Deadly Secrets

by O M J Ryan

  Marty turned back to Fairchild. ‘And how does killing your own man deliver you the optimum outcome?’

  Fairchild raised his head for a moment to look at Marty and scoffed. ‘As I said Marty, casualties are a necessary consequence of warfare and, to be honest, it adds credence to your killing spree if one of my guys takes a bullet.’

  ‘Jesus, you are a psycho!’

  Fairchild nodded, his eyes fixed on the screen. ‘You wanna know what they’re saying about your tweet Marty?’ He was smiling.

  ‘Do I have a choice?’

  Fairchild glanced up and chuckled. ‘Well, looking at this, my little plan is working. It’s already been retweeted over a thousand times! And some of the comments are priceless! Whoever @eric1971 is does not like you, Marty. Listen to this. “I hope Michaels is finally going to do us all a favour and pick a fight with a train!” Ouch!’

  Marty ignored the remark. His attention was suddenly drawn back to Phillips as the fingers of her left hand twitched momentarily. For a second he thought he had imagined it, but they moved again. He leaned forward and felt the pulse at her wrist; faint but still beating.

  ‘Please, I think she’s alive. There’s still time to save her,’ he pleaded.

  Fairchild looked up from the laptop and smiled. ‘And why on earth would I want to do that? I just this minute shot her, for God’s sake!’ He chuckled.

  Marty turned back to Phillips and got down on his knees. Reaching under her arms, he slowly lifted her limp and heavy torso, doing his best to prop her against the wall as he attempted to draw the blood flow away from her chest wound.

  ‘It’s ok, Jane. You’re gonna be ok,’ Marty said softly. There was no response.

  ‘I very much doubt that!’ laughed Fairchild, picking up gun as he did.

  Marty stood and turned to face him, desperately wracking his brain for a way out. He needed to keep him talking. ‘She doesn’t deserve to die. You could save her right now if you wanted to.’

  ‘But that’s just it. I don’t want to. I want her to die, and I want you to die with her!’ he said, training the gun on Marty, who raised his arms in defence and stepped backwards.

  ‘Look. Your fight’s with me, not Phillips. Please, help me save her.’

  Fairchild stared silently at Marty, as if trying to read his thoughts. He shook his head. ‘Nah! Not today,’ he said nonchalantly before turning back to the laptop screen. He laughed. ‘Fuck, Marty, you’re being crucified on here!’

  Marty returned to Phillips. His attention was drawn to her left hand, which was holding her iPhone. She opened her eyes and managed to direct them towards the handset and her thumb, which had just unlocked the screen. Her eyes closed again. Staring at the iPhone, he realised what she was trying to tell him. He glanced at Fairchild, who appeared lost in the laptop, chuckling to himself as he worked through the tweets. Marty knew what he had to do. Tapping the screen, he waited for it to connect before standing to face the enemy.

  ‘So, how will you explain the fact I’ve never fired a gun in my life, let alone in your house? I’ve seen enough on forensics to know that, without gunshot residue, there’s reasonable doubt.’

  Holding the gun, Fairchild stood and walked back towards Marty, his tone mocking now, higher in pitch as he imitated Marty. ‘“I’ve seen enough on forensics…” Do me a favour! You’re a fucking DJ and I am an ex-CIA operative with ten years of black ops experience. I’ve forgotten more than you could ever hope to learn about forensics, and more importantly, I know how to make a crime scene look exactly how I want it. This isn’t my first rodeo, sweetheart. Trust me, when I’m finished, there’ll be no reasonable doubt whatsoever. Zero, Marty. You are going to die and I’m going to carry on living my fabulous life. I will be the new owner of your beloved COMCO, laundering millions and millions of my filthy drug money in the process.’ It was as if he was describing his plans for the weekend. ‘Imagine that. COMCO a front for drug-running,’ he added. He stared at Marty for a long moment, saying nothing, his face void of any emotion.

  ‘You sick bastard. You’ve ruined my life. Thanks to you and Buzzard, innocent people are dead, countless lives are ruined and the whole world thinks I’m a serial killer!’

  Fairchild flashed his perfect all-American smile. ‘Yes they do, Marty. And what’s even sweeter is, they think I’m a legit businessman. You see, when you have enough money, you can literally get away with murder! You gotta love capitalism!’ He turned away from Marty for a moment.

