by Liz Mistry
Fiddling with the radio dial he managed to get a burst of noise, which turned into a staticky weather report.
‘The A636 and A616 are blocked completely by an overturned lorry. Gritters are attempting to clear the A62 after record amounts of drifting snow have led to abandoned vehicles… static… but Gemma has been reunited with her puppy in a news story to warm your hearts in these freezing blustery conditions.’
‘Fuck’s sake!’ Gore’s expletive powered out of his mouth in a snarl of rage as the car in front skidded right across the lane into oncoming traffic. Had it been a moment earlier it would have been alright as the roads had been deserted apart from their vehicle and the one in front. Gore pulled the steering wheel to the left to avoid slamming into the car’s rear end. The oncoming vehicle was a Morrison’s lorry with an image of a giant courgette with the immortal words ‘No courgettes kept in this vehicle overnight’ emblazoned across its side.
Its horn blared long and loud, as the two vehicles narrowly avoided a collision. Lewis Gore’s Volvo bumped over some piles of packed-up ice that had been sluiced to the side of the road by a gritter at some point. His tyres lost their purchase on the road and Gore tested his brakes, but the car was in full skid now and picked up momentum before slamming hard into a snow drift. The seatbelt cut across Gus’ chest, ricocheting him back, moments before his air bag erupted, trapping him against the seat. Almost immediately, a warm gush spurted from his nose and his ears began ringing. The pressure of the airbag against his chest evoked memories of his last panic attack when they’d found Izzie Dimou’s body. Blood trickled down the back of his throat and he could do nothing but swallow it.
Wondering how Lewis had fared, Gus ignored the metallic taste. ‘Gore, You alright?’ As he spoke, his hands moved to find the release catch for his seatbelt. If he didn’t get out from under the airbag soon, he’d asphyxiate. With each shallow breath his chest became tighter. His fingers scrabbled under the nylon fabric. Already the temperature in the car was falling and the adrenalin push made his body shiver. At last his fingers touched the metal casing and he pressed the button. ‘Gore?’ He tried again. Still silence.
Pulling the strap away from his body, he pushed the fabric from the door, hoping to be able to access the handle, flick it and fall out into the snow. His chest was becoming tighter with every passing second and he tried to block the thought that he was being entombed in a vehicle that was becoming buried in snow. He could hear moaning from his right and was relieved. At least Gore was alive. Pressing all his weight to the left, Gus found the handle and, releasing the catch, the door sprung open a few inches before being embedded in the drifting pile of snow they’d crashed into. Pushing the airbag to his right, Gus gained some leverage and pressed all his weight against the door. It gave, but only another couple of inches. Blood still trickled down his swollen, throbbing face. The skin was tight over his cheeks and the tingling numbness was increasing by the second.
He twisted his body, pulling his legs to the side and again applied pressure to the door. If he didn’t manage to get out soon, the continuing snowfall would make it even more difficult. Gore’s laboured breathing was a welcome distraction to his right. He needed to get out of the car in order to help his friend. Bending over, he used his fingernails to dig a small trough round the door frame that was stuck in the snow at the bottom. One more push. Another few inches, but if he slipped off his coat he reckoned it would be enough. He wriggled out of his fisherman’s jacket and leaving it on the seat behind him he edged his way into the snow, scraping his shoulders against the door as he did so. By the time he’d extracted his entire body, he was sweating and panting.
What the hell had just happened? Lewis had been closer than he should have to the car in front that was for sure. Gus had the grace to realise that he was partly to blame for that as he’d kept urging his friend to drive faster. The other reason though had been Gore’s desire to make use of the path the car was carving out of the heavy snow as it fell, obscuring the wheel ruts almost as soon as they were made.
Pulling himself onto his knees – aware now of the cold seeping through his body and the snow before him turning red – he dragged himself over to the car and grabbing his coat, he thrust his arms into the sleeves, leaving it open as his fingers were too cold to pull the zip up. Sticking close to the car, he edged round it looking for Gore, ‘Lewis. You there?’
