The Last Witness

by John Matthews

  She got to her feet, her legs shaking and her head so light that she thought she might topple over for a second; then with a brief pause to get her head clear and a last swallow of resolve, she started her way uncertainly towards Lorena’s room.

  Roman’s breath rasped heavily as he ran around to the front of the house, echoing back at him within the gas mask. The night-sight vision also took some getting used too: a strange grey-green with a slight blur left in the wake of any movement. With the jolting as he ran, almost everything ahead had a blurred edge.

  Everything had gone well at first. They’d got to the back of the house before the generator came back on. Funicelli had cut a whole in the back door glass pane, slipped the latch and slid three gas pellets into the downstairs corridor.

  The gas should have hit the S-18 guards in the rooms each side and seeped upstairs about the same time. But a guard from one of the rooms came out only seconds after the pellets had been thrown – perhaps he’d heard their faint skittering along the floor even through the closed door – and instantly he was heading for the stairs and shouting.

  A door opened the other side with another two guards who decided to head in their direction at the back, but didn’t make it far: one collapsed halfway along the corridor, and the other, staggering, managed to get one hand on the door before Roman decided it was too close for comfort. He stepped from the shadows and shot the guard through the face from two foot away.

  Immediately the guard fell, Roman’s ears were keened sharp to movement upstairs: footsteps at the front of the house, the sound of a door sliding open. And when he heard the faint creaking of boards on the front deck, he started sprinting around. The rest followed five or six yards behind.

  By the time he’d got around to the front of the house and could pick out shapes clearly from his jolting grey-green vision, the running figure was at least seven yards clear of the bottom of the veranda steps on the far side, heading towards the nearby trees and bushes: Donatiens! At any second he’d be lost amongst them.

  Roman steadied for a second, levelled and fired – and saw Georges duck down for a second and disappear amongst the foliage. Roman wasn’t sure whether Georges had been hit, or was ducking to weave through the branches.

  Roman ran on. His breath fell hard, almost deafening inside the gas mask; and as he realized it was smothering practically every other sound, he ripped it off and threw it. No danger of gas this far from the house, and listening out for Georges’ movements was now the best guide: the tree foliage was too thick for him to see much.

  No fallen body in sight as Roman hit the trees: he’d either missed or only clipped Georges. But as Roman started pushing and weaving his way through, it suddenly struck him that it was immaterial. Georges wasn’t going anywhere! The trees stretched for no more than forty yards before hitting the edge of the lake wrapping around. Then there was at least a hundred yards of frozen lake before the next landfall.

  As soon as Georges started to cross it, Roman would have a clear shot at him. He wouldn’t be able to get away.

  Georges struggled to get his head clear.

  He’d been close to black-out by the veranda door and had taken deep breaths of the cold night-air, finally managing to raise and stagger out. He gradually picked up stride, but still his head was fuzzy, his step uncertain. He’d stumbled and almost fallen down the last few veranda steps in his haste – then at the edge of the trees when he heard someone behind and a shot zipped through the leaves only a foot away, again he almost stumbled as his legs turned to jelly with fear.

  A nightmare race: he desperately needed to gain more distance, but the more his lungs gaspingly pumped his run rather than cleared his head, still hazy and spinning from the gas, the closer he came to blacking-out.

  He thrashed his way frantically through the branches and shrubs. As another shot zipped close-by, he realized that his pursuer was either firing blind towards the sound of his movements or had caught a momentary glimpse of him.

  Georges stumbled on, saw the clearing ahead. But as he burst through and came to the edge of the frozen lake, he stopped. It was too long a distance for him to be in the open, vulnerable. It was then that he noticed the small jetty with a power boat and snowmobile thirty yards to his right. Sound of rapid footsteps, tree branches flaying behind him. He bolted towards the jetty.

  His breath rasped heavy, he had to strain his hearing to pick up the position of his pursuer. His chest ached with the effort, and his legs threatened to give out again in the last few yards; he practically fell on the snowmobile, frantically fumbling: button dead-centre on the handle bars, pull-chord to the right.

