Ten To One newsletter - late January 2014

This is the newsletter for the exciting collaborative writing project from Pigeon Park Press in which ten writers will create a novel together. This newsletter contains the latest chapters for you to read and provides you with instructions on how to vote for which writers (and characters) stay in the novel.

1) NEWS

2) HOW TO VOTE

3) LATEST CHAPTERS

1) NEWS

Seventh Round Results - The seventh round of chapters for Ten To One were shared 4 weeks ago and the public were asked to vote for their favourite characters/writers. The votes from Facebook and e-mail were combined with the judges' scores and Jason Holloway, creator of the character Bobby, was voted out of Ten To One. As part of the process, Jason has now been invited to join the panel of judges.

Although we still have two and a bit months left until the writing of the Ten To One novel comes to an end, we're already gearing up for the next stage of the project: editing. But, as this is a collaborative novel, we want people to collaborate on the editing process. With this in mind, we've set up a beta-reader group/event on Facebook. The beta-reader page is the forum by which readers can discuss what they liked and didn't like about the Ten To One novel. There are already some questions and discussion points on there so get over there and get involved: https://www.facebook.com/events/653605708023136/

Ten To One author interview - Simon Fairbanks -

As part of the Ten To One project, we are interviewing each of the Ten To One authors and posting that interview on the Idle Hands collaborative writing blog. This month, Simon Fairbanks talks about social media, the importance of being kind to your readers and the value gained from writers' groups.

Click here: http://www.mrclovenhoof.blogspot.co.uk/2014/01/ten-to-one-author-interview-simon.html

2) HOW TO VOTE

We will be posting the chapters, piece by piece on Facebook (https://www.facebook.com/TenToOneNovel)  but the easiest way to read them all is in this e-mail newsletter. Once you have read all the chapters, you will need to go to our Facebook page which is https://www.facebook.com/TenToOneNovel. You will need to have a Facebook account to access this page.

We'd like you read the chapters and then 'Like' your favourites. You can vote for more than one chapter if you wish and we don't have a problem with that.

We will be handing out points (from 10 down to 2) to the authors/characters based on how many likes they get.

Oh, and do remember, we are now voting on chapters 8.2 - 8.4 (but not 8.1 because Jason's character, Bobby, has already been voted out)

You have until midnight on 5th February to cast your vote.

Happy reading!

3) LATEST CHAPTERS

Below are the chapters for Ten To One. If you have not read the earlier chapters, you can find them here:

Round 1 - http://archive.aweber.com/tentoone/6pfbY/h/Ten_To_One_newsletter_July_2013.htm

Round 2 -

http://archive.aweber.com/tentoone/4mFPo/h/Ten_To_One_newsletter_August.htm

Round 3 -

http://archive.aweber.com/tentoone/9fDQz/h/Ten_To_One_Newsletter_September.htm

Round 4 -

http://archive.aweber.com/tentoone/8As.z/h/Ten_To_One_newsletter_October.htm

Round 5 -

http://archive.aweber.com/idlehands/PatLD/h/Ten_To_One_newsletter_Late.htm

Round 6 -

http://archive.aweber.com/tentoone/O.JzH/h/Ten_To_One_newsletter_December.htm

Round 7 -

http://archive.aweber.com/tentoone/5S6CX/h/Ten_To_One_newsletter_January.htm

And, now, round 8...

8.1 - Bobby

Marcus directed Nell to pull the Rover well off the road and into some thick underbrush. They spent twenty minutes further hiding the vehicle from view with tree branches the clown psychotically removed from the surrounding flora with violent swings of his claymore. Bobby had originally intended on giving the man a crash course on the ancient art of living by the steel. After watching him hew down a half dozen respectably sized trees in tremendous arcing single swings, he decided anything he might impart to the man at this late date would probably only confuse him. Besides, Bobby had his own problems.

He didn't have any ammo for his shooters. Well, not enough to justify the trouble of humping all the kit a half mile over rough country. He stared hatefully at his companions. One of them should have had foresight enough to pack ordnance. Fucking amateurs. If even one of them came out of this alive it would be nothing but the fickle favor of chance. Maybe it would be enough.

As for Bobby, his personal arsenal was suddenly much less reassuring: no .12 gauge shotgun, no AR-15, no brace of high capacity .50 caliber pistols. He was left with a few canisters of tear gas, a twelve inch K-Bar, a three inch "ditch" (as in "last") K-Bar, a collapsible baton, a leather wrapped lead sap, and a dismembered dead man double bagged in bin liners.

It wasn't much with which to go to war. He came to a sudden decision.

"Right, my friends, this is where we part ways," he announced. "Past that small copse of pine trees, the factory is clearly visible. Use cover as it presents itself as there's likely to be at least one lookout on duty."

