by Wes Markin
Patricia stood up. ‘I’ll go. Bryan you make the tea.’
‘Shall I just keep my lazy arse on the sofa then?’ Yorke said.
Patricia smiled again. ‘I have a whole list of words to describe you, Mike, but lazy is not one of them. More’s the pity.’
Patricia headed to the door. She’d just grabbed the handle when Bryan stood to block her off. ‘Let me go. Believe it or not, I’m good in these sensitive situations.’ He smiled.
‘Unless it involves your wife?’ Patricia said.
Bryan smiled. ‘Spot on.’
‘I’m not sure, maybe it’s best—’
‘Trust me, Pat. Sensitivity is my strong point.’
Patricia stepped back and sighed. ‘My world is so full of sensitive men.’
Bryan went through the door into the hallway.
‘Guess I’ll make the tea then,’ Patricia said, heading out the other door to the kitchen.
Yorke thought he’d used the quiet moment to check up on his work emails. Although it wasn’t expected when absent due to illness, work plagued his thoughts most of the time. Living in ignorance would be both painful and impossible. He reached over for his mobile on the living room table, wincing when his ribs clearly didn’t appreciate the manoeuvre—
‘SIR!’ It was Bryan, and it was clearly a cry for help.
Trying to ignore the damage in his body, Yorke rose quickly to his feet. Patricia was already back at the kitchen door. He held his palm out to stop her, and then moved at pace to the other door.
He stepped out into the hallway, fighting the stiffness in his body.
The front door was ajar, but not enough so he could see outside. There was no sign of Bryan, Willows or Pemberton. A familiar coldness flared up at the bottom of his neck.
He put his hand there, but he was wearing a T-shirt, and so the option to button-up and protect wasn’t available.
You’re being paranoid, Mike. No one is dead.
Despite his efforts to reassure himself, he felt the cold sensation spreading over his entire body. An even stranger feeling when your heart was beating full blast and your body temperature should be boiling over.
‘Mike?’
Patricia. Behind him. He glanced back over his shoulder. ‘Go to the children.’
Patricia nodded, slipped past him and disappeared up the stairs.
Yorke continued to the front door. He had no idea what he was going to see out there. The only thing he was certain of now was the ice in his veins. He knew he should go back for a weapon of some kind, just in case, but it seemed like a lifetime now since Bryan had called out for help. He opened the front door.
Willows lay on the covered porch, sheltered from the rain, but still drenched. There was a pool of blood around her. She had her eyes closed but was breathing. Bryan was on his knees beside her, holding her hand tightly between both of his.
Yorke stepped forward. His hand flew to his mouth when he saw the prone figure of Pemberton off to his left. She lay on her front. The back of her jacket was ripped and frayed. Bullets. Blood flowed away from her with the rushing rainwater.
Bryan looked up at Yorke. ‘It’s bad.’
‘I’ll get an ambulance—’
‘Run.’ It was Willows. Her eyes were open now, and blood snaked down her cheek from the corner of her mouth. ‘Run. He’s here.’
Yorke saw Borya Turgenev, armed with an umbrella and a pistol, emerge from around the side of his house.
Feeling again Borya’s debilitating first punch from several nights ago, and seeing that devastating flash, Yorke suddenly felt unsteady on his feet. Momentarily, he lost control, and had to steady himself against the door frame. He felt the burn of the boxcutter as it tore open his cheek—
‘Run!’ Willows cried again.
‘I’m not leaving you,’ Bryan said.
Yorke took a deep breath. Borya was coming, and he had his pistol raised. Ignoring the cries of his damaged ribcage, Yorke leaned over and grabbed Willows’ arm. ‘Bryan, help me get her in, quickly!’
Bryan gritted his teeth and pushed. Yorke pulled. Willows moaned in pain. The blood and rainwater helped her slide. She started to cross the threshold into the house.
‘Harder!’ Yorke said.
