The Running Lie

by Jennifer Young

  ‘Max?’ Her father’s voice wavered.

  ‘I’m fine, Dad,’ she said.

  ‘Mr Knox?’ Uncle Marcus asked.

  ‘Never better, sir.’

  ‘Now, we’re going back to the party,’ Catherine said. ‘We need to get the last piece. Will, take care of them.’ Catherine kissed Will, as passionately as she’d kissed John at the film premiere.

  ‘Catherine, must you?’ Tommy asked. He swept his bow tie up off the floor and looped it around his neck. It must bear traces of her lipstick. Maybe someone would notice that.

  ‘He’s amusing.’ Catherine pointed at Ken. ‘You, stay outside. And Will, keep them alive. I don’t care if—or how much—they suffer.’ She slammed the shed door behind her.

  The knife finally cut through the last strand. Max caught the rope before it whispered onto the floor, and tried to swap the knife over to her left hand discreetly.

  Surely by now, her mother would have servants tracking down Max. Or Victor and Emma would start to think their absence must be more than a romantic moonlit walk.

  Firmin jerked open John’s shirt, and Max shuddered at the raw bruises emblazoning his chest.

  ‘You don’t have do this,’ John said.

  ‘I get paid for this. That’s all I care.’

  ‘We can pay you more,’ said Dad.

  The knife felt more solid in Max’s left hand.

  Will laughed. ‘You idiots don’t get it, do you? I enjoy this. All that time taking Knox’s orders.’ He leaned close to John’s face. ‘You aren’t my captain now.’

  ‘It’s major. Remind me, did I bust you back to private two or three times?’

  Firmin reached down to the floor and swept up a knife. He sketched a line across John’s ribs and a thin ribbon of scarlet trickled down his skin.

  A second line snaked across John’s torso. She wouldn’t look.

  ‘What is it about this guy?’ Firmin turned to her. Thank God she hadn’t moved yet. He faced John. ‘Too high and mighty to get a tattoo with us. You’re just a dumb hick with college degree. Not an officer.’ The knife dipped into the fabric at John’s shoulder, and then Firmin ripped John’s right sleeve from his shirt. His knife moved again. ‘Here, I’ll carve you an M for her.’

  John inhaled sharply.

  He hadn’t reacted before, to any of it. Max closed her eyes, but she couldn’t block the steady drip of liquid hitting the dirt floor. John’s blood.

  ‘Bet you’re glad she has a short name. Now an A…’

  John’s breathing was ragged.

  ‘And an X… Wait a second.’ Will pulled the knife away. ‘So sorry, honey, you can’t see everything from there.’ Will moved towards her chair. She aimed a kick at him, but missed. Will’s hand descended to her face, and her cheek exploded with pain. She refused to cry out, although Dad did. Max blinked away tears, fighting the urge to cradle her face. Firmin couldn’t know she was free.

  ‘You can’t get away this time, Max. No strangers, no Victor Westfield to run to, and Knox can’t do a damn thing,’ Will whispered in her ear. He straightened up and hit her again. ‘I saw the two of you in here, you know. You forgot to look up. There’s a crawl space. Quite the view I had.’

  Max’s aching cheeks flared, despite her best attempts to remain impassive.

  ‘Shall I fuck you against the wall like Knox did? The question is, will you be as bouncy and loud for me?’

  Max refused to close her eyes, and she stared into his florid face. She wouldn’t think about her father listening to the words. Or Uncle Marcus. Will was too far away to strike with the knife so she held still.

  His hand pinched her jaw, forcing her lips open. ‘Just wait till I’m finished with Knox. I gotta remember to keep him conscious so he can watch.’ His mouth lowered to hers. Max expected the horror of a kiss, but his bite shocked her. A small whimper escaped when she tasted blood, but Will clearly enjoyed her reaction. She gritted her teeth.

  Will rubbed the blood into Max’s chin. Was it only hers, or John’s too?

  ‘Now I’m positive this is where you threaten me, Knox.’ He grinned. ‘Not that you can save her.’

  She had to get him lower than her, off his guard. It had to be somewhere incapacitating. No good just to wound him and make him angrier.

  ‘I’m already going to kill you.’ John’s voice sounded so utterly flat that Max shivered. ‘You’re just making it more painful.’

  She kicked again, the sharp toe of her high heel connecting this time with Will’s shin.

