Ariom Dahl

© Moira Dahlberg 2009

This is a novel length crime story. It has appeared on www.authonomy.com
and my thanks to all those people on the site who gave comments and assistance.
Here, to help you decide whether or not you want to read it, are the short and long pitches I wrote for it.
It does contain adult material, including the odd four letter word here and there.
There's a little bit of sex, and a bit more violence.
On here, there are eleven pages, each containing four or five chapters.
Feel free to save and read at your leisure.

Short pitch:
When Slade was a teenager, he murdered a man. After that it got easier. It was even a way of making a living.

Long Pitch:

Few people enjoy their encounters with Gregor Slade; many indeed do not survive it.
He is a killer and efficient at the job, believing himself to have no human weaknesses.
But he's wrong. There are people he lets himself get close to, even when he knows he's making a mistake.

Joining forces with Kel Martin, to whom he is indebted since their meeting in Slade's adolescence,
he works against the laws of the country in which they all live.
Opposition to their actions comes from a small government back organisation run by Leif Dorran.

Matters become more complicated when one of Slade's few friends returns.
He then has to make decisions about the way he lives his life, and who must die in order for him to survive.

CHAPTER ONE

Paris 1950

From where he stood concealed behind the untidy pile of timber stacked against a wall, Kel Martin watched the scene unfolding before him. The man he was following staggered as he and the teenage lad with him made their way along the street and turned into an abandoned building site.

Bricks, timber, sheet metal and tiles were stacked or lay littered around, along with several half–empty drums of sand, water and concrete mix. Low, stunted trees fronted part of the site, sheltering it from the roadway. Shrubs and weeds had grown up over piles of discarded masonry. In the early morning light it was bleak and neglected.

The two stopped and Martin caught his breath but made no attempt to intervene when the lad turned away to pick up a broken brick from the ground. His companion's expression changed from shock to fear at this sudden attack as the boy struck at his head half a dozen times with the piece of brick.

With interest, Martin observed the manner in which the young killer bent to check his handiwork. Obviously, he did not intend theft and did not attempt to remove the dead man's wallet. Instead, he stood over the body, kicking at it viciously.

Time, Martin decided, for him to make his presence known.

CHAPTER TWO

In the cafe, Martin watched as the boy wolfed down a solid meal, followed it with coffee and sat back, lighting a cigarette from the pack the older man had bought for him. He wrinkled his nose at the acrid fumes.

"You do not smoke, m'sieur?"

"No. Do you have a place to stay, Gregor?" How long, he wondered, since the kid had had a square meal.

"Yes." Still wary, and probably lying, Martin decided. He had eaten a couple of rolls and drunk a cup of tea. He suspected the coffee might have been better. They had been offered wine but he had rejected it, to the boy's obvious disappointment.

"If you have quite finished that massive meal, we will go someplace quiet now, where we can talk without being overheard."

"What? In French, m'sieur."

Inadvertently, because he'd been concentrating on watching the boy, Martin had lapsed into English. When he repeated himself in French Gregor nodded.

For ten minutes they walked, by common assent in the opposite direction to where the dead man lay. In a quiet street, they entered a little stone church, empty but for a couple of black clad women kneeling by the altar and murmuring prayers.

At the back of the church, Martin pointed to a wooden pew.

"Sit there and talk to me, Gregor."

He concealed a smile as the boy's eyes flicked around before he sat, ensuring he was closer to the doorway.

"You try to touch me, and I'll –"

"Yeah, yeah," Martin said dismissively. "I saw what you did to that one, kid. I know what you're capable of. Now tell me about the little girl."

"Katya. She and I – we were friends. We had no one else."

"What about your parents? And hers?"

"I don't remember my parents. They … went away one day and never came back. I met Katya a few months later. Some older boys had tried to hurt her."

"You were both very young when this happened? How old? But you rescued her?"

"From them, yes. Their leader – he and I had a fight. I broke his nose. And his arm." He looked satisfied at the memory. "That was enough. They never bothered us again. She was – maybe ten or so. I was a bit older, and we stuck together for a while. We used to look after each other. We didn't have a proper home, nowhere to stay."

Martin looked at him. Gregor would have done most of the looking after, he thought. A ten–year–old girl would not have been much use, especially as she had been rescued in the first place. He could imagine what from. The boy intrigued him.

"You could have gone to an orphanage, or even a convent. Wasn't there anyone like that to look after you?"

