The gun was trained on his face. He said, ‘Hey, I’m no one. This was all a bit mistake, alright? Put that thing down and I’ll walk right back out of here. No drama.’

The woman looked past him at the bed. Jerome stole a look over his shoulder. The lump in the bed wasn’t moving, despite all the noise.

The phone beside the bed rang.

‘Get over there,’ the crazy bitch commanded, jerking the gun towards the far wall. He obeyed, striding over with his hands still aloft, keeping his distance from the gun.

The woman picked up the phone, said, ‘OK, thanks. Tell her I’ll be down in a minute.’

The woman looked down at the phone, thoughtful, taking her eyes off him.

This was his chance. He rushed her, but as he tore across the carpet he realized he’d underestimated the distance and her head came up and with it, the gun.

Pain exploded in his shoulder. Oh my fuckin’ days, I’ve been shot, he thought. I’ve actually been shot. This really was like a movie. Except in a movie, he’d spring to his feet, or roll and trip the woman standing over him now with the gun pointed at his head.

Her face was twisted with anger. ‘You stupid arsehole. You’ve fucked everything up.’

He watched, paralysed, as her finger tightened on the trigger. His last thought, before she blew his head off, was of Rihanna. She was locked in the car, all the windows up, the hot sun rising in the sky. He opened his mouth to plead for the woman to stop, because otherwise who was going to save his dog?

He didn’t even get the first word out.

Chapter 44

Chapter 44
Helen – Day 7

Helen pushed open the heavy revolving door leading into Grant’s Hotel. Even before the door had finished the half-revolution necessary to spin her into the interior, she smelled the difference in the air inside: lilies, furniture polish, wood panelling, expensive luggage. This was the hotel where she came to the gym, but she hadn’t stayed in a hotel like this for quite a while. It reminded her of her old, pre-Frankie life, of romantic weekends away with Sean in exotic European capital cities, enormous king-sized beds with nothing comprehensible on the wall-mounted TV except Sky News, going to sleep sated with sex and the monotone lullaby of the air-conditioning. Although she wouldn’t want to do it again, not without Frankie. When they got her back, Helen thought, she would book another of those weekends, and this time they’d take Frankie with them. Vienna, perhaps, or Madrid. It could be just as romantic as when they’d first courted. More so.