Paper Girls

by Alex Smith

  “Secure him,” he said. “Stay with the girl.”

  “No offence,” she replied as she dug out her cuffs. “Maybe you should stay with her. I’ll go after the others.”

  Kett shook his head, walking past Savage to get to the door. He stopped on the way to scoop up the crowbar, then he turned to her, squinting through the pain.

  “Thanks,” he said.

  “Go get those fuckers,” she replied. She reached into her pocket and pulled out her little silver police whistle, handing it to him. “If you need me, just blow.”

  He nodded, walking out of the room. To the left the corridor stretched towards a flight of stairs that descended into darkness. There were streaks of blood on the walls, dry but not old. Kett gripped the crowbar as he dropped onto the first step, the old wood crying out in alarm. Together with Stillwater’s shriek, it meant that any hope of surprising the other kidnappers was shot.

  “Figg,” he called out, his voice cracking. “Percival. We know you’re here. The house is surrounded. Come out now and I won’t cave your fucking heads in.”

  Nothing. He couldn’t hear laughter, or the screams of the girls—just the ringing in his ears and the thunderstroke of blood as it washed through his aching skull.

  “Your choice,” he grunted as he reached the bottom step. There was another hallway down here, two doors ahead and a third behind him which looked like it led into a kitchen. There was a definite draft coming from that direction, so he marched to the kitchen door and peered inside.

  “Figg?” he shouted. “We know everything. We know about the group, we know you recruited Stillwater and Percival, Sanford too. We know you planned this whole operation. You don’t have a hope in hell of getting out of this, unless you hand the girls over right now.”

  The kitchen was dark, except for a light that streamed from under a pantry door. Kett slapped the wall until he found a switch, flicking it. Reluctantly, a bank of bare bulbs in the ceiling blinked on, revealing a farmhouse kitchen that looked perfectly ordinary.

  Except for the blood.

  It was everywhere, pooling on the flagstones, splashed over the counters, welded to the aga. It was dark, congealed, old. Whoever it had belonged to was long dead.

  “Percival,” Kett yelled as he walked to the pantry. “We know they forced you. We know this isn’t your doing. Come out now, help us save those girls, and I’ll do my best to get you out of this.”

  He used the crowbar to open the pantry door, screwing his face up when the smell hit him. Not sewage, this time. Not unwashed flesh.

  This was the smell of the dead.

  No.

  There was a body in here, buried beneath a pile of blankets. All Kett could see was an arm, almost entirely drained of blood, its fingers contorted into talons. He snatched in a breath, his lungs empty.

  Was it Maisie?

  Was it Connie?

  Or did both girls lie there, entwined beneath that stinking shroud?

  He checked behind him then ducked down, grabbing the top blanket and pulling it away. A face came into view, waxy and mask-like in death.

  A man’s face.

  He recognised it from the picture he’d seen less than an hour ago. Alan Sanford, the owner of the house. His throat was a jagged mess where somebody had sliced it open, everything from the neck down drenched in an apron of cold, dried blood.

  Kett breathed again, pulling the rest of the blankets off to make sure Sanford was alone. Then he stood up, fighting the vertigo as he walked out of the pantry.

  They’d just been here, he’d just heard them—laughing, screaming, pleading.

  Where had they gone?

  “Maisie?” he called out. “Connie? If you can hear me, if you’re free to move, then follow the sound of my voice. I’m here to help you. I’m going to get you out.”

  “No, you’re not.”

  The voice came from the hallway, and Kett stumbled towards it, exiting the kitchen with his crowbar raised.

  Figg stood in the doorway at the other end of the corridor, past the stairs, grinning at Kett through his goatee. His eyes held nothing of the warmth they’d had when Kett had first met him, they were dark, and small, and full of something primal, something dangerous.

  Clamped in one hand, held by her scalp, was Maisie Malone.

  In his other hand, pressed to her neck, was a knife.

  “You’re too late, Robbie,” said Figg, digging the blade into Maisie’s throat hard enough to release a bead of blood. She opened her mouth but no scream came out, just bubbles of silent terror. Figg was smiling, but he was furious. Kett could see the rage boiling in his every movement. “I know the house isn’t surrounded, so why don’t you do us all a favour and fuck off.”

