by Paul Finch
The river current seemed to be strengthening; it pushed them past the southeast leg of the west tower and in fact was pushing them towards their target. But now there was a danger it might push them too far. The foot of the hanging stair was about fifteen yards ahead. Its lowest rung, which again was green and slimy with algae, hung a couple of feet above the surface. It was going to be desperately hard just getting onto the thing, let alone climbing all the way to safety. What was worse, with the current at their back, they’d only get a couple of grabs for it, and then they’d be driven past and would be out of reach. Beyond the west tower, of course, there was nothing but the open waters of the estuary.
‘Christ, Heck,’ Lauren whimpered.
‘We’re almost there,’ he tried to reassure her.
The current was carrying them leftward of the stair bottom, and they had to swim hard against it, which sapped more of their depleted reserves. The stair was now almost directly overhead, zigzagging up to the octagonal underside of the superstructure, which seemed a dizzying distance away.
‘Heck, we’re going to die here,’ Lauren squealed.
‘No we’re not.’ He extended his arm, knowing he’d only get one shot at this. ‘If you miss getting hold of it, grab me,’ he said, hoping that she was close enough behind him.
It was a hell of a lunge. Heck managed to grab hold, but almost immediately his fingers slid on the greasy metal. The effort he exerted through that one wrist and hand, through those ten crooked fingers, was indescribable. Still he was sliding loose. But then Lauren reached out and caught it as well, and with her other hand she snatched the back of Heck’s collar and shoved him closer. Soon he was clinging on to the stair with two hands. They were both now gasping for breath, shivering violently.
‘Can … can you get up?’ Lauren asked through chattering teeth.
Heck said nothing at first, just hung on as he attempted to regather his strength. He glanced back in the direction of the stone tower. Still the tiny figure he was expecting had not appeared. But it could only be seconds before Deke realised which way they’d gone.
‘Because I think I can,’ she added. ‘Just hang on.’
Heck winced as she began to climb up him, digging a knee into his back, planting one hand onto his shoulder to lever herself higher.
‘Christ almighty,’ he groaned.
At last she was off him and onto the stair itself, which rattled violently — so much that at first they thought it might break loose at the top and collapse onto them.
‘Here.’ She took his wrist and pulled him up, though it was a mammoth effort for them both; their clothing was waterlogged, their limbs felt like lead.
If the fire escape on the old building in Salford had felt flimsy, this one was all that and worse. It didn’t so much shudder beneath their combined weight as swing. They clutched on to it, gazing at each other like frightened rabbits. Again Heck glanced towards the south tower. Deke still hadn’t appeared.
When they ascended, the stair was only wide enough for them to go single-file; its treads remained treacherously greasy and even though it had safety bars to either side, it continued to swing — soon they felt safer going up on their hands and knees. They’d passed the first switchback and were about twenty feet up, when an invisible object whipped past them.
Lauren, the combat veteran, noticed it first. She froze; spun around. Heck followed her example. It was Deke. His diminutive shape garbed in black but distinctive for its blond head, had finally appeared at the end of the south tower landing platform. He was in the process of taking aim at them again with his rifle.
‘Hurry!’ Heck shouted.
They scrambled up to the next switchback, regardless of the groaning, twisting metal, and, on reaching it, threw themselves flat. A slug ricocheted with a screaming whine.
The underside of the superstructure was now only thirty feet overhead. From here, they could see that it was webbed with barbed wire. Seconds ticked by, followed by minutes. There was no sound, just the wind and the gulls. Gradually, as nothing else happened, they began to feel the cold.
‘Why doesn’t he keep firing?’ Lauren whispered.
‘He could be having second thoughts about potting us on this ladder. McCulkin’s body will wash up downstream somewhere, with a head wound. If we do that as well, there’ll be a major enquiry. He won’t want that.’
‘Okay, so what do we do?’
Encouraged by his own line of thinking, Heck risked crooking his neck up to look. He could just see the south tower and the corner of its landing platform. Deke was no longer there. ‘On the other hand, he could be trying to lure us into the open again.’
