by Mark Dawson
Fabian couldn’t hear the gunfire that he had heard earlier, but the darkness was full of the roar of the flames as they continued to eat away at the house. He saw the barn, next to the outbuildings at the bottom of the meadow, a hundred yards from the house. If he could get there, he could use the Land Rover. There was a track that he would be able to follow to the north gate.
He checked left and right, then set off.
#
MILTON WENT down first; if Olivia slipped, he wanted to be below her so that he might break her fall. He sat on the windowsill, turned around and then reached out for the drainpipe. It was old and the fixings were corroded and weak, and, as Milton descended, the brackets that fastened it to the bricks snapped and the drainpipe tore away from the wall. Milton was halfway down as he started to fall back; he released his grip and fell the rest of the way. He looked back up and saw that the drainpipe had detached so that the portion nearest to the window was now at a forty-five-degree angle to the wall.
He looked over to the window. He saw Olivia there, her face white. “Jump,” he said.
She clambered out of the window, her legs dangling over the sill.
“Smith,” she called down, pointing behind him.
Milton turned. He saw the figure of a man hurrying through the meadow that led down to the outbuildings and the wooded area beyond. It was darker there, the light weaker, but he recognised Frankie Fabian.
Milton looked back up to her. “Come on,” he said. “Jump!”
She paused there, daunted by the drop beneath her, until there came a tremendous impact from the direction of the kitchen. Another beam, Milton guessed, the roof coming down bit by bit. It was enough to focus Olivia’s mind and, her eyes closed, she allowed herself to slip forward from the sill. She dropped quickly and Milton caught her, scooping one arm beneath her knees and the other around her back. He set her down and then set off with her into the meadow. There was no sign of anyone else. Fabian’s men, if they were still alive, were around the other side of the building.
“Get into the woods,” Milton said, pointing away from the outbuildings to the nearest fringe of vegetation. “Don’t wait. There’s a track that goes through the grounds to the north. I think there’s a gate, but, if there isn’t, just get over the wall.”
“What about you?”
“I’ll catch you up.”
“Come with me now.”
“Not yet,” he said. “Please—go. I’ll be as quick as I can.”
#
MILTON DESCENDED the sloping meadow down to the outbuildings. There was a barn, a stable block and, beyond that, a fenced-off riding school. Trees fringed the paddock beyond the school, a line of ash and fir that were cast in golds and oranges by the fire that had taken hold of the house. Fabian had gone into the barn. It was a derelict building, with gaps in the roof where the clay tiles had been lost and a jagged crack across the facing wall.
Milton made his way ahead, the pistol in his hand. He was aware that he had only very limited tactical information as to the results of the gun battle that had taken place at the front of the house. He did not know, for example, how many of Fabian’s men were still alive. He had to proceed carefully.
Milton reached the yard just as he heard the sound of a starter engine whining. The engine spluttered, whined again, spluttered and fell silent. Milton heard the sound of a man cursing.
The entrance to the barn would, at one time, have been fitted with two large double doors. It had one now, and that was hanging from a single hinge and was propped back against the wall. Milton edged forward. The barn looked as if it might have been a cattle shed, with brick cobbles on the floor and cattle mangers fitted along one of the walls. A Land Rover was parked inside. It was old and beaten up, with mismatched bodywork and without its windshield.
Frankie Fabian was in the driver’s seat, turning the engine over and trying to get it to start. The starter motor coughed and choked, but the engine did not start. Fabian cursed again.
“Frankie,” Milton said.
Fabian looked up, his eyes wide and fearful.
“Hands,” Milton said, gesturing with a flick of the gun. “And get out of the car.”
Milton watched Fabian as he shifted his weight, his upper arm visible as he reached out for something—the shotgun, maybe—that Milton couldn’t see.
“Don’t,” Milton said, holding the Sig out straight and nodding down at it.
Fabian ignored him, his hands remaining out of sight below the dash. “What are you doing this for?”
Milton put pressure on the trigger. “Hands, Frankie. Let me see them.”
His hands stayed where they were. “Who are you?”
“You know why, and it doesn’t matter who I am. Last chance, Frankie. Hands.”
Milton didn’t want him to raise his hands. Not really. He wasn’t going to let him walk out of the barn. Perhaps Fabian could see that, too; he brought up his right hand in a flash of sudden motion. It held a pistol. Milton was at medium range, five metres away from his target, and the Sig was held in a steady and unwavering hand. Milton squeezed the trigger, and then, half a second later, he squeezed it again. Milton had aimed into Fabian’s body, right down the centre line, in a neat square between the top of his sternum and the line of the dash. Both rounds found their mark. Fabian was punched back into his seat by the first shot, and then his arms flailed as the second round hit.
Milton approached, the Sig held out in front of him, still covering Fabian. He came around the side of the Land Rover and looked into the cabin through the open door. The shotgun was wedged in the foot well, barrel down. The pistol was on the seat next to it. Fabian was still alive. He had dropped the weapon and now his hands were pressed to his chest in an attempt to staunch the blood that blossomed on his white shirt. It was futile. The crimson pumped through his fingers.