  “Maisie,” said Kett, speaking to the girl. “Just stay calm, you’re going to be okay.”

  “You say that like it’s true,” Figg said. “But here’s the thing. I’m leaving now. You take one step in my direction and I’ll empty her like I did that pussy Sanford, like I did the other little bitch.”

  Connie, Kett thought, a wave of dark anger pulsing through him.

  Figg retreated into the room. Maisie walked clumsily with him, whispering nononononono with every breath.

  “One step, Robbie, and you end her.”

  Figg smiled again, then he lunged to the side and they vanished into the shadows.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  One step would end her.

  But one step could save her, too.

  Kett counted to five, listening to the thump of movement from the other room. There was a soft scream, a grunt, then nothing.

  He moved as fast as he dared, the crowbar still locked in his sweaty grip as he charged through the door. One look told him everything he needed to know: it was a living room, empty, and the bay window on the far side was open.

  Kett ran through the dark, reaching the window in time to see Figg struggling away from the house. He pushed Maisie in front of him, hard enough that she spilled to the ground, sobbing. Then he looked back.

  Kett ducked, trying to make sense of the tornado of his thoughts. Figg was insane, he’d kill the girl the moment he knew she wasn’t useful any more. If he saw Kett coming through the window, Maisie was dead.

  He had to be smart.

  He doubled back, running through the kitchen and out the door. He was at the back of the house, but even from here he could hear the distant cavalry-horn of sirens.

  He set off across a builder’s yard of sand and brick, stumbling blindly. At one point he fell, the crowbar ringing off the ground like a church bell. He scooped it up, taking great, gulping breaths of sewage air as he climbed over the crumbling remains of a wall to see nothing but the night.

  Stupid! He’d lost them. If Figg got away then—

  No, there, two silhouettes against the trees, heading in the direction of the sewage plant. Kett pulled the night over him like a cloak, chasing after them. He could hear the percussive thump of a helicopter coming this way, and more sirens now.

  They weren’t going to get here in time.

  Kett pushed onwards, tripping over knots of bramble and grass before hitting the dirt road that led to the treatment works. He could hear Figg up ahead, he was practically screaming at Maisie to hurry up.

  Then another voice replied—not Maisie at all. It was a man, his voice whimpering, pathetic.

  “No, Raymond, no!”

  Lochy Percival.

  The road curved to the right, a cluster of buildings ahead. The smell here was so thick it was almost liquid, Kett practically swimming through it as he chased the two men and their prey. He could just about see them climbing over a chainlink fence, Maisie screaming as she landed hard. Mercifully there were lights ahead, Figg and Maisie coming into view like they’d stepped onto a theatre stage, Percival limping after them.

  They were all running out of steam, and so was Kett, but he put his head down and closed the distance between them. He scaled the fence and stumbled through a lo
w hedge onto grass, seeing the giant, circular aeration basins ahead. Figg had stopped by the edge of the nearest one, his wheezing breaths like a siren going off. He looked back and saw Kett, then he grabbed Maisie around the neck and held her tight. Percival was right next to them, his hands on his knees as he sucked in air.

  “This is how you want it to end?” Figg shouted, the tip of his blade pressed against Maisie’s cheek. “You’re a fucking idiot, Kett. You never knew when to listen.”

  “Hey,” Kett said, slowing to a walk. He tightened his grip on the crowbar, wishing he was fast enough to cover the twenty yards between him and Figg in a single stride. His head was pounding, every heartbeat like a flare going off behind his eyes. “Just put the knife down, Figg. It’s over.”

  “Over for her,” Figg replied. Behind him the arm swung in a lazy circle around the giant basin, churning the stench of sewage into the air. The chopper was closing in, and the trees behind Kett were full of flashing blue lights. Figg glanced at them, licking his lips, but Kett turned his attention to Percival.

  “It’s not too late for you either, Lochy,” he said. “None of this is your fault.”

  “It is.” Percival spoke the words through a heaving sob. “It is. She’s dead and it’s my fault.”

