by Wes Markin
Another gunshot.
Yorke was on the stairs now. Squeezing himself between the short banister, and the descending students, he made it onto the raised platform.
Another gunshot.
He kicked away a stool, stood beside a table littered with glasses, gripped the banister, and looked out. The gunman was about six metres away, standing with his back against the bar. He was wiry and wore the bowtie mentioned by Gardner. Several bodies lay around him. Space was forming around him as the students scattered in all directions.
‘POLICE! PUT THE GUN DOWN!’ Yorke’s demand was blunted by the screaming.
The gunman fired into the crowd. Students fell. Yorke picked up a pint glass and threw it as hard as he could in the bastard’s direction. It smashed against the bar behind him. The killer stopped firing while he scoured the crowd for the source of the projectile.
Yorke threw another. This one smashed next to the gunman’s feet. He looked up towards Yorke and their eyes met.
‘PUT THE GUN DOWN!’ Yorke launched a bottle this time, which hit the gunman’s shoulder and then shattered on the floor.
The gunman raised the gun. Yorke lobbed the last bottle on the table. It missed the killer’s head by an inch. The bastard was about to take his shot―
The doorman stood up behind the bar, reached over and grabbed the gunman by the hair and yanked him backwards. The bullet hit the ceiling above Yorke’s head. He felt the sprinkle of plaster.
The doorman banged the back of the gunman’s head off the bar and let him fall to the ground.
Clever boy … Now, the gun …
The man of the hour clambered over the bar and kicked the gun away.
Good …
He knelt over the gunman to incapacitate him.
Careful …
The doorman slumped backwards. He was clutching his eye.
Shit … the glass …
Yorke looked at the stairs to his left; there was still a build-up of students around the bottom of them. No good. He hoisted himself over the banister and dropped down. Pain shot through his knees and his lower back.
Ahead, the doorman, on his backside, was using his feet to slide himself away. He clutched his face. ‘My eye … my fucking eye.’
The killer was also sitting on the floor, but he wasn’t going anywhere. He was smiling and holding a bloody, smashed bottle.
A bottle Yorke had thrown.
Yorke held up his hands, showing the smiling killer that he was unarmed. The screaming was subsiding, but it was still noisy, so Yorke moved closer and spoke loudly. ‘Listen. I’m police. It’s over—
‘My eye! He’s taken out my fucking eye.’
The killer flinched. Yorke looked at the doorman with narrowed eyes. He felt devastated for the man, but he desperately needed him to be quiet.
‘Listen. You’re not in control of yourself.’ Yorke edged forwards, his hands out. ‘Mayers, Harris, the Conduit, whatever you call him, has brainwashed you.’
The boy smiled. ‘Brainwashed? The world did that to me long before Harris found me.’ He nodded his head to indicate the bodies on the ground behind Yorke. ‘He was simply my conduit to this.’
Yorke chanced another step. ‘He’s dead, son. The Conduit is dead.’
It broke the killer’s smile. ‘Liar.’
‘He’s dead, and I’m sorry for what he’s done to you.’
‘I am Alan Sants. No one else is responsible.’ The boy turned the bottle and put the jagged glass to his neck. ‘The world will remember that.’
‘There’s been enough pain, enough death.’ Yorke took another tentative step. ‘All because of the man in your head.’ He held out his hand. ‘Let me help you.’
‘Remember me.’ Alan pushed the glass into his neck.
Yorke lurched forward, slipping to his knees. As he did so, he reached out towards Alan, hoping he’d not misjudged the distance. He hadn’t. He took hold of the boy’s wrist and yanked backwards. The bottle slipped from Alan’s hands and clattered on the floor. Yorke brushed it away.
Alan slipped backwards. The collar of his shirt was already painted red with blood.
‘You don’t get to do this.’ Yorke leaned over the boy. ‘You don’t get to do what you’ve done and just leave.’
Alan smiled.
Yorke reached behind Alan’s neck and untied the bowtie. He then used this to mop at the blood on the wound to try and gauge the damage. It was messy, and was bleeding a reasonable amount, but it wasn’t pumping out. With both hands, he pressed the bowtie to the wound and applied pressure.
