They set off in pairs. There was barely any moon to light up the caravan and Smith shuddered.
This monster can see in the dark, he thought.
Smith and Brownhill stopped outside Alberto’s caravan and listened. There was not a sound to be heard.
“What now?” Brownhill whispered.
“He’s here,” Smith said, “I can feel it.”
They waited outside the caravan in the darkness. Smith heard a noise behind the caravan. It sounded like a twig being broken underfoot. He heard heavy footsteps getting closer and Thompson and Bridge appeared from behind the caravan.
“There’s nobody here,” Thompson said.
“Shh,” Smith said, “keep your voice down.”
“Why?” Thompson said, “The place has been abandoned. I think whatever you were injected with has fried your brain.”
Whitton and Yang Chu appeared on the scene.
“Anything?” Smith said.
“Nothing,” Whitton said, “there’s nobody here.”
The hairs on the back of Smith’s neck suddenly stood up. He shivered. He had heard a noise from inside the caravan.
“Did you hear that?” He whispered.
“Hear what,” Brownhill said.
“Inside the caravan,” Smith pointed, “it was a low moaning sound.”
He heard the noise again. It sounded like it came from a wounded animal.
“I heard it too,” Whitton said.
“Thompson,” Smith said, “you and me are going inside.”
“Why me?” Thompson said.
“Because you’ve got the best self defense moves I’ve ever seen.”
“I don’t see why I have to go in,” Thompson said.
“I’ll go with you,” Yang Chu said, “I’m quite handy with my fists myself.”
“Ok,” Smith said, “the rest of you stay out here. Two at the front and two at the back in case he tries to escape out of the window. Does anyone have a torch?”
Bridge handed him his torch.
Smith slowly tried the door handle on the caravan. It was unlocked. He flung the door open and stood to the side. The groaning noise was louder now. Yang Chu stood next to him. Smith indicated with his hand for Yang Chu to go to the left while he was going to the right. He turned on the torch and crept inside the caravan.
Alberto Moreno was lying on the bed. He was holding his neck with both hands. Blood was gushing out between his fingers. He was trying to say something but he could only seem to make low gurgling sounds. He took one hand away from his neck and blood started to spurt out of the gaping wound. Yang Chu looked as if he was about to pass out. Smith looked around the caravan and found a towel on the table next to the sink. He carefully wrapped it around Alberto’s neck. Alberto lifted his hand and pointed to the toilet compartment. He tried to speak but the words did not come out. His arm dropped onto the bed and Alberto lay still; his eyes stared at the roof of the caravan.
Smith looked at where Alberto had pointed. The door to the toilet burst open and Yorick Moreno stood there. He had a smile on his face.
“I’m an only child now,” he said.
He rushed at Yang Chu.
Chu twisted his body round and aimed a punch at Yorick’s head. Yorick was too quick. He dodged the blow and plunged his knife deep into Chu’s chest. Chu put his hand to his chest and fell to the ground.
Yorick looked at Smith. The makeup on his face was smudged so badly that it had all merged into one mess of colours. He stood there and just stared then he ran out of the caravan. He came face to face with Bryony Brownhill. He raised his knife in the air and Brownhill stepped to the side. She watched as he scuttled off into the darkness.
EIGHTY FOUR
Unforgiven
“We need an ambulance,” Smith ran out of the caravan, “Alberto is dead and Yang Chu has been stabbed. Where did Yorick go?”
Brownhill just stood there staring into the distance
“Where did he go?” Smith said again.
“He ran off across the field,” she pointed.
Before she could say anything else, Smith set off in the direction Brownhill had pointed.
He can’t get away, he thought.
He ran and ran until he had to pause to catch his breath. The wound on his cheek was stinging in the wind. Yorick Moreno was nowhere to be seen. Smith shone the torch all around him. The field had ended and now Smith was in a small cluster of trees. He stood still and listened. The only sound he could hear was the rustle of leaves in the breeze. A noise behind him made him jump. An owl had taken off from a dead tree stump and its wings were flapping hard.
Smith felt a hand on his shoulder and turned round.
It was Whitton.
“Where did he go?” She whispered.
“I don’t know,” Smith said, “he has to be around here somewhere.”
“Repent Harlequin,” a sinister voice was heard behind them.
Yorick Moreno appeared from behind a tree. He stood absolutely still.
“Give up Yorick,” Smith said, “there’s nowhere to go.”
Yorick started to laugh. It was the most evil laugh Smith had ever heard. He started to walk slowly towards them, his knife raised high. Smith braced himself. He was not sure how he was going to be able to defend himself against this maniac. Yorick moved faster. He was coming straight for Smith. Smith ducked to the ground and at the same time he grabbed one of Yorick’s ankles. Yorick was not expecting it and he swung wildly with the knife. Whitton stood and watched the whole thing. Smith pulled Yorick to the ground with him and the circus clown fell down on top of him. The knife came down and stabbed Smith in the stomach. Smith groaned and put his hand to his stomach. He was starting to feel dizzy. He heard a song in his head.
‘Never free,’ he heard.
Yorick raised the knife again. He was aiming it at Smith’s chest.
‘Never me.’
Whitton ran behind Yorick and stabbed him in the back of the neck as hard as she could with her pocket knife.
‘So I dub thee Unforgiven.’
Yorick dropped his knife and turned round to face her. He smiled through the smeared makeup.
“Thank you,” he said and fell to the ground.
‘I dub thee Unforgiven.’
Smith looked up at the sky. The clouds had gone and the stars formed the outline of a clown’s face in the darkness. He closed his eyes and drifted off.
EPILOGUE
“Yang Chu’s going to be alright,” Brownhill said to Whitton.
They were travelling in the back of the ambulance. Smith was on the stretcher bed next to them.
“The knife missed the heart by a few centimeters,” Brownhill said, “he’s very lucky.”
Whitton put her hand on Smith’s forehead. He was freezing cold. She could feel the tears welling up in her eyes. Smith had not regained consciousness since he had been stabbed.
“They don’t think he’s going to make it,” Brownhill said.
She put her hand on Whitton’s shoulder.
Whitton started to cry. She looked at the lifeless face of Smith lying there in the ambulance. The wound to his stomach was deep and he had lost a lot of blood. The tears rolled down Whitton’s face. She did not bother to wipe them away.
Smith was dreaming. The stars that made up the clown’s face were dancing before his eyes. They slowly started to fade as dawn broke. He felt like he was moving on a bus; the sound of the wheels going round purred in his ears. He opened his eyes. Brownhill had her arms around Whitton. Whitton had tears streaming out of her eyes.
“What’s wrong?” Smith said.
Whitton stared at him as if he were a ghost.
“Who died?” Smith said.
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Harlequin Page 26