  Sound of his pursuer flaying through the last few bushes. Georges pressed the button and pulled the chord, but it didn’t start.

  His pursuer appeared through the bushes, and with the gas mask now removed Georges could see that it was Roman! There was a suspended moment between them, Georges watching through his breath vapour as Roman orientated and finally fixed on him.

  Georges pulled again, and this time the engine roared to life. But Roman was already raising his gun, aiming.

  Georges revved quickly, leapt on and started speeding away. The first bullet whistled close by when he’d gone barely five yards, but the second hit: Georges felt it like a mule kick to his left shoulder, spinning his steering off for a second before he straightened again. The third came quickly afterwards, hitting the metal at the back of the snowmobile, and the fourth whistled clear again – by which time he prayed he was too distant for a clear shot.

  Still he kept in the same hunched forward position for at least another seventy yards, teeth gritted against the pain of his shattered shoulder, before he raised up slightly and risked a look back at Roman’s position.

  It took him a moment to pick out the figure in the weak moonlight: gun held limply at his side, breath heavy on the air as he stared bemusedly towards him. Georges couldn’t resist smiling, then laughing, and as he sped along the ice in no time it became a raucous whoop for joy with the sudden release of tension.

  Over half a mile to the far ring of trees, and by then…

  Georges thought nothing of the slight jolt at first, but it was the crack and heavier tilting as the snowmobile landed from the bump he’d hit – snow-covered tree branch or whatever – that was more worrying.

  Then, as one of the skis caught against the edge of the ice, suddenly everything was spinning and Georges felt the solid thud of the ice against his side and the snowmobile jamming against his left leg. He lay there for a second, breathless, trying to orientate. But as he felt his trapped leg getting wet and saw the snowmobile tilt further and start to slide away from him, he suddenly realized with panic what had happened: the ice had cracked and he was sinking through it!

  He frantically tried to scramble away as the snowmobile slipped deeper into the water – but its sheer weight tilted the severed ice block to a sharper angle, and Georges felt himself sliding inexorably with it. The water was like an icy hatchet hitting his groin. Georges clawed desperately at the ice, but it was like trying to grip onto wet glass.

  The icy water rose swiftly, taking Georges’ breath away, and at the last second he thrashed his arms against the water to stay buoyant – but the suction of the snowmobile submerging seemed to draw him under as well, and he felt the water fill his mouth and lap over his head for a second before his flailing arms were able to bring him back up again.

  He spluttered and spat, grappling desperately for the first solid ice edge. He grabbed on to one block, but it moved. He bobbed down again for a bit, only just managing to keep his mouth clear of the water, eyes frantically scanning as he thrashed around. He could feel his body rapidly numbing, all sensation going from his nerve-ends. If he didn’t get out fast, he wouldn’t make it!

  He grappled on to one more loose chunk before finally connecting with a solid edge. But as he started to lever out, his spirits sank. He could see that Roman was only fifty yards away, and fast closing! He’
d obviously started his sprint as soon as he saw the snowmobile get into trouble.

  If he didn’t hurry, he’d get clear only to be a sitting target! The pain was excruciating with his wounded shoulder, he had to lever and slither mostly on his right side; he was breathless with the strain before finally sliding his torso onto the ice like a landed seal. But as soon as he raised up and put weight on his left leg, he felt it buckle and the pain shoot up through his body – then remembered it getting jammed under the snowmobile.

  Georges felt any last hope slip away in that second. And as he hobbled pathetically away and heard Roman’s footfall rapidly closing in behind, he wished he hadn’t bothered. He should have just let himself sink back below the icy water: at least he’d have robbed Roman of the satisfaction of shooting him.

  THIRTY-SIX

  Faint flicker of the eyes. Just for a second.

  Ryall leant in closer. ‘Are you awake, Lorena?’

  After a second, uncertainly. ‘…No.’ The eyes perfectly still again, no movement.

  But Ryall wasn’t totally satisfied. Her answers had started to become evasive, weren’t really telling him anything, and as he straightened up from leaning over and let out a sigh, he was sure her eyes had flickered open momentarily. And she’d had to think for a second about her answer now.