  “Delia?” said Kett. “She’s alive. Your niece is okay.”

  Percival looked up, making a sound like he was choking.

  “She’s okay?” he asked. “Stillwater said—”

  “Stillwater’s in handcuffs,” Kett said. “Delia’s dehydrated, and in shock, but she’ll live.”

  “Christian failed,” sneered Figg, wrestling with Maisie as she struggled to free herself. “What a surprise. All talk and no trousers that one. But you’re too late for Connie. Lochy made sure of that.”

  Figg’s grin made Kett want to stave his face in. But Percival was shaking his head.

  “I couldn’t,” he said. “I couldn’t do it. She was so… so young. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

  “Connie Byrne’s alive?” Kett asked. Percival nodded.

  “I hid her in the basement. I told her to be quiet.”

  “You fucking coward,” said Figg. He pulled the knife away from Maisie’s face and jabbed it at Percival—almost close enough to skewer his eyeball. Percival reeled back, covering his face and whining. “You fucking coward! I knew you couldn’t do it.”

  Kett wasn’t watching Percival. His eyes were locked on Maisie—and hers on Kett.

  “I should finish you off right now, you cunt,” Figg growled at Percival, loosening his grip on the young girl.

  Kett nodded to Maisie, and she knew exactly what to do. With a scream of defiance she broke free of Figg’s grip and bolted across the grass.

  “Go!” Kett roared, running towards her. “Go! Go! Go!”

  Figg’s face was a carnival mask of delirium—a sick grin sliced from ear to ear. He lunged at Percival, the blade sinking into the other man’s throat like he was made of butter. Percival clamped a hand to the wound, his eyes bulging, his mouth opening into a perfect O as the blood began to pour between his fingers. Figg wasn’t watching, he was sprinting after the girl, his arms and legs like pistons.

  “Run!” shouted Kett.

  Maisie was halfway between them now, glancing back after every other step. Kett put his head down, ready to smash Figg’s face to the other side of his head. He expected the girl to run past him but she didn’t, she threw herself into his arms, wrapping herself around him, blinding him.

  “Please!” she screamed in his ear, her grip on him suffocating. “Please!”

  He spun, angled his head to see Figg just feet away.

  Kett shoved Maisie hard, sending her flying. Then Figg’s blade punched into his left shoulder.

  “Fucker!” Figg screamed, spraying spit into his face. He pulled the knife out with a gout of blood and an explosion of ice cold agony. Then he rammed it forward again. Kett angled his body out of the way, bringing up his other arm—the one that held the crowbar. He swung wildly, missing Figg and spinning around in a circle. Figg was lunging again, the blade slicing across Kett’s chest.

  Kett tried to punch with his left hand but his injured shoulder wouldn’t let him. Instead, he lifted his boot and slammed it into Figg’s knee. The pop it made was like a gunshot and the man staggered away before falling onto his backside.

  The world had slipped off its axis, careening into the void of space. Figg was retreating on his arse, jabbing the blade into thin air like a scorpion’s tail. There was absolutely no doubt that his leg was broken, bent at an impossible angle at the knee.

  “Fucker,” he grunted as he went. “Fucker. Fucker.”

  Kett dropped the crowbar, pushing his hand against the wound in his shoulder. The blood that poured from him was as hot as boiling water—and there was a lot of it. He looked at Maisie, the girl somehow still standing after everything she’d been through.

  “See those lights,” he croaked, nodding to the trees. There had to have been half a dozen police cars over there now, the chopper hovering overhead with its searchlight blazing. “Run to them, and don’t stop. Tell them where we are.”

  Maisie didn’t move. She looked at Figg, her eyes narrowing. It was the expression of somebody beaten and bent by a harrowing trauma, somebody who would never be the same again.

  “I want to see it,” she said. “I want to see him dead.”

  “He’s not going to die,” Kett said, picking up the crowbar again—the metal almost sliding out of his blood-slick fingers. “He’s going to prison for a long, long time.”

  “You think?” said Figg, still backing away. The basin of sewage sat right behind him, that arm rotating. “You haven’t won this one yet. How’d you even know it was me?”

