by Ben Cheetham
Her gaze returned to Karl. “His mum’s got Charlie.”
“Then let’s go get–”
Karl broke off as, with surprising speed for a big man, Neal flung the pliers at him. Karl swayed sideways like a boxer slipping a jab. The pliers glanced off his shoulder and clattered against the wall behind him. It was enough to give Neal the chance to leap towards Butterfly and coil his muscular arms around her. She groaned as he bear-hugged her.
Karl levelled the Glock at him again. “Put her down or you’re a dead man.” His voice was icy, but there was a shimmer of fear in his eyes.
Wendy’s shrill voice piped from Neal’s mouth. “Do as he says!”
“No, don’t,” interjected Butch. “He won’t risk shooting.” A taunting grin spread over his face. “He luuurves her.”
Karl’s face creased in confusion. “What the fuck is this?”
“Wendy.” Butterfly’s voice grated out as Butch’s arms compressed her ribs. “He’s hurting me. Please tell him to stop.”
“Stop!” demanded Wendy. “Stop hurting her.”
Butch laughed. “I’ll do more than hurt her if this pretty boy doesn’t put down his gun.”
Butterfly groaned again as the pressure intensified.
“OK, OK,” said Karl, stooping to place the Glock on the floor. He kicked the pistol underneath the freezer.
At the same instant, Butch tossed Butterfly aside and charged at Karl. Butterfly thudded into a wall and crumpled like a doll to the floor. As Butch bore down on him, Karl’s hand darted into his pocket and emerged with his knife. In a single fluid motion, he flicked it open and deftly sidestepped Butch. The three-inch blade darted out. Butch grunted as it sank into his stomach just below his ribs. He threw a looping punch that would have taken Karl’s head off if he hadn’t bobbed under it. The blade flashed towards Butch again, slicing shallowly across his neck. With a bellow of pain and fury, Butch made a grab for Karl. The smaller man danced out of Butch’s reach.
The combatants faced each other for a heartbeat. Butch’s barrel chest was heaving. His eyes were ablaze with murderous rage.
“The bigger they are...” taunted Karl, grinning wolfishly.
Butch touched a hand to the blood blotting his shirt. The flames in his eyes leapt higher. Fists flexing convulsively, he charged again. Karl thrust the knife at his chest. Butch shoved out a hand. The blade pierced his palm, the bloody point emerging between the fine bones on the back of his hand. Instead of snatching his hand away from the knife, Butch closed his fist around it. A look of savage triumph spread over Butch’s face as Karl futilely tried to yank the blade free. With his other hand, Butch threw a thundering punch. Karl slipped away from it. Another punch skimmed past Karl, and another, and another. The men reeled around the basement, neither relinquishing their grip on the knife.
Butch’s fist clipped Karl’s forehead. It was only a glancing blow, but it was sufficient to open a gash above Karl’s eyebrow. His eyes expanding as if he couldn’t believe how powerful the punch was, Karl lurched sideways with fresh blood streaming down his face. He managed to keep hold of the knife’s handle, but only for a second. Another punch connected, crushing his nose, sending him sprawling against the freezer. Blood spattered the flagstones as Karl thrust a hand under the freezer and groped about for the Glock.
As if it was nothing more than a thorn, Butch pulled the knife out of his palm and flung it aside. He grabbed Karl’s legs, dragged him into the centre of the room and rolled him over. Karl’s fist lashed Butch’s face. Butch grinned as if Karl had caressed his cheek. He unleashed a barrage of hammer fists that mashed up Karl’s lips and mangled his cheekbones.
As Butterfly watched Butch pulverising Karl, she felt something she’d never expected to feel – a surge of protectiveness towards her ex-lover. She dragged her jeans up over her thighs and fought her way upright. There was a bundle of sticks that had been sharpened ready to be thrust into the earth. Grabbing a stick with her good hand, she staggered towards Butch. With every scrap of strength she had, she drove it into Butch’s back. Bellowing like a castrated bull, he jerked an elbow into her midriff. She doubled over with air whistling between her teeth.
Butch reached back to yank the stick loose before grabbing Butterfly’s throat once again. As his fingers closed over her windpipe, she cried out, “Wendy! Help me, Wendy!”
