BooksBarbecue
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Chapters (50)
  1. Cover
  2. VIOLET
  3. VIOLET
  4. Dedication
  5. Epigraph
  6. Contents
  7. Prologue
  8. 1
  9. 2
  10. 3
  11. 4
  12. 5
  13. 6
  14. 7
  15. 8
  16. 9
  17. 10
  18. 11
  19. 12
  20. 13
  21. 14
  22. 15
  23. 16
  24. 17
  25. 18
  26. 19
  27. 20
  28. 21
  29. 22
  30. 23
  31. 24
  32. 25
  33. 26
  34. 27
  35. 28
  36. 29
  37. 30
  38. 31
  39. 32
  40. 33
  41. 34
  42. 35
  43. 36
  44. 37
  45. 38
  46. 39
  47. Epilogue
  48. Acknowledgements
  49. ABOUT THE AUTHOR
  50. Copyright

I run a hand down the front of the robe and prise it open, just a little. Not enough for him to see anything. Not yet. He’s going to have to do better than that. But it was enough to confirm my earlier suspicions. He has definitely done this before. He is confident bordering on arrogant, and he is trying to hide it under a ‘knight in shining armour’ façade. Suddenly, I have a flashback to the room in Irkutsk – Sergei’s grunting face as he pounded himself into Carrie; Carrie too weak from that stupid drug she’d smoked to fight him off. A wave of revulsion skitters over my skin, leaving goose bumps. The robe falls open to the waist.

Brad grins, holding up the bottle, and the cork pops.

What a fucking cliché.

I don’t want to be here. I shouldn’t be here. I was supposed to be careful, after what happened in Irkutsk. I was supposed to keep a low profile. Keep myself to myself. I shouldn’t be getting involved with anyone else.

I should not be in this room.

Brad pours the champagne into two flutes and takes a step towards me. He hands out one of the flutes to me, and holds the other aloft. ‘Cheers,’ he says. ‘To you, Carrie.’ It’s the way he says it. The way he doesn’t believe that it’s my name. ‘Isn’t this just perfect?’

Then he makes a fatal mistake.

He turns away to look out of the window. Still trying to impress me, with this view that he has bought, before he plies me with champagne and caviar, and makes me suck his filthy cock. You’re just the same as the others, aren’t you, Brad?

I swing the champagne bottle like a baseball bat, at the perfect spot on the back of his head. He literally doesn’t know what’s hit him. He falls to his knees, still gripping the flute, and then he tips forwards, his hands thrust in front of him, and there is a strange gurgling sound as his face hits the floor. He starts, as if he’s been electrocuted, or is having some sort of a fit, and an arc of blood jets out from under him.

It takes me a moment to realise that he has landed on the flute and that it has smashed under him, impaling him like a chunk of chicken on a skewer.

Moscow – Berlin (flight)

33

Thankfully I still have my own ID to get on the plane. I’d felt a moment of panic at the immigration desk, wondered if my passport might have a flag on it, but after a moment of jobsworthy page-flicking, the po-faced guard stamped it and pushed it back under the glass.