Page 187 of The Black Trilogy

“How about the crazy part?”

“You were probably right about that.”

We lapsed into silence for the rest of the journey. My mind churned as I tried to think of a way to escape, and Black was no doubt working out how to stop me.

Unfortunately, I still hadn’t managed to come up with a coherent plan when the car slowed. We turned into the driveway of a large, posh-looking building, and any hopes I might have had of doing a runner were scuppered when the driver pulled forward into an underground garage.

Six other cars were parked neatly in the bays, gleaming under overhead strip lights. I picked out an Aston Martin, a Porsche 911, and a BMW 5 Series, with two more sleek-looking vehicles hidden under fitted covers. A Land Rover Defender took the end space. Maybe one of the building’s inhabitants had a pad in the country they retired to at weekends? There was obviously some serious money here.

Black must live in an apartment upstairs, I surmised. At least the abundance of cars meant his neighbours were home. If he did turn out to be a raving lunatic, there would be somebody to hear me scream.

Or so I thought.

He ushered me out of the car towards a lift in the corner and pressed the button for the ground floor. As the doors closed, I realised I didn’t even know what part of London we were in. I’d rarely ventured out of the East End. That was my stomping ground and I knew it well, dead-end alleys aside.

This place might as well have been on Mars, for all the similarities it had with my home.

Actually, Uranus would have been more appropriate. Because at that particular point in time, I was convinced that was where Black hailed from.

The lift shot upwards, and seconds later, the doors opened. Instead of the hallway full of flat doors I’d been expecting, we emerged in a large room with staircases running up both sides. Tarpaulins covered a few pieces of furniture huddled in a corner, and a collection of paint pots and ladders stood off to the side. The place reeked of fresh gloss with an undertone of white spirit.

“Sorry about the smell,” he said. “I’ve been having some renovations done.”

I tried not to stare too much. “Is this whole building yours?”

“Yeah.”

How could he act so casual about the fact he lived in a palace? I may have been hazy on the subject of property prices, but I bet this place cost more than the entire block JJ’s was on. No wonder Black didn’t care about the cash in his wallet.

I trailed behind as he walked to a vast kitchen and reached up into a cupboard for a first aid kit. I say kit, but from the size of the box, it was practically a hospital. He stuck it under one arm and took my hand to lead me up the stairs, and I was so busy staring at the chandeliers, I didn’t think to snatch it away.

On the second floor, we went through what I assumed was his bedroom, a vast almost-empty space decorated in greys and blacks with the occasional deep-red accent. The blood seeping from the gash below my ribs coordinated perfectly with the curtain tie-backs. Just one room, for one man, and it was bigger than Jimmy and Jackie’s whole flat. I paused to look but Black pulled me forwards again, into a luxurious en-suite bathroom on the far side.

While he peered into the mirror, I gaped at the marble shelves and taps that were probably made from platinum. Surprisingly, he didn’t have a little woman stationed in the corner to wipe his backside.

He gingerly touched his nose. “You did a nice job on that, didn’t you?”

Did he expect me to reply? I didn’t think “Er, thanks” would be the right thing to say, so I kept my mouth shut.

“Hopefully it’ll heal straight, but if it doesn’t, it’ll be a good reminder that I shouldn’t underestimate people based on their appearance, won’t it?” He grabbed a washcloth and wiped the worst of the dried blood off his face, then rinsed his hands. “Let’s have a look at your side.”

I hesitated, not sure I wanted to be half-naked in this bathroom with the soft-talking American. Even though I knew his name now, and he hadn’t yet shown any indications of being a serial killer, the situation made me uncomfortable.

“Come on, I’ve already seen it all once,” he coaxed. “That wound needs to be cleaned up.”

Oh, why not? I didn’t fancy having to wake Jimmy up for the key to the medical cabinet when I got back.

If I got back.

I undid the belt on my coat and shrugged out of it, draping it over the side of the bath. The shirt was useless—it only had one button left and the bloodstains looked more gory than artistic, so I pulled that off and dumped it in the small bin next to the sink.

A quick glance in the mirror told me I looked like an extra in a horror movie. As well as the cut, I had bruises on my wrists and legs where he’d held me down and a nice purple mark coming up on the side of my face that I didn’t even remember getting.

I sat down on the closed toilet while Black gently probed my side, cleaning off the blood then wiping it with antiseptic, which stung like a mother. I gritted my teeth so I didn’t cry out. The last thing I wanted was to look weak, especially in front of him.

“This cut needs stitches.”

“I’m not going to a hospital.”

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