The Runner

by P. R. Black

  ‘Nice.’

  ‘I think there’s been some planning permission lodged to build houses, but that’s all.’

  ‘So where’s our visitors?’ Glenn said. ‘I feel like we’re totally exposed out here.’

  ‘No sign of them yet. But I’d probably hide, if I was them.’

  ‘Those buildings over there look a good bet. Maybe too obvious?’ Glenn set his jaw. He reached into his backpack, and pulled out a baseball bat.

  Freya’s eyes widened.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ he said, dismissively, ‘not quite the Woodcutter’s weapon of choice, is it?’

  ‘Close enough.’ Freya kept her voice low. ‘Maybe keep it out of sight. We have to assume we’re being watched.’

  ‘Yeah, about that. Shouldn’t the cops be watching us anyway?’

  ‘Unless Tamm’s the killer.’

  Glenn stopped. ‘Is Tamm the killer?’

  ‘I doubt it… I don’t know.’ For the first time, she didn’t. Freya had expected to have company already, but there was no sign of it. The silence of the place, the dearth of any sign of human activity, was beyond strange now, and into the weird. Someone’s here, she thought. Someone’s waiting, quietly. I should not have played a game. This was stupid.

  Glenn tried to stay composed, but his lip trembled as he spoke. ‘If the Woodcutter ambushes us, though – what then? We don’t stand a chance.’

  ‘There’s always a chance if there’s two of us,’ Freya said, not sounding anything like as brave or forthright as she’d intended. ‘Plus – we’re out in the open.’

  ‘You said he used a shotgun, though.’

  ‘Did I?’ Freya leapt, almost at the sound of her own voice. ‘I’m not sure I did.’

  ‘You did. You told me everything.’

  Freya rubbed her forehead, and shivered. ‘Maybe I did. Maybe I’m losing my mind. Follow me – and stick to a clear path. He might have this place snared.’

  ‘You serious?’

  She didn’t answer.

  Glenn followed her towards the block graph row of buildings close to the trees. Wisteria and bindweed in full white bloom snaked across the red brick structures. As they grew closer, they could see that one squat building had no door, but a network of pipes inside. Whatever its purpose was, it was long defunct. Aside from that, there were two other buildings, one of which looked like a standard shed with windows, and another that looked like it might have housed an electricity relay station.

  Freya almost lost her nerve. Gripping the handles on her rucksack, she fought an urge to cast it to the cracked concrete and take to her heels, back up the path, back towards the creepy railway station, up the track if need be, until there were people and shelter and an absolute end to this madness.

  Glenn stopped. ‘There’s someone there,’ he said.

  ‘Which one?’ Freya narrowed her eyes.

  ‘The shed. The brickwork one. It looks like something the three pigs built. The door’s open.’ He whispered, and crouched. ‘Dear sweet Jesus I can see something move. Someone’s in there.’

  Freya didn’t join him. She stared hard at the building Glenn had described. Was there someone there? At the window? ‘Let’s keep going. Slowly.’

  ‘We can’t just walk up to it!’ Glenn hissed.

  ‘We can. The time for games is over. Let’s see who it is.’ She looked at her hand; it shook, way beyond normal. She made it into a fist, and kept going.

  Taking each step as if they were traversing a creaking ice floe, they moved towards the end of a long, risen area where a building must have stood. The open doorway was visible, past a groping hand of overgrown weeds. And there, they could see a pair of booted feet, supine, toes upward, blocking the door.

  ‘Don’t like those weeds,’ Glenn said, through a clenched jaw. ‘Behind us. Don’t like them at all. Not a great fan of those trees, either.’

  ‘If there’s someone there, they must be lying flat.’

  ‘It’s possible, though.’

  ‘We’ve no choice, now.’ Turning towards the shed, Freya called: ‘Hello?’

  ‘Who’s there?’ came a weak, muffled reply.

  ‘Careful,’ Glenn said, the bat in his hand. ‘Stay back.’

  Before she could protest, Glenn reached the door first, jaw tensed. Freya nodded at him. He touched the door. It creaked open fully.

  The figure of a man was sat in the doorway, with an oat-coloured burlap bag over his head. The taper towards the top was almost comical, as if the man sat there had been placed in a dunce cap. He was sat with his back against the far wall of the shed in the dirt and grime of the floor, with his hands behind his back.

