by Peter James
And what play? It was a quarter past seven. Radio 4 was the channel for plays and The Archers was on now.
What the hell was going on here?
A voice was screaming in Glenn’s head to arrest this man. But on what charge?
The fist came like a missile from the dark, powering into Glenn’s face so fast that it wasn’t until he was falling back against the door jamb that he even realised he’d been hit. He crashed down onto the floor, dazed and disoriented as if he had just dived into a murky pool and was still somewhere underwater.
A shadow passed over him; he reached up and grabbed, instinctively, felt something hard, shoe leather; holding on with all his old club brawl self-preservation, not sure what he had hold of, but it felt like a leg, and he pulled hard, wrenching it sideways at the same time. The floor shook with a crash and now he was up on his knees. Groggily, he saw Thomas Lamark pulling himself up from the landing floor. As Glenn stood, Lamark launched himself at him; he felt a winding blow in his belly, then another stupefying punch in his jaw and he was jerking up in the air, and falling over backwards.
He crashed to the floor with a jarring, winding thump; he lay for a few seconds, instincts screaming at him to keep moving. Somehow he found the energy to roll, then he got up on his hands, ready to turn, to dodge, looking for the enemy, trying to work out where he was coming from next, how to get an advantage. But Thomas Lamark had disappeared.
He staggered to his feet, pressed a hand to his face – it felt like half his jaw had been knocked off – then looked warily out through the doorway into the landing. Where the hell was the man?
Nick Goodwin came pounding up the stairs.
Glenn stepped warily out onto the landing, heart thudding, listening hard. There were half a dozen doors, all shut; Lamark could be behind any of them. Or have gone up or downstairs. Was he making a run for it?
One floor up in his mother’s bedroom, Thomas rummaged through piles of her silk scarves in a drawer. He knew it was somewhere here, in this drawer, where she always used to keep it, permanently loaded, for Armageddon. Then he found it, carefully wrapped inside a Cornelia James silk square. Just as heavy as he had always remembered.
She had smuggled the gun back from America and had shown it to him several times when he had been a child, taught him how to take the safety catch off, how to aim it. She said that when nuclear war broke out they might need this gun to stop other people getting into their shelter.
He was going to use it now to stop the policemen getting into the shelter.
‘Did you see him?’ Glenn asked.
Goodwin shook his head.
‘Cover the back of the house – I’ll take the front.’ Glenn reached for his personal radio, and was about to press TRANSMIT, when there was a sharp crackle like an insect buzzing past him, a blast of air against his ear, then a startled look on Goodwin’s face, his eyes bulging, his hair lifting up like a toupee, as a bullet tore out of his temple. A shower of blood and bone splinters sprayed hard in Glenn’s face, stinging his cheeks and eyes like grit, accompanied almost instantaneously by a throbbing Shockwave and a deafening bang.
He dived onto the floor and rolled, and a chunk of polished oak board exploded inches in front of his face. As he rolled again he saw Lamark above and flame burst out of the muzzle of the gun he was holding. The next instant he was hurtled backwards by a thump in his chest like a massive kick.
He’d been shot, too, he realised, running on autopilot now. There was no pain. He just knew he had to get off this landing. Goodwin was down, dead, oh Christ, the poor bastard was dead. He saw another flash from the muzzle as he threw himself headfirst down the staircase, curling into a ball, head buried in his arms, thumping down the treads. He heard another bang as he rolled. Then he was at the bottom.
Still balled, he rolled twice along the floor, scrambled to his legs without looking up or behind him and ran forward, into a passageway, through it, along into a kitchen. Patio doors at the far end. He ran at them, tried to open them; they were locked, with the key removed.
Panicking now, he charged the glass with his shoulders, and bounced off it. Toughened glass; he wouldn’t be able to throw a damned chair through it. He looked around, desperately, for a weapon or a shield. Then he could see Lamark lumbering down the passage. He saw the open door that went somewhere internally, probably to a cellar, didn’t like it, but had no choice. He upended the kitchen table, pushing it in front of him, like a shield, ducked down behind it, then dived through the door and slammed it shut behind him, just as the gun fired again.
