Fallen Idols

by Neil White

  I was just behind Laura, needing to be there.

  Laura edged closer.

  ‘Put down the saw.’

  Liza looked at the saw, and then back at Laura.

  Laura was within a few feet now, still creeping forward, the gun aimed at Liza’s head. Then I saw Laura look past her, to the floor. I followed her gaze, saw the head, the mouth open, the eyes closed. Laura’s gun wavered, distracted.

  Then I saw Liza lunge forward with the saw.

  Laura looked up at the sudden movement. She lashed out with her hands, useless, impotent. The blade brushed past her fingers, her fingers jolted as the gun was knocked out of her hand. Laura turned, backed away, tried to get out of the way of the saw, its whine too close, too fast. She fell to the floor, scrabbling backwards, came to a stop by a door jamb.

  Liza stood over her, the saw still screaming. Laura sat back, panting, scared. She shuffled against the wall, her hands up in surrender.

  Liza raised her arm, ready to strike down.

  I went for the gun. It felt heavy, cold. My first time. All I could do was pretend.

  ‘Stop, now!’ I screamed, the gun pointing at Liza.

  Liza didn’t look up, was still poised with the saw.

  ‘She’s got a kid,’ I shouted. ‘Let her go.’

  Liza looked at me. She straightened, her stance uncertain. I noticed Laura’s eyes were closed, a tear running down her cheek.

  ‘Bobby,’ I continued, my voice softening. ‘Starts school next year.’ I paused, and then pleaded, ‘Don’t do it.’

  I saw Liza take a breath.

  ‘She’s not from Turners Fold,’ I said, my gun still pointing at her. ‘She’s just a copper from London, doing her job.’

  I saw Laura’s eyes flick open. Liza’s eyes were still on me.

  ‘Throw me your gun,’ said Liza.

  I exhaled and looked at Laura. I thought I saw Laura nod.

  ‘Why should I trust you?’ I said.

  Liza shook her head. ‘You don’t have to, but if you miss with that gun – if it still works – or if you just injure me, I’m going to run this saw through your girlfriend’s skull.’

  ‘Girlfriend?’

  Liza smirked. ‘I can see it in your eyes.’

  I looked at Laura again. She nodded.

  I knelt down and put the gun on the floor, and then skidded it across to Liza.

  Liza bent to pick it up. Now we had nothing.

  I stayed where I was as Liza backed down the hall, circular saw in one hand, gun in the other. She got as far as the body on the floor, and then she knelt down, the saw at last stopping its scream.

  I watched as she looked at the body, which seemed like a pile of loose clothes, soiled and thrown in a heap, blood pooled on the floor. I looked over to the head and caught a glimpse of his eyes. They seemed to follow Liza, dark and glassy, his mouth open in surprise, one last scream.

  She crouched down and pulled his jacket to one side, the cloth pinched between two fingers. She searched the material and paused when she found a phone, stuffed into his inside pocket. She pulled it out and rolled it around in her hand for a few seconds, and then she turned it on. It beeped and then the screen lit up blue. I watched as she put it into her bag, along with his wallet. She found his car keys and twirled them from her fingers for a few moments before throwing them onto his chest.

  I kept watching as she took a look around the hall. I could tell she was saying goodbye.

  I walked over to Laura and held her, felt her grab my arm and then the soft wetness of her cheeks. I looked down, and when she looked up, she smiled. She wasn’t watching Liza.

  I looked up as I heard the saw being picked up again, the weight of it clunking against the floor.

  Liza opened up the fuel tank and ran a thin line of petrol from the body in the hall into the kitchen. She stood over the petrol and looked down. Rainbows twisted in the fuel, like flames just waiting to go. I saw her smile. I didn’t know if this was a new beginning, or just the end of everything. Maybe it didn’t matter which one.

  She pulled out a cigarette lighter. She held it between her fingers for a moment and shut her eyes.

  She clicked the lighter. There was a small spark and then a flame curved and twisted. She looked down at the floor and opened her hand, the gold metal shining back sparkles of sunlight as it tumbled down. The flame went out almost as soon as it hit the ground, but not before it had licked the skin on the fuel. There was a faint whoosh and then a low blue shimmer ran down it, spreading along the line. It raced through the kitchen and into the hallway.