  ‘Dinsmore’s a stupid rich fool,’ Will muttered. ‘Can’t even tie a fucking knot.’ He knelt and reached for her ankle, but then he grinned and pushed her skirt upwards. ‘Don’t expect me to go down on you like Knox did. Let’s see if you’re actually as pretty as…’

  John lunged forward, and Will turned his head to laugh as John’s chair rocked uselessly back and forth. Max didn’t even allow herself a deep breath. She brought the knife down, aiming at the base of Firmin’s throat.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  THE POINT SKIDDED then pierced the skin, and Will half rose as Max stood to put her entire weight behind it. The knife slid in far too easily. Will grappled with her but she didn’t relinquish her grip. Her ears rang, which surely explained the roaring noise. The hilt slammed up against his collarbone and then his fingers loosened. His eyes blurred, and she pulled the knife free. Blood fountained over her as he collapsed forward into her lap, pushing her back into the chair. Her vomit spattered all over the back of his head. Max took two deep breaths, then two more.

  She shoved him off her, and he thudded against the floor. Blood coated her left hand, and her skirt—oh, God her skirt. Will… his body twitched.

  ‘Max.’ John’s voice seemed to come from far away. ‘Max. Look at me.’

  The body. Will Firmin’s body.

  ‘Max. Honey.’ John, despite his swollen and raw face, appeared perfectly calm. As if every day she ki…

  ‘I’m okay,’ she said. She wiped her right hand over her mouth. Another firework exploded, gold this time. ‘Sorry about…’

  ‘Nothing,’ Uncle Marcus said. ‘Bloody hell, Max. When did you get a knife?’

  Max stood, steadying herself against the chair, and forced herself to walk around the body. The sticky knife fell from her grip, and she lifted another—a clean one—from the floor. Her hands trembled, but she could set the blade against John’s ropes. The wet ropes. She swallowed down nausea. She drew an absolute line at being sick on John, despite the tang of blood in her nose.

  Tommy had tied two loops around hers with one knot; these ropes Will had tied went from John’s wrists to halfway up his forearms. Multiple knots. She sawed at the rope gently, but then applied more force. ‘I’m afraid I’m going to…’ She stopped as she felt new moisture against her fingers.

  ‘I’m fine, honey. Just get me loose.’

  Max forced the knife through each layer of rope. It felt like an age before John flexed his wrists and then pulled her to him with his left arm. He pressed a fierce kiss to her head.

  ‘I love you,’ he whispered.

  Max clenched him, but she didn’t trust herself to reply without crying.

  He gave her a tight squeeze, and she took a deep breath. ‘Okay?’

  She nodded.

  John picked up another knife and sliced through the ropes around his ankles.

  Max wouldn’t look at the floor. ‘Can you do something with…’

  ‘Yes. Can you help them?’

  Max nodded. Her father’s face was as ashen as she felt. He too tried to hug her once she released him, but she shook her head and freed Uncle Marcus. Uncle Marcus and Dad both watched John, but Max only listened to the bumpy dragging sound. She’d killed someone. Stabbing Richard Ash in the leg didn’t compare. She’d pushed and the resistance was so small, when the knife went in and…

  ‘Now what?’ asked Uncle Marcus.

  Her father handed her a handkerchief and she wiped her mout
h and then her hands.

  ‘We need to get you all somewhere safe, and then I find the Dinsmores,’ John said.

  Another firework burst, illuminating the blood on John’s ribs trickling down to his trousers, the gush running down his right arm. ‘John.’ Could she even look at those cuts? Her name…

  ‘I’m fine.’

  Her father’s handkerchief was saturated with Firmin’s blood. Marcus offered his, and John swiped at his face and then pressed it haphazardly to his bicep.

  ‘You need a proper bandage.’ Max stepped out of her shoes.

  ‘We don’t have time for this,’ John said.

  ‘And if you pass out from blood loss, you’re too heavy to carry. Take off your shirt,’ Max said.

  ‘You know she’s right,’ Uncle Marcus said.

  John sighed, but he removed the tattered shirt.

  Max turned around to unhook her stockings and slide them down. Under the massive skirt, it seemed ridiculous, but she felt shy of her father and Uncle Marcus. Shy. They’d watched her kill someone. And vomit. Fabric ripped behind her.

