Fallen Idols

by Neil White

  He pulled out his phone and rang the American’s number. He needed to know. He heard two ring tones, and then it was clicked off.

  He looked at his handset before throwing it into the corner.

  *

  We both heard the phone ring. We froze. The sound was clear and near. It was on the stairs. There was a rustle of clothes and a muffled curse. No hesitation. I hissed, ‘Now!’ and bolted for the door.

  I could hear Laura running behind me, her breaths frantic and scared. She had to be right behind me. That was the plan.

  I flung open the door and dashed across the landing, only as wide as the stairs. I was past in a flash and then I heard feet on the stairs, starting to run, missing out steps. Laura stayed in my room.

  I crashed through the door into my father’s bedroom, my bare feet stumbling as I stopped to avoid the bed. My heart was thumping. All I could hear was the sound of my pulse and the blood rushing through my head. Time had slowed down. The footfalls on the stairs were loud, each step crashing as I scrambled round the bed and towards the window.

  I saw the camera flash. Laura must have put her arm round the corner and fired the camera, the blue light making the stairs seem as in daylight. I heard a voice say, ‘Shit,’ and a stumble. I heard Laura rush back into my room. I heard a rush up the stairs, the flash had only halted the steps for a second, and then a slam as my bedroom door flew open. I heard Laura’s feet land on the table and then light screams. Laura was heading for the window. There was a crash as something hurtled against the window frame, and then I heard a thud on the roof outside. There was a shout of ‘Fuck’ from my bedroom, and then I heard the table clatter as it took a kick. It was a male voice. Laura had got out.

  I rushed to my father’s window. That was the plan. Get a picture and split up. Laura would have the easier drop. I would have a straight fall from the window. But it was onto grass.

  I grabbed at the window and pulled it up, expecting it to spring upwards.

  It didn’t move.

  I looked down, panicking. There was a window lock. Shit.

  I looked around for the key, scrambling through the drawer unit next to the bed, my hands flicking through clothes, throwing them around.

  I couldn’t find it. I could hear pacing in the next room. I was trapped, cold sweat gathering on my lip. I opened the next drawer. If the key wasn’t in there, it was stay and fight or throw myself through the glass.

  My hands scurried through the next drawer. Nothing there. I was starting to panic. The noise from my room had stopped. He had heard me. It made me pause for a moment and I looked around. There was no way out. A square room, a square bed, and one door out.

  I opened the bottom drawer and tipped out the contents, my hands fumbling now, desperate. I dropped to the floor and pushed aside papers and photographs.

  He entered the room slowly. He made no noise, but I could sense him blocking the doorway. The door was on the other side of the bed to me, and I was exposed, cornered.

  I looked around my feet, at the mess I’d made on the floor. Then I saw something. It was a can of deodorant. I picked it up and shook it. There was some left in.

  I rummaged through the clothes I’d thrown over the floor, looking for a cigarette lighter. There must be one in there. Dad had smoked in bed. Always had. I’d tried to tell him to stop. I hoped he hadn’t listened to me.

  Then I felt it, a knock against my knuckles. My hand closed around it and I felt empowered.

  I shot to my feet, pointed the aerosol, and pressed, my finger clicking the lighter alive.

  My mouth dried in an instant. Nothing. No flame. Just two clicks. My eyes shot to the floor but there was nothing I could use. Just papers and pictures.

  The intruder stood up straight and reached into his pocket. He filled the doorway and a sliver of moonlight from my room flickered against the knife he held in one hand. His other hand produced a canister. I thought I saw a grin, and then I noticed him put his arm across his nose.

  ‘This is what you want,’ he said. I spotted the American drawl.

  He pointed the canister into the room and sprayed.

  I copied him, covered my mouth with my arm, and fell to the floor, not knowing what it was. I dropped the canister I’d been holding.