Nell started to protest but he stopped her with a quick, angry gesture.

"Go take care of your business. It's nothing to do with me. I have my own matters to attend to."

He almost missed the look of betrayal that flashed across her face it was so brief. With a sharp nod to the clown and the woman whose name he couldn't remember, he turned his back on them all and broke into an easy trot toward the pines. Let them sort their own fucking problems, he thought. I've plenty of my own and, other than some curiosity as to what sort of havoc the clown might get up to with that bloody great sword, he was vastly indifferent to their fates. 

"That's my boy," Marcus suddenly piped up. "About time you got your priorities square."

Bobby startled at the voice, missed a step, and very nearly pitched face first into the ground. He reached the pines and pushed through them before answering.

"I left you in the car," he said irritably.

"Not the important bit, you didn't, and you'll be glad for it when I tell you what I know," Marcus replied.

"I twisted my knee, damnit. It's already starting to swell."

"Stop your whinging and take a look at the cars parked in front of the building. Any strike you as familiar?"

Bobby muttered something about pine sap gluing his eyelids together but he glided to the very edge of the copse and squinted in the direction of the parked cars.

"Not especially likely there'd be two of those knocking around Skegness, is it?" Bobby asked needlessly.

"It's the spinning chrome wheels that give it away," Marcus replied.

Bobby snorted a laugh.

It was Andras' ivory white Cadillac Escalade.

"I'm strangely unsurprised to find him here, Marcus."

"He's been pulling at you, Sweets," Marcus said. "He's more than he seems. Maybe much more."

"So...plan?"

"Why bother? You wouldn't stick to one," Marcus said acidly in spite of his lack of vocal cords. "But he's with two of his mouth breathers in an office on the near side of the building. If you can refrain from picking a fight with the inanimate objects between here and there, you have a chance of getting the jump on him."

"If I'd known you were this useful in a noncorporeal state, I'd have taken an axe to you long ago, brother," Bobby said.

"That's not funny, Bobby," Marcus replied hotly and perhaps a little nervously. "Say you're just fucking around. I mean it. Say you're just joking, Bobby." 

But Bobby stayed silent. He'd lied enough for one day.

***

Bobby had no trouble gaining entrance into the factory. Marcus pointed him to an unlocked side door that opened into the deserted hallways of the factory's administrative offices. With Marcus navigating, he swept swiftly and silently through a maze of horrid cubicles and cheap beige modular walls until he came to a suite of private offices obviously for management types. The whole place reeked of low grade human despair to Bobby and he briefly considered setting fire to it on general principles, but he didn't have the necessary materials at hand to start a really decent blaze and, even if he did, the two bruisers holding up the wall by the largest office would probably cut up rough once he started smashing furniture for kindling.

He ducked unseen into a cubicle that allowed him a partial view of the bored thugs and waited. Through the door flanked by the two yeggs he could hear the soft murmur and rhythmic pauses of someone on a telephone call. This particular voice had an odd slur to it that Bobby didn't immediately recognize. He had a bad moment thinking he'd wandered into some bit of villainy unrelated to him when he had a moment of clarity. Of course the voice had a slur. He'd personally removed almost half of the face from which it issued. A slow, nasty smile spread across his own map. This time he'd scalp the geezer like an Indian from one of those old American Westerns.

First he needed to neutralize the bodyguards. Both were big and looked like they could chew nails, but Bobby knew bovine eyes when he say them. Big and stupid. Hell, this wasn't even going to be a challenge.

He took a coin from his pocket and pitched it into the private office across from his cubicle. He readied the leather wrapped sap and hoped only one of the big boys would come to investigate the sound. He could take them both without much fuss but it would be noisy and sure to alert Andras. That also didn't bother him much, but he was looking forward to some private time with the man. He had questions that wanted answering.

He pressed his bulk as far back into the cube as he could without toppling the partition. He'd let the guard get a few steps into the office before putting him to sleep and wait there until the other walked into his web. He suppressed a sigh of disappointment. This was old hat.

 Marcus was suddenly a snake's hiss in his ear. "They're both coming. Fast. And Andras is on his feet standing in the office doorway. Don't breathe, brother."

Bobby did as he was told.

"They're coming straight for the cube, Sweets. Move, NOW," Marcus screamed in his head.

Bobby bolted from the cubicle like he'd been shot from a howitzer, slamming his entire mass into a guard who had no business moving fast enough to be in Bobby's path. He's as fast as I am, Bobby thought. It won't be much solace to him with the way his head double bounced on the floor, but somehow I've made a huge mistake.

The other guard was on him now and flight was no longer an option. The man was brutally fast and he hammered Bobby with a flurry of devastating body shots before backing up and giving him a knowing grin.

