by T. J. Lebbon
She skirted left, scanning the cliffs for a route up. The gate was set up from the beach, several large rocks forming a natural staircase to what she hoped was the start of a route to the top. The cliff was only around twenty metres high, and she could scramble and climb up it if she had to. But that would take time.
She pounded across the beach for the gate. As she reached it she glanced back and saw Dom a couple of hundred metres back, still trying to run. She made sure he’d seen her, then turned her attention to the gate.
It was made of rusted metal bars, heavy and solid, and was firmly chained and locked. Beyond she could see the steep staircase rising to the left and disappearing behind wild undergrowth. There were no ways to push through the bushes growing around it, so she started to climb.
Wounds old and new complained, but she cut out the pain. The gate scraped against her legs as she tipped over the top and went sprawling on the other side. With one glance back at Dom, still running towards her, she pulled her pistol and started up.
The stone staircase wound up the cliff face, and it had not been used in some time. Bushes crowded in from both sides, the treads were thick with last year’s dried leaf fall, but she pushed through, hunching her head down and shoving past heavy brambles and roses gone wild. Thorns scratched at her skin and curled in, grabbing, barbed and cruel. She kept glancing up and ahead, the top of the cliff still out of sight. Trees grew close to the edge up there, those closest with roots exposed to the open air where constant erosion sought to undermine them. Perhaps that was why the church was abandoned. Maybe the congregation did not like the idea of time catching up with them.
The path jigged to the left again and she faced another barred metal gate. She had to climb this one too, and as she swung her legs over the top, she wondered whether Dom would be able to do the same.
It took another five minutes to reach the head of the uneven staircase, and the final gate. Beyond was a mass of wild undergrowth, speckled with flowers and hanging heavy with green fruit that would make a fine haul of blackberries in a few weeks’ time.
And beyond that, the church. It was quite small, surrounded by tall trees and undergrowth gone wild. Obviously abandoned, it still presented an impressive facade. Windows were boarded up, the main doorway hidden behind fitted metal sheeting, and a lush spread of ivy covered one side wall and reached for the spire.
There was no sign of Lip’s car. It might have been parked around the other side. Rose paused and hunched low, listening. There was nothing out of the ordinary.
If he was already inside, she might already be too late.
If he had yet to arrive, she had to get inside before him.
Just as she was about to climb the final gate she heard Dom behind her, panting hard as he climbed the last few steps.
‘Anything?’ he gasped.
‘No sign.’ His effort was immense, and Rose knew it was all for his child. She had dreamed many times of saving her own, but she always had to wake up.
‘There,’ he said, pointing. ‘To the left.’
Rose looked. A basement access stood open, the timber hatch set low beside the church’s old stone wall.
Rose’s blood ran cold. He was here already, inside, and she was so close to Holt and yet so far away.
She thought quickly. Dom gripped her arm and she turned, holding his hand and squeezing. She hoped he was more comforted from the contact than she felt.
‘We can’t both just rush in,’ she said. ‘We get one chance at this. Listen.’
For a terrible moment Lip worried that Holt had escaped, worked his way free somehow, wriggled away and hidden somewhere away from the church. But then he entered the building and smelled fresh urine, and he knew the man was still there.
On entering the church, the girl had started struggling more. He gripped her tighter. She swung for him and he absorbed the weak blow.
‘Don’t do that again. I have a knife.’ He showed her the blade. Not a weapon of choice, but beggars could not be choosers. And once he’d done Holt there were rocks, and old door hinges, and other creative ways he could take on Dom and the woman close behind.
Holt was still tied up and hemmed in beneath the pile of old pews. He’d been struggling, but the knots were tight. He hadn’t got far.
‘So there you are!’ Lip said. He hauled a pew aside, dropped it. The girl struggled again when she saw the bound man, and Lip had to squeeze her, hard. She grew still.
‘I’ve been looking forward to this,’ he said. ‘Had to take care of something else first. Hope you’re not too uncomfortable. I was worried you’d have snotted yourself and suffocated.’
