by Andrew Lowe
Sawyer sent a message to Myers, out front, parked in an adjacent road.
All good?
After a few seconds, the reply came back.
Yes. Quiet.
Sawyer sat in the chair, staring into the darkness. He felt a sudden sense of panic, as if the idea to lure Ballard was flawed in a way that was just outside his perception.
He got up and crept to the end of the hallway, just in sight of the small conservatory with reading chair and bookshelf. The room looked out through French windows onto a decked porch and a large, well-tended garden beyond.
He looked back to the dark corner and his chair.
Tick, tick, tick.
Moonlight leaked in through the sitting room door, casting a pallid half-light over Leo, who snuffled in his sleep. Sawyer walked back and sat down, pondering his unfinished business.
He had Shaun’s insurance card, but he would need to connect him to Dale, and prove his involvement in the assault. Dale was moving away, but clearly had no intention of letting Eva go. He thought of Alex’s words, about unwanted attention. Was he already inside that realm? Forcing the issue, when the smarter choice would be to hang back?
He would pick things up with Ryan Casey once this was all over, one way or another. He imagined the laughter at the Magpie Mine goose chase, but felt more disappointment than humiliation. It was clear that the Caseys knew more about Owen than they were prepared to reveal right now.
His therapy with Alex had become more than just a favour to Maggie. But it disturbed him, how he was more concerned with using her to gain more detail about the attack on his mother than with improving his own mental health: finding something tangible that would open up a new angle, away from his journalist masquerade, and the hunt for the man who had helped the killer frame Klein.
Tick, tick, tick.
He breathed steadily, listening to his thoughts, monitoring his physical aches: the throbbing in his hand, the sharp pain in his leg, a tender spot on his forehead where he had butted Shaun.
He reached for the book again, checked the time.
3:35.
His eyes stung with fatigue. More coffee. Soon.
Sawyer allowed his body to recline slightly, submitting to the pull of sleep. He closed his eyes, sank a little deeper, forced himself back from the brink.
Upstairs, Kim shuffled across the floor again.
Bathroom door: opening, closing.
Leo growled at his feet: a low, continuous drilling. He whimpered a little in his sleep. Chasing imaginary cats.
His tail stirred, started to swish. He growled again.
Sawyer leaned forward. The moonlight from the sitting room reflected in the dog’s open eyes. Not asleep any more.
A thought struck him, flipped his stomach. He stood and walked out to the conservatory, making himself visible to the French windows. He crouched, looking out to the porch and the single-storey extension where Kim kept the washing machine.
Sawyer walked back to the chair and nudged Leo to his feet. He bundled the dog into the sitting room and closed the door.
He listened. Some movement upstairs. No toilet flush.
Kim’s footsteps, moving from bathroom to bedroom. Quicker than before. More purpose.
Sawyer scaled the two bottom steps and leaned around the corner of the staircase, staying silent. He edged his way up, stair by stair, conscious of potential creaks.
As he neared the top, he thought he heard more movement from Kim’s bedroom. A brief shuffling. Then silence. The door was ajar, throwing a dim strip of lamplight over the landing.
Sawyer stepped forward and dabbed a finger at the door. It swung open, revealing the bed pushed against the far wall. Pink-and-white two-tone duvet, pulled to one side. No Kim.
He looked across the landing, to the bathroom. The door was closed. Solid light inside, bright around the edges. He had heard Kim go back to her bedroom. So why was the bathroom light still on, with the door closed? Had he dropped off to sleep? Missed her journey back again? And why no toilet flush?
Another room sat in the centre of the landing corridor. Spare? Office? He pressed his ear against it, listening. Nothing. He turned the handle slowly and pushed it open.
It was a spare bedroom. Unmade single bed, dresser with mirror. He inched his way to the window which overlooked the back garden. The net curtain flapped against the glass. One of the panes had been opened, admitting an outside chill. The lock had been forced. He looked out and down to the garden; the single-storey extension sat directly beneath the window. A bundle of rakish branches from a neighbouring tree obscured the roof, making the access difficult to see from the ground. From up here, it was clear that an intruder could climb up onto the extension and pull themselves up to the window.