  Marty had heard enough. His instincts took over. With one Herculean effort, he hurled his broken body at Fairchild, knocking him sideways as he did. Both men crashed heavily onto the large glass coffee table. It shattered into tiny pieces beneath their combined weight of over five hundred pounds.

  Marty landed on top of Fairchild, giving himself the upper hand. He began raining punches down on his opponent’s head – a rookie mistake. The big Texan smashed his fist up into Marty’s solar plexus, disabling him instantly. Marty slumped forward as Fairchild pushed him off and slammed him head first into the shattered glass on the hardwood floor, three times in rapid succession. Dazed, blood flowed from his head into his eyes and down the back of his throat. Fairchild thrust his knee into the base of Marty’s back and smashed punches into his broken ribs. Explosions of agonising pain surged through his body as each blow landed. He coughed up blood and gasped desperately for air.

  Fairchild got to his feet and stood over Marty as he rolled on the floor trying to catch his breath. ‘Do you know, of all the people I’ve killed in my life, Marty, this will give me the greatest satisfaction.’ He slammed another kick into Marty’s ribs, who cried out in agony and rolled over, attempting to get away from his attacker.

  It was no use. Fairchild followed him and grabbed him by the hair on the back of his head. ‘I cannot tell you how much I’ve enjoyed setting you up and destroying your career in the glare of the media.’ He smashed Marty’s face into the hard wooden floor once more. ‘It really has been enormous fun,’ he added before expertly smashing each fist, one at a time, into Marty’s kidneys. Standing again, Fairchild took a couple of deep breaths and walked around the lounge room.

  Marty groaned from his position on the floor.

  ‘Jesus, Marty. I might just be getting too old for this shit,’ he laughed as he poured himself another Bourbon, the ice rattling noisily into the glass. Taking a large swig, he toasted Marty. ‘Even though you’ve been a worthy opponent – in truth, probably one of the best I’ve ever faced – you’re simply no match for me. I own everyone in this city; the Chief Constable, a truck-load of his cronies, even your CEO Colin Burns is my bitch. Goddammit!’ he said triumphantly, before something stopped him in his tracks. ‘What the fuck?’ he whispered as he walked over to Phillips.

  Kneeling down, Fairchild picked up Phillips’s iPhone, suddenly aware of the FaceTime connection. ‘Son of a bitch!’ he said as he stared into the face of Rebecca on the other end. ‘Fuck!’ he shouted as he killed the call before launching the iPhone across the room. ‘You sneaky motherfucker!’ he said as he rushed to Marty, who was lying on his back. ‘Come here, you bastard!’ he screamed, grabbing him by the front of his shirt and dragging him to his feet. ‘You tried to fuck me?’ he screamed into Marty’s face. ‘Nobody fucks Frank Fairchild!’ shouted the big Texan as he slammed the butt of his gun onto the bridge of Marty’s nose.

  Marty cried out in agony and stumbled backwards. Fairchild followed him, reigning blow after blow into his face, before Marty stumbled backwards over Buzzard’s lifeless body and crashed heavily to floor.

  Fairchild was breathing heavily now as Marty lay motionless. Slowly he moved to Phillips, standing over her for a long moment, before leaning forward to check her pulse. ‘Sloppy work, Frank,’ he said out loud as he straightened and trained the gun on the crippled detective. ‘I must be getting rusty – I never miss!’ he said as he cocked the hammer. ‘Well, not this time, sweetheart!’

  ‘Leave her alone, you bast
ard!’ shouted Marty. He was on his knees next to Buzzard, his bloodied hands holding the dead man’s gun.

  ‘Seriously, Marty, you’re getting a little tiresome!’

  Marty took a deep breath and steadied his aim. ‘It’s over. Rebecca heard everything. You’re finished, Frank!’

  ‘Like hell I am! Your ex-wife is just one more loose end, Marty. When I’m done here, she’s next, and I can make it look like you killed her first. Another chapter in the story of your catastrophic breakdown and killing spree!’

  ‘Did you happen to notice where she was?’

  ‘Why – should I have?’

  It was Marty’s turn to smile now. ‘What time is it?’

  Fairchild looked at Marty, his expression incredulous. ‘What time is it? What time is it? Why, you got somewhere to be?’ he mocked.

  ‘Check your watch, Frank!’ Marty said firmly.

  Fairchild said nothing for a moment, then glanced at the large Rolex on his wrist. ‘Ten twenty-five. So what?’

