by Weaver, Tim
‘What’s happening?’ Lee said.
‘Shut up.’
‘I want to know what’s happening.’
‘Shut your fuckin’ maw.’
The other man was local: he had a strong south Devon accent and sounded in his forties or fifties. His voice had a gristly, coarse kind of twist to it. I listened to him come around to my right and drop down, below my shoulder line. The next moment I felt rope tightening at my ankles, and then at my wrists, as he made sure the knots were strong.
I waited for him to get to his feet again and come back round in front of me, and then gradually I lifted my head and opened my eyes. Neither of them noticed at first.
Lee was still on my left, slumped on the sofa, staring down at the floor. He looked distant and broken, and I noticed two fresh bruises and a deep cut on one side of his face, where he’d been hit with something. His second chance was already going south.
On the far side of him were three big candles set in a line, their light casting out into the centre of the room. Shadows danced on the walls.
I turned to the other man. He was removing his coat.
A dark blue oilskin.
I knew then why I recognized his voice.
It was Prouse, the fisherman.
42
A second later, they both noticed I was awake. Lee swallowed and said nothing, but came forward to the edge of the sofa. Prouse let his coat fall away from his body, like he was shedding his skin, and it dropped to the floor behind him. I tried to draw the link between Prouse and Lee, between Prouse and anything, but I couldn’t see the connection.
He found the body on the beach.
What did that have to do with Lee?
With the Lings?
Briefly, as he came across the living room towards me, I thought of Healy, of the two of us sitting in The Seven Seas, Healy’s eyes fixed on a man at the bar behind me.
Prouse.
‘Finally,’ he said, a smile parting the untidy tangle of his beard. The smile was small and menacing, and faded as quickly as it formed. He stopped in front of me, and we stared at each other for a moment.
Then he punched me in the jaw.
It came quick and fast, before I’d even had a chance to brace myself, and as the chair rocked from side to side, one leg to another, pain rippled through my skull. His jab was like concrete: rigid and fibrous, his knuckles as hard as rocks. Once the chair settled again, I could feel the imprint on my chin: the grit from his bunched fingers, and the smell – fish and oil and sweat – from his skin.
I rolled my jaw and looked at him.
‘How you feeling, boy?’
‘I’ve been better.’
Prouse smiled. ‘I bet you have.’
I glanced at Lee. He couldn’t even meet my eyes. Prouse looked from Lee back to me and mockingly puckered his lips. ‘Aw, are the two of you having a lovers’ tiff ?’
I fixed my gaze on Prouse. ‘What do you want?’
‘I want a photograph.’
The photograph. I decided to play it dumb. ‘What kind of a photograph?’
‘You trying to trap me, boy?’ he said, wagging a finger at me.
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
Out of nowhere, he punched me again.
He was fast and strong, and this time the chair toppled all the way over. I hit the carpet hard, head first, and the impact reverberated through my body like a wave. Lee got up from the sofa. ‘Is this really necessary?’ His voice was doughy and weak, and Prouse just had to look at him before he backed down. As the two of them faced off, I tried to loosen my binds from the floor. But Prouse was a fisherman. If there was one thing he knew how to do, it was to tie a good knot. Yet, while there was no give in the rope, I could feel the chair wheezing with age beneath me.
‘Where’s the photograph?’ he said, standing over me.
‘If you told me what it was of, I might know.’
‘Don’t play smart with me, boy,’ he said. ‘That little bastard over there has been whistling like a canary, so you don’t need to know what the picture is of to know what I’m talking about.’ He paused, and dropped to his haunches. ‘Where’d she put it?’
‘Who?’
‘That bitch you’re trying to find.’
‘Carrie?’
‘Where’d she put it?’
‘Put it?’ I looked at Lee. He’d have told Prouse about the notebook, assuming Prouse didn’t know already. I turned to the fisherman. ‘The picture’s in her notebook.’
He didn’t seem surprised. ‘No shit.’
‘You knew that already?’
