by Holly Watt
Clio stood up from her armchair, impatient, the gun slotting smoothly into position.
‘You’re running out of time, Casey,’ said Clio, almost sympathetic. ‘You’re out of cards to play.’
‘No,’ said Casey. She stared up at Clio, and into the black heart of the gun. And as she looked up, Tawton Court plunged into darkness.
74
Casey reacted faster. She threw herself over the back of the sofa, diving for cover. The gun fired, and the terrarium exploded by her ear, shards of glass ripping through the air. She scrambled frantically for the door, bullets blasting into the wall inches from her head.
Somehow Casey made it to the door. A frantic scrabble at the handle, and she was racing across the hall to the oak door and out into the air. Down the stairs she bolted, and across the gravel. In the slow dawn, the gardens spread out before her, the acres of Tawton’s park beyond. In the far distance was the deep safety of the New Forest. There was no sign of Miranda.
Casey didn’t hesitate. She raced across the lawn, past the darkness of the rhododendrons, leaped down the haha and sprinted across the park.
There was silence behind her. Casey was running faster than she ever had, making for the cover of the woods. The grass seemed to sprawl out for ever, but finally, finally, she reached the shadow of the woodland.
Casey slammed into the first oak, using the tree to swing round and check whether Clio was following.
The parkland was empty, the silence eerie.
Gasping, she scanned the house, the gardens, the park. Nothing.
She turned. Trying to remember the map, she sprinted off through the trees.
It was very dark in the forest, the grey of the morning only just piercing the gloom. Casey slipped on last year’s beech leaves, and struggled over fallen branches. Legs burning, lungs heaving, she ran and ran, blundering into animal burrows, hair catching on twigs. It felt as if the wood was trying to grasp her. Grab her, trap her, keep her for ever. Witch brambles tangled her feet, and she almost screamed at the scuttle of some animal.
Behind her, the silence was almost unbearable.
Clio would never let her escape. Never.
Casey scrambled on and on. Surely there should be a road here? Surely . . . But there was nothing. The wood seemed endless, with its spiking enemy branches. And slowly, so slowly, Casey realised she was lost.
She ran on, desperate now. Glanced over her shoulder one more time. The ground dipped away sharply beneath her feet, and she sprawled forward, slamming hard into the dirt.
And there, slumped on the earth, she heard it: far in the distance, the sorrowful bay of the bloodhounds.
Clio was riding the big horse with careless ease, cantering smoothly.
Casey ran, the whole world blurring as every fibre of her being fought to get away. She raced down a slope, feet slapping the ground with the burning panic of a hunted animal. Branches ripped at her clothes, and the dark closed in.
The snarls and whimpers of the hounds were drawing nearer. She could sense their excitement as they raced effortlessly across the ground. This was their element, they were born to hunt, and Casey felt the exhaustion claw at her limbs. She thumped into the ground again, her fingers tearing at the earth. Scrambled to her feet, sprinting off again.
Never give up.
Casey imagined the teeth ripping into her. Struggling desperately, as the dogs ripped at her throat, her stomach. Animals, gutting her. It was primitive, this terror, shuddering across her skin, burning in her throat.
The hounds were so close now, wailing their frenzy.
Making the kill.
She would be torn to pieces, left for dead.
The gun fired, wood splintering as the bullet hit an oak just ahead of Casey. She screamed with all the breath she had left.
‘Stop now!’ Clio was close. Casey could hear the pounding of the horse’s feet just behind her. ‘Stop or the dogs will take you down.’
Still, Casey ran. The gun fired again, and Casey felt the hot burn as the bullet seared past.
‘The third time, I will be aiming for you,’ Clio shouted.
And Casey was falling, crashing to the ground.
75
She sensed rather than heard Clio call off the dogs, shouting at them urgently, and shoving them away. Then she was lying there, sprawled among the dead leaves, staring up to the grey of the sky.
‘Get up,’ said Clio.
Still holding the gun, Clio pulled out a pair of handcuffs from a rucksack.
‘Put them on.’ She nodded briskly at Casey. ‘Don’t mess about. I’ll check.’
There was nothing else to do. Casey clicked on the cuffs, one at a time. Clio reached across, tugging briefly at the handcuffs.