Sliding on the blood himself, Bryan managed to thrust as hard as he could. For a second, Yorke thought the liaison officer would slip to his side, leaving him vulnerable to the approaching Russian.
But he didn’t, and Willows made it inside the house.
Yorke fell to his backside, and hurried backwards, dragging her further inside.
But Bryan was taking too long to follow them in. He obviously didn’t fancy his chances of getting to his feet in all the slippery fluid, so he was still on his knees, practically crawling in.
‘Bryan, hurry up!’
His head snapped sideways. There was a cloud of blood. His eyes rolled up as if he was somehow looking for the bullet that had entered his skull. He slumped face down.
Yorke scurried forward like a crab and closed the front door with his feet. It caught against the top of Bryan’s head and remained ajar.
Borja wouldn’t be more than a metre away, moving slowly, and confidently. There was no rush when you were this good at killing.
Yorke lay on his back, pulled his legs back and jabbed at the door with his feet. He could feel the resistance of Bryan’s head, and the door wasn’t catching.
‘Sorry Bryan.’ Yorke yanked his feet back again and thrust with all his might. He felt Bryan’s body give way, and the door clunked shut.
He flipped around to slide the deadbolt at the bottom of the door, and then jumped to his feet to slam home the one at the top. He also lifted the handle to engage the locking mechanism, turned the key, pulled it loose, and thrust it into his pocket.
Suspecting what was coming next, Yorke hit the deck again.
Thud. A hole appeared midway up the front door.
Despite knowing there was little danger of Willows getting up with her injuries, he hissed a warning anyway. ‘Stay down!’
Thud-thud.
Two more holes appeared in the oak door. One bullet hit the bannister post and splinters of wood sprayed into the air.
Yorke looked at Willows. Unbelievably, she managed to roll onto her front, moaning as she did so. She didn’t look in the best shape. He was in awe of her determination, but now was not the time to tell her so.
‘Crawl forwards,’ he hissed.
She managed to lift herself slightly on her hands, lope about half-a-metre, before folding back to the ground. He heard her gasping for air. Yes, she was struggling, but she was doing it.
There hadn’t been a bullet for a short time. He expected Borya would be backing away to circle the house and look for another way in. A deathly silence crept into the house. Now was the time for his move—
Patricia stood at the top of the stairs looking down. ‘Are you okay?’
Adrenaline whipped through him. He lifted himself up on his left arm and waved her away with his right hand. ‘Get out through the window—’
Thud.
Yorke dropped back down. He felt splinters pepper the back of his head.
When he looked back up, he was relieved to see Patricia was gone. If she hadn’t realised there was an almighty problem here, she certainly would do now. His family’s best option was to go out of the window of the back bedroom, drop down into the back garden, and make a run for it through the back gate. He hoped to God they were currently taking it.
He also hoped to God that she was already calling for back-up.
He tasted bile. Would help get here in time for him and Willows?
This was The Dancer. In the house, his movements would be swift. He would come and go in the blink of an eye, and no one would live.
He crawled up alongside Willows and whispered in her ear. ‘Where’re you hurt?’
‘Below the collar bone.’
‘Straight ahead, there’s a small door underneath the stai
rs. You’ll be able to reach up to the handle. Crawl inside and wait. Help is coming.’
She looked tearful. ‘Pemberton.’
‘Not now … later.’
There was so much blood; it was smeared all over his parquet floor from the front door to where she’d crawled to. Yorke pulled off the unbuttoned shirt he had over his T-shirt and handed it to her.
‘It’ll hurt but apply pressure with this. You could do with keeping hold of your blood.’
‘Thanks.’ A tear rolled down her face. ‘Your family?’
‘I’m hoping they’ve run. I need to check. Go and hide.’ Yorke felt dreadful that he couldn’t take her with him. She’d never get up the stairs in this state, and they’d be sitting ducks on the journey.
Yorke looked back at front door. Light glowed in through the bullet holes, except one. But then the dark hole brightened, and another blackened. Borya was moving his eye between them. Watching them.
