Darke

by Matt Hilton

  Swain showed no hesitation in hitting a woman. His fist slammed her sternum. Beneath her jacket her lightweight stab-proof vest took the sting from his punch but little of the impact. She staggered, and he rammed her against the doorframe. He grabbed her, jerked her down to one knee, dodged past and was into the hall. Alerted by the commotion, other officers charged from the kitchen, but too late. Kerry was up in an instant, and after him, shouting at Korba to secure the evidence. Lurching into the hallway, she almost collided with Sergeant Grier and another constable. They skidded to avoid ploughing into her, Grier slamming into a wall, tearing loose a framed watercolour painting that crashed down and sent jagged slithers of glass into the carpet pile. From the kitchen Hettie cursed savagely, but this time it wasn’t about the state of her carpet.

  Kerry raced outside.

  A bewildered copper was at the front gate, hand on his radio. Swain had hurdled past. Kerry didn’t slow down to explain. The clatter of boot soles on the pavement followed her. She was unsure how many officers had joined the pursuit, and didn’t have time to check.

  An engine burst to life. Armed SC019 officers had conducted the initial entry to the house, but retreated outside once it was secured. If they could get ahead of Swain they could soon halt him in his tracks. For murdering Bilan Ghedi the bastard deserved a bullet between the eyes. The police vehicle roared along the street, whipping by, its blue lights flashing. Swain charged across the road in front of it and hurtled down a path between two residential houses.

  The police car shot towards an intersection as the driver sought to cut off Swain at the next road over. Kerry pounded across the road, and also ducked into the alley. Behind her, feet slapped the ground, and then a younger bobby raced past, his elbows pumping furiously. He’d discarded his helmet and high visibility coat somewhere. More streamlined than his colleagues, he was gaining on the fugitive.

  Without slowing, Kerry mentally goaded him on. Swain had already exited the alley, and was out of sight for a few seconds until she spilled out onto another residential street, rushing out from between parked cars. The bobby was about ten metres behind Swain as they both headed towards a tower block.

  There were some affluent areas of Vauxhall. It was home to politicians who found the neighbourhood convenient for the short journey into Westminster. But the tower block wasn’t home to any of them. It comprised of social housing, poorer families crammed into one-and two-bedroom flats. Perhaps Swain had friends inside and could find a hiding place with one of them; or worse, a weapon to hold off the police.

  4

  Erick Swain barrelled inside one of four tower blocks looming at opposing corners of an open plaza area, an expanse of uneven paving slabs, and flowerbeds devoid of any foliage but plenty of discarded cigarette butts, beer cans and fast-food wrappers. The tower stood eleven storeys tall, a concrete and glass monolith that looked as if it had been grabbed from the Soviet-era Eastern Bloc and dropped — with its trio of equally drab sisters — smack in the middle of their more upwardly mobile neighbours. There were good, decent people living there, but in a bad situation, and unfortunately surrounded by others at the far end of the spectrum.

  The quartet of towers was well known to most members on the anti-gang task force. There was no visible signage declaring police were unwelcome but it went without saying. It wasn’t unknown for them to have to dodge missiles dropped on them from above, and God help them if they were caught alone in any of the stairwells. Kerry knew all this, but didn’t slow. She sprinted after her uniformed colleague who darted inside ahead of her. A squall of rain chased her towards the door.

  Immediately inside was a bank of twin elevators, the scarred and battered doors displaying spray-painted gang fealties that would make Swain proud. Kerry ignored them, hearing the clatter of feet from a stairwell to her left. Breathless, she shouted an update on Swain’s position into her radio as she pushed through the door and onto the first steps up. Other constables answered her call, some already converging on the tower, but thirty-or-so seconds behind her. She couldn’t leave the constable to handle Swain alone. She clattered up the stairs, feeling blindly for her extendable baton in a harness buried under her jacket. Above her the young copper shouted, and Swain barked a curse. She doubled her effort, forgetting about the baton for the sake of speed.

