Blood Junction Read online

Oh my God, she thought. She found herself shrinking on the chair to appear smaller. Her legs wanted to cross themselves, her arms to wrap themselves around her. She wanted to turn into a protective ball and roll out of there. She willed her legs not to move, and slid her hands over her thighs, fingers outspread, relaxed and confident.

  Stan came over and put his mouth near her ear. His lips were so close she could feel the hairs on her cheek stiffen as he spoke. “Now, Miz Kane, let’s talk. I’m the boss here, and you’re a murdering bitch. You’ve come into my town and killed one of my officers. So now you’re going to make a full confession.”

  She registered that his breath smelled of onions and stale beer.

  “As a journalist, you know what us cops say about homicide. That ninety-nine percent of murders are committed by people the victim knew. And here we are, with one attractive young man dead between two attractive young women. Sounds like an open and shut case of jealousy to me.”

  He reared back to stare down at her, waiting for a response.

  India kept her gaze on a scar in the linoleum, shaped like a lion’s head. It had been planned, she realized. Stan the bully. Whitelaw the nice guy. Between them, they would work their hardest to crack her into making a confession for something she hadn’t done.

  Stan pushed his beetroot face next to hers once more. “You’re going to jail,” he said. “For life. A life of fear and degradation you don’t even know exists. Wardens will hire you out, touting your pretty tanned ass to anyone who can pay. You’ll have broom brushes jammed up your fanny, your ass, until your eyes pop clear outta your head.”

  Because she didn’t know what else to do, India continued staring at the floor.

  “So,” said Stan, “tell me how it happened.”

  India kept her gaze fixed downwards. She didn’t want to antagonize him further. He was already in full flow.

  “Tell me how it happened,” he said again.

  She didn’t move a centimeter.

  Stan’s fist seemed to come from nowhere. One second she was sitting on the chair, the next she was sprawled on the floor, her jaw pounding with pain.

  “Look at me when I’m talking to you, bitch,” Stan said. He came and stood over her.

  India felt a hot flame of rage ignite inside her. She hadn’t thought she’d feel anything after seeing Lauren dead, but she’d been wrong. She was alive. And she was angry. She welcomed that, at least.

  “Stubborn cow,” he hissed.

  She ran her tongue around her teeth. All intact, but her tongue was bleeding and the left side of her face already felt hot and swollen. You’ve got to take this, and don’t even think of fighting back. If she hit a policeman, she’d be in even bigger trouble. So she lay there, the taste of blood in her mouth, while Stan loomed over her, fists clenching and unclenching at his sides.

  “But you won’t be so stubborn in a couple of hours. Because you’re going to the cells tonight, and you’re going to have company. We’ve only got six cells here, and funnily enough five are currently being redecorated, so you’ve got to share. His name’s Mike Johnson, otherwise known as Mikey the Knife. I’ll let you think about why he’s called that. He’s chilling out after a bit of a bloodbath in town so I wouldn’t make too much of a noise. He’s got a temper.”

  India traced the heat along her jawbone. She scrambled to her feet, put her shoulders back, tried not to allow a tremor to show in her voice. “I will not be intimidated into confessing to something I didn’t do.”

  Stan grinned. “Mikey’s gonna love you, sweet cakes.”

  India’s tongue seemed to have glued itself to the roof of her mouth. She couldn’t confess, she might end up in jail for life. But a night with Mikey might be even worse. She stared at Stan, transfixed with indecision.

  He shook his head as though helpless against the turn of events. “We may as well go down then. But when you’ve had enough of old Mikey—I’ve heard he’s hung like a horse—just give us a yell and we’ll get you outta there.”

  Stan took India down the corridor to the cell block, which was divided into six separate holding pens with vertical bars. Every square inch of each cell was visible from outside, and was carpeted with caramel-colored linoleum. Metal bunks were fixed to each wall, along with a stainless steel basin and a toilet with no lid. There was a pervasive smell of urine, cigarette smoke and stale sweat. Stan stopped outside the first cell on the right and unlocked the gate section.

  “Your executive suite, madam,” he mocked.