"We hoped you'd show up, Mr. Thomas," he said. "Things have been awfully dull lately."  He punctuated his irritation at life's dullness with a combination punch that Bobby only partially blocked. The man was too fast and too strong. For the first time in memory, Bobby was truly scared.

"Circle to the left, Sweets. He wants to throw a left to your head. Circle hard. If he catches you with a left hook he'll kill you, Bobby," Marcus instructed. "He wants to throw a left so much he's going to do it without an opening. Circle hard and cool him with the sap."

Bobby was mildly surprised he still had the sap in his hand. That Marcus thought he was in any shape to use it was even more surprising. He could taste blood boiling up from his stomach and the edges of his vision were turning dark red. He was going to die.

"Circle left, HARD," Marcus screamed again.

With a sudden, intense hatred for Marcus and his fucking screaming, Bobby toppled to the left, twisting his body as he fell. He felt the displaced air of a killing haymaker rush over him and lashed out blindly with the sap, connecting with something that caused a man to howl like an animal.  

"You crushed his kidney, Sweets," Marcus said with something like awe. "I thought you were dead and you crushed his kidney."

"I am dead," Bobby said.

"Not for some time yet, Mr. Thomas," Andras said, rolling up his sleeves. "I think you'll soon find you have more life left than you want."

"Run, Bobby," Marcus said. "I can slow him down, but that's all. Run. Through the window, through Skegness, don't stop running. I'll catch up when I can, but don't wait for me. Just run."

And, out of love for his brother, Bobby ran.

8.2 - Mungo

Mungo charged round to the rear of the meat factory.

"Hold on Mabel," he panted. "I'm coming. Just hold -"

He turned the corner and froze. There was a storage shed annexed onto the back of the factory and it was engulfed in flames.

Mungo's chest tightened immediately. I should have seen this coming. Fire seemed to cut in and out of his life like a predator that had developed a taste for his misery. The circus, his bench, poor little Gracie - it was only fitting that the flames returned for an encore as Mungo prepared for his final bow.

The flames were taunting him, bombarding him with waves of heat but also luring him in with curling, flickering fingers. He heard voices amidst the roaring flames: his father, Punch, Mihai.

You ungrateful little shit.

She had it coming.

Păcăli.

Mungo found himself taking a step back.

 No! He would retreat no further. Mabel was in there and needed help. He tilted at the flames, clutched his briefcase like a shield and charged into the fire. "Mabel, hold on!"

*  *  *

Mungo burst through the smouldering door of the storage shed and was met with a thundercloud of thick black smog. It filled his lungs within seconds. Mungo whooped and spluttered trying to expel the demonic fumes as he staggered blindly into the shed.

"Mabel? Where are you?" he tried to shout but his voice was muffled by the smoke, reducing his cries to a hoarse whisper.

And then he saw it. There was a chair placed in the middle of the room. An empty chair. A pair of unlocked handcuffs had been discarded underneath.

That's my girl, smiled Mungo. Mabel learnt escape artistry from Romero. He taught her well.

It appeared Mabel could take care of herself after all. She didn't need a knight in shining armour and she certainly didn't need Mungo. He was right all along - nobody needed a sad old clown.

A loud crash signalled the collapse of the storage shed entrance through which Mungo had entered. Immediately, the flames rose up even higher, towering above him like a hungry leviathan. He realised he would not be leaving the shed. The flames would claim him. However, Mungo felt no despair at the thought - he only felt relief that Mabel was okay.

It was finally time for Mungo to rest. He took a seat in the chair that had previously contained the girl he was trying to save. It wasn't as comfy as his old bench but it would do.

He closed his eyes.

*  *  *

"Hello Mungo."

Mungo opened his eyes and found Gracie standing in front of him.

"Gracie?" said Mungo, dazed and confused. "What are you doing here?"

"I died," she said.

"I know. I was very sorry to hear that. Does it hurt?"

The little girl shrugged. "Not anymore."

"Am I dead?"

"Not yet. Mabel still needs your help."

A scream cut into their conversation like a knife.

"Mabel! Where is she?"

"In the meat factory," said Gracie. "There is a door back there which joins the factory to this storage shed."

"There is?"

"Yes. You spotted it when you first walked in."

"Very well. I must go to her."

Gracie nodded. "Good luck Mungo. Break a leg."

"We don't say that in the circus."

"Well then, knock "em dead."

"That's boxing."

"God speed?"

"I think that's astronauts."

Gracie crossed her arms. "So what do you say in the circus?"

Mungo smiled, remembering. "Don't forget your nose."

"Well, you better not forget it then." Mungo watched in amazement as the little girl opened her fist to reveal his red clown nose. She leant forward and placed it on his face.

"How do I look?" Mungo asked.

"Like Mungo Joey."

"That's my name."