‘Good,’ she said.
From her bag, Clio produced a long chain, clipping one end to her saddle and the other to the handcuffs.
‘Now,’ said Clio, ‘we go.’
She vaulted back onto her big black thoroughbred, and rode forwards. The chain jerked at Casey’s hands, and she was hauled into a walk.
‘Don’t fall behind,’ Clio spoke over her shoulder. ‘I won’t stop.’
It was surreal, walking through the peaceful beauty of the forest, a prisoner. Casey watched Clio’s back, straight in the saddle. The two hounds were exploring the woods now, quite playful. Casey could hear them crashing through the damp scrub of the bracken, giving chase to a squirrel. Clio’s horse broke into a jog, dragging Casey forward.
‘Wait,’ Casey pleaded. ‘I can’t . . .’
Clio glanced back, tugging slightly on a rein.
‘Hurry up.’ There was no softness in her voice now.
Casey scrambled forward again.
They walked on, Casey’s legs heavy with tiredness.
Where is Miranda? Where is she?
Try. Keep trying.
‘This isn’t going to work, Clio,’ Casey shouted abruptly. ‘You can destroy me, but that won’t be enough.’
Clio looked back, with a smile. ‘Maybe.’
‘You won’t get away,’ Casey said.
Clio glanced back at Casey. ‘No?’ she raised an eyebrow. ‘I’m the one who won’t get away?’
‘It doesn’t matter what you do to me,’ said Casey. ‘They’ll get you.’
‘We’ll see.’
Clio kicked the horse, urging it into a trot. Casey was hauled along, fish on a line, battling to keep up as her wrists bruised on the cuffs.
‘Let me go,’ she screamed.
The horse trotted faster, yanking Casey along. Any moment, she would slip and fall, and be dragged helpless over the rocks and the branches.
‘Please,’ Casey heard herself beg. ‘Please don’t do this.’
‘Take my deal, Casey.’
Casey struggled through the leaves. ‘I can’t.’
They had reached the edge of the woods now. Casey stared around and realised that they were on the edge of the airstrip. The narrow strip of grass – clipped short and rolled – disappeared into the distance. To the left, Casey could see the collection of buildings that made up the home farm, and a few hundred yards away a small plane.
‘Last chance,’ said Clio. ‘Last chance, Casey.’
‘No,’ Casey said.
Clio glanced around at Casey, her mouth a thin line, and kicked her horse hard.
The horse half-reared and leapt forward. For a split second, Casey saw the chain whip through the air, before the jolt hit her, almost yanking her shoulders out of their sockets. Casey was torn through the air, crashing face-first down onto the grass.
The horse galloped along the runway, whiplashing Casey in its wake. Casey screamed as a blazing pain flashed down her arms. She tried to roll onto her side, in a hopeless effort to save her face, her teeth, her eyes. The world skidded past, a blur of grass and sky. She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t see, couldn’t think. The pain swallowed her. She hit a clump of grass, bounced in the air, slammed back down.
‘Stop,’ screa
med Casey. ‘Please stop.’
‘Will you?’ shouted Clio.
Casey couldn’t answer, was battling to stay alive.
‘Will you?’ The witch’s scream.
‘No,’ Casey gasped.
Clio jerked the horse, pulling him to a halt.
Casey lay on the ground, her arms contorted, her clothes torn. Her limbs were covered with cuts and bruises, and blood poured from her forehead.
Clio shrugged. ‘At least I waited until we reached the grass.’
Almost meditatively, Clio slid off the horse, unclipping the chain from the saddle. Casey was gasping for breath, trying to move her arms.
‘So you won’t do it,’ Clio said, almost to herself.
There was a long pause.
‘No,’ Casey muttered. ‘No, I won’t.’
‘But why not?’ There was frustration in Clio’s voice. ‘How do you decide, Casey? You? What gives you the right to make these decisions?’ She jerked at the chain.
‘I don’t know,’ Casey whispered, almost to herself.
Clio stared at her a long time.
‘Fine,’ she said. ‘Stand up.’
The gun centred on Casey’s forehead. Casey moved her arms, legs, somehow nothing was broken. Wearily, she dragged herself to her knees, then foot by foot, she stood.