Yorke could hear Willows shuffling towards sanctuary; he could also hear his own quick, ragged breaths. He needed to get to the top of the stairs. To check his family had fled before Borya found his way in.
The holes stopped flickering. Hoping that Borya had given up shooting at them to go off and locate another entry point, Yorke started to rise to his feet.
Crash.
The front door shook. Shit! He wasn’t going to find another way in. Why scour the house and sneak in, when you were strong enough to just take out the front door?
Crash. Crack.
The wood splintered.
As Yorke rose to his feet, he felt every muscle and bone in his body burn.
He took a quick glance back to the crawling Willows, prayed that she made it, and then made for the stairs.
Crash … crash …
He almost hit the stairs face-first rather than feet-first, but managed to right himself at the last second, and get a solid grip on the first step.
Crash … crack …
He was half-way up the stairs when the mouldy daylight entered the house. He didn’t need to look back to know that the front door was no longer his only barricade to death.
Expecting the bullet, and the blackness at any second, he forced himself onwards—
Thwap.
If the bullet had hit him, he didn’t feel it.
Thwap … thud.
He’s still here … God knows how. He reached the top step with such force that he collapsed to his knees.
Thwap … thud.
He felt plaster sprinkling the top of his neck.
Gritting his teeth against the pain which seemed to start at his throbbing cheek and radiate through his entire being, Yorke rolled clear of the top of the stairs.
Thwap.
Flat on his back, Yorke watched as another bullet hole opened in the wall at the top of the stairs.
A wasted shot. Was the Russian toying with him?
Yorke looked right. Patricia was peering around the bathroom door.
Shit. She shouldn’t still be in the house! She crawled out of the bathroom, and towards him, dragging something along with her.
‘The kids?’ Yorke whispered.
She gestured at the room behind Yorke. ‘Through the window. They’re safe. I watched them go.’
Thank God. ‘You phoned the police?’
She nodded.
‘Why are you still here?’
‘I’m not leaving without you—’
Yorke heard a creak on the fourth step. He knew it was the fourth step, because they’d be planning to have it looked at for months. The Dancer may have been light on his feet, despite his great size, but that creak was unavoidable.
‘He’s coming,’ Yorke said. His heart thrashed so hard against his battered ribs that his breathing became laboured. ‘Get back in the bathroom …. and lock the door.’
Patricia reached out with a hollow metal bar. She’d unscrewed it from the towel rack.
He closed his hand around it and was surprised he was able to grip it with the sweat running from his palms. He smiled at her. ‘We’ll get through this. I love you. Now … on three, the bathroom. One … two … three.’
Yorke rose to his feet as Patricia scurried back to the bathroom. He saw the hairless head of Borya, which was almost level with the balcony Yorke stood on. The giant swerved his pistol. His intention was clear, he was going to shoot Yorke though the railings of the bannister. Yorke had other ideas. He swung the metal bar like a golf club. There was the clank of metal on metal. Borya’s gun sailed off down the stairs. Yorke pulled back and swung a second time.
Borya caught the bar mid-flight and snatched it from Yorke. The Dancer’s reflexes were impressive, but Yorke wanted to showcase his own. He leaned forward and threw a punch with his left hand before Borya could swing the bar back at him.
With his other hand, Borya caught Yorke’s fist, applied pressure to make him cry out and then yanked him over the balcony. Despite the rush of air, and the terror of heading face first towards the steps, Yorke found the inspiration to throw out his right arm. He managed to drive it in the side of the beast’s thick neck. On any other occasion, Borya wouldn’t have flinched, but perched on a step, gripping a heavy man by the hand, it would be difficult for even this, the most dextrous and strong human being Yorke had ever encountered, to remain upright.
He didn’t.
As they were tumbling together down the stairs, Yorke was repeatedly bashed by Borya’s incredible weight. He was going to come off a lot worse …
When everything went still, Yorke struggled to open his eyes. He felt crushed.