  “Come with me now and I’ll tell you everything,” said Kett, advancing.

  “But you’re so fucking stupid,” said Figg. “You failed.”

  “Failed?” asked Kett. “You’re the one lying down there, I’m the one about to reel you in. Three girls back in their beds, three arseholes behind bars.” He glanced at Percival, who was crumpled on the grass, as still as a boulder. “Well, behind bars or dead. Either works for me. I’d say I was the winner here.”

  Figg laughed, but it was brittle. He had nowhere left to go.

  “You failed your wife,” he said. “You failed Billie.”

  If Maisie hadn’t been watching, he’d have happily finished Figg off right here and now and claimed self-defence. Hell, he got the feeling he could do it anyway and the young girl would back him up. He swallowed, holding the crowbar so tightly that his hand ached. Somehow, Figg was clambering to his feet, all his weight on his good leg.

  “Don’t,” Kett said. “Drop the knife.”

  “You’re so stupid,” Figg said again, swaying like a drunk. “How could you not know what happened to her? It’s so fucking simple. Even I figured it out.”

  “What?” said Kett. “What are you talking about?”

  “You really don’t know, do you?” said Figg, his face twisting in pain as he tried to move his leg. He almost fell again, sheer force of will keeping him up. “See, at first I thought you were in on it, because I didn’t believe anyone could be so dense. But you really don’t know what happened to your wife.”

  He laughed again, a sound of pure delight.

  “If you know something, I’ll happily beat it out of you in the nick,” Kett said. “But I’m guessing you’re full of shit.”

  “If I’m full of shit, then ask me about him,” Figg said, grinning. “Ask me how Billie knew the Pig Man. Ask me what it has to do with that Khan boy. You coppers, you think we’re all Jack the Rippers, working alone. You think we don’t talk to each other. But we do, we all share, we all compete, we all follow each other on fucking Facebook. You think I don’t know, but I do, I know where she—”

  Percival thumped into Figg so fast that at first Kett couldn’t figure out what was going on. Lochy was drenched in blood and h
alfway to death, but somehow he managed to wrap his arms around Figg and knock him backwards. Figg screamed, his face contorting with pain as he tried to stop Percival from grabbing the knife. The pair of them performed a grotesque, limping ballet across the spotlit grass, grunting like pigs.

  “No!” Kett shouted, running for the men.

  He was too late. Percival took the knife, almost fumbled it, then drove it down into Figg’s neck. Figg threw a punch, grappling with his attacker even as he sprayed a fountain of blood from his mouth.

  “No!” Kett yelled again, almost on them.

  Percival stabbed again, and again, the two men stumbling wildly until, with gargled shrieks, they fell into the basin of sewage. Kett skidded to a halt beside them, reaching for them, then the rotating arm swung by again and they were gone.

  “No!” he said as he dropped onto all fours. He rested his head on the grass and felt blood pour down his neck from the wound in his shoulder, filling his ear. “Please.”

  A hand on his arm, a young voice.

  “Mister? Hey, are you okay?”

  He wasn’t okay. He was bleeding out. Already he felt empty, the husk of his body as light as air, ready to be cast away by the slightest breeze. He wasn’t even sure if his eyes were closed, or if they simply didn’t work any more. All he could see against the black were the faces of his daughters, the three girls he would never see again.

  He slapped his pocket, trying to work the whistle loose. Maisie must have helped him, because he suddenly heard it—a shrill call that would bring help.

  Savage’s lucky whistle.

  But not lucky for him, not today.

  Not lucky for Billie, either. Or for his girls.

  He lay on the ground and felt Maisie’s arms around him, he heard the whistle blow, and he heard shouts as people ran this way.

  Not lucky enough, he thought.

  And that was that.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  It was the smell of tea that woke him. Hot, aromatic, deliciously strong.

  Kett tried to sit up, then immediately stopped. Pain radiated from his shoulder into his chest, his neck, his arm. It was muted—tempered by some serious painkillers, if his suspicions were right—but it was still agony. His head, too, was pounding.