He didn’t answer and instead reached down, one hand gripping the back of the chair, one gripping the leg, and hoisted me up. I could feel fresh blood on my lips, and bruising forming along the lines of my jaw. He headed across to the other side of the living room, to where he’d left his jacket, and for the first time I noticed there was a holdall next to it.
He unzipped it and started going through it.
I glanced at Lee. He was a mess. Eyes downcast, face pale and sickly. He looked small and damaged, a shadow even of the man I’d found hiding in the farmhouse. I tried wordlessly to force him to look at me as Prouse went through his holdall, but he refused to meet my eye. Then Prouse got to his feet and turned around.
He was holding a gun.
My heart stirred.
Muscles tensed.
He walked up to me and stopped a foot short of my knees, arm at his side, huge hand deliberately covering the weapon. It looked like a Glock, but it was difficult to tell.
‘What are you doing?’ Lee said from behind him.
Prouse didn’t answer. He eyed me, brow furrowed, as if he’d never taken the time to look before. Then he turned the gun in his palm, pushing it forward to the front of his hand, and raised it to my eyeline. He held it there. Steady. Certain. It was so close to my face I couldn’t focus properly, but I didn’t shrink away, even as fear bled through every pore. I just sat there, staring down the barrel, trying to keep my head clear.
Form a plan. Any plan.
‘Lee says he told you what was in that picture,’ Prouse said.
‘That’s not true.’
He moved the gun forward. ‘You saying he’s lying?’
‘I’m saying, he didn’t know either.’
I switched my gaze, up above the ridge of the barrel, to Prouse’s eyes. They were small and dark, even against the black of his beard, but they had no shine to them. There was no light in them at all. Healy was right about you. You aren’t just a fisherman. I was angry that I hadn’t seen the same things as Healy. I just thought he was being paranoid.
‘You know what?’ he said, finger wriggling at the trigger. ‘I don’t know which one of you bastards to believe any more. So I’m just gonna have to beat it out of you.’
‘Look, I don’t know who’s in the photogr–’
Prouse swatted the gun across my face, opening his hand so as much of the weapon was exposed as possible. The metal hit like a hammer. The chair rocked, teetered, then finally fell back into place.
‘Just tell him what you know, David!’
I tried to focus on Lee, to my left, somewhere on the edge of the sofa, but I suddenly felt nauseous. A second later, as my head rolled forward, I completely blacked out. Briefly, in the darkness, I saw a frozen moment in time: Healy and me in The Seven Seas, my face a picture of disbelief. What, you think the fisherman’s involved? And then I was awake again, my head a fluid, swelling mass of pain, thumping like rolls of thunder.
‘I got other questions for you,’ Prouse said, leaning in. I could feel his breath on my cheek, smell the tobacco on his teeth. ‘You’re gonna answer them. All of them.’
I looked at him. ‘I got some questions for you too.’
He smiled. ‘You a joker, boy?’
‘How about we trade? You answer mine, I’ll answer yours.’
The smile didn’t fade from his face as quickly this time,
but there was no humour in it. He had a far-off look in his eyes, like a thought had come to him, and while he was mulling it over, everything else had frozen in time. But then the smile finally did go and he turned to Lee. ‘Come here, Lee,’ he said, almost a softness to his voice now. ‘Come.’
Lee got up, warily.
‘Lee, don’t trust–’
‘Shut up!’ Prouse screamed into my face. He turned back to Lee. ‘Son, come here. It’s okay. I want to show you something.’ Lee edged towards him. ‘Don’t be frightened.’
Lee stopped just behind Prouse.
‘I want to show you what happens when someone doesn’t play by the rules.’ The fisherman looked from me to Lee and then back again, and I steeled myself for whatever was coming next. But then Prouse turned to Lee. And he shot him in the leg.
The noise was immense, ripping through the house before being swallowed by the groans of the wind. For a split second, Lee didn’t seem to react, even though the bullet had propelled him back across the living room and into Paul Ling’s computer. But then blood erupted out of the top of his thigh, the computer monitor fell to the floor, and Lee collapsed on to the sofa, face white, words lost in the agony.