The words got through. The fingers uncurled. Wendy’s high-pitched voice rang out, “Run, Tracy. Run!”
Butterfly’s gaze moved to Karl. Blood was bubbling between his pulped lips, but he was conscious. When she reached for him, he caught hold of her hand and used it to haul himself onto his knees. She hooked an arm under his armpit and pulled him towards the stairs.
“My gun,” he burbled through broken teeth.
“Forget your gun.”
Leaning into each other like drunken old friends, Butterfly and Karl clambered up the stairs. Butch’s voice boomed out behind them, “You little bitch, they’re getting away.”
“Good,” Wendy shot back. “Serves you right.”
“Neal,” roared Butch. “You big sissy, you mummy’s boy. Are you going to let her do this?”
Neal’s trembling, aggrieved voice joined the party. “I’m not a mummy’s boy.”
“Then stop them. Kill them!”
Butterfly and Karl glanced back as a loud crash echoed around the basement. Neal had upended the freezer and was bending to retrieve the Glock. As fast as their unsteady legs would allow, they climbed the final few steps, shoved open the basement door and fell into the hallway. Butterfly kicked the door shut and looked around for something to wedge against it. Her eyes stopped dead on the kitchen. Her breath stopped on her lips. For a second, everything seemed to stop.
Chapter 26
The collie scrabbled at the backdoor, whining to be let in. Jack tried the handle. The door was locked. He peered through an adjacent window into a kitchen. Pans were bubbling on a Rayburn and the table was set for a meal, but there was no one to be seen. Another high-pitched cry rang out from inside the house, louder now. Jack’s eyebrows dipped into a troubled V. There was a baby in the house. Of that he was sure. The question was – whose baby was it? Neal was a loner with severe mental health issues and Pam was in her sixties with a chronically depressed husband. It was a sure bet that the baby wasn’t theirs.
Jack pressed his ear to the window. There was something heart-wrenchingly familiar about the cry. It reminded him of one that had woken him up countless times over the past ten months. Could it be Charlie? Had Butterfly and Karl somehow come to entertain the same suspicions as himself? His eyes flitted around the farmyard. Butterfly’s car was nowhere to be seen.
His frown intensified as the crying turned up a notch. If it was Charlie, he sounded distressed.
Jack warily made his way around the side of the house. He found what he was looking for – an open ground-floor window. As he peeked into a living-room, the crying stopped. The sudden silence only heightened his anxiety. Had someone tended to the baby’s needs? Or…
He didn’t allow his thoughts to travel any further down that line. He couldn’t permit fear to take control. He needed to stay focused.
Hooking a leg over the windowsill, he manoeuvred himself through the window. Quickly and quietly, he lowered himself to the flagstone floor and padded past a sofa with a steaming mug on its arm. The scent of roasting meat filled his nostrils as he stepped into a hallway.
He came to an abrupt halt at a muffled roar of unmistakable anger and pain. The sound had come from beneath the floor. His gaze moved to a closed door. Did it lead to a basement? Another roar rang out. It sounded like there was an enraged bull on the rampage down there.
His heart gave a sickening lurch as an image sprang into his mind of Neal pummelling Butterfly with his ham-sized fists. Forgetting his caution, he darted towards the door. He stopped again as a familiar, heavily accented female voice demanded to know, “What the hell are you doing in my house?”
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nbsp; Jack jerked towards the stairs. Pam Bray was standing halfway down them, clasping a bundle of blankets to her chest. Her dark eyes were wide with indignant surprise.
“I heard someone shouting.”
“That was Neal.”
“Why was he shouting?”
“We had an argument.”
Another bellow shivered the closed door. “He sounds in pain,” said Jack.
“He gets like that when we argue. That’s why he goes down to the basement. Not that it’s any of your bloody business. You’ve no right to be in here.”
“I’d like to talk to him.”
“Well you can’t. And if you don’t leave right away, I’ll have you done for breaking into my house.” Pam advanced down the stairs. Thrusting out a hand calloused by years of caring for a farm and a family, she ushered Jack into the kitchen.
“I heard a baby crying.”
“I’m looking after my granddaughter.”