  Mikey the Knife was sprawled on the bunk. He lay face up, mouth agape, with one foot and hand resting on the floor as if to anchor himself. A thick brown ponytail with sun-bleached split ends nestled like a pet snake in the nape of his muscular neck. Dwarfing the bunk with his beefiness, he looked like a bouncer who had been in an all-night brawl: his T-shirt was torn in several places, and his jeans were dark with dirt and bloodstains.

  Stan pushed her inside, clanged the gate shut.

  Mikey gave a muffled groan.

  India shrank back and immediately her shoulders connected with the chill of steel bars.

  The big black bat of fear returned to flutter through her entrails.

  “Truly, you don’t have to do this,” Stan said, sorrowfully shaking his head at her.

  You’ve been scared half to hell and back before, India told herself. Don’t give in now.

  “Come on,” said Stan persuasively. “You don’t want to be shut up with the likes of Mikey, all for the sake of signing a little bit of paper.” He was holding up the bunch of keys as if to tempt her outside, his expression sympathetic.

  India glanced at Mikey, the way he was snuffling in his sleep. She shook her head. She’d never forgive herself for being tricked into confessing to something she hadn’t done just to avoid spending the night with a man who—she reminded herself in panicky optimism—she hadn’t even met yet.

  Stan locked the gate. “Just give us a shout,” he said coaxingly, “and I’ll get you outta there pronto, no harm done.”

  Dry-mouthed, India slid along the bars to the corner farthest from Mikey and slowly sank to the floor, listening to Stan’s footsteps recede. She barely took in the walls, scratched with names and drawings of male and female genitalia. She was watching Mikey the Knife sprawled on his bunk, sleeping sweetly as a baby.

  FIVE

  INDIA WAS FIGHTING TO REMAIN AWAKE.

  Mikey the Knife had slept continuously for about two hours now, and she had watched him, petrified of what would happen when he regained consciousness. Would he beat her up first? Or would he rape her? Should she bluff it out and face him head on? Or should she curl up in the corner and not move, and let Mikey kick the shit out of her until he tired of it?

  But I know what broken ribs feel like, she thought. I know what it is to have a man’s fist bury itself into your midriff so hard and fast you can’t help but vomit. And when he punches you in your kidneys, just so, with a hard twist right up in the corner, I can recall exactly the thought that goes through your mind: I want to die.

  Don’t go talking like that, hon. It doesn’t do you no good.

  Lauren?

  Who else? And at the risk of sounding stupid, what the heck are you doing in there?

  It’s a mistake, that’s all.

  Well, just you watch out, girl. He looks mean enough to scare a scorpion into hiding.

  I’ll act tough.

  You do that.

  India’s eyes suddenly flicked open. Mikey was still sprawled on his bunk in the same position. The fluorescent lights continued to glare uncompromisingly.

  It was just my imagination talking to Lauren, she thought dazedly. My subconscious can’t cope with the fact she’s dead. That she’ll never be coming to the rescue again. That I’m alone.

  But what if I do have a grandfather here? Then I won’t be alone. Lauren said he was fabulous. Which means he’ll look like Father Christmas with a shock of white hair, a thick curly beard and twinkling blue eyes … Huh! Kno
wing my family he may look sweet, but he’s probably into chain-saw massacres in his spare time.

  India closed her eyes. Almost immediately she fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.

  She had no idea what time it was when Stanley Bacon returned. She was shocked awake by the loud jangle of the gate behind her and immediately sprang to her feet, heart pounding.

  “You look just about ready to do business,” said Stan with a sly grin.

  She glanced at Mikey, who didn’t seem to have moved a millimeter since she’d first laid eyes on him. If a brass band had been playing right by him, she reckoned he wouldn’t wake up.

  “No, I’ll never ‘do business.’” She turned from him and sat down again.

  Stan glared at her. “You’d better confess or I’ll wake Mikey. Then you’ll be in trouble.”

  India scrambled to her feet, managed to remain calm. “That’s an empty threat if ever I heard one.” She checked Mikey’s recumbent form. “He’s comatose.”

  “He won’t be forever.”

  She shrugged her shoulders.

