Fallen Idols

by Neil White

  He stopped and jumped back when he heard the shot, a loud crack smashing the silence. He heard the soft smack of something slamming into the grass near his feet. He looked around, sank to his knees, couldn’t place where it came from. There were too many hiding places and he was exposed. ‘You crazy bitch,’ he hissed, his eyes flicking around the park. He couldn’t see her.

  Then his phone rang.

  He stopped in disbelief. The ring tone was deafening. He jabbed his hand into his pocket, his palms damp, and pulled it out. The screen told him everything. It was her. He looked around again, let the ring tone bounce around. He swallowed and then pressed to answer.

  Her voice filled his head, seemed to fill the air around him, that metallic deadness.

  ‘Get to where you left her.’

  His hand gripped the phone, his knuckles white, his teeth clenched.

  ‘Fuck you,’ he replied in a snarl.

  ‘Get there now,’ her voice continued, sharp now, ‘or I’ll take the top of your head off. You’ve got ten seconds to move.’

  He screamed ‘fuck you’ into the phone and then pulled his arm back to throw it away. He heard it break against the aviary. As it clattered to the floor, he stood there, his arms by his side, breathing heavily, his eyes dark and brooding.

  His breathing slowed down and he put his face in his hands. He felt the heat from his skin burn up his fingers, felt fresh tears cool them down again.

  He went to his knees and sank backwards, his hands on his hips, and looked up to the sky. All he could see was blue, flecked with white and dotted by wheeling birds, the colours bright and full of summer. It seemed to rush along, as if he could feel the earth turn. He looked at the floor, tried to snap away the nausea. He could see his knees in the grass.

  He put his head up again and hauled himself to his feet. He had no choice. He wasn’t on his own.

  His steps were heavy, dragging along the grass. He looked down all the way, watched every step, saw the blades wrap around the front of his shoes as he went, watched as he saw the green of the grass change to the black of the tarmac. Every step was soft and quiet, the only sound he could hear.

  The grass turned to dust again and he realised he was there, by the aviary. He stopped at first, not wanting to do all he was asked, but then he remembered how many people had died, how willing she was to kill people. He stepped forward and felt himself rise onto the raised concrete. He closed his eyes, clamped them shut, felt tears break through again. His fists were clenched, his nails cutting into his hands.

  He thought he heard something so he snapped his eyes open and looked down. He gasped. He could see black hair spread over the floor, thrashing around, sweeping the dust. His hands clasped his ears, blocking the sound. He could hear something. It was a cry, an echo, someone screaming, filling his head. He shut his eyes again, the screams making him gasp, but they were still there. He sank to his knees and put his head down, rocking, trying to shake off the noise. His fingernails dug into his skin, pulled down his head, drew blood, made deep scratches. Sticky wetness crept around his fingertips so he opened his eyes again. The black hair was still there, thrashing around, but there was no face, no form. He could feel her fingernails in his face, scratching at him, gasping, kicking. His fingers scraped down his face.

  He closed his eyes again and all he could hear was her struggle. She was crying out, screaming, sobbing, trying to get out a last breath. He was breathing hard, inside her, pressing hard with his hands, pushing her head back onto the ground, feeling her fight, driving him on.

  He gasped and then shouted out, his eyes flicking open. She was still.

  He looked down. There was no one there. His face was wet with perspiration, with tears, with blood from fresh scratches. He shuffled round on his knees. It was silent again. He was on his own.

  Then he spun round as he saw movement across the park. There was someone walking towards him, the figure blurred through his tears. As the person got closer, David recognised her. He gasped as he saw her and tears flicked onto his cheeks. It was Emma. She was coming towards him, her head down, looking scared, wary.

  His eyes travelled the fields, trying to see where Emma had come from, but he couldn’t see anyone else there.

  He put his head down and covered his eyes. He shook his head, but when he opened them again, she was still there, nearly at him, her eyes wild with relief.

  He smiled.

  ‘Emma, you’re okay.’ He sank back onto his knees. ‘Thank God, thank God.’

  He put his head down and let the tears fall. He was waiting for her to sink to the floor with him. He was waiting to feel her arms around him, holding him, her head in his neck, warm, safe.

