Burning Crowe

by Geoff Smith

  Sophie cursed and she smacked the headrest of the seat in front. She slumped back on the seat, arms crossed, not looking at him.

  Connor grabbed Bart's arm.

  'Say cheese!' And he snapped Bart's picture.'Give us the keys, man. We'll find some tunes.'

  The road-crew paid Bart little attention as he passed, and, once out of sight, he pulled in close to the wall, moving around to the back of the building. Voices. Zack and Francesca. He peeked around the corner and Lola was there too, and Zack's two mates, sharing a joint.

  'Lola?'

  One of the boys offering her a smoke.

  'No. Thanks,' Lola said. 'So well, I suppose I should be going. Zack, are you -'

  Bart couldn't make out Zack's response or even if he had said anything at all, but he imagined Zack kissing her, whispering in her ear.

  Then Lola came around the corner. The hem of her dress flapped in the breeze. She wasn't wearing a coat. She must have been cold standing around outside like that. Now, she walked quickly, but as she passed him, she slowed, saw him there, lurking in the shadows. But she didn't stop and her face didn't change. Bart undid the top button of his coat and ran his thumb down the lapel. His heartbeat raced. Then Zack's voice.

  'Yeah yeah, so I guess the cops are going to nab me eventually. I just want to get a few things sorted out before -'

  'Pass the zoot, Fran.'

  'Here.' Francesca's voice. 'So you really think it's him behind it all then?'

  'One way or another. Yeah, yeah. I mean it has to be, doesn't it? It'd be a pretty wild co-incidence if not, you know. I mean, man, who benefits from all this really? Well, it's obvious, isn't it?'

  A shadow in the darkness and Bart jumped, and his foot clipped a glass bottle. Its trebly clink rang out in the cold.

  There were muttering voices, too indistinct to make out the words, and then the two lads were there in front of him. Zack's two mates. Both of them tall and both heavily built with eyes dimmed with drink and dope.

  He could run.

  He was sober.

  He knew he could outrun them.

  But Bart chose not to run.

  Instead he threw a punch, and it connected with the jaw of the bigger lad, Bart stepping forward as the big lad staggered back. And then he threw a second. He liked the sound his fist made as they hit. And it felt good to assert himself, get some revenge. But then the second lad grabbed him from behind. He wrapped his arms around Bart's neck and stomach, and doped up or not, the kid was just plain stronger than him. He easily wrestled Bart to the ground. The bigger lad had recovered from the punches, and he came over, kicking at Bart's side as he lay, pinned to the floor. The big lad's foot bounced against Bart's kidneys and the other lad's arm.

  'Watch it, you idiot!' the lad on Bart's back said. 'You're kicking me, you dick.'

  And Zack and Francesca were there. Bart could see their shoes.

  Zack said, 'Hey, hey hey! Look, it's our little investigator - again. No offence buddy, but you nearly wrecked our show tonight, so I think you should probably fuck off for a bit, okay?'

  'Sounds good to me,' Bart said.

  Tarmac pressed against his cheek.

  Zack said, 'You know, I do think maybe I didn't hit you hard enough before.'

  And he patted the darker lad on Bart's back and whispered something in his ear. The lad pulled Bart to his feet and held him from behind. Zack loosened up, stretching his neck, twisting his shoulder. He stepped forward and he punched Bart in the stomach.

  And his dark eyes glinted under the streetlights.

  Footsteps.

  Slow at first. Then faster and heavier.

  Connor Stevens charged into the four of them. He shoulder barged the bigger lad in front of Bart and thudded his fist in to the lad's face, sending him staggering backwards. Bart twisted in the darker lad's grip and managed to push him back against the wall, wind him with an elbow. Bart broke free. He spun. He palmed his attacker on the side of the head. And the darker lad's face showed he was not enjoying the narrowed odds.

  'Boo!' Bart feigned an attack. The lad flinched. Bart smiled and punched him anyway.

  One last hit.

  The darker lad staggered backwards but he didn't run.

