Death Before Time

by Andrew Puckett

  They could be a couple of hundred yards away … or just a couple, waiting for him to move …

  He found himself picking at the thorn in his palm, made himself stop. How long should he wait? Sweat trickled from his pits down his sides and he itched to move, to get himself as far away as he could …

  He started crawling again, very slowly, hand over hand along the ditch. The thorn jabbed and pricked. The bracken scratched faintly over his back. He kept going, feeling ahead in the darkness for anything that might make a noise …

  Light ahead? The path?

  Without warning, the ditch came to an end, it was above the level of the path and he fell into it with a clatter – a shout from behind and the flash of a torch …

  He jumped up and ran downhill, the trees flickering past, the torch flickering behind him.

  He ran, trying to empty and fill his lungs with each breath, trying to ignore the sand-blasting in his windpipe, his mercury filled legs, the stitch like a needle in his side … he had to.

  A dog barked … the shepherd’s dog, had to be – he burst into a clearing, saw the caravan in front of him as the dog barked again, saw the door swing open releasing the light inside and a voice –

  “’Oo’s there?”

  A torch shone in his face, blinding him –

  “’Oo’s there, wha’ d’you want? Stop or I’ll shoot – “

  “It’s me,” Fraser croaked - he could see he was holding a shot-gun - “Doctor… the path … me and the girl, you gave us tea … ”

  “Wha -?” the shepherd began – then the dog started barking again and he swung the torch round …

  “’Oo’s that?”

  “They’re after me,” Fraser managed.

  “’Oo -?”

  Then there was a flash and a noise like someone spitting as the torch disintegrated and the shepherd let out a yell, then he raised the gun to his shoulder and a rod of light speared into the darkness … in the aftermath of the blast, Fraser thought he heard the shepherd say “Inside” … he must have, because he turned and jumped for the door.

  Fraser followed him, tripping over the dog which was trying to get in too … the shepherd grabbed his collar (Fraser’s) hauled him in and slammed the door.

  “You all right?” he said.

  “Yeah. You?”

  “Me ‘and.“ He held it up, it was dripping blood. “ ‘oo are they?”

  How the feck do I explain that? “They killed my boss, he was in charge of the community hospital where I work and now they’re trying to kill me.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I know about them.”

  The shepherd grunted. “We’d better get these lights out,” he said.

  He crawled a little way along the floor, stood and turned a tap under one of them and Fraser realised they were gas. He got up cautiously and doused one himself –

  A window smashed and they dropped to the floor. Then the shepherd started moving along the length of the caravan, reaching up to each light only when he was sure he was out of sight.

  One left, in plain sight of a window. He grabbed a broom and poked at the mantle until it went out.

  “I’ll turn ‘er off in a minute,” he said. “Don’t want no gas in ‘ere.”

  He grabbed his gun, quickly stood and fired a shot out of the window before dropping down again. The blast in the confined space deafened Fraser.

  Then the shepherd bobbed up again and deftly turned off the tap before ejecting the spent cartridges from his gun and stuffing in two more.

  As Fraser’s hearing came back, he was aware of the whining of the dog.

  “Have you got a phone?” he asked.

  The shepherd shook his head. “Nah.”

  “Is there another door?”

  “In the kitchen. I bolted ‘er when I turned out the light.”

  “Can we get out of it?”

  “Faces the same way as this one – “ he nodded at the door they’d come through.

  Fraser pressed his lips together, then said, “Can we get through the floor?”

  Another shake of the head.

  “Oh, shit … “ The enormity of their situation hit him – the men out there were armed, they could be anywhere and they knew exactly where he and the shepherd were …

  He swallowed. “So we can’t get out?”

  “An’ they can’t get in,” the other grunted.

  As though in answer to this, a voice called from the outside – “We don’t want to hurt you, throw out the gun and – “

  “Cunt!” The shepherd got up and fired in the direction of the voice before dropping to the floor and replacing the shell he’d used. The dog was barking.

  Fraser said, “We can’t just stay here.”

  “Why not?”

  The dog was whining again, looking toward the kitchen.

  “Are they trying to get in down there?”

  “They do, they gets this,” the shepherd said grimly.

  But nothing happened and after a few minutes, Fraser said, “I’m sorry I got you into this.”

  The other shrugged.

  Bloody stupid thing to say, Fraser thought, so why did I say it?

  I’m going to be killed, he thought and dizziness prickled over his scalp and face … the dog went on whining.

  A noise from the kitchen? The shepherd heard it too, he lifted his gun and fired, then fired another out of the window before reloading.

  They waited.

  Silence.

  Then Fraser smelt smoke. They looked at each other, then at the kitchen where smoke drifted out and a yellow light flickered behind it …

  Chapter 34

  “Can we put it out?”

  “ ‘Old this…” The shepherd pushed the gun him and scrabbled on his hands and knees toward the glowing smoke - he looked like a spider against it, Fraser thought …

  He could hear it crackling now.

  He held the gun, glanced round … could he fire it? Did it have a safety catch?