Holt glared up at him, no fear in his eyes, only hate.
Lip released the girl and pulled her down before him, shoving her to the ground, knife pressed to her. He knelt on her. ‘Don’t move an inch.’
Holt looked at the girl and struggled against his bindings. His wrists were bleeding, ankles and thighs tied tightly. Blood and snot smeared his mouth and chin. More blood stained the floor around him, and his side was darkened. Lip was glad he hadn’t bled to death.
His mouth was still glued shut.
Lip leaned forward and pressed Holt’s head back against a pew, placing most of his weight on the man. Holt tried to struggle but could barely move. Beneath his knees, Lip felt the girl writhing. He reached into his pocket and drew out the small tube of superglue.
‘Bit of a rush,’ he said. ‘Both at the same time, I’m afraid.’ He squeezed glue into Holt’s nostrils, staring into his eyes as he did so. He saw no panic there, no terror at imminent death. Only a pure hatred.
‘Big breath.’ Holt sucked in his last lungful of glue-tainted air, then Lip squeezed the man’s nostrils closed and held them tight. ‘One … two … three …’
At ten he let go.
Holt started to shake, flexing his jaw and nose, stretching his face in an attempt to open an airway. But the glue was good. Lip knew that well enough.
‘Goodnight,’ he said. He stood, pulling the girl up by the hair. She screamed. He no longer cared. They would be here soon.
Rose tested the old wooden door. The latch was raised, there were no signs of any other locks, and when she pressed gently it shifted on its hinges. The small vestry was dank and dusty, little light finding its way through the boarded window. The door she had squeezed through was around a corner behind her.
She breathed deep and slow, trying to still her growing panic. Dom needed time to work his way through the door they’d found leading into the chancel. To have any hope of success, they needed to approach Lip from two directions. With the girl he had a shield, but if they could confuse him—
‘Goodnight,’ she heard from beyond the door. And then a scream.
Rose took a deep breath, gripped the pistol, and pushed through into the light.
Dom knew that he should wait for Rose. But when he peered around a column, and saw the monster standing over a squirming, dying man, and saw Daisy pulled up by her hair, heard her scream, he could not hold himself back.
He grasped the object he had almost tripped over and darted forward.
Rose skidded on the dusty floor, and by the time she’d brought her gun to bear, Lip had hugged the girl to his body. He pressed the knife to her throat, breathing evenly. Everything was still in his control.
‘Put her down!’ Rose shouted. She was fifteen steps away. Even though she looked around for her friend Holt, hidden from her view beneath the pews and still writhing, the pistol barrel did not waver.
The girl bit into Lip’s hand, startling him, and he thought, Where’s the father?
The impact against his temple knocked him sideways, exploding his senses. He tensed his knife arm, ready to draw it across the girl’s throat—
Pain exploded in his wrist as she bit him again. She stomped her foot down his shin. Confused, against every instinct he released her, and she scampered away to his left.
Lip pivoted as the first shot sang out. It pu
nched into his right shoulder and sent him stumbling, and as he went he slashed the blade across Dom’s throat.
He did not hear the next shot.
‘Dom!’ Rose shouted as Lip dropped to the ground. She took a few steps and put another bullet into the fallen man’s head, just to be sure. Brains and a spray of shattered skull splashed across the dusty floor.
‘Daddy!’
Dom had taken a couple of steps back and sat on an old pew, still grasping the wooden cross he’d used to smash Lip around the head. He raised a hand to his throat to stem the blood, but it was flowing freely now, the slash pouting as his panicked heart pumped blood from his body.
Daisy ran to him and reached him the same time as Rose. Dom looked at his little girl, eyes wide.
‘Good … girl,’ he rasped. Blood bubbled between his fingers.
Rose looked down at Holt. He glared back, imploring, rocking on his back, hands tied and trapped beneath him.
‘Daddy!’ Daisy shouted again. ‘Help my daddy!’
Rose took one more look at Dom to confirm what she already knew. Time crushed her. There was a choice to be made, and she tried to consider who she had the best chance of saving. She really tried.