"A convent. Ha!" The boy snorted rudely. "Nuns. They pray. Me, I don't pray. Not any more. You have no idea, m'sieur, what things were like here, when the war finished. There were so many like us. There were too many for anyone to be able to look after us all. The nuns tried, I suppose. But … we were doing all right by ourselves. Until the day those two filthy cochons picked us up. Pigs! They offered us a lift, money and food, but –" He stopped and was silent for a moment, looking into the past. At last he lifted his gaze and went on, his voice flat.

"They beat us, and they both raped her. She was a child, m'sieur. And me – I couldn't stop them. They made me watch what they were doing. One held me, and then the other. I couldn't do anything. Then they dumped us, like rubbish, at the side of the road." He shook his head. "Some English soldiers came along, not long afterwards, and they took us to a convent. They even gave us some money. The nuns – they looked after Katya but she died. I left them some of the money to look after her grave."

"And you remembered these men? This happened several years ago, didn't it? You've been looking for them ever since, because of what they did? That's why you killed that one? Why you never forgot them."

"Oh yes." The boy's face hardened. "I never forgot. Now I'm going to find the other one. And I will kill him too. For Katya. For what they did to her."

Martin regarded him. This boy both repelled and fascinated him. He had killed men himself, but seldom for revenge, or even for justice. Money was a much stronger motive. Now, almost forty, he had considered his future and decided he would prefer to be the one giving the orders rather than carrying them out. There was his family to think about, too, a young daughter and a teenage stepson. Not that he was of any importance.

His wife had left Martin, taking their baby daughter Kathryn and her own son Jon with her. But her freedom had been brief; less than six months after their divorce she had died from cancer. Martin had promptly hired a housekeeper to bring up the child. He and Jon however had always had as little contact as possible. The boy resented Martin, seeing him as an intruder and blaming him, illogically, for his mother's death. It hadn't helped, either, Martin reflected, when the boy had discovered what his stepfather did for a living.

His daughter was now six. If someone had hurt her as Gregor's young companion had been hurt, he would have committed murder himself. Martin felt nothing in the way of love for his daughter but she was his. Maybe he had more in common with this boy than he had thought.

"What will you do after that, Gregor?"

"I suppose I'll think of something." Clearly, he hadn't thought beyond revenge.

Martin grunted. "There is one thing I wonder about. You told me you didn't remember your parents." His voice hardened. "That was a lie, wasn't it?"

Gregor's mouth tightened. He didn't look at the other man but mumbled, his face down.

"I don't remember them, I tell you."

"What, did you kill them, too?" He didn't think it likely, but was interested to see Gregor's reaction.

"No!" The boy half rose, his fist lifted. "No, I didn't!"

Martin made a gesture of appeasement and he sank back onto the seat.

"All right. Tell me what happened."

"They were killed by a bomb, from an aeroplane. I don't even know if it was German or English." Martin could see the effort Gregor was making to keep his voice calm. "They went out one day and never came home. The priest came and told me. He said the nuns at the convent would look after me. I didn't want that, so I went." He let his breath out. "There was nothing to stay for."

Martin came to a decision. One he hoped he wouldn't regret.

"All right. I'll make a bargain with you." He reached into his pocket and took out the pistol. The boy's eyes widened. "I was looking for that man you killed. For a different reason, but if I had found him first he would have been just as dead." Not, however, so messily dead. There had been a lot of anger expressed in the blows the boy had given to his victim. Those vicious kicks were aimed, not at his head but at his lower body.

"Why?"

"Hmm?"

"Why were you looking for him?" Gregor repeated. "You told me you lived in Australia. Why are you here in Paris and looking for a man to kill?"

"Oh. For money." Martin shrugged. "It's what I do. Or what I have been doing. I had a list and he was the last one. Now I'm going home. I've made enough money to retire from doing the dirty work so I'm going to run my own business. Probably something along the same lines, but maybe different. I haven't made up my mind yet. Anyway –" He broke off and placed the weapon, a war issue Walther P38, down on the pew between them. "You can have this."

Gregor snatched it up. "Will you give me more ammunition, too?" He didn't say thank you, Martin noted.

"Yes. And there is something else. You can read, can't you? Do you speak any other language than French?"

