by Robert Young
A rifle shot, like a finger snap in a noisy room, announces silence. Suddenly all the rushing charging chaos and clamour flips to silent slow-motion as the bullet throws Roth's solid bulk against the plexiglass of the pod. A spray of his blood bursts up across the glass like a black bouquet, finding and filling the cracks and then the impact bounces him backward and up and as he pivots up on his toes there is a moment where gravity is pulling from either side and he seems to hang there on the precipice.
But his heavy head lolls back and it pulls his weight over the tipping point and all of them inside the pod stare in horror at the blank-eyed thousand yard stare in eyes that don't see them. He slips backward, drifting off the tiny toehold as if coaxed away by a gentle tide and nobody in the world is breathing, not an eyelid blinks.
From the banks of the river below, behind police lines, or the news helicopters nudging their way in as close as they dare, everyone watches transfixed as the moments unroll slowly.
Roth's body arches back and away into the blackness of the night and drops at increasing speed, though to those watching it looks like it is happening in time lapse, a tragedy in stop-motion.
His arms do not pinwheel at his sides, but seem to reach back upward, clutching limply at the air. His legs trail behind him as he falls.
His plummeting form traces a line through the darkness and he drops, drops. Faster and yet hanging in time and space, there forever until at last he runs out of air and finds the water with a smack, as though the very river has been rent apart.
There is a leaping white splash on the black surface which settles slowly into rippling rings and everyone on the banks, now on both sides, in the pods, the helicopters, the living rooms, on the rooftops and in front of TV screens everywhere watches nothing happen.
He does not surface, he does not burst spluttering and thrashing, or bob limp and lifeless back into the scene.
For the watching many who have not taken their eyes off this, the show is over. The river resumes its impassive progress east and soon enough, the people will drift away too.
Chapter 42
I was no less engrossed than anyone else in that bar at first, glued to the screen and the odd spectacle playing out there on the wall-mounted TV. Then the drama ramped up a notch as the cameras panned in tight on the clambering man's face and suddenly the elusive Oxford Circus killer had resurfaced in the most extraordinary way.
Word must have spread because people crowded in from the street and packed the room to witness this new development. He was box-office this man after what he had done just days ago, and the news channels weren't about to turn away from some prime, live Event-TV like this.
Everyone knew who he was of course, but only insofar as the news told them he was the Oxford Circus killer. They did not know him like I did, and I knew him both more and less than I would have liked.
As we watched events unfold it was like a piece of theatre, like a shared community experience. Some gasped when he seemed about to fall from upside down, hands clasped to mouths as he grabbed hold with both hands again, his feet flopping down against the cable. Some jeered and booed when he stood atop the rim of the wheel. Some shouted "Jump!" to a smattering of applause.
By the time he was pounding at the glass roof of the pod several people were beseeching the police to "shoot the bastard" and the tension in the crowd was palpable, punctuated by shrieks and cries of anger and fear, sympathy for the unfortunate group that cowered down beneath the splintering glass of the pod.
Then silence gripped the place as the bullet took him off the wheel and into thin, black air. Silence as he fell and fell and fell. Silence as the water erupted at his impact and settled to ever calmer ripples and wide-eyed silence when he still did not surface and the news commentator struggled to fill the empty air.
As the minutes flowed slowly by and the dark surface of the Thames remained calm and unbroken, so the crowd began to thin again, shocked people slipping away back into the night to the comfort of their homes. The image of having witnessed a man killed, another human life ended so brutally, would stay with them and nag at them and creep through their dreams, even those who had called for the shots to come, who had willed death upon him. Some would ruminate with their friends on the savagery of any kind of killing, would lament the state of the world where such a thing had come to be considered necessary. Others would try to convince themselves that they had been pleased at the outcome but struggle privately with the truth of their arguments.
I knew more than these people about that topic too and had no more satisfaction about that than I did of knowing the man they had all seen shot down and fall so far to the cold waters of the great river below.
As I watched the room empty I noticed a strange phenomenon; no-one was looking at each other, no eye contact at all. People stared at the screen and then as they shuffled away out the doors, they simply stared into space or at the floor.
I could see the haunted look in all of them. They had all seen something that they could not un-see.
But not quite everyone avoided eye-contact. As I looked around the room I saw staring right back at me two faces, smiling and genial. One nodded at the screen and the other raised a pint glass, tilted gently in my direction. Cheers indeed.
Frost and Stanford really knew how to make an entrance.
*
Decision time: bolt for the nearest exit and make a scene or slip away as quietly as possible? These people around me were already likely enough to remember all they had seen this evening so drawing attention to myself was something I desperately needed to avoid.
For a moment I just stared, rabbit-in-the-headlights, at the sight of them standing there. I knew that I'd not been certain of their demise, had not waited to gather proof after our fight, but I had not expected to have my lingering doubts so jarringly confirmed.
