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The spotty young barman made a point of serving a man at the
other end of the bar and the noise picked up again. Camilla's
Little Secret continued the melody of Tantalising Eyes without
comment.
'Yes, sir?' The barman had reached him at last and sounded
like he thought 'sir' was spelled 'cur'.
Sutcliffe rattled some change on to the bar. A ten pence
piece rolled into a drip mat and spun to a halt. 'Orange juice.'
'Orange juice?' The youth seemed surprised. He obviously
had Sutcliffe down as a drunk. 'Anything in it?' He sounded
disappointed.
'Yes. Ice.'
As the barman shook the bottle of Britvic, Sutcliffe searched
his pockets. Loose change; keys; wallet. Eventually he found a
biro. He looked round for paper. He reached across the bar for
the duplicate pad they used to take the food orders and tore off
the top sheet. It was numbered 17.
'Hey!' His drink had arrived. 'Order food at the other end of
the bar.'
'It's okay  I just want the paper.'
The barman looked dubious and scooped up most of the
coins Sutcliffe had produced. He was about to move off when
Sutcliffe grabbed his shoulder.
'Do you have a phone?'
'Steady on,' he shook off Sutcliffe's grip.
'Do you have a phone?' Sutcliffe repeated urgently.
30 
'Yeah  by the door to the toilets.' He pointed across the
room.
'And is it a tone phone?'
'What?' A woman further along, waiting to be served, tapped
her purse impatiently on the top of the bar. 'Look, I haven't a
clue. Probably. Okay?' He shook his head and moved along.
'Sorry to keep you ...'
The door opened again. Sutcliffe felt the draught on the back
of his neck, making the hairs stand on end. He turned
instinctively, jamming the paper and pen into a pocket as he
did so.
Johanna Slake stood in the doorway. The orange light from
the street lit her from behind, seemed almost to emanate from
her as she stepped into the pub. She let the door swing to,
shutting out the street so that she seemed to loom even closer
as the light source shifted. She was smiling, head scanning
gently from side to side like a predator.
Sutcliffe tried to back away, but he was already against the
bar. Instead he edged round it, colliding with the couple next to
him, grunting an apology, fumbling in his jacket. Johanna took
a step towards him, and he turned and ran  colliding with a
table, scattering people and drinks everywhere. Someone was
shouting as he stumbled towards the back door of the pub. The
couple at the table by the door half stood as he approached  as
surprised as everyone else. Sutcliffe pulled tables over and
scattered glasses behind him as he went, hoping desperately to
slow her down and buy a few precious moments.
As he reached the door at last he turned and looked back.
There was a trail of devastation across the bar: tables, chairs,
glasses and ashtrays on the floor. People were starting to
crowd towards him, forming a human wall between himself
and Johanna. But even as he began to feel he might yet escape,
several people spun out of the group, staggering across the
room in all directions. Johanna pushed effortlessly through the
small crowd, heading straight for him without heed of the
debris. Tables crashed out of her way, chairs and stools were
hurled aside, and glasses shattered underfoot.
31 
Sutcliffe turned to make his escape. But the tall man who
had been sitting by the exit was now blocking it. Sutcliffe
barged him aside, threw open the door and fled into the night.
He was tired and he was desperate. Despite doubling back,
despite checking at every turn, despite diving into a pub at
random, she had found him. He had perhaps thirty seconds
lead, depending on whether the tall man by the door managed
to slow her down at all. Would he even try?
Sutcliffe instinctively glanced at his watch, measuring off
the seconds.
He was staggering now, out of breath. He leaned against the
plywood wall which ran makeshift beside the pavement. His
hand inched along it ahead of his wheezing body. And found a
crack  a hinged line up the wall. A padlock through a clasp
held the door shut. A painted sign said 'No Unauthorized
Admitance' and someone had chalked another 't' above
'Admitance', tried to legitimize it. Sutcliffe put his shoulder to
the door and the clasp fell free as the wood splintered away
from it.
He pitched forward and sprawled on the ground, a torn page
of newspaper flapping up at him like a savage bird. He ripped
the paper from his face and threw it to the muddy ground of [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

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