"I am not stupid, M'sieur Martin. Of course I can read. And I speak a bit of German and Russian. Guten Morgen. Dos vedanya, tovarich. And so on. Even a little English." He continued in the latter, his accent upper class and clipped. "Good morning, sir. You're a murdering bastard, sir."

Martin grinned crookedly. The boy was showing off now, bravado perhaps. Those few words wouldn't get him anywhere. But he was sharp and clearly a fast learner. Probably he knew far more than he was willing to let on.

"Yeah, all right. Okay. This is what I propose. You have the gun. Here's more ammunition for it. And here –" He took out a notebook, wrote on a page and tore it out. "My name and my address. If you can keep yourself alive long enough to grow up, if you manage to learn to speak English – and if you can find your way to Australia and find me – I may be able to offer you a job. One day. Especially if you learn to use that. Right?" He indicated the gun and stood.

The boy laughed. One of the women at the front of the church turned and cast a disapproving look in their direction but they ignored her.

"You are asking me to do a lot, I think. There are many 'ifs' in that proposition. Do you imagine me capable of all that?"

"Indeed I do."

In fact, Martin imagined young Gregor capable of anything the boy put his mind to. No older than sixteen, maybe seventeen, and he had killed a man – beaten him to death with half a house brick – and shown no remorse. The nausea had been merely reaction. He let his mind go back to his first killing; he also had been sick, noisily and messily. But never since.

"Give me some money, too."

"What?" Martin blinked. Gregor was holding the pistol; it wasn't pointed at him but the boy was smiling faintly. "Why the hell should I do that? Haven't I given you enough already?"

"Money. You said you would have been paid – but I did your job for you, didn't I? So you can pay me now. Put it on the seat. Don't come any closer."

Martin chuckled as he placed half a dozen notes on the pew. He could well have broken Gregor's arm, or even his neck, but the lad's actions amused rather than irritated him. He definitely had potential.

"I look forward to meeting you again one day. When you've grown up." He nodded companionably. "What's your name?"

"Gregor. I told you."

"You'll need a surname."

"I can't remember it."

Didn't want to remember it, Martin decided. It seemed the boy had chosen to put that behind him.

"Hmm. Look me up when – if – you get to Australia. In about ten, maybe fifteen years, I reckon. If and when I ever move, I'll leave a message for you. Goodbye."

He didn't look back, but left Gregor sitting examining his new property. The loss of the pistol – which he had been intending to dump anyway – was an investment in the future. He didn't think it certain he'd ever see the boy again. But, he thought, you just never knew.

CHAPTER THREE

Australia 1965

At the knock, Kel Martin left his paperwork and opened the door of his small city office, used as a respectable front for his illegal activities. There was a tall young man there, who gave a slow and tentative smile. His voice was faintly accented.

"You may not remember me, M'sieur Martin, but I have not forgotten you. I'm still alive. I have learned to speak English. So – do you have a job for me now?" Even though they were alone, he lowered his voice and regarded the older man sombrely. "I had difficulty finding you. Some people were able to give me directions. One or two were reluctant. You appear to have made somewhat of a name for yourself one way and another."

Martin blinked in recognition. The eyes he remembered first, and afterwards the image of the teenage boy standing with his bloodstained makeshift weapon, all those years ago and on the other side of the world. He stepped back from the doorway.

"Gregor, yes? Come in. Skip the m'sieur bit, you're grown up, well and truly. And tell me what happened afterwards."

"I call myself Slade now. I found the other man I was looking for, and I killed him." He looked down, but was not abashed at the admission.
Martin stared. "You're very frank about that. I could be entirely the wrong person for you to be talking to."
Slade's eyes were chilly. He shook his head.

"I am not a fool, Martin." He sat and lit a cigarette. "I've been asking questions, too. About you, what you are and what you do."

"And?"

Slade ignored the question.

"Those two – they're not the only people I've killed. It got easier all the time. It seems to be something I'm good at. I trust that doesn't worry you."

"Hardly."

"I didn't think it would." The young man gave a faint, almost derogatory smile. Clearly, whatever answers he had got to his questions about Martin had satisfied him.

"I do need to see what you can do first, and exactly what you are capable of," Martin said. "After that, we'll talk again. Do you have a gun at the moment?"

"Yes."

"And you can use it, I trust?"
Gregor's smile widened. It was not a pleasant expression. They both remembered the young lad sitting on the church pew, examining his new property.

"Of course."

"How long have you been in Australia, Slade?"

