A Chance Encounter Rae Shaw (ebook reader with built in dictionary .txt) 📖

her empty stomach churned. She expected something in response to the rumpus: a siren.

An unearthly silence was born, and it stretched on and on. She waited for something to puncture it, reassure her that she wasn't in a dump of the worst kind. But she was. The hostel was a shit-hole. Freddie had picked the cheapest place for her because he knew she was on a shoestring budget. If he had checked it out first, he wouldn’t have allowed her into the place. All those lectures on personal safety and Freddie had broken his own rules. Without him to guide her, she had to make her own decision; she would leave in the morning and find somewhere more suitable.

She curled into a ball under the musty counterpane. Shivering, her teeth chattered. She couldn’t contemplate undressing, and the decision had nothing to with temperature and everything to do with fear. A deep yawn forced her eyes shut. She hovered in an in-between place.

Hammering stirred her semi-slumber. She slipped her feet onto the carpet and crept towards the door. There wasn’t a peephole. She chanced it – hoping for a late visit from Alicia or even Freddie. Perhaps he would take her someplace else. And apologise, too.

The couple – a leather-clad man with oily hair combed back into a long tail and a skeletal woman – barged into the room and blocked the exit. The door slammed shut behind them.

Ellen stumbled backwards, and collided with the end of the bed. Where the hell was Freddie?

  28

Julianna

Dublin was freezing. They dashed across the tarmac to the covered reception area, completed the formalities with a sleepy-eyed official, then stepped out into the darkness.

‘Come on,’ Julianna said. ‘Moran has arranged for a driver and car.’

It was nearly midnight. Mark staggered on his tired legs. Julianna chivvied, plucking at his sleeve. ‘There! There's a man with my name on a board.’ She waved at the driver.

The man recognised the name of the hostel. ‘Not the sort of place a tourist should go to,’ he said. ‘It’s a piss hole.’

Julianna asked him to pick up speed. Mark’s complexion was a shade short of puce. He was a good bedfellow, but not a reliable sidekick. Not yet, anyway. She fancied teaching him a few things about nerves and pressure, like breathing, keeping it steady and under control. It wasn’t fair to criticise him. Anxiety lurked in the raked pit of her stomach, fed by necessary adrenaline, which sharpened her senses, honing them ready. Not so for Mark, who seemed to be battling something more debilitating than the cold. He had closed his dark haloed eyes and pressed his quivering lips together. What would he say to Ellen when they found her? He should definitely apologise. And listen to her; a lesson both siblings needed to learn in order to heal the rift between them. Jackson clearly thought it was beyond them.

The driver was prattling. ‘Doxies use it,’ he said with too much relish.

‘What about students?’ Julianna asked.

‘Out here? Tis a long way from the colleges. You do know what a doxie is?’

‘Yes,’ she said, despondently.

Mark lowered the window and blasted the interior with icy wind. Drawing the lapels of the leather jacket up higher, she waited for him to realise his mistake. Goose bumps formed on the back of her neck and her muscles stiffened. Whatever Mark needed to feel, it wasn’t helping her prepare. She cracked her knuckle joints, leaned across him and closed the window. He stared for a moment at her, then looked away.

No one spoke until they arrived at the hostel on the outskirts of Dublin. Mark wrinkled his nose at the neon lit sign. ‘This isn't a hostel. It's more like a hotel.’

‘Pay by the hour,’ the driver said. ‘It hasn't changed much in years. Garda ignore it unless there's trouble, so it keeps itself unappealing. That's its beauty.’ He laughed. ‘I guess your friend isn’t familiar with the area. She shouldn't be here on her own.’

‘Can you wait?’ she asked the man.

The driver drummed his fingers on the wheel and peered at the dim street, the garish “Vacancies” in the hotel window. ‘You know you’re dealing with shite coming here. There are better places. Ireland isn’t—’

‘I know,’ she said; every city had its rough spots. ‘Please, just wait ten minutes or so. We’re trying to help her.’

He shrugged. ‘Ten minutes.’

Julianna wasn’t optimistic.

The pencil thin man behind the reception desk lacked a name tag. The loose shirt, unbuttoned at the top, was creased in the wrong places. Two dopey eyes with their half-drawn eyelids peeped out from under a mop of greasy hair. He stank of tobacco, and something sweet, almost musty.

He picked up the registration log, placed it on the desk before them and rattled off the rates. Mark blanched; she thought he might keel over.

‘She can't be here,’ she whispered to Mark. ‘I mean, why would Zustaller ask her to come here when it's so obviously the wrong kind of place. She'd walk out, wouldn't she?’

How gullible was Ellen? She’d lived in London for a year, grown up on a rough estate, she wasn't daft. How Redningsmann, or Zustaller as Ellen knew him, had contacted her was unknown. It was in Opportunitas’ interest to close down those conduits, which explained Jackson’s ongoing interest. However, what drove Ellen to come to Ireland was more about what she was leaving behind; it was about escaping her past and hoping for a better future. Two powerful motives that might blinker her common sense.

Mark drew himself upright, making use of his six feet. ‘I’m here to find somebody.’ He shoved his face right up to the other man's nose. ‘Are you going to help or not?’ Mark finally understood the urgency.

The receptionist slowly scratched his chin, unperturbed by Mark's rudeness. ‘It's