Bad Actors полностью

Louisa, anyway, didn’t get to make the call, though Eleven didn’t manage to snatch her phone, either; she sidestepped him, letting her arm drop as if it held a cloak, as if he were a bull. Pity she had no sword. He snorted past, whirled abruptly, and threw a blow that wasn’t a full bodied punch, more of a slap, which caught her on the shoulder. He thinks I’m a girl, she thought, and hit him on the nose, then danced back. He howled, more in anger than in pain she thought, and then again—more worryingly—in what sounded like delight. He bunched his fists. Seemed she wasn’t a girl anymore.

Still dancing, she tucked her phone into her jeans pocket, trying to ignore the fact that it immediately started to ring. Lech, she thought, and threw the thought away. Concentrate on the moment. Lech, not as far away as she supposed, was left staring at his own phone in frustration: Answer, damn it. And then: Where are you? He walked past the line of trees; felt the grass beneath his feet. It would be the height of stupidity to just set off into the dark and hope to find her; on the other hand, there weren’t any doors nearby he could kick down. This was as much as he could do.

So that’s what he did, his vision gradually adjusting to the dark that stretched out in most directions. He liked the dark, Lech Wicinski; in the dark, his face was no more scarred than anyone else’s. But this dark had a solid quality to it he didn’t often encounter on his night-time treks; the dark feels different when not buffered by buildings. It occupies the air more completely. The world behind Lech dropped away as if a curtain had fallen, smothering the light and killing most of the sound, not all of which was mechanical. Tempers were being lost; voices raised. Roddy had stalled trying to reverse out of the coach’s way, and the coach driver, an excitable type, had climbed out of his cabin to offer advice, much of which was retrospective in nature, and covered areas Roddy might usefully have attended to before venturing onto the roads or, indeed, leaving his mother’s womb.

Shirley said, “Just start the fucking car.”

“I’m trying!”

“Try harder?”

“He’s putting me off.”

This being the coach driver, who was bending down by Roddy’s window, indicating with hand motions that he should roll his window down, but doing so in such a manner that nobody in their right mind would comply.

“This should have been so easy,” Shirley said. “All we had to do was find Louisa. Now this guy wants to break you into pieces.”

Roddy took his hands from the steering wheel and shook his open palms at the louring coachman. “You’re not helping!” he shouted.

“Get out and give him a slap,” Shirley suggested.

“I might just do that in a minute.”

“Do you think he reads lips?”

Roddy tried the ignition again, and the car wheezed as if he’d gone for a choke-hold. The coach driver stepped away and sized the car up, estimating his chances of wrapping his arms round it and heaving it into the trees. You wouldn’t have laid good money against. The car, meanwhile—electric blue, cream flashing, chronic asthma—considered its immediate prospects and shuddered, while in front of it a coachful of tourists grew restless. Behind, as the temporary lights changed to green once again, a growing queue of traffic was rehearsing a symphony; light on strings, heavy on the horn section. The rumpus was enough to penetrate the row of trees; to reach out onto the common and tap Lech on the shoulder; enough, even, to reach Louisa a further few hundred yards away, and alone now with Green Trainers and Number Eleven—de Greer had turned and fled when the first punch had been thrown. Gone for help? Louisa wondered. Or just gone?

But she was too occupied to ponder long, because Number Eleven was aiming a kick at her head, and nearly connected, too.

And now here came Green Trainers on her left, his cack-handed attempts at brokering a truce abandoned. He was hopping from one foot to the other, keeping her guessing as to his next move. It wasn’t the first time this pair had tried to kick somebody’s head off. But they weren’t trained for it and they weren’t professional, otherwise why let their target slip away like that? She could see their teeth shining: they were enjoying themselves, and weren’t about to go on their merry way yet. Any time either of them made a connection, she was going to know all about it.

Her head torch was offering a target. She stripped it off and flung it over her shoulder, where it cartwheeled through the air before dropping blind to the grass. From a distance, it must have looked like a dying fairy’s last flight.

Number Eleven darted in and threw a punch. Louisa stepped back, nearly stumbled, righted herself and skipped sideways to avoid another kick from Green Trainers.

They knew what they were doing. And weren’t taking chances; it was as if they were used to facing down foes armed with basic weaponry—sticks and stones, perhaps; the bonebreaking standbys.