  It didn’t come. He lifted up his head to open his eyes. As he looked, he saw she was unharmed, but there was something not right. It was the look in her eyes, measured and cold.

  And then he looked closer. He saw that she had a gun in her hand. And as he looked, his eyes trying to work out what was going on, he saw that she was pointing a rifle. And she was aiming it right at him.

  FIFTY-SEVEN

  Nell and Mike had a map open in front of them. A couple of local officers were helping them.

  Laura was picked up well outside of town, on some old farm track.

  Nell turned to Tony.

  ‘Who does Jack know out there?’

  Tony walked over to the map. He looked around on the paper, but couldn’t see anything. It was just an old track.

  ‘I don’t know. I’m sorry.’

  Nell stood up straight, pushing the map to one side, and looked over at Laura. ‘C’mon, Jack must have said something.’

  Laura shook her head. ‘He just said he needed to be at that spot.’

  Nell sighed. This was getting frustrating.

  ‘Why so much about Jack?’ asked Tony. ‘It should be Liza Radley you want.’

  Nell nodded. ‘Yes, I know. But Jack seems to have done okay with hunches, so I was hoping to ride one more and get lucky.’

  ‘There is one thing,’ Laura said quietly.

  Everyone turned to look.

  ‘What is it?’ asked Nell.

  ‘He’s got my phone.’ She shrugged. ‘I could just give him a call.’

  David Watts squinted into the sun. Emma’s blonde hair was translucent against the light, like a halo. He grimaced and shook his head, trying to clear the image. It wasn’t right.

  ‘Emma?’

  She smiled. ‘Good to see you, David.’

  ‘What the fuck are you doing? You all right?’

  ‘Oh, I’m just fine.’

  David started to stand.

  ‘Get the fuck back down!’ Her gun was pushed into his face, her voice a bark.

  He looked up again, confusion in his eyes. ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘Nice of you to come. I knew you would.’

  ‘But I came to get you.’ His voice was quiet, but his mind was flicking through events, trying to work it out.

  ‘Bullshit, David. You came to get Liza.’

  He looked around. ‘So where is she?’

  She grinned. ‘You’re looking at her, you arsehole.’ When his jaw dropped, his eyes looking away as his mind did the computing, she added, ‘You can drop the Emma now.’ When he looked up, she said, ‘And you can call me Liza.’

  His mouth dropped open, no sound coming out. She began to smile, but it was filled with hatred.

  ‘It can’t be you,’ he began to say, and then shook his head. ‘You were in New York. It can’t be you.’

  She laughed, eyes wild. ‘I don’t even work for a fucking airline, David.’

  ‘But I drove you to the airport. I could hear it when you called me.’

  ‘Ever heard of tape machines? Half an hour with a microphone in my hand got me that. And every time you took me there, I got the train back into town as soon as you left.’ She paused to watch him take it all in. ‘Do you know what was the best thing about being a stewardess?’

  He d
idn’t anwer. He just watched her, his head cocked, a confused look in his eyes.

  ‘It took me away from you every few days,’ she said. Her voice was quiet now.

  He squatted back onto his heels, bewildered, and then he began to laugh, manic and loud, as tears streamed down his face. ‘It was you, all this time? Fucking you?’ He put his head back and his eyes filled with sky. ‘Oh, Jesus Christ.’

  She burned up with contempt. Her hand squeezed the trigger, the barrel shaking, and she took a few steps back as if to walk away, but then walked quickly towards him, her anger rising, her steps long and fast, and lashed out with her foot, catching him under his chin.

  He fell backwards, scattered dirt, and blood speckled his bottom lip. He put his hand to his mouth to dab it clean. He pulled it away and saw it was streaked red.

  ‘You bitch,’ he spluttered.

  She put the rifle back into his face. He sank back in recoil, his feet scrabbling, pulling himself along the concrete.

  She pushed the barrel into his chest, forcing him down. ‘Where did it go, David? The shouting? The bravado?’ She smirked now, a shift of power. ‘How do you like it, David? Lying back on the ground, scared and dirty?’

  He lay back flat, tried to shrink away from the gun, his arms above his head.