  The shepherd came back – “They’ve done something with the fuckin’ gas,” he said, taking the gun back. “Looks like we ‘ad better find a way out.“

  The voice came out of the darkness again, strangely disembodied against the rising voice of the fire …

  “Come on out, we don’t want to hurt you.“

  The shepherd started to get up again, but Fraser grabbed his arm -

  “I’ll keep him talking,” he said urgently, “Can you get out there – “ He pointed to the back window – “With the gun and circle round?”

  The shepherd thought about it for a second and nodded. Crawled to the other side of the caravan and looked up …

  Fraser called out, “How do we know you won’t shoot us?”

  “Because we need you alive. We could have shot you several times over by now if we’d wanted.”

  The fire had spread to the next room to them now and Fraser could feel the heat of it.

  He also felt a sudden compulsion to believe what the man outside was saying …

  No! He glanced at the shepherd, who’d levered the window open with the broom … he looked round at Fraser and nodded.

  “All right,” called Fraser, “We’re coming out of the door.”

  “Throw the gun out first.”

  He looked round desperately … then the shepherd handed him the broom.

  “All right,” he called again, shouting over the roar of the fire, “It’s coming out of the door now.“

  He turned the handle and pushed it open – and the flames leapt in the draught … he dropped the broom through as low as he could, hoping they wouldn’t notice …The shepherd lowered the gun through the window, then in one quick movement, rose up and pushed himself out head first … his legs upended, he wriggled … then he was gone.

  The flames were nearly at the door now, roaring, reaching for Fraser in hot licks … The dog ran to and fro, whining, yelping, licking Fraser’s face …

  The voice again – “Well, ar
e you coming?”

  “All right,” he called … the shepherd should have got round by now … was he waiting for him … or dead?

  Had to go, another minute and it would be too late.

  He somersaulted out of the door, over the steps and rolled under the caravan …

  *

  Tom and Jo got to the war memorial at five to nine. They waited till nine, then Tom called Fraser’s mobile. No answer. (There wouldn’t be, since Fraser had just hurled it as far away as he could … )

  At the message prompt, Tom snapped, “It’s me, Tom, where the bloody hell are you?”

  “Not answering,” he said to Jo as he cut the connection. Then, “He should’ve been here before us ... “

  “Perhaps he can’t answer because he’s driving.”

  “He should’ve stopped - “ He turned to her – “D’you know which way he’s coming?”

  “I think so … “

  Tom tried the mobile again, then Jo directed him out of the village and up through the chicane. As they went past the car park at the top, she said, “Tom, stop - It’s his car … “

  He reversed, then drove up to the three cars at the end.

  “They must have jumped him but he got away,” he said, “But where?“

  She said, “I know,“ and told him about the shepherd’s caravan …

  He found a torch, then dropped the compartment under the dash and took out his gun.

  “I’m going after them,” he said, opening the car door, “Phone the police and tell them how to get there – is there another way to it they can drive?“

  “He’s got a truck, so there must be – “

  The boom of a shotgun came quivering through the night air …

  “Make that an ambulance as well.” He jumped out and started running along the Wansdyke. The shotgun boomed again.

  He found the path, jumped over the stile and then let gravity take him down through the trees … he tried not to use the torch, then he tripped and fell … rolled over, got to his feet and went on, flashing the torch occasionally.

  Then he saw the fire. Tried to go faster. Fell again ...

  He heard the hitman shouting for Fraser to come out as he got there, saw him silhouetted against the fire, then saw the caravan door open and something drop out, not a body …

  He looked round for the other hitman, couldn’t see him … then a body did drop from the burning caravan and roll underneath it … The gunman started forward and Tom, not daring to leave it any longer, levelled his gun and shouted “Stop – “

  The gunman spun round, brought up his own gun …

  Tom let off three quick shots – the gunman staggered and fell and Tom ran forward, then his eye caught a movement to the left … a flash, something hit his head –

  *

  Under the caravan, Fraser started crawling … molten fire dripped in rivulets from the floor to the ground as the heat closed round him …

  He heard a shout, shots - then the whole kitchen section collapsed and the flames whooshed, licking his face …

  The section of floor he was under began to sag, pressing onto his back … he dropped onto his face and squirmed like a snake … reached the other end, grasped and pulled at the nettles at the verge, barely aware of the pain as they stung his hands …

  He pulled, then flexing his body round, rolled out as the whole bottom section collapsed onto the ground … He rolled into something - the body of the shepherd.

  He staggered up … the burning caravan was threatening to topple over on them … Getting his hands under his shoulders, he pulled him away … and something gleamed - the shotgun!

  He grabbed it, ran round the caravan …

  In the light of the flames, about twenty or thirty yards away a figure was standing … One of the hitmen, and as Fraser watched, he walked slowly forward, stopped and pointed his gun at something on the ground …

  Fraser lifted the shotgun and pulled the triggers … nothing.

  He shouted “Oi!” as he scrabbled with his fingers …

  The hitman spun round, let off a shot … a voice, female screamed, “No – oo … “

  The hitman glanced back … Fraser felt something click under his fingers and he hauled on the triggers again –

  A double spear of light shot out and the recoil knocked him backwards.