  “Have it your way. I’ll come back in an hour, see if you’ve changed your stubborn little mind.”

  “Don’t bother.” She sat back down again. She was surprised at her own recklessness. “I can wait until morning, when Jerome gets here.”

  She was so absorbed in watching the policeman stride away that she failed to pick up a movement from the bunk.

  “… the hell’s going on?” The voice was deep and gravelly and weighted with confusion.

  India jumped. She strove to wipe her face free from all expression and to steady her ragged breathing.

  Keep your cool, girl. Don’t let him see your fear.

  She took three slow, deep breaths through her nose, and assumed a meditative position. She placed her hands on her knees and set her shoulders straight.

  With apparent indifference, she let her eyes travel slowly across the floor to Mikey’s well-worn leather boots and up his grimy, bloodstained clothes until they came to rest on his face. It was a strong face, with a big beaky nose and a jaw like a shovel. A scar ran up through one eyebrow.

  “Are you talking to me?” she said, her tone unfriendly.

  “Don’t tell me there’s more of you in here?” He swivelled his head to check the cell’s perimeter, and paled. A sheen of sweat appeared on his skin and he fixed his bloodshot eyes on her, his expression oddly stricken.

  “If you’re going to be sick,” India said, “could you make sure you aim in the middle of the bowl? I really can’t stand the smell of drying vomit.”

  Mikey stumbled to his feet and obediently stuck his head right inside the stainless steel toilet before throwing up noisily.

  India sat there trying to look serene while he repeatedly flushed the toilet and then stood over the sink, splashing water over his face and neck and hair and rinsing his mouth. He weaved back to his bunk and sat there, wiping his face on the shoulder of his T-shirt. He looked marginally better, but she could see his hands were shaking and his skin was still gray.

  India concentrated her gaze on a space on the wall ahead, as if meditating.

  After a while he said, “What the hell are you doing in here?” sounding genuinely puzzled.

  Slowly she counted to ten before turning her head and looking straight at Mikey. He had laughter lines at the corners of his eyes and a generous mouth. His body was broad and lean and fit, his belly flat. If he hadn’t been so filthy and reeking of alcohol and vomit he could almost be termed attractive.

  “Come on.” He sent her what he obviously thought was an engaging smile. “Your secret’s safe with me, promise.”

  “Put it this way, I’m not here to wash your socks or do your ironing.”

  “Bloody hell,” he said. He was gazing at her as though fascinated. “Are you having a bad day or are you just a ball buster? One of those women who think men are a subspecies?”

  She pictured her father, then Red-cap, and the mob, and Stan. When she spoke she told him the truth. “I hate men.”

  He stared at her for some time, seeming to pale further as he watched her. Eventually, he lay back and closed his eyes. When India finally stole a look at him, he was fast asleep. She felt her shoulders slump as she exhaled with relief. More confident now, she rested back against the bars and closed her eyes.

  “Psst!” a shadow hissed at India, and nudged her.

  This time India didn’t spring to her feet in a jet of fear. Instead, she groaned her protest at being disturbed. At a second nudge, her consciousness crawled reluctantly out of the deep blanket of sleep and she opened her eyes. They felt as if they had been rolled in grit, and her mouth was sour. She felt hungry, dirty and exhausted.

  “I’ve brung you a coffee,” said the shadow, and pushed a steaming foam cup through the railings.

  “Oh, Polly.” She was touched. “You’re a lifesaver, you really are.”

  “You’re glad to see me?” The girl’s face was alight with so much eagerness that India recoiled a little.

  “I’m glad of the coffee.” She saw the hurt in Polly’s eyes, but was too tired to care. Curled on her side, she started to sip with her eyes closed. Thin and watery, it was probably the worst cup of coffee she’d had, but the heat and sweetness cut the staleness of her mouth and after a while she opened her eyes and murmured, “Delicious.”

  Polly’s face brightened as though a torchlight had been switched on from inside.

  “So where’s mine then?”

  They both looked at Mikey.

  “Didn’t know you was here.”

  “You know this man?” said India.

  “Everyone knows Mikey.”

  “Polly,” he said, “what time is it?”

  “’Bout seven.”

