Chapter 4

Ok, everyone, here's what I was able to summon up for Chapter 4. Comments welcome!

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The loud rumbling of a diesel engine jolted Caro out of a deep slumber. For a moment she felt profoundly disoriented: where was she? What time was it? And what was she doing on this bus?

A wave of nausea swept through her as the memories surfaced. She closed her eyes and leaned her head against the glass pane. The previous twelve hours were a wretched, alcohol-infused nightmare. That cocktail party at the Foreign and Commonwealth Office. Leaving there and heading for the Tube; getting off at Notting Hill Gate, somehow ending up inside a pub she’d never been to before. Someone offering to light her cigarette … Joseph? James? Waking up in a strange bed … sneaking out in the wee hours, her heels clicking far too loudly on the pavement, holding her head up with an air of defiant dignity while her stomach churned and her mind raced: This time she would stop. This time she would. Whatever it took. Even if it meant being committed to the psych ward. It had cost her so much already – how far did she have to go before she lost it all?

In the cold corridor of her walk-up she had hesitated a moment before putting the key in the door – a premonition, perhaps; a hunch. The moment she stepped inside he pinned her arms behind her back and covered her mouth – his hand was calloused and smelled of stale cigarettes. A moment later there was cold steel against the base of her skull, and a hoarse voice: “Don’t try anything or you’re dead.” Clear and concise.

He shoved her forward so that she stumbled and fell against the opposite wall. Slowly she turned her head, terrified. He was holding a pistol down by his side and the cold look in his small, beady eyes sent shivers through her. He wore a baseball cap and ill-fitting jeans. She’d never seen him before.

“Pack your bag,” he said, “you’re going on a little trip.”

“Where …” she began, and swallowed; her mouth was dry as sandpaper. She tried again. “Where am I going?”

“An old friend wants to see you – in Iceland.” He paused and sneered. “You might want to pack your woollies.”

Eddie.

Caro’s teeth began to clatter uncontrollably. Ten years ago he’d disappeared – the word on the street being that he’d finally got his comeuppance. But lately there had been a vague rumour, whispered through the grapevine: He’d resurfaced in Iceland – a country so innocuous that nobody suspected anything untoward. Evidently it was a perfect place from which Eddie could run his various scams – a global racket run from the shores of a peaceful fjord.

A steel-toed boot in her ribs obliterated all thought. “MOVE IT!”

Less than half an hour later she was sitting in the back of a car speeding towards Heathrow. Her assailant sat next to her, the gun carefully placed on the seat beside him; up front the driver wore a baseball cap and glanced at her frequently in the rear-view mirror. As they neared the terminal, the man next to her placed an envelope on the seat between them, then began speaking in a low voice, staring straight ahead. “Listen, and listen carefully. I’m going to walk you to the security gate. You’ll act like you’re going on holiday – like you’re having fun. You get an open ticket and you get on that plane. When you land you’ll get the airport shuttle to Reykjavík. There’s a room at Hotel Borg that has your name on it. You stay in there until someone contacts you.” He paused, still staring straight ahead. “Don’t do anything stupid or our mutual friend will be very upset. He already knows that dumbfuck Ryan is on his trail.” He paused, then turned his head to look at her, speaking in a low, menacing voice. “We also know where your ex-husband lives. And your little boy.”

Caro began to tremble. She nodded.

The bus was filling up. The air was thick with the smell of sweat and diesel fumes. An American tourist sat down heavily in the seat next to Caro, her hip pressing into Caro’s seat, the excess flesh on her upper arm dangling as she gripped the seat in front of her. Minutes later the bus was travelling through the most bizarre landscape Caro had ever seen. It was like the moon; endless fields of lava, devoid of vegetation save for green-grey moss, with crevices and hollows as far as the eye could see.

An excellent place to hide a body.

The thought flashed through Caro’s mind involuntarily. She closed her eyes and leaned her head against the window again, struggling against the nausea that accosted her like the black plague. She was desperate for a drink. Desperate. She would give her right arm, sell her own …

She retched. The American woman jumped out of her seat like she’d been stung in the buttocks and stared down at Caro, who was heaving into the first thing available – a plastic bag containing a bottle of water and some chewing gum.

Stunned silence. Caro regained some semblance of composure.

“I’m sorry,” she mumbled, “Not feeling well …”

The American snatched her belongings from the floor and turned, finding a seat two rows back. Caro could hear snippets of her whispered outrage: ‘Booze on her breath!’, ‘Gross!”

At last, the bus reached some sort of terminal, and the passengers filed out. Caro waited until the last person had gone, then made her way to the ladies’ and rinsed her mouth, splashed water on her face. She stared at her reflection in the mirror; her hair matted and uncombed, her makeup smudged, the remnants of lipstick bleeding into the hairline wrinkles around her mouth. She looked haggard and jaded. And lost.

Outside, she hailed a cab and requested a fare to the Hotel Borg.