by Andrew Lowe
Marco and Shaun shouldered into Sawyer and grabbed an arm each. They hustled him to the chair and forced him to sit. Marco took a step back, keeping the gun on him.
Sawyer nodded to the mallet and chisel. ‘Do you have to use such a big hammer? Won’t that split the wood?’
Marco shook his head. ‘Distributes the impact quite evenly, actually. Less stress on the—’
‘Chiseller?’ said Sawyer.
Marco nodded. ‘And if you miss with a small-headed hammer… Well. It gets really messy.’
Hector held Sawyer’s arms to the frame of the chair while Shaun began to wrap the rope around his legs.
‘We’re not savages,’ said Marco. ‘Shaun will hold your hand down on that coffee table. Marco will do the business. It’ll be nice and quick. Then we’ll be on our way and you’ll be free to call for help. With your left hand. Seriously. If you just let us get on with it, we’ll be gone before you know it. We’ve done this before, you know.’
‘No anaesthetic?’ said Sawyer.
‘As I say, it’ll sting a bit. But you’ll live. Wrap a towel round it to stop the bleeding. We will be taking the offending digit with us, though.’ He shrugged. ‘It’s a trophy thing.’
Sawyer nodded. ‘Proof that the job is done.’
Marco smiled.
Shaun threaded the rope underneath the chair and wove it up and round, over Sawyer’s legs.
‘Any advice for aftercare?’ said Sawyer. ‘Oils or ointments?’
Marco squinted at Sawyer, equally amused and bemused. ‘Maybe a touch of Vaseline. At least.’
‘You do realise that cutting the thumb off a high-ranking police officer constitutes an assault. That’s a serious offence.’
Shaun looked up. ‘It doesn’t count if you’re not “executing your duty”.’ He stood up and moved around in front of Sawyer, momentarily blocking Hector’s vision.
Sawyer lurched forward and drove his shoulder into Shaun, pushing with his full force, using Shaun’s weight against him. He overbalanced and toppled backwards, into Hector. As they stumbled together, Sawyer jerked his legs up, freeing them from the rope. He reached behind and grabbed the kitchen chair.
Hector made a move for him, but Sawyer was quicker. He swung the chair around, smashing the heavy seat into the side of Hector’s head. The big man bellowed in outrage and dropped to the floor, dazed but still conscious.
Sawyer stepped to the side, giving himself more room. He swung the chair again, this time at Marco. It wasn’t as strong a connection, but it hit him across the shoulder, jolting him sideways and forcing him to drop the gun, which, inconveniently, slid across the floor towards Hector, who had pulled himself up onto all-fours.
Sawyer kicked the gun away and drove his knee into the side of Hector’s head, swinging the full strength of his core into the impact. Hector sank to the floor, unconscious.
Now, Shaun was on him, bursting forward. Sawyer switched to JKD fighting stance and shuffled back and to the side, allowing Shaun’s forward momentum to stagger him. Shaun turned and drew back his right arm, telegraphing his punch. Sawyer neutered it with an inside forearm block and stepped inside, hoping to down him with an elbow strike. But Shaun was quick, and grabbed Sawyer’s left arm, readying a second punch. They grappled for a second, as Marco climbed over the sofa, in search of the gun.
Shaun had pulled Sawyer in close, clearly hoping to overpower him with brute strength. Body odour. Tobacco breath. Sawyer drew his head away, as Shaun jerked him to the side, trying to wrestle him to the ground. Shaun had the advantage in bulk, and once they were on the floor, Sawyer would be sucked into a time-consuming grapple.
Marco crouched down by the kitchen table, fumbling for the gun.
Shaun jerked Sawyer to the side again. One more of those and he would have him down, and be on top. He smiled, his mouth close enough for Sawyer to see a thread of cosmetic silver fillings across his front teeth. ‘Nice try.’ He jerked again. ‘Tough guy.’
Sawyer lifted the car keys from Shaun’s pocket. He strained the muscle in his neck, pulling it back. He nodded down, crunching his forehead into Shaun’s nose. Shaun cried out, and released Sawyer’s arm. He stumbled back, and Sawyer hit him with a finger thrust to his eyes: brutal and direct, like a snake strike. Shaun fell away, howling and clutching his face.
