Safe House

by Paul Starkey

  For Sir George it was the same reasoning, he suspected, the old fighter pilot feeling increasingly out of the loop, retirement looming like the spectre of death. But he still didn’t understand Tyrell, understand the man he had been at least, the one downstairs was all too easy to see through, he might as well have been made of glass, but the John Tyrell he had been? He’d been made of lead, you could X-Ray him and still not have a clue what made him tick.

  He didn’t hate Tyrell for bringing him into this, he’d needed something to remind him how unique he was within a world of two dimensional automatons, and he was rich now. All he had to do was get out of the house, elude detection, find some way of acquiring a new identity and make it to Switzerland to get at his money. Somehow he suspected the hardest part of the plan would be getting out of the house.

  The corridor widened into a small landing. To the right he saw a wooden bannister; he peered over the edge, stairs led down. Excellent.

  To the left was another doorway, set further back than most of the other rooms, a bathroom he guessed, he had no time or inclination to check. Instead he followed the banister rails round until reached the topmost turn in the stairs. There were only two steps before the stairway curved to the right, but he took them slowly; Gun ready, senses attuned to anything untoward. Once downstairs there were several doors and windows he could try to open, but he’d already decided to try the small conservatory first, patio doors might prove less of a barrier.

  He followed the curve, placed his foot on the third step down…

  And froze. There were lights on, one even dangled above his head, yet the world below was in darkness, and it seemed to go even beyond a lack of lighting, even the glow from above should have illuminated more than it did, the light seemed to just end halfway down the staircase, as if it were being swallowed by shadows.

  He knew he should ignore the darkness, should plunge into it because he had nowhere else to go, he couldn’t retrace his steps, wouldn’t. There was no way he was opening the door back onto the main landing, he almost shuddered when he pondered how close to the door Brendan’s corpse might have got by now.

  A third option presented itself, to double back slightly, check the rooms quickly, for a torch, or to see if a window would open. If he found a torch he’d venture downstairs, if a window would open then he’d make his exit that way, toss a mattress out first, tie sheets together if needs be, it wasn’t even that big a jump to make, if he was careful.

  He didn’t want to consider what he’d do if there was no torch, if the windows stayed shut. He made to take a step back…

  And the gloom below lifted, like fog evaporating in the sun. It was still dark downstairs, but it at least looked like a natural darkness now, and the light from above finally seemed to cut into the gloom. He nodded to himself because he could see enough to follow the wall down now, see the vague shape of light switches on the wall.

  And he could now see the figure stood at the base of the stairs.

  His gun arm sprang up of its own accord, but he held his fire. If it were Chalice or Tyrell down there they’d have fired already, besides, whilst he could make out very little about the figure, he could see well enough to tell that it was too slight for either of his nemeses.

  He smiled to himself, felt his muscles relax. It was the boy, the stupid foolish boy. He’d come back into the house, and if he was down there then that meant Quintus Armstrong wouldn’t have nearly as much trouble with his egress from White Wolf House as he’d imagined.

  “Ok, son. Don’t try anything stupid, I’ve got my gun aimed square at your chest.” He took a step down. “I don’t want to hurt you,” he added, unsure if it was a lie or not. “But I will if you try and run, ok?”

  Silence echoed back. Quintus took this as acknowledgement and continued downwards. He was halfway down the staircase before he realised that there was something off about the person stood below him, and it took only another two footfalls beyond the midway point before he realised, with a coldly dawning terror, that it wasn’t Felix.

  The body shape was all wrong. As effeminate as the boy was, he was still male, had short hair, wore trousers. The figure below had curves, long hair, and was wearing a skirt. They were also standing with their head bowed, staring at the floor, arms hung limply by their sides, looking almost like a puppet at rest, its strings slack, but held just tight enough to stop them from collapsing to the floor.

  He didn’t need to see the face to know that it was Lucy Parrish who stood barring his path. He recognised the clothes now, besides, who else could it be, especially given that the body of Brendan Fox had already proven that the dead did not remain at rest in this house.

  He stood and watched her for perhaps thirty seconds. Not once did she move, and he could make out no sound coming from her, not even the gentle rasp of breathing.

  Of course you can’t, Quintus. She stopped breathing some time ago.

  Reason told him to shoot her, if nothing else the shock of the impact would knock her over, in the seconds that followed he could dash downstairs, get past her and make a run for the conservatory, and if she rose again he could knock her down again, gain a little more breathing room.

  He was disinclined to listen to reason. Even if she was on the floor, well the staircase was a narrow affair, he’d have to step over her to get past, and the thought of a cold hand snaking up to grab his ankle ensured he wasn’t about to try this plan unless he absolutely had to.

  Still he couldn’t quite bring himself to move back up the stairs. Escape was on the ground floor, so close he could almost taste it. He’d realised as well that the front door might still be open, maybe this time he could make it out before any ghouls appeared.

  Fine, said a voice in his head, all you have to do is walk past a dead woman.