  ‘I’ll tell you so what. Ten twenty-five means my ex-wife, TV news anchor Rebecca Shaw, is live on air – right now…as was most of our conversation in the last five minutes.’ Marty smiled. ‘You see, I didn’t try to fuck you, Frank – I did fuck you!’

  The enormity of what Marty was saying appeared to land suddenly on Fairchild. ‘Motherfucker,’ he managed to whisper.

  ‘It’s over, Frank. The police will be here any minute. Give yourself up.’

  Fairchild said nothing for a moment, clearly deep in thought.

  ‘Put the gun down, Frank. It’s the only way’.

  Fairchild suddenly locked his gaze on Marty, his eyes wide and almost black. A broad smile appeared on his face. ‘I’m ex-CIA, Marty. There’s always a way!’ He raised the gun and pulled the trigger. It jammed.

  Marty didn’t wait to give him a second chance. On instinct, he fired back. The bullet hit Fairchild in the stomach and he fell onto the floor, landing heavily.

  Marty got to his feet and followed him, holding the heavy gun in both hands. ‘It’s over, Frank!’ he barked, maintaining his aim.

  Fairchild managed to lift himself onto his elbow, choking a little as he began to laugh. Blood bubbles appeared on his lips. ‘Old guns – can’t trust ’em!’ he mumbled as he expertly tapped the magazine and racked the gun to clear the barrel before raising his pistol towards Marty.

  ‘Don’t do it! Don’t make me kill you, Frank!’

  Fairchild smiled, his dead eyes locked on Marty. ‘Shooting a man is easy, you just pull the trigger. Killing a man is a different ballgame entirely, and it’s a game I always win!’ said Fairchild, his index finger flexing around the trigger.

  Marty didn’t flinch. A second shot rang out, hitting Fairchild in the chest. His body slammed onto the cold hard floor.

  As the room fell silent, Marty stood motionless for a long moment, staring at the bloodied body on the floor, before the smoke and smell of fresh gunpowder hit his nose, bringing him to his senses. Phillips! Discarding the gun and forgetting his own injuries, her rushed to her side and dropped to his knees. He checked her pulse. It was so faint he wasn’t sure if he was imagining it. The blood loss was so great, her skin looked grey.

  ‘Hold on, Jane. I’m gonna get help.’ He grabbed her iPhone and hit redial, immediately connecting to Rebecca in the studio.

  Her expression was grave. ‘Oh my God, Marty. Are you OK?’

  ‘I need an ambulance right now! Fairchild’s house on Blackfarm Road. DCI Phillips has lost so much blood!’

  Rebecca nodded furiously. ‘The police are on their way, Marty. Emergency services too.’

  Marty let out a loud sigh of relief. ‘I’m really hoping you got all that, by the way?’

  ‘Luke passed me the phone as soon as he realised what was going on. We heard enough, Marty, as did most of the UK,’ Rebecca said proudly.

  Marty smiled as the echo of sirens filled the room. ‘Sounds like the cavalry. I’d better go,’ he said, ending the call.

  A moment later, the front door was broken down. ‘Armed police!’ came a shout from behind him, followed by the now-familiar London tones of Detective Sergeant Jones, who ran over and crouched next to Phillips. ‘Medic!’ he screamed loudly as his eyes locked on Marty. ‘All went according to plan, then?’ he said sarcastically.

  Marty chuckled. ‘Not quite, Jonesy…not quite!’ he said as he coughed up blood and slumped sideways to the floor.

  Epilogue

  The heavy November rain pounded the fresh soil that covered the grave, forming small puddles that fed tiny rivers of water down the mound of mud towards thick sodden grass. It was hard to believe it was almost six months since those few short weeks had brought murder and madness to Manchester.

  It had taken the public no time at all to move on from the events that had left five people dead and countless members of the police force charged with corruption. The scrolling TV news, Twitter and Facebook feeds had dissipated, and now the carnage of that night at Frank Fairchild’s house in Alderly Edge was a distant memory for most; old news. Some people, though, could never forget.

  Staring down at the grave, Marty closed his eyes and tried his best to bury the pain that burned inside him.

