Surefire

by Ashe Barker

  I love to come here alone, but it’s even better when there’s someone to share it with. Barney’s listened patiently enough as I’ve waxed lyrical over the months, and now it’s Eva’s turn. Soon, smiling to myself, it’ll be the turn of my newest passenger, but I’m still absorbing the reality of that, still not quite ready to let myself believe.

  This is the place where I was when I spotted Rosie all those months ago now, stranded up on the moors. During those incredible few days when my life changed, almost in a moment. Days that started when I plunged to what, looking back, was probably my lowest point.

  That was the moment when I was crouching, shivering and weeping on my frozen path trying to bury my beloved cat in the cold, hard earth. A small loss in the great scheme of things, but for me, then, it was the final straw. I’d nothing left, no reserves, nothing left within me that I could call on to pick myself up and carry on. Then Tom came. Out of nowhere, he picked me up, made me warm and took me with him. He took my side, refused to leave me on my own any longer, showed me what it was to be safe and cared for. Home, family, friends, work I love, a future I just want to grab with both hands.

  Who knows what I might have achieved on my own, some of that certainly, but with Tom everything’s just so much better. Tom’s the sparkle, the laughter and the joy that fills my life. He’s pleasure and pain and submission and glorious power all bundled up into one sensual, seductive package. And he’s mine. I haven’t agreed to marry him, not yet. But he’s going to ask me again.

  Maybe I can tell some of this to Eva, share with her. Not all of it, some things are just for me, or for us—me and Tom. But I do think this woman—my friend now, but so very different from me in so many ways—will recognize and share the intimate truths and sheer wonder of the lifestyle I’ve discovered.

  Eva sits quietly on the heather as I spend the next half hour or so setting up my equipment, monitoring the light from various directions, assessing the most dramatic angles, planning my shots carefully. I’m toying with the idea of developing some ‘concept’ stuff, using digital painting techniques in Photoshop to drop new and bizarre elements into my landscapes. Images intended to amuse, intrigue, shock even. I’m wondering about some new wildlife for hereabouts, maybe a herd of African elephants ambling across the skyline, or penguins waddling along the tops of the dry stone walls. Or maybe some prehistoric images, dinosaurs perhaps, or a Neanderthal family squatting next to my quad bike. Or I could turn the whole thing into some sort of scorched earth, apocalypse scene, or maybe create a tsunami sweeping across the heather.

  I mention my ideas to Eva, hesitant at first because after all, she may be a brilliant musician, but she’s not known for her flair in the visual arts. The scientist in her might think I’m just plain absurd. But hey, she has a few ideas of her own, soon entering into the spirit of it. Being a scientist at heart she suggests images from space, alien technology, a Martian landscape complete with explorer rover vehicle. Or maybe we could slice through the hills and contours to show the geological layering beneath, the colors and swirling patterns laid down there over eons of natural erosion. We’re really getting into it, our creative juices flowing freely as Barney ambles around, sniffing hopefully for any unsuspecting and unwise rabbits who might have strayed into our vicinity.

  The shot when it rings out explodes around us. An instant of stunned silence, disbelief, confusion and a frantic yelp as Barney flies into the air then slams onto his side, blood oozing from a gaping wound in his massive shoulder. Eva leaps to her feet, we stand, bewildered momentarily, looking around for—what? An Irate farmer protecting his stock? A maniac waving a gun? A tribe of American Indians galloping on horseback across the moors. Momentarily I have a stupid, totally misplaced image of that as a digital painting before the awful reality hits me. Hits us both.

  “Christ!”

  “Shit!”

  We both scream together, not sure who yelled what.

  “Christ, some bastard’s shot Barney.” Eva leaps forward, heading for the stricken dog, now whimpering, his paws flailing as he tries in vain to get up. A second shot rings out, exploding the heather a couple of yards ahead of her.

  “Get down!”

  At my scream Eva throws herself down into the undergrowth. I crawl through the heather toward her, grateful that at this time the year it’s fairly high, enough to give us some concealment. I reach her, and by common unspoken consent we’re whispering. Sound carries for miles up here, depending on wind direction.

