Rat Runners (21 page)

Manikin examined the stuff from the bag, sorting through the scattering of mundane things every girl carried around with her. The only unusual things were a copy of Orwell’s
Animal Farm
—the one with the mad illustrations by Ralph Steadman—and a set of keys adorned with the most key rings Manikin had ever seen in one bunch.

FX used a small blade to cut a couple of stitches in the seam at the bottom of the bag. He inserted a disc no bigger than the nail of his little finger, then sealed the tiny hole with a bead of superglue. Manikin handed him the SIM card from Veronica’s phone and he slipped it into a scanner attached to his own phone. Having cloned its number and downloaded its files, he handed it back, along with another tiny disc. Manikin fitted both back into the phone. A third bug was quickly concealed in the lining of Veronica’s wallet, and a fourth under the photo of her and her dad in a plastic fob on her key ring.

“OK, get out of here,” Manikin whispered, gathering everything back into the bag. “Time for me to get into character.”

“Break a leg,” he replied, and then he was gone.

“Won’t go that far,” she said, reaching up to tear the collar of her T-shirt, and rip a small hole in her tights over her left thigh. “But I do want to look the part.”

A quick application of some make-up made her look as if the corner of her mouth was slightly swollen. She could have got FX to give her a real split lip—he’d done it a few times before, not always with her permission—but there was no need. To an amateur like Veronica, in the atmospheric lights of a nightclub, Manikin would look every bit the conquering hero.

VERONICA AND HER friends were still standing outside the nightclub, discussing what had happened with expressions of shock and excitement. The bouncers, who had shown no sign of chasing after the thief, were still chivalrous enough to let the girls have some time out of the queue to wait and see if the pursuers had any success. When the two guys came back, the girls groaned their disappointment, but applauded the lads for having a go. Veronica was quite upset—an early state of drunkenness making her all the more dramatic. Her face had gone pale beneath her make-up, contrasting with the purple-red birthmark down the left side of her face. She wanted to give up on the night and go home, but her friends were all trying to persuade her to come on into the club.

Then Manikin showed up with a tired, triumphant smile on her face, holding the handbag in the air for the whole crowd to see. There was a chorus of cheers and whistles.

“Oh my God!” Veronica gasped, gratefully taking back her bag. “You did it! You absolute star! Honey, whoever you are, I owe you, big time! I’m Veronica, but everyone calls me Nica. Who the hell are you?”

“Georgina—but I bloody hate the name. Call me George,” Manikin replied. “It was no problem. The little weasel threw a hissy fit when I caught him, but he was more scared of getting caught on camera than anything else. He took off when I started shouting for help. No big deal.”

“No big deal, she says,” Nica scoffed as she exchanged looks with her friends and tugged on Manikin’s torn collar. “Well, you’re my knight in shining Docs, George.”

High on the excitement, they were all hugging Manikin and whooping like a team that had just scored the winning goal. Then, turning to the bouncers standing at the door, Nica announced:

“She’s with us. And I’m paying her admission.”

The club was already nearly full with bodies, hot and stuffy and pounding the customers’ brains with drum and bass that Manikin could feel in her bones. She heard a voice just over the music, but couldn’t hear what it was saying. Turning, she found Nica pointing at her leg.

“Hey, your tights are torn!” the girl shouted in her ear, offering a bottle of beer.

Manikin looked down at the hole in the fabric covering her left thigh. Taking the bottle that Nica was handing to her, Manikin put it to her mouth. She acted as if she was taking a long slug of it, but took hardly any at all. She rarely drank and anyway, she’d need her head straight for this job. Then she handed back the drink for a minute, reached down, tore a few more holes in her tights, and took back the bottle.

“Cool!” Nica laughed. “Makin’ a fashion statement, huh?”

“Yeah, it’s the post-mugger look!” Manikin responded, clinking her bottle against Veronica’s. “Let’s make a toast to our useless bloody police!”

Nica’s face fell suddenly, and there was pain in her eyes. Manikin wondered if she’d pushed it too far—the girl
had
to be angry that the authorities weren’t investigating her dad’s death. But Manikin felt a shiver of guilt at reminding Nica why she was trying to cut loose tonight.

“Yeah.” Nica nodded, as she said in a colder, harder voice: “I’ll drink to that. Here’s to the fuzz!”

Despite the noise, other people heard her and laughed, raising their drinks and joining in the toast.

“To the fuzz!” they roared.

Manikin was concerned now that she’d spoiled Nica’s mood, but the girl seemed all the more intent on partying. Manikin joined in for all she was worth, surreptitiously letting drink spill from her bottle when anyone wasn’t watching. The gang welcomed her into their circle, and she played her part just right: a girl out for a good time, without looking like she badly needed friends. As the night passed, she found herself liking Nica and her mates, part of her envying their normal lives. But then she would see a troubled shadow cross Nica’s face and think of the girl’s father, and Manikin would remind herself that there was no such thing as normal. Every now and again, the hair that covered the left side of Nica’s face would slip to one side and she would self-consciously put her hand to her face, brushing the hair forward to hide her birthmark as best she could.

Manikin knew Nimmo would be in here somewhere now, and her eyes occasionally looked around for him—and for any other watchers. But she didn’t spot anything until a remix of an old seventies hit came over the speakers, and an Oriental man strutted out of the crowd onto the dance floor. He was dressed in a white suit, complete with waistcoat, and a black shirt and shoes. Christ, she thought—it’s Coda. Shorter than most of the men around him, he still grabbed everyone’s attention as he took over the center of the grid of lit squares that made up the dance floor.

Then he started to move.

