by Tom Bale
This is no good, she told herself. You have to find a phone.
She repressed an urge to vomit, made herself breathe through her mouth, slowly and deeply. It was at the mid-point, the breath suspended in her lungs, when she heard it.
A soft, scrabbling sound. Something moving on the ancient stone floor in front of the pews. Quiet, stealthy movement.
She sat upright, eyes locked on the point near the altar where the noise had originated. Every muscle was rigid with terror. She couldn't even release her breath.
If the killer was here, lying in wait, she would never outrun him. She would never get out in time.
It was a simple, inescapable fact. If he was inside the church, then she was already dead.
Three
She heard it again. A scraping noise, a heel scuffing over stone.
Then a man's voice. Very weak, barely intelligible.
He said: 'Please . . .'
Then: 'Uhh.'
It was such a distinct exhalation, Julia immediately understood what it meant. The man who made that noise had just lost his life, not twenty feet from where she was sitting, paralysed with fear. She had sat and heard a man die and done nothing.
She began to shake. She felt she might be going mad, and for a few seconds it was almost a temptation. In shedding her sanity she could shrug off all responsibility along with it.
Then the moment passed, and she rose to her feet and approached the front of the church. She tried not to remember how the postman had looked. Tried not to think about what she would see this time.
There were two bodies, lying several feet apart in the space between the front pew and the chancel. The vicar was curled in a foetal position, one hand reaching for the altar as though in a plea for clemency. He'd been shot several times in the stomach. There was a smear of blood on the floor where he had dragged himself towards the aisle.
His eyes were open, staring at Julia with sorrowful reproach. You didn't help, he might have been saying. You heard me and you didn't help.
A few feet beyond him was the body of a heavy grey-haired woman in sweat pants and a blue fleece. She'd been shot in the back of the head. The resulting debris lay around her like old porridge. A tin of Pledge rested at her side, a blood-speckled yellow duster still gripped in her hand.
Julia backed away. Her imagination hardly dared to conclude what was happening here. Paradoxically, the words that leapt into her head made no sense, and yet they made perfect sense.
This wasn't a robbery. It was a massacre.
Slowly she came back to the present, aware that a few minutes had passed. She had no recollection of returning to one of the pews, but that was where she found herself. She was shivering, clutching herself to try and stop the trembling.
Visions flooded her mind: a grisly panorama of the bodies she had seen, jumbled together with news footage of Hungerford, Port Arthur, Dunblane. The perpetrator invariably male, white, a troubled loner nursing real or imagined grievances in a cauldron of paranoia.
She imagined him walking from house to house, knocking quietly. The villagers readily opening their front doors, expecting to greet a neighbour or perhaps the postman with a parcel. And instead, he was killing them all. Wiping out an entire community.
Moira.
It was the jolt Julia needed, the adrenalin rush like a blow to the stomach. She jumped up and quickly checked the vestry, then a small office next to it, but there was no phone. She knew she couldn't remain in the church, but leaving by the main entrance was too risky.
Instead she made for the side door in the east chancel. It meant passing the bodies of the vicar and the cleaner, but she forced herself to do it. She had to keep moving, had to stay focused.
The heavy door creaked open, sounding horrifically loud. She stepped out, blinking in the bright sunshine, and followed the path diagonally across the churchyard. A gate in the wall led to a footpath that ran behind the cottages, parallel to the High Street.
She was level with the first house, the one she'd tried earlier, when she noticed the back door was ajar. She'd been intending to make straight for the shop, but now she stopped. She could phone the police from here.
There was a low fence at the back of the property, easily vaulted. The garden was a narrow strip of turf, strewn with partially deflated footballs and a plastic cricket set. There was a soiled cat litter tray by the door.
Julia could hear the radio playing in the kitchen, the mindless chatter of a DJ. She stepped inside and called, 'Hello? I need to use the phone. Is anyone there?'