‘Either way, we can’t lie here forever,’ she replied.
Heck rolled onto his back so that he could peer directly up the remaining flight of steps. Some ten feet below the superstructure it reached a horizontal catwalk suspended by steel rods and running across the underside from the northeast corner to the southwest. At either end, an additional ladder rose to join with the catwalk that ran around the exterior of the superstructure itself. It looked an easy enough ascent after what they’d already been through, if it hadn’t been for the coils of barbed wire cocooning the top three or four feet of the stair they were currently on.
‘Maybe it’d be easier just to drop over the side and let the river take us where it will,’ Lauren suggested.
‘And if the tide takes us out to sea, what do we do then?’
‘Surely we can make it to the shore?’
‘It’s several miles off, Lauren, and when we get there — if we get there — that shore is likely to consist of tidal mud and/or quicksand. We’ll drown.’
‘So what do we do?’
With a sudden recklessness, he stood upright and scaled the remaining steps.
‘Heck!’ Lauren hissed.
No shot was fired.
He didn’t look round, just kept going. She jumped to her feet and scrambled after him. Still nobody fired. Heck had now reached the barbed wire. Lauren joined him, throwing another nervous glance in the direction of the south tower.
‘What’s he doing?’ she wondered.
‘Well, he won’t just be letting us go. Come on.’
Progress up those last few feet was only possible with extreme caution. The wire had been woven around the metal stair in what was basically a large, single coil. It was possible to insinuate yourself carefully through it via a central passage, but time was now a factor — which was why Heck had no qualms about thrusting himself through quickly, even if it meant plucking both his clothes and his flesh.
‘Watch yourself,’ Lauren said, but he didn’t respond.
He was crawling just ahead of her, and for the third or fourth time she saw him draw blood. When they reached the top, they were able to climb onto the catwalk through a circular manhole. But Heck had to fight down a growing sense of panic.
‘Quickly,’ he urged her.
‘Okay, I’m coming … ow, shit!’
‘Don’t worry about that, for Christ’s sake!’
‘I’m doing the best I can!’ she snapped, climbing up alongside him. She’d snagged her arm and the left side of her face; both were bleeding freely.
The catwalk, which had been exposed less to the elements, felt a lot safer than the stair. Heck led the way along it towards the southwest corner. They scaled the last ladder to the superstructure’s outer catwalk, which seemed to be little more than a viewing parapet, a three-foot-wide ledge with a low safety barrier. Heck still urged Lauren on. ‘We’ve got to get inside now,’ he said.
The parapet floor was metal grillwork, which bonged like a bell as they rushed along it, rounding corner after corner, passing numerous portholes in the superstructure’s rusted bulkhead. Just ahead lay the entrance to the bridge connecting with the south tower. A figure in black had already started across from its far end.
‘Oh Jesus,’ Lauren said slowly.
‘That’s what I was worried about … QUICKLY!’
Directly facing the entrance to the bridge was a door. It was made entirely from steel, but again had rusted with age. It stood partly ajar, but when they tried to force it further, it grated on hinges that had all but locked with disuse.
Dum — dum — dum — Deke’s approaching feet grew louder.
Flattening their bodies, Heck and Lauren managed to slide inside. As they tried to shut the door behind them, they saw Deke stop in the middle of the bridge and take aim. There was a gunflash and an ear-popping CHUNG! The door crashed wide open, a massive indentation in its central panel. Heck threw his shoulder behind it to try and close it again. Lauren saw Deke resume running. The bridge vibrated alarmingly, but he came on at pace. Even from this distance, she could see the red tinge of his angry face.
With a crunch, they got the door closed. There were two bolts, again caked with rust. With colossal efforts, they rammed both home. Then they backed away, panting.
A second slug struck the other side of the door; another huge dent appeared.
‘So much for us thinking this guy might be prepared to trade,’ Lauren said.
Heck shook his head. ‘That was before we knew he had someone on the inside. Whoever his police contact is, they’ll bury that ledger the moment it gets filed as evidence.’
They glanced around. The room was dim, lit only by a single porthole with dirty glass in it. The light eddying through showed nothing but dust, decay and scattered seagull feathers.