A muffled groan came from the other side of the car and Gus made his way towards it. Lewis Gore lay on his back in the snow, having clearly completed a similar manoeuvre to Gus. His eyes flicked open when Gus touched his forehead. ‘Hope the car’s okay. Sandra will fucking kill me otherwise.’
Gus laughed, the relief that the big man was okay made him forget his own pain until Gore spoke. ‘You look a damn mess Gus. Patti will ditch you now, for sure. You look like Quasimodo on a bad day, lad. Might as well face up to it, you’re as ditched as my damn car.’ And he released a guffaw that made Gus want to punch him in the face. Bloody idiot, this was no laughing matter. It was only then that Gus realised that Gore was bleeding from an elongated gash across his forehead. Shit! Collapsing onto the snow beside Gore, Gus lay down with the arbitrary memory of himself and Katie making snow angels in their back garden when they were five or six years old. Fuck sake, get a grip, Gus. He sighed and closed his eyes, enjoying the soft touch of the flakes as they landed on his lids.
Despite Mickey urging them to get to Stalybridge ASAP, Nancy had told them to wait till the weather had cleared a bit. However, Gus – impatient as ever – had convinced Gore to risk the drive to Stalybridge. Now he realised just how foolhardy they’d been. Gore needed medical help and he himself could probably do with a couple of painkillers to see him through the rest of the day. He turned to survey the surrounding scene. He’d expected to see the Morrison’s truck idling at the side of the road and a Discovery with its front end smashed. But the road was empty. The vehicles’ tracks disappearing under the snow as he watched. He grabbed his phone – no signal. Fucking typical! His jaw tightened, making the ache across his nose throb even more.
‘Bastards!’ Shouted Gus shaking his fist first in the direction of the long gone Morrisons van and then in the direction of the Discovery. Then, once more for good measure, ‘Bastards!’
Deep laughter rumbled across the blizzard and he turned to see that Gore had managed to struggle to his feet and was leaning against the car, a handful of snow held to his cut. Gus exhaled, thinking back to how he’d made a cold pack in the early hours to ease his pain. The many medicinal qualities of snow!
‘Hey Gus, there’s a shovel in the boot,’ said Gore, laughing once more.
39
14:55 Saddleworth Moor
Daniel’s ankle had swollen to the size of a damn tree trunk; fortunately, it felt numb. It was so good to feel warm again – and full. Two tins of tomato soup had done the trick. Okay, it wasn’t a steak or even a McDonald’s but it was warm and flavoursome and it filled a hole. He’d even found some tea bags – so what if they were Better Buy ones? They added colour to the hot water and had a vague – alright a very vague – resemblance to the real deal. At the back of the pantry had been a discarded packet of digestives. Who cared that they were a few months past their sell by date – not Daniel. Dunking biscuits in tea made him feel almost normal.
Invigorated, he put his mind to his current predicament. He didn’t know what had happened to Izzie, so he refused to dwell on her. He’d think about that when he had to. The main thing right now was to get himself out of here and to safety. He still had no memory of who had brought him here, so that didn’t help. The house was neglected. Damp ran down the living room wall, unravelling brown water stained wallpaper ‘till it hung like a slurry of snakes on the sodden carpet. A thick layer of dust covered the heavy wooden furniture and an overwhelming mustiness permeated the air. Further exploration had uncovered various useful bits and pieces. A couple of sharp kitchen knives in sheaves were now slotted down the back of th
e belt he’d found in the upstairs wardrobe. He’d slipped a further pocket knife – unfortunately not a Swiss Army one, but nonetheless it could potentially be the difference between life and death for him – into his pocket. Perhaps the most useful acquisition had been the pair of crutches he’d found at the back of the musty smelling cloakroom.
The only footwear available that would go over his oversized ankle was a pair of size twelve wellies that stood by the back door as if awaiting the return of their giant-sized owner. His sprained foot was cumbersome – alien to him; an appendage over which he had no control. It was like a lump of beef on the end of his leg and his toes were puffy and pale as a lump of lard. Not a good sign, Daniel was sure. Still, at last he managed to stuff it into the wellie, although it was a tight fit. It was strange trying to manoeuvre it around, even with the crutch. The other wellie was too big for him, so he stuck old bits of newspaper into the toe and it seemed to do the trick. As long as he could move, he had a chance to escape – the questions were when should he make his move and in which direction?