  “He’s aiming at us. Some bastard’s taking pot shots at us!” Eva’s frantic hiss reaches me as she tentatively raises her head. “Where the fuck is he?”

  Another shot, and we both huddle deeper into our cover. We listen, the only sound now that of Barney’s wheezing, labored breaths. He’s no longer whimpering, and I dread what that might mean. Oh, Christ. Oh holy fucking shit!

  Eva and I look at each other, both of us wide-eyed, horrified, terrified. Is it some mad trigger-happy farmer? Unlikely, Tom owns most of the land round here, it’s his stock up on these moors. He wouldn’t do this, neither would the Appleyards. Some idiotic kid’s prank then? I doubt that too—the hole in Barney’s shoulder wasn’t made by an air gun. So what else makes any sense? Who else could it be? Only one answer springs to mind, and it’s a scenario I can’t bear to contemplate. Could it be that somehow he’s found me again? Followed me here to finish what he started weeks ago in Gloucester? What I started two years ago in Bristol? With a dreadful sense of déjà vu, instinctively my hand slides across my stomach, my subconscious kicking in to protect the new life that I’m not even totally sure is there.

  Eva rolls onto her back and wriggles around to wrestle her phone from the front pocket of her jeans. “I’m calling Nathan. And Tom. You dial nine-nine-nine.” She mouths the words to me.

  I nod, reach into the pocket of my hoodie for my trusty Samsung, praying either or both of us can get a signal up here. I can, and I bless O2 for their foresight and tenacity in sticking that mast on the slopes above Haworth, in spite of the objections of the conservationists down at the Rock and Heifer. Eva can’t get signal—seems EE must have been fighting other battles.

  “Which service do you require?” The disembodied voice sounds thunderous in the eerie silence.

  I murmur my answer, “Police. Armed police. There’s someone up here with a gun.”

  “One moment please.” She sounds remarkably calm, maybe this sort of carry on is more commonplace than I thought. They do have some very strange ways here in Yorkshire.

  “Police Emergency. Please can I take your name and phone number?” Another seriously laid back woman for me to talk to.

  Panic mounting, I try to impress upon her the seriousness of our situation. Is no one listening? Maniac with a gun? Shooting at us?

  But me losing the plot will get us nowhere. I bite back my mounting panic, my desperate fears for Barney, for Eva and me, and my baby, my utter confusion about what the hell’s happening. I manage to tell the emergency services operator, quietly and with a degree of calm I consider nothing short of superlative in the circumstances, that someone with a gun has shot our dog, and is shooting at me and my friend. And just in case she still hasn’t grasped the seriousness, I go on to explain that we’re hiding in the heather on the moors above Haworth, the nearest proper road is five miles away, there’s no cover apart from the heather for bloody miles, and we need help. Fast.

  Still seemingly unruffled she asks me for the exact location, and as luck would have it I can rattle off an Ordnance Survey grid reference. This is my extensively documented and photographed little bit of England after all, I do know exactly where I am. She assures me help is on the way and asks me if I know who the shooter is.

  I tell her I don’t know for sure, haven’t seen him. Her? But I think it might be, could be… I hesitate. If I say the words, it becomes real. My worst nightmare becomes my reality. As if to dispel any lingering doubt, any last remaining hope this might be just some biz
arre mistake, some stupid misunderstanding, another shot explodes into the air around us, whistles over us as we huddle in the undergrowth, and shatters the tripod and camera a few yards away, the only landmark visible above the heather apart from our quads. But they’re a couple of hundred yards away, too far to make a run for it, and in any case we’d be picked off as soon as we got on them.

  I know the truth, no point trying to pretend this is all going to turn out okay. I stammer out my answer, “I think, I think it might be my ex-boyfriend. His name’s Kenny Potts. He’s known to the police in Bristol. He—he has a grudge against me, from when we split up, I…” God, it all sounds so sleazy, so bloody trivial.

  “Was that another gunshot I heard just then?”

  I’d forgotten the emergency services operator was on the line, could probably hear everything. “Yes,” I whisper. “Please hurry.”

  “Help is on the way to you. Is there anywhere you can take cover?”

  “No better than we already are. There’s nowhere…” Another shot, and this time it’s followed by a shout, a voice, one I recognize.

