The Only Game

by Reginald Hill

  ‘In her handbag. She’ll be sending out more signals than a bitch on heat. All we’ve got to do is get in range, and then I’ve a feeling the whole bloody shooting match is ours.’

  He put his hand on the sergeant’s knee and squeezed reassuringly. But beneath the calm smiling race he felt such a rage of hate that had he been offered at that moment a choice between having Oliver Beck at his mercy or Dog Cicero, he would hardly have known which pleasure to opt for.

  5

  They sat in the car on the grass verge at the brow of a narrow country road. To a passer-by they must have looked like a pair of quarrelling lovers.

  ‘No!’ said Dog Cicero. ‘No way.’

  ‘He’s my son,’ cried Jane.

  ‘Mother love may move mountains but it doesn’t stop bullets,’ said Dog. ‘These people are armed and dangerous.’

  ‘Then let’s get some help that’s armed and dangerous too.’

  He sighed and said, ‘I thought of that, naturally. If I call Denver, one of two things happen. Either, the area Task Force takes over and we could end up with a nice little siege with Noll as the main bargaining counter. Or, Tench gets in on the act. What he will want to do is nothing. He’ll just be delighted to be back to where he was before, knowing Noll’s location and sitting it out in the hope that Beck will hove into view.’

  ‘So why did you contact me then? It must be because you daren’t contact anyone else. So let me help you!’

  ‘I contacted you because I need someone at my back with a car, not someone at my side with a black belt or whatever it is you’ve got. Two bodies trying to get near Noll will make twice as much noise as one.’

  She glared at him, unconvinced, and he went on swiftly: ‘Also I called you because you’ve a right to know, a right to choose, as long as you understand that the options don’t include you getting in the front line. So what’s it to be? I try it alone with you as back-up? Or I ring Denver and try to get him to set things up without reference to Tench?’

  She hid her face in her hands. When she revealed it again, all anger had vanished.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘You’ve done far more for me than I’ve any right to expect and all I can do is complain. My choice, you say? I choose you. So where do we start?’

  ‘Right here,’ he said.

  He delved into his carrier bag, came up with a child’s telescope, got out of the car and started to scan the countryside below. From here he could see the woodland through which he’d approached Grazey Lane Cottage earlier that day. The magnification wasn’t great but enough to convince him nothing was moving down there. He snapped the telescope shut and went round to the driver’s door.

  ‘Move over,’ he said.

  ‘What’s up? Don’t trust lady drivers all of a sudden?’

  ‘Just move,’ he said harshly. But when he was behind the wheel he gave her his twisted smile and said, ‘Sorry. I’m on edge.’

  ‘I know all about edges,’ she said.

  He started the engine, moved forward till they picked up momentum, then slipped into neutral and coasted quietly down the slope.

  Suddenly to Jane’s horror he twisted the wheel sharply and ran the car at an apparently solid wall of undergrowth. Briars clawed the windscreen and scraped at the paintwork, then they were through and into a small clearing among close-pressing trees.

  ‘Holy Mary!’ she gasped. ‘No wonder you wanted to drive.’

  But he was out of the door and moving forward before the words were spoken.

  In the cottage doorway Bridie Heighway said, ‘What was that?’

  ‘What?’ said Billy, pausing in the game of football he was playing with Noll.

  ‘Did you hear something?’

  ‘Nothing. What did you …’

  ‘Hush.’

  They listened.

  ‘I thought there was a car. A long way off. Then a crackling … like brushwood.’

  ‘I’ll take a look,’ said Billy.

  He went inside and came out almost immediately, carrying an automatic.

  ‘For Christ’s sake, Billy!’ said the woman, glancing at the boy who was looking at the gun with wide envious eyes.

  ‘Are we going to play cowboys?’ said Noll.

  ‘Something like that,’ said Billy Flynn.

  ‘You come inside with me, Noll.’

  ‘No. I want to play.’

  ‘We’ll play inside. And I’ll see if I can find any more of that chocolate.’

  ‘And you’ll tell me a story?’

  ‘Yes, I will. Billy, for God’s sake, put that thing away till you need it.’