The screaming had stopped. There was just moaning from Alan’s conscious victims, including the doorman, and the murmurs of anguish from those who’d come back in to help.
‘You’re too late,’ Alan said.
Yorke kept the pressure up, keeping his eyes firmly on the killer’s eyes. There was still life in them.
He could hear the emergency services flocking in.
He felt a hand on his shoulder. ‘We’ll take it from here.’
Yorke turned his head and looked up at the paramedic, who was standing alongside a uniform. The police officer had an old and rugged face. He also spoke with a growl. ‘This is the bastard who did it. You might want to give this prick a miss.’
Yorke let go of the bowtie, stood up and turned to face the paramedic. ‘Save him.’
The paramedic nodded.
Yorke then looked at the officer and narrowed his eyes. ‘No one gets to make decisions on who lives and who dies.’ He pointed behind him at Alan Sants. ‘Not him …’ he raised his bloody finger to the officer’s chest ‘… and not you either.’
THREE WEEKS LATER
MADDEN DRUMMED HER fingers on the table as she read the psychologist’s report.
‘Says you’re fine to come back.’
Yorke nodded. ‘Always was, ma’am.’
Madden guffawed. ‘After all of that?’ She raised an eyebrow. ‘Many would have crumbled.’
Yorke shrugged. ‘Probably did, for a while, in my own way, but some quality time with Patricia and my family helped. And then there’s Rosie.’
‘Who’s Rosie?’
‘Don’t ask.’ Yorke looked down at the tooth marks on his left brogue.
‘I heard your son’s girlfriend was seriously ill.’
‘She’s much better now, ma’am, thank you.’
Madden rose to her feet and looked out of the window. Yorke rolled his eyes. She always did this when she was about to get philosophical. ‘Gunmen rarely survive shootings of this nature.’
‘I know, ma’am.’
‘They are either shot, or commit suicide.’
Yorke nodded.
‘Yet, Alan Sants survived, because of you.’
Yorke flinched. ‘The wound wasn’t deep.’
‘Modesty, as usual. You got to him, Mike. You also paid attention in your first aid course – you helped stem the bleeding.’
‘It was the right thing to do.’
‘Yes, it was, Mike.’ She turned back to look at him. ‘Even though he killed four people.’
Yorke took a deep breath. ‘Your point, ma’am?’
‘No point, Mike. You did the right thing.’ She sat back down. ‘Emma Gardner has reapplied.’
Yorke knew this already, but he didn’t say so. Just nodded.
‘Your thoughts?’
‘She’s one of the best officers I’ve worked with.’
Madden nodded, and leaned forward. ‘Is that why you took her with you to Leeds?’
Yorke had to be careful here. He couldn’t lie. That is what had happened. All he could do is try and mitigate the bad feeling around it.
‘I’ve been reprimanded already, ma’am. I’ve conceded it was poor judgement. I put her in danger.’
‘Now, now, Mike. She put herself in danger. It seems you are both very good at doing that. Putting yourselves in danger.’
‘Once again, sorry ma’am.’
‘Yet, there’s s
omething about you two, together again, that appeals to me.’
Yorke nodded. ‘She’s an effective part of my team.’
Madden nodded. ‘Something still bothers me though.’
Yorke met her eyes. He knew what was coming next.
‘Mark Topham?’
‘Tragic,’ Yorke said. ‘Despite what he did, he was still one of us.’
‘Yes.’ Madden nodded. ‘I was referring to the nature of his death though.’
‘Suicide, wasn’t it?’
‘How did he get to that old quarry, Mike?’
‘I really don’t know, ma’am.’
‘Emma Gardner spent all of this time trying to find him, and when she finally did, she lets him go,’ she clicked her fingers, ‘just like that.’
‘He jumped out of the car at a traffic light and ran, ma’am.’
Madden took a deep breath through her nose. There was a whistling sound. ‘Yes, Mike, I’ve read the report. I’m bringing her back.’
Yorke forced back a smile. He was trying to appear contrite.
‘You can go now, Mike.’
‘Thanks, ma’am.’
As he was leaving, Madden said. ‘Well done on stopping Mayers, Mike. He was a twisted bastard. Again, you’ve made the world a better place.’
It was the first time she’d congratulated him. She turned to her computer and started to work.