"Long enough to find out a lot of very interesting facts. But you can tell me more, I'm certain."

"After I see what you can do."
For the first time he asked himself whether he had done a smart thing all those years before, when he had set this young man on his way. In that moment he realised that he didn't think he was going to like this older and more knowledgeable Slade very much. Not that it mattered. He would control the man. Liking was neither here nor there.

In the time between their first and second meetings, Martin himself had changed, adding to his involvement in crime – albeit as a small player – to politics as well. He received financial backing from sources outside the country, with their ultimate goal the downfall of the national government. Martin was but one of the many small go betweens they employed to this end.
In spite of considering himself of vital importance, Martin was strictly small time. At any one time, his organisation seldom numbered more than four or five people. Their activities were not merely criminal but treasonable. Slade went on.

"I heard names … Carl Raven was one of them."

Martin's mouth tightened. Damn.

"He worked for you, but he doesn't any more. What happened to him?"

Martin scowled. "He's dead. In a car smash. It happens. You might have come along at the right time for both of us, Slade. And – regardless of whether I take you on or not, you will be paid for what I need done this time."

"Of course. I don't work for nothing."

Slade leaned against the wrecked car and smoked, his expression morose. He could have handled this job better, he told himself. Getting stuck in the middle of the night in the middle of nowhere with no means of transport was not smart. Coming from Europe, he had found Australia – and especially the country areas – a total culture shock. On the whole, he preferred the cities. More people; less open space. Starting on the east coast, he had drifted through a succession of occupations, not all of them involving violence or illegalities. Nonetheless, he had achieved his goal of finding Kel Martin.

Now, he was beginning to have misgivings. This job had been a disaster all round. Nothing had gone right, and the final straw had been the kangaroo that had leapt out unexpectedly right in front of him. He rubbed his face tiredly and winced as his fingers made contact with the graze on the side of his forehead. That, and the gash on his right hand, covered with a hastily tied rag, was not part of his plan either.

At the sound he became alert. It was a small car, he decided and definitely unlikely to be the law. Leaning across, he flicked the parking lights on to attract attention and stood casually until the approaching vehicle drew to a halt by him. It was a mini and most likely owned by a country person. In the light of the full moon and a sky full of stars he could see the dust streaks on it. There were no passengers, only the driver; a young woman who leaned across and opened the window to address him.

People here, he thought to himself. So damn trusting.

"Car troubles?"

"You could say that, yes." He tossed the cigarette down and ground it into the gravel. "I hit a kangaroo and ran off the road. It made a mess of the car but I'm all right. Would you mind giving me a lift to the nearest town? How far is it?"

She grinned, a crooked little expression.

"Dangerous bloody animals, aren't they? Nerrilyup's the closest, that's about thirty miles away. You're lucky, aren't you, that someone came along, and that you weren't hurt. Hop in. I'm Anna Marley."

She was going to regret giving him a lift, he thought. He hoped it wouldn't be necessary to kill her. Unwanted and unbidden, the thought came to him that if Katya had lived, she would have been about the same age as this woman. If Katya lived, many things would have been different … Determinedly, he quashed the thought.

"That is very kind of you." He turned off the lights on his car, locked it and picked up his bag. He tossed it onto the back seat of the mini and hunched himself into the front. Damn, he thought; these tiny cars were not designed for people his size.

CHAPTER FOUR

As she started the vehicle again, she glanced across at him and spoke.
"Um, I told you my name. What's yours?"

He shrugged. It didn't really matter. A name was nothing.
"Slade. Is there a motel in – Nerrilyup, did you say?" Dammit, he'd got himself lost into the bargain.

"No. There's only the pub, but we can wake Jack Dinnie up. He's the publican. So you can get a room for the night. In the morning, if you go to the garage, they're RAC agents and someone can take you back and tow your car into town."

He grunted. That, he thought, wouldn't be a good idea at all.

"Do you live in Nerrilyup?" He squinted across at the dashboard lights, trying to see the level in the fuel gage, but it was beyond his line of sight.

"Out of town." She gave a quick smile. "About twenty miles."

"You're going to go past your place then, to take me into town?"
She shook her head.

"Ah, no. I live way on the other side of town. Well, sort of. I take a lot of short cuts. It's about forty miles from here to my place." She pointed off to the right. "Three points of a triangle – we're here, town's there and my place is way over thataway."

"I see. You live on a farm? You and your family?"

