Blood Junction by Caroline Carver Page A

playing right by him, she reckoned he wouldn’t wake up.
    “No, I’ll never ‘do business.’” She turned from him and sat down again.
    Stan glared at her. “You’d better confess or I’ll wake Mikey. Then you’ll be in trouble.”
    India scrambled to her feet, managed to remain calm. “That’s an empty threat if ever I heard one.” She checked Mikey’s recumbent
     form. “He’s comatose.”
    “He won’t be forever.”
    She shrugged her shoulders.
    “Have it your way. I’ll come back in an hour, see if you’ve changed your stubborn little mind.”
    “Don’t bother.” She sat back down again. She was surprised at her own recklessness. “I can wait until morning, when Jerome
     gets here.”
    She was so absorbed in watching the policeman stride away that she failed to pick up a movement from the bunk.
    “… the hell’s going on?” The voice was deep and gravelly and weighted with confusion.
    India jumped. She strove to wipe her face free from all expression and to steady her ragged breathing.
    Keep your cool, girl. Don’t let him see your fear.
    She took three slow, deep breaths through her nose, and assumed a meditative position. She placed her hands on her knees and
     set her shoulders straight.
    With apparent indifference, she let her eyes travel slowly across the floor to Mikey’s well-worn leather boots and up his
     grimy, bloodstained clothes until they came to rest on his face. It was a strong face, with a big beaky nose and a jaw like
     a shovel. A scar ran up through one eyebrow.
    “Are you talking to me?” she said, her tone unfriendly.
    “Don’t tell me there’s more of you in here?” He swivelled his head to check the cell’s perimeter, and paled. A sheen of sweat
     appeared on his skin and he fixed his bloodshot eyes on her, his expression oddly stricken.
    “If you’re going to be sick,” India said, “could you make sure you aim in the middle of the bowl? I really can’t stand the
     smell of drying vomit.”
    Mikey stumbled to his feet and obediently stuck his head right inside the stainless steel toilet before throwing up noisily.
    India sat there trying to look serene while he repeatedly flushed the toilet and then stood over the sink, splashing water
     over his face and neck and hair and rinsing his mouth. He weaved back to his bunk and sat there, wiping his face on the shoulder
     of his T-shirt. He looked marginally better, but she could see his hands were shaking and his skin was still gray.
    India concentrated her gaze on a space on the wall ahead, as if meditating.
    After a while he said, “What the hell are you doing in here?” sounding genuinely puzzled.
    Slowly she counted to ten before turning her head and looking straight at Mikey. He had laughter lines at the corners of his
     eyes and a generous mouth. His body was broad and lean and fit, his belly flat. If he hadn’t been so filthy and reeking of
     alcohol and vomit he could almost be termed attractive.
    “Come on.” He sent her what he obviously thought was an engaging smile. “Your secret’s safe with me, promise.”
    “Put it this way, I’m not here to wash your socks or do your ironing.”
    “Bloody hell,” he said. He was gazing at her as though fascinated. “Are you having a bad day or are you just a ball buster?
     One of those women who think men are a subspecies?”
    She pictured her father, then Red-cap, and the mob, and Stan. When she spoke she told him the truth. “I hate men.”
    He stared at her for some time, seeming to pale further as he watched her. Eventually, he lay back and closed his eyes. When
     India finally stole a look at him, he was fast asleep. She felt her shoulders slump as she exhaled with relief. More confident
     now, she rested back against the bars and closed her eyes.

    “Psst!” a shadow hissed at India, and nudged her.
    This time India didn’t spring to her feet in a jet of fear. Instead, she groaned her protest at being disturbed. At a second
     nudge, her