the champagne. And, if – as I imagine you did – you came as David Gordon’s guest, then you will have lost that lift home.’
‘Not necessarily. I’m sure he would take me home if I asked.’ Actually, she was bloody sure he wouldn’t. ‘In any case, the fresh air will do me good.’ She was enjoying the banter but she really did want to get home to her bed so she was fresh for the radio interview in the morning. Besides, she didn’t want or need any complications in her life, and Jamie Rider looked as though he could be a very big complication, if she let him in. No, she would go outside and order a taxi.
‘Fair enough,’ he said. ‘Maybe I could see you another time? Show you around the farm? Book you in to realign your chakra?’
‘Maybe.’ She smiled, graciously, she hoped.
Chakra indeed. It really was time to leave.
Cora didn’t see the two men until it was too late.
Normally, she would catch the last bus home after an evening shift at the hospital, but tonight she had worked late thanks to an emergency admission and so she’d missed it, but a colleague gave her a lift part of the way, dropping her on Unthank Road – not too far for her to walk. However, this was Norwich, and there weren’t many people out late at night in that part of the city, which was well away from the nightclubs and the pubs the students frequented, so she hurried along, trying to make herself as inconspicuous as possible. Once or twice the hairs stood up on the back of her neck and she looked over her shoulder, convinced she was being followed, but she saw nobody.
She decided to take a shortcut through Chapelfield Gardens that was lit in part by sickly yellow sodium lights. A couple meandered along in front of her, hand-in-hand. She passed a group of four men, swaying with booze. They called out to her; she ignored them.
Two men stepped out of the dark in front of her. She stopped, smiled.
‘Excuse me,’ she said, pleasantly, hoping they would stand aside.
They didn’t.
‘Excuse me,’ she said, more loudly now, her heart fluttering in her chest. This was not a good situation. Still they didn’t move. She glanced around, wondering if she could shout for help, but the gardens were now empty. The two men moved smoothly to flank her either side, pressing her between their bodies. Both were much taller than she was.
‘Cora,’ one of them said without looking at her, ‘you shouldn’t be walking around on your own.’
‘Especially not here,’ said the other. ‘In a deserted park an’ all.’
‘Have you been following me?’ Her mouth was dry. Fuck it, she’d been right.
Man Number One, who was thickset with rubbery lips, smiled at her. ‘Since you left the hospital,’ he said, cheerfully. ‘We’d been waiting for you to leave. Though you didn’t make it easy, missing your bus and everything. Good job we had our car parked nearby. Especially as parking can be hell at NHS places, don’t you find?’
‘I don’t know who you are,’ Cora said, keeping her voice low and even as if she were talking to a frightened child, ‘but I would advise you to get out of my way.’
‘Or what, Cora?’
His lips were wet with saliva; it was all Cora could do not to shiver.
Then the two men began to hustle her along the path so fast that her feet were barely touching the ground. Her heart began to beat even faster.
‘What are you doing?’ She tried to wriggle free, but the two men merely gripped one of her arms each and carried on walking. All she could hope for was that they would pass someone and she could shout for help.
The group of drunks. There they were, ahead of her.
‘Help,’ she shouted, though it came out more like a whisper.
She gathered her breath, opened her mouth. One of the men punched her in the stomach. She bent over, winded.
‘All right, mate?’ she heard one of the drunks say as they hurried by.
‘All right,’ said Man Number One. ‘A few too many. Y’know.’ He laughed.
‘Fuckin’ do,’ said the drunk. They all laughed. Cora was still trying to catch her breath.
‘Look, Cora love,’ said the skinny man on her left, as they turned out of the gardens and began to walk down the road. ‘We don’t mean you no harm. Not intentionally, anyway. This is just a little warning.’
‘A warning, that’s right,’ said Man Number One, squeezing her shoulder hard. ‘Stop poking around, asking questions.’
‘Yeah, poking your nose in where it’s not wanted.’
‘Looking for Rick, you mean?’ she said through gritted teeth. Her stomach hurt. ‘Is that what it’s about?’ It was all she could think of.
‘Yeah.’
‘Why?’
‘Why what?’
‘Why shouldn’t I look for Rick?’
‘It’s not just that. Boss reckons you interfere too much and people’ll start talking.’
‘Listening, you mean.’ Anger made her bold. ‘They might just start listening.’ She tried to shake them off, but they held on even tighter. Rain had begun to fall.
‘Whatever.’
‘Who’s your boss? One of the Riders? Which one?’
Her question was met with laughter. She knew she was right.
They were now in an alleyway at the back of a row of shops – Topshop, she thought. MacDonald’s. No one to hear her.
‘Boss knows you like chatting to the homeless,’ said Skinny Man, dragging her towards one of the large grey industrial wheelie bins, ‘so we thought you could spend a bit of time being in their gaff.’
Okay, she thought, so they were going to dump her in a bin to make a point. To frighten her. And they’d done that all right. She was frightened. And getting cold from the rain. But at least she could climb out of the bin when the men had gone.
All at once Man Number One grabbed her arms and jerked them behind her back, wrapping gaffer tape around her wrists. Before she could scream, Skinny Man had slapped tape over her mouth, wrapping more tape around her head. Fear coiled in her stomach. Man Number One pushed her and she fell heavily on to the ground, banging her head on the hard concrete. Her vision went black for a moment and she felt sick. Then more tape was wrapped around her legs from her knees to her ankles, before she heard one of them push open the lid of the wheelie bin, and then she was tossed inside like a piece of rubbish.
‘Take this as a warning,’ Skinny Man said, smiling down at her.
The lid slammed shut.
The smell hit her first. The sweet tang of rotting food. Fried onions. Mouldy old rags. Body odour – from old clothes? Chips. The sourness of beer. There would be maggots, she knew there would be maggots. Fat. Crawling. Wriggling. She was lying on cans. Bottles. Cardboard containers. Lying on all sorts of rubbish. Slime. In the dark. Terror rose in her throat. Bile too. No, she must not be sick. Not be sick.
Another thought: would the bin be emptied tonight? Her terror grew so it was almost uncontainable. She could scarcely breathe. She had heard about this. Knew it had happened to homeless people, or drunks who thought they’d found somewhere safe for the night. And then the bin lorry came along, scooped up the