  The youth slipped the weapon inside his jacket and moved forward into the woods.

  Dog heard him coming before he saw him. Billy Flynn was a town rat. The streets were his jungle. Down alleys and entries he might flit unobserved, but out here he signalled his progress with every step.

  Now Dog saw him. Saw and understood the hand hidden beneath the jacket. In his own hand the pruning knife was ready. He stood motionless behind the bole of a sycamore and willed the youth to come to him. To take him out here would cut the odds by half, always assuming that Thrale had not joined them. There’d been no car in sight on his last visit, and he couldn’t see one now, but that wasn’t the only reason he had for guessing that Heighway and Flynn were on their own. No. If Jonty had been in the cottage, he was sure that Billy Flynn wouldn’t be wandering loose in the woods like the last of the Mohicans.

  Another ten paces would bring him within striking distance. He didn’t underestimate the problem Bridie Heighway would present. She was probably a more formidable opponent than Flynn. But with the youth’s weapon in his hand and the element of surprise on his side, he felt confident he could cope.

  Flynn stopped. If there was anything out here, he couldn’t see it. And if it could see him, then out here was no place to be. Billy Flynn was arrogant, self-absorbed, but he wasn’t stupid. He tried to focus those urban sensors which had so often saved him from walking into trouble in the Belfast shadows, but here all he felt was a general jumpiness which had more to do with nerves than threats. The sooner he was out of all this, the better.

  He turned and went back to the cottage.

  ‘Anything?’ said Bridie.

  ‘Not a thing,’ he said, with aggressive scorn. ‘Just you hearing things, that’s all. Bad time of the month for you, is it?’

  ‘Every time’s been a bad time since they wished you on us, Billy,’ she replied.

  ‘Ha ha. Where’s the boy?’

  ‘Upstairs. In case of trouble.’

  ‘That’s great! If we ever do get trouble and it’s not just your hysterical imaginings, it’s down here in front of us we want the kid,’ he snarled. ‘He’s our best protection!’

  Suddenly, without quite knowing how it happened, he found himself back up against the wall with Bridie’s face close to his and the cold barrel of his own gun pressing against his belly down the front of his jeans.

  ‘My way, Billy,’ she said, her breath warm on his face. ‘And when Jonty’s here, his way. But, and this is the last time of telling, we never do things your way. Understand? Or shall I squeeze this trigger and see if you keep your brains down there with the rest of your valuables?’

  ‘For Christ’s sake, are you mad or what?’ he cried, not daring to push her away.

  ‘I must be mad not to shoot,’ she said, stepping back, leaving the gun tucked into his trousers. ‘Now you watch the front, I’ll watch the back.’

  ‘For how long, for God’s sake?’

  ‘Till I decide there’s nothing out there,’ she said.

  Dog watched Flynn return to the cottage then moved carefully back through the copse to the car. Jane Maguire hadn’t moved.

  ‘Sorry about that,’ he said. ‘I needed the car off the road to make sure we weren’t spotted by anyone coming to the cottage. And I had to make sure we hadn’t been heard.’

  ‘You don’t leave much margin for error,’ said Jane,
looking at the close-crowding trees. ‘Had anyone heard us?’

  ‘They’d heard something,’ he said. ‘The blond boy came out. Not close enough for me to make contact unfortunately.’

  She looked at the knife in his hand and said, ‘Would you have …?’

  ‘If necessary,’ he said. ‘Wouldn’t you?’

  ‘Noll’s my son,’ she said simply. ‘He’s my reason for going on living. I’d do anything. But you …’

  ‘I’ve elected him my reason for living too,’ he said. ‘It’s a commodity I was growing short of. OK. I want you to sit here in the car watching and listening. Put it into reverse. Keep your foot on the clutch. First sound of any activity from the cottage, you turn the engine on. Three possibilities, progressively harder. One: I come running out of the wood with Noll. We get in the car. You don’t talk or do anything, but get out of here backwards like a bat out of hell. Two: I come running by myself. Just the same. Go! No questions. Last, and hardest. You hear a noise. It could be anything. A shout. A gun. Glass breaking. Anything. You count up to a hundred, slowly. Then you take off by yourself. Or if you see anyone else but me coming, you stop counting and go. This is the most important. If I don’t get Noll, it’s no use coming after me. You’ve got to go for help. Do I make myself clear?’