  Kerry kept fit. She swam and she attended a gym with her fiancé Adam when their shifts permitted. But it was one thing swimming a measured distance at a steady pace or completing reps on an exercise machine, another when it came to climbing a tower when her heart was jammed in her mouth. Her legs were leaden and bile scorched her throat with each gasping breath. Swain hadn’t peeled off onto any of the floors; he was still heading up. She dug in, dragging herself up with one hand on the bannister.

  Overhead a door banged open.

  The voices dwindled, then disappeared completely as the door slammed shut again.

  Kerry croaked an update into her radio as she spilled onto the tenth floor. On the landing stood a young boy in tracksuit bottoms, a baggy sweater, and filthy trainers. He was a scruffy kid, but he clutched a top of the range smartphone, angled upwards. He swung it on Kerry as she took a few seconds to suck in air, grinning at her feverishly as he lined her up on the screen. She took his direction from where he’d been pointing the phone a moment ago. Swain had made it up the next flight of stairs and onto the roof. Why he’d chosen to run all the way to the top escaped her, unless he knew of another route down where he could give his pursuers the slip. Grateful for her second wind, she powered up the remaining steps and slapped down the push bar. The door opened into a service corridor, lit only by dim bulbs. The uppermost floor was comprised of various utility rooms, some containing the machinery and electrical systems that controlled the building’s beating heart. Swain might have hidden in any of them, except another door stood wide at the far end of the corridor, and beside it a silent day alarm flashed rapidly, a red light like the winking eye of a demon. The rain and wind competed to make the most noise, but couldn’t disguise the grunting and scuffling of a struggle.

  Kerry started forward, and came to a stumbling halt.

  There was somebody in the corridor with her.

  The figure barred her way.

  It was a child. A young girl. She had straggly hair and a shapeless dress, stick-thin limbs and bare feet, barely discernible in a clot of shadows between two of the dim bulbs.

  What was a young child doing out alone this late in the evening? Kerry thought of the boy on the landing below and remembered where she was. Spotting the chase, this kid had probably followed to watch the excitement. The last Kerry wanted was for another child to get hurt because of Erick Swain.

  ‘Hey!’ she called. ‘Girl. Come away from there, it’s not safe.’

  There…she’d said it. Girl. It was the same girl she’d earlier spotted observing her from beyond the police barrier on Wandsworth Road. There was something indefinable about her, as if she was viewed through a haze of fog, but Kerry knew her. Nausea squirmed through Kerry’s abdomen and the small hairs on her forearms and neck prickled. Subdued memories fluttered through her mind, a series of underdeveloped Polaroid photographs carried on a stuttering breeze. Why now, she thought. Why have you come back now?

  The girl raised a palm.

  Kerry took a nervous step towards her. ‘What…what is it you want from me?’

  Overhead the nearest bulb pinked! And went black.

  ‘Girl?’ Kerry croaked.

  Except there wasn’t a girl there.

  Where she’d stood, there was only the wash of a bulkhead light, casting a meagre glow on the floor. Two silhouetted bodies wrestled past the open doorway. Her colleague emitted a pained cry.

  Kerry started forward, but faltered. An uncanny sense of trepidation assailed her, made her fearful of passing through the space vacated by the spectral girl. She glanced everywhere, expecting a nebulous presence creeping through each dark recess and corner.

  The yo
ung bobby yowled again, snapping her to attention.

  There is no Girl, Kerry argued. There never was a Girl. Concentrate on reality, Kerry. That officer needs you!

  Finally she found her baton, but only unclipped it. She groped for her incapacitant spray in its pouch on the harness under her jacket. All the while she scurried along the corridor, the fingers of unnatural dread playing down her spine, and stepped out the door over a raised stoop, and into the downpour.

  5

  They faced each other on the puddled rooftop, both breathless from their frantic race to the top. Exposed to the elements, it wasn’t the best place for a stand off, though the rain-washed city formed a dramatic backdrop.