  “The other slag can fuck off. It’s just you I want. Stand up, Shaz.” Kenny’s voice, coming from somewhere above us, is still some distance away, but sound carries and can be deceptive out here.

  “It’s him, his voice. It is Kenny. Oh, Christ.” I start to shake. My inner calm, such as it was, shattering now. He wants to kill me. I know he wants to kill me. And now, up here, all alone, he can. He really can, and he very probably will.

  I lie still, my eyes closed, struggling to find some calm, some composure, some shred of resourcefulness buried deep within me. My life depends on it. So does Eva’s, no matter what Kenny might be saying about letting her go. And so does my baby’s life. And that’s it, that’s the key that unlocks my resolve, my determination to survive. Kenny killed one child of mine, he’s not going to do it again. I’ll see him dead first before I’ll ever let him hurt my baby. He’ll never get to hurt another child of mine.

  “Shaz, you slag, can you hear me? You better fucking answer me or I’m offing the fucking pair of you. This is your last chance. Your mate can piss off, I don’t give a fuck about her, but you’re coming with me.” Kenny’s voice again, nearer now, definitely nearer.

  We don’t have much time before he’s down here, flushing us out. I’m going to have to give myself up, take the chance that he will let Eva go and she can get down from here, let Tom and Nathan know what’s happening, and bring help. They’ve got to be nearer than the police, and they know these moors. They can find us. Find me.

  Then it occurs to me what I need to do, if I can. How to make sure Tom can find me.

  “Keep still and keep your head down. I’m going to check on Barney,” I whisper my intention to Eva.

  “No, I’m closer. I’ll go.” And before I can protest, tell her to not do anything stupid, or at least if she does to be careful, she’s on her way, slithering through the undergrowth like a commando.

  “Get his collar,” I whisper after her.

  She halts briefly but doesn’t turn, then she’s out of sight, swallowed by the swaying stalks. I’m not sure if she’s heard me.

  “Are you all right, Miss McAllister?”

  The operator’s calm, disembodied voice reaches me again, penetrating the fog.

  “Are you hit? Is your friend hit?”

  “No, no we’re fine. But he’s still there. It’s me he’s after.”

  I hear a faint rustle behind me. Panicking I roll onto my stomach, sure he’s found me but it’s just Eva burrowing back through the swaying heather. A moment later she’s back beside me.

  “Barney’s not dead. Unconscious though, he needs a vet and soon.” She shoves his collar at me. “I got this. Are you thinking you might…”

  “Yes. It’s the only way.”

  “Oh no, oh no you don’t. That’s a madman out there. A nutter with a gun for fuck’s sake.”

  Yup, that’s my take on this too. But I really can’t see any other option.

  I look at her, grasp her hand. “If he wanted me dead, and nothing else, he’d have shot me just then, not Barney. He had a clear shot, could have easily done it. He’d have been clean away. But he didn’t. He’s not going to kill me, or at least not yet. There’s time for help to get here, for you to go and get help. Tom’ll be able to find me with this.” I take the collar from her, studying its length. Good thing Barney’s so bloody huge.

  She’s frantically shaking her head, obviously never going to agree to this. Seems neither of us has any choice. Rolling once more onto my back I quickly pull the collar around my waist, pull the two ends together across my stomach. It’s a tight fit, but it fastens. It can pass as a belt, more or less. I pull my the hem of my hoodie down over the top of the collar, make sure it’s well hidden. Kenny won’t even know it’s there.

  “Last fucking chance. You don’t get away from me, not his time.” Kenny’s closer now, much closer. No time left to argue, to debate, to come up with anything better. Now, I give myself up and go with him.

  “All right, all right. I’m here. Don’t shoot, I’m here.” With a last, desperate shushing gesture to Eva, and taking care not to make any sudden moves, I get to my feet.

  Chapter Thirteen

  He’s there, maybe twenty or thirty meters away, a double barrel shotgun held stiffly in both his hands, its angry, hostile nose pointed straight at me.

  “You fucking deceitful, treacherous little bitch.” He lifts the gun.

