“You might kill him,” said the voice, but not in a discouraging way. More like: FYI.
“Ungh,” Shirley said, partly in warning. The man who’d punched the woman in the lobby was coming up the stairs; not in a hurry, and apparently amused by the fate of his companion. He said something nobody heard.
The corridor was busy; all doors open, and nervous faces peeping out. Like Watership Down on fireworks night. Shirley got to her feet before Man One reached the top of the stairs.
Someone called, “Is this a drill?”
“Use the other exit,” Shirley’s saviour said. It was Ellie Parsons, the woman she’d met in the gym, and she was brandishing a bloodied book, One Hundred Things to See in Dorset. “I wondered why they left copies of this. Now we know.”
“‘Panic attacks’？” Shirley managed. Breathing was painful.
“Oh, I’m medicated up to the eyeballs, dear.” Parsons smiled, gently. “I’ve called this in. But I imagine some kind of response will be automatic, don’t you?”
I work in Slough House, thought Shirley. Expecting anything other than blind indifference was optimistic. But anyway, here he came, Man One, shaking his head. Man Two was prone and gagging, unless that was a death rattle. She couldn’t find it in herself to give a toss.
“It’s getting a little, uh, busy,” Man One said. He wasn’t kidding. The fire alarm, the crashing about outside, the breakage downstairs, some to-and-fro yelling. If he hadn’t been using the top of his voice, they wouldn’t have heard him. Given that he was, his accent was more noticeable. Uomo Uno, Shirley amended.
“Yeah, you might want to fuck off now. There’ll be men with guns in a minute.”
“For a care home?”
Parsons raised both eyebrows. She spoke to Shirley. “Do I look like I belong in a care home?”
“How do you think I feel?”
“We can sort this out simples,” said the man. “We’re looking for Shirley Dander. We find her, we leave.” He spread his palms. “Nobody needs to get hurt.”
“I’ll be the judge of that,” said Shirley.
Yet another pair were coming up the staircase; one bald and bearded, the other clean-shaven and raggy-haired, like alternates in an identikit parade. Both wore expressions bordering on glee, as if this wild rumpus were the stuff of daydreams. Without looking round, Uomo Uno held an arm out to stop them.
The corridor was bustling. The fire exit was at the far end, and dressing gowned figures were shuffling that way, though two men had approached Shirley’s end and stood behind Parsons now, evidently expecting trouble. One was elderly; the other Shirley’s age. He had thinning blond hair, a wispy goatee, and a nervous twitch that pulled his face to one side at irregular intervals. And he carried a bedside lamp, its shade removed, its flex wrapped round his wrist.
Uomo Uno regarded them with amusement. “If you want a fight, I can spare a few seconds. Don’t think we’re all as easy as him.”
This with a gesture towards his broken-nosed companion, who chose that moment to groan.
The elder of the men behind Parsons said, “Naples? I’m hearing Naples.”
From downstairs came the sound of shattering glass.
Uomo Uno said, “One last time. Shirley Dander?”
“I’m Shirley Dander,” said Ellie Parsons.
“No, I’m Spartacus,” the nervous twitcher said, in a surprisingly deep voice.
“Okay, so one of you’s going to break a bone now,” said Uomo Uno. “You, I think.” He pointed at Spartacus.
To do them credit his back-up pair recognised their cue, but their execution lacked finesse and it all fell apart before it got going. When the first of them hard-shouldered Shirley aside she dropped to the floor, but grabbed him by the beard as she did so, pulling his head low and making it a simple target for Spartacus’s lamp. This caught him square in the mouth, not hard enough to satisfy Shirley, but she was aware she could be over-critical. His companion, meanwhile, reached for Spartacus just as Parsons kicked his kneecap: not a high-scoring move, but again best judged by results, because when he stumbled the elderly linguist put both hands to his chest and pushed him back into Uomo Uno, who caught him in an embrace at the top of the stairs. For a moment they were vulnerable, one good heave away from toppling down the staircase, and Shirley released the beard intent on precisely that, but someone grabbed her ankle: Man Two. She’d forgotten him. Too many people in not enough space was the problem: this needed a big finish if it wasn’t to end in farce. She collapsed onto all fours again, assuming the size and rough shape of an occasional table, while Bearded Man, now upright, spat a tooth and lunged for Ellie Parsons. This brought him square into the track of Spartacus’s lamp once more, which he was swinging as if creaming a full toss over the bowler’s head. The resulting crunch, with liquid notes, wasn’t quite drowned out by the alarm, and helped Shirley picture the impact later—at the time, she was preoccupied with stamping her heel into Man Two’s face. But she felt Bearded Man all the same, as he reeled backwards and tumbled over her as neatly as if the whole thing had been choreographed, with the big window waiting to welcome him. The noise he made passing through it had an orchestral quality: one big boom accompanied by a thousand tinkling minims. And then he was gone, and a cold wind was blowing into the corridor, while the wailing alarm slipped out through the wreckage and howled away into the night.