Kneeling beside Holt, she raised a hand and signalled him to be still.
His mouth was glued tight. His nose was misshapen, nostrils barely visible. She could slice off his nose, hack open his lips. But his throat might already be filled with blood, mucus, vomit. The time it would take to do that—
She scrambled to Lip’s body and found the knife, a small blade but sharp. It dripped with Dom’s blood.
She showed it to Holt and he closed his eyes.
His throat was slick with sweat. Rose had never done this before, but she’d read about it. She felt below his Adam’s apple, placed the tip of the knife there, and pushed.
Holt whined and stiffened, shaking. She withdrew the knife and looked around, desperate, sensing him slipping away.
‘My daddy!’
Dom was slumped to the side now, blood still gushing between his fingers clasped to his throat. His eyes were glazed. Daisy was crying, yelling, red.
Focus! Rose thought. You’ve made your choice. She spotted an old Bible, snatched it up, ripped off the cover, tore out the inner flyleaf, rolled it, and worked it into the incision in Holt’s throat.
It hissed, bubbling blood and then air. His eyes opened again and he stared at her, blinking tears.
‘Got you,’ Rose said.
‘Help my daddy!’ Daisy screamed again. She was shoving at Dom, trying to make him move, denying his stillness like a baby animal prodding its fallen parent.
The girl’s wretchedness, her impending loss, sank cool teeth into Rose’s heart. She went to them on her knees, certain of what she would find. She was surprised. He was still alive.
But he only lasted for another two minutes.
Rose saw the moment when life left Dom’s body. But Daisy kept nudging him, and she let the child do that for a little while longer.
Chapter Thirty-Five
The Hollow Woman
‘He’s going to be fine. It was touch and go, and for a while I was worried about brain damage. He lost a lot of blood. But he pulled through. I’ll be going to see him soon.’
‘Good,’ Emma said. ‘I’m glad. For you, and him.’ The cafe was busy with holidaymakers, businessmen, and single travellers with their own unknown stories. Emma looked at these people and wondered about them. She never really had before, but now she knew that everyone had a story. Some were more interesting than others, some were sadder. Some, monstrous.
Rose sipped her coffee. ‘And what about you?’
‘Really? You’d ask that? My daughter witnessed my husband murder someone, then she saw someone kill him. She was covered in his blood and sometimes thinks she still is. I find her washing herself seven, eight times each day. She sneaks away to do it. She’s seeing a child psychologist. My sweet daughter, in fucking therapy. There are people asking for our story. Offering money. Like it’s an entertainment. What about me? I’m hollow. We both are.’
Rose glanced away, but she did not seem embarrassed. Emma had always known she had a story, though she had never fully shared it. She was Jane Smith, the do-over woman, someone who knew how to fight and kill, but she must have been someone else before that. Emma could see it in her. A mother and wife, perhaps.
‘Kids are resilient,’ Rose said.
‘How would you know?’
Rose did not reply. She drank more coffee, looking around. She always seemed on edge, wired, constantly expecting trouble. Emma guessed that was how she lived her life.
‘What about your friends?’ Rose asked.
‘They’ve been priceless,’ Emma said. ‘Mandy and Paul got engaged. I think what happened to them made them realise how much they need each other. They used to argue about such stupid things.’ Her voice faded a little, and she had a flash-memory of her and Dom, bickering over something foolish. ‘They’ve been helping me so much. Me and Daisy. I honestly don’t know what I’d have done without them. They’re good people.’
She emphasised the “good”. Rose nodded, gaze continuing to flit around the cafe.
‘So what did you want to say to me that we couldn’t do on the phone?’ Emma asked. ‘The police will want to know where I am.’
‘Of course they will. Tell them you needed to get away.’
‘I do.’ Emma looked down at her hands again. She remembered shooting the gun into Mary’s leg. She’d been found dead in the lodge, her brains blown out. Sonja was dead outside, eyeballs melted and skin blistered. There was other people’s blood in the building, too, but no one else was found. They took us, Emma had told the police, and it was the story she had to stick to. They took me and Dom and Daisy, and threatened us, and I don’t know why. But I think maybe Dom had something to do with the post office heist.