Prouse looked at me. ‘Is that what you wanted?’
There was blood all over the sofa now.
‘Is that what you wanted ?’ he shouted.
‘Listen to me,’ I replied, keeping my eyes on him and my voice steady. The pain in my head was starting to make me feel dizzy, but I pushed back a fresh wave of nausea. ‘Whatever you want to know, I will tell you. But if you hurt him again, you get nothing.’
Prouse laughed. ‘You got balls, boy, I’ll give you that.’
‘Are we clear?’
‘You know what that little bastard did, right?’ Prouse studied me. ‘Right? He betrayed you. He called us up and begged for his life.’ Prouse started talking like a whining child: ‘ “I’m really sorry. I’m really sorry for what I’ve done, please can we start again. Don’t hurt me, don’t hurt me, don’t hurt me.” I didn’t hear him begging for your life.’
‘It doesn’t matter.’
The fisherman snorted.
Lee was sobbing now. Prouse glanced at him, contempt in his face. ‘You want me to put another one in your balls?’ he said, taking a step closer to Lee. Lee shook his head, desperately trying to rein in his sobs, and his whole body seemed to fold in on itself.
‘What do you want to know?’ I asked.
He turned back to me. ‘Lee told you some things.’
I nodded.
‘So I want to know where the photograph is.’
‘It’s in the notebook.’
‘I know it’s in the fuckin’ notebook!’
My head was on fire, but at the same time I was trying to work out what the hell Prouse was doing here, where he fitted in and what he was talking about. He already knew about the photograph, and he knew it was in her notebook. So why was he asking where the picture was? ‘Listen to me,’ I said. ‘The photograph is in Carrie’s notebook.’
‘We’ve got the notebook. Where’s the photograph?’
I frowned. ‘It wasn’t in the notebook?’
He leaned in to me. ‘Where’s the other one?’
‘Other one what?’
He smirked, didn’t say anything.
‘Look, I only know about Carrie Ling’s notebook and that there’s some kind of a photograph, and it’s important to you and your …’
‘My what?’
I made the leap. ‘Your boss. Cornell.’
For the first time, something moved in the black of his eyes; a predator remembering there was an animal even worse than him. ‘That about the sum total of it?’
‘That’s all I know.’
He fumbled around in the pocket of his trousers and brought out his phone again. I glanced at Lee: he was doubled over, a hand on his wound, blood leaking out over his fingers. Prouse’s eyes stayed on me as he auto-dialled a number. ‘It’s me,’ he said, when the person on the other end picked up. ‘He doesn’t know where it is.’ Prouse shook his head. ‘No. But he’s clever. He’ll find out. If we let him, he’ll find out about everything.’
I flicked another look at Lee. His eyes were closed, and he’d quietened. His hand had slipped away from the wound and was flat to the sofa. There was blood everywhere.
‘You want me to wait?’
Prouse’s voice brought me back. I looked at him. He was studying his watch, gun still clutched in the same hand, listening to whatever was being said.
Then he hung up.
Pocketing the phone again, he raised the gun and moved towards me. There was a purpose about him now. ‘This is where you and me say goodbye, boy.’
He pressed the gun against my forehead.
‘Wait a sec–’
‘Sorry it won’t be an open casket.’
Then, in my peripheral vision, I saw Lee move.
‘Where are the Lings?’ As I asked, I could see Lee pause on the edge of the sofa, a grimace on his face. I kept my eyes on Prouse. ‘I just want to know where they are.’
The corners of the fisherman’s mouth turned up.
‘Please,’ I said. ‘Give me that, at least.’
‘What difference does it make?’
Lee hobbled off the sofa and looked around him hazily, as if he didn’t know where he was or what he was doing. Help me, Lee. There was an iron poker lying across the hearth that I willed him to grab. But he didn’t. He didn’t even seem to see the poker. He didn’t seem to be focusing on anything. He looked bewildered, punch-drunk, blood all over him. He limped across to the middle of the room and fell in behind Prouse.