"Now," said Gracie, swinging her hand towards Mungo's face. "WAKE UP!"

SM -

- ACK!

Mungo jerked awake. Gracie was gone. The heat, the smog, the deafening flames were all back and more intense than ever. He staggered to his feet just in time, as a blazing wooden beam landed where he had been sitting, annihilating the chair.

Mungo wasted no time. He ran through the billowing smog, searching desperately for the connecting door of which Gracie had spoken. The inferno roared in fury, indignant at being robbed of its prey, bounding after him, closing in from all sides.

"Mabel! I'm coming!"

Mungo ran into the door and almost knocked himself out. He grabbed the metal handle, which burnt his hand even though he was wearing his white gloves, and pulled with all his might.

Locked!

The flames tapped on his shoulder. Peek-a-boo.

No! Wait, hold on... Mungo pushed the door instead. It swung open. Victory!

Mungo dived through and slammed the heavy metal door behind him. There was instant silence, coolness, brightness. Mungo slid to his knees, sucking in clean air and savouring his new environment. He had swapped the dark, burning pyre of the storage shed for the clinical, chrome sanctuary of the factory.

But then he heard Mabel scream again. So much for sanctuary.

*  *  *

Mungo followed the sounds of Mabel's cries and found her in the middle of the factory floor. She was cowering under the blows of a wooden stick swung by an unsavoury looking thug. Mungo was reminded of his least favourite pier attraction.

"I told you to stay down," growled the thug, before drawing on the cigarette in the corner of his mouth. His arm was bleeding. Evidently, Mabel had fought back. "You will stay here until the boss arrives. Andras will want to talk to you. He likes to deal with trespassers personally."

Mungo slowly began to sneak towards Mabel's attacker but a firm hand grabbed his shoulder and spun him around. Mungo was faced with a second thug who grinned devilishly and casually held a handgun in his other hand.

"Nicolai," the second thug called to the man who had been beating Mabel. "Looks like we have another trespasser."

"Bring him over here, Skender," replied the first thug. "I have plenty of stick for the both of them."

Mungo panicked and squeezed the flower on his chequered waistcoat. The flower squirted Skender in the chest. The thug looked down at his damp shirt and scowled. He was not impressed and retaliated by smacking Mungo in the face with the butt of his handgun. Mungo crumpled, not unlike the Punch and Judy Man on the pier the previous day.

Skender patted Mungo down for weapons and found the throwing knives in the clown's belt which Mungo had borrowed from Mabel's flat.

I forgot I had those! thought Mungo miserably, as Skender tossed them aside. The thug then dragged Mungo across the factory floor and dumped him on top of Mabel, where Nicolai could watch them both.

Skender looked like he was about to say something then stopped and sniffed. "Is that smoke I can smell?" He glared at Mungo. "Did you start a fire back there? If you did, the boss will see that you both suffer. Perhaps he will feed you to the flames and you can die sobbing like that little girl."

"How do you know about that?" asked Mungo, stalling for time.

"Who do you think started the fire?" Skender said with a smirk. Nicolai chuckled.

Mungo met Mabel's gaze and saw that they were thinking the same thing: these men must pay for what they did. Thankfully, Mungo had a plan.

"Please," said Mungo. "There is money in my briefcase. Take it and let us go."

Skender and Nicolai exchanged a glance. Nicolai shrugged. "Worth a look?"

Skender strolled back over to the briefcase where Mungo had dropped it.

"Clown, if you are lying," said Skender, "we will put your hand in the meat grinder over there."

Mungo watched with abated breath as Skender unclasped the suitcase.

"What the hell is this?" shouted Skender, pulling out the plastic trout. "Clown, I warned you -"

But then Sancho sprang into action. Mabel's snake had spent the day being bumped around in Mungo's suitcase and was currently at the end of its tether. Upon seeing the light of day, Sancho was ready to unleash all of its grumpiness on whichever target was in closest proximity, which in this case was the unfortunate Skender. Sancho shot out of the briefcase like an arrow, sinking its fangs into Skender's neck and injecting him with a generous dosage of venom.

Skender howled in pain and fell backwards, distracting Nicolai for just enough time for Mungo to sweep his legs and jump on top of him. But Nicolai was strong and rolled on top of Mungo, both hands around Mungo's neck and ash from his cigarette falling down into Mungo's face. Mungo felt himself choking but suddenly - CLACK! - Nicolai's grip loosened. Mabel had whacked Nicolai with his own stick.

Judy knocks out Punch, noted Mungo. A much more satisfying end to the show.

"Are you -?" began Mabel but suddenly the wooden stick was shot out of her hands.

Mungo and Mabel turned to see Skender staggering towards them like a zombie, sickly-green and moaning and disorientated. He had thrown off Sancho the snake but the venom was now coursing through his veins. It was a miracle that he was still conscious, let alone standing, but his pure hatred was driving him forward step by tortured step.