  ‘Who’s there?’ the voice croaked.

  ‘Who’s asking?’ Freya asked, glancing around.

  ‘Is that… Freya Bain?’

  She approached the figure, and cautiously removed the hood.

  Underneath was Mick Harvie. His face was bruised and cut in several places. He winced against the light, and spat straw and old grass onto the ground. ‘Get out of here,’ he said. ‘He’s here. He’s going to kill us all. I think he left me here as bait. Get out of here, as quick as you can, I mean now, don’t wait, he’s…’

  ‘Who?’ Glenn asked.

  ‘Who do you think, genius?’

  There was a rustle, yes, from the undergrowth behind them as a figure got to its feet. ‘You out to chop some wood, boy?’ someone leered.

  Mick Harvie’s head sunk. ‘It’s too late. I told you. He put me here as bait,’ he whispered. ‘None of us stands a chance now.’

  Someone came into the light from the trees. He held a shotgun on them.

  ‘No,’ Freya said, raising her hands. ‘That’s not right. That’s not it at all.’

  ‘Nobody fucking move. Not one of you,’ said Bernard Galvin.

  59

  Galvin’s eyes looked as if they had been bored into his skull. In the bright sunshine, his skin had the texture of a tangerine; in places he looked like he had been burned.

  ‘Great that you’re all here,’ he sneered. ‘I would like a really calm, clear explanation, for why you brought me out here to this shithole, Freya, and presented me with this human skid mark, here.’

  He kicked Harvie’s feet, and the latter cringed, turning away. His hands must have been bound behind his back.

  Freya licked her lips, her eyes on the shotgun. Galvin covered them all with it. ‘The reason I brought you out here is because I wanted to get down to the nitty-gritty. By the time I go to bed tonight, I want to know who it is. I had thought Cheryl Levison was involved – absolutely sure of it, in fact. But she’s off the list of suspects. One of the people I invited here is the Woodcutter. And I know who it is.’

  ‘You better spit it out, then,’ Galvin said. ‘And when you tell me who it is, I’ll spread him all over that back wall. What’s this runt doing here?’

  ‘I invited him. Same as you,’ Freya said. ‘You were top of the list. Mainly because of the pop gun you keep getting out. Highly inappropriate, that.’ She nodded towards the shotgun, which he had angled towards the concrete foundations, the stonework appearing blond in a sudden burst of sunshine. ‘Plus, you know… whenever there’s a miscarriage of justice, someone benefits. You benefited, in the case of my dad. All the kudos of catching a killer. When the conviction was proven to be unsafe. That was suspicious, Bernie. You must admit. Maybe there’s more than self-preservation at play.’

  She could barely say it, she was so scared, her voice oscillating in and out of normal pitch. She had heard the phrase “cold sweat”, but never knew the truth of it until now, across her forehead, at her armpits. Her guts began a mad dance.

  ‘Freya…’ Glenn warned.

  ‘Plus, Bernard, it has to be said – you’re a bit of a maniac. Even poor old Mick here used to stick up for you, you know. Until you gave him the black eye and stuff. His face is still a mess. God’s sake, that was proper psychotic behaviour. You’re not right, Bernard.’

&nbs
p; Mick Harvie’s one good eye darted in his skull. ‘Freya, don’t wind him up, for Christ’s sake.’

  ‘You think it was me?’ Galvin snorted. ‘It couldn’t have been me, you silly bitch. I’ve got alibis all over the place. Notebooks and records that put me at work, or at my house with my family, when the killings took place. How could I be the Woodcutter? Think about it, lass.’

  ‘There’s something about you screams “headcase” to me. And I know the type, let me tell you. Why did you batter Mick again?’

  ‘I didn’t batter Mick,’ Galvin said. ‘When I came down here he was already tied up, with a bag over his head. Thought the twat was dead, to tell you the truth. Till he whimpered something. Didn’t you, Mick?’ Galvin kicked Harvie’s feet again.

  Then Galvin raised the gun again, this time pointing it between Freya and Glenn. They both instinctively raised their hands.

  ‘Bernard, if you value your life, put that gun down. I’m serious.’

  ‘Value my life?’ he cackled. ‘More than you value yours? You’re not making a bit of sense. Why are we out here? What is it you want to find out, and how do you plan to do it?’

