Bad Actors (Slough House, #8)(85)

. . . He used my name. No particular shock attached to the knowledge. There was, if anything, a sense of comfort. Here she was, miles from anywhere—exiled, even, from Slough House—and she was still the centre of events. Still pursued by bad actors.

Of whom this particular example turned on some speed, enough that he could grab her by the ankle. As she reached the top of the stairs, Shirley hit the floor face first.

“What seems to be the problem?”

Odd how he fell into deferential mode as he lowered his window and craned his neck to address the shadow. Something to do with being English, he supposed. Or everything to do with being Claude Whelan.

It was a young man with a long face, sideburned and stubbled. Whelan could smell alcohol as he crouched to speak through the window.

“Accident.”

“Is anyone hurt?”

“. . . Eh?”

“Is. Anyone. Hurt?”

The young man nodded vigorously.

“Many. Yes. Big accident.” He put his hands together then moved them apart slowly, to indicate the violence of whatever had just occurred. “Boosssshhhhhhhh . . .”

From the direction of the San a fire alarm burst into life.

“Well, that should bring help,” Whelan said, and pressed the button to raise the window.

The young man put his hand in the gap, preventing it from closing.

“What are you doing?” said Whelan.

“You have to go back.”

“The road seems clear.”

“No. All blocked. Go back the way you came, yes? No worries.”

“I see. Yes, fine. All right, then. I’ll go back the way I came.”

He studied his wing mirror for traffic, then made doubly sure by looking over his shoulder, one or other of which actions satisfied his new friend that he intended to reverse to a passing place and turn the car around. The hand was removed from the window.

Whelan nodded politely, closed the window and drove forward, the car leaping a little as if eager to be on its way. In his mirror, he saw the young man prancing about: Was he shaking his fist at the car? Whelan rather thought he was. That was pleasing. His own arms were tingling in a way that might have been worrying in another context, but in this one spelt energy, coming off him like sweat.

He turned where the gates used to be, and there was the San at the end of the driveway, its ground floor lit. The truck that had ploughed through the gates had parked by its entrance; it was in fact a people carrier, now flanked by a pair of cars, their doors wide. A number of motorbikes were lined up behind, like an honour guard. And meanwhile a fire alarm pulsed steadily, beneath which Whelan could make out a different rhythm, one he had no name for, but recognised from crowd scenes: demonstrations turning edgy; railway stations when trains refused to arrive. Even inside the car he could feel the drumbeat. It was the wrong place to be—like the moment you drop a cup, before it hits the floor. Something’s going to break. He stopped abruptly just short of the other vehicles, and changed gear. Then flinched as a face appeared by his window.

A fist rapped on the glass.

There was someone behind him, too, blocking his exit.

He reached for his mobile and fumbled it, dropping it into the footwell, when the fist bashed against his window once more. Words were shouted.

Open the door. Get out of the car.

Not going to happen.

He unclipped his seatbelt and bent for his phone. As he did so the fist hit the windscreen again, hard enough to make the car wobble, and causing Whelan to bang his head on the steering wheel. Sudden pain, and with it fear: What the hell had he been doing, driving into a mini-riot? And he sensed, rather than saw, other figures clustering round the car, casting shadows onto its interior.

Another thump. How much would the windscreen stand, and what if they used something other than bare fists?

He found his phone, slid back upright, and all four car doors rattled as their handles were gripped and tugged.

The San was open, light spilling onto its forecourt. And maybe these are patients, thought Whelan. Maybe this was a multiple-medication failure . . . But they were all male, and much of an age, not the diverse range of the damaged the San hosted, and how was this happening? Where was security, for god’s sake? Even as he had the thought a man in a blue shirt, dark trousers, came flying through the front door to land sprawling on the gravel. He’d barely hit the ground before one of the marauders leaped out after him and kicked him in the head. Then did it again.

Whelan’s innards tightened. If they pulled him out of the car, he’d be compost in minutes.

If Claire could see you now.

But she couldn’t, and nor could anyone, save this bunch round his car.

But the Park must know the alarm was ringing; help must be on its way. There was no one to call, nothing to do except leave, now, quickly. Dropping the phone into his lap, he grabbed the wheel with one hand, reached for the brake with the other, and the car lurched, throwing him forward again, and then he was leaving the ground—Christ alive, he was in Chitty fucking Bang Bang—and then falling back to earth with a crunch, an impact felt in his teeth, in his eyes, in his spine. He was surrounded by mad laughter, the men howling with glee as they pounded his car with their fists.

On the gravel, yards away, the security man tried to push himself upright, and someone stamped on him.

Whelan’s face was wet. Nose bleed. His glasses had disappeared. An image of Sophie de Greer careered through his mind, blonde, glasses, suit and tie, and who on earth was she really? Couldn’t they just grab her and run, leave him alone? And now the bastards were lifting his car again and Christ here goes they were dropping it—