The girls in the room hollered and whistled their appreciation as Coda twisted, flowed and rippled across the floor, each dance step executed with perfect coordination and grace. Within the first twenty seconds, eight girls had joined him, and he allowed them to gather around him, like a lead performer on a stage surrounded by chorus girls. Manikin found herself staring at the spectacle with her mouth open. Coda met her eyes every time he turned in her direction, the arrogant smile on his face contrasting with his stone-cold gaze.

He pirouetted his way across the floor to her, and before she could react, he had taken her hand, pulling her out through his chorus line, some of whom threw jealous stares her way. Behind her, Nica and her mates cheered her on.

Manikin considered herself an accomplished dancer, but Coda had to tone down his moves so that she could keep up. She felt the steel-like strength in his fingers when he touched her, the power and agility of a panther in his gyrating body.

“You’re taking too long,” he said to her, pressing him to her as they took a sliding walk across the floor. At first she thought he meant her dancing, but then he went on: “Mister Easy shouldn’t have to involve me in this, but he’s not seeing any results. He’s getting impatient.”

“It’s only been two days,” Manikin retorted. “He gave us three. He didn’t hire us for a smash-and-grab job.”

“You can have until Sunday,” Coda snapped at her. “Don’t forget you’ve got a debt to pay off. If you don’t find that box, he’ll have to find other ways of getting his money out of you.”

He grasped the little finger of her left hand, folding the digit in on itself so hard into his own fingers he began to crush the joints. She twisted sharply in his arms, trying to escape the agonizing grip. With a flick of his hand, her arm locked out straight, pain shooting from her hand to her shoulder, causing her to gasp as he whirled her away from him like a whip. Coda spun her around and dropped her back into her seat beside Nica. She gritted her teeth and rubbed her aching finger, flexing her arm as he danced away from her. Then he turned to stride off the floor as the tune changed to a heavier, broodier number.

“Jesus, she can dance too!” Nica shouted. “George, you’re a goddamn star!”

Manikin didn’t reply, just shrugging and forcing a smile as she squeezed the throbbing joints. Coda had crushed that finger deliberately, sending her a very clear message. One of Move-Easy’s apes had broken that finger a year ago—the last time she and FX had failed to make a payment.

The night wore on, and Manikin stayed sober as the others got drunk, though she maintained the appearance of drinking as much as they did. As their conversation grew more manic and repetitive, Nica became more withdrawn, resisting the attempts of her friends to include her in the banter. At one point, she got up and wandered off. Manikin gave it a few minutes and then pretended to get up and go to the toilet, taking her bag with her. Casting her eyes around, she found the other girl sitting in a dark corner, next to a pile of coats. Nica had her phone out, and she was looking through some photographs. Manikin sat down beside her, offering Nica a swig from her bottle, but Nica shook her head.

“Sorry, you want to be on your own?” Manikin asked her.

Nica shrugged and shook her head.

“Just don’t feel like talking. You can sit where you like.”

“That’s OK,” Manikin said. “I get that sometimes.”

She let her bag fall to the floor, and it tipped over on its side, spilling some of its contents. It was a move she’d practiced to ensure it would fall the right way. Her purse ended up on the floor, along with a lip gloss, some keys and a book. Manikin gave Nica a furtive look, and hurriedly shoved the objects back into her bag.

“Hey, I saw that!” Nica lifted her head, giving her new friend a sly smile.

“What?”

“Don’t act the innocent—I saw the book. Come on, let’s have a look.”

Manikin checked that nobody else around them was looking, and took the book from her bag, slipping it discreetly into Nica’s hand. “Just keep your voice down, OK?” Manikin said into her ear.

“Are you kidding? Who’s going to hear us in this racket?”

It was a comic-book edition of
Fahrenheit 451
, a novel about a society that burned books, where anyone found in the possession of one could be imprisoned in a mental hospital, or have mechanical hounds sent out to hunt and kill them if they ran.
Fahrenheit 451
was the kind of book that could get you all the wrong kind of attention from WatchWorld.

“It’s in really good nick,” Nica said.

“It’s my brother’s. He’s completely anal about looking after his comics.”

“I could get a lot of money for that if you wanted to sell it.”

“Dunno, maybe. I do a bit of dealing myself,” Manikin said, taking the book and putting it back in her bag. “Ask me another time—let’s see if we can do a bit of business, yeah?”

Feeling that she had earned a bit more of Nica’s trust, she took a peek at the girl’s phone. The screen showed a picture of Watson Brundle.

“He looks a bit like you,” Manikin observed. “That your dad?”

“Yeah,” Nica said. She brushed her thumb across the screen, the movement sliding another photo across. “He died this week.”

“Jesus, I’m sorry. I lost my dad years ago. There’s nothing anybody can say, is there? It all just sounds like crap.”

Nica nodded. She slid another picture of her father across, and another. She didn’t say anything, but she didn’t try to hide the photos from Manikin either. It was as if she wanted to show Manikin her father: who he was, what he was like.

“They say his death was an accident,” Nica sniffed. “But I don’t believe it for a second. He … he got mixed up with some nasty people. Nobody else … nobody else knew about it, but I knew. He was terrified. There’s no way he died the way they say.”

Manikin was about to try and prompt her for more on her father’s death, but then frowned as a new photo crossed onto the screen.

“I think I’ve seen that guy before,” she said in an offhand way, pointing at the picture. “Who is he?”

In the foreground, Watson Brundle was holding up one of those Petri dishes—the shallow, flat-bottomed containers used for growing bacteria in a lab. There was a proud smile on his face. Behind him, a young man was walking through a door, his face just visible over Brundle’s shoulder.

“Oh, that’s nobody,” Nica muttered. “Just some guy who lived in Dad’s building, helped him out sometimes. His name’s Chuck. Chuck Farley.”