  ‘I’ll tell you,’ Freya said. ‘First you have to lower the gun, really slowly. We’re not armed. Are we, Glenn?’

  ‘That looks like a baseball bat to me,’ Galvin said, nodding at Glenn’s hand. ‘You looking to play some games, son?’

  Glenn simply dropped the bat, and said nothing.

  ‘OK. Good. I’m in charge, here. No ifs, no buts. Now you say you don’t know what’s going on. Harvie, here, told me you invited him out here, too. If this is some kind of set-up for the press, or some kind of photo opportunity, I’m warning you…’

  ‘Nothing so dramatic,’ Freya said. ‘I’ve got a friend positioned out here. A policeman.’

  ‘Is that a fact?’ Galvin said, in mock wonderment.

  ‘I can’t be sure that he’s any good with a gun, but he’s probably brought along someone who’s excellent with one. Better than you are with a shotgun, I bet. So for your own sake, put the gun down, Bernard.’

  ‘Sounds like a bluff,’ Galvin said.

  ‘I set this meeting up,’ Freya said. ‘Think about it, Bernard. You think I came here without backup? There’s a detective out there. He’s been here since lunchtime. Put the gun down, and you won’t get shot out of your brogues.’ As Freya said this, her knees felt as if they were going to sag, in sheer stress, and the pain of hope. Please be there, Tamm. Please be there. ‘I’m not joking. There’s another reason for it, too.’

  Galvin smiled. ‘Well. What have I got to lose? I’ll play.’ He dropped the shotgun, and stepped away from it.

  ‘That was sensible,’ Freya said. She felt sweat drip down the back of her neck.

  ‘So, what now?’ Galvin said.

  ‘Come over here and stand beside us.’

  ‘What? What for?’

  ‘Just do it, Bernie. Please. You’re not safe. Isn’t it fucking obvious?’

  ‘Don’t talk in riddles,’ Galvin snapped. ‘What’s your plan?’

  ‘I think the plan is for you to close your mouth, forever,’ Mick Harvie said.

  ‘What did you say, runt?’ Galvin sneered, baring his teeth.

  Then Mick Harvie sprang forward. His hands weren’t tied; had never been tied. Galvin reacted fast, groping for the shotgun – but not fast enough.

  Harvie had his own shotgun. He raised it a split second before Galvin could do the same. Harvie grinned.

  For a surreal second, Harvie had the barrel jammed against Galvin’s groin, the latter staring at it in complete stupefaction. Then Harvie pulled the trigger.

  Galvin grunted like a sow, and took off. The angle of his hips contracted at an unnatural angle, and he fell to the ground. His off-grey anorak was spattered with blood, as was his face. Red streaks were torn across his wide-open mouth. He bucked and writhed, falling to the side, then turning onto his face, hands twitching.

  Mick Harvie came in behind him, placed the barrel against Galvin’s backside, and fired again.

  Galvin’s hips buckled. He uttered a choked scream, which soon turned to a gurgle, then grew silent. His grey eyes were open, stark and wide, as if utterly incredulous.

  Freya was on the floor, tasting dust, her nose squashed painfully into concrete. Glenn was on top of her… Shot? No – he’d thrown himself over her. Protecting her. He rolled off, and they both looked up.

  Harvie grinned at Freya. ‘What was the quote, again? What did Bernie say to me? “Did you ever really want to do something for years, then just do it?” That’s what the man said, wasn’t it? That day, at his house?’

  Harvie reversed the shotgun, then smashed the stock into the dead man’s face, once, twice, three times, enormous blows, obliterating the features. Freya saw teeth, flecks of bone, and a single eye, dislodged from a socket. She whimpered, and covered her face.

  ‘There we go!’ Harvie said, after the seventh or eighth blow. He was spattered with blood. It showed on his teeth as he grinned. ‘That’s the end of that. What victim is he, Freya? Where are we up to now?’

  ‘You tell us,’ she whispered. She looked to the ground, all the while thinking: Tamm. Surely to God, Tamm is here. Surely I wasn’t wrong.

  ‘You’re kidding,’ Glenn said. ‘This guy here – the reporter. He’s the Woodcutter?’

  ‘Yes. It’s him,’ she said. And then she dared to look at his blood-streaked, grinning face. It’s the first proper smile he ever gave. He looks like he means it. Her lips were twitching, her thighs shuddering, as if she was out in the cold.