No damn key on this side.
He launched himself down the brick steps into the gymnasium. Running across it, towards the only solid structure, the sauna, he scanned the keep-fit equipment looking for something to get behind. Another bang and a hole ripped in the green carpet right in front of him. He threw himself to the ground, praying silently, curled into a ball again, crashed in through the open door of the sauna, pulled it shut behind him, felt a hammer blow on it and saw wood splinter inwards, stinging shards striking him in the face and body.
Going to die in a goddamn sauna. Oh, God, no.
Sammy’s face flashed in his eyes. Then Ari’s.
Now he saw the blood all over his chest. But also he saw the hole in the floor, the steps spiralling down. Horribly aware that he was trapping himself, he found the strength to propel himself forward and down them.
Panting hard at the bottom, gulping air, he stared, in near blind panic, through the open door into the empty chamber ahead, and at the second open door on the far side that looked as if it led through into another. What was this place? Where the hell could he hide? He looked up, fearfully, expecting to hear the clatter of footsteps at any second, but instead there was silence.
He waited, watching for a shadow, in case Lamark was tiptoeing down. But nothing moved.
Glancing behind him, he wondered if there was another entrance to this place – and if so, another exit. With trembling fingers, he clicked on his radio but all he could hear was a solid crackle of static. No reception. He looked down at his chest again. Nick’s startled expression flashed in front of him. The bullet tearing out of his temple. He was in shock; had to pull himself together
Not going to die down here, no goddamn way. I joined the police force to make you proud of me, Sammy. I didn’t join it to bleed to death in a concrete vault.
He took a step back, eyes locked on the spiral staircase. Then another step. Another.
Inside the chamber now, staring at the massive door. Could he lock it from this side?
If he could buy time. The other police officers out on the street watching this place would get concerned when they didn’t hear from him. All he had to do was sit tight. Wouldn’t they have heard the gunshots – or were they too far away?
Help would come.
It took him all his strength to heave the door shut. Then he looked for bolts. He could see bolt holes, clearly drilled, top and bottom. But the bolts had been removed – and, from the freshness of the marks showing their positions, they had been removed recently.
Christ. His weight against Lamark’s. Lamark was a huge, powerful guy. Glenn looked down at his chest; his entire shirt front was sopping wet with blood, and he was wheezing horribly. And he could feel the pain, too, now; a fierce, intense pain, a blowtorch blazing inside his chest. He pressed all the weight he could against the door, not daring to leave it and risk exploring further.
Then he heard a male voice behind him, nervous, short of breath.
‘Thomas, we need to talk about this.’
Glenn spun round. The voice came through the open door behind him. He listened, but could see nothing. It had sounded as though the voice was addressing him.
Then the voice again, louder, more insistent; more desperate. ‘Thomas, I know you’re a caring man and you’ve been a wonderful son to your mother. Don’t you want her to be proud of you?’
Glenn called out, ‘Who is that?’
There was a brief silence, then, filled with surprise, the voice came back, ‘Michael Tennent. Who are you?’
‘I’m a police officer.’
Glenn was close to weeping at the emotion in the man’s voice when he heard him again.
‘Thank God! Oh, thank God! We’re here, through here, in the back chamber! Thank God!’
Glenn stayed where he was, weight against the door. Just what in God’s name was going on down here?
Why hadn’t Lamark come down the spiral stairs to finish him off? Had he run out of bullets? Had he fled?
He had to do something, fast: he was going to bleed to death if he didn’t get medical help.
His heart in his mouth, he turned from the door and ran through into the second chamber, then the third. Then he stopped in his tracks. It felt as if he had entered some tableau in the Madame Tussaud’s Chamber of Horrors.