"You!"

Skender tried shooting again but he could barely lift his arm and the poison was playing havoc with his vision so the bullet missed Mungo by two metres. Though still a little too close for comfort, thought Mungo, standing in front of Mabel to keep her safe.

"Kill you trespass," mumbled Skender nonsensically, his throat swollen and his brain in frenzy. "You start fire... Hit Nicolai... Snake... Kill you... Plastic trout... Shoot you..." He edged closer and fired the gun again. He missed but his aim was improving. "I make you suffer... You, you, squirted water on my favourite shirt!"

"That isn't water," said Mungo. He snatched the cigarette from the unconscious Nicolai's mouth and flicked it onto Skender's chest. The embers in the cigarette ignited the clear liquid on Skender's chest, which of course was lighter fluid from Mabel's fire-breathing kit. Mungo had loaded his flower with the flammable liquid earlier that day.

Skender shrieked as his torso set on fire. He dropped the gun and ran to one of the big meat-grinder vats. Mungo had no idea why. Perhaps Skender's addled mind thought that it would be full of water. In either case, Skender dived in voluntarily and landed on the sharp-studded wheels. They were not switched on but they were lethal all the same. Skender was skewered on the points and his screams were put to an end.

"That was for Gracie," said Mungo.

8.3 - Nell

Nell slowed as she neared the clearing. She'd been following the sound of Mihai's one-sided conversation for nearly fifteen minutes, and everything she'd heard urged caution. Although she'd never met him, she had no doubt the man she was spying on was the one Mabel and Mungo had described. Unfortunately, it was obvious now from Nell's position in the bushes just off the path that her friend wasn't with him.

She could see Popescu, however; the old man's hands were tied behind his back. Mihai had used the sleeves of Pop's shirt to wrench his arms back. Nell suspected at least one of his arms was out of socket from the way it hung.

"What, hodorogule? Are you crying? You think you deserve mercy?" Mihai shoved Popescu to the ground and kicked him in the jaw. "You know what happens when you cry?" He kicked him again. "Do you? Do you remember?"

Popescu coughed. He spit a tooth out, his chin tucked to his chest. "Te rog, oprește-te. Please."

"Du-te la naiba!" Mihai grabbed him by the throat and shook him. "No one's coming for you. No one ever comes, do they?"

Popescu shook his head weakly. "I tried to help."

Mihai laughed. The sound made Nell's stomach twist, and she dug her nails into the bark of the tree to keep from rushing the man.

"How? By taking us to the woods, children who hadn't eaten? Who could barely walk? My brother - do you remember him? He was tied just like this." Mihai tugged Popescu's arms and the man groaned. "With his own clothes, they bound him. With a sheet if they thought he deserved it, and all because he was strong. Because the pills didn't make him quiet."

"I didn't know-"

"You knew," Mihai said. "All those children. Ceaușescu's children." He studied the man in front of him. "You must have your own. I've done my reading; I know the laws now. The five children required in each family, the police who checked every woman to be sure they bore more than they possibly could feed." Grabbing his collar, he pulled Popescu to his feet. "Maybe you sent yours to die too? For all you know, I could be more than a devil sent to punish you - I could be your own son. Wouldn't that be a twist?" He backhanded Popescu and sent him crashing back into the trees. "Any of those children, starved and beaten, ignored, touched - I hope you dream about us every night."

Popescu was so close Nell could almost touch him. He was shaking, the fresh blood swelling out of the cuts across his lips. She froze as Mihai's gaze drifted from his victim to her.

"Who's this now?" he asked, covering the distance to her hiding spot in three long strides.

Nell's hand was already on her knife, and as he grabbed for her, she slid through his arms and slashed up, the blade just nicking his skin where his jacket rode up. She darted left around him. Popescu hadn't moved. She said a silent prayer that Mungo and Bobby were having better luck and turned her concentration to the man in front of her.

"Curvă!" Mihai snapped, circling back around the old man. He landed another vicious kick to Popescu's ribs before stalking toward Nell.

She had a few inches on him, and his reflexes were nothing compared to some of the men she boxed with. She spun away as he dove toward her cursing. "I don't want to hurt you," she said. She kept the knife grasped loosely in her right hand, but held the empty one up, palm open.

Mihai stopped beside Popescu, nudging him with his foot. Popescu groaned. "You're interrupting."

"Nobody deserves this."