She frowned. Too many questions, he realised. She was starting to worry. He let his breath out slowly and reached under his jumper.

"Stop a minute, will you, Anna."

She halted the car by the side of the road. "Is there something wrong?"

"Not exactly."
He turned and raised his left hand so she could see the gun in it, aimed straight at her.

"Oh shit!" She recoiled and the car stalled. She tried to back away from him but in the driver's seat of the mini there was nowhere to go.

"Switch the ignition and the headlights off, and turn the overhead light on. Now put your hands on the steering wheel where I can see them," he ordered. When she complied he went on. "Now, tell me about this place where you live."

"I did. I told you already. My house is out of town. It's about forty miles from here, if I take all the short cuts and gravel tracks I usually do. If I have to go through Nerrilyup it's closer to fifty miles." She forced herself to stop. When nervous she knew she had a habit of talking a lot and had become aware of his frown. In the light, she noticed the graze on his forehead and the makeshift bandage tied around his hand but decided it was better not to query them.
Whatever was going on, and whatever might have preceded her arrival on the scene, she didn't want to know. Anna didn't want to be where she was. She had never been afraid of anyone in her life but no one had ever pointed a gun at her before. Her hands on the steering wheel were trembling and there was a sick feeling in her stomach.

"That's a long way from home, for this time of night. You're all dressed up. A little mouse in her best dress," he taunted. "Where have you been?"

"To a wedding." At this dismissal of her she became angry. "And I'm not a mouse. Actually I'm a rat."

"What? What the hell are you talking about – a rat?"

"Um, Chinese years. I was born in 1936. I'm a rat. Not a mouse. Don't you bloody call me a mouse!"

"Oh, for god's sake, stop babbling," he snapped. "I don't give a damn when you were born. Who will be at your home when you get there?"

Anna knew she was trembling. Then her sense of humour, always unpredictable and at times facetious and questionable, took over. It was, she told herself, more of a nervous reaction than anything else.
"My dad – and my granddad – and my six brothers."

"Maybe you're not such a mouse after all. But you're not a very good liar either, are you?"

"No. There's no one waiting for me," she admitted sadly, shaking her head.

"That's just as well. I'm tired and I hurt. Nothing's gone right for me today. Now I want a place to sleep for the night. Not some country pub. And your car. Don't try anything stupid and I'll let you alive."

"That's nice of you." There was irony in her tone but it appeared to be wasted on him. She stretched her hands on the steering wheel and concentrated on them, breathing slowly and carefully. Things like this weren't supposed to happen, in quiet rural Western Australia. Of course, there had been that spate of killings a few years earlier, in the city; but that killer had been caught in 1963 and executed the following year.
At least this didn't appear to be some crazed random murderer. His words and actions had been deliberate and she could see no glint of mania in those cold blue eyes.
"Um, was there someone else in that car? Is that why –?"

"He was dead before you came along."

Anna was horrified, but her curiosity drove her to her next question.

"Did you kill him?"

"Yes," he answered flatly as he flicked the light off and gestured with the gun. "Now drive – but carefully. It's your car I need, not you. Try anything stupid, come out with any more smart comments, and you'll be another road fatality."

"Like the man in that car?" Her expression was grave. "But he isn't, is he? Are you really going to leave me alive to tell everyone that? No wonder you don't want anyone from the garage to take you back to it." She made a derisive sound. "But if you do kill me and take my car no one will mistake me for a road accident."

"No one will mistake him for one either. I shot him. If you do exactly as I say you won't get hurt. I give you my word." Slade's voice was abrupt.

"Thanks a lot." She was wry as she started the car and moved off, wondering how much his word was worth. For ten minutes she drove in silence, her body tense. When she slowed the mini to the edge of the road and stopped in neutral he raised the gun again.

"Why are you stopping?"

"Listen." She swallowed and turned to face him, reaching carefully to turn the overhead light on again. He looked at her suspiciously as she went on. "I have a long way to drive and although I know the roads well I still have to concentrate because some parts are bloody awful. Having that pointed at me doesn't help one little bit."
Her hands were tight on the wheel and she moved them, stretching and flexing her fingers. "If I hit a bad patch or a pothole, or if I have to swerve because of a roo, you could shoot me by accident. We could both be killed. That would be a stupid way to die. I know you've got a gun and I know you'll use it if you think it's necessary. You made that clear. But you don't have to point it at me all the time. I wish you wouldn't."