  A chilly blast battered her, sweeping Kerry’s hair off her brow. Steam rose from her wet shoulders. Raindrops gathered on her eyelashes causing her to blink. She daren’t take her attention off Swain for a second; he was poised to move again. She desperately wanted to check on the constable lying in a puddle a few metres away. His silence was worrying. He needed medical attention immediately. The voices of her fellow officers were too distant to offer confidence. She was all that stood between the suspected murderer and his escape from the roof.

  Swain sneered: how did a skinny woman hope to stop him? He had no respect for the law, and less for her rank than the constables he’d beaten up. He was taller than Kerry, outweighed her, and wouldn’t care if she got hurt when he ran straight through her. In fact, she’d bet he would make certain of it.

  She didn’t stand aside. She raised her can of PAVA incapacitant spray, thumb poised over it. ‘Don’t move, Swain. You’re under arrest.’

  ‘Is that right?’ Swain eyed the canister, her only visible weapon. Its threat didn’t invoke fear in him. Besides, if Kerry was stupid enough to spray him, she’d get a face full of it too because the wind gusting over the roof was at his back. He tensed, ready to smash through her. ‘How did that work out for you last time, Darke?’

  ‘There’s no way off this roof. Give up now and make things easier on yourself.’ Perhaps she should get out of his way, and leave him to her colleagues, but no. She’d initiated his arrest, and it was her duty to go through with it. ‘Come on Swain, you know how this works.’

  ‘I’m not going down for shooting a couple of niggers.’ His eyes were feverish, a similar flashing colour as the earring twinkling in his right lobe. ‘Good riddance to them anyway!’

  ‘You’re talking about an innocent woman and ten-year-old child.’

  ‘Fuck ’em. They don’t mean anything to me. Give ’em another couple of years and they’d both be Robson’s whores popping out more little black shits that our country has to keep!’ Swain didn’t hold his rival in high regard, and less those he perceived as unwelcome immigrants. ‘Now get out of my fucking way or I swear to God...’

  Kerry stood her ground. ‘Don’t try me, Swain. I won’t be playing by Home Office rules—’

  ‘You’re kidding? You skinny-arsed bitch, what’re you gonna do?’

  ‘You’re under arrest, and I’m taking you in.’

  Kerry advanced, the PAVA directed at arm’s length.

  His head swivelled. Despite his bluster, he searched for a way out. A few rungs showed at the top of the parapet a few metres to Kerry’s left, a service ladder of some kind to who knew where. Swain lunged for it and Kerry crabbed sideways, blocking him. He danced on the balls of his feet.

  ‘Last chance, Darke. Move or I’ll fucking move you. D’you want me to knock you out like your mate over there?’

  She didn’t follow his gesture at the unconscious bobby. It was a distraction, so he could push past when she was looking the other way. She had to hold him there a few moments longer, to allow her colleagues to arrive. ‘Try it and I’ll take you down like a bag of shit, you murderous bastard.’

  Swain thought through his options, but they were few.

  He charged.

  Under perfect conditions, PAVA was effective up to four metres. These conditions were anything but perfect. Swain hurtled at her with his head down, an arm wrapped around his face to protect his vision. The stream of spray arched overhead, then rushed to fill the void in his wake. Kerry backpedalled, dropping the PAVA on its lanyard, and snatching instead for her extendable baton. She racked it open with a swift jerk of her wrist, swiped wildly…Swain battered into her.

  He was a force of nature, a tidal wave of sinew and bone. She was picked up like flotsam, and then dumped on her back. Her skull rang as it bounced off concrete. Strength fled her, riding on a gasp of pain. But then she was dragged, and knew the fight wasn’t over. Her left arm was entangled around his right knee, and she wasn’t letting go. She was like a cloth rag, whipping in his back draft. No, she was being pummelled as he kicked to free his feet. She spilled loose, heard him slip and slide, and hit something solid. She swarmed up, but the PAVA cloud was in her face, and her eyes streamed. Through the blur she struck at Swain with her baton, and felt it land. He punched her, his knuckles raking her forehead. A white flash exploded through her skull, and she reeled, but grabbed at him in desperation. Found the loose ring of the cuff extending from his wrist.