No one answered, but the sound of shifting crockery made her jump.
The dishwasher. According to the display, it had eight minutes left to run. There was a mug of herbal tea on the worktop. Julia felt it with the back of her hand. Still warm.
Someone should be here.
She crept into the narrow hallway. The door to the living room was open. She spotted the phone and the bodies simultaneously.
A young woman in a towelling dressing gown was sprawled over her child, a small boy with glorious white-blond hair. Playmobil fire trucks and figures were scattered around them. There was blood everywhere. The woman had obviously tried to shield her son, and then covered his eyes with her hand. She couldn't stop him dying, but at least she could make sure he didn't see it happen.
Julia wobbled again. Felt she was breaking apart. No one would blame me, she thought.
Turning away, she snatched the phone from its perch on the wall. There was no dialling tone. She stabbed the call button. Listened. Stabbed it again. Nothing.
The phone was dead. It couldn't be coincidence. It was part of the plan.
Movement outside caught her attention. She took a cautious step towards the window. Across the green, a door had opened in Arundel Crescent, causing a flash of reflected sunlight. The man who emerged was short and stocky, with spiky straw-coloured hair, wearing a denim jacket and camouflage trousers. He held a pistol in one hand, and there was a shotgun slung over his shoulder.
He closed the door behind him, then stopped and slowly surveyed the scene. For a moment he seemed to be staring right at Julia. When he smiled, she thought her heart would stop beating.
Then she realised he was looking at the postman's body. Admiring his handiwork.
He strode away, disappearing behind the massive yew tree. The direction he was taking would lead him to the shop.
In desperation Julia tried the phone again, but she knew it was hopeless. The village was cut off from the rest of the world, just as the killer intended.
She was on her own.
She ran back through the kitchen. On the radio the Rolling Stones seemed to be mocking her: You can't always get what you want. The words echoed in her head as she retraced her steps through the garden. Again she thought of her parents. She hoped they would be proud of her for overcoming the urge to flee.
She sprinted towards the shop, praying she would make it in time. The path was a mixture of gravel, earth and weeds, and the crunch of her pounding feet seemed to reverberate around the village.
The shop backed on to a yard containing several wheelie bins, a stack of cardboard boxes and an old plastic crate. There were two small opaque windows, protected by metal grilles. The back door was solid timber and couldn't be opened from the outside.
Julia knocked as loudly as she dared. Another bout of giddiness made her sway on her feet. Black spots danced in front of her eyes. Her heart was thudding so loudly she thought it would explode from her chest.
Then a voice: 'Who's there?'
Julia forced herself upright. 'Moira, it's Julia Trent. Open the door.'
She feared Moira might argue, or tell her to come round the front, but she heard the thud of a bolt being drawn back. The door opened and Moira peered out, reacting with alarm at the sight of Julia's face.
'Oh my word. What's happened, love?'
Julia tried to speak but was overcome by a flood of nausea. Her chest heaved and she turned away, clutchin
g her stomach and spitting bile on to the dusty cement.
'You poor dear,' Moira said. 'Come on, let's get you indoors.'
Julia nodded, turned back and stepped into the stockroom. Moira stroked her arm. 'You've had a shock. I told you it could happen, didn't I?'
Julia tried to put her right but could only stammer, 'No, I . . . I've g-got . . .'
Moira shushed her. 'Don't try and tell me yet. Just rest a minute.' There was a clipboard lying on an old chair in the corner of the room. Moira picked it up and dragged the chair towards Julia, causing a bell to ring from somewhere. A eureka! moment, Julia thought, and wondered if she had finally lost her mind.
Moira said, 'Here, sit yourself down while I pop the kettle on.'
Julia frowned. Why would moving a chair cause a bell to ring?
Then she understood, but panic overwhelmed her, short-circuiting her brain. She knew what she had to say and do, but her body wouldn't respond.