  Cleared of the murders of White and Rochelle, time had passed in a blur. Despite the offer of a new mega-money contract from COMCO, TV and book deals, he had decided to take an open-ended hiatus to try and make sense of everything. After countless therapy sessions, he was fully aware he had to move on from the terrible events that had cost him so dearly. But it took every ounce of strength he possessed just to get out of bed each morning. Flashbacks and nightmares of the attempted rape haunted him in the night, and the knowledge that his father, his producer and his agent had been murdered weighed heavily on his shoulders. Although he tried hard not to blame himself, he could not escape the feeling that clawed at his mind a thousand times a day: their deaths were on him. His dad’s and David’s, at least.

  Staring down at the grave, he allowed his shoulders to rise and fall gently as he began to weep silently, visualising the lifeless, lonely body buried below his feet.

  A soft, warm hand reaching out to touch him halted his tears. Marty turned and his heart lifted as he gazed down at Rebecca, drinking in her luxurious scent, which cut through the rain as the fingers of her right hand tightened around his.

  ‘I miss him too, you know,’ she said softly.

  Marty nodded. ‘It’s hard not to. He was such a lovely man. I wish I was more like him; calm, sweet and kind.’

  Rebecca smiled. ‘You are, Marty. You’re just like him.’

  Marty offered a sad smile in return, shaking his head. ‘Not me, Becks, I’m like my mum; loud, neurotic, impatient.’ He continued, his voice soft, ‘They were the perfect match in many ways. Yin and yang. I still can’t believe it’s almost three years since we lost him. It kills me to think I’ll never see him again. Or David.’

  ‘I know. I know,’ Rebecca said, leaning her petite frame against his, attempting to shelter from the rain, which seemed to worsen in a matter of seconds. ‘Are you up to seeing Rob’s grave?’

  Marty’s body tightened at the mention of his name, and he said nothing for a moment as he fought the wave of emotions that flooded his body. ‘No, Becks. I can’t. I just can’t.’

  Squinting against the rain, Rebecca lifted her head to face him and smiled softly. ‘OK, Marty. There’s no rush.’

  ‘That’s just it, Becks; I’m not sure I’ll ever be ready. He took so much from me. How do I ever forgive him?’

  Rebecca stared back at him for a moment and squeezed his hand tighter still, nodding. ‘Give it time. I know it’s no consolation, but he suffered too, in all this. He wasn’t a bad man. He was lost and scared. Just like you were.’

  ‘Yeah, but I didn’t kill anyone!’ Marty snapped back.

  ‘No, that’s true, but then neither did he.’

  ‘As good as!’

  Rebecca opened her mou
th to speak, but seemed to stop herself. She turned her face away from the rain. They both stared in silence at the headstone in front of them: GOD BLESS PETER CHRISTOPHER MICHAELS – LOVING HUSBAND TO MARGARET AND FATHER TO MARTY.

  ‘God bless, Dad,’ Marty whispered into the rain.

  ‘It’s time to go. You said we’d be at your mum’s house for one,’ Rebecca said softly, her mouth forming a warm smile.

  Marty stared down at the woman he still loved with all his heart. ‘I really do appreciate you coming to see Mum on Dad’s anniversary. She’s really looking forward to seeing you.’

  ‘I love your mum, you know that.’

  ‘I know. But are you sure Sean is OK with it?’

  Rebecca nodded. ‘He’s fine. Probably on the phone to Hong Kong or Shanghai anyway,’ she said, patting him absentmindedly on the chest. ‘Banking never sleeps,’ she mumbled into the wind.

  ‘Would you mind dropping me at Simon’s after Mum’s? He’s still not fully mobile, and I want to make sure he’s got everything he needs.’

  ‘Of course, babe. Whatever you want.’

  Marty’s heart jumped, hearing her call him babe. He wished to God he could rewind time and never let her go. ‘Thanks, Becks,’ he whispered as he closed his eyes and held her close for a moment, relishing every second before reminding himself she was married to someone else. ‘Come on, you. Mum will be wondering where we are, and she’s talked about nothing else but cooking you her world-famous Yorkshire puddings. Remember those?’

  Rebecca craned her neck in an exaggerated arc as she looked up at Marty. ‘Oh God, no!’

  Marty laughed, pulling her close again. ‘Take one for the team, Becks!’

  They held hands as they walked down the path, letting go as they reached Rebecca’s car.

  As Marty opened the passenger door, he took one last look at his dad’s grave up on the hill in front of him.

  ‘Sleep well, Pops,’ he said softly, ‘sleep well.’