Between myself and the grinning Frost and Stanford there were stools, tables and two dozen dazed and edgy drinkers. There were far fewer obstacles between me and the door though and so I bent to grab my bag and made for the exit as discretely as I could and noted as I looked back over my shoulder that Frost was sinking his pint whilst Stanford merely winked at me and waved.
It flashed across my mind that they may have been done with me and that I would be able to simply walk away, reminded that they were still out there somewhere and more formidable than I had imagined. Perhaps I was no longer of interest to them. Perhaps they had better things to do.
Silly boy.
Barely was I twenty yards down the road, moving at a brisk jog, than Stanford's voice was in my ear.
'Good evening Mr Laing.'
I started at the deep voice so close and span around, but Stanford and his companion were standing in the doorway I had just left. I had no idea how he had done that, but wasn't about to ask him.
I bolted into a flat sprint and picked my way between the people on the pavement making their way home or to the shops ahead. I was still deft and sharp enough to move at some speed without losing control but I had not factored in the bag I carried and felt this thump into more than one body as I raced past.
Their shouts of protest were soon lost behind me as I covered ground fast and dared to look back for a moment to see my pursuer's progress.
They seemed to be jogging, moving with barely any effort even as they gained on me, flitting and dodging between people in a way that was so graceful and smooth that it seemed as though everyone else in my field of vision had been slowed down to half-speed. Barely anyone even looked up as the two figures swept past.
Up ahead I was approaching a junction with traffic lights. The lights were green and the cars moving through freely as people gathered at the crossing waiting for the signal to change. I saw immediately that to stop here and wait with them would end only one way. Frost and Stanford would be on me if I slowed down. To stop was to surrender.
To my immediate right was a queue of vehicles awaiting their turn and beyond that an
empty lane for oncoming traffic. Nothing up ahead had made a turn at the lights and the cars were all crossing straight over the junction.
I stepped out from the pavement and then ducked between a stationary bus and a large delivery truck bearing the logo of the supermarket that I could now see in the distance.
I had hoped that the large vehicles would conceal me briefly from Frost and Stanford but it also concealed me from the large white van than had swung right at the lights, accelerating as it did so to catch the yellow before it became red.
It also concealed me from view and as I ran out from this gap I was dead in the van's path. The driver barely even registered me before the impact. I saw his eyes close in the split second beforehand and hoped that his involuntary reactions would also run to hitting the brake pedal.
The bonnet hit me almost side on and span me round fast so I was face on, and then literally face on, as I smacked down hard against the windscreen. What breath I had was smashed from my lungs and shocking pain burst across my whole body.
I heard tires scream, or maybe it was a woman, and then I felt my fingers tighten their grip, one hand on the edge of the windscreen, the other on the grill below. My feet found a toehold on the bumper and then I was standing up, holding onto the front end of the careering van like a man riding the waltzers at the fairground.
I knew that the van was still moving at pace and I knew that it had only hit me a second ago but my movements were deliberate and confident and I could feel the familiar rush of adrenaline in my veins, clear and pure.
The van driver's eyes were still closed but the passenger was wide-eyed and open-mouthed as he watched me shift a hand from the grill to the wiper, hop from the bumper to the bottom edge of the windscreen and then as the brakes clamped tight on the wheels which slid and bounced on the road and the back end began to fish-tail, I vaulted onto the roof and out of sight.
I bounded across the van’s ridged rooftop on two strides and then simply jumped into the air and let the van slide away from under me. I was focussed and clear-eyed and I hit the ground running, dashing back across the pavement and hurdling the low wall of a car park.
In another two hundred yards I was dodging quickly across the vast busy space of the supermarket car park, zig-zagging to keep the trail difficult for the chasing Frost and Stanford and then finally, lungs seared with pain, ribs and chest and face aching and throbbing from the crunching impact of the van, fate intervened with an offering of good fortune.
The sports car was dark and sleek and its driver negligently occupied on a phone call that seemed to require a raised voice and ostentatious hand gestures. The keys swung from the ignition, the door was open and the man paced toward the back of the car, talking and laughing into the handset pressed to his ear.
It was even pointed in the right direction.
I was into the soft leather interior without the man seeing a thing and when the door slammed shut and the engine roared it took him a moment to consider that it might be his own car making enough noise to disturb his conversation.
But I was away before he could raise a word of protest and he stared motionless, struck dumb with disbelief for a moment before making a move. I saw him in the rear view mirror appear in the lane behind me and then watched as Frost arrived next to him and knocked the man sideways.
By the time he was on his feet again and finding himself oddly too unnerved to confront the man who had barged him over before he could give chase to his stolen car, I was well away.
As I drove, I could see in the rear-view the shrinking image of Frost and Stanford watching my tail lights fade as one of them clapped slowly in acknowledgement of a job well done.
Putting distance fast between us I noted that my heart was beating again as the adrenaline surged.
Act IV
Replenishment
Chapter 43
The thought struck me that I had never stolen a car before and further that I had never driven a sports car either.