A thud from the bathroom next door. He turned, on full alert, and edged back out onto the landing. He reached for the bathroom door handle, expecting it to be locked. But it turned, and he opened the door.
Kim Lyons lay on her back, in the bathtub, wearing only a thin blue nightdress. She was handcuffed, with her hands behind her back, and her mouth had been covered by a strip of gaffer tape. He caught the panic in her eyes as she nodded for the door, towards the space behind him.
He turned back, facing the bedroom door. Edward Ballard stood in the frame: head down, eyes glaring up at Sawyer. He was even shorter than Sawyer had imagined. Maybe no more than five-two. He wore a dark jumper, black jeans, black boots, and a blue-and-black striped beanie hat. His left hand—gloved—was in view, but his right was obscured behind the door.
His expression softened, and Sawyer recognised the kind eyes of the FSI who had handed him the latex gloves, back at the Susan Bishop crime scene.
Ballard angled his head and smiled, curling up one corner of his mouth. He had a shining black bruise around his left eye socket. Ingram must have winged him. Or Walker.
‘Bright and fierce and fickle is the South,’ said Ballard. His voice was calm, colourless. ‘And dark and true and tender is the North.’
Sawyer smiled. ‘Tennyson.’
‘I read about you. “Hero cop”. Quite a life. You’ve done well, considering. It’s been a pleasure to work with you.’
‘I can’t say the feeling’s mutual.’
Ballard smiled. ‘We’ve both suffered. I saw you in the woods, limping.’
‘Wear and tear. Anyway…’ Sawyer clapped his hands together. ‘Can’t stand around talking all day.’
Ballard shook his head. ‘We’re just getting started.’ He moved out from Kim’s bedroom and walked towards Sawyer, keeping his right hand down, out of sight. He lunged forward, lifting the red-and-black can of incapacitant spray towards Sawyer’s face.
Sawyer’s first thought was to deflect Ballard’s arm with an inside block, and hopefully get him to drop the can. But he couldn’t risk Ballard catching him in the face before he could make the distance. He dropped his head and charged forward, keeping sight of Ballard’s legs to maintain his bearing.
He heard the hiss of the spray, and felt the liquid settle on the back of his head, stinging his scalp. He rammed his dropped head into Ballard’s body, pushing him into Kim’s bedroom door, which snapped open with a loud crack. The can flew into the wall and clattered down the stairs.
Leo downstairs, barking.
They fell to the floor, grappling. Ballard was small, but he had immense core strength, and Sawyer struggled to get him under control.
Ballard jerked out of his grip and rolled away.
The light from Kim’s bedside lamp was weak, and Ballard’s all-black clothing camouflaged him in the darkness. Sawyer couldn’t immediately see where he had rolled to.
A blur of movement to his right.
Ballard swung his arm around and drove a short-bladed knife into Sawyer’s right thigh, inches from his bullet wound. Sawyer bellowed in agony and groped for Ballard’s hand, hoping to hold and overpower him. But he jerked his arm away, pulling the knife free. He scurried out of the room, across
the landing.
Sawyer writhed and clutched at the stab wound. The carpeted floor beneath his leg was already warm and wet. He planted his left foot down and forced himself upright.
Ballard crossed the landing and slipped into the bathroom.
Sawyer followed, shouldering into the door before Ballard could lock it, shoving him back into the room. He glanced down at his leg: too much blood.
He pushed into the bathroom.
Ballard was crouched by the bathtub. He had grabbed a fistful of Kim’s hair in one hand, holding her head back. He held the bloodied knife in the other hand, poised at her throat. Kim had screwed her eyes shut; her body convulsing with fear.
Ballard smiled at Sawyer. He had barely broken a sweat, despite the tussle. ‘I know what you’re thinking. Femoral artery. I wouldn’t worry. Complete transection is rare.’ He looked down at Sawyer’s leg, and the pooling blood. ‘Although you can still bleed to death.’
Sawyer snatched a towel off the rail. He tied it tight around the top of his thigh, keeping his eyes on Ballard.