Milton eyed him, the discarded pistol and the shotgun. “I warned you,” he said.
Fabian tried to speak. His mouth opened and closed, but all he could manage was a series of gasps. His lungs had been punctured by the two rounds. He couldn’t hold in any breath. The air hissed out as if from pierced balloons.
Milton said, “I gave you a choice.”
Fabian looked up as Milton took aim through the window. There was no hope in his eyes, no entreaty. Perhaps he saw something in Milton. A kindred spirit. A killer, like him.
Milton squeezed the trigger a third time. Fabian’s head jerked to the left, and then his body fell limply sideways over the brake lever and across both seats.
Milton turned.
Olivia was in the doorway of the barn.
He didn’t need to ask her how long she had been standing there. Her expression was answer enough.
“Let’s go,” he said.
Part Five: The Ninth Step
Chapter Sixty-Five
IT WAS A BRIGHTER DAY than it had been for what seemed like weeks, and Milton looked up at the rooftops and the blue sky beyond them as he walked to the bus stop. He decided, as he approached the stop on Redchurch Street, that he was being lazy. It was only twenty minutes from here and, with the weather much more pleasant than it had been for days, he decided that he would walk.
He followed the road and, as he turned onto Shoreditch High Street, he allowed his thoughts to drift. He had been thinking about the Ninth Step for several days. That stage of the program was always close to Milton’s thoughts, but he had been thinking about it more than he usually did. He couldn’t help but compare his own cursory attention to that requirement of the program against what Eddie had been prepared to risk in order to wipe his slate clean and fully embrace his sobriety. Milton knew that he would never have the courage to do the same thing himself, and the certainty of that had plunged him into a funk that had lasted for a week.
He kept going back to it: Eddie had been prepared to abandon his family to atone for the crime that had been committed ten years earlier. He must have known that would bring punishment upon himself
, as well as the certainty of retribution for his brothers. Eddie had decided to take the step anyway, and his adopted family had killed him for it.
How could Milton follow that example? He could go to the police in a dozen countries around the world and hand himself in as the culprit of more than one hundred and fifty murders. Some of his crimes were so expert that the body had never been discovered. Homicides had been staged to look like suicides or deaths from natural causes, and crime had not been suspected at all. He could go to the local law enforcement and confess. Some would dismiss him as a crank. Others, perhaps, might look into his suggestions and, maybe, they would find that there was truth in his words. Perhaps they would take him seriously. Arrest him, even. None of it would matter. The British government would send out an emissary, one of Milton’s successors in Group Fifteen or whatever agency had replaced it, and Milton would be silenced before he could bring any more damage down on the national interest. Milton knew that that was what would happen. It was as certain as night following day.
There were other alternatives. If he wanted to broadcast his message more widely, he could try to find a journalist who would be willing to run with the story. Someone like Olivia. The stories Milton could tell would win Pulitzers, but the journalist would not be alive long enough to collect them. Speaking to Olivia would be the same as putting a gun to her head and pulling the trigger. It would be a death sentence, and Milton already had too much blood on his hands.
It was a problem that Milton didn’t know how to solve.
He had no sponsor to speak to, and he couldn’t share his thoughts in a meeting, so he had taken to deciphering his confusion himself. He had stayed in his flat and studied his copy of the Big Book, the bible of the fellowship.
The Eighth Step.
Made a list of all persons we had harmed, and became willing to make amends to them all.
Milton drew up a list, at least of the victims that he could remember. He had ended up with two pieces of paper.
The Ninth Step.
Made direct amends to such people, wherever possible, except when to do so would injure them or others.
That was where his progress stopped. He could not make amends to those who were dead.
#
THE SIGNAGE above the shop read TATTOO over a line of stained-glass windows and the business name—PRICK TATTOO & PIERCING—was advertised with a neon sign that glowed out of the window. The man behind the desk was large, with a shaven head and piercings through his ears and the bridge of his nose. His name was Henry. He looked over at Milton as he came inside.
“Mr. Smith,” he said, “right on time. Come through, please.”
Milton followed Henry into a room at the back of the shop.
“Take off the shirt, please.”
Milton started to unbutton.
“I can’t remember,” Henry said. “You had a tattoo before?”
Milton turned around to reveal the tattoo of the angel that stretched from shoulder to shoulder and all the way down to the small of his back.
“Very nice. Where’d you get that done?”
“Guatemala.”
“How long did it take?”
“Can’t remember,” Milton admitted. “I was very drunk.”
“Got to be four hours. Maybe five.” Henry nodded in appreciation. “Good work. It’s simple today, right? That’s what you said?”
Milton reached into his pocket and took out the design that he had sketched out himself: the number nine, represented in Roman numerals.
“All right. Easy. Won’t take long. Where’d you want it?”
Milton rested a finger on his left breast, above his heart. “Here.”