I didn't even own a car right now. Living in London I was surrounded by bus stops, train lines and tube stations and failing all of those, the reliable black cab could be called upon as a late night last resort.
It had been a few years in fact since I had driven but it was like riding a bike. Or rather, it was like driving a car. Once you knew how, you knew how.
This car was smooth and gutsy and when I found some open road and pushed it, it pushed back, pressing me down into the gorgeously upholstered seat.
The glowing panel in front of me related a wealth of information, only some of which I could interpret, like the speed I was doing and the amount of fuel in the tank.
For a little while, as the rush of that natural drug coursed my veins, I cruised the car and pumped the high-spec stereo. But inside an hour I was calmer and thinking again.
There was much to think on.
First I figured that a car like this would be kitted out not just with the expensive Bose sound system, built-in sat nav and numerous driving aids that I could see, but no doubt a few extra bits that I couldn't. I had to assume that there was a tracking device installed and the longer I stayed in here, the greater the risk.
Of course, the sooner I swapped wheels for feet another risk came into play; Frost and Stanford would not accept defeat so easily as that and would no doubt be on my trail somehow. I wasn't sure how fast I would be on foot either after the impact of the speeding van. But as the miles and the minutes passed I was feeling that pain subside and knew I was on the mend fast. That was part of it.
I resolved to ditch the car at the next motorway service station, locking it to prevent any further damage or theft for the unfortunate owner, and then dumped the keys in the nearest bin.
I had to figure out my next step and knew that it would be best to keep moving. Certainly the motorway services were no place to get settled for long. Stealing another car was an option, though the odds of a repeat of the last situation were next to zero and without that I hadn't the first idea about breaking into a car, let alone disabling an alarm or starting it without a key.
When the rumbling growl of trucks rolling in and out of the services caught my attention, I saw a simpler option.
Wandering to the lorry park toward the back I decided on being straight and asked the first driver if I could jump in with him and received a simple 'fuck off' in response. The next request was simply ignored as the man jumped up into his cab and slammed the door shut.
So I melted back into the shadows and I waited. A half hour passed and two more trucks rolled in. In one a light went on in the cab for ten minutes and then out again without the door ever opening so I figured that he was probably down for a sleep and going nowhere soon. The other had a refrigerated trailer and the driver merely hopped out, pissed into the nearest bushes and was gone again.
Waiting in the dark I thought on the other issue that had been troubling me whilst driving the car too fast along the motorway.
My nemesis, Issy's killer, had appeared in the news twice now. Both times in spectacular fashion.
The first occasion I had imagined were the actions of a psychopath, that what Frost and Stanford had done to him had driven him to madness and desperation.
But what I had watched him do earlier that evening on the live feed of the news channel had not seemed to have the same degree of abandon or lack of control. This appeared deliberate and full of intent. Climbing those cables, clambering up onto that pod one hundred and thirty metres up in the London night, a brand new dot on the skyline, seemed to me to be still a desperate act, but at the same time purposeful.
He could scarcely have done more to attract attention to himself, which seemed the last thing he would do after the daylight murder at Oxford Circus. Indeed, in this new context, that too seemed to be almost wilfully obvious an act to carry out. I was all too aware of how quietly and anonymously a life might be taken if the need drove you strongly enough.
So why court an audience th
at way?
I considered that perhaps he had not fed until this point and the hunger and sickness had finally exploded that day amid a crowd of busy shoppers and that tonight that same man's anguish and insanity had manifested in the way we had all witnessed.
But then I remembered Issy and before that my knowledge of his predisposition to violence. He had already killed and would surely have no compunction in doing so again. Indeed, watching him climb with such strength and control as he possessed, told me that he had fed well enough since what he had done to Issy that night. He had strength and agility in reserve and that can only have come from one thing.
My thoughts were broken by the arrival of another truck. The driver dropped to the tarmac and fished his wallet out to count the cash inside. Even from where I crouched in the dark shade of the undergrowth I could see his eyes fixed in the golden arches over at the service station building and he trotted off at a hurry.
The rear doors were covered in French words and a little concerted fiddling and the application of some force eventually popped the doors for long enough to slip inside and find a space amongst the smooth cardboard boxes and rough wooden pallets. I made a space and nestled my head on the soft middle of my bag, where the clothes inside rested.
Thirty minutes later the engine choked and grumbled into life and the gentle rocking of the truck began to coax me to sleep.
Lying in the darkness I thought about that lone figure dropping limp through the night toward the waiting river, limbs flapping in the air like ribbons. I thought about that crashing impact on the water as his body smashed the surface and the long minutes as the rings spread across the river and then settled and faded to nothing.
I knew something of him and what he could do, and not just because I had witnessed it firsthand.
But Stanford and Frost had told me as well and my last thought before I fell finally asleep, the last vestiges of that dull ache from the van hitting me in the street fading, was one of total conviction; he wasn't dead. Not the way that everyone thought he was.