by Neil White
She threw herself onto the bed, remote control in hand, ready to channel-hop just to check the latest.
If nothing happened this morning, she was going after David Watts. He was next.
And it would be easy, because she knew he would come for Emma.
He could hear voices, someone talking. Someone was with her. Bad news.
He listened out. He could hear a female voice, just talking, not saying much. He couldn’t hear anyone answer.
He edged along the wall, his gun in his hand. He got to the kitchen doorway and looked along the hall. It was a long one, maybe thirty feet, with a room going off at both sides and the front door at the other end. The door provided the light, and as it came in, it shone up the stairs. He looked along the floor. It was the same as outside. No tripwires or sensors. The floor looked packed full of dangers though. It was wooden boards all through the house and up the stairs, lacquered but old, worn down in scuffs, with every board carrying a creak. He just had to hope he got lucky and only picked the quiet ones to walk on.
He walked as softly as he could, his steps slow and deliberate, keeping to the edges. He could still hear talking upstairs, but then he realised there was a television on. That was good. It might mask any noise he made.
He reached the doorway to the room going off the hall to his right. He peered round, his gun ready. The room slowly swung into view. No one there. He went into the room to give him a view of the room opposite. That slowly came into his eye-line. Empty.
He went back into the hall. He moved with his back against the wall, sliding himself along silently. He paused by the front door when movement outside caught his eye. He looked and saw the two people near the cattle grid. When he saw who it was, he grinned to himself. He could tidy up his frayed ends all at the same time.
He looked back towards the stairs. The noise from the television echoed down. He couldn’t hear movement. There was definitely a voice, not just the television, but it was the same voice every time.
He stepped forward and put a foot on the stairs. His foot rested on the step and he began to press his weight forward to begin his climb.
The wood began to give slightly, bending against the force of his footsteps. He realised too late that a creak was coming, too far gone to stop himself. His foot carried on pressing, the wood carried on giving, and then it groaned in the empty wooden hall, the noise like a fired gun, shooting along the walls and up the stairs.
He almost saw the noise reach the room upstairs. It seemed to get there when he heard the voice stop mid-sentence, when the subtle sounds of movement, almost too soft to hear, fell into silence.
He stopped then and waited for more sound so he could decide what to do.
Liza heard something. A creak of wood. The voices halted as if the noise had scared them off.
She eased herself off the bed and crawled across the floor. When she got to the window, she looked outside. The young couple were still there.
She cursed and looked at the floor, her mind waking up fast now. Someone was inside the house. She looked again for signs of the police: cars up the track, snipers in the trees. There were none.
She turned away from the window and slithered back across the floor, her eyes darting to the door as she went. It was open. There was a landing with three more bedrooms going off to the left, and then the stairs going down to her right. At the other side, there was one more bedroom and the bathroom. She shuffled quickly to the drawers by her bed. She found the gun she kept in there, always loaded, a Glock 17, the double-action trigger giving it a quick safety release. She wanted to be able to shoot quickly.
She grabbed the gun and got on the floor behind the bed. It was an old metal-framed bed, so she had a shot at the feet of anyone who came in. She could lie underneath, and then shoot up under the chin when he was over her.
She started to clamber underneath, but when she saw the springs over her head, she realised how trapped she would be if she messed it up. Then she noticed the light on the floor coming through the bedroom doorway. There was some reflected light getting through from the hallway, coming off the pale walls and into the bedroom, giving an opalescent sheen to the boards by the door.
She crawled out from under the bed. She would wait until the sheen disappeared, whereby she would know someone was in the door frame. Then she would begin firing.
She knelt down on the other side of the room, her gun trained on the open door.
FIFTY
I had just pointed out my tenth alternative route on the map and was running out of ideas. Laura was looking edgy.
‘It’s time to go up there,’ I said, stepping away from the car.
Laura looked up at the house. It looked the image of Dales charm: a stone-built box house, set among trees and fields, facing south, roses scattered around the front porch.
She took a deep breath. ‘You’re not going.’
‘Yes, I am,’ I said, and set off walking.
‘No, you’re not,’ she replied, ‘because it’s too dangerous. We’re unarmed, and you might get hurt. And I might get hurt. I’m not leaving Bobby without a mum. When we got out of the car, I got my phone to send in our location. I’m sorry, Jack, but some things are more important than a story.’
I paused, took some more steps. And then stopped and turned around. I knew she was right. Was I doing this for the exclusive? I had it anyway. But I felt betrayed. I thought I was piggy-backing her. Maybe it was the other way round? I looked up at the house.
‘I need to go up there,’ I said. ‘I’ve got a personal stake in this.’ I looked back at Laura and said, ‘Professional stakes aren’t always worth risking your life over, but personal, well, that’s different.’
Laura looked down at the floor, playing in the dust with her foot.
‘This is non-negotiable,’ she said.
I looked at her, and then shook my head. ‘Who said we were negotiating?’
I set off again towards the house.
He moved his foot away slowly and placed it on the side of the step. He put his foot down gradually, but the wood didn’t creak.