Prouse noticed him, turned. ‘What the fuck are you doing?’
Then, instinctively, I moved.
With every last atom of strength, I rocked the chair back, and then – as it shifted forward again – launched myself at him, wrists tied behind me, ankles locked in place, chair glued to my back. It was clumsy, but I managed to turn enough in the air so the weight of the legs clattered into Prouse first. All three of us hit the floor, Lee spinning off towards the fireplace. I landed on top of Prouse, something on the chair snapping, and heard his gun fall away somewhere else, hitting the carpet with a metallic rasp. My head started swimming, I felt myself drift, then I was back in the moment and Prouse was heaving me off him. I made a half-turn, the chair halting my movement.
Prouse scrambled away, looking for the gun, eyes scanning the room. Lee was on the floor beyond, moaning gently. He’s losing too much blood. He’ll be dead inside ten minutes. I took in as much of the room as I could see, trying to get a location on the gun.
Then, beneath me, the chair collapsed completely.
I rolled further away from Prouse, my arms still tied behind me, and used the wall to shuffle to my feet. He was already up, eyes desperately searching the floor for the gun.
I charged him.
He absorbed the impact, coming as hard at me as I came at him, and we stumbled sideways, towards the French windows, unable to stop our momentum – and crashed right through them. Glass shattered. Wood splintered. And then we were on the grass outside.
Rain sheeted down.
The only light was from the candles, still flickering, inside the living room. It spilt out on to the lawn like a pale puddle of water. Off to my left, in the direction of the beach, were the fence panels. Off to the right, Prouse was sprawled in a clutch of knee-length grass and nettles. I rolled over on to my front, trying to wriggle free of the binds.
Prouse sat up, looked around.
I rolled again, closer to the fence, trying to give myself some room. But now Prouse had spotted me, and he was on his feet, a violent twist to his face.
‘You fuckin’ little prick!’
Pushing my back against a fence panel, I scrambled to my feet. Looked around. Tried to find anything I could use. And then there, hidden in the dark, I spotted it.
The nailgun.
I’d been u
sing it to put up fence panels two days earlier.
I took a step to my left and scooped it up. Prouse was six feet away. I gripped it, fed the fingers of my right hand around its body – and then stopped. Shit. Where’s the trigger? I couldn’t feel my way around it properly, not with my wrists so close together.
Then I realized.
I had it the wrong way up.
I glanced at Prouse. He was four feet away, teeth gritted, great big sinewy arms in front of him, black eyes and beard like splashes of mud against the white of his face.
I turned the nailgun.
Don’t drop it. Don’t drop it.
Then the head of the gun caught on the binds. Three feet. Come free, you bastard. I jerked at it. Again. Again. Please come free. Two feet. I hooked at it again. Come on!
Finally, it came loose.
I arced my body to the left in a C-shape. Prouse was only a foot away, the tips of his fingers brushing the fabric of my jacket. So I leaned in towards him – and I fired.
Dmph. Dmph. Dmph.
Three six-inch nails hit him in the stomach.
He stumbled back, mouth open. I fired again, not caring where the nails landed on him, just as long as they did. One passed through his hand. The others I couldn’t tell.
He made a gurgling sound, then, as the rain continued pelting down, hit a bump in the lawn, slipped and fell on to his back. He hit the ground with a whup, and it was like a ripple passed across the garden. He just lay there, the grass parting for him and then reaching in again as he became still, closing like an emerald coffin lid.
I wasn’t sure whether he was dead or alive.
Dropping the nailgun on to the grass, I headed back through the shattered remains of the glass and into the living room. Lee was on his side on the floor, a pool of blood surrounding him. ‘Lee?’ No response. I dropped to my knees, my wrists still tied behind me, and used the top of my thigh to roll him on to his back. His eyes were closed. ‘Lee?’