Fallen Idols

by Neil White

  Then she heard a noise at the front of the house, someone shouting and banging on the door. She whirled around, her gun pointing.

  Then she heard movement outside the window.

  I was at the front corner of the house, my head low, trying to keep out of sight, when I heard Laura bang on the door, shouting that she was police.

  I stopped and looked up, checking for faces at the window. There was nothing.

  I used Laura as a distraction and ran around the back of the house. Just as I got there I heard movement above me, and then came the smash of glass.

  Liza Radley spun towards the window, her gun coming up, when his feet crashed through.

  She screamed as glass flew around the room. It prickled her face, stung her skin, clattered on the floor around her. She put her arms up and her gun skidded across the floor. She felt wetness on her cheeks, knew she had been cut. She was scrambling backwards as he thumped to the floor and rolled over. She yelped as her hands landed on the glass, but she kept going, her feet kicking away at the floor, trying to get out of the room.

  He sat up and grinned. ‘Good morning,’ he hissed, his voice packed with menace. ‘I’ve come to kill you.’

  He went for his gun. It was in his belt. She saw wetness on his right leg, a dark patch. Blood. He was reaching down with his right hand, almost at the grip.

  ‘You bastard,’ she screamed and leapt towards him. She wrapped her hand around a long shard of glass, gripping it hard, the edges cutting into her fingers. He was only a couple of feet away, a point-blank shot. She kept moving, flying at him with the glass, the point aimed at his hand, the one going for the gun. He leant backwards and began to pull the gun out. He lashed out with his left hand, catching her on her cheek. It knocked her to one side, but she just lunged again, screaming loud, her eyes wild.

  She pushed the glass down into his arm. He shrieked, high and full of pain, and tried to move away. He couldn’t, the glass was stuck fast in there. He tried to thrash around, but she held on, her ears full of his screams, the glass slicing into her fingers. She hissed with rage and pain and then gave her weapon one final push, her hands wet with blood, and then she felt the glass hit something hard, maybe bone. He yelled out loud and she heard the gun hit the floor.

  She kicked it away and let go of the glass. It stayed in his arm. She began to scramble across the floor again, leaving blood as she went. He screamed and gripped the glass, pulling it out. She tried to get to her feet, tried to run, when his other hand flew to his leg and a knife came out. He lashed out with the blade. She yelped and kicked away, the knife catching fresh air. She made it out of the door and slammed it. A shot was fired and she was showered in wood splinters. And then another. She screamed and ducked down, running for the stairs.

  He was grunting with pain. ‘You bitch, you bitch,’ he kept saying as she heard him get to his feet.

  She ran fast for the stairs, too fast. She stumbled at the top and fell forward. She twisted in midair, put her shoulder first, but the impact hit her hard, her arm going dead. She rolled down half the stairway, clattering against the stair-rail, and then came to a stop. She groaned with pain. Her shoulder hurt and her arm was limp. But then she heard the door open upstairs. He was angry, his pain coming out in seething breaths, his left leg dragging behind him. And he still had his gun.

  She scrambled to her feet and ran down the rest of the stairs, jumping the last two and then ducking into the room on her right.

  A shot rang out as she made the corner, her feet skidding on the floor, the sound of the glass exploding in the front door making her flinch. She heard someone outside scream and scramble away.

  I heard the scream too. Laura. I knew it straight away.

  I started running, my leg sending flashes of pain upwards, but I didn’t stop. The dust kicked up around me as I ran, the front of the house taking forever to reach. My mind was hot, images of Laura, sounds of Laura.

  As I reached the front of the house, I saw her. She was lying on her back, wood splinters around her.

  I ran again.

  *

  Liza was trapped. Blood was dripping from her hand onto the floor but she had stopped feeling the pain, her mind racing, her heart beating fast. She had dropped her handgun upstairs. She might need something bigger. Her rifle was in the car. Her shotgun was in the bedroom. She looked around, trying to remember where the gun cupboard was, her mind fuzzy, confused. Then she cursed when she remembered it was in the garage, at the back of the house. She could hear him on the stairs, his footsteps slow and heavy.

  The only way she could get into the garage was through the other room, across the hall, across his line of vision, in his firing range. If she stayed where she was, she would be trapped.

  She didn’t think about it for long.

  She ran at the doorway and across the hall, heard a shot, then made for the doorway into the other room. She was going as fast as she could, bolting across his path. Another shot was fired and hit the doorframe as she took the corner. Wood splintered around her, but she kept going, her feet skidding on the boards.

  His footsteps got louder. He was coming after her. She could hear his grunts of pain. She ran towards the door that went into the garage. Another shot. She ducked and screamed. He was moving faster now, sensing her panic. She could see the garage door ahead. She couldn’t remember if it was locked. As she ran, she remembered: it was always locked. She skidded to a stop to get the keys off a hook, and then ran again. The door was just a few feet away. He was in the room. She could sense his presence, could hear his footsteps, his breathing.

  ‘Come here,’ he shouted, snarling.

  He could see her now. He was trying to get closer, his shooting hand weak. She scrambled with the key in the lock, her panic making her fumble, wasting time, but then she got the door open, the cold air from the shade of the garage rushing past her.