  I stop breathing. I stand, waiting for the shot, waiting for him to shoot me at point blank range. God, I made a mistake. A stupid mistake. What was I thinking? I should have listened to Eva, should have stayed down, stayed hidden. I had a chance then. Not much of a chance, but…

  “Come over here, slag. Slowly.”

  Frozen, I can only stand there, rooted to the spot. The roar of the gun again jerks me into action as he fires over my head, then swiftly reloads.

  “Now!” he screams at me, and I’m not sure in that moment which of us will lose it first. Him probably, I’ve got too much at stake now, and with that realization comes calm, a cool, objective detachment that impels me to think clearly, dispassionately, to treat this as just a film I’m watching, something happening to someone else.

  With conscious effort I will my feet to move, to carry me forward, toward him, away from Eva.

  His eyes are narrowed at me, bitterness and rage etched there. He hisses at me, malicious, hate-filled. “That’s three times you’ve fucking left me, you tramp. Three times I’ve had to come looking for you. You’re not fucking doing it again. You’re mine. You’ve got responsibilities. To me. You owe me. I got three years ‘cos of what you fucking did, what you fucking told the screws. And you’re gonna fucking pay. Like that old bag paid, for interfering. For messing with me. You’ll learn to do as you’re fucking told from now on. And you’ll learn what fucking happens to lying little sluts who can’t keep their mouths shut.”

  He’s ranting, incoherent. His eyes are blood shot, I can see that as I come closer to him. I wonder if he’s drunk, but dismiss that quickly. No smell of alcohol, although he smells of just about everything else. His clothes are dirty, filthy, torn in several places, his skin weather beaten, his hair not washed in God knows how long. He’s a mess, totally wrecked, looks as though he’s been living rough, and probably has. His hands are shaking, and despite his accuracy in hitting Barney with one shot I’m wondering now if he really is that good with a gun. Maybe he just got lucky that first time.

  The one thing that’s absolutely beyond doubt, though—the one beacon of certainty in the whole of his rabid tirade—is his malevolence toward me. His hatred is there, palpable, obvious and undisguised. Malicious, bitter and eating him alive. My survival instinct is screaming at me now, telling me to calm him down, to do, say anything, whatever it takes to cool his rage.

  I try the most obvious first. A groveling apology— “I’m sorry. I was scared, that’s
all. I was upset, not thinking straight. I’m here now.”

  “You’re here because I fucking found you again. I had to come all the way up here to fuck knows where to bloody get you back. Again.”

  “I’m sorry, I…” My words are cut off as he backhands me across my jaw and I fly sideways, landing in a heap a few feet away from him.

  He strides over to me and I know what’s coming. I’ve been here before, many times. I instinctively curl around my stomach, protecting my baby as he kicks me in the ribs. I gasp, but manage not to cry out as I know from long experience that that will only enrage him even more. I’ve had years of practice at this, at surviving this. I keep my head down, lie still, wait for him to stop.

  “Get up, bitch. Get up and start fucking walking.” Again, that angry, hate-filled hiss.

  I try to get to my feet, the pain in my side agonizing, every breath hurting and I know I have at least one broken rib. Not satisfied with my progress he grabs my hair and hauls me up. Now I do scream as he twists his hand viciously, and I’m sure my hair is coming out by the roots.

  “Shut your sniveling mouth, you cheating, lying little cow.”

  He lifts his fist and I brace for the next blow, but instead he shoves me, hard, pushing me up the incline, farther from Eva.

  This is what I want, to give Eva a chance to get away, to raise the alarm and get help. I stumble forward, cooperating but not too obviously. Every few yards he jabs me in the back with the shotgun, cursing me, promising retribution for all my crimes against him, imagined and otherwise. My mind spinning, desperately seeking an opportunity to escape, to tilt the balance back in my favor, however slightly, I shuffle forward. Uppermost in my mind, I’m trying to understand how the hell he came to be here. How could he have found me? He doesn’t know this area, doesn’t know anyone here.

  My breathing is labored, painful. My ribcage is moving and shifting with every breath. Just one rib? Probably more. I can taste blood in my mouth, the inside of my cheek throbbing mercilessly. My right eye is swollen, closing. I try to calculate how long I might need to hold out, how long until Eva can get help and how long it might take Tom to find me.