Faceless, page 25
Meredith
There was one source of light from down the far end of the cavernous building, and like a moth to the flame she ran towards it. She slid to a halt before the door and edged along the wall of the room, straining to hear anything over the deafening hail of the rain. If she couldn’t hear them, they couldn’t hear her. Her heart raced, and she gripped her hand tighter on the baton she’d brought in with her. On three, she told herself.
One. Two. Three.
She dropped low and threw herself around the corner.
Her senses reeled as they took in the scene before her. The pile of people caught her attention first, followed by a fetid stench. At the bottom of the pile was what was barely recognisable as Max. His lip was swollen tight and split right up to his bloodied nose, the unnatural angle of which made her stomach lurch. One eye was completely swollen closed, but the other fixed her with a look that was both exhausted and triumphant. For nestled in his arms lay the girl. Her face bore the ravages of abuse, and it took a second for Meredith’s brain to register the irregular brownish stripes that cut into her clothes. Were they whip marks? God, was she even alive? The question was answered when the eyes opened and wearily found hers. Meredith felt a quiver as they met, and then she followed the girl’s gaze to the man. As she took in the sight she rose from her crouch and walked cautiously around to stand before him. Bradley Fordyce lay spreadeagled on his back, his head rested on the legs of the girl. His face was still, a bloated grimace of agony. But what was remarkable was the chain wrapped around his throat, a chain and – what was that? a rope – a very fine rope? Her eyes followed the chain from its source attached to the wall, around the throat of the man, and to its terminus, clamped to the girl’s wrist, no, not just the girl, Max’s hand gripped it so tightly his knuckles were white, and she realised they were still pulling.
Jesus, was he still alive?
She crouched down and reached forward, fingers pushing into Fordyce’s neck, probing for a pulse, but there was nothing. Then she moved them a fraction to one side and there it was, the barest flicker beneath her fingertips, the bastard was still alive. Jesus, that meant she had to do something to save him; it was her sworn duty. But then she looked up, beyond the grotesque face of Bradley Fordyce, and into the broken, emaciated face of Max, and the battered, exhausted face of the young girl. She looked around at the room, saw the bucket in the corner, the water, the food; she took in the table with what looked like a horse whip, and the bags with bin liners, gloves and a knife, and the plastic bags, and then she looked back at the wall at that chain, that chain that had tethered the girl, making her his slave in this prison, his toy, and something in her heart knotted, it knotted with such anger and such hatred that she could taste its bitter bile in her mouth, and her hand clenched, it clenched on the solid handle of her baton and she knew what she had to do, what she wanted to do to make it right. And she began to raise her arm.
‘No, Meredith.’ The words froze her actions. ‘Meredith, don’t.’ Her eyes found Max, saw the steel and determination in his face, heard the command in his voice. ‘This isn’t your battle.’
She dropped her arm, took a steadying breath. ‘He’s still alive,’ she said, and as she spoke the words the face of Harry appeared at the door. She stepped forward quickly, blocking the boy before he could enter, turning him away. ‘No, Harry, they are fine, you can’t go in there, you don’t need to see that,’ but she could tell from the ashen colour of his face he’d caught a glimpse.
She turned back to Max then, again acknowledged the girl and marvelled at the extraordinary serenity that emanated from her, as if she was some saintly figure, some angel. In the midst of this scene of torment and death, she was somehow radiant, victorious. ‘The emergency services are ten minutes away.’ This was their moment, theirs alone. ‘Call me when you’re done.’
Max
The afternoon sun slanted into his eyes, and it seemed a sacrilege to reach his hand up to shield them. Sitting here on the bench, looking out over the viaduct harbour at the rich-boy-toy yachts, his body soaking in the warmth, he felt at peace for the first time in as long as he could remember. The Sky Tower stood sentinel over the city, a guardian piercing the sky. Kids on scooters squealed their way over the drawbridge, weaving between the pedestrians and cyclists relishing the autumn day and fresh air.