Two bodies on the floor. A man in a bloodstained shirt, hanging from his arms. A woman, intubated through the mouth, in bloodstained clothes, strapped down to a wheeled operating table.
When Michael saw the tall, bald black man stumble into the room, his face scratched to shreds, blood gouting from his sodden shirt front, his elation fell away.
Then they were plunged into darkness.
Chapter One Hundred and Four
A trinity of green figures in front of him. He concentrated on the detective, who had positioned himself between Dr Michael Tennent and the bit of fluff. One hand on the end of the operating table. Staring this way, looking startled.
What can you see Detective Constable Branson? Darkness? Even darker darkness beyond that? Too bad we didn’t get to talk more about my mother’s films. I hope you understand that I’m getting no pleasure from killing you.
In the magazine of his gun he had three bullets left. Good that he had stopped to check. If necessary, one for each of them, but he hoped that would not be necessary. Bullets were for people who did not matter. Bullets were for people like Detective Constable Glenn Branson.
Bullets were too quick.
We haven’t come this far, Dr Michael Tennent, to end it all with a single headshot.
The doors were all secured from the inside now. No one was coming in without an invitation. There was no need for him to hurry. He could think everything through carefully. Take his time.
Enjoy!
Get rid of the detective and then resume. He patted his scrub suit pocket, checking that he now had the adrenaline. The vial was there. Perfection!
He sighted the gun on the detective who was now crouching down low – as if this would protect him! – but he was twenty feet away and there was a danger that if he missed from this angle, he would hit the psychiatrist. No need to take this chance. Shoot the detective point blank, put the gun against his temple.
Suddenly he heard the psychiatrist shout, ‘He has night-vision goggles!’
Glenn, in the giddying darkness, gripped the end of the metal table as if it were a life raft; so long as he was touching the table, he had his bearings.
He knew where the entrance to the chamber was, where the man hanging from his arms was, he could reach him in one step. He knew where the woman was. And the position of the tray attached to it containing sharp medical instruments, just a short distance along this same edge that his hand was gripping.
All his thoughts were focused on the two people in terrible trouble in this room. Somehow, in the pitch darkness, in a room where there was a man with night-vision goggles who had shot him once and was going to try to shoot him again, he had to protect these people.
The image of the two bodies on the floor flashed in his mind.
He was starting to feel dangerously weak and light-headed, and he had no idea how many minutes of consciousness remained to him. He had to keep focused on what he needed to get onto a level footing with the madman in this room.
Light. Weapon. Shielding.
There were surgical instruments on a tray attached to the trolley just in front of his hand. But where were the lights? Where the hell was the master switch?
Keep low, keep in a tight ball, keep moving.
Still holding the table, he skittered on his feet right, then left, bobbing, ducking, thinking. Thinking. Thinking.
Clearly and firmly, sounding a lot more confident than he felt, Glenn said, ‘Mr Lamark, there are police outside the house, at the front and rear. Turn the lights back on and put down your gun. Surrender peacefully. You don’t want to make this any worse for yourself than it already is.’
Thomas Lamark used the time while the detective talked to move in on him. Now he was less than six feet away. Keeping his breathing down slow and calm, he raised the gun, holding the grip with both hands, angling the barrel forward until he had the front sight lined up in the V-shaped nick in the rear sight. Hand guns tended to fire high from the kick, he had read this on the Internet. He needed to aim low, as he had before.
Both sights were lined up on the detective’s chin now. Allowing for the kick, the bullet should go through one of his eyes or his forehead.
He could afford to get closer still, why not? Only three bullets left – why take any chances?
Conveniently, the detective spoke again. Thomas detected a tremor in his voice. Good. The detective was less confident than he was trying to sound.
No tricks, good.
‘Mr Lamark, I know you can hear me. Let’s deal with this in a sensible way. You’re proud of your mother. Don’t you want her to be proud of you?’
Thomas ignored him. Then he heard Dr Michael Tennent’s voice cut through the darkness. ‘Thomas,’ he said, ‘I’d like to talk about your mother.’