Some sort of noise must have emerged from her throat, for Moira turned towards her in a strange kind of slow motion. At the same time Julia had a clear line of sight through the shop. The man with spiky hair was walking towards the counter. She saw he was young, no more than mid-twenties. He had very pale eyes and an uneven growth of bristles on his chin.
He saw her and smiled. His teeth were yellow and crooked, with a distinctive left canine jutting out like a vampire's fang. He raised the gun and Julia noticed the thick cylinder attached to the barrel. A silencer. That's why no one had heard gunshots.
Moira was speaking again, making clucking noises of sympathy. She noticed Julia's terrified gaze and turned to see what had provoked it. There was a spitting noise and a spray of blood blew from her neck. Moira's eyes widened, her mouth a perfect circle of surprise as she toppled forward.
Another phutt and Julia felt the bullet brush past her hair, thudding into the doorframe behind her. Then there was a moment where Moira's falling body obscured her view of the killer. A third shot hit the shopkeeper as she fell, and by then Julia's survival instinct had kicked in.
She leapt out of the stockroom, dragging the door shut behind her. Grabbed one of the wheelie bins and pulled it across the door. It wasn't heavy enough to prevent him getting out, but it might gain her a few seconds. But which way should she go?
She had two options. Back up the lane towards the church, or along the alley by the side of the shop and rejoin the main road. That was the one she favoured. Once on the High Street she could make a run for her car. Fifty or sixty yards, she'd cover that in no time.
It was the wrong choice. She knew it when she heard the bell ring again, but by then it was too late. She was only yards from the main road, running too fast to stop. Her forward momentum sent her skidding on to the narrow pavement just as the killer emerged from the shop.
He had outguessed her. Then she registered his surprise and realised it was worse than that. He'd just been lucky. Sometimes that's all it came down to, she thought. He'd struck it lucky. She hadn't.
They stood a couple of feet apart, facing each other. There was no way she could escape. This was the end.
She stuck out her jaw and tried to look defiant. She wasn't going to beg for her life. In any case, she didn't trust herself to speak.
The killer made a dry snickering noise that brought to mind some half-remembered cartoon character. He examined her for a long second, his attention lingering on her body. Her jeans and jacket couldn't disguise the fact that she was tall, slim, shapely.
Finally he met her gaze, and seemed to come to a decision. His pale eyes gleamed. His smile hinted at the pleasures of anticipation, and she knew all too well what that meant. He liked what he saw. He wasn't going to kill her straight away.
She understood this perhaps half a second before he spoke. A single word in a low, guttural whisper.
'Run.'
Four
She took his advice. It didn't matter that she was giving him what he wanted. It meant she had a chance. Every second she stayed alive was a tiny victory.
There was no point trying for her car. He'd never let her get close to it. She spun on her heels and ran back the way she'd come. Back on to the lane behind the cottages, back towards the church. It was a couple of seconds before she heard his feet on the gravel. He was deliberately giving her an advantage.
Remembering something she'd read, she began to weave from side to side, trying to present a more difficult target. The churchyard was only sixty or seventy yards away. She had maybe ten yards on the killer, and could probably extend that to twenty. But it wouldn't be enough.
The problem was the gate. The latch was heavy and cumbersome. If she stopped to open it, he would be on her in seconds. Game over.
She studied the gate, and the wall either side of it. Made some calculations. The wall was roughly three feet high, the gate an inch or two higher. She'd jumped taller obstacles in her life, but not since her schooldays. A good fifteen years or so.
But there was no choice. It was that or die.
No, she reminded herself. It was that or be raped, and then die.
She pumped her arms, measured her stride. She was aiming at a spot on the wall just to the left of the gate. She focused on timing the jump, thanking God she'd worn jeans and trainers today.
She almost made it. She launched herself into the air at exactly the right spot. Her leap was strong, her body lithe and primed by adrenalin and fear. Her feet lifted and curled to give her clearance, and as she started to descend she thought she was over. But then her left foot dropped, just a fraction, and caught on a lump of flint.
