Surefire

by Ashe Barker

  Hugging my latest realization to me, I drop my head, stumble onwards, upwards, one step at a time, one foot in front of the other. I wrap my arms around myself in an attempt to ease my injured ribs, try to pick my way carefully across the now rocky uplands, clambering over granite boulders. One slip would mean a twisted or even broken ankle—no chance of escape then. There are no dry stone walls up here, the few sheep that venture this far have to pick out their own territory. They don’t tend to stay that long, soon wandering back down to the lower hills. More shelter, more food.

  “Over there, that way.” Kenny gestures over to the right with the muzzle of the shotgun.

  I turn in that direction, picking my route cautiously.

  “There, between those two rocks. Get a fucking move on, we haven’t got all day to piss about out here in the fucking cold.”

  I peer in front of me out of my one good eye, try to pick out where we are. There’s some sort of cave ahead, just a narrow opening between the two rocks. I shuffle toward it, by no means eager to go in there with him, but still dangerously short of other options as long as he’s waving that bloody gun around. I reach the rocky entrance, lean on one of the boulders and peer inside. Not quite a cave, the roof’s not solid. The rocky floor inside is wet, there’s water dripping down the walls. The place offers some shelter, some protection from the elements, from the wind maybe, but not that much.

  “Inside. Now.” Another jab in my ribs from Tom’s shotgun has me groaning in pain.

  I obey, scrambling across the threshold. Once inside, the first thing that hits me, overwhelms me, is the stink. The smell of the place is putrid, vile. It’s clear this is the place where Kenny has been living rough since he was ousted from Tom’s nice warm barn, and it’s also clear he has no idea of even basic hygiene. One corner of his ‘home’ has been used as a toilet and the stench is appalling. My stomach heaves, I bend over and lose what little is left of this morning’s bacon sandwiches. Not much, mercifully. I stand, doubled over, my hands on my knees, as I gasp for air.

  “Over there, sit down and keep your fucking mouth shut for once else I’ll shut it for you.” He gestures toward the side of the ‘cave’ farthest from his crude latrine, where a filthy blanket is piled, along with a few old, damp newspapers and a green denim knapsack. A familiar green denim knapsack. He still has it, the same bag he made me pile the stuff in we stole from Tom. Christ, talk about life coming full circle.

  Making every effort to breathe through my mouth, and only as little as possible, I shuffle over to the blanket and manage to lower myself to the ground, cradling my injured ribs as well as I can. Kenny busies himself, fiddling about with some lumps of wood, twigs and dried grass as he tries to make a fire. Luckily for us both, he’s probably totally inept at it.

  This ‘den’ of his is disgusting enough now, how much worse would it be full of acrid smoke from damp wood? He’s crouching over the small pile of kindling, then he suddenly turns, lurches over to me. I flinch, cower away, but he just grabs the knapsack and pulls a small box of matches out. No doubt something else he stole from Greystones. Soon the tiny fire is burning, sputtering and pathetic, giving off minimal heat, but managing to fill the enclosed space with dense smoke. Coughing, I try to crawl nearer to the opening, desperate for fresh air.

  “I told you to fucking sit down. Don’t you move until I say so. I’ll tell you when you can frigging well move.”

  Now where have I heard that before? The words are the same, more or less, but there the similarity ends. I smile to myself, struck by the irony, the utter and absolute contrast. The world of difference that exists between this deranged, pathetic bully waving a gun around, red-faced, screaming his threats at me, and the calm, commanding presence which is Tom Shore in Dom mode.

  I roll back to my appointed place, lying down now to get below the smoke, to hopefully find some breathable air. Kenny continues to scuffle around, poking and prodding at his ridiculous little fire, dropping more pieces of wood and soggy twigs on it, generating more smoke and not much else. I’d have thought after all his practice in Gloucester he’d be at least a little bit better at fire-starting, but apparently not. He seems strangely and pathetically happy with it though, and soon stands, rubbing his hands over the tiny, crackling flames before turning and strolling across to his ‘lavatory’. He opens his tatty blue jeans, and with a leer at me pulls out his cock—semi-erect, I note with some considerable revulsion—and he proceeds to take a pee. Shaking the drips off he doesn’t bother to replace his tackle and zip himself up. Instead he turns to me, his cock dangling from his jeans and stiffening as I watch, my horror and revulsion apparently arousing him. He strolls arrogantly toward me, clearly proud of his manly display. And despite my best efforts I’m shrinking away, plastering myself against the rough stone at my back as he stands in front of me, his cock just inches from my face.

