarah.

  Brock shook his head “We’d hear them, and I’d know.”

  “I’m still worried about Ty. He seems all mixed up.”

  “He’s nothing to worry about. A jack the lad, wheeler and dealer in the East End. Where’s the hotel exactly?”

  “Across the road. I should brush my hair.”

  “Where?”

  “The big building over there.” Sarah laughed, grabbing him and turning his head towards it. She ran her fingers through her hair, pulling out the knots as both stepped across the road.

  “You look beautiful anyway.”

  She shrugged. “I’m going to miss my apartment in Covent Garden. Truth is, the rent’s too high. I was considering leaving anyway. Surely you miss yours?”

  “It wasn’t mine. Nor my life. Someone made me believe it was. The day the hospital discharged me, they handed over a wallet containing a driving licence with the address of where I live. Going through everything in the apartment, I noticed everything was new. I should have realised everything was planted,” said Brock.

  They stepped slowly onto the hotel grounds.

  “Planted? I don’t understand,” said Sarah.

  “It’s him, the tall man. Sighrus. I know it now.”

  “Sighrus, why would he—”

  Both saw the hotel and their mouths fell wide open.

  Chapter 24

  Grey metal shutters sealed the windows of the unlit hotel, the car park eerie quiet and empty, the building lonely and unloved. They both stared, wordlessly, then Sarah burst out crying. Brock pulled her towards him, holding her tight.

  “I thought there was something funny about this place from across the road,”

  Sarah sniffled, wiping her nose. “We should find another hotel. But the nearest one is a long walk.”

  Brock shook his head, stepping towards the dark building and beckoning her to follow.

  “You’re kidding me, right? In pitch black, no electric? It’s empty.”

  He slid his arm around her, pulling her towards the building. She wept, collapsing into his arms, and he caught her.

  “How can we go on like this forever?” she cried.

  “We’ll be safe here for tonight. That dodgy card might have caused us trouble. This way we’ll both have a good night’s sleep.”

  He spotted a small window to the side and moved towards it.

  “I have a bad feeling about this place. Perhaps we should move on,” said Sarah, following him gingerly.

  He pulled at the window and it came free.

  “That was a bit too easy. I reckon we’re not the first people to break in.”

  Sarah shot him a worried glance.

  “Err, no. We’ll be safe, I promise.”

  She ran her hands through her hair, sniffling. “There could be squatters inside. They could be high on something.”

  “It’s empty, trust me. I’d have heard them.”

  Brock beckoned her towards the window and she followed him inside into a dark, damp reception area.

  “It’s probably drier upstairs,” Brock said. “Let’s head right to the top.” He directed her towards a staircase and they started to climb. Moonlight shone through the grimy windows into the stairwell, and Sarah scrunched up her face at the disappointment of the building.

  “I know you’re upset,” Brock said. “Think of it as a temporary safe-house. It won’t be for long.”

  “Animal squat more like,” she whispered to herself. “One question: how will we get out if the police raid it?”

  “It’d buy us time. Places to hide, corridors to escape.”

  Brock kicked his foot into a door, smashing its handle to open it. He stepped inside and Sarah peered into the room.

  “It’s basic, but it’s furnished. Let me try the other rooms,” she said.

  He watched her open a room opposite. The door was unlocked; they all were. She inspected room after room, coming to a spacious bridal suite. It appeared to have had more tender loving care.

  “This one will do nicely.” She grinned.

  “Whatever you say—your choice.”

  His feet sank into the carpet as he took in the mahogany four-post bed and fancy red-patterned duvet flung across. Sarah stepped towards a small door. Inside the bathroom, a jade-green bath jacuzzi dazzled next to an electric shower. It was almost like they had checked into a decent hotel. It was perfect for Sarah—she’d realise it soon enough.

  “Not five stars, or any star. But suppose it will do, thank you, Brock,” she said, pecking him on the cheek.

  He smiled as he peered at the rusty curtains, but everything was far from alright. He stuck his head out the window, glancing through the metal shutter at some emergency stairs nearby and a road through the gap in the trees in the distance. He pushed at the shutter: loose.

  A quick getaway.

  Sarah hit the light switch and the room illuminated like a football stadium.

  “Hey, the electric is on!” she cried. “Hot water at last.”

  “Turn it off! Shove something up at the window first.”

  “What are you doing?”

  “I’m going to pop downstairs and seal that window up to deter unsuspecting visitors. And have a scout around.”

  “Do you think it’s strange the electric’s still on? Surely it’s a fire hazard.”

