by Chris Dolley
Graham and Annalise slipped out in the confusion. All eyes were turned towards the commotion in the other corner where two men protested their innocence and held out warrant cards which no one believed. A woman shouted abuse at them. Four men blocked their escape.
Graham didn't look back after that. They retraced their steps, found a down escalator and headed for an exit on the far side of the store. In the crush by the door, Annalise dropped her phone into a woman's shopping bag.
* * *
Graham stopped outside the store and looked around to take his bearings. The nearest tube had to be . . .
Something hard pressed into his back.
"Don't turn around, don't say a word." A man's voice—harsh and menacing. "We're going for a walk. Do as I say or I'll kill you here."
Graham froze. Annalise walked on a few steps then turned. "What's the matter?" she said and then stared over Graham's left shoulder. A look of surprise. "Who?" she started to say, and then stopped.
Graham mouthed one word, "run," but she didn't move. The gun dug into his back.
"Come on, move!"
Graham implored Annalise to run. Couldn't she read his lips? Instead, she rocked on the balls of her feet. She's going to do something stupid. Graham shook his head. No! Run! Save yourself. The man pushed again, hissing the word, "move!" into Graham's ear, so close he could feel the warm spittle on his neck. The gun dug further into the small of his back, grinding against his spine. The man shoved with his shoulders. Graham held fast, digging in with his feet, leaning back. He wasn't going anywhere until Annalise was safe. "Run!" he mouthed again. She didn't. She just stood there, rocking, her eyes flashing from side to side, lips parted, hands poised. She was going to do something stupid. He could tell.
Another shove from behind—harder this time—another hissed "move!" Graham lurched forward. Annalise stayed where she was. "Run," Graham mouthed for the last time. Why wouldn't she run? Why wouldn't she save herself?
He glanced frantically about him. Thoughts coming thick and fast. So many people, shoppers coming into and out of the store. Witnesses everywhere, store surveillance cameras—you'd have to be crazy to shoot someone in such a public place.
Or desperate.
Graham relaxed—totally—slumping to the pavement like a dead weight. He'd feign a heart attack, he'd feign death, he'd do whatever it took to make it difficult. He wasn't going to walk meekly to his death in some deserted side street.
People surged forward, faces peered down at him. Is he all right? What's the matter? Do you want a doctor? Anyone know him? Graham stared blankly up at them, a wall of faces, was one of them his kidnapper? Or had he fled?
And where was Annalise?
"It's okay," said a male voice Graham recognized. "I'm his doctor. My car's round the corner."
His kidnapper hadn't given up.
Should he call out? Tell people he was being kidnapped? Or would the doctor turn into a psychiatrist? Was there an accomplice ready with a hypodermic? He needs to be sedated, sad case, completely delusional. Everyone would nod their heads and stand back.
Strong hands dug under his shoulders, he was being pulled up from behind. He had to speak out, he had to say something. But what? His life might depend on finding the right words.
His kidnapper's face pressed close to his. "We've got your girlfriend," he whispered. "One word out of you and she's dead."
Graham stopped struggling and let the man haul him to his feet.
"He'll be fine now," said the man. "This has happened before."
The crowd pulled back, show over, nothing more to see. Graham was led away, an arm around his back, a threat over his head.
After fifty yards, the arm was removed—his kidnapper looking left and right before dropping slightly behind Graham. A familiar feeling in the small of his back told Graham the gun had returned.
They turned a corner. Graham wondered where he was being taken—a building, an alley, a car?
And where was Annalise? Where had they taken her? There were so many people on the pavement it was difficult to see more than fifteen yards ahead.
The man steered Graham towards the roadside edge. Parked cars formed a line to his left, shoppers filed by on his right. Was he being taken to one of the cars?
A large black car was parked three spaces ahead. It became a magnet to Graham's eyes. Was it that black car? The one they'd used before? The one that Annalise Twelve had seen him bundled into the back of?