That had been one of the hardest parts of constructing her story. Rose had helped her, of course, vision untainted by crippling grief and despair. Even though it was a version of the truth, blaming Dom had felt cruel, and it went against everything they had been fighting for. But as Rose had said, it wouldn’t change anything for him. It was best to say that most of the truth had died with him. And now that he was gone, he would help them in any way he could.
‘So?’ Emma prompted.
‘So … I don’t want you to become like me.’
Emma snorted. But Rose stared at her, waiting until she caught her eye.
‘I’ve suffered loss,’ Rose said. ‘Terrible loss. Much worse than you.’
‘I don’t think—’
‘My husband and three children were murdered.’
Emma’s breath caught in her throat.
‘It almost consumed me,’ Rose said. ‘I know what being hollow feels like, Emma. I lost myself, and Holt found me again. That old bastard’s the reason I’m still alive. Don’t lose yourself. I’ve worked hard, and you have too, building a story that might just stick. You have a good chance to get through this and emerge out the other side. You won’t be unscathed, and you’ll both be changed forever. But it’s up to you how that change affects your lives. You’ve survived too much to throw it all away now, and you have Daisy. She’s your rock, your anchor to the real world. I know she needs you, but believe me, you’ll end up needing her more.’
‘She’s the reason,’ Emma muttered.
‘Yes! She’s the reason you did what you did. Remember that. Don’t let rage swallow you up and blur the reason.’
‘But he’s still out there.’ She sneered in disgust. ‘Andy.’ Saying his name, thinking about him, made her sick with hate. She blamed him for that, too – she had no room in her life for such feelings. It was as if even though absent, he was still playing her for a fool.
‘Andy? You’ve nothing to be afraid of from him.’
‘That bastard came into my family and destroyed it. Why should I not fear him?’ Thinking of him always inspired a
confusing rush of images and sensations – a laughing, confident man, sharing wine in their back garden on a hot day; he and her husband clad in Lycra astride their bikes; Andy bloodied and injured, waiting for her to leave so that he could spend a final moment with his sister.
A blazing summer afternoon in her and Dom’s en suite, mint-scented steam caressing her body, Andy’s heat as he pulled her close, the feel of him heavy and full in her hand.
She shivered, closed her eyes, tried to swallow the feeling of shame and disgust. That last memory was one that presented itself again and again. While she’d convinced herself that the moment was simply a foolish mistake, the memory felt like an ultimate betrayal. It was the guilt from this that she struggled with most, because she could never tell anyone about it. That was her dark memory.
‘He’s no threat to you and Daisy,’ Rose said.
‘You’re sure? Do you know where he is?’
‘I’m sure. And no, I don’t know. I have had a look around, tried to trace him. His girlfriend Claudette hasn’t seen him. Neither has anyone else. His trail’s cold, but he was taught by the best.’ She smiled. ‘Maybe he’ll go after his family’s assets, but I doubt that. I suspect Andy’s vanished for good. Let your hate go, Emma. You both deserve more.’
The hatred was a fire, and perhaps over time she could douse its flames, let its heat bleed away. As for fearing Andy, she’d thought about that long and hard. She could conceive of no reason he might wish her and Daisy harm. Hearing it from Rose helped her in that. He might have been a lying, manipulative bastard, but he wasn’t that sort of man. He wasn’t another Lip.
‘It’s going to take me a long time,’ Emma said. She’d cried too much already, and her tears seemed to have dried. But in their place was a deep, daunting nothing, a dark place inside that threatened to consume her every minute of the day. If she submitted to its lure she wasn’t sure she would ever find her way back out.
‘Let it,’ Rose said. ‘You can’t fool grief. But remember your reason. However dark it is, she’s your light.’
Emma saw sadness in Rose’s eyes, a true, endless sadness that took her breath away. Rose glanced at the seat beside her as if looking for someone. Then her face hardened again, and the moment was gone.