  “A contractor probably left it on by mistake.”

  “A contractor? This hotel hasn’t seen the light of day from anyone, let alone a contractor.”

  “I won’t be long,” Brock said, stepping out of the door.

  “If you find any nibbles on your travels, bring them. Even if they are out of date! I’m so hungry.”

  Brock stepped back into the room, holding a big retail box of crisps and case of red wine. Sarah stood up, glancing towards him. She was wra
pped in several towels and her eyes lit up.

  “You’re kidding me!”

  He sniffed the aroma of lemon and saw another, different, duvet neatly laid across the window. The bedposts were polished and the lamp was on next to the bed, lightening up the room.

  “I nearly sent a search party out for you. What took you so long?”

  “Some business I attended to. Looks exquisite in here now.”

  “Grabbed some goodies from the maid’s cupboard out in the hall. It was full. Business you say?”

  “I’m going to take a shower. Water hot?”

  “I’m worried, Brock.”

  He moved towards the bathroom, pushing the door closed, and luxuriated in the hot water. Sarah knocked on the door. “Fresh towel.”

  She passed it through the door to him as he stepped out. Sarah surveyed his bruised and cut body. “You’re hurt.”

  “It’s nothing.”

  She pulled herself from the bed, neatly laying a fresh plaster on his cut, and he stroked her hair. Running her hand across his tattoo, she inspected it.

  “Your tattoo! It’s scratched—burned—off in fact.”

  He laughed, running his hand across her shoulder, and she massaged his back.

  “Those white marks look like the residue from hydrogen peroxide or some other bleach. Why did you do that? It’s rather amateurish.”

  He pushed her flat onto the four-poster bed, their bodies sliding together, their kisses increasingly frantic until he penetrated her.

  It was pitch black, perhaps a little too dark. He was cramped, stuck, sweat running down his brow onto his face and body. Held down somehow, a tsunami of water splashed into his cold face. Darkness became lighter and he could see the figure of an old woman hovering over him, whispering words which became louder and louder.

  “You have to get out of the box … you have to get out of the box…”

  The vision of a baseball bat heading towards him filled his mind. A bridge, drowning, punching. The voice became louder. Struggling against whatever force was pinning him down, he punched and kicked, shouting. His eyes flew open and he squinted at a blurry figure nearby as he gulped in hair. Sarah was staring right at him, looking terrified. He fell out of bed and slumped against the wall.

  “Are you alright?” Her voice wavered. “I was so worried.” Tears were running down her cheeks. “What have they done to you?”

  He pulled himself up, grabbing Sarah for balance, and wiped her tears.

  “I’m so sorry, what happened? What time is it?”

  “3 a.m. You were dreaming, more like a bloody nightmare. You’re bleeding.”

  She pulled a towel, rubbing it over the cut on his head.

  “Some demons bothering me … oh, my head!”

  “You somersaulted into the wall, practically screaming.”

  Grabbing the towel, he rubbed it across his head, glancing at the red blood seeping across his palms.

  “Let me tend to it. I know what I’m doing. I came across a first-aid kit in the maid’s room last night. Thought it would come in useful. Give me a minute”

  Sarah disappeared through the door, returning with a red plastic box. Slamming on the bed, she pulled out a sanitiser wipe, ripping it open with her teeth. She wiped it across his wound.

  “Your dream gave me a fright.” She placed a large plaster across the cut and dragged him towards the bed. “You have a serious problem, Brock. If this cut becomes infected, you’ve had it.”

  “It’s a simple cut. The body will fix it. Did I scream anything about you?”

  “Yes.” She scratched her nose. “And you have one hell of a problem. I believe psychologists term it post-traumatic stress disorder, and in my opinion, you’re suffering from it badly.”

  “Rubbish.”

  “I’m dying for coffee,” she said.

  “There is none.”

  “Could have stemmed from the army but…”

  “Doubt I ever enlisted. Ty talked crap. The recurring dreams started since leaving the hospital, probably from the attack.”

  “Yet you can only remember what happened since?”

  Brock nodded.

  “I’ve noticed your hyper-vigilance outside. Your alertness, continuous and unable to switch off nightmares, flashbacks … all symptoms of post-traumatic—”

  “I’ll pop into the room down the corridor, bound to be some coffee sachets stored,” he said.

  “I’d say something happened to you recently, By the sound of it, someone held you incommunicado, before your attack. Judging by your screams, it was likely unpleasant. Do you know what ‘the box’ is?”

  Brock shook his head stepping off the bed and she pulled him back she shot him a glance.