  “Suck it, bitch. Suck me off.”

  I shake my head dumbly. Rape, I could handle. Maybe. But not this. No way can I manage this.

  “Do it. Do as I fucking say.” He steps closer, reaching for my hair.

  I dive to my left, desperate now, ready to fight. He’s faster and on his feet, so he has the advantage of height and weight. But I’m fighting for my life. He grabs my hair, hauls me roughly back, his fist raised to punch me again. I scream, and do the only thing that seems at all feasible, the only form of defense available to me. I savagely bury my revulsion at his disgusting display, and even more savagely I grab his balls. I grab them hard and I twist. Sharp, vicious, my fingers curled into his scrotum like claws.

  The effect is instantaneous, and all I could have hoped for. Kenny’s raised fist drops to his groin as he snarls his pain and rage. He is clawing at my hand as he tries to wrestle me off. But I tighten my grip, I have no alternative, the moment I let go I’m dead. It’s that simple. So I hang on. I squeeze and I twist and I pull hard. He’s raining blows on the back of my head and I block out all of that, block out everything except my death grip on Kenny’s scraggy balls. He leaps backwards, away from me. Or tries to. I go with him, hanging on for grim death. Quite literally. He’s almost dragging me across the floor of the grimy cave as each of us struggles for some sort of advantage. There’s a sharp, searing pain across my thigh as I’m dragged into and across the sputtering fire, scattering the burning twigs. My leg’s burnt, I know that, but I’ll heal. And the fire is soon out, Kenny’s little pile of kindling scattered across the cave floor. I know it’s an unequal struggle, and eventually he’ll win. And I’ll most probably die. But not yet, not as long as I can…

  My knee brushes something. Something hard and metallic that clatters along the floor as I catch it with my leg. It’s the gun. Idiot that he is, he’s only gone and left the gun on the floor. Is it loaded? Did he reload? I can’t remember, and maybe he won’t either. It’s a chance, maybe. If I can just get my hands on it maybe I can…

  “Armed police. Come out with your hands in the air.”

  The harsh, metallic voice echoes around us, reverberating through the cave, amplified by the rocks. No doubt borrowing strength from the adrenaline rush brought on now by sheer bloody desperation Kenny drops a last, vicious punch on the back of my neck and my world momentarily goes black as I collapse to the ground, my hold at last loosened. I can hear the voice, that huge, autocratic, compelling voice, barking instructions. I’m safe. They’re here. I’m safe.

  “Kenny Potts, you are surrounded. Come out now.”

  “Shut up. You fucking keep quiet. They can’t find us, they don’t know where we are. Can’t see us in here.” Kenny’s muttering wildly looking around him for the gun.

  He won’t find it. Won’t find it because I’m lying on it, hugging it to me. I chance a quick glance upwards, he’s wheeling madly around in the small space, eyes darting around crazily as he tries to lay his hands on his weapon. Suddenly it dawns on him, he realizes where it is, where it must be, and he’s back on me. He kicks me, hard, another rib, at least, gone. Th
en, with another obscene curse he lurches back across the cave and grabs for the knapsack. This time he pulls out a knife, and I idly note it’s one I think I recognize, from the kitchen at Greystones. It’s not a big one, not especially big. We use it for vegetables. But it’s lethal for all that.

  “Give me that fucking gun, bitch. Now. Or I’ll cut you, I’ll fucking cut you…” His voice has risen again, become a screech, an evil, malicious howl as rage completely takes over. Rage and desperation, and a deluded sense of self-preservation, still believing he can somehow fight his way out of this. He lurches at me, the knife now raised, his intention clear.

  Now. It’s my only chance, the only chance left if I’m to live. If my baby’s to live. I grab the gun from underneath me and roll to my side, bring it up and point it at him.