His head to one side, Slade regarded her and relaxed. He slid the gun away and took out a packet of cigarettes.

"Fair enough. Don't try anything."

Anna flicked the light off and half laughed, a nervous sound. "What the hell could I try?"

He had a cigarette half way to his mouth when she spoke again, this time with an edge to her voice. "Don't you smoke in my car either!"

He blinked and for a moment she thought he was going to hit her. She tensed for the blow but he merely shook his head and scowled at her.

"You talk too much, little mouse. Shut up and drive." He lit the cigarette and Anna was silent, but her mouth was tight as she started the car again. Pointedly, she opened her window, letting an icy draft into the vehicle.
He stubbed the cigarette out half smoked, slid his own window open briefly and tossed the dead butt out. Anna's expression was bleak and she directed her total attention to driving.

"How the hell do you know where you're going?" he demanded as she turned onto yet another dirt track. "Bloody awful roads, you said. That was an understatement if ever there was one. Are you sure you're not lost? You'd better not be." His tone was threatening.

"I'm on my way home," she said patiently, resisting the urge to snarl. "I never get lost."

He grunted disparagingly but made no other response until she pulled into the gravel driveway outside a house. It was in darkness except for a light at the back door. When she eased the car to a halt in the timber garage she was trembling. She turned everything off, put her hands on the steering wheel, and rested her face on her hands. Her passenger stretched in his seat and spoke.

"How much petrol have you got in the tank?"

She stared. "What? Oh … it's three quarters full. I filled it up this afternoon."

"All right. Give me the car keys." As she handed them over, he asked, "House keys?"

"The house isn't locked. I never lock it."

The man blinked. "You never lock your house. You pick up a stranger on the road in the middle of the night. And you talk back to someone pointing a gun at you." Clearly, he hadn't forgotten her jibe about road accidents. "It's a miracle you've lived as long as you have."

Unthinkingly, Anna snapped back at him.

"Most people around here are honest and decent. We don't go in for murder. Any country driver would have picked you up. If I hadn't come along, some other poor bloody innocent fool would have, sooner or later. But it was me!"
Unable to prevent herself, she burst into tears. They were not merely those of fear, but of stress and anger at both herself and her unwanted companion.

CHAPTER FIVE

The man beside her said nothing, merely sat and waited for her to cry it all out.

"Do you feel better now?" There was no sympathy in his voice but the hand he held out was offering a folded handkerchief. Angrily she brushed it away. She sniffed, reconsidered and accepted it and wiped her eyes. After she blew her nose she looked back at him.

"No. No, I don't." It was an effort to calm herself and she bit her lip hard, clenched her fists and closed her eyes. It was important, she knew, to maintain her self–control. She didn't like her chances of staying alive but it was clear that they weren't going to be improved by hysteria. With this man, probably the reverse. "But I won't cry again. I won't. I promise." It was a promise more to herself than to him.

"Good. I don't care for tears. They won't help you at all. Now let's go inside." She could hear the threat in his voice. "There's a light on. If there is anyone else here you'd better tell me now."

Anna shook her head tiredly. "I left it on when I went out. I knew I'd be getting home in the middle of the night. I do live alone. My nearest neighbours are all of three miles away." Mentally, she winced. Damn, she thought; she shouldn't have told him that.

"Let's go." Her unwanted guest picked up his bag, pocketed her keys and walked behind her, the gun back in his hand. When she opened the back door he followed her in closely and directed her to show him through the house. He opened every door and switched every light on and off. Back in the kitchen, after leaving his bag in the living room, he let himself down into a chair and regarded her critically in the electric light.
Backed up against a cupboard, Anna shivered. What next? She wondered. Was there even going to be a 'next' for her?

"I'm hungry, mouse. What have you got to eat?"

"Hungry?" Disbelievingly, she stared. "It's after two o'clock in the morning. Most people sleep at this time."

"You can sleep after you get me something to eat. And drink. Now." His voice was edged. Anna mentally debated the wisdom of telling him to go to hell but decided against it.

"You've hurt your face. There's a cut on your hand."

"Shut up and get me some hot food." He leaned back. "Please."

Anna was becoming angry. The bloody man was making fun of her.

"Please?" she echoed and repeated the word, almost as if she were talking to herself. "Please. You hold me up, you point a gun at me. You threaten to kill me, and then you say please. That's bizarre."