"What do you know? Have you ever watched a girl die, tied to the rails of her crib?" Mihai asked. "Did you know a baby will stop crying if she's left alone long enough? That a whole room full of children who are dying of starvation will just sit silently and wait for death?" He took a step toward her, but she held her ground, her hand tightening reflexively around her little blade. "Where I grew up, that was the death we prayed for." His hands were shaking, but his gaze was steady and surprisingly clear. "Better that than to be bound and left alone for hours, a blanket thrown over you as a punishment for daring to ask for water." He glanced at Popescu. Nell edged away. "I used to unwrap my brother from those sheets. Do you know," he looked back her. "His skin came away with them. His body was just an open wound, and you think this man, this măgar who took us on a death march in the dead of winter, he doesn't deserve to know how it felt?"

"No," Nell said. "I don't."

Mihai stared at her. "You believe you're tough enough to stop me? That knife will only kill me if you dig deep."

"I don't want to kill you. I'm not here for that."

"No?" He seemed surprised. "I would have thought you'd want revenge." Mihai shrugged. "Maybe you weren't the friend Mabel thought you were."

Nell felt her throat close. Without the tattoo and the rough stubble on his chin, she might have mistaken Mihai for a narrow-shouldered teenager if she'd passed him on the street. His expression, though, was one of a man who lived only to inflict the pain he'd been carrying all his life on others. "Mabel?"

"She was a fool to trust me," he said, dragging Popescu up onto his knees. "Just as you were a fool to follow. And if I learned one thing as a child, it is that death is the only true teacher." He pulled out his pistol.

Nell didn't wait to see which of them he planned to shoot first. She sprinted forward and rammed her shoulder into him, forcing his shot wide. Mihai brought the butt of the gun around and slammed it in her face, and she fell back, stumbling over Popescu. The second shot rang in her ears. She was momentarily grateful for her husband's insistence that they practice self-defense with the television turned up and the lights off. She didn't rely on anything as much as she did the breath of air that moved as Mihai did. She grabbed a rock and threw it hard. Her angle was wrong, but it knocked him off-guard for long enough for her to scramble to her feet.

Nell's first instinct was to run, but she couldn't leave the old man behind. She was too late for Mabel. That thought stole her breath as her right hook connected with Mihai's jaw. A man like Bobby could have taken advantage of her panicked delivery and rolled with it, but Mihai had spent his formative years malnourished, and his bone development and reflexes reflected it even if his muscular did not. As she felt the explosive crack beneath her fist, she heard his gun go off again.

Popescu screamed. Mihai staggered away from her, one hand pressed to his ruined face. "No! You'll die when I say you can!" He raised the gun as Nell crashed into him from behind, his shot ricocheting into the trees. She slammed her foot into the side of his knee and he crumpled. Her next kick caught his wrist, and she grabbed for the gun as Mihai dropped it, moaning.

"Can you walk?" she asked Popescu, one eye still on their attacker. The old man just stared up at her blankly, blood trickling from his mouth. The bullet had only grazed his arm, but she knew the worst injuries were internal. She reached down and squeezed his hand. "Mabel?" Nell asked.

Popescu blinked, his eyes damp. Carefully, he shook his head once. Nell's hand tightened on his. There it was then. Not a trick. Not the empty daunt of a desperate, angry man. Just death.

Mihai was right. Death was the best teacher, the great equalizer. Youth, goodness, health - none of it was protection. Nell trembled at the memory of grief in its enormity. Surely, she'd lost enough already. She looked at Mihai, face grey with pain. Of course she hadn't. There was an infinite supply of this suffering. It was the justification to batter and abuse, to ache, and to be alone.

Popescu twitched and she leaned in closer. "Run," he whispered. "Maybe..." He coughed, flecking her shirt with blood.

"I can't leave you here." Nell glanced at Mihai, but he hadn't made any move to stand. All those hours of training, of practicing the quickest way to cripple a man, and she felt worse now than if her own knee were shattered. But he'd killed Mabel. Her hands shook, and she wiped her face angrily. "I can't leave him."

Popescu groped for her other hand and wrapped his fingers around the Mihai's gun. He pulled it from her loose grasp. "He and I will both live." He coughed again. "Or we'll both die." He stared up at her. "Either way, you need to go."

8.4 - Anastasia

The cab driver negotiated the quiet Lincolnshire roads like a man pursued by bandits. He hurtled across roundabouts, failed to slow at junctions, and cut corners in a squeal of brakes.

"Are you licensed to drive this?" said Anastasia, involuntarily leaning into a bend. The man jabbed a finger towards the laminated card mounted above the rear view mirror. Anastasia saw that it had been issued by the correct authorities, and whilst she accepted that the man had every right to be called Mohammed Shafique, it was difficult to see a clear resemblance between the lean, dark haired man in the photograph, and the taciturn, pink fleshed, balding Scot at the wheel.

Vassil said not a word on the journey to Anderson's, the meat processing factory that was his workplace. His pale face and rigid demeanour as he sat in the front passenger seat may have been a response to 'Shafique's' driving, but Anastasia suspected that it was not. Nor did she care. She was on a mission.