Thomas froze.
‘Tell me about your mother, Thomas.’
He closed his eyes. Shut up, Dr Michael Tennent!
Michael persisted, ‘Tell me about your mother, Thomas. You always seem to have a problem talking about your relationship with your mother.’
Thomas was quivering. He knew what the man was trying to do and he had to stop him.
Ignore him.
Close your ears.
Just get on with what you were doing. Don’t let him get to you. He destroyed your mother, don’t let him destroy you, too.
He was less than four feet away from the detective. But his hand was shaking too much now. Another two feet and he’d be point blank.
Point blank would be better. Gun right up against his temple. No missing.
‘Tell me about your relationship with your mother, Thomas,’ Dr Tennent said.
Thomas, in a haze of anger and confusion, took another step forward and as he did so, there was a loud crack under his foot, as he trod on something.
The sound told Glenn his position. Ducking as low as he could behind the operating trolley, knowing the woman was strapped securely, he pushed it with all his force in the direction of the sound. It stopped, abruptly, with a jarring, clattering thud, accompanied by a pained grunt, followed by two bright sheets of flame in rapid succession, and gunshots that boomed through the chamber like thunder, accompanied by the banshee howl of ricocheting bullets.
Grimly, the dense reek of cordite in his nostrils, Glenn yanked the trolley back, then hurled it forward again, with every ounce of muscle-power he had left in him. He felt it crash into its target and jar to a halt with a crunch of what might have been bone, followed almost instantaneously by a searing flash of flame, another explosion, and this time he felt the shock wave of the bullet as it cracked past his head.
No ricochet.
Christ, he hoped to hell the man hanging hadn’t been hit.
Frantically pressing home his advantage for all he could, he yanked the trolley back and shoved it forward again with even more force. Again it jarred home. He heard an oath, presumably Lamark, and something clattering across the floor. The gun?
He jerked the trolley back and slammed it forward again.
‘Fuck you, bastard.’
Lamark’s voice, for sure.
G
lenn slammed the trolley forward again; then again, and again. Then he reached up, scrabbled for the instrument tray, found something long-handled, and launched himself around the side of the trolley into the darkness.
Almost instantly he stumbled over legs on the floor and fell on top of a writhing figure. Flailing for Lamark’s gun-hand, he lunged down his instrument with his right hand, and heard the ping as it struck the bare concrete floor. Then he lunged again. This time it plunged into something soft and firm, and he heard a scream of agony.
He had a wrist in his left hand! Letting go of his weapon, he scrabbled frantically with his other hand for the man’s face. He found the goggles! Ripped them up off Lamark’s forehead. The strap was caught under something, maybe the man’s neck. He pulled harder, heard a strangled gasp beneath him.
Then something slammed into his face; a fist or a gun butt or a bullet, he had no idea, he just knew he was falling backwards and crashed against something, almost splitting his head open.
Somehow he got back onto his knees. Keep moving. Crablike to the left. His knee came down on something hard.
He felt. Broken plastic. It was a torch! Careful. Ready to dive left or right, he switched it on, thrusting it forward into the darkness like a dagger.
The beam wasn’t great but it was enough. He could see everything in one sweep. The man hanging did not seem to have been hit; he couldn’t see the woman. Thomas Lamark was three feet in front of him, crouched in an attack position, the handle of a scalpel sticking out of his thigh. The gun lay on the floor, six feet behind him.
Glenn dived for it a fraction ahead of Lamark. Crashing down onto the concrete, he hauled himself forward. Grabbed it, scrabbled forward more, then turned, pointed it straight at Lamark, whose hand was gripping his ankle.
The beam of the torch was fading. Holding the gun steady on Lamark, he shook the torch. A flicker. The beam was stronger for a second then faded again.
Don’t die on me, baby, please don’t die on me.
He shook it again. Stronger beam now. Lamark was staring at him. Smiling. Totally unhinged.