Henry said that would be fine and invited Milton to sit. He disappeared into another room to prepare the transfer, leaving Milton to regard his reflection in the long mirror opposite the chair. He looked at the pattern of scars that criss-crossed his torso. He could remember receiving some of the injuries, but the memories of others had been obscured by the frequent blackouts during his drinking days.
Henry returned with the transfer. He took out a bottle of rubbing alcohol and poured out a measure into a cloth. He wiped the area Milton had selected and then took a disposable razor and shaved the hair away.
Henry pointed at the puckered scar that marked a stabbing in Milton’s abdomen. “You’ve been in the wars.”
Milton shrugged. “Been knocked around a bit.”
“What do you do?”
“I was in the army.”
“What about now?”
“This and that.”
Henry took out a deodorant to moisten the skin. “You don’t talk much. Want me to get on with it?”
“I’m sorry. I’ve got a lot on my mind.”
“Not a problem. Just settle back.”
Henry reached over and pressed play on an old-fashioned boom box, and Iron Maiden started up. He pressed the transfer over Milton’s skin and held it there for a couple of minutes until the outline of the image had been etched onto his skin. He pulled on his latex gloves and prepared his ink caps, decanting ink from jugs into the small cups. He took sterilised needles from a sealed bag and prepared his Vaseline and ointments. He put the needle into the machine and started to follow the outline. It felt like a scratching as he traced out the numbers, the needle pecking in and out and in and out.
“How’s that?”
“Fine,” Milton said.
The first stage took ten minutes. Henry pulled away and nodded at the fresh tattoo on Milton’s breast. Milton looked down at it. It was just the outline, but his work was excellent, the lines clean and neat. The flesh around the outline was inflamed from the needle, but that was of no consequence to Milton.
“Not too painful?”
“No.”
“Another twenty minutes and we’ll be done. It’s going to look good. Do you mind me asking? What’s it for? The nine, I mean.”
“Something very important to me,” Milton said.
Chapter Sixty-Six
THE STORY broke big, and seemed to get bigger every day. Olivia had crafted it with an expert hand, gradually drip-feeding the information and always ending with the promise of more. The first exposé was shocking, leading with one of the pictures of Leo Isaacs and the other men. The second day’s story focused on Eddie Fabian, explaining how the tragic victim of the piece had been murdered by his own family after he had threatened to go public with what had happened during an armed heist in Oxford years earlier. Eddie was the ingredient that held everything together. Milton was pleased with the sympathetic way in which Olivia had told his story. He emerged as a noble, honest and worthy man. He emerged as a man Milton recognised.
Olivia had placed the story with one of the national tabloids, and, once the shock had subsided, all of the other newspapers ran with it. Milton lay on his bed, a copy of today’s Sun held out before him. This was the third day of the story, and the focus was on the cover-up that had allowed the Westminster paedophiles to remain undetected and unpunished for so long. Olivia named Richard Higgins, and described how he had protected the conspirators for so long. The article finished with the suggestion that Higgins was on the run. Olivia had spoken to the senior detective who had been assigned the historic case; the woman suggested that the general was someone with whom the police would be very interested in speaking.
Milton took out his phone and fished out a crumpled business card from the pocket of his jeans.
He dialled.
“Hello?”
“Nice story.”
“Smith? Is that you?”
“Yes. I’m reading it now. Is it getting the reaction you wanted?”
She laughed drily. “More. You just caught me, actually—I’m on TV tonight talking about it. There’s a car outside now to take me to the studio.”
“That’s great. You sound happy.”
“I am.” She paused. “I… I just want to say thanks. For saving my arse. For everything. I wouldn’t have be
en able to do this without you.”
“Forget it. Someone had to tell the story. I’m glad you’ve done right by Eddie.”
“You think so?”
“I do.”
He could hear her hurrying about her apartment. “Could I buy you a drink?” she said. “To say thanks?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Why not?”
“I’m probably going to move on. I don’t like to stay in one place for too long.”
“So I won’t see you again?”
“Probably not.” There was a moment of silence, and then Milton heard a knocking on the door. He thought for a moment that it was his door, but, as he took the phone away from his ear and listened, he realised that it was the door to the next-door flat.
“John?”
“I have to go,” he said. “Good luck, Olivia.”
The knocking came again, louder and with each knock closer to the last one, angry and imperative.
He heard a man’s voice, heavily accented. “Open door,” it said. “Open door now.”
Milton sat and swung around so that he could stand and then collected his laptop from the dresser. He booted it up, navigated to the camera app and switched the camera on. The screen was filled with a view of the hallway next door. The camera’s fisheye lens distorted the proportions a little, but it offered a clear and unobstructed view of the room. The microphone in the sitting room was working, too, and, as he switched it on, he heard the sound of conversation from the hallway. He set both sound and vision to record, the equipment transmitting the data remotely so that he could store it on his hard drive. He only had to wait a moment before he saw the two men he had observed before, and he stood clenching and unclenching his fists as they bustled by the mother and father to make their way inside.