  It was a ludicrous situation, he realised. He was standing as still as the corpse below, as if he didn’t dare move until she did. Well, fuck that. As tired as he was, and as scared as he was, he knew instinctively that inaction was the greatest enemy he faced. He gripped the butt of the gun tighter and took a step downwards, steadying his aim as he did so, certain that at this range he could put a 9mm round dead centre in her chest, if that didn’t knock her over nothing would.

  He didn’t fire, didn’t take another step forwards, because now that he’d moved, so had she. It was subtle, slow, but though her body remained inert, her head was lifting.

  Ibex turned and bolted, taking the stairs two at a time, stumbling once, his knee caught against the leading edge of a step, sending a lance of pain through his body, but he ignored it, picked himself up and kept moving. Oddly he was scared less about what the physical pain the thing downstairs could inflict upon him, than he was about merely seeing its face. Brendan’s body had been face down, so he hadn’t had to see its eyes, see what now resided there.

  Back on the landing he decided to head back down the corridor, check each bedroom in turn and…he stopped in his tracks, dropping to his knees with another burst of pain—twofold this time—as he heard the distinctive sound of a door opening, saw the door that led to the landing swing inwards.

  He allowed himself a moment of panic, a single detestable little squeal, and then he was moving again, towards the closest hiding place. The door opened soundlessly and in seconds he was inside, enveloped by darkness speed overrode fear and he eased the door closed before fumbling for the light switch.

  It was a pull cord, and he tugged it softly, fearful of making too much noise, or worse, wrenching it from its socket and leaving himself in darkness. No such disaster occurred. Light flooded the room, illuminating the pure white enamel of the bath, basin and toilet; the shiny white tiles. This place was little used he guessed, the room even smelt fresh.

  The door had a little bolt fixed to it; he slowly, silently engaged it before examining the room further.

  The washbasin sat upon a pedestal that was directly opposite the door, a large medicine cabinet was bolted to the wall above it, he saw
his own reflection in the mirrored door and barely recognised himself. He’d never really seen fear in his own eyes before. The toilet was to the left as he faced it, the huge bath to the right. The bath offered a secure hidey hole, but it was also visible as soon as you opened the door. Meanwhile the wall to his left would remain behind the door as it opened, maybe allowing him more time to catch anyone entering off guard, although he hoped no one would.

  He couldn’t stay in here forever though. There was a single window above the toilet, small, frosted glass, but it looked like it opened, looked like it would be big enough for him to get through if needs be. He moved towards it, eager to test how secure it would be.

  He’d almost reached the toilet when he caught sight of something out of the periphery of his vision, movement to his left. He turned fast, gun raised, and discovered a man stood there, pointing a pistol back at him…

  Chapter Forty nine

  Felix should have felt safe driving away from the house, but for some reason his hands wouldn’t stop shaking, and each time he lowered a foot to any of the three pedals he invariably did so with all the clumsy heaviness of a learner, meaning the car stuttered and hopped along.

  The rain didn’t help, it was sleeting down now, battering the car, and the wipers were having a hard time keeping up, even on their fastest setting.

  Between the weather and his erratic driving he was almost surprised when he reached the main gates without crashing. Relief led to relaxation, which led in turn to overconfidence. This time he didn’t brake nearly hard enough and the car didn’t slow as it approached the closed gates. With wrought iron looming up at him he squealed and slammed his foot down hard. The car skidded to the left on gravel and wet leaves, but still moved towards the gates, sideways on now and Felix could see them out of his side window. He was going to…

  The car stopped just shy of the gates.

  He let out a gasp of breath, then just as quickly breathed it back in again. He was shaking more now, and his heart was racing. He wanted to do nothing more than sit there until he calmed down, but he knew that wasn’t an option. This side of the gates he was still in trouble, not only from whatever was going on in the house—he didn’t believe what Aunty Kim— no not Aunty Kim, Chalice something or other— had said about the house not being interested in him—but perhaps even more he feared the American, the crazy looking guy who kept his eyes masked by sunglasses, even inside, and who’d held a gun on him with such cold assurance in his ability to make good on any threat.

  No, he wouldn’t be safe till he was away from here. Maybe Chalice was right, going back into the house had been brave, but whatever courage that had entailed had fled now.

  Still he couldn’t open the gates until he reversed the car, they swung inwards and right now he was in the way. With more caution than he’d shown on his driving test he moved the car forwards and back until he’d made enough space to turn the car around. He could just make out the house in the distance, a dark smudge in the night. He drove back towards it, but only far enough that he could do a three point turn in the road before returning to the gates. This time he stopped leaving plenty of room for them to open.

  He cursed his parents as he clambered out of the car and into the rain. He was still damp from earlier, but within seconds he was soaked to the skin as he stalked over to the key pad built into the gate post. Why the hell they couldn’t just have remotes he didn’t know…

  He punched in the four digit code.

  The gates didn’t open.

  He shook his head. No, no, no…”Must have got it wrong,” he muttered. He tried again, taking care this time, letting his finger move slowly and deliberately between each number, telling himself he’d been in too much of a hurry the first time.

  The gates didn’t open.