  It hit me straight away. My eyes began to burn, my nose streamed, and I began to cough. I tried to take a breath, but my throat flared up with fire. I spluttered and roared, and started to rub my eyes, but it made it worse. I felt like I was melting, my eyes pouring water, my throat burning. I buried my head in my father’s bed, tried to wipe it off, but it didn’t work. I was shrieking and coughing and wiping my eyes, my fingernails scraping at my face.

  Then I heard footsteps. He was coming into the room. He was coming to get me.

  I reached behind me on the floor, looking for something, anything, my hands scrabbling around under the papers. The footsteps got nearer. My search became frantic. I scattered whatever was there, and then I felt it, cold and round. A paperweight, nothing special. Just heavy and a good shape for the hand.

  I shot to my feet, unable to see, and drew back my arm. There was one more footstep and I was able to get a bearing.

  I threw the paperweight hard. A fastball, straight and high. I heard a yell, and then it dropped to the floor. I could make out a shape on the other side of the bed, bending down, holding his head. He was all in black, but I could see the pale skin, his hands over his forehead. The spray must have been clearing, because I could make out a dark patch around his hands, could hear him cursing, saw him trying to stand up straight.

  I jumped onto the bed, screaming with rage now, and ran across in two steps. His head was still down, his face towards me as I got to the edge, so I swung my right leg and jumped off with a volley. I felt my foot hit something soft, my leg jarring, and heard a crash as he fell backwards. I fell on top of him, so I began to punch and elbow my way off him, stumbling over the falling body and landing just in the doorway, my feet scuffing at the floor, trying to get away.

  I heard a rumble of movement and I caught sight of the shadow moving, something swinging through the air. I felt a slice on my leg, wetness, and then heat. I shouted in pain and kicked out in instinct, my foot finding his head again.

  I rushed to my feet, a wince of pain, and then I heard another burst of movement towards me, so I kicked out again, catching just enough shoulder to stop him.

  I ran across the landing and into my room. Instinct told me to avoid the stairs, too much like a shooting range, even a flying knife wouldn’t miss. I kept running, the footsteps behind me starting up again, fast and earnest. I jumped onto the table and made a leap for the window. The table moved as I jumped. It rocked on its legs and my kick for the window pushed it backwards. I heard running footsteps enter the room. I made it into the open window, my ribs hitting the window frame hard, and I fell forward, my feet kicking out at the sills to get away. I felt something hit my foot as I went through.

  He had missed. Just.

  I landed with a thud, my head crashing against the tiles. I kept rolling, and then I was falling through the air, landing with a jar on the driveway. My head hit the ground as I landed and I grunted in pain. I was dazed, the graze stinging, but I knew I couldn’t wait.

  I picked myself up and began to run. I had no shoes on, so I ran across gardens, shouting in pain as I hit each driveway, shingle and concrete shredding the soles of my feet. I heard his feet on the bay window and then a neat thud as he landed feet first. Then I heard running.

  I was fifty yards away from the end of the street. I knew where I was headed. I’d told Laura to head for the fields on the other side of Accrington Road. Lie low and wait. Once in there, it would be easy to lose a stranger. I had my head back, going as fast as I could, heading for there. I gritted my teeth as the tarmac cut into my feet.

  I looked back. He was running. Then I saw him stop suddenly and reach behind his back. He came up with a gun. I saw him raise it, taking aim.


  I looked forward and tried a surge. The end of the street crept closer.

  I cut across a lawn and then onto the street, making a sharp left. I screamed as I ran, hollering, bawling, trying to get people to their windows. The tarmac on the road was tearing my feet up. I could feel the skin getting raw, but still I ran, moving from side to side, trying to make a hard target. I was twenty yards away. My lungs were screaming at me, mouth open. Just a few seconds more. A light went on. Then another. I carried on yelling.

  Then I stumbled.

  I went to my knees, the road cutting through my pants, my knees scraping on the floor. I just hauled myself up again, making a swift dart to the left as I did.

  A gun was fired. A car windscreen shattered where I’d just been.