  The boom of the shot is deafening. Kenny flies back, flies away from me, splattered briefly against the far wall where only minutes earlier he stood and casually had a piss. Then, he collapses as though in slow motion, dropping down into his own filth.

  Chapter Fourteen

  I gape at him, writhing in the muck a few feet away from me, blood pouring from his shoulder. He’s screaming, the sound splitting the air, echoing around us. Numb now, I drop the gun, sending it clattering away from me, horrified at what I’ve done. I scramble away, as far from him as I can in the tiny, confined space. I huddle into a ball, sobbing desperately.

  “It’s okay, you’re safe now. Ashley, you’re safe.”

  Tom. It’s Tom’s voice. And Tom’s familiar wax jacket that’s folded gently around my shoulders. “Come on, love, come with me. Let’s get out of here.”

  Yes, out of here. I want to be outside. Numb, my mind a blank, I allow him to gently lead me out, to help me to my feet and half-carry me between the two massive rocks at the entrance into the brilliant light and fresh air. I’m aware of the two dark clothed figures leaning over Kenny, handling him roughly as they check for more weapons. They won’t find any, he was unarmed. Unarmed, apart from a vegetable knife, and I shot him. I shot him at point blank range.

  Outside, I sink to the ground again, and Tom lets me, lowering me gently. I close my eyes, my rasping breath harsh as I struggle to remain conscious in spite of the waves of pain now rolling mercilessly though my body.

  “Paramedic. Get a paramedic here now.” Tom’s voice is raised, commanding and immediately obeyed.

  No paramedics on hand, not yet, but two police officers are suddenly there, crouching beside me. Their appearance is terrifying, dressed all in black, their expressions capable, serious, implacable. But their hands are surprisingly gentle. In moments I’m injected with painkillers, their emergency first-aid administered swiftly, and soon I’m drifting in a strangely pleasant drugged haze, the pain in my ribs now just a dull ache. The euphoria doesn’t last long though. I know what I’ve done. The police won’t be gentle with me for long.

  “I killed him. I shot him. Oh, Christ, Tom—I didn’t mean to, he was going to… He was going to…”

  “You didn’t kill him, love.”

  “I did, you know I did. I had the gun, and he wanted it, and I…”

  “You didn’t kill him because he isn’t dead. Not yet, anyway. He might be though, soon enough, if I get my hands on him.” Tom’s tone is firm, sure and certain. I try to take in what he’s said, make sense of it. Not dead? Kenny’s not dead?

  Bewildered, I start to protest once more. “But I shot him…”

  “Not you, love. Him.” Tom gestures behind him, toward the entrance to Kenny’s hideaway, where a tall, slim man, dressed in black with ‘Police’ emblazoned across his chest in large white letters, is just emerging from between the rocks. He has a large, deadly looking rifle in his hands. “Police marksman, nice enough chap, name of Terry. Had our friend there”—he nods back in the direction of the filthy cave—“had him in the cross hairs for a good couple of minutes before he pulled the trigger. He was warned, had a chance to give himself up. But he didn’t, and he was about to stab you. So Terry had to stop him.”

  “But, it was me. I know it was me. I had the gun.”

  “You might have had the gun, love, but you didn’t use it. You didn’t have time to.”

  I lie still, my eyes closed, taking all this in. Was it really not me? Is he really not dead? Kenny’s alive…?

  “I would have. A moment later and I would have shot him. I know I would have, I meant to. I tried to.” The certainty is there, in my voice. I know what I would have done. What I set out to do but mercifully someone beat me to it apparently. Tom clearly agrees.

  “Meaning to, trying to, are not the same as doing it. You didn’t, Terry did.” He gestures again at the police marksman, now strolling calmly back to the police Land Rover as though shooting madmen on the moors is all in a day’s work to him.

  I suppose it is really.

  Tom continues, “And he was aiming for the shoulder, so that’s what he hit. He aimed to disable, not to kill. So Kenny’ll live to tell the tale. He’ll have his day in court. And our friend over there”—he jerks his thumb at the marksman, my savior—“he’ll spend the next few days filling in forms and answering questions. There’s a lot of paperwork involved in shooting tosspots, no end of bureaucracy. Terry won’t be seeing his family any time soon either.”