She pinwheeled, frantically trying to maintain her balance, but landed heavily on her right foot. A searing pain tore through her ankle. She fell sideways and rolled on the wet grass. Her knee scraped a gravestone, tearing her jeans, and there was a whoop of laughter from the path.
Well, fuck you, she thought. A surge of fury gave her the strength to get up. She risked a look back. The killer had reached the gate. He was smiling, as though he expected to chase her around the village for as long as it amused him, then finish her off.
There was an agonising jolt when she put her weight on her right foot. She took a few steps, hobbling at first, testing the ankle until she trusted it not to give way on her. Gritting her teeth against the pain.
She ignored the church. As a place of shelter it hadn't offered much protection to the vicar or the cleaner. Instead she cut across the grass, towards the lych gate. She didn't give any real thought to where she would go: all that mattered was putting some distance between her and the killer.
Disturbed by the commotion, the rooks flapped above the churchyard, their bleak throaty cries like a comment on her prospects. Julia reached the gate and wrenched it open. The houses in Arundel Crescent were bathed in sunlight, lending a honeyed tint to the white render. She wondered if any were unlocked.
She took another glance over her shoulder. The killer was trotting in her wake, a little faster now, and scowling, possibly beginning to regret giving her a head start. It made her feel absurdly pleased. He'd underestimated her.
But hitting tarmac increased the pain in her ankle. She realised she couldn't run for much longer. She had to find somewhere to hide.
She crossed the road a few feet from the mail van, disturbing a sleek black crow perched on the postman's chest. It turned its inky gaze upon her, decided she was no threat, then pecked lavishly at the dead man's face.
Shuddering with revulsion, she looked away and caught something far more significant: a woman's stricken face in an upstairs window in the crescent. A moment's guilty eye contact and then she was gone. If not for the curtain swaying in her wake, Julia might have believed she'd imagined it.
She increased her speed, wincing as her ankle protested. She clung to a vision of a front door opening, the woman beckoning her inside. If they timed it right, she could rush through and slam it shut before the gunman reacted. Then the two of them could barricade themselves in. Wait for
help to arrive, or even find a weapon and fight back.
Julia was halfway across the green, still believing she could make it to safety, when the bullet brought her down.
She didn't hear it coming. Didn't even feel anything at first. Just a coldness on her skin, a disturbing friction, and she glanced down to find blood soaking through her jeans. The bullet had grazed her right calf, taking a sliver of flesh with it.
A moment later the pain hit and her leg seized up, slapping her to the ground. She landed awkwardly, one arm caught beneath her body, forcing the air from her lungs.
Bastard! she thought. He's not playing fair.
She twisted round and saw him, standing in front of the lych gate. He looked immensely satisfied, as if winging her had been precisely his intention. He was back in control. Now the real fun would begin.
Some primeval imperative refused to let her surrender. She struggled to her feet. Her right leg wouldn't bear her weight for more than a moment at a time. She saw she was only fifteen or twenty feet from the yew tree, and instinct propelled her towards it, even though her rational mind knew it was hopeless as a hiding place.
She took one difficult, lurching step. Then another. Turning away from the killer was the hardest part. Every nerve screamed with tension, expecting another bullet to strike. Probably he'd aim low again. He would want her conscious for what else he had in mind.
'You. Cowardly. Evil. Wretch.'
The voice came from nowhere. Not a shout but a determined growl, delivered slowly and through terrible pain. Julia and the killer reacted to it at the same time.
It was Philip Walker. He was a tall, thin man, perhaps seventy years old, with white hair and a face almost as pale. He was slumped in the doorway of the Old Schoolhouse, pressing a blood-soaked towel to his chest.
Julia heard the killer grunt, taken aback by this intervention. He'd obviously left Walker for dead. The old man caught her eye and gave an almost imperceptible nod: get out of here.