  With rigid cuffs a physically weaker person could control a larger one through application of leverage and pain control. Kerry twisted the loose cuff, and the opposite end bit savagely into his flesh. He shouted in agony, but he was high on adrenalin: pain in his wrist wasn’t going to halt him now. He kicked a heel into Kerry’s body. Her vest saved her again, but she was shunted aside. In desperation she dropped her baton, got two hands on the loose cuff and twisted as if closing a stopcock. Swain roared this time, and he flexed his arm to avoid further torture. It was where she wanted him: Kerry hauled back and up, using the added leverage to lock Swain’s arm and bend him at the waist. If she could now twist his elbow, and get his other hand secured she’d have a chance…

  Swain rammed his shoulder into her, and she went airborne. She crashed against the parapet, her spine flaring in agony. Swain spun on her, and even through her bleary vision, she saw his wolfish face loom close as he barked a curse. He thrust out his free hand, forcing her backwards over the parapet. He was trying to throw her over the edge!

  Terror added strength to her desperation. As he shouldered into her again, trying to force her up and over the parapet, she wrenched aside, twisting with all her might on the pinioned cuff. He struck at her with his other fist, catching her flush between the eyes. Stunned, she fell against him and heard his hoarse shout. There was a wild flurry of movement, a stuttering kaleidoscope of shadows and colours, and frantic yelling — the cuff was snatched from her hand with enough force to bark the skin from her fingertips — the sound diminishing to a keening whistle. And then she fell flat, half-blinded and dazed to the rooftop.

  She struggled onto her front, her arms shivering under her. Her baton was lost. Her palms slapped at gritty wet concrete, and she pushed to her knees. Stayed there, trying to force lucidity into her spinning brain. Her eyes stung from the incapacitant spray. She spat a string of saliva, and lurched up. Searching for Swain through a sheet of tears. The empty PAVA canister rattled on the floor behind her, dragged on its lanyard as she took a loping step towards the roof access door. She pawed her face. Rubbing her eyes would spread the capsaicinoids in the solution further, but it was a natural reaction. Her eyeballs felt touched by fire and her nose dripped. Where the hell’s Swain?

  Officers pounded up the stairs. The lack of warning shouts indicated they hadn’t met him coming up.

  She swiped her sleeve across her face again, swivelled around, expecting to find him racing around the rooftop, going for the service ladder.

  She spotted the constable lying in the puddle. She groped towards him, dug fingers under his chin, seeking a pulse. Thankfully it beat strongly, but his breath rattled. She rolled him on his side, opening his airway. Searched again for Swain, and instead spotted the first armed officer to emerge from the stairwell. He checked for Swain before approaching her.

/>   ‘Where’d he go, ma’am?’

  Kerry spread her palms, even as her heart plunged.

  She turned and peered through a wash of tears at the nearest parapet where they’d fought, recalling Swain’s diminishing shout. A figure swayed there, indistinct, a blur through which the rain passed. Kerry blinked for clarity, and as her vision cleared the girl from the service corridor shook her unkempt hair in dismay, stepped off the roof and plummeted from sight.

  ‘Oh, shit…no!’

  Kerry stumbled to the parapet, bracing her grazed palms on the rough concrete to peer down.

  A long distance below a single corpse lay spread-eagled on the uneven paving, but it wasn’t the slight figure of a girl.

  She’d warned Swain there was no way he was getting off the roof. She was wrong. He’d taken the fastest way down.

  6

  1997

  Back O’ Skiddaw, Cumbria

  ‘Kerry! Stop that! If you don’t behave, the Fell Man will get you,’ Sally warned, one hand propped on her hip. With her colouring, her hair on the redder end of auburn, and a spray of freckles over her nose, and posing like that she was their mam’s mini-me.

  ‘Shut up, Sally! There’s no such thing as the Fell Man.’ Kerry stomped in the muddy puddle, and Sally shrieked, jumping to avoid the splash.

  ‘Look at what you’ve done! You’ve got me all dirty now!’