  I sprinted for the main road and a dark patch between two houses. I knew that behind those were the fields. Once in there, it would be darkness. It would be soft underfoot. The moon would cast shadows, would light up the open spaces, but I knew where there was a line of trees.

  I could hear engines on the main road, a lorry, moving slowly. I could tell it wasn’t far away. I looked through the gaps in the houses, and I could see it would pass me at the same time as I reached the road. It would block me off, make me stop.

  I tried one last burst, a bolt for the road.

  The wheels rolled into view, the front of the cab large and red, chrome grilles, all moving towards me. I couldn’t stop. The truck kept moving, and I screamed, my feet tearing, my legs pumping, chest heaving. I ran into the road, my bare feet skidding over the tarmac, my toes scrubbed raw. I felt a rush of warm air, heard the blast of a horn, and then the wind from the passing truck shoved me just out of the way, its cab missing me by inches.

  I was in between houses on the other side of the road before the dust in its slipstream had settled. I ran through the yard and vaulted the wall at the back, my hands slapping at the dark coping stone. A dog barked in the yard and ran towards me, jumping against the wall.

  As I hit the grass, I stayed down. I took deep breaths, sucked in air, tried to get calm. I looked back, peering over the wall. I could see him running so I got to my haunches, ready to go again, but he wasn’t coming for me. He had his gun in his hand, pointing upwards but visible, a warning to the neighbours. He looked in my direction, but then turned away and walked back down my street. He walked to a car at the end, jumped in and fired up the engine. I saw neighbours on my street at their windows. He left the car lights off and reversed hard until he got to the Accrington Road, swinging it around with a hard left lock, and then screeched his tyres as he floored it, the car disappearing quickly into the distance. The rear lights flicked on as he got to a red light, but he didn’t stop. He went through it at around seventy miles an hour, his rear end sparking as he bumped over the junction, lighting up the street for a second.

  I sat down in the grass and put my head in my hands. I stayed like that for a few minutes, coughing, retching, the taste of the gas still hot, and then the pain from my calf began to creep through. I reached down to where it hurt, and I yelled when my hand found the spot. I felt warm liquid on my leg and I knew I’d been cut.

  I stood up and gasped as the pain shot through my leg, the adrenalin subsiding. I knew I had to find Laura. But then something struck me, and it made me sit down.

  I realised that I had just seen my father’s killer.

  FORTY-THREE

  Mike and Nell were drinking more coffee, trying to stay alert until the back-up from London arrived.

  ‘I don’t like this place,’ said Mike.

  ‘We don’t have to like it,’ Nell replied. ‘We just have to comb it.’

  ‘Do you think the shooter is nearby?’

  Nell shook her head. ‘She’s travelling. Whether she started here is something we need to find out.’

  ‘What does the office say about Glen Ross?’

  Nell shook her head. ‘Local boy, nothing known.’

  ‘Well, something’s got him jumping.’

  Nell smiled. ‘He might just get worse. I got a call half an hour ago telling me that two detectives from local HQ have landed in town. They’re watching his house.’

  Mike grinned, but then asked, ‘Where do we start tomorrow?’

  Nell tugged on her lip. ‘The local law firms,’ she said. ‘Running round for criminals gives them the inside line on rumours. If there is anything to this, they should know. They’ll at least have a line on Glen Ross.’

  ‘Will they tell us?’

  Nell nodded. ‘They’d better.’

  Then they heard noise behind them, excited chatter, bursts of radio, talk of a shooting at Bob Garrett’s house.

  Nell and Mike looked at each other.

  ‘Dead copper, right?’

  Nell nodded.

  ‘Time to wake up Mr Ross,’ she said. ‘This town is getting awfully busy.’

  The American headed north, Turners Fold disappearing over his right shoulder, the roofs now vivid blue as streaks of sun peered over the horizon. But there was some redness to the sky, storms ahead.

  He gripped the steering wheel tightly as he drove, his mouth set in a firm line, his anger controlled, but only just. He wanted to press hard on the accelerator, burn off his frustration.