  She ran in and closed the door behind her. The place was a mess. She hardly ever went in there. She had her own weapon store, but that was back in the house, upstairs, right past where he was.

  She could hear his footsteps just outside the door. He was getting closer.

  She scrambled over boxes and tools to the gun cupboard.

  She saw the padlock. She stamped her foot in anger and panic. ‘Shit!’ She remembered she’d done that so she couldn’t tempt herself, so she could fight the urge to stick one in her mouth and blow her own brains out.

  She looked around, frantic, trying to see something she could use, her hair thrashing around her face.

  Then she saw it.

  As I reached Laura, I saw the blood on her chest and flecks on her cheeks.

  I jumped onto the porch, skidding to a stop next to her.

  ‘You okay?’

  I saw her grimace, and then I sagged with relief when she moved.

  ‘Bloody splinters,’ she hissed, and then she sat up. ‘Is hanging around with you always this dangerous?’

  ‘It only got spicy when you came to town.’

  Laura brushed the bits of wood onto the porch. I saw a look of determination in her eyes.

  ‘I’ve been shot at now,’ she said quietly. ‘I don’t like that.’

  ‘You going in?’

  She nodded. ‘You bet.’

  Liza stood flat against the wall, a circular saw in her hand.

  It was big and heavy, with a large two-foot blade and a bulky orange handle. She used it to cut logs. It was powered by petrol, so she could take it out to the fields. There was some fuel left in there.

  Her chest was heaving, her cheeks flushed red. He was just the other side of the door. There was no point in starting the saw now. He would just hear it and get her at a distance. Or maybe he’d sit outside and wait for her. No, she had to swing at him as he came in through the door, starting it up as she swung, hoping it would gather enough power to do some damage.

  She thought about what she was going to do. She knew she had no choice. He was right outside the door. He had w
alked up to it and not gone away. She held the saw up, the handle in her left arm, the one not hurt by the fall down the stairs, with her bad arm on the switch. It became sticky with blood from the cuts on her hand. She squeezed her eyes tightly shut and prayed. She looked up, but saw only a ceiling.

  Her breath caught as she saw the handle on the door move. It was only a twitch, but it meant he was coming in. The door would open inwards, the hinges nearest to her. He’d get a good sweeping view of the garage, but to see her, he’d need to put some of his body into the doorframe. And then she had him. Even if the saw didn’t turn on, the weight and force of the swing might do enough to knock him backwards, the teeth sharp enough to tear at his skin.

  The door handle began to move downwards. She could hear it creaking in the silence of the garage. It edged down, inch by inch, until it was almost as far down as it would go. She held her breath, bracing herself against the wall. He had to open the door soon. The saw was heavy. She couldn’t hold it there much longer. It was above her head, her bruised shoulder screaming pain at her, but still she held it there, trying to hang on to some advantage.

  The door flew open and stayed open. Her hand tensed on the start button. She could hear him breathing, could sense him looking around his field of vision, trying to work out where she could be. There was nowhere to hide. It was a square room, strewn with boxes, but with no large cupboards to hide in. She could hear his feet shuffling forward as he tried to see all the corners. He would have to come closer.

  She pushed back against the wall, tried to give herself that extra inch.

  His gun arm started to edge through the doorway. The pistol was pointing downwards, but he was just behind it. Time split into fractions. His whole hand was through, and then she saw his foot. He was edging his body in, ready to swing his arm to point the gun right at her.

  She tensed, her hand flicked the switch, and then she began to scream, her arm starting to windmill towards him.

  We stepped away from the door when we heard the noise.

  ‘What the fuck is that?’ I shouted, and pointed along the house. ‘It’s coming from down there.’

  Laura nodded: Go.

  His body swung into the doorframe and the gun started to come up. As she was halfway through her swing, the motor caught, and the room was filled with the scream of the saw, loud and deadly. The jagged teeth, shiny steel, became a blur as the saw spun fast. He came into view but began to recoil, his arm pulling away. She didn’t stop. Her swing continued, her scream mixing with the saw’s and drowning him in sound. He was stumbling backwards, trying to fire a shot. She lunged forward, the swing ending its arc, and the scream became a whine as it made contact.

  His gun clattered to the floor. She fell forward as he fell back and out of the way, the saw meeting little resistance, his screams now mixing with hers. She noticed his hand still on the gun, clenched tightly against the trigger, but he was still stumbling backwards, retreating into the house. Then she saw the trail of blood. The door shut behind him and his hand and gun were still there on the floor. A red circle spun on the blade like the swirls on a spinning top.

  She grinned.

  She went for the door, full of fresh energy, the saw still whirring, and ran back into the house. He was easy to find: she just followed the blood and the shrieks of pain. She ran after him. She saw him shuffling towards the front door. She knew it was locked.

  ‘My turn,’ she screamed, and then ran at him across the room.

  We lifted the door to the garage, our eyes wild, hearts beating. As daylight flooded the garage, the scream of machinery moved. We saw a door close and realised they had gone.

  But we hadn’t heard a key. We could get into the house.

  Then I saw the hand and had to take a breath to keep down my breakfast.