Ballard smiled and nodded his head. ‘The article said you were present at your mother’s murder. A child. Truly terrible.’ His eyes narrowed, hardened. ‘But then you still had your father. Most orphans are made. I was born an orphan. Denied the love of both my mother and father. Then, I was lied to. The love was tricked out of me.’
Sawyer steadied his breathing. Downstairs, Leo barked in bursts of two and three, paused for a few seconds, repeated. ‘This is such a mess, Edward.’ He waved a hand across the bloodied floor, gestured to Kim. ‘And you’ve been so tidy. So precise.’
Ballard darkened; the anger poking through his poise. He pinched his lips together, drew in a deep breath through his nose. ‘That fucking nurse.’ He composed himself, turned a curious gaze on Sawyer. ‘How is your colleague? That was wrong. But I had to…’ He trailed off. It struck Sawyer that his enquiry wasn’t sarcastic; he seemed genuinely concerned for Walker.
Sawyer slid to the floor, back against the wall, keeping the bathroom door open. ‘You know, Ed. In a way, you might say that Roy Tyler was your real father.’ Ballard let his gaze sink to the floor. ‘The crash resulted in the death of your parents. But it also induced your premature birth. You came into being as the result of his choices that night.’
Ballard jerked his head up. There was rage in his eyes now. ‘Edward Shaw gave me life. He delivered me.’
‘From evil? Do you see him as your father, or Our Father?’
‘He’s a surgeon. Not a god.’
‘And how about you, Ed? Are you a god or a monster? What gives you the power over life and death?’
Ballard shook his head. ‘I was a nobody. Born to nobody. The judge who sentenced Tyler—’
‘Is he next? Are you going to take his tongue?’
Ballard raised his eyebrows. ‘He died a few years ago. He said that, “No powers possessed by the court can lessen this terrible and devastating loss”.’ He leaned forward, spitting the words across the room. ‘No powers.’ He sat back, resting his head against the wall, keeping the knife pointed at Kim’s neck. ‘They gave him ten years. Ten years for two people. It wasn’t even the maximum allowed at the time, fourteen. He served five, and he was driving again after a two-year ban. That piece of filth killed three human beings with a lorry and they didn’t even ban him from driving for life. So, when the law is impotent, and the sky is empty, when God himself is powerless to prevent the loss of innocents, then what’s left but to take control?’
‘Appoint yourself as the higher power?’
Ballard nodded. ‘When the so-called forces of good fall so far short of the mark, what else can you do but deliver your own justice?’
‘And you planned to kill him. But he was already dead. And so you had to wipe him out. You couldn’t stand the mess of it. The fact that the man was gone, but his tissue lived on.’ Sawyer pushed down on the stab wound, ground his teeth through the pain. His phone buzzed in his pocket. ‘You say you were born a nobody, but do you know how unlikely it is that you were born at all? The odds are about one in four-hundred trillion. Your parents meeting in the first place, staying together, the sperm meeting the egg. You could go further back. The probability of all your ancestors reproducing. It’s so unlikely, you could call it a miracle. Life is a wonderful thing. Some people see it as a gift from a divine being. But however you think it all begins, we keep doing it. Creating more people, more life. I’ve been alive for thirty-five years. In that time, three billion people have been added to the global population. Life is what we do. Despite all the horrors in the world, we just keep on bringing people into it. It all comes down to that old saying. Where there’s life, there’s hope. Humans like hope. It keeps us going. Your mother, Faye. She felt that.’
He shifted position, against the wall. Downstairs, Leo kept up the barking.
‘What do you mean?’ said Ballard.
‘Your father, Tony. He died at the crash scene. But your mother carried a donor card, which was the old way of showing your wishes for your body after death. And because Faye died at the hospital, just before you were delivered, then she could donate her organs. Now that really is an act of higher power. Passing on your precious, unlikely life to someone else. And now, you can make that choice. Show mercy. Follow your mother’s example and give someone the gift of life.’
Downstairs, Leo had fallen silent.
Ballard stared at Sawyer. ‘To answer your question, I’m not a monster. I’m not going to stab a woman in the eyes.’