Jack turned to look Pam in the eyes. “I’ve just come from your daughter’s house. Annabelle was there.”
“Did I say my granddaughter?” she shot back quick as a flash. “I meant my niece.”
Jack held her gaze, his eyes steady and probing. “You’re lying.”
Pam didn’t blink, but pale blotches appeared on her cheeks. “I don’t care if you think I’m lying.” She pointed to the backdoor. “I want you out of my house.”
The bundle of blankets in her arms stirred. A little hand emerged from the folds of material. A tiny, tremulous voice followed it. “M…m…”
Jack would have known that voice anywhere. “Charlie!” he gasped, reaching for the bundle.
Pam backed away, bumping up against the work surface. She snatched up a vegetable knife from a chopping board and thrust the blade out in front of her.
Jack’s eyes darted between the knife and the blankets. Could he disarm Pam before she had a chance to hurt Charlie? Possibly, but he couldn’t take the risk. There would soon be a unit of AFOs less than a mile away. They could be at the farmhouse within minutes. Surely Pam and Neal would realise the futility of their situation once the farmhouse was surrounded by armed police.
Jack put up his hands. “There’s no need for the knife. I’m leaving.”
“It’s too late for that.” Pam’s voice quavered between anger and tears. “Why did you have to come here? Why can’t you all just leave us alone?”
She flinched at a floor-shuddering bang from the basement. An instant later, two figures fell into view in the hallway.
Karl looked like he’d done twelve rounds with Mike Tyson. One of his eyes was swollen shut. Blood oozed from his caved-in nose and deep cuts on his eyebrows and lips. If it hadn’t been for the butterfly tattoo, Jack would have struggled to recognise him.
Butterfly looked to be in better shape, although her face was as pale as milk. She kicked out and there was the sound of a door slamming shut. Her eyes darted around, passing over Jack before coming to rest on Pam.
Hope and fear mingled in her eyes as she clambered to her feet. Karl staggered groggily after her as she hastened into the kitchen.
Pam’s panicked eyes danced between the newcomers and Jack.
“Charlie.” Butterfly said the name in a choked whisper.
At his mum’s voice, Charlie pushed at the blankets again and they fell away from his rosy-cheeked face.
“Stay back,” exclaimed Pam, the knife shaking so hard that it looked like she was on the verge of having some sort of fit. “What have you done to Neal?”
As if in answer, the basement door slammed open and a hulking figure stepped into view. Pam gave out a low cry at the sight of the blood on her son’s shirt, neck and hands. Neal’s chest was heaving as if he’d run a marathon. His dark hair was plastered to his forehead with sweat. His eyes flitted from Jack to Butterfly and Karl. The pistol in his hand followed suit as if he was uncertain who to aim it at.
“Easy Neal,” said Jack. “Don’t do anything foolish. Armed police are on their way.”
“You’re lying,” countered Pam. “You wouldn’t have broken in here if other police were on their way.”
Jack’s eyes appealed for her to come to her senses. “Eric Ramsden knows I’m here. When I don’t report in, he’ll come looking for me. Listen to me, Pam. It’s over.”
“It’s over.” She repeated his words slowly as if struggling to make sense of them. A sudden look of comprehension flooded her face. “He’s right, Neal.” Her voice was full of sadness, but also agonisingly deep relief. “It’s over. It’s finally over.”
She lowered the knife and held out Charlie. Butterfly moved swiftly to take him. She hugged him to her chest, eyeing Neal warily.
“Now you, Neal,” said Jack. “Put down the gun.”
Neal looked at his mum as if seeking guidance. She nodded, saying softly, “Put it down, son.”
He heaved a great shuddering breath. His hand started to drop, but then his face twitched and contorted like a rubber mask. His lips stretched into a maniacal grin. His eyes bulged as if something was pushing from behind them.
“It’s not over until that bitch is dead,” exploded Butch, jerking the Glock towards Butterfly.
She pivoted around to shield Charlie with her body. The ear-splitting retort of the gun reverberated around the kitchen. She tensed, expecting to feel a bullet tearing through her flesh and bone. But there was nothing. No punch of impact. No pain. Just the zingy metallic odour of gunpowder. Turning, she saw that Karl was standing between her and Butch. A rose of blood was flowering where the bullet had penetrated Karl’s chest. He looked at her, wide-eyed. They held each other’s gaze for a heartbeat, then his knees buckled.