  But her eyes hadn’t opened to look at him, more at something over the far end of the room. He turned, following where she’d been looking: the Mountie bear from Canada.

  He studied it for a moment perched on a dressing table at the far end of the room, then started moving closer towards it: obscured in heavy shadow, it was difficult to pick out much of its detail.

  At the other end, Bell tensed as he watched Ryall peer towards him, moving closer. ‘Oh, shit!’

  He glanced again towards the phone, wondering whether to call and abort. But he felt rooted to the screen, afraid to move even for a second in case he missed something. Ryall came to within two yards, then suddenly turned back again.

  Ryall was sure he’d seen Lorena’s eyes flicker back shut again as he turned; as if she was curious where he was heading, what he was looking at.

  ‘What’s the game, Lorena?’ he asked, moving back towards her. No response. Her body and her eyelids suddenly frozen, deathly still. ‘I know you’re awake, so we can stop playing now, Lorena…’

  Bell leapt for the phone, punched out the numbers. It rang once, twice. ‘For God’s sake…Come on!’ He banged his fist against the phone table.

  ‘…All that’s left now is for you to tell me.’ Ryall leant over Lorena’s inert body. He trailed a finger gently up her neck and moved close until he was only inches away, could feel her soft breath against his face. And for a second it would have been easy to believe she really was under his control, like every other night. His voice lowered to a chilling whisper. ‘Tell me… tell me. What’s the game?’

  Lorena’s closed eyelids pulsed, a moment’s trembling uncertainty which Ryall could feel too through her body; then he watched in satisfaction as her eyes finally snapped open.

  ‘It wasn’t my idea… wasn’t my idea.’

  The phone answered halfway through the third ring, and Bell was immediately passed on to a duty Sergeant. He frantically outlined the problem, his eyes still fixed on the screen six feet away: Lorena now sitting up, eyes wide, her head shaking as she pointed straight ahead at the camera lens.

  The Sergeant said that Crowley had gone off duty over two hours ago. ‘…But we’ll phone him at home straightaway and mobilise at the same time.’

  Ryall was now joining her in staring at the camera, this time with undisguised hostility. Then his voice came over strongly as he gripped Lorena by the shoulders, shaking her. ‘What have you done… What have you done?’

  ‘But for God’s sake hurry! There’s probably not much time left.’

  ‘We should have a squad car there in no more than six or seven minutes.’

  Bell leapt back in front of the screen the second he hung up, his hand trembling uncontrollably as he reached out towards the screen again. ‘Hold on, angel. Hold on! We’ll be there soon.’

  But he felt totally out of control. It was strange: able to watch every small movement, but unable to do anything. Like watching a sepia horror film which had suddenly spun in the wrong direction, and he’d had to phone someone else to stop the reels.

  And as he saw Ryall throw Lorena back against the bed and move towards the camera, his face a mask of fury, he realized they’d probably be too late. He knew what was coming next: Ryall would rip the bear apart and destroy the camera, and it would be lights out: he wouldn’t see what happened when Ryall turned his rage back towards Lorena.

  But two paces away from the camera with Ryall’s hand distorted as he reached out, Ryall suddenly stopped, turning towards the side.

  ‘What?… What the hell are you doing.’

  ‘What have you done… What have you done?’

  The first sound that Nicola Ryall heard as she reached for the door handle. As she swung it open, he was moving rapidly away from the bed, seemed to be interested in something at the far end of the room – then stopped as he noticed her by the open door, eyes falling quickly to the gun as he asked her what the hell she was doing. A condescending, indignant sneer.

  She raised the gun a fraction higher and pointed it at him. ‘Just don’t move!’ It sounded good on the movies, but coming from her, particularly with the tremor in her voice, it sounded lame, pathetic.

  Ryall gave it the derision it deserved. ‘What, are you going to shoot me? You?’ One eyebrow raised, his mouth curled into a smile. ‘Anyway, that thing doesn’t even work.’