  Then Zack had squared up to Connor. The bigger lad had been floored and was clearly in no mood to continue, and the darker lad was backed into a corner, watching. Connor played rugby. He was properly built. Zack was more slight, but he had guts and pride but he was ready to lose them. And all the time Francesca stood facing them with her back to the wall. Not looking scared. Not looking interested. She looked bored. And she was texting.

  And then Noah and Sophie arrived. They stood on either side of him, and Bart felt Noah's hand tapping the small of his back. Sophie kneeled and picked up his hat. She squeezed it back on his head and she touched his forehead.

  Bart walked over to Connor.

  'Come on. I think we've made our point,' Connor said and Bart saw relief in Zack Richards' eyes. 'Let these people enjoy what's left of their night.'

  Bart looked to Francesca. She hadn't looked up. But he could see she was listening.

  'Hey Francesca,' Bart said. 'I am sorry. I mean about the gig and all that. I've got to be honest. I thought you were really great.'

  Francesca glanced up from her phone. When she looked down Bart thought he saw her smile.

  Another shadow moved in the darkness.

  And then a flash. And another.

  The sound of the gunshots swallowed them all, then spat them out across the road. A flood of noise. Bart thought he saw a figure - a big male in a heavy coat - there and then gone in an instant - Zack next to him on the floor and Francesca crouched low against the wall. Zack's two friends had crawled across the tarmac to console each other and Connor was his feet, brushing himself down. There was pain in Bart's upper arm.

  He touched it.

  The fabric of his coat was torn and his fingers came away, wet with blood.

  And Sophie Dean was beneath him. He had fallen on her instinctively.

  Noah rolled towards them and he touched Sophie's cheek and he kneeled and he stroked her hair. He put his ear to her mouth. He lifted a hand from the road and held his hand out in front of him. It was glossy and dark with blood.

  'Call an ambulance!' Noah said and his eyes were full of panic. 'She's been shot. Sophie's been shot!'

  27

  He woke at six, the stretchers and staff, anonymous faces of the night before, flickers of memory. The oxygen mask. Sophie. He had called her name and she had moved her head. A single moment in a wash of thought. He tried to distill it, and for a moment he held the image of her still. And then it was gone, sloshed in the swell of consciousness.

  His phone pinged. A text message. The phone was loaded with texts and other messages too. Connor and Noah.

  [Are you okay mate? Let us know. We're worried about you man]

  [Hey bro get in touch. Worried like crazy!]

  He responded to both, briefly, and secretly he hoped they were asleep. He didn't want replies. He selected Sophie's number from his contacts, began to type.

  [Hi Soph. If you're awake and reading this then I'm sorry as hell. If you're dead and in heaven, I'm sorry as hell too. I'm asking everyone how you are but no one will tell me. You need to know you're the best friend anyone has ever had and I am so so sorry. You're beautiful. Bart x]

  He sent it. Then added:

  [I really am sorry as hell. Pls pls reply x.]

  And he pulled the covers up around his neck and he fell asleep.

  *

  A tall man loomed over him, dark at first, a shadow, then brown and grey clothes, sandy brown hair and horseshoe moustache. A second man stood at the foot of the bed, silent.

  'So, we meet again Mr Crowe.'

  He looked up at DS Simmonds and nodded.

  And Simmonds said, 'So Mr. Crowe, I'm going to need you to tell me about last night.'

  Bart asked about Sophie but all Simmonds would
say was, 'All in good time, Mr. Crowe. All in good time.'

  So Bart told DS Simmonds everything he could remember of the night before. He told him about the job, about finding Zack Richards. He would speak to his client. Maybe give Simmonds a name in a day or two. He told him about Zack and the black eye. And about seeing Glenn Golden. But he didn't mention the tracker he'd attached to Zack's car.

  And there was something else he hadn't mentioned.

  He hadn't mentioned the memory card.

  'You said you'd tell me about Sophie.'

  'I think you'll find I didn't make any promises Mr. Crowe, and I think perhaps you should be careful about putting words into people's mouths.'

  Bart looked hard at him, and he said,'Maybe you should be careful about playing games with people's feelings.'

  The other man frowned and Simmonds looked across at his colleague before he continued.

  'She is alive. I don't know much more than that. We haven't been able to speak to her.'