As Karl collapsed, Jack ran at Butch. Grabbing the gun with one hand and Butch’s wrist with the other, he pushed downwards and twisted. Butch grimaced as his trigger finger was bent backwards. He brought his fist down on the top of Jack’s head as if trying to hammer him into the floor. The blow sent a jolt of pain along Jack’s spine. He twisted the gun further, forcing Butch to let go to prevent his finger from being broken.
Butch shoved Jack aside and ran for the door. He’d pulled the bolt and was out of the door before Jack could regain his balance.
“Neal!” cried Pam, running after him.
Jack looked to make sure Butterfly and Charlie were OK. Butterfly was staring at Karl over Charlie’s shoulder. There were tears in her eyes. The reservoir of blood pooling on Karl’s chest suggested the bullet had hit one of the major arteries that flanked his spine. If that was the case, he didn’t have long left. He stretched a hand up towards Butterfly, mouthing, “I... I…”
“I know you love me,” she mouthed back, taking his hand.
Karl shook his head. His face contorting with the effort, he forced out his words in a rasp. “I killed Beech and Sutton.” His eyes rolled towards Jack. “Do you hear?”
Jack nodded.
A choking sob that was as much sorrow as relief rose up Butterfly’s throat. She summoned a sad smile for Karl. “Thank you.”
Jack gave her his phone. “Call an ambulance and put pressure on the wound.”
As Butterfly grabbed a tea towel, Jack pocketed the Glock and went after Pam and Neal.
Neal was already out of sight. Pam was running arthritically towards the lane. Jack caught her up easily. “Stop,” he ordered her.
He didn’t wait around to see if she obeyed. Catching sight of Neal fifty or sixty metres up ahead, he increased his speed.
Neal was lumbering along like a wounded grizzly with his arms dangling at his sides. Glancing over his shoulder, he called to Jack in a singsong voice, “Run, run as fast as you can. You can’t catch me I’m the gingerbread man!”
His tree-trunk legs ate up the ground, increasing the distance between the two men. Jack knew it wouldn’t last long. Neal had been gasping for breath even before he ran out of the house. His heavy muscles would rapidly fill with lactic acid and begin to feel like lead weights.
Wher
e the farm track met the lane that branched off Wasdale Road, Neal turned right. When Jack reached the T-junction, Neal was nowhere to be seen. Peering over the hedges to either side, he spotted him in the field that sloped down towards the trees bordering the River Bleng. As Jack ducked through a hole in the hedge, Neal’s voice drifted back to him again, “I’ve run away from a little old woman and a little old man and I can run away from you, I can!”
Jack sprinted down the slope, taking care not to trip over the numerous mole hills dotting the field. Neal was clutching his blood-soaked side. Even going downhill, his speed had noticeably slowed. Centimetre by centimetre, Jack was gaining on him.
Coming to another hedge, Neal threw up his hands and burst through it. The foliage sprang back upright and Jack lost sight of him again. Jack made for a gap in the hedge a few metres off to the left. A strange childlike laugh came from beyond the hedge. Jack jumped through the gap and saw that Neal had extended his lead once more.
Jack began to reel the metres back in. Neal was running with an increasingly pronounced stagger. Several times, he stumbled and almost fell. By the time he reached the trees, he was only ten or fifteen metres ahead of Jack. Neal weaved through the trees, thrusting aside low-hanging branches. Sunlight sparkled on water up ahead.
“The gingerbread man came to a river,” Neal called out breathlessly. “‘Oh no!’ he cried because he couldn’t swim.”
Now I’ve got you, thought Jack. Despite their size difference, he was confident that this time he would be able to restrain Neal. The bigger man looked almost out on his feet. His head was drooping and he sounded as if there was barely any breath left in his lungs.
The trees opened up and the river came into full view. A grassy bank shelved towards a pebbly shoreline. The channel of sun-splashed water was only about ten metres wide. As Neal ran down the bank, Jack wondered whether it was shallow enough to wade across. Calling on his muscles to give an extra ounce of speed, he dived to tackle Neal around the waist.