He thought of Patricia in the bathroom, willing her to leave the same way the children had, but knowing that she wouldn’t.
I’m not leaving you.
Yorke managed to open his eyes and saw that all good fortune was abandoning him.
Borya was kneeling on top of him, smiling. ‘Here we are again.’
‘Someone will kill you one day,’ Yorke said.
‘It won’t be you.’ He watched Borya raise his fist. It felt horribly familiar. Yorke wasn’t sure which came first. The punch or the darkness.
But they both came.
Firth was hoisted off Harris.
For such a diminutive man, Walter Divall was certainly strong. Firth himself was no small man, but he was lifted and sat to one side like a naughty toddler. He leaned back against a shelf, gasping for air.
‘I’m a big believer in calm and control, Mr Firth, and that was one of the reasons I liked you, and gave you this chance, but right now you don’t seem to be displaying any of these good qualities.’ Walter stooped to bring his eyes level with the aging prisoner. ‘So, calm down, and show some control.’
Firth nodded and then flinched when he caught a glimpse of Wheelhouse. Harris had not been exaggerating. He’d practically decapitated him.
His best friend.
Behind the body, Harris was dusting himself off following Firth’s ambush. He was no longer smiling. The man’s shame was at least one positive in this horrendous shitstorm.
‘And because I like you,’ Walter continued, ‘I will offer you some reassurance. But I only offer this once; after that, if I don’t see the composure that I saw in you yesterday when I visited, then I will have to rethink our arrangement.’
Harris cracked his knuckles. He was obviously happy to forgo any future paydays just to see Walter come good on his threat.
‘You didn’t have a choice. Never had a choice. As soon as Mr Wheelhouse made that decision to move against Mr Young, he was finished. You knew that, but you allowed him to continue anyway. I asked you yesterday why you allowed this. Do you remember the answer you gave me?’
Firth nodded. ‘Because he had the right to that decision.’
‘And you would have made the same decision, would you not?’
‘Yes.’
‘Precisely. So now we arrive at exactly the same conclusion that we did yesterday. This is inevitability. When Mr Turgenev ended Ms Edward’s
life, he started a chain of events that couldn’t be broken. Mr Wheelhouse’s death was the natural end. Yet, there was still one variable, wasn’t there? Do you remember what that was?’
Firth nodded. ‘How it finished for me.’
‘Yes. And how does it finish for you?’
Firth didn’t like the sound of this. This was a done deal, wasn’t it? He narrowed his eyes. ‘With me working for you … I’ve done what you asked.’
‘Yes, you’ve certainly fulfilled your end of the agreement. You’ve proven yourself to me.’ He looked behind him at the body. ‘Above and beyond, but we still have a problem …’
Firth started to rise to his feet. His breathing had levelled out, and he did feel more in control. But calmer? He didn’t think he’d ever felt less calm. ‘This sounds like I’ve been lied to.’
‘You’ve not been lied to. Anything but. You’re a man of talent and you’ve just demonstrated this. There has never been any reason for you to come to a sad end because of someone else’s mistakes but, alas, this one problem still remains.’
Firth saw Harris smiling now. The problem was obviously bad. He was tempted to charge over there and pummel that arrogant prick’s head in too. If he had to die after that, so be it. At least he’d be going down with some satisfaction.
‘The problem is my employer, Mr Young. Truth be told, he’s my ex-employer but, of course, he doesn’t know this yet.’
‘I don’t understand …’ Firth shook his head. He was genuinely confused. ‘We’re all standing here because of what happened to Buddy’s granddaughter, Vanessa. If you don’t work for him anymore then why are we all here?’
‘Pretence. My real boss, our boss, Mr Firth, is of far greater significance than Mr Young. In fact, he is the most significant man that you’ll ever meet, if you’re lucky enough to ever meet him. He no longer sees the use for Mr Young and, having worked for him for many years, I tend to agree. He is obsessive, impulsive, archaic and, above all else, at death’s door. The problem is the stubborn man is holding on.’