  He scrambled up again, ran to where the hitman had been standing …

  He was dead, his face and upper body a mess of blood. The figure at his feet was Tom.

  The woman came running up – Jo –

  “Is he all right?”

  “I think so … you see to him, the shepherd’s round there, worse - “

  A siren cut through the noise of the fire.

  “Police,” she said. “I called them. You’d better put that down.“ She indicated the shotgun.

  Fraser dropped it and went to look for the shepherd. He found him where he’d left him. The dog, which had jumped out after Fraser, was whining and licking his face.

  He was still alive, but in a worse state than Tom – at least two bullets to the body that Fraser could see, almost certainly bleeding internally.

  The siren suddenly grew louder and then stopped. Blue lights pulsed. Fraser stood up as two police ran over to him. One knelt by the shepherd, the other said,

  “Was it you who phoned us?”

  Fraser shook his head. “She’s round the other side.” He looked at the shepherd. “He’s bad … “

  “There’s an ambulance just behind us.”

  Chapter 35

  It arrived in time to save the shepherd, but both contract killers were dead. They were never identified. (They had, as the shepherd thought, “done something with the gas” - cut the pipe from the cylinder, lit it and pushed it back through the hole into the caravan.)

  Tom was taken to hospital and Fraser and Jo spent the rest of the night answering questions, as did Patrick Fitzpatrick, once Marie returned home – he’d been telling the truth about that, at least.

  Patrick simply stuck to his story, that the others had persuaded him to approach Fraser and offer him an internal enquiry in return for his silence on the euthanasia plot at the inquest ... no, of course he knew nothing of any ambush … and yes, of course he’d kept the others informed of what he was doing.

  The other three were questioned the next day and confirmed what Patrick had said.

  “There’s one thing that still puzzles me,” Fraser said to Tom that same day at his hospital bed. “Those hit men, they could have shot me easily, several times. Why didn’t they?”

  Tom thought for a moment. “If you’d been found dead with bullets in you,” he said, “it would’ve confirmed that you’d been silenced. If, however, you’d been found dead in your burnt out car at the bottom of the scarp, it would have just been a tragic accident.”

  *

  A few days later, Tom, his head still bandaged, found himself pressing the bell push of George Woodvine’s house again. The girl answered and said she’d see if Mr Woodvine was available. He came to the door.

  “Can you give me one good reason why I should speak to you?” he asked coldly. He made no comment on Tom’s bandaged head.

  “Because, with your help, I think I can clear this mess up.”

  Woodvine pursed his lips and slowly nodded. “I suppose that comes under the category of good reasons. You’d better come in.”

  He stood aside to let Tom through, then closed the door and indicated the drawing room.

  “Well?” he prompted when they’d sat down.

  Tom said, “You know about the attempt on Dr Callan’s life last week?”

  “I ought to,” he said dryly. ”I’ve been questioned at length by the police about it.”

  “The point is,” Tom said, “Why? Why should anyone want to kill Dr Callan?”

  “I’m assuming the question is rhetorical?”

  “Not entirely, no - I’d be interested to hear what you think. Bushwhackers, perhaps?”

/>   Woodvine smiled unwillingly. “Frankly, I’d have said that was just as likely as the police’s suggestion, that one of us, the – er – junta, set him up to prevent him speaking at the inquest.”

  “Speaking about what, did they say?”

  “His obsession with the idea that Philip and Helen were killing off their patients.”

  “Well, I suppose all four of you could be said to have motives for not wanting him to do that.”

  “Naturally.” Woodvine shrugged. “As servants of the Trust, we have no wish to see, or hear, it slandered. That’s why we were going to guarantee Dr Callan an internal enquiry into the matter if he agreed not to say anything at the inquest. That’s why Patrick asked him to come to his house.”

  “I meant personal reasons.”

  Woodvine drew a breath, then released it. “I suppose that’s true as well, to a greater or lesser extent.”

  Tom said curiously, “Why was Fitzpatrick the one asked to speak to him? Why not you, for instance?”

  “They’d had a good relationship in the past and we thought he might be more responsive to him.”

  “Did you really think that Dr Callan would agree to an internal enquiry?”

  “Why shouldn’t he?”

  “Well, as we both know, internal enquiries can be postponed, delayed, frustrated in a hundred ways, and when they do eventually come to a conclusion, it’s usually meaningless.”

  “Oh come, that’s rather cynical, isn’t it?”

  “Is it?” Tom paused for a moment, then said quietly, “I still think that the key to all this is the identity of the person who had Philip Armitage employed in the first place.”

  Woodvine snorted impatiently. “The key to what, for God’s sake? We’ve been over this before anyway - it was Patrick, after he’d read Philip’s article.”

  “He says it was originally Nigel Fleming who noticed the article and gave it to him.”

  “Does it matter?”

  “Does it surprise you that neither of them knew about Armitage’s record?”

  “What record?”

  “The fact that he’d been suspected by the police of practising euthanasia at his unit in Southampton.”

  Woodvine blinked. “Is that true?”

  Tom nodded slowly.

  “I see … “ He looked up sharply at Tom - “Suspected, you said, was he ever charged?”