  Uncle Marcus wrapped John’s arm as she turned. Thank God. If she saw the letters, Max feared she’d be sick again. She handed a stocking to Uncle Marcus, and John let her press the rest of shirt against the cuts on his torso and bind it in place. He grabbed her wrist as she took the stocking behind his back, and she only brushed the butt of the gun he’d tucked in his trousers. Will must have had it. She shuddered. What if Firmin had shot her instead of fighting for the knife?

  ‘It’s not that bad,’ John said. Max pressed a kiss to his left shoulder. ‘But thank you.’

  ‘This is pretty deep, actually,’ Uncle Marcus said, tying a knot. ‘You’ll need stit…’

  ‘We need to go,’ John interrupted.

  ‘The guard outside. It’s Ken,’ Max said.

  ‘I can’t believe he… Henry’s son.’ Her father’s colour had improved, and he handed John something black. ‘I found your jacket.’

  ‘Your point being?’ Uncle Marcus asked.

  ‘I won’t kill him,’ John said, sliding his right arm carefully into his evening jacket. Without his shirt, it should have looked rakish, except for the blood and the lumpy binding. He patted the breast pocket but didn’t say what he found.

  ‘They killed my entire staff. And Bartlemas’s,’ Uncle Marcus said. ‘There’s no need to be gentle.’

  John nodded. ‘Where can we take you? Not the house, Catherine’s there.’

  ‘And the garage and cars will be watched, for certain,’ Uncle Marcus said.

  ‘The castle.’ Max gripped her hands together.

  ‘You have a damn castle too?’ John’s voice lost its even edge.

  ‘Their treehouse,’ her father said. ‘Did Catherine ever see it?’

  ‘Not unless George took her, which I doubt. Could you climb up?’

  ‘If I have the ladder.’

  ‘Is it solid?’ John asked. ‘Still?’ He lifted three clean knives from the floor, and slid them into his clothes. The fourth he held.

  His grip looked so casual. ‘It was at Christmas,’ Max said. She’d read George’s comic books and cried, just a little.

  Her father touched her back. ‘I didn’t know you’d gone.’

  ‘It sounds the best option. All of you, move to the corner.’ John walked towards the door. He blew out the lanterns, but enough light crept in from the darkening sky to show the lump in the corner.

  The lump that could have been anything. That damned blanket. But the lump was someone she’d killed. How long did it take to acquire John’s quiet confidence that he wouldn’t kill? The ability to do it?

  ‘Over here,’ Uncle Marcus said, taking Max’s arm and leading her to the opposite corner. ‘Just don’t look.’ Her father followed. ‘It’s not the same as reading our reports, is it, Bartlemas?’

  ‘Not when…’ Dad swallowed. ‘No.’

  Max closed her eyes. ‘Does this type of thing go to court?’ she whispered.

  ‘Absolutely not,’ Uncle Marcus said. ‘If I have my way, you’ll be in the Queen’s honours list, darling.’ He glanced over her head towards the body. ‘Assuming we make it out of here, that is.’

  ‘Shush,’ John murmured before opening the door. The scuffling sounds stopped almost as soon as they started. Then John dragged Ken’s body into the cottage.

  ‘He’s alive,’ he said before she could say a word. ‘Grab those ropes, Max.’

  She picked up the ropes Firmin had meant for her legs. ‘I’ll do it.’ She knotted them efficiently around Ken’s ankles and wrists.

  John watched and nodded. ‘Which way?’

  John pushed ahead of them, while Max tried to move quietly. Her gown rustled, and her loose suspenders tapped her thighs. She grimly concentrated on not slipping in her ridiculous shoes rather than the smell of the vomit and blood. Or the stickiness of her mouth. Her cheek ached. John froze, so they stopped as well. Her father squeezed her hand.

  If she hadn’t had her eyes on John’s outline, she would have missed it. He glided forward, towards a figure she only saw when his arms went around its neck. No fighting, just a faint sound and the other body went limp. John lowered him to the ground and dragged him behind a tree. John didn’t vomit. He came back and held out the butt of a gun to them. After a moment, Uncle Marcus took it.

  ‘Unless Max wants it?’ he whispered.

  She shook her head. John’s teeth glinted briefly in what she guessed was a grin. Most of his teeth.

  ‘Which way?’