He stepped up onto the first stair. He put his back against the wall and took each step slowly, his gun pointing up the stairs. The television was still playing, giving him a sound source. After four steps, the door came into view, the muted light from the bedroom showing through. The talking had stopped.
He slid his back along the wall, his clothes making a light brushing sound. He took the remaining stairs slowly, certain he’d been heard. He reached behind his back and pulled out the pepper spray. If she was hiding behind a door or somewhere, a burst of spray would bring her out.
He got to the top step and flattened himself against the opposite wall. She’d have to put herself into the doorframe to shoot him. The light wasn’t good on the landing, although maybe it was better than the bedroom, which looked in shadow, just the blues from the television making the walls flicker.
He walked sideways, crab-style, against the wall. His ears were straining for any sound above the television, anything to confirm that she was there.
He went past the closed doors to the other bedrooms and then ended up in front of the open doorway. He had one ear to the gap between the door and the frame. There was only the television. He couldn’t even hear her breathing.
Then he heard the squeak of a foot on a shiny floor. She had moved. She was waiting for him.
He smiled and took a silent deep breath. She wouldn’t have to wait any longer.
Liza crouched on the floor, trying to hear past the television. Cricket talk, golf news. The room was too full, too loud, crowding out any sounds trying to break through. She’d heard nothing else since the creak on the stair.
Her eyes were fixed on the door, but there was no one there. But then she thought she heard something. Her heart clenched. She crouched down, her eyes fixed on the light on the floor. It was faint, but there was enough of a glow to see. She tensed her finger, wrapped snugly around th
e metal, the trigger starting to give. She felt the shadows close in on her, could feel darkness creeping in from outside the room. Her eyes flashed to the television. Still nothing from David Watts. She looked again at the door. Was this his message?
She edged slowly around the bed, her knees shuffling, her feet squeaking on the varnished boards. The sheen was still there on the floor. The doorframe started to come into view, a slice of muted light that spread as she moved around. But it was only light. No sounds. No movement.
Then it changed. Her eyes shot to the floor. Someone had stepped across the light. The boards by the door were in shadow. There was someone there. Someone was coming in.
She’d stopped breathing, her panic making everything stop. Her chest beat hard and her mouth went dry and lifeless. Was this it? The end?
Her thoughts gelled in a flash.
She threw herself to the side so that she landed on her shoulder. She drew the gun up quickly at the bedroom door and started to pull on the trigger. She was sliding on the boards, the trigger hard against her finger, fighting back as she squeezed harder, her fall still taking her along the floor, the gun pointing at the door.
The sound was like an explosion in the room. The recoil from the gun shot her hand upwards as she fired, and again, and again. She shot four times into the door. Dust flew up as the bullets hit and went through, wood splintering, the noise still echoing round, the filtered light catching the dust and wood as it twirled to the floor.
There was a rumble of feet, the thump of someone dropping to the floor. She shuffled backwards so that she was out of shot of anyone in the doorway, her feet scrambling across the floor. She shook her head to try to shift the noise of the gun out of it. She could hear a voice, a male voice, snarling with pain. She had hit him.
She sat on the floor, panting, trapped in the room, the only way out through the door or the window. She took a deep breath. She wasn’t creeping out. It was her house.
She stood up and began to walk slowly across the bedroom. She held the gun out, ready to fire, letting the doorway come fully into view this time. Her view slowly grew as she moved across the room. She went past the television and reached behind with her spare hand to switch it off. When the room fell silent, she stopped and listened. She couldn’t hear anything. She stayed like that for a minute, wondering where the noise of pain had come from. There was nothing.
Then she edged towards the door and saw the spots of blood on the floor. They were for real. Someone was in the house. It wasn’t just in her head.
But where had he gone?
I ducked when I heard the first shot.
I turned round to Laura. She had taken cover behind the car. I looked back towards the house. I was in open space, halfway along the path. I quickly scanned the house, but I couldn’t see anything. No windows open, no one watching me. The shots sounded muffled, as if they were indoors.
Three more shots, quick bursts.
‘Get back here, Jack.’
I ran back, every step a lifetime, the car never drawing near. Evinto the empty doorway.ery crunch of my feet on the path was shouting out my location, like traces on radar. My leg jolted with pain, but I went into a slide as I went for the rear of the car, feet first, flying through the air.
I skidded to a halt, the gravel ripping at my trousers, a cloud of dust surrounding me. I was behind the car. I put my head down and sucked in air, and then looked at Laura. She was in a crouch.
‘Ever the drama queen,’ she said.
I looked down at myself. ‘I think I scuffed my new jeans,’ I announced, and then laughed nervously. I pointed up at the house. ‘Was that meant for us?’
She followed my gaze and then shook her head. ‘It was inside the house, but who was she was shooting at?’
I thought about it for a moment, and then said, ‘We know she’s due another visitor.’
We both thought about that for a second, and then Laura said, ‘You stay here. I’m going up to the house.’
‘Not on your own.’
‘Don’t be the hero, Jack. I’m a cop. Let me be one.’
I sighed. ‘And let me be a crime reporter.’