"So get on with it." Was there, or was there not, a twitch of amusement in his face?

He really was hungry, she realised. She found a bowl of stew in the fridge and heated it up. He devoured it and drank a glass of fruit juice. She offered him a can of beer from the fridge but he shook his head, and refused either tea or coffee, although Anna made herself a cup of the latter.

"You won't sleep if you drink coffee."

She ignored him, but as she stood drinking it she almost smiled. It had been a long time since she had cooked for a man and watched him eat. Greg, she thought with a sudden sharp pang. But she'd never cook for him again; he had a wife now. She had been on her way home from their wedding. It was unlikely she'd ever marry anyone now. Assuming she survived this night, that was.

She put hot water and antiseptic into a bowl, set it on the table and headed for the door.

"Where are you going?" Slade had put the gun on the table while he ate and Anna looked back to see his hand by it.

"To the bathroom." She was annoyed and her voice was sharp. "I can't fit through the window so you needn't worry. I'm not going to run away. This is, after all, my house."

He said nothing but waited till she returned with aspirin and Elastoplast and placed them on the table. Anna watched him examine them and the packet they were in carefully before he swallowed two of them.

"They are aspirin and not sleeping pills. The idea did occur to me. But I don't have any sleeping pills."

"I thought all women took that sort of thing." His words and tone were deliberately offensive, she decided.

"Not me."

Finally he pushed his empty plate away. "I'm not hungry any more."

"That's hardly surprising." She took the dishes and set them on the sink. "Shall I fix your hand for you?"

He was brusque. "It's nothing." He didn't stop her as she washed and cleaned the cut and applied the plaster, but when she made to lean across and wipe at his forehead he shoved her away. "Leave me alone."

She gave a short unamused sound. "It's only a graze anyway. There's not likely to be a scar there, I'd say. No distinguishing mark, if that's what bothers you." Her mouth twisted in a bitter little expression.

When he rubbed at his neck with an irritable expression and stood she was unable to conceal her uncertainty.

"What are you going to do now?"

"Do you have a telephone?"

"No."

"What? Bloody hell, woman, this is 1965, not 1865."

Anna shrugged. "I don't like phones. I've got electricity, hot and cold running water – and an indoor flush toilet. What more do I need?"

"Weird," he muttered and jingled her keys in his pocket. "Expecting any visitors in the morning?"

"No."

"Good." He picked up the gun and tucked it away under his jumper. "I'll sleep on the lounge. Get me some blankets and a pillow."

"There is a spare bedroom."

"No thanks." He smiled but she could see no amusement in his expression. "If you want out of the house you have to go through the living room. Don't try it."

Anna sighed but fetched blankets for him and dumped them on the lounge. As she turned away Slade caught at her arm.

"Go and get changed for bed now. Don't worry. I don't go in for rape. I have far more important things on my mind anyway. But I do want to know where you are all the time." She didn't have anything to say to that and complied without speaking.

She had been a fool, she decided. Too late now. At first sight he had been merely another helpless city driver, stranded on a lonely road through a minor accident, possibly in part his own fault. When she first saw him, Anna decided he was pleasant featured enough, not handsome but interesting. She rated interesting above good looking.

Understanding the danger the man posed to her, she was too concerned with her own safety to pay any more attention to his looks. She didn't want any more contact with him than she hoped he wanted with her. She wasn't even sure why she had treated his injured hand and offered him the aspirin. It was the sort of thing, she told herself, that she would have done for anyone. What she did want to do now was survive. In spite of his reassurances she wasn't entirely convinced that her continued cooperation would be sufficient to ensure that survival. It was still possible he would decide not to leave her alive to talk.

She got into bed and pulled the covers up, aware of him standing in the doorway.

"Sleep well, Anna."

She did not deign even to grunt in response. His voice was not unpleasant, she thought inconsequentially, except when he'd been threatening her. It was hard, with a faint accent she was unable to place. But interesting. Damn him! He had no right to come into her peaceful and quiet life to disrupt and threaten it.

Anna was frightened, but she was also angry. When Slade switched the lights out she turned over onto her back and scowled at the ceiling, listening as he stretched himself out on the lounge. In spite of her fatigue she found sleep impossible. Her gaze settled on the lighter patch that was the window and her mind became active, considering the possibilities and the risks. He had been wrong about one thing, she decided.

She didn't have to go through the living room to get out of the house.

two