  “Bugger off and get Whitelaw, will you? I’ve had enough of sharing my cell with this woman.”

  India half turned. Mikey was sitting on his bunk, his face swollen by alcohol, ponytail hanging limply down the back of his torn T-shirt.

  “You don’t like India?”

  Mikey fixed her with a speculative gaze. “Not as yet, no.”

  Polly squirmed like a puppy in distress.

  “I’m sure she’s nice deep down, Poll,” he said wearily. “Go on, do us a favor and get Whitelaw. I just want to go home is all.”

  India kept an eye on Mikey as the girl scampered, soft-footed on her dirty bare feet, down the corridor.

  Whitelaw appeared five minutes later, freshly shaven and crisply shirted. The clean smell of soap washed through the odor of vomit and sweat like a rainstorm after drought. For a few seconds he stood there staring around him.

  “Did this jail go dual-sex overnight?” he remarked. “Or am I seeing things?”

  Mikey rolled off his bunk and came to stand by the cell gate. He was taller than Whitelaw, well over six feet. “Just get me out,” he said.

  “What’s your hurry?” Whitelaw inquired. “Your cell mate not pretty enough?”

  Mikey flicked her a look. “As it happens I’ve never found her sort attractive. Too thin, too uptight and altogether too aggressive.” He made a gesture of impatience. “Come on, Jed, get on with it, will you?”

  The gate swung wide with a metallic groan. Mikey walked into the corridor. Cautiously, India followed him, stood at a wary distance. There was a silence before Whitelaw said, “Miss Kane. Could you fill me in on what’s happened here?”

  “Ask Sergeant Bacon.”

  Whitelaw narrowed his eyes at Mikey. “What’s the score?”

  “The usual.” He looked India in the eyes. “Can’t believe Stan was so stupid. He ought to have known she’d never crack. That type never does.”

  Whitelaw gave a sigh. “Let’s get you both processed,” he said. “Mike, Donna will deal with you. Miss Kane, if you’d follow me, I’ll see if we can’t get you a shower.”

  India followed the two men down the beige corridor. Whitelaw pushed the swing door back with a little rubber snap. Too much sunshi
ne. It made her eyes ache and her head throb. Donna was talking on the radio, dark hair bobbed and shiny, shirt bright white. The look she sent India made her acutely aware of the grime she’d picked up in the past twenty-four hours. India watched as Donna turned her attention to Mikey, gave him a flirtatious little wave. Mikey ignored her and peered over the counter. He pocketed a wallet, a bunch of keys, and hooked a mobile phone to his belt. He then peered at a pile of forms beside a computer, ruffled them with a finger.

  “I collected your backpack this morning,” Whitelaw said to India. “Thought you might like a change of clothes. Won’t be a minute.” He went through a door behind the counter and disappeared.

  Donna switched off the radio. “Mikey, you know you’re not supposed to read those.”

  He didn’t seem to hear. He’d picked up a white form and was staring at it. He swayed slightly and put a hand against the wall and continued to stare.

  “Come on, Mikey, give it back,” Donna said.

  Mikey ignored her. He looked across at India, his face white and strained. “You’re India Kane?”

  “Yes.”

  “You’re the woman who killed Tiger.”

  “No! I didn’t have anything to do—”

  “Shut your mouth.” He didn’t shout. His voice was calm yet filled with revulsion. “Or I’ll shut it for you.”

  He pushed the form onto the countertop and stood there, both hands clenched into meaty fists.

  She took two steps back, swallowed drily. “I didn’t kill Tiger. It’s a mistake, I shouldn’t be—”

  “SHUT UP!”

  A clatter of footsteps.

  “What the …” Whitelaw took in the discarded white form, Mikey’s expression. “Hell.” He crossed the room to stand by Mikey, gripped his arm. “Mikey, I’m sorry,” he said. “I’d planned on telling you later.”

  His furious expression didn’t change. He pulled his arm free and continued glaring at India. “I hope you hang her.”

  “I think you’d better go. We’ll sort your fine out later.”

  “And hang her high.” His voice cracked. “He was only twenty-three, for Christ’s sake …”