Free Mesmeris by K E Coles Page B

gave out and I sat on the wet ground. I cried then, great, heaving sobs – not of pain or fear or shock - but of relief. The tears wouldn’t stop coming, and each juddering sob hurt my chest and tore at my stomach.
    Then the screams came – harrowing cries, rising to shrieks of agony and, in between the shrieks, Tipper’s desperate, pleading whimpers and Jack’s voice - quiet, calm, reassuring – utterly chilling.

CHAPTER TWELVE
    Jack emerged a couple of minutes later, holding my grubby bag. He looked a mess. His shirt hung open, half the buttons gone, ripped at the shoulder. Blood trickled down his forehead from the newly re-opened cut.
    He squatted down next to me and picked me up in his arms, like a baby. He kissed my face, my cheeks, my eyes. He held my head to his chest and kissed my hair. ‘Are you okay?’
    I nodded. Shocked and dirty maybe, but nothing was broken and I was still alive.
    ‘Think you can walk?’
    ‘Think so.’
    Jack put me on my feet and steadied me with his arm. I felt woozier than I expected, as if we were on a gently rolling ship.
    ‘You don’t make things easy, do you?’ he said. ‘If his mate hadn’t seen me . . .’
    ‘Collins?’
    Jack shrugged. ‘I went to the Tate. He’d run there to get help – showed me where you were.’
    ‘I tried to get to the tube,’ I said. ‘I got lost.’ And I tried to laugh but it caught in a sob.
    He pulled me close. ‘Bastards!’
    More tears welled up. I wiped them away, didn’t want him to see me cry.
    ‘We need to clean up,’ he said. ‘Maybe we should go back to the Tate.’
    ‘No!’ I imagined them all there, waiting for me, staring at me.
    ‘You know anywhere else?’
    I shook my head. We could hardly walk into a pub or restaurant looking like we did.
    ‘It’ll be okay,’ he said, ‘I promise – I won’t let anyone get to you.’
    I had to believe him, had no real choice. It took us only ten minutes to get there, even though I was slow. My search for the station had taken me almost full circle. Jack stood guard while I went into the toilets. I saw my reflection in the mirror - ugly – red, puffy eyes, half their normal size, surrounded by black mascara - red nose from crying, red patch on my cheekbone, on my forehead, hair all over the place. I brushed my hair, washed my face with handwash and practised a smile. The smile made my face crease up and then my eyes didn’t look so bad. No amount of washing seemed to be able to get rid of the black rings around them though.
    Jack was outside the door, just as he’d promised although he’d obviously been to clean himself up too. His shirt was pulled together, his face clean, hair combed over the scar on his forehead. He looked quite normal, except for the shirt. When I saw him, I did the smile I’d practised and he laughed and kissed my nose. ‘Funny girl,’ he said. He didn’t seem to mind that I was ugly.
    This time when we crossed the Millennium Bridge I had Jack’s arm around me and it felt different, safe, as if no one could hurt me.
    ‘We have to find Tipper’s fleas,’ Jack said.
    ‘Can we not?’ My insides squirmed at the thought of them. ‘I don’t want to see them.’
    ‘You don’t have to. You can sit in the car.’
    ‘You’ve got a car?’
    ‘How d’you think I got here?’
    I shrugged. ‘Don’t know. I didn’t . . .’
    His eyes flashed to something behind me.
    ‘No!’ I shouted, but he’d already gone. He ran across the road, dodging traffic, and chased Jenkins and Dim down the side of the cathedral. I ran after them but I was slow and didn’t get over the road for ages. By the time I reached the other side, Jack had gone. Iran into the gardens and stopped. A man in a smart suit, pink, pinstriped shirt, polished shoes, was sitting on one of the benches, eating sandwiches. I ran past him. Perhaps they’d run through, out of the gate the other side. Some Japanese girls stood on a plaque while a boy took a photo. Maybe the boys had