by Amy Cross
"Police!" I shout. "Get back here!"
Useless, of course. What's worse, he's clearly faster than me. I can barely keep up with him as we run up the embankment towards the road. I don't fancy playing in the traffic with him. I look back at the water. Should I have helped Tepper instead? No! This guy has to get caught.
We reach the road and I chase him past the speeding cars, out onto the bridge. Just as I start to fear that I'm losing him, he stops running and turns to me. "Do you know what I hate?" he asks.
I pull up short just a couple of meters from him. "Homicidal maniacs who kill kids for money?" I ask.
"The modern world. Remember me?"
I suddenly realize: yes, I do. From the night at the industrial estate. He's the guy who came over to talk to us.
"You shot a good friend of mine," I say.
He nods. "I'm aware of that. If it helps, I was only trying to wound her. I was aiming for her shoulder".
"You got her in the head," I say, raising my voice to be heard over the traffic.
"That was a mistake," he says. Then he does something quite astonishing. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a gun, which he then throws over the side of the bridge. "I hate guns," he says. "A gun is a coward's way of winning a fight. Real men don't need guns". He steps towards me. "Real men sort things out in a more direct way". He takes a swing and punches me in the jaw, sending me falling down to the ground.
"Guns are like laws," he says, towering above me. "They're an unfair advantage. And I don't like cheating".
"You've been killing kids like they're cattle," I say, scrambling to my feet. I half expect him to knock me down again immediately, but he doesn't. It seems he really wants to play fair.
"I wonder how your friend's doing?" he says. "Do you think she's saved those kids yet? Do you think she'll die trying?"
Cars flash past, inches from my head.
He kneels over me. "You're weak," he says. "I didn't expect that. I mean... you're physically weak. Like an old man. What's wrong with you?"
The pain is back in my belly. It's nothing to do with the punch, it's just my body letting me down at the worst possible moment. I grimace. It's a sign of weakness but I can't help it.
"This is no fun," he says. He pulls a knife from his pocket. It's a long blade, maybe five inches with a serrated edge. It's going to hurt. Then again, perhaps I could do with a little roadside surgery. "I'll find someone else to play with".
I reach up and try to hold him off me. With one hand on the hand holding the knife, I put my other hand around his neck. It's hopeless, I know. I don't have the strength for this, and despite my best efforts, he's getting closer to my chest with the knife. There's not much I can do, is there? This is it. I'll just have to accept the inevitable.
So with the last of my energy, I push him toward the road. My luck holds, and his head is struck a glancing blow by a passing car, which fails to stop. He falls back, blood pouring from the side of his forehead. This is the great thing about this part of London. Two guys can have a fight to the death in broad daylight by the side of a busy road, and no-one dares to stop and intervene.
"Why'd you do it?" I ask. "Money? How many kids did you raise like that?" I get to my feet. I'm still weak, and still in pain, but I'm in better shape than him. "Just to sell their IDs when they turn sixteen and then, what, you drowned them all? How many?"
He scrambles around to find the knife. All his bravado is gone. He just wants to survive. This is what it always comes down to in the end.
I haul him up and push him over the side of the bridge, holding onto him by the shoulders.
"You wouldn't last long in prison," I say. I don't know if he's conscious. I have no idea if he can even hear me. "People would find out what you did, and soon enough someone would come along and make you pay. Sorry, but I can't wait that long". I'm about to let him fall when I realize something important. "What's your name?" I ask.
No answer.
"We'll work it out," I say. I'm about to let him go when he reaches up and grabs my neck, pulling me almost over the edge. I grab onto the railing. Looking into his eyes, I can see he's determined that if he's going to die, I'm going to go with him. And for a moment it occurs to me: why not? It'd be an honorable death, falling while stopping a killer. So for just a fraction of a second, I relax my grip on the railing. But then I rethink and I take hold again. An honorable death is fine. Better than wasting away in a cancer ward in a few years' time. But there are better deaths out there. I've got time to wait. Time to choose the right death.
“Not today,” I say, and I twist away from him. He falls, his body exploding as it lands hundreds of meters below on a stretch of flat gray concrete. Someone's going to have to clean that mess up. But not me. I haul myself back up onto the bridge.
***
When I get back to the spot where I left Tepper, I find squad cars and a couple of ambulances have arrived. There are cops and paramedics swarming all over the place, and Tepper is sitting in the back of an ambulance. I walk over.
"He's dead," I say. "Fell off a bridge".
She nods. She's soaking wet still, wrapped in a blanket.
"Did you save any of them?" I ask.
She stares at me for a moment. "Do you care?"
I think about it, and then I nod.
She takes a deep breath. "There were fifteen kids in there. They all drowned". She looks past me. "Except one".
I turn to see a teenager, also soaking wet and unsteady on his feet, being led to another ambulance.
"I saved one," says Tepper. “That's all I managed”.
I look back at her. "One's better than none," I say.
"It's not as good as fifteen".
"It's better than none," I say again.
She nods. "See you on Monday?" she asks.