‘Where do we go now?’ she asked.
‘There’ll be another bridge on the other side, probably leading to the north tower.’
‘Yeah, and there’ll be one leading from that to the east tower, and one leading from that back to the south tower. . Jesus Christ, Heck, he’s just going to chase us round in a circle ’til he gets us.’
There was a thundering crash against the bulkhead door — it sounded like the impact of a rifle butt. They retreated across the room towards another door, hesitant to go into blind flight — this place was old, rickety, likely to be full of danger. But when two further blows bashed through a corner of the damaged panel, and a gloved fist appeared holding a hand-grenade, they turned and ran for their lives.
There was a cacophonous explosion in the room behind them, made all the louder by the drum-like confines of the superstructure.
They staggered down a long, straight passage, which was lit at its far end by another bulkhead door standing ajar. Various rooms led off from this, looking as if they’d once been offices, though there was a particularly large one on the left into which light streamed from two different sources: an open trapdoor in the middle of its floor, which presumably dropped clear down to the river, and a similar hatch in the roof, accessible by a single wooden ladder. The steel frames of bunk-beds were also visible in there, alongside a row of green lockers. This had once been living quarters, but now the pervading smells were of oil, damp and mildewed metal.
‘Go onto the next bridge,’ Lauren said with sudden decisiveness.
‘What?’
She began to rip her clothes off. ‘We can’t keep running, Heck.’
From somewhere behind, there was another deafening boom. It sounded like the bulkhead door finally being blown from its hinges.
Lauren nodded that Heck should do as she said. By the determined look on her face, the frightened girl had gone and the squaddie had returned.
‘I hope you know what you’re doing,’ he said.
‘Just don’t go too far — keep me in earshot.’
He nodded, lurched back into the passage and kicked his way out through the next bulkhead door onto the viewing catwalk. The wind tugged at him; once again the drop to the river was precipitous. Ten yards to his right, the next bridge led off towards the north tower. He backed towards it, his eyes fixed on the doorway he’d just vacated.
Lauren meanwhile had stripped down to her vest and knickers. This was a desperate ploy, but she was counting on Deke’s professionalism. He was unlikely to dash madly in order to catch up with them. He’d figure that his prey were tired and cold and couldn’t keep running indefinitely — so he’d follow warily, expecting an ambush.
She clumped her sodden clothes into a ball, squeezed them until they were dribbling river water, then crossed the room, making sure to leave a trail behind her. When she reached the bottom of the ladder, a patch of sky was visible above the ceiling hatch. That would be the roof, the old gun platform. There’d be nowhere else to go once you were up there — which was why she intended to stay down here. She squeezed her bundle again, and tossed it up through the hatch, ensuring that drips and splashes appeared on the rungs of the ladder. She herself backtracked across the room, climbed into a locker and closed its door to a crack. It was hellishly claustrophobic; tight as a coffin. A loathsome, multi-legged horror landed on her shoulder and scuttled down onto her breasts. She brushed it off with a barely suppressed shriek.
The door to the bunk room opened.
She froze.
Through the slender gap, she saw a tall figure slide in and brace itself against the wall next to the door. It was Deke; he was clad in heavy, dark combat gear, and rigged with a black bandoleer to which a large knife, another grenade and numerous rounds of ammunition were attached. A Glock was visible at his hip, and he held the Dragunov across his chest, one finger hooked on its trigger.
He scanned the room carefully, presumably giving his eyes time to adjust to the gloom. Then he glanced downward. She’d been right — he was following the water trail. He advanced slowly, cautiously, weaving his way towards the ladder.
Lauren held her breath. Deke had clearly realised that Heck’s flight to the next bridge, which would have left its own trail of droplets, had been a feint; the question was would he fall for this double bluff? When he reached the bottom of the ladder, he paused to listen. Then, with the Dragunov barrel pointed upward, he began to climb — very, very slowly, his eyes trained unwaveringly on the hatch above.
He was halfway up when Lauren attacked.