  ‘Yes.’

  He regarded her doubtfully.

  ‘Do anything else,’ he said slowly, ‘and you’ve probably killed all three of us. Me, yourself, and Noll. Trust me.’

  ‘You men!’ she burst out. ‘You and your plans. Trust me, I know best! Is that all you can ever offer?’

  He closed his eyes and his hand went to the frozen side of his face. When he looked at her again, his eyes were cold.

  ‘I think maybe we’re mistaking each other for two other people,’ he said. ‘Do what you think best.’

  He reached into the back seat, picked up his plastic carrier bag.

  Then he was gone.

  She almost called after him, realized in time how stupid that would be, and slumped forward over the wheel. Then she sat upright, let in the clutch, found reverse gear, took hold of the ignition key, and stared fixedly ahead as though by will alone she would penetrate the woodland and draw her son safe home.

  6

  There was cover to within twenty yards of the cottage but after that, every approach was overlooked by at least one window.

  Four sides. Two watchers. His mind assessed the odds. On the surface they looked evens, but they weren’t. There’s guys standing in line for soup ’cos they couldn’t figger odds. So Endo Cicero.

  Four sides. But he could only pick one. Two watchers. Meaning any one side could either be watched by Billy, or watched by Bridie, or not watched at all. So the odds on the side he chose being unwatched weren’t even. They were two to one against.

  Other factors. Four windows and a door at the front. Three windows and a door at the back. Two windows, one ground, one first floor at one side. One window, first floor at the other. A waste pipe emerging below window level and a small overflow pipe alongside indicated a toilet.

  Defend your weaknesses. In this case, doors and ground floor windows.

  Conclusion. The most unassailable side was the least likely to be watched. Odds? When you decide to go, fuck odds. So Dog Cicero.

  He stood upright and walked steadily forward towards the side of the cottage with the single window.

  Nothing happened. Which only meant that Billy wasn’t at this side. He’d have shot him, no sweat. But Bridie might hold her fire, not out of female softness but because she’d be looking for a quieter solution in case he wasn’t alone. Or in case he was, for that matter. Good odds, when you won either way.

  Pressed against the rough stone wall, he waited. Nothing. He tested the down pipe. It seemed firmly anchored.

  Hooking the plastic bag over his arm he began to climb.

  Now he was totally vulnerable. He felt a sudden surge of exhilaration. There’s only one thing to match winning the final pot and that’s losing it, said Endo. You gotta watch that, Dog. Man can get hooked.

  At times in the Army, he’d got close to the habit. Not since. When you didn’t value your life, there was no kick in risking it. Now the kick was back.

  But this wasn’t the time for self-analysis. He was close to the window. Cautiously he peered in. As guessed, it was a loo. The window was far too small for him to get through, even if he’d been able to open it without detection. One-handed, he opened the bag. Sometimes impulse buying was better than all the shopping lists in the world. He reached in and took out an aerosol can of vaporized lubricant. It had a thin plastic tube attached to it for squirting the lubricant into awkward spots like key holes. He fixed one end to the nozzle and fed the other into the overflow pipe. Then he pressed the trigger till the aerosol was empty. He did the same with a second and third canister, reserving enough to impregnate a length of lint bandage thoroughly. One end of this he twisted into a wad which he then put into the pipe. Using a knitting needle as a ramrod he pushed it as far up as it would go. Then with a pair of pliers he crimped the pipe as tightly as he could without entirely cutting off the source of air.

  Satisfied, he dropped lightly to the ground. The bandage dangled above his head. He took out a book of matches, flicked one into flame on his thumb nail, and touched it to the end of the bandage.

  Flame ran up it and vanished into the overflow. There was a moment’s pause, one of those year-long moments like that in which the eye sees but the mind refuses to register whether your last card is the right number and the right suit.

  Then it came. Not an earth-shaking explosion but a gentle whoof! Hardly enough to shake the lavatory window. But in the cottage, with ears and eyes strained to detect an enemy, it would sound like a stun grenade.