I'm about to say yes, when I remember a certain appointment at the hospital. "I'll be sick Monday," I say. "Maybe Tuesday too. But I'll be in on Wednesday".
"Are you okay?" She looks at me as if she knows that I'm not. "I don't mean the drinking. I mean everything else. Is there anything wrong with you that I don't know about?"
I imagine just for a moment what it would be like to tell her everything. "No," I say. "I'm fine. Nothing a few days off won't fix".
Epilogue
The hospital room is bright. Fibes drops by to see how I'm doing, and I manage a few sarcastic quips. I look at the needle in my arm, hooked up to a large bag of white liquid.
"You're going to feel really sick," Fibes says, as if that's supposed to reassure me. "Sicker than you've ever felt in your life. But it'll pass in a couple of hours. Mostly, anyway".
"And then I have to come back?" I ask, hoping against hope that I won't.
"You'll have to come back every two weeks for the next three months," he says. "But the alternative is worse. If you'd rather just let the cancer win without a fight, you can give up".
"No, I can't," I say. "You'll come and doorstep me with a syringe again".
"Probably," he says. "But the point is, at least this way you're fighting it".
"Even if there's no point?"
"There's always a point".
I smile. "What I mean is, it's a losing battle, isn't it? I'm still going to die in the end".
"At least you get some choice in how you die," he says before walking out of the room, leaving me in that hospital bed with chemicals being pumped into me.
My phone rings. I answer.
"How are you doing?" asks Tepper on the other end.
"Fine," I say. "How are you doing?"
"I'm good," she says "Day off. Bored You want to get lunch or something?"
I look at the crap being pumped into my body.
"Can't," I say. "Sorry. But I'll see you at work on Wednesday".
"Okay". She sounds disappointed. I hang up.
***
I walk to the end of Hudson Street and I look up at the front window of Ellen's apartment. This is pathetic. In fact, it's far and a
way the most pathetic thing I've ever done. But I'm in the mood for being pathetic. It's good for the soul to be a little pathetic from time to time, right? Helps cleanse the ego.
The light is on in Ellen's front room. That means she's up late working. Ellen always used to stay up late when we lived together. I thought that was a response to my drinking, but it seems it's become a habit for her. Some things never change, but some things change completely.
Somewhere in that apartment, there's a man who's waiting in bed for Ellen. He's probably asleep, but at least he's there. He won't properly rest until she's slid in next to him. Perhaps one day she'll invent a drinking problem for him too. His occasional glasses of whiskey and beer will get magnified to the point where he won't be able to argue with her.
That’s how it works with Ellen. Focus on your weakness so that she doesn’t have to worry about her own. I was the first but I won’t be the last. Being back with her wouldn’t solve anything.
This is crazy. I need something else.
***
As I reach my front door, I reach into my pocket for the key.
“How do you do it?” a voice asks.
Startled, I turn to see Tepper standing nearby. She must have been waiting for me.
“We caught the bad guy,” she continues, stepping out of the shadows, “but we didn't save most of those kids. I got one of them out, but the rest...”
Her voice trails off.
“One life is pretty good,” I point out. “It's better than none.”
“It's not enough.”
“That's why we keep trying,” I tell her. “Until we get to a point when we can save everyone.”
“And when do you think that'll be?”
“Probably never,” I admit. “I'm not going to give up, though. I have plenty of work to get done. And who knows? Maybe one day we really will manage to save everyone.”
“And that really helps you to keep going?”
“Sure,” I reply. “That, and a few other things. Like narrating my life in my own head, like I'm some kind of gung ho American cop.”
“You're no such thing, John.”
“I know, but I like to pretend. I like to think that I'm in my own cop show. I call it Mason: A Day in the Life. It has little resemblance to reality, but it's how I get through my days.”
“Seriously?” She pauses. “You filter your whole life like that?”
“Works for me.”
“You're going to go insane.”
“I'll be fine. I manage to keep track of reality. And you and your gun come in handy.”
“What gun?”
I open my mouth to reply, but at the last minute I hold back. Maybe there are some things I don't want to know, at least not today.
She stares at me for a moment, before turning to walk away.
“See you tomorrow,” she says as she disappears into the distance. “I always thought I was the optimist and you were the pessimist. Now I'm starting to realize I had that the wrong way round.”
“You did, huh?”
I wait until she's gone, and then I unlock my front door and step inside.
Once I have a bottle of whiskey set up on the desk, I take a seat and grab one of the many files I've been working on lately. There are several old cases that are officially closed, but which I refuse to let go of. Cases like the Monster of Rippon Cross, and the Vale Valley Murders, and the South Foreland Mutilator, and another dozen or so besides. People I really need to catch before I sink away into death. And the strange thing is, sometimes I feel as if maybe I have a shot after all. Sometimes I wonder whether all these different murderers might actually be just one person who uses different methods in different parts of the country. Maybe I'm paranoid, but I can't quite shake that feeling. It's in my gut. And if there's one thing I've learned over the years, it's that I should always trust my gut. Even when it's cancerous and it's killing me.