Marco was on the floor, reaching underneath the sink unit.
Sawyer bolted for the front door.
Across the porch, to the Mercedes.
He squeezed the transponder button and the car’s lights flashed.
He opened the driver’s door.
A gunshot resounded from behind. Muzzle flash lighting up the night.
Marco stood at the front door, pointing the gun at him, head drooped but alert. ‘Don’t fucking move!’ Inside, Shaun roared in fury.
Sawyer stared at him, breathing hard. He glanced inside the car. Push button start. He slipped inside and closed the door, ducked down, squeezed his foot on the brake pedal.
Muffled gunshot. Another muzzle flash.
A bullet crunched into the bodywork on the passenger side. It was oddly anticlimactic; as if it had been hit by a heavy rock.
Sawyer pushed the start button. The engine growled into life.
Another shot skimmed the roof of the car. Marco moved forward on the porch, holding the Glock at eye level, aiming along the barrel.
Sawyer slid deep in the driver seat, head below the level of the windows. He pushed hard on the accelerator and reversed onto the road.
As he swung the car around, Marco scored a direct hit on the windscreen. The bullet punched a hole through the centre, sending out a spray of jagged fracture lines.
Sawyer shifted gear and squeezed the accelerator, staying low in the seat. The car screeched away. As he rounded the corner, he looked in the wing mirror and saw Shaun standing on the porch next to Marco, watching.
He drove to the Edale station car park, turned off the lights and engine, and sat there in the quiet, in the dark.
Every inch of his skin felt raw and tender, and the familiar tingling had reared up in the base of his neck. He inhaled, held it. He covered his ears with his hands and listened to the accelerated thump of his heart. He exhaled, lowered his hands to his legs. Wetness on the left leg, near the thigh. He turned on the interior light.
Red, red, red. Spreading out from the top of his trouser leg. His fingers found the scorched fabric, the bullet hole. Warm. The smell of singed fabric, burnt flesh.
Sawyer took out his phone and checked the time 11:17. The late Sheffield train would be arriving in three minutes.
He opened the door and tumbled out. Now, at last, the pain flashed across his leg, through his groin, up into his torso. A deep and deadly burning.
He limped across the car park, to the verge. He climbed the perimeter fence, his wounded leg sending out rapid pulses of pain.
Sweat, now. Tickling his forehead, prickling the edges of his mouth.
Train lights. Vibrating track.
He shuffled down the verge onto the Tarmac path, close to the level crossing.
It was his first time: being shot. It was worse than he had imagined. The burning intensified with every step, and every step seemed heavier than the last. He could flush it all away here: the pain, the puzzles. He could step away from the whole righteous farce; bow out before the great decline of middle-age. Leave behind a good-looking work in progress.
He limped over the boom barrier and stepped onto the track.
Alex’s voice drifted in. ‘I think you’re traumatised.’
He turned and walked, stepping over the sleepers, towards the onrushing train.
‘The six-year-old who witnessed something too terrible to contemplate.’
A blast on the train horn. He kept walking. The lights from the train getting closer, brighter.
And then, his mother. Another good-looking work in progress.
‘Why?’
He would never know the answer. He would nev
er know the reason for the question.
Another blast on the horn. The driver, leaning out of the cab. Waving, shouting.
He stepped up his pace.
‘Jake! Run, my darling. Don’t look back!’
Sawyer veered away from the train. He jumped over the rail, crunching into the trackside gravel, broke into a run for the shrubland, his leg blaring with pain.
From behind, the whump of the passing train.
He fell forward, gasping for breath. Dizzy now. Trembling.
He took out his phone, felt his trouser leg. Warm and wet.
His mother’s upturned hand.
‘Sir?’ Shepherd sounded groggy.
‘Step up the protection.’
‘Protection?’
‘On Amy and her daughter.’
Sawyer swallowed, groping for the words. ‘Do it now. Don’t wait until morning. Have you got that?’
Shepherd paused. ‘Are you okay, sir? It’s really late. Have you been drinking?’
He was suddenly so tired. He closed his eyes.
‘Sir?’
‘And feed my cat.’
49
White light. Voices.
‘How is he?’ Deep, vaguely Welsh. Keating.