They walked closer. Black-tinted windows hid whoever was inside. Suddenly, the rear door clicked and swung open across the pavement. A hand, briefly visible, withdrew back inside. They were five yards away. Five yards from the gaping maw of the black car and . . .
She came through the crowd in a blur of orange. People stopped, stood aside and gaped. Graham couldn't believe it. It was Annalise, coming in from his right, a flaming waste bin held out in front of her, walking across his path towards the black car. There was a strong smell of petrol. Flames licked two, three feet into the air. She didn't look at him once. Her gaze was fixed on the black car. She tossed the bin and its flaming contents through the open door onto the back seat, slammed the door shut and turned towards Graham, her eyes wild.
"I'm soaked in gasoline," she said, staring beyond Graham to his kidnapper. "And I'm going to kill you all."
She held a lighter in her hand. She looked insane, her head tilted to one side, her eyes wild and staring.
A muffled scream came from inside the car, its roadside doors opened, smoke billowed out, the smell of burning, the smell of petrol everywhere. A man rolled in the street, his clothes on fire. A uniformed chauffeur tried to beat out the flames with his hands. Traffic stopped. People screamed. Flames danced inside the car.
Graham could feel the man's hold on him relax. The gun moved away from his back. Annalise advanced, the lighter held high, its flame flickering. Any second now, Graham was certain, she was going to rush forward, grab the man and immolate them all.
"Keep back!" yelled the man, his gun now pointed at Annalise. Graham could see it close to his left shoulder.
The kidnapper glanced to his left—the man rolling in the street, the driver trying to beat out the flames, the screams, the car about to explode.
Graham grabbed the gun and pushed it up and away from Annalise. They wrestled, the gun went off. Annalise came in kicking—once, twice—the man crumpled, holding his groin. The gun fell to the ground.
"Run!" shouted Annalise.
Graham hesitated. Was she really dowsed in petrol? Was she going to set light to herself?
"Go!" Annalise shouted again, bending down to pick up the gun.
Graham turned and ran. The pavement opened up in front of him. People had heard the gunshot, seen the flames, heard the screams. No one blocked his way.
His thoughts strayed behind him. Was Annalise following? Was she running too? He glanced back. She was.
A bus pulled out ahead of him, a red double-decker lumbering away from its stop. The rear platform beckoned—a few strides, a jump and he'd be safe. Annalise too. It was the logical choice. He was running back towards the department store. Who knew how many other men ParaDim had out looking for him.
He jumped, grabbed the pole and swung himself aboard. Annalise was twenty yards behind and gaining fast. A gap had opened out behind her as people moved away from the black car. Graham wasn't sure but he thought he saw a body lying on the pavement with another man leaning over it.
The bus began to accelerate. Annalise was closing but not as fast as before. She was five yards away and pumping fast.
A pain hit Graham between the eyes and dropped him to his knees. No! Not now! Annalise was three yards away, her right hand outstretched towards him, the bus keeping pace with her. He reached for her, one hand on the pole, one hand waving through the blur. He couldn't see. His eyes were clouded in pain and smeared in color. He was losing consciousness, the world receding . . .
No!
He tore h
imself back. He would not leave. Not this time or any other. He would stay or die in the attempt.
The world surged back, images rolling in like a surf up a beach. Annalise—she was there—dropping back but still running. Surely the bus had to stop sometime—a junction, a traffic jam!
Five yards away, six, seven, nine. He couldn't bear it. The pain in her eyes, the effort in her face. After all she'd done, he couldn't leave her. He couldn't . . .
His stomach contracted—it felt like he'd been punched. A stabbing pain in his side, an explosion in his head. Someone screamed. Probably him.
He'd roll off the bus, that's what he'd do. His legs might not work but he could still roll, couldn't he?
He rolled, let go of the pole and hoped gravity and centrifugal force would do the rest. He'd hurt himself but she'd find him and know what to do.
Hands grabbed him. People on the bus? He could make out vague images of faces and arms and concerned voices.
No! Let me go!