  He was keeping off the major routes. There was a risk of a stray patrol car picking him up, the police airwaves broadcasting his number plate. He struggled along country roads instead. They had no lighting, no signs, no numbers. Just rolling expanses of hills and farms, the occasional stone bridge and two-street village, broken only by ninety-degree bends and hiking trails. It was only the rising sun that gave him any bearing: as long as the sun was to his right for the next couple of hours, he reckoned he would be okay.

  But the frustration was making him tense, and he couldn’t afford to be tense. He needed to be relaxed, focused, in control. He had never been driven by emotion. That was a negative. People make mistakes in anger. But he had ended up with too many loose strands, frayed corners dragging him down.

  He should have turned off his phone, he realised now, but he was even angrier with David Watts for calling him.

  He sat back in his seat and took a deep breath. He had to stay calm. He was a perfectionist, and on this, his most lucrative job yet, he needed it to be just that: perfect. That chance had gone now. The police would be watching the grieving son. His father had been found dead and then within twenty-four hours a gun-wielding stranger broke into his house and chased him down the street. Made Glen Ross’s suicide announcement pretty worthless.

  He slowed down to take another sharp bend, the road zigzagging around.

  He checked his watch. Just after five. He needed to be there before Liza Radley woke up. No more mistakes this time. No more leaving his phone switched on. That was his only mistake so far. Not any more. His phone was off and it wouldn’t go back on until he wanted to make a call. David Watts could sweat it out for a few hours. A taste of defeat would do him good. See life from the other side.

  He leant forward and squinted through his windscreen. He had to be focused. He didn’t underestimate the enemy ahead. She had already carried out three perfect assassinations and three protection killings. This was no little lady, hunched over an apple pie or filing her nails. She would be armed, she would be wary, and she would be prepared to kill anyone who got in her way.

  He smiled to himself. It was a shame he had to kill her. He reckoned they would have got along just fine.

  David Watts was lying on his back, naked, thinking about the American. There had been no call for some time, and he was not answering calls either. How long now?

  He felt dirty and cheap, the post-sex comedown. But it hadn’t been about sex, he knew that. He had done it to hate himself, to remind himself what lay behind the fast car and Chelsea Bridge apartment. He could smell the cheap life, reminders of where a bad right foot might have left him.

  Then he thought of Emma, wondered where she was. Maybe she was okay, on a flight somewhere,
just wondering where he had gone. His chest took a heave. She wouldn’t be there when he got back. He knew that, could feel it. She might even be dead.

  He covered his eyes with his hands. Why hadn’t he called the police? Or even the airline? They would confirm that she was safe on a plane somewhere. But what if they recognised his voice, or wanted to know his name?

  His nails dug into the skin around his eyes and he began to pull down, bringing blood to the surface. He thought about Emma some more and felt his stomach turn over. He took some deep breaths to cool down the nausea, his nerves eventually slowing, the grip of his fingers easing off.

  He felt tired. He rubbed his face with his hands and then messed with his hair, scruffing it up. He glanced over at Julie, sitting on a chair by the bathroom door. She’d taken some cigarette papers out of her bag and was licking three, joining them together for a joint.

  She was still naked. Her body was thin and pale, not toned and golden like she used to be. He could see bruises on her upper arms, finger-marks, and her shins and thighs were mottled and pink. She had no form, no shape, just up and down, sagging where she was supposed to curve, hanging where she was supposed to be pert.

  He rubbed his eyes again and thought more about Emma. When she was naked, it was like looking at a masterpiece, all curves and grace. And she made love like she had spent all day thinking about him, hungry and fast.

  Julie was looking at him, raised eyebrows, holding a small lump of cannabis in her hand. He heard the small child in the room next door begin to stir. Julie didn’t flinch. Was this what he was going back to?

  David got off the bed and took out his phone. He pressed the auto-dial number, trying to speak to the American again. There was nothing, just a recorded message saying that the phone was switched off.