Yorke stood there, thinking of a reply. Failing to do so, he simply left the room.
THREE MONTHS LATER
LACEY OPENED HER eyes.
‘Ah, there you are,’ Holden said.
Here I am.
‘So, you know the drill in my Blue Room.’ He smiled.
A drill … now there’s an idea.
‘Blink once Lacey if you want me to tender my resignation.’
One day, after I cut off your eyelids, you will crave the ability to blink as I do.
‘Blink twice if you want to endure what I have brought with me tonight.’
Lacey blinked twice.
Holden shook his head and smiled again. ‘So stubborn, but credit where credit’s due. Your capacity for suffering is impressive.’
I can’t wait to test yours out.
Holden opened the door and let the rapist into the Convalescence Room.
As always, Lacey endured the process. It never weakened her. It only strengthened her. Oh how wrong was Dr Holden? His fallibility gave her more pleasure than he would ever know.
After the guard had left, Holden closed the door. Usually, he laughed, and mocked her from the door. Today, he decided to come back over to the bed.
She wriggled the fingers on her right hand.
Oh! Welcome sensation!
She tried to move her other hand. No joy.
He leaned close to her. She could smell the stink of his breath.
It’s unfortunate that your drugs can do nothing about that!
‘I don’t care how strong you are, or think you are, Lacey, you will fail. Like everyone before you has failed.’
There have been others?
‘It will be a glorious moment when you are sitting across from me in the office asking for death.’
I’m afraid that will be a moment that only exists in your mind.
She wriggled the fingers on her left hand.
Ah, here comes mobility …
‘See you tomorrow Lacey. Stan has talked about bringing a colleague tomorrow. I’ll try to accommodate him.’
Holden turned from the bed. Lacey lifted her arm and reached out. She was sure she brushed the small of his back.
He strode across the room.
She moved her other arm and turned her head.
Almost there …
She heard the door slam and the clunk of the lock.
The muscles on her face twitched, and she managed a smile.
Ah well … maybe, next time.
SIX MONTHS LATER
WHEN KENNY SAT down opposite him in The Wyndham Arms, Yorke put down the postcard and drank his Summer Lightning faster. It was said that the only way to fully comprehend the old man’s Irish slur was to join him in inebriation.
‘Long time no see, fella.’
‘Been a busy year, Kenny.’
Kenny pointed at his own cheek – he was referring to the scar on Yorke’s face. ‘Finding the bastard who did that to you?’
Yorke shook his head. ‘That was a while back.’
‘Never understand how you folks do it.’ He paused to take a mouthful of ale. ‘Catching crooks.’
‘It’s like any job, really, you just get up and get on with it.’
‘But you catch one, only to have another pop up again. Must feel like you’re chasing your tail sometimes.’
Yorke laughed. ‘Something like that.’ He finished his pint.
Kenny pointed at Yorke and nodded his head. ‘One thing I always had figured out about you.’
‘Go on.’
‘You’re not a loner. Me?’ He turned his palms in the air. ‘I thrive as one.’
Yorke smiled. ‘Your point Kenny?’
‘People rely on you. They need you. Thrive in your presence.’
‘Kind words, Kenny, but you need to be switching back to the session ale and pace that drinking—'
‘Why’re you sitting alone, Michael?’
‘Just fancied it.’
‘People like you weren’t born to sit alone. Now, that other fella, on the other hand … the one I usually see you with …’ he clicked his fingers … ‘Jake … now, he’s someone I can see sitting alone. He doesn’t relate as easy as you, do you know what I mean? Where is the big man anyway?’
Yorke struggled to respond.
Kenny’s eyes widened. ‘He’s not—’
‘No,’ Yorke said, looking down at the postcard. ‘Nothing like that.’
Yorke slid the postcard over to him.
Kenny pulled down a pair of spectacles from his forehead.
He squinted as he read it. ‘Slow down, old friend.’ He looked up. ‘What does it mean?’
‘I used to drive him crazy by driving too fast. Despite a rugged exterior, Jake’s the most careful driver out there. Ponderous, if you ask me.’ Yorke shrugged and pointed at the card in Kenny’s hand. ‘Received it this morning.’