The cab pulled in at the rear of the meat factory. The loading bay was brilliantly lit, rendering the rest of the car park dim by comparison. Men in boiler suits were loading pallets into a van. Two other men, at the rear of the car park, were bundling a less orthodox package into a car, watched over by a third man   Given Vassil's explanation of how the factory worked, Anastasia assumed that this was a transaction strictly off the books.  Whatever it was, it was not her primary concern. She got out of the taxi and approached the driver, who had wound down his window.

"Here's your fare," said Anastasia, holding up a small clutch of notes to their driver. "If you wait for us - wait for up to an hour - here's your tip." With this she held up another, larger bunch of notes.  He reached out for it, but Anastasia pulled away. "Wait for us."

"Aye," said the cabbie, "Lay-by down the road. One hour. I'll need a deposit.To cover a no-show."

"Fair enough," said Anastasia. "But I've got your name and number."

"One hour. From now."

Vassil got out of the cab, alert. The activity around the loading bay was not unexpected: stock was moved from the freezers around the clock according to demand.  There were lights on in the factory, too, though not as many as there would be for a shift. He found it hard to gauge what would have been normal for a non-working day.

"Where do you suggest we start?" said Anastasia.

"By getting back in the taxi and leaving this place," said Vassil.

"You know why I'm here," said Anastasia. "I'm going nowhere until we get some answers."

"There are no answers here, Ana," said Vassil. "Only questions."

" I owe Gracie Greenwood and her parents," said Anastasia. "The police don't have a clue."

"And what evidence can you get?" said Vassil. "These guys come and go. If they think they're  in trouble here, they move on."

"So I'm supposed to shrug my shoulders, go back to London?" said Anastasia.

"Yes," said Vassil. "You should do that."

"You know, you sound just like my agent," said Anastasia. "He said exactly the same thing. That's why he's a money man, and I'm an artist."

The men in boiler suits began to winch down the hatch on the loading bay. Doors slammed on a Range Rover with tinted windows on the far side of the yard.

"Those men, don't look, Ana, by the black car, they are dangerous."

"They must be who I'm looking for, then," said Anastasia, turning to face the men. "Perhaps you'd like to do the introductions?"

"I don't like this," said Vassil. "They shouldn't be here today."

The Range Rover started up and drove slowly past. Three men were left standing on the asphalt.

None of the three wore blood spattered white overalls, nor the boiler suits sported by the loading crew. One man, casually dressed, went back into the factory. The other two approached the workers' entrance where Anastasia and Vassil stood. The taller man wore a suit and an air of superiority. He had a scar across his face. The shorter man, pumped up, twitchy, a stub of cigarette seemingly welded to his lips, was dressed like a pimp.

"De ce ai adus-o aici, Vassil?" said the scar man.

"Andras, ea mi-a facut o fac," said Vassil.

"Madame," the scar man turned to Anastasia, "we are closed. Next time you must have an appointment. This is a food factory. There are rules of hygiene."

"Which don't apply to you or your boyfriend," said Anastasia.  The pimp seemed to be bouncing on the spot, as though about to take a swing at Anastasia. Scar man narrowed his eyes.

"Andras," said Vassil, "May I introduce you to Miss Anastasia Boty.  She is an artist."

Andras the scar man bowed slightly, and reached for Anastasia's hand. His grip was merciless. He could break an artist's fingers. "Enchanté," he said. "As you are here, please come through to the office."

"We can talk here," said Anastasia. "Vassil, are these the men I need to talk with?"

"You do not need to talk with anyone, Ana," said Vassil.  "Please, you should go now."

"Andras seems happy to talk," said Anastasia. "And lover boy, what's his name?"

The pimp dropped his cigarette and executed an impressive display of projectile expectoration. The phlegm bomb hit the tarmac close to Anastasia's booted foot. She did not flinch.

"Henric is a simple man," said Andras. "Loyal and obedient. Isn't he, Vassil?"

"I don't know him," said Vassil. "This has been a mistake."

"Andras," said Anastasia, "Are you the man who instructed Vassil to get me out of the way on the day my studio was burned down?"

"Yes. I knew I'd seen you before," said Andras. "The artist who let a little girl burn to death in Skegness. You were on television."

"Answer my question," said Anastasia.

"You are the one who needs to answer questions," said Andras. "That's what the police say."

"Andras didn't tell me to do it, Ana" said Vassil. "It's like I told you before. People didn't trust you, coming to the factory, asking to look around, everyone thought you were from the Border Agency."

"Henric, adu Skender. Imediat," said Andras to his companion. Henric slipped away. Andras turned to Anastasia. "Madame, this is a business. We trade in meat. We have no concern with artists, or pyromaniacs, for that matter. You are a sick woman, I think."