  I helped Laura to her feet. ‘Let’s get out of here!’ I shouted, trying to inject some urgency. The flames were beginning to eat up the wall, creeping along the floor, the blinds in the kitchen now ablaze.

  Laura looked up, her eyes red, and nodded. Then she pointed to the body, just by the stair rail. ‘I guess he’s the one who shot your father.’

  I saw the head again and my stomach lurched, the taste of bile launching itself into my mouth as I dry-heaved. I took some deep breaths, but they were hot, fuel-filled.

  I heard the door, a creak above the crackle of the flames, and saw Laura step outside. The living room was ablaze now, the chairs billowing smoke, the lamp-shades dripping hot black onto the floor. But I remembered my camera, remembered I was a reporter. I pointed it at the head and got two shots, and then pointed it in all directions and got some more, the house further in turning black with smoke.

  I started to cough, could feel the heat and smoke drying me up, so I backed up to the door and stepped outside. Laura was already there, wiping her eyes. I joined her and put my arm around her shoulder.

  Laura looked at me with the disdain and composure she’d had when we first met.

  ‘It’s the smoke,’ she said.

  I smiled and kissed her on the top of her head. ‘I know.’

  We stepped off the porch and started to walk down the path. We heard the heat breaking windows inside the house, the fire starting to gain some strength. Every step took us further away, but we only walked about twenty yards. We turned towards the house to watch it burn.

  ‘Do we go after her?’ I asked.

  Laura looked up at me. Then she looked down again. ‘Bobby nearly lost his mum, that’s what I’m thinking at this moment. Liza Radley can go to hell right now.’

  There was no answer to that.

  I looked back towards the house. ‘I reckon my interview has gone.’

  Laura was about to respond when I heard a car engine. We looked at each other. We had no weapons.

  We heard the car at the house begin to move, and then a few seconds later, the noise of the engine got nearer, and we realised that it was coming down the path, the tyres crunching on the loose dirt. As we heard it pick up speed, I got my camera ready.

  It crawled slowly down the path, heading for the cattle grid. I got some pictures of a side profile and then cursed when she turned to look my way.

  She didn’t stop there, though. She drove down to Laura’s car and came to a halt just feet from it. I saw her pull a handgun from her lap and point it down at Laura’s tyres. But then, for a split second, she turned my way and looked me right in the eyes. She held my gaze for a moment, but then she pulled her handgun back into her car and pressed lightly on the pedal. She approached the grid, the noise of the tyres rumbling like a snap thunderstorm, and then she accelerated away up the hill.

  I stood up as she pulled away, my hands on my hips. I shielded my eyes from the sun, and the scene seemed quiet again when the car went out of view.

  ‘You were right,’ said Laura.

  I turned around.

  ‘About the interview,’ she continued. ‘It’s just driven over the hill.’

  As the fire took hold, Laura watched while I took pictures. As the roof began to crack and crumble into the flames, we decided to leave.

  ‘Aren’t you waiting for the reinforcements?’ I asked.

  Laura looked thoughtfu
l for a moment, and then shook her head. ‘I’m seeing this through.’

  It was another sunny day. And it was time to go back to Turners Fold.

  FIFTY-ONE

  Liza Radley pulled into a lay-by on her way through Lancashire. She had to slow down for a moment, take stock. There had been months of planning, but now she was improvising.

  She closed her eyes and listened to the sound of traffic rushing past her, felt the car rock with turbulence. She felt her eyes go damp, her throat tight with sadness. There was a fluttering, like wings beating, a light sound just filling her head. It wasn’t a voice, more of a heartbeat.

  She opened her eyes and looked across the road. There was a diner, stainless steel, American reproduction. She could see faces looking out, fathers, sons, mothers, just happy families passing idle conversation, lives untouched.