  He tried again, pushing each key hard this time, knowing it was no good but not ready to concede defeat until…it didn’t open.

  “No” he yelled into the night, the word lost in the wind as he hammered the keypad with his fist. He started to cry, fear, frustration and pain conspiring to start the tears rolling down his cheeks. They quickly become indistinguishable among the rain drops.

  He ran back to the car, slamming the door shut and then hammering his hands against the wheel. He’d stopped the wipers, but even though the rain laced windshield he saw the gates. Maybe if he took a run up, reversed back then went for it; maybe he could smash through them.

  Yeah, and maybe he wouldn’t even kill himself doing it.

  One hope left. He dug his phone out of his pocket. The urge to call his mum was strong, even though she’d shout, even though she’d be disappointed he was crying, she was still his mum, she’d still look after him. Blinking away tears he dialled 999.

  It was answered after just one ring, but the relief he started to feel died in its infancy. A voice sounded, a curious, wrong sounding voice. A man, but the accent rough, rural, like nothing he’d ever heard before, not even on the telly. He said two words in French, the language itself only just recognisable.

  Two words:

  Non ui

  Not yet.

  And then the phone died. Felix tried to turn it back on again, but it was no good, the battery was dead, as if all the power inside had been leached out in an instant. Gently he placed the phone on the passenger seat then turned the engine on again. He couldn’t get out of the grounds, couldn’t call for help, but he was damned if he was going back to the house. This left one option. He turned the heating up and hugged himself close as if he could hasten the drying process that way. After a moment he turned the radio on, grateful for the jazz that came blaring out. It wasn’t his kind of music in the slightest, but it beat disembodied voices any day.

  He sat back to wait.

  But he locked all the doors first.

  Chapter Fifty

  “You know, looking at it now you still wouldn’t believe what happened, would you?” said Tyrell.

  Chalice followed his gaze to the open doorway, the frame splinted and marred, the door itself still lying unceremoniously inside the room. “No you wouldn’t. It looks like several burly coppers used a battering ram on it.”

  Tyrell smiled. “God, do I ever wish that was true.”

  “You and me both,” she whispered with a nod. “You and me both…”

  She knew Ibex wouldn’t be in this room, even if he hadn’t made it down the back stairs then a room without a door made the lousiest of hiding places, but still they had to be sure.

  “Cover the hallway whilst I check it out. We’ll do the same for each room in turn, sound like a plan?”

  “Sounds like a plan to me but…”

  She paused and looked back at him. “But, what if he’s already downstairs and circling back behind us?” he shrugged. “Well that’s why I left Tom with a gun, why I closed the door on him. Ibex has options, but they’re limited. We know the house won’t let him—or us —leave, so he has a choice. Wait and hide, either to hope we don’t find him or to ambush us, or else try and keep moving, keep ahead of us.

  “Frankly either way he’s a danger, but the only way to compensate for the latter is to split up, and we’re more of a danger to him if we stick together. We can cover each other’s back.”

  Tyrell was nodding, but his eyes were veering off down the hallway. “But nobody can watch his back.”

  “Exactly, but stay frosty just in case he is in here.”

  She didn’t even make it through the ruined doorway before the noise sounded, the sound of a door closing, a sharp little bang, as if the person who’d pulled the door shut hadn’t cared how much noise they’d made.

  She heard Tyrell mutter “shit” under his breath, even as he hugged the wall, stooping slightly, trying to present less of a target as he gazed down the hallway.

  She didn’t drop into a crouch, didn’t try to hide, instead she kept the submachine gun to her hip, taut on its sling as she slid the safety off. The corridor was well lit, few shadows, and none large enou
gh for a man to hide within. “Where do you think it came from?”

  She didn’t look Tyrell’s way, but she sensed him shrug anyway. “Not sure. Close though, there’s a bathroom down that side corridor, not there though, then three bedrooms in a row, Felix’s is the middle one…I think, I’d guess, the first one.”

  She nodded. “Ok then, well the plan stays the same, one room at a time.” And with that she stepped through the ruined doorway, but her search was quick, far more perfunctory than it would have been if they hadn’t heard the slam.

  “Clear,” she said stepping back out. The next doorway led to a large walk in closet, it took less than a second to ascertain it was clear too. “You take the next one,” she said.

  And he did, nipping down the little corridor that jutted down to a small room that contained just a toilet whilst she used the corner of the corridor as cover.

  “Clear,” he said and she felt him draw close behind her.

  “Ok then, let’s go see if Ibex is behind door number three…” she paused, allowed a smile. “Or is it four.”

  They covered each other down the corridor. It took moments before they were either side of the bedroom door that Tyrell assumed had been the one they heard close. She took the far side, placing her back to the rest of the corridor. It was a tactical error, if Ibex was further down then he could take her out, probably before Tyrell could stop him, but somehow she sensed, she knew, that this was the room.

  Her left hand felt slick with cold sweat as she reached down to the door handle. It moved easily under her hand, and she inched the door open a fraction then paused. She was leaning as far back as she could, expecting bullets to start whizzing through the door, through the wall, at any moment.