Visibility was non-existent and, peering through the window at the blizzard, Daniel wished he had a radio or TV so he could get weather updates. Not that it would do him much good; he had no idea where he was. It looked like there was nothing else for it. He’d have to brave the weather, make his choice of direction and hope for the best. He dragged himself back into the kitchen and checked the supplies he’d crammed into the mouldy old army rucksack he’d found. A few tins, a spoon, some dry clothes, a kid’s cricket bat, matches, some old newspaper and a tin opener. Before slipping the rucksack on, he layered up in all the clothes he’d found upstairs. He’d had trouble with the stairs but had managed to drag himself up on his bottom so he could explore the rest of the rooms. The only things of interest he’d found were a couple of kids’ drawings pinned to the wall in one of the bedrooms. One of them had the name Missy Beaumont scrawled across the bottom in large childish writing. Too much of a coincidence for it not to be Jordan Beaumont’s daughter. At least that explained whose property he had been held in and, presumably, who had ordered his abduction. He wondered what the hell the bastard had done to Izzie. He could only hope that she’d escaped his clutches and was with friends.
Now that it was time for him to leave mild panic fluttered in his chest as he pulled a motley collection of hats, scarves and gloves on. He decided to do a quick reconnoitre round the periphery of the farmhouse. Upon opening the farmhouse door, a gust of wind sent him stumbling backwards. A gale had picked up and was whirling up bucketsful of snow and spinning them like a whirlpool. That, combined with the driving blizzard, covered Daniel in snow within seconds. A furious gale whirled up bucketsful of snow and in no time was it crawling down Daniel’s neck, biting at his face. Keeping as close to the walls of the house as he could, Daniel braced himself and began to skirt the building with the wind at his back offering him welcome momentum.
It was impossible to guess the time. The sky was oppressively low, filled with dark pregnant clouds. Hampered by the dead weight of his foot, progress was slow. Despite the cold, sweat pooled under his armpits and speckled across his forehead – or maybe that was just the snow landing. He laughed, the sound loud and echoey against the howling wind. Cold caught in his chest making him cough as his breath hitched in his throat. It was as if he was in the middle of an apocalyptic experience. He half expected to be surrounded by figures dressed in furs and escorted back to his room in the farmhouse and served dry toast and water.
Leaning on his crutch, he rested for a moment; eyes streaming as freezing tears nipped his raw cheeks. This was harder than he’d expected. Each time he placed his good foot on the ground it sank a full foot into a snowdrift. And pulling it out each time took unimaginable effort. That, combined with dragging his other foot through the snow, was rapidly depleting his reserves. He hadn’t travelled far and there was no way he could possibly see far enough in front of him to determine the best direction to travel in. On the other hand, there was no way he could stay here. As soon as the snow cleared enough, his captors would come back for him and who knew what they’d do. He had to leave. If they did come, he needed to be prepared. He stopped and, leaning his crutch against the wall, pulled his various outer layers up and extracted the knives from inside his belt; one he tucked down the inside of the boot with his good leg, the other slotted into a side pocket in his rucksack.
Gripping his crutch once more, he pushed himself away from the wall and – instead of following the contour of the building – set off diagonally. The absence of any sort of delineation made his sense of isolation complete. There was nothing out here other than the farmhouse and the snow – plenty of damn snow. Almost at once, the full force of the storm thumped him on the back, making him stumble. He righted himself and continued. He had to keep moving if he was to survive the temperatures. Keep moving, one step at a time. From nowhere the lyrics of One Step Beyond boomed in his mind. Madness. He loved Madness. Do do doooo… do do do do do doooo! Love that track. Keep moving, one step at a time. Come on Danny boy, you can do this.