Then, a new voice. Clipped. High-born. ‘He’s lost quite a lot of blood. Gunshot wound. No bullet. Must have passed through. Just shy of the femoral artery. Mild hypovolemic shock. Dehydrated. He’s stable. He’s also incredibly lucky. Couple of millimetres difference and he wouldn’t have even made it here.’
Sawyer wanted to stay there: at rest, unreachable. But he forced his eyes open. He was in an overheated hospital room. A ward, judging by the noise outside the closed curtain around his bed. Keating stood at the foot of the bed, in off-duty clothes, talking to a younger man in a white shirt and striped tie with a stethoscope and lanyard badge around his neck.
Sawyer found his voice. ‘For a minute there, I thought I might be in heaven.’
‘Maybe you are,’ said Keating.
‘That’s your God complex talking.’ His voice was thin, his throat dry. ‘Protection,’ he said to Keating. ‘Amy and the others.’
‘It’s in hand. All fine. Your DS has it under control.’
Sawyer reached to his bedside table and sipped from his plastic glass of warm water. He took in too much and spluttered. ‘Newspaper?’
‘Next on my list. Thumbscrews for Bloom.’
The doctor stepped forward. ‘Morning! I’m Dr Harford. I’m one of the senior A&E doctors. You’re in Cavendish Hospital, Buxton. How are you feeling, Mr Sawyer?’
Sawyer read the man’s lanyard: Dr George Harford. ‘I’m feeling okay. Bit sleepy. You’re the guy who saved my life, right?’
The doctor laughed, and checked him over. ‘Hardly. Just plugged a leak. You’re on saline for now. You’ve had some morphine. And some blood.’ He wrote on the clipboard at the end of the bed, looked up. ‘You were shot, Mr Sawyer. I’m happy for you to go home, but you must rest.’ He glanced at Keating. ‘Whatever you’re… dealing with, it’s important that you give your body time to recover. And your mind. You may be feeling calm now, but you’ve been through a great deal of shock.’ Sawyer nodded, his thoughts spooling back through the scene at his house. ‘Someone will be in soon with more painkillers, and to check your dressing. You may need to change it yourself later.’
Sawyer shrugged. ‘I’m a big boy.’
The doctor narrowed his eyes. ‘You will need some time. Couple of weeks.’ He nodded at Keating and slipped through the curtain.
‘Close one,’ said Keating.
‘I heard.’
‘“Close”, as in, “would have probably bled to death if the train driver hadn’t reported some maniac on the track near Edale.”’
He looked down at his gown, examined the bandage around his thigh. ‘How did I get here?’
‘Dispatch sent police and ambulance. Picked up the maniac. By the side of the track.’ Sawyer dropped his head, rubbed and stretched the skin around his eyes. ‘I called your father.’
‘Good catch-up?’
Keating sat down beside the bed. ‘I haven’t seen him for a long time. He’s doing well for himself, but worried.’
‘About?’
‘About you. Wants me to update him.’
‘Like old times?’ Sawyer gently squeezed at his wound and winced at the jolt of pain. ‘Tell him I’m fine. Tell him the doctor says I’m fine. He has a thing for higher powers.’
‘I spoke to the officer who found you. The train driver said they’ve had trouble at that stretch lately. Someone running across the tracks. Playing chicken, or something. They’re lobbying for more security. A closed crossing.’ He pulled his chair closer. ‘Jake, if you were in my shoes, you would be asking what the fuck is going on.’
Sawyer hitched himself upright against his pillow. ‘Well, I’m not you. But don’t think I haven’t fantasised.’
‘Maggie wants you to call her. I promised to let her know once I’d seen you.’
He nodded. ‘Shepherd?’
‘He went to your house. Door was open. Looks like someone left in a hurry. He says the place was clear. Bit studenty.’
‘Studenty?’
Keating looked at his watch. ‘His word. Evidence of an altercation. Furniture disturbed. Tyre tracks on the drive. Skid-marks. Bullet shells.’
Sawyer stared ahead, recalibrating. ‘I was attacked in my home. I got away in the attackers’ car.’
‘And where is that now?’
‘I left it in the station car park. White Mercedes.’
‘There was a transponder key in your pocket. Shepherd took your house keys, secured your place. We had a look around near the station. No cars.’
‘They must have had a tracker on it. Dupe key. Picked it up before you got there. What time is it, anyway? How long have I been here?’
