The Wreckage - Michael Robotham [6]
She’s reading a newspaper with a pen in her hand. It’s a copy of The Stage—the theater magazine, the auditions page, looking for work. Checking her watch, she folds the magazine and goes to the bar for another drink.
Her eyes, unnaturally wide, flick from face to face as if rapidly collecting details or assembling a jigsaw puzzle. There are two suits on stools at the bar, junior executive types with their ties at half-mast. They offer to buy her a drink. She declines. One of them motions to her with his forefinger. She steps closer.
“You see that,” he says. “I just made you come with one finger—imagine what I can do with the rest of them.”
A flush of embarrassment colors her cheeks, quickly replaced by anger.
Back at her table, she tries to ignore them, but they follow.
“Why won’t you have a drink with us?”
“I’m waiting for a friend.”
“Is she as pretty as you?”
“No, but he’s bigger than you are.”
One of them snatches the magazine from her and holds it out of her reach. She knows they want her to humiliate herself by trying to retrieve it but she simply waits until they grow bored and give it back to her.
Ruiz is watching, impressed. The little actress is a no-nonsense sort of girl.
Ordering another pint, he goes back to his notes and doesn’t look up again until much later. A man has arrived and is talking to the actress. Perhaps he’s her boyfriend. Tall and loosely strung, he’s wearing a frayed turtleneck, dirty jeans and boots.
They’re arguing. He grabs her by the wrist and tries to make her stand. In the next instant, his fist swings into the side of her head. The blow is so short, sharp and unexpected that nobody in the bar reacts. The girl is holding her face. Wide-eyed. Shocked. The boyfriend is standing over her with his fist clenched, ready to hit her again. Ruiz doesn’t let it happen. Grabbing the upraised hand, he wrenches it backwards, twisting it up the boyfriend’s spine.
“Maybe you should pick on someone your own size.”
“What’s your fucking problem?”
“Honestly? If she weighed another hundred pounds I’d call it even and watch her kick your arse.”
“Fuck you!”
Ruiz twists the arm higher. The boyfriend grunts and rises on to his toes. The main door is only three paces away. Cool air. A wet pavement. Ruiz shoves the boyfriend against a parked car and waits for him to spin, knowing he’s going to fight. At that same moment, one of the barmen makes an appearance, gripping a metal bar. The boyfriend steps aside. Mumbles something. A threat. An insult. Ruiz can’t hear the words but he knows the odds have altered; the chemistry changed. The boyfriend points his finger at Ruiz as though marking him for future reference and then slinks off. Inside the pub someone has filled a towel with ice, which the actress has pressed to the side of her face. Ruiz buys her a drink. Scotch. Neat.
“This will settle your nerves.”
He watches her throat move as she swallows.
“My name is Vincent.”
“Holly.”
“You want to call the police, Holly?”
She shakes her head.
“Show me your cheek.”
She lowers the towel. One side of her face is a little swollen. There’ll be a bruise. Her eyes shift past him, searching the floor.
“My bag!”
“What did it look like?”
“It’s black… with buckles.”
Ruiz helps her search. “What did it have in it?”
“Money. My phone.” She groans. “My keys.”
“Does anyone have a spare set?”
“My boyfriend.”
Ruiz makes her put the ice-towel back on her cheek.
“Is there someone you can call?”
“I don’t have any numbers.”
“Maybe your boyfriend has cooled off by now.”
Holly borrows Ruiz’s mobile. The call goes straight to voicemail. She leaves a message. Apologizing. She shouldn’t have to apologize.
Ruiz gets her another drink. She pushes the hair off her face, hooking it behind her ears. Her accent is from the north.
“So you’re an actress.”
Holly eyes him nervously over the rim of her glass. “What makes you say that?”
“I saw you reading The Stage.”
She shrugs. “Someone left it behind.