  ‘Nothing to say, David?’

  He looked up into the shadow, too dark to make out her eyes. He shook his head slowly. ‘Not a fucking thing,’ he whispered.

  She jabbed his chest with the barrel, making him wince.

  ‘Say it!’ she shouted. ‘Say that you killed her.’

  He rubbed his chest and scowled. ‘Not ever,’ he said, and shook his head.

  She took a deep breath, and then another, her face reddening as she stood over him. ‘Look at yourself, David. Coked up and sitting back, looking scared.’ She shook her head, wiped her eyes. ‘What do you think about when you’re on your own?’

  He said nothing.

  ‘Does it get dark in there, David?’ she asked, and tapped the side of her head.

  He said nothing for a while, just watched the wave and twitch of the gun. Then the sun disappeared behind a small cloud for a moment and he got a shot of her eyes. Behind the brashness in the voice, he saw flickers of doubt, fear and self-loathing. He thought he saw tears. He grinned. ‘I think back on Annie,’ he said, mocking, and raised his eyebrows. ‘Boy, did she go some when she got juiced up.’

  She let out a scream and hit him in the mouth with the gun, a sharp jab. She felt it bang on his teeth, and her eyes flashed wet with tears of anger. It knocked his head back, flicked more blood onto his lips. He gritted his teeth in pain, covered his mouth with his hand. A tooth was broken. She jammed the gun against his neck, making him cry out, her finger tight on the trigger. Her eyes were wide open, sinews up on her neck and arms, struggling to contain herself. She wanted to shoot, but she hadn’t finished yet.

  He looked up in shock and pain, confusion and fear, panting, sweat prickling his top lip. She snarled when she saw it, and then relaxed the pressure, so that the gun was just resting lightly on his neck, brushing the hairs, damp with perspiration.

  She started to make small circles on his neck with the cold steel, a doodle on the skin, a tease. Then she slowly tracked the barrel up his neck and over his chin, just touching lightly, almost sensual, smiling, until it touched his lips.

  ‘Open your mouth, David.’ She said it in a whisper, almost seductive. She pushed gently against his teeth.

  He tried to move his head away, thrashed it from side to side, his lips pursed, but she just pressed harder.

  ‘C’mon, David, open your mouth.’ She grinned and winked a cold eye at him. ‘You know you want to.’

  He blinked, tears in his eyes now, blood and sweat mixing around the tips of the barrels.

  She raised her eyebrows. ‘C’mon,’ she whispered.

  He sank his head back onto the ground and closed his eyes. A tear ran down the side of his face and disappeared into the dust. His chest heaved, and then he opened his eyes and looked up at the sky. He opened his mouth, parted his teeth. The gun slid in slowly, brushing his lips, until it rested on his tongue, cold and sharp.

  ‘Feel nice, David.’

  He didn’t move.

  ‘Still nothing to say, David?’

  He didn’t reply. Just stared upwards, tears tracking down the side of his face. She could sense him saying goodbye.

  Her finger tightened on the trigger, giving the barrel a jab, making him gag. He wouldn’t look at her.

  ‘David? It’s your last chance for salvation.’

  Still nothing.

  ‘I want to hear it.’

  He looked at her. His eyes were red, his cheeks dark and grubby. He nodded slowly, his mouth puckering around the gun.

  She raised her eyebrows.

  He nodded some more, a low wail coming from him.

  She pulled on the gun, taking it out of his mouth. He rolled to one side, put his hand to his mouth.

  ‘Make it good,’ she said, standing straight, the gun still pointed towards him.

  He spat out the taste of the metal for a few seconds, and then turned back to her. ‘You tell me something first.’

  She didn’t reply.

  ‘You sought me out, right?’

  Again, no response.

  ‘So why didn’t you just kill me?’ he asked. ‘Why not stick a knife in my chest in the night?’

  She snarled at that. ‘What, and be some stalker, a crazy girlfriend?’ She jabbed the gun at him. ‘I did that, David. I got close to you so I could kill you. But then I sat there at night, looked down at you, peaceful, contented. I didn’t want it that way. What would you learn from that? What would anyone learn from that? No, David, I don’t want to kill you. I want to destroy you. I want everyone to know what you did.’ She shrugged. ‘So I thought of this.’ She kicked out at him again, a push on the shoulder. ‘So get talking.’