‘Come on.’ Clio jerked the chain, sending a spasm of pain down Casey’s arms.
Slowly, they started walking towards the plane.
76
Just as they reached the little plane, there came a roar from the farm buildings behind them. Clio’s head whipped round.
Exhausted, Casey peered over her shoulder.
In the far distance, a huge tractor was rolling out of one of the farm buildings.
‘What . . .’ Clio’s voice died away.
‘Miranda,’ Casey whispered. Relief flooded through her. Miranda, still here. Fighting for their survival.
‘Who?’ Clio spun round to Casey.
The tractor was dragging a huge steel trailer behind it, almost thirty feet long and twenty feet high. As Casey watched, the tractor ground its way down the side of the airstrip, crunching through gears.
‘Hurry.’ Clio yanked Casey towards the plane.
The plane was a little Cirrus, Casey registered, almost unconsciously. Able to fly five people hundreds of miles without refuelling. There was no way of knowing where Clio might go in this plane.
The morning mist was burning off now, the sun breaking through in patches. Behind her, Casey heard the blare of the huge engine. Halfway down the strip of grass, the tractor was turning, labouring across the runway. As Casey glanced back, it came to a juddering halt, bisecting the airstrip.
‘Fuck it.’ Clio’s eyes were wide. ‘What is he doing?’
‘She,’ said Casey flatly. ‘And she’s stopping you from getting away.’
Panic flickered in Clio’s eyes. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Miranda will have sabotaged every other way of escaping,’ said Casey, almost singsong, as if she were reciting a poem. ‘I wondered where she was, all this time. But she’ll have made sure that there is no escape for you, Clio.’
Clio was vibrating with alarm, eyes stretched wide. ‘Fucking bitch,’ she exploded. She spun round and pointed the gun at Casey. ‘Get on that fucking plane,’ she spat.
‘You’ll never make it, Clio,’ Casey pulled back against the chain. ‘You’ve only got half a runway to take off. Maybe a thousand feet. Less. It’s impossible. Even if you try, every pound will matter if you’re going to get over that trailer. Take me, and you’ll definitely crash.’
Clio stared up the runway. She was shaking, Casey saw.
A tiny figure jumped out of the tractor, and stood gazing in their direction.
Clio made a gesture of wild frustration, almost clawing at the air.
‘Give up, Clio.’ There was no emotion in Casey’s voice. Her shoulders sagged, the blood trickling down her wrists.
‘I can still shoot you before I go.’ Clio swung round. ‘You fucking . . . journalist.’
She turned on Casey like a lioness. The adrenalin flooded back, the pain in Casey’s arms disappearing.
‘Please.’ Casey’s eyes were on the gun. ‘Don’t do this.’
‘Take the bargain,’ Clio screamed, all control gone. ‘I’ll give you everything. I can’t . . .’
‘No.’ Casey gritted her teeth. ‘Never.’
Abruptly, Clio threw down the chain. She ran towards the Cirrus, clambering aboard.
‘Don’t do this,’ Casey shouted after her. ‘Please. You’ll never make it. This plane can’t take off down that short a runway.’
Clio’s eyes blazed. ‘Get away from me, you bitch. Get away or I’ll kill you for the fucking sake of it.’
The engines roared, slicing through Casey’s words. Clio was throwing anything heavy out of the little plane, lightening the load as much as possible. As Casey watched, Clio hurled her own rucksack away.
‘Please don’t,’ Casey screamed.
Clio turned the little plane in a tight circle. Casey could just make her out in the cockpit, leaning forward, urging on the little plane as it if were her black thoroughbred. She taxied the plane as far down the runway as possible, until the wings almost scraped the trees as it turned. The engines were screaming now, the noise deafening Casey as she scrambled to the side of the runway. The horse galloped away into the forest, tail bannering in the sun.
‘Please . . .’ Casey shouted.
But the little plane was moving forward now. Slow at first, and then accelerating as fast as possible, racing over the grass, into the morning sun.
Clio almost made it. The landing gear clipped the huge trailer, and the Cirrus plunged like a swift shot from the skies. The nose of the plane dived into the ground with astonishing violence, burying itself in the grass as the Cirrus cartwheeled, all its speed gone in a shattering whirl and a final stomach-turning crunch.