He tried to fight back. He was sure he did. But his limbs had taken on a dreamlike quality. They shimmered and moved back and forth out of time. He was losing them, he was losing everything.
No!
One last effort. All or nothing. Concentrate! Focus! Annalise!
He saw her—crisp and clean—twenty yards back, her hand still reaching for him.
"I'll find you," he shouted. "Whatever it takes, I'll find you."
A shot rang out. A vague image of a man in the distance, a spark flashing from his hand.
A second shot, a third. Annalise fell.
And everything went black.
Thirty-Four
He came to. He was lying, twisted on a floor, people standing over him. The floor was moving. He was on a boat?
A wave of nausea overwhelmed him; he rolled onto his side and retched.
"Are you all right?" A voice out of nowhere. He unscrewed his eyes, tried to focus and failed, a blurry face swam before him.
And then it hit him.
Annalise! Where was she?
He tried to get up. An arm, somewhere, obeyed. He tried to push against the floor; he tried to slide a leg under his body.
Hands helped him up, pushed him onto a seat. He was on a bus. Now he remembered. Where was she? He looked for her, his head panning up and down the row of seats, the world lagging behind his gaze, faces blurring into their neighbors', a pain ever-present behind his eyes.
"Where's Annalise?" he asked, his voice echoing inside his head, loud and slurred.
"Who's Annalise? Your daughter?" asked a stranger close by.
He shook his head and immediately wished he hadn't as the world spun once more.
"She was running behind the bus. You must have seen her." He was talking with his eyes closed, talking to whoever would listen.
"No one was running behind the bus, dear," said the woman.
"She was! I saw her! She was . . ." He turned to the woman and grabbed her arm. "Was she shot? Did you see her fall?"
He tried to open his eyes. A woman's face appeared—concerned, middle-aged, slightly startled. He let go of her arm.
"Has he been drinking?" asked another woman.
"He looks drugged to me," said another. "Or mental."
The bus stopped and Graham slid off the seat. He had to get off. He had to find Annalise. He'd promised. She might be lying in the road. She might be waiting for him.
He lurched along the aisle towards the back of the bus, his legs half asleep. He jumped down onto the pavement, stumbled, fell into a group of people, hands pushed him back up, shoved him away, someone shouted. He walked in a daze, back the way he'd come, back the way he'd imagined he'd come. People barged into him, his shoulders reeling from one impact to the next. Keep going. She's waiting. Not far.
He was wet. Everything was wet. His hair, his clothes, the sky. The world was melting, running down his face.
An umbrella caught him high on the cheek, nearly taking his eye out. He lurched to the side. More umbrellas, so many colors, the pavement blossoming in blues and greens.
Was it raining?
He staggered onto the road, the pavement too crowded, too wet. He leaned against the back of a parked car, caught his breath, retched, then started to walk. Car horns blared, lights flashed, cars pulled alongside, people shouted at him from wound-down windows.
He didn't care. He kept walking, falling against the sides of cars when the ground moved unexpectedly. She had to be here, somewhere. Lying in the street, bleeding, waiting for him to come to her. Maybe she'd rolled underneath one of the parked cars to hide?
He bent down to look and the sky pressed hard against his shoulders, pushing him over. He crumpled, unable to get up. Rain fell all around him, shiny rain that danced in headlights like a thousand fairies.
And after the rain came the tears.
* * *
He had no idea how long he lay there. Wet, cold and confused. Alternately racked with guilt and grief but never quite sure what it was that he'd done.
When he came to his senses, the rain had stopped. He was lying in the road by a parked car, traffic swerving around him. He drew in his legs and, leaning back against the parked car for support, pulled himself up.
A motorist cursed at him, a horn blared three times. Graham staggered onto the pavement. People stared at him, moved aside to give him extra room. No one stopped or spoke.
He looked at his watch. It was five o'clock. He should be at work. Why wasn't he at work? A vague memory brushed against the back of his mind. He'd been on a bus.