  'Can I see her?'

  'Your friend's just come out of surgery on a significant bullet wound. Now I'm no doctor, Mr. Crowe. But we can't interview her, so I very much doubt you'll be able to see her either.'

  Bart shivered. Blood swirled around his brain like dirty water draining from a sink.

  'Do you think, the gunman was the same guy that shot Raymond Feathers?'

  'Hmmm, do you think I'd tell you if I did? Mr. Crowe, you have my sympathy, really, but don't start thinking we're colleagues in this. To be honest I seem to be talking to you rather more than I'd like. No offence.'

  Sweat beaded on Bart's forehead. His right eye twitched.

  'Can I talk to you for a minute,' he said. 'You know, off the record, or whatever it is you guys say?'

  'We're professionals in the police force Mr. Crowe. You talk. Let us worry about the record.'

  'In confidence - please.'

  His voice cracked a little and the muscles spasm at the side of Bart's mouth.

  DS Simmonds nodded to his colleague. The man shrugged and took a stroll, and the D.S. sat in the hospital chair and he listened as Bart told him about the memory card and the pictures of Zack and his friends.

  Simmonds scratched his ear.

  'You have this thing with you now?' he said.

  'No. It's at the B&B. Sorry.'

  'Sorry is as sorry does.'

  'What?'

  'Have you altered this thing at all?'

  'No.'

  Simmonds scratched his ear.

  'You do realise Mr Crowe that this piece of evidence, this thing, if it does matter, is now severely compromised. After all, all we have is your word that it was ever at the crime scene at all.'

  'I do realise that, but I was there, and it wasn't a crime scene when -'

  'But nothing Mr. Crowe. Let me be blunt. If you had left this thing there at the scene of the crime, your friend might not have a bullet hole in her side.'

  And Bart said nothing.

  And Simmonds said, 'And when I say sorry is as sorry does, I mean you'd better bloody give me this memory card - the one you claim to have found at the scene of a murder. I also mean that you're going to go home to wherever you're from, and you're going to stay there. And you'll leave crime-fighting to professionals like myself and my colleagues, because, whatever it is you think you're doing, you appear to be causing crime, not stopping it. Do you take my point?'

  'Yes but that's not -'

  Simmonds made his hands into tight fists.

  'It's exactly the bloody point, Bart.' He stood up and made to leave but turned back. 'Do you know what a bullet does to a person, Mr. Crowe? Well do you? It rips them apart. Arteries and intestines. Stomach. Do you think that people come out of surgery, and what? They're fine? Like nothing ever happened? This isn't an action movie. This isn't one of your crappy video games. Crime brings pain, Bart. Real pain. You stop crime. You stop pain. But you - you don't stop crime do you? In fact I'd go so far as to say you're a one man crime creation enterprise. You are causing pain. And quite frankly, we'd be better off without you.' Simmonds paused. 'The people here tell me you'll be free to go today. When that happens phone me immediately. I want that memory card. Do not go back to the hotel without me. Do we understand each other?'

  'Yes.'

  Bart turned away, chastised, and he saw himself, reflected, hazy and flat, on the plastic surface of the pay-to-view TV. And it was like looking at a previous version of himself. Bartholomew Crowe 1.0. The empty, unformed person that he used to be, the person everybody else wanted him to be again. And it made him angry to look at himself like that. His lip curled and he turned the screen away. He pushed it to the wall. The wound on his arm stung, pain pulsing up his shoulder and neck.

  'You know,' he said. 'Sometimes, I think it's not justice at all that makes you guys tick, it's just security isn't it? You do just enough to keep everything ticking along. You're not crime-fighters. You're just guarding the shop. Well, you know what, sometimes I think doing the right thing means not doing the right thing, so I'm not going to school, I'm not playing the game. And I'll tell you what DS Simmonds, I reckon I'll do what's right if that's all right with you.'

  Simmonds put his card on the bedside table.

  'Phone,' he said. 'Don't text.'

  And as DS Simmonds turned to leave, Bart called out, 'Why did you come and see me that day, you know, at the hotel? Who told you about me?'

  Simmonds stopped at the curtain and he turned his head.