‘Why won’t anyone come and sit near us?’ Billy said and followed the question with a small giggle. His face burst into a smile. Small wonder, they did look a sight, both artfully adorned with butterfly closures and bruises fading to purplish yellow. He hated to think what people would make of the pair of them, one resembling an accident victim and the other a tiny scrap of a beat-up Island girl. His head was covered with the sheep-dip beanie, an article of clothing he felt curiously attached to. Billy’s head was bare, her ragtag shorn hair defiantly on display to the world. This time the ache he felt in his chest was not despair, but love – something he was rediscovering his capacity for.
There were still hard days ahead. There were the legal ramifications of taking a life, even if in self-defence. The man’s wife was pushing for a manslaughter charge against them; Angela Fordyce was in denial that her husband could possibly have been responsible for what was done to Billy. It would go nowhere, though; and what happened in that room at the end would never be disclosed – it was a private matter between the four of them. But he’d shield Billy from the fallout and from the media as much as he could.
‘Have your folks been in touch?’ He sensed her stiffening at the question.
‘Yes, they turned up at the hospital, wanting to fawn all over me, probably because the cameras were out front.’
‘What did you do?’
‘Told them to fuck off.’
Max smiled again. He was doing that a lot lately.
‘And did they?’
She laughed properly then, a gift to his ears. ‘Only after that detective friend of yours told them to fuck off too. I like her, she’s a good lady, she scares everyone.’
‘She’s a good ally. Wouldn’t want her as an enemy, though.’
‘Hell no.’ She paused, hesitant. ‘Would she have … you know?’
Max thought back to that morning, his body responding with a deep involuntary shudder, his aches intensifying. He recalled the anger, the raw and seething anger in Meredith’s face, the way her freckles stood out flaming orange against her pallid skin, the eagle-like look in her eyes, the feeling of something incendiary entering the room.
‘Yes.’
They sat in silence a while, the shrill cry of the seagulls filtering through his conflicted thoughts.
‘I’m glad you stopped her.’
He turned his gaze from the soaring movements of the birds to his companion; saw the resolute look in her eyes.
‘I needed to kill that motherfucker.’
‘We both did.’
The honk of a ferry horn cut through the air, making them both look in its direction.
‘What are you going to do now, Max?’
That wasn’t an easy question to answer. Life had changed irreparably; it wasn’t like he could just step back in and resume from where he’d left off. There would be no winding back the clock. But one thing was certain, he now had the strength and determination to start again. This whole affair had gifted him that much.
‘I don’t know yet. I have a lot to sort out.’
His eyes caught the slightly gangly figure of Harry walking down the waterfront towards them. He gave him a wave and noted the form move in their direction in reply. He saw her face brighten at the sight of his son. ‘And I’ve got a few major bridges to mend. What about you? What are you going to do now? Who’s helping you?’ he asked.
‘Your friend has been great. She’s trying to sort things with immigration, and she’s got the minister from Church trying to find me a place to stay and a job. No one dares stand in her way, so I’m hopeful it’s all going to be okay.’ The humour and spunk with which she spoke made him marvel at the resilience of the girl. Her spirit reminded him of his Jess, and although his heart ached with the thought of his daughter, it didn’t shatter.
‘Good. Because you mean a lot to me, Billy, you know that, don’t you? I’ll always have your back. And you can’t go back on the streets again, ever. I won’t let you.’ He thought of the unsavoury deal he’d struck with a certain pimp on K Road. That was one promise he was happy to break … But still, she’d have to be careful. Guys like that had fingers in many pies and friends everywhere. He would have to make sure that never came back to bite her. He’d confess to the price he offered for information to find her – one day, but not yet.
‘I know you won’t,’ she said, ‘and believe me, I don’t want to.’ She reached over then and grabbed him by the hand. The expression in her eyes so intense it hurt him. ‘Thank you,’ she whispered. Those eyes began to well with tears, and he felt his start to blur. ‘Thank you so much for coming for me. I knew you’d come.’