40
15:10 Holmfield Court, Bradford
Taffy had never watched Compo at work before – well, not in such close proximity or for such a length of time. He was still reeling at the contrast between Compo’s home and his workstation.
Compo had looked uneasy until Taffy had said, ‘Look Compo, why don’t you do what you’re good at and I’ll do what I’m good at?’
Compo had nodded and wandered into his tiny kitchen, returning moments later with cans of fizzy pop, huge bags of crisps, packets of biscuits and chocolate bars. Taffy had thought they were to share until Compo stacked them at one end of his workstation – the end furthest away from Taffy before nodding in the direction of the kitchen and mumbling ‘help yourself, there’s loads there’.
Curious, Taffy had wandered through and was again surprised by how pristine Compo’s kitchen was. When he opened the drawers, he found one set of cutlery and one set of crockery, a bowl, a side plate and a dinner plate. After opening the fridge, he saw that Compo’s staples consisted of chocolate – mainly Mars Bars, and full sugar soft drinks ranging from Fanta to Coke to Irn Bru. The single cupboard had multi bags of crisps; Hula Hoops, Seabrook’s Prawn Cocktail and salt and vinegar, big bags of Tortilla chips; cheese flavour, Sensations; sweet chili flavour and sour cream and chive flavour Pringles. Biscuits consisted of digestives, custard creams bourbons and there was also a variety of muffins. Compo was all set to survive the Zombie apocalypse!
Taffy grabbed a packet of crisps, a can of coke and a Wispa and resigned himself to developing both diabetes and a heart condition as well as chronic obesity by the time they could re-locate back to The Fort. When he got back into the room, Compo was already lost in his quest to find something on Alice, his focus aided by his headphones. Taffy watched the screen, fascinated with the conversations this new Compo was having.
Warrier Queencess: ReviAeternus, you make my eyes bleed with all your demands. Cease with all your orders.
ReviAeternus: Don’t be such a drama Queencess. You revel in this. Cut back when you got something for me.
JayRay: I got stuff rolling on the Mini girl. IGNORE The Queenster, she’s outta her depth – Her warriorness is depleted.
Taffy watched fascinated as Compo conducted conversations and, bit-by-bit, decoded the encryption on the USB with the help of his Dark Web friends. At last, he settled down to his own job which was the monotonous task of checking all the Manchester CCTV footage for Daniel Farrier and going through the pile of reports that MI6 had so kindly sent over. When Gus had seen how much they’d sent, Taffy had thought he’d be pleased – but Gus had cursed. Turns out most of this would be irrelevant stuff, designed to keep them occupied and out of their hair, which – Taffy sighed – was why he’d been tasked with it. Good job Compo had set a programme up on Taffy’s PC to cut through the crap and search only for key words.
41
16
:15, Blundering Lane, Stalybridge
By the time Gus and Gore arrived at Jordan Beaumont’s home, the crime scene investigators had almost finished processing the scene. Walking along the street that was lined with various law enforcement and CSI vans, Gus was aware – despite the freezing conditions – that this was an affluent area. The snow was no disguise for well-manicured lawns and privet hedges coiffed to within an inch of their lives by the look of their silhouettes. It was near impossible to catch sight of any of the houses as they passed, so well hidden from the road were they. However, evidence of drives cleared of snow spoke of pride in their properties and enough money to pay for the service. Gus doubted that many of the inhabitants of these houses would be prepared to do the work themselves. As if to prove his thoughts wrong, he saw a family of four working together to clear their long drive. The children’s shrieks of laughter contrasting with what he’d heard about the fate of Jordan Beaumont’s daughter.
The house he was looking for was halfway along the lane, the gate guarded by two ruddy-faced officers, one of whom kept stamping his feet as if his goal in life was to compact the snow as much as possible, whilst the other periodically blew on her hands before shoving them back inside the pockets of her bulky police-issue coat. Unruly police tape fought against the wind and was becoming increasingly elongated as it threatened to tear itself loose from the gate posts that held it in place. The combination of wind and plastic created that burring sound that Gus found so annoying. It reminded him of the disappointment of broken kites, tangled in spiky trees on windy days.