  I look at the police marksman with even more sympathy—he saved my life, I have no doubt about it, and his actions prevented me from doing something I would have forever regretted despite the desperate circumstances, something I would have forever had to live with. It’s a sobering thought, and I have a great deal to thank Terry for. I do sincerely hope his paperwork isn’t too onerous.

  Then, suddenly, Tom’s other remark sinks in. Day in court! Shit! I grab Tom’s arm. There’s something I need to say, something important, vital. “Tom, he told me he killed my mother. He paid someone, someone called Tony, to run her over. It wasn’t an accident. And he did set the fire, tried to burn down my house. He even admitted breaking into my car that day…”

  “I know. We heard.”

  “What? How did you hear? Who heard?” Totally baffled, I’m shaking my head, painful though it is to move.

  Tom reaches into the pocket of my hoodie and pulls out my phone, puts it to my ear. “Tell her you’re okay, love.”

  “What? Tell who?”

  “The police emergency operator. She’s still on the line, been on the line the whole time, monitoring events. She patched the call through, we heard everything as we drove up here. A full confession. That’ll be useful in court. And of course we knew exactly where you were—it was just a matter of how fast we could get here.” He taps Barney’s collar, my makeshift belt that led my rescuers straight to me. “That was quick thinking, love. Well done.”

  I remember the poor dog. Maybe there’s still time to help him. “Barney. He shot Barney, we need to…”

  “He’s in the back of the Land Rover. Dan’s working on him. It’s bad, love, he lost a lot of blood, but he’s got a chance.”

  A chance. I’ll settle for that. Tom takes the phone, murmurs something into it, thanks the operator then ends the call just as the air ambulance buzzes over the rocky horizon.

  In the event, it was Kenny who got to ride in the air ambulance. The lovely Jasmine Abbas, once more on duty and now seeming like an old friend, came over to explain that the helicopter only had room for two additional people. Even though he’s only been hit in the shoulder Kenny was still the most seriously injured of the two of us, so they’d have to take him. I could go too, but I’d be sharing the small space with him. She shrugged, her expression sympathetic, regretful. Maybe I’d prefer…

  She was embarrassed, but dead right. No way was I sharing any sort of space with Kenny Potts. Never again. So I went the long way round to the hospital, in a police Land Rover. Jasmine offered me more pain relief before we started our descent, to see me over the lumps and bumps of the moors in some sort of comfort, though she was reluctant to dose me with much given my
likely pregnancy.

  * * * *

  I was in hospital for two nights while they strapped up my ribs and stabilized my pain relief. An obstetrician examined me, declared me definitely pregnant, and in no obvious danger of losing my baby as a result of my ordeal. That was the news I’d been waiting for, unable to think beyond the last time and how that all ended. When she left I smiled nicely, thanked her and turned my face into my pillow and cried.

  And now, a fortnight later, Kenny is safely installed in the hospital wing at Armley jail in Leeds. His shoulder wound is on the mend, and I’m assured by Tom that Terry has finally completed the paperwork. Not so the police. They haven’t come close to finalizing their list of charges yet, but it will definitely include murder, attempted murder, conspiracy to murder attempted rape, abduction and arson. There are lesser matters too, matters such as breaking entering, illegal discharging of a firearm, that sort of thing, but I expect the Crown Prosecution Service will eventually decide where they want to concentrate their efforts. Whatever, Kenny Potts is not going to be seeing the outside world for a long, long time. He’s finally out of my life.

  As for me, I’ve been back at Greystones for two weeks. I spent the first week in bed, alone most of the time, waited on hand and foot. Tom did most of the nursing duty, but Grace, Eva and even Rosie have all done their bit to coddle and care for me. They’re all lovely. And they’re driving me mad. I’m still confined to the house, just pottering about and getting thoroughly bored. Cabin fever is really setting in now, and as the bruises on my face have just about disappeared provided no one looks too closely, and my ribs only hurt when I laugh, I don’t see why I shouldn’t venture a bit farther afield. And I would, if it wasn’t for the little matter of facing Tom afterwards. Even without recourse to spanking or whipping, his Dom persona is beyond stern about this and I know I won’t be disobeying.