He reached his arms out for her, encircling her tiny form in his embrace, placing a kiss on her bruised forehead. ‘Thank you,’ he said, ‘thank you for saving me.’
‘You did that all by yourself.’
‘Not entirely, I needed a bit of a push.’
‘Yeah, but ultimately, it came down to you, you decided to act. I’m glad you did.’ She had the slightest of dimples when she smiled.
Harry had almost reached them, and Max hauled himself to his feet, his muscles reminding him just how much he’d put them through in the last week. It still made him frown to see how uncomfortable it was for Billy to do the same thing. She tried to hide it, but her face couldn’t disguise the pain she was in. He found it hard to fathom what she had been through, physically and mentally.
‘You know,’ she said, a shyness replacing the bravado with which she’d been talking. ‘I was thinking, this is kind of like a new beginning, a new chance at life. Would you think I was stupid if I told you I wanted to go to art school?’
‘Are you kidding? I think that’s a brilliant idea. You could show the lecturers a thing or two when it comes to art.’
‘You mean that?’
‘Billy, your work is amazing. I’ve never seen anything as beautiful, anywhere. They would be fools not to want you.’
She broke into a grin that wavered into a grimace at the twinges of pain, and then determinedly back into a grin. ‘Good, because I’ve got something to show you, a new piece I was working on. It was going to be a surprise, and it’s not quite finished yet.’ She paused and looked Max in the eye, her face becoming serious. ‘I don’t usually show people unfinished work, but as you know, stuff happened and I got a bit sidetracked, discovered life can be short.’ They both chuckled at the understatement. ‘Come with me,’ she said as she grabbed Max’s hand and pulled him towards the city.
Acknowledgements
I am eternally grateful to Karen Sullivan and her wonderful team at Orenda Books for taking a punt on this gal from the other side of the world, and to Craig Sisterson for placing that first book in Karen’s hand and telling her she needed to read it. Look where that lead to!
Faceless has been in the world for a while, and it has been a delight to revisit the characters in this book. Thanks to Jane Gregory and Stephanie Glencross at Gregory and Company and the team at Penguin New Zealand, who originally published the book as The Faceless, especially Katie Haworth, Emily Boyd and the wonderful Gillian Tewsley.
Thanks to Laura Cope for being my porridge and tea buddy, sounding board and for not flinching and fleeing at my warped mind. Eternal thanks to my long-suffering family, who put up with my absentmindedness and total neglect of them in the process of bringing this work to life.
And a special thank-you to you, the reader.
About the Author
Vanda Symon is a crime writer from Dunedin, New Zealand, and the chair of the Otago Southland branch of the New Zealand Society of Authors. The Sam Shephard series, which includes Overkill, The Ringmaster, Containment and Bound, hit number one on the New Zealand bestseller list, and has also been shortlisted for the Ngaio Marsh Award. Overkill was shortlisted for the CWA John Creasey (New Blood) Dagger. All four books have been ebook bestsellers. Vanda currently lives in Dunedin, with her husband and Louie the cat.
Follow Vanda on Twitter @vandasymon, Instagram @vandasymon, Facebook, @vandasymonauthor or her website, www.vandasymon.com.
Other titles by Vanda Symon available from Orenda Books:
The Sam Shephard Series
Overkill
The Ringmaster
Containment
Bound
Copyright
Orenda Books
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London SE21 8HU
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First published in New Zealand by Penguin Books (NZ) in 2012
This edition first published in the United Kingdom by Orenda Books 2022
Copyright © Vanda Symon 2022
Vanda Symon has asserted her moral right to be identified as the author of this work in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.
All Rights Reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the written permission of the publishers.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
ISBN 978–1–914585–04–3
eISBN 978–1–914585–05–0
Vanda Symon, Faceless