"You can't say anything I haven't read in the papers already," said Anastasia. "The fact is, this factory is a cover for criminal activity, and someone here wanted to scare me off."

Henric came out of a side door of the factory accompanied by another man in dark jeans and a hooded top.

"You don't like what the newspapers are writing about you," said Andras, "but you believe what they write about us. That we are all gypsies and criminals."

"Don't twist my words," said Anastasia. "Anderson's is a racket, whatever the nationality of the people involved. I want to know how I got caught up in all this, and above all I want to find whoever was responsible for murdering that child.

Henric and Skender exchanged a look. A wink, a smirk? It was hard to say, but Anastasia felt certain she knew what it signified.

"So they did it," said Anastasia, staring at the two men hanging back behind Andras.

"Be very careful what you say, Madame," said Andras. "If you upset them, who knows what they will do."

"We know what they've done, though," said Anastasia. "But who gave the order?  Was that you?"

Skender, his face a mask of boredom, pulled a packet of cigarettes from his pocket, followed by a knife. He held them loosely in his hands, as though balancing up which of the items he was to use.

"Nu-i face rău, Andras!," said Vassil.  Andras turned slightly to face his colleagues, giving a barely perceptible nod of the head. Skender responded at once.  Slowly he moved towards Vassil, bullet head dipped like a snorting bull. Although the evening was cool, perspiration stains were beginning to be visible on the Beer Venom T shirt Vassil was wearing under the denim western jacket. Vassil took a step back into the shadows. Skender struck out with one rapid move.  He grabbed hold of Vassil's lengthy Metal locks at the nape of his neck, locking his victim helplessly. He raised his other hand, the one with the knife, and drew the blade gently along Vassil's warm throat until the tip was just below the scientist's chin.

"Let him go now," said Anastasia. "he's done nothing. I made him bring me here. He didn't want to."

"If he was a man," said Andras, "he'd have kept you away from here, and if he wasn't a fool he'd have kept his mouth shut."

"I saw frightened people when I came here before," said Anastasia. "I didn't need Vassil to tell me this place was dodgy. Just now, what were you all doing? Legitimate goods going out in a van.  But what were you were loading into the Range Rover? I bet that didn't have an export license."

"What kind of stupid bitch are you?" said Andras. "You know nothing."

"I know plenty," said Anastasia, "But I need to know the truth. About Gracie Greenwood's death."

Andras took a few steps towards Anastasia, and stood, aggressively close. His face, with its scars, its open pores, the veined eyes, the bulbous nose, the cauliflower ears, struck Anastasia as fascinatingly singular. In other circumstances she'd have sketched him on the spot.

Andras opened his spittle flecked mouth. His teeth were surprisingly good, despite the foul breath. He spoke. "You would not learn your lesson when you had the chance," said Andras.

"What lesson?" said Anastasia. "You can't frighten me off with Laurel and Hardy here.  But leave Vassil out of this," said Anastasia. "He really didn't want to bring me here."  As she said this, the phone in her hand began to ring. She saw the name on the screen. "Robert! You idiot."

"Ana, darling," Anastasia's agent's voice addressed the assembly in the meat factory yard.  Andras stepped back a fraction. Henric looked up. Skender eased his grip a little on Vassil's hair.

"Not a good time, Robert," said Anastasia.

"Au contraire," said Robert. "This is an excellent time..."

"Believe me," said Anastasia, "it's not. I'm in a meat factory with a bunch of crooks, and one of them's got a knife to my friend's throat."

"Very droll, Ana, always the artist's sense of humour," said Robert. "Guess who I've got with me? And he's absolutely dying to talk to you."

"This is no bloody joke," said Anastasia.

"No, it isn't, darling," said Robert. "It's absolutely marvellous.  Dinner at The Ivy, next Thursday. We're celebrating."

"Apuca telefonul ei!" said Andras.  Henric reached out and snatched the phone from Anastasia's hand.

"Cine esti tu?" These words were issued in a commanding manner from Anastasia's telephone.

"What the hell?" said Anastasia.

"Cine este eful tău?" said the voice.

"Acest lucru este de companie Anderson i," said Andras.

"Prostule!" said the voice. "Care lucrezi? Care familie?"

"Who are you, Russian?" said Andras.

"My name is Mikhail Kaletsky," said the voice.

"That means nothing to me," said Andras. "But I have the woman, the artist. What is she worth to you?"

"You still haven't answered my questions," said Kaletsky. "Your protectors. Who are they?"

"Why should I tell you anything?" said Andras.

"Perhaps you'd prefer to speak to my friend in Bucharest?" said Kaletsky. "He is called Tristan Tzara."

"Tzara?" said Andras. "No."