  Max pointed, and John led again. They encountered no other guards. As they went deeper into the woods, Max walked more quickly to pace beside John, and to steer him towards the right tree. She stopped at the base.

  ‘Where’s the ladder?’

  ‘Unzip my dress, please.’ She stepped out of her shoes.

  ‘This isn’t the time to worry about blood, honey.’

  ‘It’s too heavy to climb in.’

  ‘Can’t I just lift you? Why did you build a treehouse so high up?’

  ‘With that arm? This is easier.’

  ‘Can I climb it?’

  ‘No,’ said her father. ‘I’ve seen her do it. It’s better not to watch.’

  John’s fingers brushed her spine and then unzipped her dress. She couldn’t imagine less erotic circumstances as it pooled around her feet. She swung herself up into the neighbouring tree. Its branches hung much lower, and eventually, she’d reach the height where the two trees grew together. Soon memory took over as she found handholds and footholds. Her petticoat snagged, but she jerked it free and kept going. There, the point her stomach always lurched as she transferred her weight from one tree to the branch of the other, and then she clambered across and down to the floor of the treehouse. ‘Damn,’ she whispered. The ladder wasn’t there. She climbed back up, praying George had left it in the usual place. It was the next crook along, but at least it was there. Back down to the floor of the treehouse. Her face really ached now. Max opened a box she’d designated for treasures when she was six. It held jeans and a jumper, plus flat shoes. How many years ago had she left them here? She vastly preferred the scent of dampness right now. She ripped off the petticoat, which felt saturated although it had missed the blood. The clothes still fit, thank God. She hooked the ladder and shimmied down.

  ‘Sorry. George had hidden it,’ she said. Everything felt more solid in new clothes, even if her stiff long line bra pulled oddly under the jeans’ waistband.

  ‘You look like a boy, Max,’ Uncle Marcus said.

  ‘Couldn’t you just have a normal fixed ladder like every other kid?’ John had bundled her dress up. It’d never be wearable again.

  ‘It was a challenge, George to me.’

  ‘Okay, everybody up,’ John said.

  ‘Thanks,’ murmured her father. ‘I’ll look after this.’ He patted his pocket as well.

  John nodded. Had Uncle Marcus given Dad the gun?

  Her father set h
is foot on the ladder, and Uncle Marcus held it steady.

  ‘I’m not staying here,’ Max said.

  ‘Max,’ her father said. ‘Knox is a professional.’

  ‘And he doesn’t know the estate. What about Mother? Granny? What’s to stop them taking them if…’

  ‘Find Harris. Tell him “ruby” and he’ll get Nancy, Mother and Charlie somewhere safe.’ He frowned. ‘And you, if you’ll be sensible.’

  ‘And Vivian? The children?’

  ‘Victor’ll look after them, if I can get to him,’ John said.

  ‘You don’t want his help?’ Uncle Marcus asked.

  ‘Hopefully none of this will be necessary,’ John said. ‘Max, please.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Fine. Come on.’ He turned to Uncle Marcus and Dad. ‘No smoking—the light might show. Keep the gun. Shoot anybody who tries to get up.’ He shook his head. ‘I can’t believe I’m sending you up a damn tree.’

  ‘Take my dress,’ Max said to Uncle Marcus. She and John waited until they clambered up—with more noise than Max thought necessary—and the ladder jerkily disappeared into the treetop.

  John took Max’s hand and they walked ten trees away before he stopped. ‘Sir Marcus is right. I’m not going to be gentle. I don’t know if you want to see it.’

  ‘After what I just did?’ She swallowed.

  ‘Especially now.’ He hugged her. ‘You saved all of our lives, you know.’

  Max nodded. ‘I want to go with you.’ Her lips found the soft skin of his neck, and thankfully, he didn’t wince. ‘I can’t sit silently next to my father after he heard about us in the shed.’

  ‘I’m pretending it didn’t happen, and I’m quite positive he will too.’

  Max ran her fingers through his hair. At least there he hadn’t been hurt. ‘Mostly I can’t bear to be there in the dark, wondering if you’re okay.’ She exhaled. ‘What do you think Catherine meant by the last piece?’

  ‘I’ve been wondering that too.’ John tightened and then relaxed his hold. ‘We should hurry.’ He passed her a knife. ‘Use it, although my hope is you won’t have to. Stay behind me.’ He swore. ‘I wish I knew how many guards they have.’