  He moved round the corner to the rear of the cottage. Front doors had Yale locks, but people who lived in the country didn’t risk locking themselves out at the back.

  He was right. The rear door opened to his touch and he stepped into a tiny old-fashioned kitchen with a blue-veined pot sink and brown stone jars on the shelves. In his left hand he held the water pistol, in his right the pruning knife. He realized he was counting slowly under his breath … fifteen, sixteen, seventeen … Jane Maguire would be counting too. At least he hoped to God she was counting! Had he given himself enough time? Plenty! If he wasn’t out of the house and running back to the car in the space of one hundred slow seconds, he would be … his mind pushed the thought away, not out of fear but because it was too fascinating … twenty, twenty-one, twenty-two … he was through the kitchen door into a narrow passage alongside a steep flight of bare wooden stairs high kicking from a gloomy hallway with an elephant-foot umbrella stand to an even gloomier landing from which drifted smoke and the smell of burning and the sound of a child crying.

  If Jane heard that, she would stop counting and start coming.

  A woman’s voice cried, ‘Billy, for Christ’s sake! Check downstairs!’ and Dog stepped sideways, pressing close against the warped panels of the boarded stairway. Footsteps sounded, descending fast, leaping two or three stairs at a time. He reached up through the rickety rail, and grasped a flying ankle.

  The result was spectacular. Billy went into a limb-flailing dive which ended when he crashed into the front door. His body spasmed for a second then went still.

  ‘Billy!’ screamed Bridie Heighway from the top of the stairs.

  For a moment she was exposed, uncertain if Billy had fallen or been attacked. If he’d had a gun, Dog would have come round the foot of the stairs, blazing away. Now he could only hope she came down to look at Billy and gave him the chance for the same trick.

  But she’d been Jonty Thrale’s partner too long for such a risk. Her footsteps moved away. A door opened. Cautiously Dog moved forward. The only thing moving on the landing was smoke. His improvised bomb must have started a fire. He bent over Billy’s body. The youth groaned. Dog dragged him onto his back, desperately looking for the
automatic he’d seen in Flynn’s hand in the woods. There was no sign of it either on his person or in the shadowy hallway.

  He looked wryly at the water pistol. Perhaps it was the best weapon in an age when even money was plastic. He began to move up the stairs.

  He’d only taken two paces when the swirling smoke on the landing parted and Bridie Heighway stood there. In her arms was the boy.

  She screwed up her eyes to make him out.

  ‘It’s you,’ she said, puzzled. She’d been looking for combat jackets, blackened faces, machine guns, not a tennis-shoed inspector with a small pistol. But it was held very steadily.

  ‘It’s me,’ he said. ‘You’re not thinking of walking out behind the boy, are you?’

  ‘And why not?’

  ‘Because you know if he’s in your arms they’ll shoot your legs off and if he’s on the ground, they’ll shoot your head off.’

  ‘Is that a fact? Well, it’s nice to know I’ve still got options.’

  He almost smiled. Then he said urgently, ‘Think of the boy, Bridie. He’s clinging to you because he’s scared. Noll, will you come with me? Noll, shall I take you home?’

  The boy looked towards him with huge, frightened eyes, then he tightened his grip on the woman’s neck, buried his face in her shoulder and said in a muffled, tearful voice, ‘Don’t want to go … want to stay with you, Auntie Bridie …’ then started coughing as the smoke caught his lungs.

  ‘He trusts you,’ said Dog. ‘Do you really want him harmed? I don’t just mean physically. Imagine your brains all over him … that could do damage that’d remain for the rest of his life.’

  ‘Not to mention mine,’ said the woman, patting the boy’s back. ‘There, now, I’ll not be leaving you, my little piglet. We’ll be walking out of here together and the nice gentleman’s not going to get in the way, is he?’

  Dog felt a surge of despair. She was too close to lose now.

  He said urgently, ‘Bridie, listen. Put the boy down, and you can walk away from this safe and free. I’m alone, but it won’t be long till this place is swarming. Fifteen minutes max, plenty of time for a woman of your talents to disappear. What do you say?’