  ‘But we made love? We were special.’

  The gun pushed harder into his chest. ‘You were nothing special, David. I saw it in your eyes that first time, like I should be grateful for the time you spent. Christ, all I had to do was make the noises.’

  ‘And that’s how you got Henri Dumas to Soho? He thought he was meeting my girlfriend, sleeping with you behind my back.’

  She smiled, and then jabbed him again. ‘Yeah, same as you. I fucked him like I fucked you, and he came to meet me to protect himself, to keep me away from the media.’

  ‘And Nixon?’

  She nodded.

  He looked up at her, felt cheated, used. Then, as he watched her, saw the tears coming down her face, he thought that he ought to tell her, just to see how it ended.

  ‘I was young,’ was how he started.

  She kicked at him, hitting him in the ribs. ‘Louder. I want to hear this. I’ve waited long enough.’

  He rolled over onto his back. His chest was heaving, his face a mix of dirt, sweat, and blood. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

  ‘I said I was young.’ His voice was still quiet. ‘Too young to know what I was doing.’

  She leant forward and pressed the gun into his chest again. ‘No excuse,’ she snarled.

  He put his hands up. ‘I know, I don’t have an excuse.’ His breathing slowed down. ‘All I have is a mistake. One mistake, and it’s caused all of this.’

  ‘Is that all it was to you? A mistake?’ Her voice got higher. ‘A fucking mistake?’

  He nodded, his lips trembling again. ‘I was drunk,’ he continued. ‘We’d been to the party and I was walking Annie home.’

  ‘What else?’

  He shook his head. ‘I don’t know,’ he said, sounding desperate.

  ‘You don’t know?’ She was shrieking.

  He nodded, fast and eager. ‘I thought she wanted me,’ he continued, and then he collapsed backwards. ‘When she didn’t, things just got out of hand.’

  ‘Out of hand? Out of fucking hand? Getting
fresh is out of hand. Maybe wrestling is out of hand. But raping Annie? Killing Annie? Just “out of hand”?’

  He sighed and shook his head. ‘What more can I say?’

  She jabbed him with the gun again, right at the top of his arm. ‘You can say you’re fucking sorry, that’s what.’

  He nodded slowly, his hands out. ‘Okay, I’m sorry.’

  ‘Sorry for what?’

  ‘I’m sorry for what happened to Annie.’ He exhaled loudly. ‘I didn’t mean for it to happen.’

  ‘Sorry for killing her?’

  He nodded. A tear ran down his cheek, collecting dust on the way.

  ‘Say it.’

  He took a deep breath and closed his eyes. ‘I’m sorry for killing Annie.’

  He lay still, tears streaming down his face. His head was filled with images, racing past. His parents, London, the crowd at an England game. He could hear his mother talking, the crowd cheering, could feel his team patting his back. All his life, the whole of his world, it was all there, racing through his head, one last run through at a small park in Turners Fold, Lancashire.

  He lay there, his eyes clamped shut, chest heaving, waiting for the shot. What would it feel like?

  Then he realised that Liza was quiet. There was no shot, no talk, no movement. He opened his eyes, and saw Liza looking down, the gun shaking, tears in her eyes. He heaved a breath and then said quietly, ‘You don’t have to do it.’

  She blinked away some tears and set her jaw firm. She nodded. ‘Oh yes, I do.’ Her voice cracked as she spoke.

  He shook his head. ‘No, you don’t.’ He cocked his head to one side, watching her uncertainty. He felt some of his fear draw back, saw some weakness in her. ‘Isn’t it as good as you thought it would be?’

  Liza looked at him. ‘What do you mean?’

  He raised his eyebrows. ‘This. Maybe it’s not what you want.’

  She looked at him, fresh tears streaming down her cheeks. She gulped and then shook her head. ‘No, maybe not.’ Then she took a deep breath and put her head back. ‘Maybe I just haven’t got what I wanted yet.’

  ‘Which is?’

  ‘I want you ruined.’