  She hesitated only for a second; she was sure it was a bluff. ‘Yes it does. I tried it out only a few months back,’ she lied. And as she saw his face drop, she knew that it did work. She decided to pile it on. ‘I’m getting quite good with it now.’

  Now he looked seriously worried, and raised his hands a bit. She relished the moment, the unfamiliar sense of power over him making her slightly giddy. She should have tried this earlier. She’d hardly ever been able to take control over her own life, let alone anyone else’s.

  Ryall met her gaze stonily and shifted a foot back towards Lorena before Nicola waggled the gun at him. ‘I said don’t move.’ A frozen moment between them, then: ‘The phone ringing just then. It was about Mikaya. She tried to take her own life.’

  ‘What?’ His eyebrows knitted. ‘Is she okay?’

  ‘She is now.’ Heavy sigh that quickly turned to a sneer. ‘As if you should care. You’re the cause of it.’ She shook her head, her hand tensing on the gun. ‘I let you get away with it with Mikaya for all those years. But not now with Lorena. Not any longer.’

  His eyes fixed back on the gun. He leered nervously. ‘You don’t have the guts.’

  ‘I wouldn’t bank on it.’ She moved a step closer.

  Ryall could still pick up the tremor in her voice. He was sure that when it came to the crunch, she’d bottle out; but he wasn’t sure enough to take the risk. He desperately needed a distraction. His eyes darted uncertainly, sweat beads raising on his forehead. The bear!

  He forced a strained smile. ‘Anyhow, you shoot me – they’ll get it all on film. They’ll know it wasn’t self-defence.’ He pointed. ‘They’ve got a camera in the bear.’

  ‘What?’ Nicola glanced towards it incredulously. Camera in the bear? She was the one meant to be on pills and alcohol. ‘Can’t you think of a better bluff than that.’ But as soon as she said it, she realized it was almost too ridiculous to be a bluff.

  ‘No, no – really. What do you think I was doing when you walked in? I was going to rip the bear apart and smash the camera.’

  He was insistent, sounded convincing, and Nicola glanced towards Lorena for confirmation. Lorena just numbly nodded, and looking at her wide-eyed and fearful at this drama being played out, Nicola suddenly had something else to give her pause for thought. As much as he might be a monster
, Lorena seeing her stepfather shot in front of her was quite another thing.

  ‘…So why don’t I just finish the job now and destroy the camera,’ he said. ‘Or better still, since you’re such a good shot – why don’t you shoot it out.’

  Nicola looked between him and the bear. He was leering challengingly, as if this was some kind of test between them. If she backed down, once again he’d have the edge.

  ‘Go on,’ he taunted. ‘You’re the crack shot after all.’

  She levelled the gun at the bear; but as the shaking of her gun hand became more pronounced, almost out of control, the game was all but over. He could see through the bluff in that second, see her for the sham she was; the pathetic, quivering wreck she’d become. Fifteen seconds of control in fifteen years: in the end all he’d allowed her.

  His leer became wider. ‘You haven’t even got the stomach to shoot a toy bear, let alone me.’

  She gritted her teeth hard, struggling to control her trembling, determined to prove him wrong.

  As Ryall saw her focus her aim and tense to squeeze the trigger, he made his move, lunging towards Lorena.

  The gun swung sharply around, the shot zipping above him and smashing through the window behind. He’d jumped down low, most of his body shielded by the bed as he scrambled on the floor and grappled his arms around Lorena from behind.

  As he raised again, he had her pinned tight against him: a complete body shield. His eyes jousted with Nicola’s for a second, as if pressing home who was in control now.

  ‘Move away from the door or I’ll snap her neck.’ He pulled his forearm tighter around Lorena’s throat to demonstrate.

  At the other end of the camera, Bell was on a knife’s edge, his heart like a jackhammer as he watched events unfold. As the gun had pointed at the camera, he’d been screaming, ‘No, no! It’s a trick, a trick! If you’re going to shoot anything, shoot him!’ Now he was muttering under his breath. ‘Be careful… be careful. Just hold him off – don’t try anything. The cavalry will be there any minute.’