  “Because I do.”

  A shooting pain ran through his temple.

  “You need medical assistance. Smashing your head on the wall practically knocked you out. I’d say you have a concussion, maybe even a fractured skull.”

  He smiled at her.

  “You can be my medical assistance. Anyway, it’s a simple knock, one of many to my hard skull. It can take it.”

  Sarah rubbed her eyes. “Probably best if you stay awake. It’s good to stay after a concussion. I’m getting a real urge for coffee now. My horrid addiction, unfortunately. The wine last night made a good substitute, but I need a mug of coffee desperately.”

  He stepped towards the door.

  “My eyes flew open to the bed violently shaking,” Sarah blurted out. “And you were mumbling about this box. I thought it was just one hell of a bad dream. Your mumbles got louder and you complained about the light. Ironic because it’s very dark in here. I rubbed your head and you leapt across the room shouting something about a bridge. You were about to shout a name until you came crashing into the wall hitting your head. Who would it be?”

  He grabbed the handle, opening the door and staring into the corridor as if looking for answers.

  “You suffered a trauma recently. It might be a good idea to open up, help to find out who you really are,” she said.

  Brock headed down the corridor, opening doors. Sarah peered her head around the door, shouting, “It might jog a few memories.”

  “Bad news, the rooms are free of coffee, but I’ve found a kettle.”

  She yawned at him, turning it into a frown. “After all this debacle, I desperately require coffee in my system. Surely someone dropped a sachet somewhere.”

  “Checked downstairs earlier, nothing, sorry,” he said.

  “Damn, we need to rip this hotel brick from brick until we find some.”

  “You’re worrying me.”

  “I’m desperate for coffee,” she said, her hands trembling. “The wine numbed my addiction last night. Caffeine needs to be injected into my body; it’s seriously affecting my brain. I can’t think straight, it’s killing me, the urges, it’s like a drug. I’ll pop downstairs. I’ve got to find some.”

  He grabbed her arm. “I’m coming with you, we’ll find some.”

  Slamming the jar down, she jumped on the bed. He clicked the kettle on.

  “Stick two spoonfuls in, please.”

  Brock massaged his head, throwing the coffee in and pouring hot steamy water into the cups. She grabbed the cup out of his hand.

  “Truth is, I knew something was up from the start.”

  His eyes widened as he guzzled his coffee. She sat up.

  “I always trusted you. Call it a gut feeling.”

  She ran her hand through her hair, peeking at the empty wine bottles thrown on the floor.

  “Did we drink all this wine last night?”

  He shrugged. “Suppose so.”

  She blew some air out of her mouth. “I was wondering how you ended up at the gym?”

  “Simple really, a form of rehabilitation
I suppose. After the attack my body was somewhat weak. I took up hiking, which quickly turned into jogging, then running. Bumped into a guy in a bar, or rather he bumped into me.”

  “So, you were a personal trainer all along? Did you know?”

  “I wish! I was never a personal trainer. He offered me a job to train like one, but the reality is he needed some cheap labour. Sure, I’d applied for other jobs, but with no avail. Sergei took an interest in me at the bar, chatted, and the rest is history.”

  “Did you ever consider it was odd? I mean, a Russian guy approaching you, talking to you out the blue, offering you a job on the spot …”

  “It was a Russian bar, I knew that. He seemed genuine and wanted cheap labour. Why?”

  “Because—”

  Sarah jumped at some rustling coming from the window. Brock necked the rest of his coffee in one and grabbed his pistol, making his way over. Slowly, he pulled the duvet and curtain, peering out. She jumped up to hide behind the bathroom door.

  “Be careful,” she whispered.

  “It’s only a pigeon. Told you, we’re fine.”

  She bounced back onto the bed. “Rumours were flying around the gym about Sergei.”

  “They always do. People make things up. He’s an alcoholic and an unlikely candidate for a Russian agent. That is what you heard, I take it?”

  “Maybe he was monitoring you somehow if he made the effort to take an interest from the start.” She peeked at him.

  “For what reason?”

  She opened her eyes wide at him but said nothing.

  “This morning I came across some canned food in the kitchen. I know it’s early, but fancy making some breakfast?”

  Nodding, she stepped onto the carpet, slipped her jacket on, and they both headed downstairs.

  Sarah trotted out of the kitchen with big two steaming plates of beans and hot-dog sausages, placing them on the hotel bar.

  “The shelves are practically bare. We should consider doing a shop soon or we’ll starve.”

  “You mentioned upstairs you know what the box could be … well?”