‘Nine-thirty. You arrived just after midnight. Considerate of you to do all of this at a civilised hour. Whatever this is.’
Sawyer sighed. ‘It’s personal. I’ll fix it.’ He looked at Keating. ‘I’m fine. I’ll re-focus.’
Keating bristled. ‘You are not fine. This is not fine.’
‘You know it’s pointless to insist I go home and watch YouTube for two weeks?’
‘I do. But Shepherd is to take on the bulk of the work. We’ve moved Amy and Ava Scott to a safe house. Kim Lyons is co-operating, but Jamie Ingram is a character. Another bloody unreconstructed male who thinks he’s the master of the universe.’ He took out a set of house keys and lobbed them onto the bedside table. ‘From Shepherd.’ He sighed. ‘Leave this to him for now. I need you strong. You’ve been weakened. Your body needs to renew itself. You’ve lost blood.’
Sawyer smiled. ‘Ain’t got time to bleed.’
‘Predator. Now that I have seen.’
After Keating had left, Sawyer lay there for a while, listening to the activity outside the curtain: chattering staff, footsteps squeaking on linoleum, bleating children, the tannoy’s muffled appeals. The sounds of human beings caring, repairing, keeping each other going. The urgency of life; the eternal wrestle to delay death. They had pieced him together here before, thirty years earlier, as a shattered six-year-old. He remembered the adults’ hollowed eyes and drained faces; the probing lights, the head-shakes. The way they peered at him, looked into him, searching for signs of survival, prising him back up, out of the dark, to face the horror of his freshly upside-down world.
He dozed, drifting in and out of consciousness. Images clashed and warped. The doctor’s lanyard badge photo. The monolithic mine buildings. The train lights. Joseph Dawson holding the blue spade high above his head.
He pivoted out of bed, dressed, and signed himself out. In the cab back to the cottage, he checked his phone. Missed call from Shepherd. Messages from Maggie, his father. Nothing from Eva.
The cottage felt surreal, unchanged. The chairs and kitchen table were back in place. Shepherd had cleared up some of the coffee ta
ble clutter, and even washed the dishes. There were no calling cards or sinister notes, and the Mini was untouched. A saucer of cat food lay on the kitchen floor; the half-empty can sat on the top shelf of the barren fridge.
His attackers would have called for another car, tracked the Mercedes, picked it up from the station. With Shaun, and the European Health Insurance card, he had a clear connection to Dale. But it would be tough to directly connect him to the assault.
He made tea and buttery white toast, and hobbled over to the sofa. The wound in his thigh rebuked him for the effort as he eased himself down and called Shepherd.
Background office noise. ‘Sir. Are you out?’
Sawyer sipped his tea. ‘What’s this Lily’s Kitchen shit?’
‘It was all they had at the farm shop. It’s good stuff. Ethical.’
‘I’ll never get him back on Whiskas now.’
The background noise dropped as Shepherd closed his office door. ‘It ain’t cheap, either. I’ll be adding it to my housekeeping fee.’
Sawyer laughed and looked around the sitting room. There was something vague and unwelcoming about the place, as if it belonged to someone else. His head felt fuzzy from the morphine. ‘I’m taking the day off. But, obviously, I’m still “on”.’
‘What happened?’
‘Unrelated to the case. I’ve pissed someone off. He sent round some people to let me know it would be a good idea to stop pissing him off. I’m fine. Thanks for your help. I owe you.’
‘Yeah. £1.40 for the cat food, for starters.’ Shepherd paused. ‘Targets are protected. Walker is still with Jamie Ingram. I have a separate team with Amy and Ava at a safe house. Kim Lyons has reluctantly agreed to have the officers in the house. The Observation Points are in position. If he comes within fifty feet of any of the places, we’ll know about it in plenty of time to act.’
‘If we bring him in, we’ll still need to make a case.’
‘Of course. Still nothing on forensic leads, though. Nothing from local shops on recent purchases of the type of lock he replaced at Simon Brock’s house.’
Sawyer flexed and unflexed his right hand. The bruising had eased, but the joints had stiffened. ‘He must have staked it, bought it somewhere distant. Online, maybe. How is Myers doing with the name trace? Have you checked chemistry graduates?’