  She took out the wallet she had taken from the body in her house. As she opened it, she saw a police badge, faked or stolen, and some money. There was a fake ID which showed the head by the stairs, with a casual smile and deep blue eyes. There were credit cards as well, for three different identities: all cloned, she expected. He was a real-life fake. She knew now that this was no friend or fan acting out of some perverse loyalty. He was a professional hitman, hired by a wealthy and famous client.

  Next, she pulled out the phone. She looked at it, weighed it in her hand, guessing that she had the key to the endgame. She pressed the button and saw the screen flicker into life again, the screen lighting up blue. She flicked through the options screen until she got to the list of stored numbers. There was only one. The number identification just said ‘David Watts’. No code words. No secrecy. She smiled to herself. He was making sure that if he went down, his client went with him.

  She put the phone on her lap and watched it for a while. It didn’t do anything, so she reached into her glove box and pulled out the voice distorter.

  She clicked the dial button and checked around her while she waited to be connected. She felt her chest tighten when she heard a ring tone.

  David Watts had pulled into a farm track. He was just driving round, waiting for news. He didn’t want to see a police car. The girl in Manchester was eating him up now, making him grip the steering wheel until his fingers turned white, broken only by the blood around his knuckles. He had stopped to top up his nose. The powder had started to fade away, so he was stuck with real life for a moment.

  His phone rang. He saw who was calling. Maybe he could go home now.

  He pressed the answer button and barked, ‘Where the hell have you been?’

  He was expecting the measured tone of the American. Instead, he heard a voice he wasn’t prepared for. It was the voice on the calls he dreaded, that flat electronic distortion making him freeze.

  ‘Hello, David.’

  He put the phone down and looked out of the window. He felt himself go pale, not knowing how to answer at first. How had she got his number? Then he felt his stomach tighten when he realised that she had the American’s phone.

  ‘How did you get that phone?’ he asked, his voice quiet and nervous, not wanting the answer. He cringed when he heard her laugh.

  ‘Let’s just say that your friend can’t come to see you any more.’

  David wiped his eyes with the palm of his hand. His thoughts raced as fast as his nerves. His heart tightened when he realised what she meant. ‘What have you done?’

  ‘I’m sorry, David, but he just sort of fell apart.’

  He swallowed nervously, his stomach crawled.

  ‘Were you close to him?’

  ‘What do you want?’ David barked, ignoring her question, angry now.

  ‘I want you, David. Is that so bad?’

  He felt his hand go slick around the steering wheel, slippery with sweat. He wiped them on his pants and then wiped his mouth. He needed a drink.

  ‘What do you mean, you want me?’ he asked.

  ‘I want to hear you say sorry, David. I want to hear you admit what you did, and when I hear you say it, I want to see the remorse in your eyes, the sorrow, an echo of my pain.’ A pause. ‘That’s what I want.’

  David kicked the underneath of the steering column. ‘I’m not going on TV,’ he sneered. ‘You can kiss my arse and shoot every footballer in town, but I still won’t do it.’

  ‘I don’t want it like that any more, David. You don’t need to go public any more.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ he asked, his voice quieter, wary now.

  ‘I want to see you on your knees, in front of me, begging for my forgiveness.’

  David laughed, traces of hysteria filtering through. ‘Yeah, so you can blow my fucking head off. What kind of arsehole do you think you are dealing with here?’

  ‘The kind who did what you did to Annie Paxman,’ she snapped.

  ‘Oh, fuck you,’ he snapped back. ‘She was such a prick-tease. I had to shake that fuck out of her.’

  He took a breath and looked out of his car window. If he could get this bitch on her own, he might be able to end the problem his way.

  ‘Where do you want to meet?’

  ‘Where do you think?’ she snarled. ‘You get to Turners Fold in the next couple of hours and go to where this all started, to that aviary.’

  ‘And if I don’t?’

  ‘I’ll kill you. I’ll stalk you and shoot you the first chance I get.’

  ‘But you forget that I could just call the police. Get them to swarm around the aviary. Then it’s all over.’

  ‘But you won’t, David, because you’re scared I’ll talk. You want me to either die or go away. And I’m doing neither until I get what I want from you.’