  ‘The original and best,’ Harvie said, spreading his arms, as if acclaiming the crowd. ‘You could call this an exclusive interview. What was it that tipped you off, Freya, out of interest?’

  ‘Loads of things. Mainly it was the boat,’ Freya said. ‘I’d seen it on your driveway. First time I met you. Someone had to use a boat to get those bodies to the weir; you had one. But your height and build tipped me off, too. Galvin was too squat. Glenn was about the same size, but broader; Tamm was too tall. He had to be someone closely connected to me, I was thinking. He was following me too closely. An ex-copper might have had those kind of spooky skills. Or an experienced, old-school hack. One with a thing for murder cases.

  ‘Then, there was your original source, the one you tipped me off about in the first few days… Glenn had access to police files through informants, and you told me this before the first report was filed on the new Woodcutter case. I thought you might have been ahead of the curve. You knew too much. The tip-offs, the double-crosses… You had too much knowledge. Then, that night at the quarry, you mentioned me kicking you in the balls, that time you doorstepped me. On top of that, if there was anyone I’d just met who knew where I lived and was stalking me… It was most likely you. I had already caught you doing it. And the clincher – that new injury you have, on top of the bruises when Galvin smacked you one. I did that. When you tried to grab me. At the cabin.’

  Harvie scratched his chin. ‘I was a bit careless, with the boat. But then I’ve been careless all round. Bit like when I let you twat me with that brass slat, or whatever it was.’ He tapped his face, beneath the purple and yellow shiner. ‘Almost got me right in the eye. Could have been game over right there. You’re a clever lass. Fair play. Now, that just leaves the question of who our mystery guest is. Because I’ll tell you what… He isn’t that policeman. Tamm, that was his name, wasn’t it?’

  Freya said nothing. She felt nausea in the pit of her stomach, making a fist and knocking on the door of her gullet. The sweat on her neck was now as cool as chilled raw meat. She shared a glance with Glenn; he looked like he was actually crying, his raised hands quaking out of control.

  Harvie held the shotgun on them – how many shots? If only two, he’s used them… She didn’t like the grin. She’d never liked it. Now it had an extra edge, a leer. ‘You see – Tamm wasn’t hiding out there.’ He reached into the dusty doorway. ‘He’s
hiding in here. I set up shop here almost as soon as you called me. He got here at first light. Worse luck.’

  Harvie hurled something from the doorway. The curve – the arc of descent – was narrow. The object spun, the long hair like a dervish.

  It landed two feet from them.

  The too-long hair obscured the face, mercifully, except for the distended, open jaw – a mockery of animation. But there was no doubt that this was Tamm’s head.

  Freya had no idea when she started screaming. She might have been about to faint; she was aware of a strong presence behind her. Glenn; Glenn with tears in his eyes; Glenn terrified; but Glenn, practically holding her up.

  ‘Hold on,’ he whispered. ‘Think it through. We’ll get our chance.’

  ‘Ah, knock it off,’ Harvie sneered. ‘God, you get sick of the screaming in this game, that’s the only drawback. I guess some people like it, I don’t know… Anyway. I’d like to get started here. Unless there are some more special guest stars to come?’

  ‘You might be lucky.’ Freya forced the words from a throat that felt glued shut. ‘You just might.’

  60

  Still holding the shotgun on them, Harvie reached into one of the bushes hemming in the raw-guts brickwork of the shed. ‘I’m going to kill you,’ he said, conversationally. ‘But I’ll get some answers first. I just don’t know who I’m going to torture first, to make the other one talk. Usually I’d go with “ladies first”, to make the man crack, but you look about as wet as they come, son.’

  Glenn’s face was out of control, his eyes glassy with tears. Maybe a step or two away from hitting his knees and begging. ‘Run,’ he said to Freya, out of the corner of his mouth. ‘We have to take our chances and run. I’ll make sure if he shoots, he shoots me.’

  ‘No,’ Freya said.

  ‘Go on, then,’ Harvie said, raising the shotgun. ‘Run.’

  Freya raised her hands, and stepped in front of Glenn. ‘I’ll tell you what you need to know. Don’t hurt Glenn. He doesn’t know anything about it. I brought him here, same as I brought you. I knew he would try to follow me. And he did.’