But if I'm going to catch that person, then I need a clear head. Which means skipping the chemo sessions and making sure Fibes doesn't get within ten feet of me. No matter how hard I have to work, I'm certain of one thing. Before my body lets me down, I will catch this killer. Even if it's the last thing I ever do.
And, along the way, I might just find the honorable death that I've been searching for.
The Butcher's Husband II
I
I should stop. Right now.
It's late, well after midnight, and I feel as if I'm going to fall asleep at any moment. I know these country lanes well, of course. I've always said I can drive this route with my eyes closed, and at this rate I might actually put that theory to the test. I'm utterly exhausted after working a triple shift at the veterinary office, and I'm struggling to stay awake as I keep my hands fixed on the wheel and my eyes fixed on the road ahead. The only light comes from my headlamps, which pick out each meandering bend on the long, long route home.
Sometimes I wish I could live somewhere a little more central, somewhere a little less out of the way, but of course that's not possible.
“You can stay awake, Paula,” I say finally, out loud. This is my latest desperate attempt to keep from nodding off. “Nearly there now.”
It works for a few seconds, but then I suddenly realize that I've let my eyes slip shut. I jerk awake, and fortunately I'm on a straight stretch of road. That's lucky. Another couple of seconds and I'd have been straight in the ditch. Then I'd have had to call for help, and the police would have shown up, and I might well have ended up in a whole heap of trouble. I can't afford trouble.
I grip the wheel tighter and tell myself to stay awake.
Wait, are my eyes closed again?
I force them open and sit back with a jerk, just as the car reaches a bend. Somehow I manage to make the turn, and I almost bring the vehicle to a full stop. I'm so close to home, I could walk from here and come back for the car tomorrow. Then again, that'd pretty much ruin my morning. Better to just -
Suddenly I see him.
A man, running out into the middle of the road. He's completely naked and he stops, staring at the headlights as I race toward him, and I'm too late to stop in time.
I slam my foot on the brake pedal, and at that exact moment the man crashes into my windshield then somehow gets flipped up over the car.
The tires screech as I come to a halt, and I turn to look over my shoulder. A fraction of a second later, the naked man tumbles down off the roof and slams into the road.
I hit him.
He must be dead.
No, not necessarily.
He might just be horribly injured.
I turn and stare straight ahead. I'm still gripping the steering wheel, and the engine's still running. I could just keep driving and hope that nobody ever connects me to the crash. Then again, they'd be bound to at least come knocking at my door. Nobody else lives around here, so it's only natural that they'd at least want to talk to me. From there, they'd probably be able to pick up a few clues, and it's not like I'd be any good at lying to the police. I'd fold within seconds, and then I'd be in a whole heap of trouble.
I can't afford trouble.
I take a deep breath.
Reaching up, I tilt the rear-view mirror until I can see the naked man's prone form on the road. He's still there, right where he landed, and he hasn't moved a muscle. At the very least, he's injured. I'm no expert, but I'd guess that his chances of being alive at all are no more than fifty-fifty. I don't see any signs of blood, but I imagine he has some serious internal injuries. I've treated dogs that have been hit by cars, and I know full well that sometimes they can look fine from the outside while being a complete mess on the inside. Even if the guy's not dead yet, he probably doesn't have long left. This is almost certainly going to end up being a fatality.
And I really, really can't afford trouble.
I unbuckle myself and open the door, and then I step out of the car. My knees feel like jelly and my hands are trembling, but I know I can't just drive away. My mind is racing
and, as I stare at the man's body, I try to think of how this could all play out. I haven't drunk a drop of alcohol, and in all honesty I don't think anyone could have stopped in time. The man ran out right in front of me, almost as if he wanted to get hit. He was waving at me, his arms flailing around and...
His face...
No.
No, it can't have been him.
Not him!
Yet as I continue to stare at the body, I can feel a sense of understanding starting to creep slowly up through my chest. The odds are incalculable, the whole situation is impossible, but for a fraction of a second – right before the impact – I saw the man's face staring at me, and I swear it was a face I've seen before. Not for many years, of course, but those features are burned into my memory. How could I ever forget him? At the same time, it can't be him, because he lives hundreds of miles away. I haven't had any contact with him in years, apart from the occasional letter and parcel that he sent. And I never answered, not once. Could he really have tracked me down here, out in the middle of nowhere, after all these years?
I step forward, making my way toward him.
He's still not moving. I almost hope that he is dead, because otherwise he'll be in immense pain when he wakes up. Now that I'm getting closer, I can see where patches of skin have been scraped away by the rough tarmac, exposing bloodied patches that glisten in the glare of the headlights. There's no sign of any broken bones, however, which suggests that perhaps he was unconscious before he hit the ground. If he'd been conscious, he might have tried to reach out, and his arms would most likely be snapped.
Not wanting to touch him, I step around until I can see his face. And at that moment I realize that I was right. It is him. After all these years, after everything that happened between us, he's back. He's in my life again. I should have known it wasn't over.