Kenny turned over the postcard and looked at the white lighthouse on a craggy cliff edge. He read out the name of the place. ‘Bass Harbor Head Light, Mount Desert Island, Maine. Far afield …’
‘Yes,’ Yorke said, nodding. ‘New England.’
‘Holiday?’
Yorke sighed. ‘I don’t know, Kenny. He’s been gone a long time now.’ He stood up. ‘Stay here, Kenny, while I go and grab another pint. I don’t want to drink alone.’
Kenny nodded. ‘Yes, sir.’
THE KILLING PIT
AN EXCLUSIVE EXTRACT FROM THE FIRST JAKE PETTMAN THRILLER
1
BLAKE THOMPSON DIDN’T WANT his family to die, but he knew there was very little he could do about it. They were already at the killing pit. He stared at his kidnapper.
Just like his father, Ayden MacLeoid had eyes which gave nothing away—hunter’s eyes.
“Please,” Blake said. “Whatever you think―”
One of the MacLeoid soldiers swung his Remington 700, and the butt stock set Blake’s world on fire.
He fell to his knees and tried to focus through the flames. He heard the yapping of dogs far in the distance, one of his sons weeping next to him, the snigger of one of the thugs, and God-knows-what shuffling in the pit behind him.
When the fire dissipated, Blake spat out a tooth. It wasn’t the first this evening. If anyone saw fit to look for him, they could follow his teeth like breadcrumbs to this dark hollow in the woods.
He glanced at his two trembling sons, Devin and Sean, on either side of him. On this cold April night, the wind blustered over the vast MacLeoid land before being slithered into spears by the branches of the twisted trees and its foliage. To say it wa
s these spears that made his children quiver would be a falsehood. It was the yawning hole behind them and the armed thugs blocking their escape route that made them shake.
The kidnappers wore charcoal foam nose plugs. He recognized them because he’d used them before to dispose of animal carcasses in his own farmyard. Blake couldn’t smell the stench coming from the fifteen-foot circular pit behind him, because a Remington butt had smashed his nose back at his home. Beside him, Devin winced, as if being subjected to a gas attack, while Sean had already vomited down his front.
One of the three soldiers—all mid-twenties, same as his sons—checked his watch. “It’s almost ten―”
“Shut up, Cole,” Ayden said, fixating on Blake.
Blake, a religious man, broke eye contact with the younger MacLeoid and looked for support from beyond the clear skies. He found none and, instead, watched a flurry of birds draw dark veins on the full moon before lowering his eyes to earth and the present moment.
Jotham Quimby MacLeoid stepped from the woodland, wearing a deerstalker and a fur hunting jacket. A rifle was slung over one shoulder. He clutched the rifle strap with one hand to stop it from bouncing. The ends of his shoulder-length gray hair rose on the spears of wind and across his heavily bearded face. This farmer, like Blake, was also in his sixties. They’d been in the same class at school. Blake was aware this would entitle him to nothing.
Jotham’s son, Ayden, and his three soldiers shuffled backward to allow the property owner to walk between them and the three captives like a guard of honor. He kept his head down. After passing Devin, he stopped beside Blake, who was still on his knees, and turned to look down at him.
Blake looked up into eyes framed by rough, knotty skin. Familiar eyes. Hunter’s eyes.
Jotham had not opted for nose plugs.
Because his hands were lashed behind his back, Blake tried to use his shoulder to rub away the blood and spit running down his chin but failed. He wasn’t flexible enough. “Jo, I think there’s been a misunderstanding.”
Jotham removed a hand from the strap of his rifle, ran the palm of it down the front of his hunting jacket to dry it of sweat and placed it on Blake’s right shoulder. It was a strong grip but not one intended to cause pain and so seemed to carry the same meaning as a firm handshake. “Agreed.” Jotham squeezed Blake’s shoulder. “And we’re here to put it right. But first, I’m sorry. I didn’t expect them to treat you so badly.” He took his hand off Blake’s shoulder and eyed Ayden, who immediately looked away. “Seems it’s an evening of many misunderstandings.” When he turned back, he was smiling. His eyes narrowed, and his flesh wrinkled and swelled around them, but they continued to pierce. He opened his mouth to speak―