  Laura flicked the severed hand away and picked up the gun.

  ‘C’mon,’ she said, and moved towards the door.

  He turned around, his face white with shock. His other hand reached into his pocket and pulled out a canister. She was getting closer, the saw held in front of her, the blade shrieking.

  He grimaced and pointed the canister towards her as she ran. She was only a few feet away. He pressed the button. Nothing came out.

  ‘Fuck,’ he shouted, and then jumped out of the way.

  She was still running, it was too slippy to change direction. She tried to stop herself but she started to slide, the saw swinging wildly in the air as she fell. She skidded past him, her arm flailing, and she heard a wet noise and a scream, and then a thud as he fell to the ground.

  She came to a stop on her back, the saw skating off the boards, throwing up dust before the blade cut into the doorframe.

  She lay back, panting, her eyes wild with victory. She glanced over and saw him trying to get up. He was twitching and trying to move, like still-warm road-kill, squeaking on the wooden floor, but he couldn’t get anywhere. He was moaning, trying to fight his pain.

  She stood up slowly, gingerly, her own pain coming back now: her bruised shoulder, her cut hand, the spots of wetness where she had been struck by flying glass. When she got to her feet, she tried to suck in some air, and then stood up straight. She went over to the saw and switched it off. The spinning red circle on the blade slowed to smudges of blood, coated in sawdust. She looked over to him, at the base of the stairs, trying to slide away.

  She limped towards him, the saw in her hand. When she got near him, he stopped trying to crawl away. He turned his head to look at her. She stood over him and looked down. His foot was at an unnatural angle, dragging on the floor as he had tried to move. She looked up his leg and saw a cut in his trousers. Then through the cut she saw wet redness. She realised that her last swing had sliced through his lower leg, leaving the ankle and foot barely attached. It must have been the leg he used to try to swivel away from her. He was lying on his back now, his breaths coming short and fast, his eyes wild. She noticed that his leg was losing blood badly. He was holding his forearm against his body, hoping it would stop the flow of blood from where his hand used to be. It wasn’t slowing.

  She smiled at him. He put his head back on the floor. His eyes looked listless, his cheeks hollow. He was fading.

  ‘Who are you?’ she asked, her voice soft.

  He shook his head.

  She watched him, saw the life slipping out of him.

  ‘Tell me. I can get you help, if you help me.’

  He shook his head again, weaker this time. A smile teased the corners of his mouth.

  Her hand went back to the switch on the saw. He didn’t say anything. She turned on the saw, his eyelids just flickering at the noise.

  ‘Please tell me,’ she mouthed to him.

  He didn’t respond. He just looked at her.

  She thought about what to do with the saw, what she could threaten him with, but when she looked into his eyes, she saw that he knew he was dying.

  She placed the blade over his throat, inches from his Adam’s apple. He flinched slightly, but only from the noise. The breeze from the saw made his hair flutter.

  ‘Please tell me,’ she said. ‘Who sent you?’

  He lifted his throat towards the blade, until the spinning teeth were almost skating across the skin. He looked into her eyes, pleading. She saw what he wanted: make it quick, end it now.

  She shrugged. Okay.

  Then his eyes just flickered with life, his mouth opened, one last effort. He grinned at her, his teeth bared, half a grimace.

  ‘David Watts told me one thing,’ he hissed, his voice barely audible over the shriek of the saw.

  She moved the blade away.

  ‘David sent you?’ she asked.

  He exhaled, his chest only just moving, his eyes closed.

  ‘What did he tell you?’ she asked, her voice sounding urgent.

  His eyes opened. His tongue flicked at his lips. He tried to speak, but nothing came out. She put her head closer. Then he tried to speak again.

  ‘D
avid told me,’ he said. Then he grinned again, his last play. ‘He told me he liked to jerk off when he thought about Annie’s face as he strangled her.’

  He sank back. She stood up straight with a jolt. She looked at him. His eyes were wild with rage now.

  He nodded weakly. ‘One good fuck and left her for the buzzards.’

  Tears flashed across her eyes.

  ‘He knew the town would save him,’ he said. He smiled, almost contented. He knew he was going.

  She shrieked at him, her body straining with rage, and then plunged forward with the saw. She threw all her weight behind it, met no resistance, only stopping when she heard the whine of the saw in the floor.

  She sat back, spent, and turned off the saw, leaving it stuck in the floorboards. Her chest heaved with sobs, and then she looked into his eyes as his head turned away from the saw blade and rolled towards the stairs.

  Her shoulders hung as she cried. The house was silent, just her tears. She thought she could hear bird¬ song outside. She put her head back, banged it lightly against the wall.

  Then she heard a shout from behind her.

  ‘Stay there! Police, police!’

  Liza grabbed at the saw and flicked the switch again. The saw burst into life. She turned around.

  A woman was in her house, a gun pointing towards her, a man just behind her.

  ‘Police, don’t move!’

  Laura was in front of me, her gun arm taut, her stance set.

  I watched as Liza Radley put up her hands, the saw in one, the blade still filling the hall with noise.

  ‘Put the fucking saw down!’ Laura shouted.