Chapter 4

He returned home with his dog trotting faithfully behind, now thinking of the conversation he had with the mourning aristocrat. Tintin knew that the woman was hiding so much and she was the key to this story. All that was needed was a few words with her and he would be able to solve it all, he was certain of it. As he opened the door, a familiar click came into ear shot.

Tintin stared at her, standing as most do, with a gun aimed at him. But she wasn't accurate with the weapon; she shook with the nervousness of someone who wasn't ready to hold an armed weapon. One handed, inexperienced – she was going to hurt herself if not careful, perhaps Tintin if lucky.

"Why couldn't you just give me the goddamn canister?"

"Because you're in something too deep," Tintin said, raising his arms in surrender, "an idiot could work that out."

"I don't care what you say, Mr Tintin – I need that canister back and I'll get it with or without your help." She held the gun higher, aiming for his head. She shook harder through the fear of the idea of her killing a man, Tintin no less.

"Put the gun down, Anne."

She flinched at the name, lowering the gun slightly in suprise. "How did you…?" the woman corrected herself and raised it again. "Give me the canister or I'll shoot."

He raised his arms above his head. "I don't have it, Miss Poart."

"What? Are you mad, they'll kill you if you've lost it! I'll kill you myself if you've been so stupid." Her confidence rising, she walked over to the window, checking for anybody who might be watching the kid's apartment. A glint of red light passed her vision.

"Down!" she shouted as bullets flew inches over her head; the apartment burst into flashes of white bangs and loud shots exploded cushions into a rain of feathers. Wall and window shards exploded, cracked and fell down, smashing into smaller ones and cutting the beings lying on the floor, their heads being protected by their paws. The gun was away from the hands of the girl and she heard the very loud gunshots deafen her; the world had become a blur of deafening fire and noise.

The terror of being shot at shook her to the core, ice shooting up her spine as she realised. She was scrunched as small as possible, protecting herself from the shots above her head and the debris cascading upon her.

After thirty seconds of constant noise and bullets, the world was silent.

Once a minute had gone by, she tried to stand but stumbled, confused and disorientated. The distant voice of a man whispered to her something hostile, but she couldn't quite hear. She was far too disorientated to fight back; he dragged her out of the apartment and onto the street, too weak to cause any damage.

"Come on!" she heard from his lips.

Consciousness returned to her eventually and she attempted to fight; managing to knocking down one of the men who held her and sprinting away as fast as her legs would allow. She reached the corner of the eerily quiet street before she saw the boy, running after another man down the road. The woman couldn't outrun the men behind her, and she screamed to the boy.

He turned to watch – his mouth wide. The man behind her then pressed a strong smelling cloth onto her face, the intoxicating smell forcing her into a deep, deep sleep.

Anne woke to the sound of laughter and clapping. Her hands shackled in iron above her head and blood leaking from her wrists as the sharp metal cut her. She stank of sweat and blood in the dress she was in while she tried to rob Tintin. Then it all returned - the gunshots, the kidnapping and the missing metal canister. All was lost if the famous Tintin had kept his cool head.

"Clever," Mr Pincer said. "Very clever to try to kill yourself and the device, try to break it maybe? But it was all for nothing, I'm afraid, because right now we have your friend."

"No." She breathed.

"Oh yes," the man stood higher, success brimming from him. He bent down and whispered right into her ear. "Now you can tell me where to find the device – or I'll rip off his limbs."

Anne called his bluff and repeated louder. "No."

Mr Pincer's foul breath crept through the thick London air. "I'm tired of your games, girl. I'm sick of all this that you've done for your dead husband; I'm not playing anymore. You tell me where it is – or I kill the infamous Tintin. Can you live with that? Can you live knowing that you let a man die just for a silly little device?"

She looked at him, into his eyes and wished that he was lying as he often did. She never saw Tintin get caught, so maybe he did get away. In answer to him, she spat him in the eye.

Repulsed, Pincer stumbled backwards, wiping the saliva away. His bodyguard took it upon himself to hit Anne several times.

Once around the face with the butt of his gun causing her to see splinters of light and dark; then a sharp kick in the ribs, this caused incredible pain and nausea, tears instantly coming to her eyes. Finally he used his gigantic hand to smack her around the cheek and this caused agony beyond all she had felt, unconsciousness loomed due to the strength of the blow.

"Idiot!" Mr Pincer exclaimed angrily. "Now she can't answer anything."

"Sorry, boss, I got carried away."

"You'll have plenty of time for that when we talk to the kid. We'll have to come back later now, when she wakes up." Mr Pincer led the way out of the cell, his blundering giant following behind.

Guilt came heavy on Anne; she knew that she had condemned Tintin to a terrible fate, one that he might die from. If only he'd listened; if only he'd just given the canister back! There was hope, though; if he had lost it then Pincer would leave them alone. But probably kill them.

She wasn't religious, but she did pray for Tintin as she became unconscious again.