Why had he been on a bus? And why were his clothes wet? He looked at the pavement—the dark grey of the paving slabs, the puddles. It had been raining. Had he taken the bus to get out of the rain? But where had he been? He checked his pockets. There was an appointment card and—his eyes widened—hundreds of pounds in cash.
He hastily replaced the money, glancing furtively to see if anyone had noticed.
He examined the card. Something familiar about the name. The Cavendish Clinic in Knightsbridge. He'd been for a medical.
Everything came flooding back—medicals, ParaDim, Annalise, the flames, the bus, the look on Annalise's face as she fell.
No!
He started to run. Where had she fallen? Was it here? Over there? He ran out between the line of parked cars and looked up and down the street. He couldn't see her. He couldn't see the black car either. Was it further along?
He ran. He searched. He stopped.
She'd gone. Everything had gone. He'd never felt so empty in his life.
* * *
He walked for miles, not sure of where he was going but knowing that he had to keep moving. His jacket steamed in the sun, his trousers too. Only his socks refused to dry, his feet squelching with every stride.
He didn't have the energy to run. Or the will. If ParaDim wanted him, they could have him. He didn't care any more.
Eventually, he went home. Eventually, he cared enough to read his note and find out if anything else had changed. Nothing had. He still lived at Wealdstone Lane, he still worked at Westminster Street.
He sat at his kitchen table for hours, waiting for the energy to make a hot drink or maybe a meal. By ten o'clock he'd managed a coffee. By ten-thirty he went to bed.
He couldn't sleep. Annalise was everywhere—in his thoughts, in the shadows—he could see her face in the wallpaper, the ceiling, his dressing gown that hung on the door. If he hadn't jumped on that stupid bus she'd be with him now, safe and alive. She wouldn't have run along the road in full view, she'd have dodged in and out of the shoppers, taken side streets, melted into the background. It was his fault! Everything was his fault!
He tossed and turned and counted the intervals between gusts of wind that rattled his bedroom window pane.
And worried. Had he turned off the gas? Had he locked the doors? What time was it? What day? What . . .
He pulled on his slippers and slowly toured the house. He double-checked the gas cooker, t
riple-checked the doors and windows, and drew every curtain he could find.
* * *
Annalise Fifteen rolled over in the street. Someone was shooting at her, the bus was getting away and Graham was flipping between worlds. The new Graham wouldn't have a clue what was happening. Wherever he went—home or work—they'd be waiting for him. He wouldn't survive the day.
She felt the gun in her hand and sprung to her feet. She'd stop a car, any car. She stood in the middle of the road, chest heaving, both hands on the gun, her arms locked straight and pointing at the driver of a car that swung and screeched to a halt a few feet in front of her.
She ran around the front to the passenger side and yanked the door open. A shot rang out, she ducked and threw herself into the car.
"Drive!" she shouted.
The driver hesitated. He had one hand raised, the other on the door handle. "You can have the car. Don't shoot!"
"I don't want the car. Just drive! Now!"
She waved the gun. The car jerked forward and stalled. The driver swallowed, started again, revved hard and pulled away.
Annalise was thrown back against the seat. The bus was now a hundred yards away—four cars filled the gap in between.
"What's your name?" Annalise asked.
"Martin," said the driver, his voice cracking.
"Well, Martin, you see that bus ahead, the red one?"
"Yes."
"Follow it. Get me to that bus and we'll all be fine."
She swivelled in her seat and checked behind. She couldn't see anyone running after her. She couldn't hear any more shots. Maybe he was no longer on foot? She checked the cars behind, expecting to see someone leaning out the passenger side with a gun pointing in her direction.
All she saw was a line of traffic—an intermittent line of traffic that snaked to avoid a flaming black car in the distance.
"The bus is stopping," Martin said.
"Pull in behind."
The car stopped.
"Congratulations, Martin," she said as she climbed out. "You've just helped save the world."
The bus started to pull away. Annalise jumped onto the back, grabbed the pole and swung herself inside. Graham was slumped in the first seat. He looked in pain and confused. People were moving away from him. "What's the matter with him?" she heard someone say.