‘But you can’t leave the job unfinished, right?’ Sawyer looked at Kim, foetal in the bathtub, eyes staring up and away from Ballard’s knife, breathing through flared nostrils. ‘This woman here. Kim. She’s over. Her cornea transplant has failed. Her eyesight is degenerating. The last spark of the man who killed your mother and father is fading inside her, day by day, regardless of what you do now. Soon, there will be none of his living cells active. He’ll be gone forever. Your work is already done. You’re going to prison for a long time, Ed, I can’t change that. But this woman here is your one source of hope. Spare her, and that decision will come back to you in the future, when you’re looking for leniency. You’ll serve your time and apply for parole, many years from now. You’ll be a different person, desperate to live an independent life, after circling the exercise yard for decades. The choice you make here and now will be the difference between getting a shot at that life and being turned down and left to rot it out. You are the higher power, yes, and you can choose either an act of kindness or an act of pointless cruelty that will end one person’s life and condemn you to a living death.’
Ballard’s head drooped. He lowered the knife, away from Kim’s throat.
A noise downstairs. Ballard didn’t react. Sawyer pushed down on the towel, wincing. ‘Your favourite author, Ed. Your namesake. He said that he believed in the “non-existence of the past”, and—’
‘“The infinite possibilities of the present”.’
Sawyer nodded. ‘Roy Tyler is the past, Ed. He’s non-existent. And here we all are, in the present. It’s all we have. And here and now, you can make the right choice, out of all those infinite possibilities. Give me the knife. Give this woman her life. Give yourself some hope.’
Barking again, from downstairs. Ballard raised his eyes, listening.
More noise on the stairs. Bustle. Another bark. Footsteps.
Ballard jolted himself alert and looked around, startled. He gripped Kim’s hair harder, forcing her head back, exposing her throat. He raised the knife again.
Leo scampered up the stairs, barking and growling. Footsteps behind him. Sawyer’s stomach lurched; Myers must have heard the dog, sent him a message and entered the house when he didn’t answer, releasing Leo from the sitting room.
The dog clattered through the door into the bathroom and leapt for Ballard. He pulled the knife away from Kim and raised it at the dog, but Leo clamped his jaws around his forearm. Ballard tugged
his arm back, and dropped the knife in the bathtub. It skittered up the curved surface and settled beside Kim’s body.
Leo growled and kept his grip on Ballard’s arm, burrowing his paws into his body for purchase. Sawyer lifted his left leg, struggling to raise himself. He looked behind. Myers had reached the top of the stairs. ‘Police!’
Ballard dug a left hook punch into the side of Leo’s head. The dog whimpered, but kept his grip. An empty wine bottle, streaked with candle wax, sat on a shelf above the bath. Ballard dug his feet into the floor, running on the spot, trying to gain enough height to reach the bottle with his left hand. But Leo pulled at his arm, shaking it left and right, keeping him tethered. Ballard punched the dog again. Leo released the arm and cowered back, howling.
Sawyer managed to shift onto his left knee. His right leg flared with the pain of the stab wound, and he struggled to unfold it and get himself upright.
Myers reached the bathroom door. Ballard’s can of incapacitant spray was in his hand. Sawyer snatched it and forced himself to his feet. He turned towards Ballard.
Kim had pulled up her knees and worked the cuffs around to her front. She gripped the knife in both hands, holding it on Ballard. He had forced his head back into the wall and stared down his nose at the point of the blade, millimetres from his throat. Kim’s eyes were wide, fixed on Ballard. She breathed through her nose in rapid bursts.
Myers stepped into the room and grabbed Leo. The dog wriggled in his grip, but seemed subdued. Myers pulled Leo away and bundled him out of the room, closing the door and shutting him outside.
‘Kim?’ Sawyer reached out to her, palm up. She kept the knife fixed on Ballard’s neck. He closed his eyes, forced his head further into the corner. Sawyer moved his hand towards Kim’s face. She flashed him a wary look, retrained her eyes on Ballard. Sawyer peeled at the edge of the tape across her mouth and lifted it away slowly.
Kim opened her mouth wide, gulping down air. She licked her lips, spoke to Sawyer. ‘You’re wrong. I am not “over”.’ She pulled herself up, leaned closer to Ballard. ‘You. Complaining about how you were denied love. You don’t deserve love. You don’t deserve life.’