She broke cover like a whirlwind, hurling herself across the room and leaping onto him from behind. She was already shouting for Heck as they hit the deck together.
Heck was hovering on the viewing catwalk, wondering if he’d have the courage to drop ninety feet into the river should Deke suddenly appear, when he heard her shouts. He dashed in through the bulkhead door, raced down the corridor and into the bunk room.
Deke had got to his feet, but Lauren was clamped to his back like a crab, legs wrapped around his hips, arms around his neck. He held the Dragunov in his left hand, while slamming his right elbow back repeatedly. She cringed with each blow, but hung bravely on. Only when he drove his head backward, mashing it into her nose and mouth, did she weaken and slip off. Heck was now halfway across the room — Deke swung his rifle like a bat, but Heck ducked it and kicked him hard between the legs. Deke half doubled. Heck kicked again, this time knocking the rifle from his grasp — it clattered across the floor. Clasping both fists together, Heck brought them down hard on the back of the hit-man’s neck. But Deke rode the blow and barrelled forward, catching Heck in the midriff, shoving him backward — only to be rugby tackled from behind by Lauren. He fell full-length, and she clambered onto his back. He drove his right forearm back, smashing it against the side of her jaw, sending her sprawling. But as he got back to his feet, Heck swung his right foot, kicking him in the face. Again, incredibly, Deke rode the blow and this time went for his pistol. Heck grabbed his arm, only to be smacked in the jaw with a rocketing left hook.
As Heck wheeled away and dropped, Deke straightened up, spat crimson phlegm, then released the catch on his hip-holster and drew the Glock. And stopped rigid.
‘Drop it!’ Lauren barked, jamming the muzzle of his Dragunov all the harder into the side of his head. ‘Drop it now, or your brains are graffiti.’
Deke’s hand opened and the Glock fell to the floor.
‘Mitts where I can see ’em!’
For s
everal taut seconds they were motionless, Lauren and Deke bloodied, sparkling with sweat, Heck groggy, only vaguely aware what was happening.
‘You need me alive,’ Deke said, raising his empty hands.
‘Don’t bank on it.’
‘Okay.’ He gave a fluting, crazy kind of laugh. ‘I need me alive.’
And he lurched away quickly, throwing himself across the room in a spectacular dive. He’d aimed for the trapdoor in the floor — and he cleared it by less than an inch, disappearing from view.
‘Shit!’ Lauren screamed, darting after him. But before she’d reached the aperture, she heard a strangled groan of pain, followed by profuse curses.
When she looked through the gap, Deke was a foot or so underneath her, suspended upside down in a web of barbed wire. Blood leaked from numerous gashes in his face and hands.
Heck, still unsteady on his feet, appeared alongside her. ‘Well, well,’ he said. ‘Seems the Angel of Death has had his wings clipped.’
Lauren watched Deke down the barrel of the Dragunov. ‘What do you say, Heck? Shall we snatch total victory from the jaws of certain defeat?’
Deke stared up at them. Despite his predicament, he chuckled. ‘Do you people have the first idea what you’re dealing with here?’
‘You’re going to tell us,’ Heck said.
It wasn’t easy dragging the hit-man back up into the bunk room. Heck did most of it, lugging him by the feet, while Lauren kept the rifle trained on him.
‘Just gimme a reason,’ she kept repeating, and by the wild glint in her eye, Heck suspected that she wasn’t kidding. Deke had hurt her of course: had beaten her, had tried to kill her; they’d been chased from pillar to post, they’d roughed it, been scared half to death — and to top it all, she was still no nearer to finding her sister. Or so she felt.
They tied Deke’s hands behind his back with a piece of rope they found hanging from a girder, and knelt him up to face interrogation. Lauren put the rifle aside, and grabbed the Glock. She pointed it straight at the prisoner’s face while Heck did the talking. They’d already searched him thoroughly, removing his one remaining grenade, his knife and his ammunition belt, before removing a second, even sharper knife, which they found in his boot. In one pouch they discovered a coil of high-tensile wire, doubtless a garrotte, in another a tube of capsules which Heck guessed were cyanide pills.