  'The chief inspector suggested I have a word.'

  And then he was gone.

  And the curtains rustled, still settling when Granddad pushed them aside. His wispy hair was tied back in a pony tail, and half-rimmed spectacles hung from his shirt pocket.

  Granddad said,'Visitors? Already?'

  28

  High buildings, shuttered windows and balconies. Enemies firing down. Fighting on the streets. He took damage but he gave it out too.

  In the main square, bullets pinged but he didn't take cover. He ran and he fired. He ran across the square, bursting through the double doors of the town hall. He came face to face with the barrel of a rifle.

  And it killed him with a single shot.

  Bart dropped the controller and laid on the bed as the game wheeled through its score charts and demos. Still no response from Sophie. Noah had persuaded his parents to let him stay on at the Travelodge while Sophie recovered. But even he hadn't seen her yet. Connor, with school and work on Monday, and no one to pay his hotel bill, had driven home. Bart would have stayed in Margate too, but Granddad had insisted and to be honest he was glad of the company.

  His phone pinged.

  [Dinner is served! ]

  Granddad loved that bloody iPhone. Social media too, not Insta or Snap, but always on Facebook and Twitter.

  'I'm on my own a lot,' he'd say. 'So it's this thing or a bloody budgie!'

  Dinner was Indian - korma and rogan josh - and Granddad was already eating. He was watching The Chase on TV, raising his fork or shaking his head, 'Yea' or 'Nup', and a high-pitched 'Nnn' when someone on the telly knew better than he did. Being home with Granddad was almost like a flat-share with a school mate. Take-aways, quiz shows and shared kitchen duties.

  'I might go out for a bit,' Bart said, the plate on his lap. 'I gotta tell you, I'm going crazy without my computer.'

  'Hell to pay,' Granddad said, and he chuckled and bit into a bhaji. 'You did the right thing there though, boy. The police want to check you haven't tampered with the data on that card. You might not see it for a while of course. And they probably think you'd copied it too. You have copied it, haven't you?'

  Bart grinned.

  'Maybe.'

  'Good. You save it to a machine or to the cloud?'

  'Christ Granddad. What do you even know about the cloud?'

  The old man shrugged.

  'Anyway I've done better than that. I made a hard copy.'

  Bart reached for his wallet and pulled out a tiny
fingernail sized rectangle of plastic.

  'Bart.'

  'What?'

  'Let's go buy you a new computer tomorrow, boy. But get my old thing down now, will you. We'll have a look at them pictures. Oh, and get your art pad, and a ruler.'

  And so they sat at the dining room table with the art pad and the ruler and Bart talked through the case from the very start. Granddad asked questions about everything. As Bart gave answers Granddad plotted a time-line.

  'And that's when Sophie got shot,' Bart said. 'God, if there was any justice that bullet would have hit me, not her.'

  Granddad snorted.

  'I'm not joking.'

  'No boy, I know you're not. But you're feeling sorry for yourself. Don't. It's dishonest. You don't want to be shot. You were lucky. And Sophie, well, she was unlucky - but not as unlucky as she could have been.'

  Bart put down his fork. He swallowed.

  Then he frowned and said, 'You don't know anything about what it was like.'

  Granddad sighed.

  'Maybe not. But sometimes it shows strength to be thankful for what hasn't happened, rather than being miserable about what has. Now come on. Let's load up them pictures and let's have a proper look.'

  Bart clicked the card into the computer.

  'We'll go through these one at a time,' Granddad said. 'I want you to tell me who's in each one. Give me the numbers and the dates, and we'll see where everything fits.'

  So Bart read out the names of the people in each photograph, and he read out the dates and the filenames, and Granddad wrote them on his time-line. He didn't stop or comment. He didn't even look, even when Bart wanted to talk. And when they had done every picture, Granddad looked up.

  'So which ones stand out?'

  'Well there's a few, Granddad, but, well okay, that one.'

  'Why?'

  'Well we don't know who's in it for one. Plus the filename's out of sync. So maybe it's come from another device. And the date is the day of the fire at the Ten-Ten Casino - which - would make me think - that the picture could have something to do with Torin Malone.'