  ‘But who would believe a crazy bitch like you?’

  ‘That’s your gamble, David. Your choice. And anyway, I’ve got the one thing you want.’

  ‘You’ve got nothing I want.’

  ‘Emma. I’ve got Emma.’

  David stopped smiling.

  ‘I said I would get her, and I got her.’

  David was silent for a moment, and then he said, ‘I don’t believe you.’

  Then it was her turn to laugh.

  ‘That’s not your choice, David, because if you don’t come for her, I’ll leave her dead where you left Annie.’

  ‘Prove it.’

  She laughed again.

  ‘You don’t think I’m driving around with her in my car, do you?’ She laughed again. ‘I’ll get her on the phone, and then you’ll know. And once you know, get to that field and get on your knees. You beg for my forgiveness and you get Emma back.’

  ‘You fucking bitch! I’m going to…’

  ‘Stay by your phone, David.’

  He was about to shout her down when he realised he would be shouting into a silent phone.

  He tried to shrug off the prickles of fear. She’d killed the American, and he’d come recommended by one of the meanest bastards in town.

  He threw the phone back into the glove box. A quick check of his mirrors and he pulled back out into the road and accelerated hard. He was going to end this his way. There wasn’t a battle in his life he had lost yet. Why should this be any different?

  He set his mind on Turners Fold. He wasn’t going to leave there until he knew that she couldn’t.

  Laura was quiet at first as the roads hurtled past.

  ‘You’re mad with me, right?’

  Laura ignored me for a few seconds, and then I saw her relax, her shoulders slump.

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘I’m mad with me. I was the policewoman back there. I should have controlled it. I let myself go with you when I should have made myself wait for back-up.’

  ‘So why aren’t you still there?’

  Laura paused for a moment, and I thought I saw her blush, before she said, ‘The same reason.’ She flashed a look at me and then asked, ‘What’s it all about, Jack?’

  I rubbed my eyes and wished I had a good answer. All I thought I knew was that we were both surviving on hardly any sleep a
nd pure adrenalin. My leg was beginning to hurt again, and I thought that if we lost momentum now, we would lose the rest of the day. And that wasn’t going to happen. Right then, I was a suspect for Rose Wood’s murder. If we lost momentum, I’d find myself in a police cell, facing a life sentence.

  ‘She hates Turners Fold,’ I said, ‘and she hated her father. I suppose it is as simple as that.’

  ‘And that makes her shoot footballers, and anyone else who gets in her way?’

  ‘Seems that way.’

  Laura didn’t respond, so I carried on.

  ‘She was an oddball, Laura, and small towns don’t like oddballs. They like everything to fit together, and people like Liza Radley don’t fit into the mix. She hated the town, and then she hated her parents because of what happened to Annie Paxman.’

  ‘So she was striking back at Turners Fold?’

  ‘In part, I guess.’

  ‘And the other part?’

  I tugged on my lip for a moment. ‘What David Watts was allowed to get away with encapsulates everything Liza Radley hates about Turners Fold. He’s the big guy, the next big star. Annie Paxman was nothing. He was allowed to walk away because the town needed him more than it needed Annie Paxman.’

  ‘Are you going to write that stuff?’

  I nodded. ‘If I get the chance.’

  ‘And you think Liza Radley took up Annie’s cause as some kind of revenge?’

  ‘That puts it simply, but that is just about it.’

  ‘But why such a big deal? Why that?’

  ‘Because her father was one of the first at the scene. He did what my father did: he allowed the secret to stay secret, because it suited them that way. But James Radley and my father were different. My father kicked back by hating his job. James Radley kicked back by hating himself, so he got lost in a bottle. My thinking is that she thinks she hates David Watts, but really she hates her father for what he did, and for how it affected him.’

  ‘Phew, sounds like a shrink’s field day.’

  ‘What made Liza Radley stop herself from driving that circular saw into your skull?’

  Laura didn’t answer.

  ‘It was when I said you weren’t from Turners Fold,’ I continued, ‘and when she knew you were a parent. She lost a parent when Annie Paxman died, and lost him for good in that fire.’