‘Clio,’ Casey muttered.
She found that she was running up the field, snatching up the chain and sprinting towards the stillness of the plane, the handcuffs jolting her wrists.
As she ran, Miranda appeared, almost a surprise. She had dived to the side of the airstrip as the Cirrus raced towards the trailer.
‘My God, Casey,’ and Casey knew her face was bad from Miranda’s horror. ‘What did she do to you?’
There wasn’t time to stop, wasn’t time to explain. Casey dashed on, racing to the splintered wreckage.
Clio was dying, Casey could see that at once. ‘Call an ambulance,’ she screamed to Miranda.
‘But—’
‘Call one,’ Casey shouted. ‘Right now.’
The cockpit had ended up on its side, quite separate from the airplane’s wings. The windscreen was smashed away, and Clio was suspended by her harness, the blood pouring from her head. Below her waist, the plane had crushed her, the heavy machinery crumpled like paper.
‘Clio.’ Casey scrambled towards her. ‘Clio.’
For a second, Clio smiled up at her, her teeth red with blood.
‘Hello, Miss Benedict.’
‘Stay still, Clio. Help is coming, I promise.’
Clio was looking round the cockpit, eyes vacant. With an immense effort, her eyes found Casey’s face again.
‘I should have surrendered.’ Clio tried to focus on Casey. ‘But we never give up, do we?’
‘Clio . . .’
‘I’m dying, aren’t I?’ Clio tried to smile, almost matter-of-fact.
‘An ambulance is coming,’ Casey whispered. ‘Hold on. It’s coming.’
Casey tore at the shreds of her jersey, trying to make it into a pad for Clio’s head, the handcuffs impeding every movement.
‘It’ll be here in just a second, Clio. Just hang on.’
But Clio’s eyes were looking past her, and it was as if the whole field were filled with old friends.
‘To life,’ she whispered.
And Clio died then, he
r face tipped up to the sky, the light going out of her eyes.
77
‘Come away, Casey.’ Miranda was tugging at her arm, pulling her away from the ruins of the airplane. ‘You can’t help her any more.’
Slowly, Casey let Miranda lead her away, tears spilling from her eyes.
‘We have to go.’ As Miranda spoke Casey tried to concentrate on her words. ‘We have to get out of here, Casey.’
‘But’ – Casey was hazy, eyes wavering around the field – ‘I can’t . . .’
‘We have to get back to Dominic Burton-Smith,’ Miranda said evenly. ‘The ambulance is coming. The police won’t be far behind. And the air-accidents people, too. We can’t stay here.’
But Casey was staring at Miranda, her eyes haunted. ‘How did we end up here, Miranda? How?’
Miranda looked at her. ‘What do you mean?’
‘All this.’ Casey gestured. ‘Sir William Cavendish, Gabriel Bantham, the Burton-Smiths. This whole trail of destruction . . .’
‘You know why we did it,’ Miranda said carefully. ‘To stop Greystone. To stop Clio.’
‘But . . .’ Casey’s head hurt. ‘All this . . .’
‘The end justifies the means,’ said Miranda briskly. ‘You know that.’
‘But does it?’ said Casey. ‘Always? We go from life to life, hurling grenades. And then we just walk away.’
‘It’s our job to walk away,’ Miranda said, and Casey stared at her.
‘But how?’
Miranda put her hand on Casey’s arm. ‘Come on. We can talk later. We need to go . . .’
‘What gives us the right?’ Casey heard Clio’s echo.
‘What gives anyone the right?’ said Miranda.
The birds were singing in the trees, louder now.
‘There’s a video back at the house,’ said Casey. ‘The Burton-Smiths accusing us both of blackmail. You and me. And Emily filmed me. In the hotel.’
Miranda hesitated. ‘The police may never find it,’ she said. ‘And even if they do, the only way to fight blackmail is to be bold. Face the threat. Then it loses all its power.’
‘Maybe. Not always.’
‘We have to go,’ Miranda said again.
‘But we can’t just go.’ Casey pulled away. ‘We can’t leave her . . .’