Laura’s hand was in the glove box, scrabbling for her warrant card. ‘At least you’ve got a witness for this crime scene.’
She found the card, and then raised her eyebrows. ‘Gotta go.’
I followed not far behind.
Liza looked into the empty doorway. Spots of blood dotted the floor. Her eyes tried to track them but they didn’t go anywhere.
She edged forward and framed herself in the doorway. She let her hand do a sweep, her gun ready to fire. Still nothing. She sounded alone. But she knew that she wasn’t.
She thought she could hear every sound in the house, even the dust settling. She felt flutters of fear in her stomach, her mouth going dry. The gun had a slight tremor as she tried to see along the landing. She squinted hard, just seeing the same old scene. She swallowed, felt frantic, when she saw a chink of something. Her eyes strained towards it. It was a sliver of grey, just a brighter shade than the rest of the light. She realised what it was: the last room along was open. The door was ajar, just, letting out a slice of light.
She stepped onto the landing, her foot landing slowly, her toes spreading on the boards, her footstep silent.
She ignored the first door. She was about to take another step when she stopped, her stance in mid-stride. She’d heard something. It was like a rumble, just light, but she couldn’t tell where it was coming from. She stepped forward again, her gun ready, her body poised and coiled to react. She couldn’t see anything. Just shadows, dark and long, each full of echoes of Annie, and her own father, his voice slurred and angry from whisky, shouting, hitting, sometimes crying. They grabbed at her, willed her forward, their entreaties mixed in with their cries as they choked on the smoke.
She quickly stepped back into the bedroom and stood there, her chest heaving, her brow moist with sweat. She took a few fast breaths to try to calm herself and then set off again out of the bedroom.
She took one step and closed her eyes, tried to force away the shadows. She had to see what she was doing, had to stay alert, ready.
She opened her eyes and kept on walking, three steps, then four. The door at the end inched towards her, each step taking her closer to it. The slice of light grew larger and the rest of the house grew darker. The door was definitely open. And she knew that it was never open. She had no reason to go in there. But now someone was in her house, trying to wreck all she had left.
She stopped outside the door. She leant forward and tried to listen through the opening. There was nothing. She was listening out for the sounds of someone in pain, maybe even the final sounds of someone dying. There was none of that. There were just the creaks of the house, every one part of the structure now. She had sat in silence so often that she knew them all.
She pictured the room on the other side of the door. There was just a bed, some drawers, and a wardrobe, just in case of visitors. There weren’t any. He’d be out in the open or under the bed. The door went right back to the wall. If he was exposed in the room, she’d shoot him.
She tensed herself ready to go. She held the gun against her chest, clenched her finger on the trigger. Once inside, she thought, she’d get low, start firing, try to get some shots under the bed.
She counted to ten, took a deep breath, and then flung herself through the door.
Laura crept up the path, trying to get to the door as quickly as possible.
She hoisted herself up onto the porch and made herself flat against the wall. She stole a glance back at me and then looked up, breathing heavily.
I knew what she was thinking. She was praying that the reinforcements would arrive. She was thinking of Bobby, not wanting him to grow up without her.
She peered round to see if she could see through the glass in the door. Then I saw her try the handle. It was locked.
‘People are on their way,’ I said. ‘Stay p
ut.’
She paused for a moment, and then nodded. Then she looked angry as I walked away.
‘Where are you going, Jack?’
‘I’m going for an interview.’
Laura looked at the door, and then at me.
‘Jack, you bastard!’ she hissed.
I ignored her and carried on walking. I was going round the back.
Liza kicked the door open. She swung the gun around. No one there. The door was flat against the wall, still juddering. Her eyes shot around the room, and then she threw herself to the floor. She looked under the bed, ready to fire, but it was empty. Nothing there. Just empty space. Like it always had been.
She put her head on the floor, panting, relieved. She stayed like that for a few seconds, and then shuffled backwards to lean against the wall. She sat down and put her head back, letting her breathing calm down. Her chest was going fast, her lips were dry, her throat hoarse.
She got her senses back and had another look around. She glanced towards the window. It was getting bright outside, but there was a touch of redness about the sky, as if storms were on the way.
She looked around the room again, wondered if she had imagined it. Maybe the door had always been open. Then she thought about the blood. She hadn’t imagined that.
Her eyes snapped back to the window. Something caught her eye. She gasped when she saw. It was open, just a crack, but it was open. She froze. He’d gone out that way. He might have dropped down to the floor and run round the house. He could come back in, through the front, or the kitchen, or he could just be waiting in the trees.
She looked to the door, her nerves creeping back up again. She tried to listen, but she couldn’t hear anything over the rush of blood through her veins and the frantic beat of her heart.
She didn’t see the foot on the ledge. If she had looked, she would have seen his left foot on the corner of the sill. If she had looked up, she would have seen the fingers of his left hand clenched against the stone, the ends white with the strain. If she could have seen through the stone, she would have seen him straining against the wall, his whole body-weight taken by his left hand and foot, his right hand fixed into a gap in the stonework. He was facing outside, his gun tucked into his belt, ready to swing back in through the window.