Pull

by Anne Riley

  I’m going to die.

  But if I’m going to die, I’m going to fight my way to the end.

  My fingers find the wood of the floor. I push up until my head hits the underside of the table. Albert is crouched beside me with his eyes closed and his hands held out in front of him, palms up. He blows a stream of air through his lips as gunfire explodes around us, each shot closer than the one before. How can he be so calm when we are seconds away from being blown into shrapnel?

  “What are you—” I begin, but his fingers are curling around something unseen, as if he’s holding on to a handle. Then he pulls the invisible handle toward his body, slowly, steadily. His arm muscles strain and his jaw clenches.

  The inside of my gut transforms into a black hole.

  My entire body starts to cave in on itself.

  Whoosh.

  THIRTEEN

  I AM SITTING AT THE TABLE WITH ALBERT, STARING AT the glass of Coke in front of me. He’s looking at his watch and muttering numbers under his breath. A single droplet of condensation slithers down my glass and puddles on the table. Laughter bubbles from the groups of people around us, and when I glance to my right, I see one of the girls in the corner toss her head back with a delighted cackle. She swats her friend’s arm and then leans over her phone, pointing at something on the screen and laughing again. I’m struck by their cheerfulness, the simple smiles they exchange with no shadow of foreboding in their eyes. Just like the mugging on the heath, no one else realizes something has changed—not even the victims. Albert and I are the only ones who know. I understand why he knows…but why me?

  Papa’s last words swim through my mind like a school of minnows, picking and nibbling at the memory of that hospital room, grazing the edges of our present reality.

  My talent is yours, dear girl. Take it and conquer.

  I would give anything to know what he meant.

  Albert’s eyes are roving the room behind me, but when I look at him, he meets my gaze. “You Pulled?” I whisper.

  He nods—a tiny movement full of tension. It’s like he didn’t have time to be anxious when we were crammed under the table together, so now all the terror of the previous scene has worked its way into his neck muscles, his jaw, his hands. Everything about him seems dangerously taut, like an over-inflated balloon. I have this weird feeling I could poke him with a fork and he’d pop.

  “How long do we have?” My arms and legs feel wound up tight.

  “Five minutes,” he murmurs.

  We’re leaning toward each other, propped on our elbows, exactly as we were before. His eyes flicker from my face to the door, and I glance over my shoulder. The doorway is empty. My relief is fleeting; the man will come soon, and unless we stop him, death will reach every table.

  “How do we keep it from happening again?” I say, crushing my hands together to stop their trembling.

  The shock I saw in Albert’s face is gone, replaced with a fierce stare and a solid set to his jaw. The intensity in his gaze makes me fidget. I’ve seen that look twice before, and I know what it means. He’s preparing to “handle the situation,” as he so delicately put it.

  “Get up,” he mutters.

  Ordinarily, I’d bristle at being ordered around, but I know what happens in the next few minutes. The girl in the ruffled tank who’s currently sipping a vodka and tonic will be lying on the floor in a pool of her own blood. Countless others will follow suit. Albert and I will be crouched under the table, waiting to face our own executions.

  So I get up.

  “This way,” he says, nodding toward the back of the pub. I step around the table—every movement feels forced, robotic, like I’m thinking about it way too hard—and take the hand he offers me. His fingers are oddly calloused, and the roughness of the skin anchors me somehow. Walking through the pub feels too risky. Too exposed. I’m fighting to keep breathing, but gripping his hand helps me focus.

  “Come on,” he says, pulling me toward the wood-paneled alcove that houses the bathrooms. “Quickly. And no matter what happens, stay out of sight.”

  We hurry to the door of the men’s bathroom, where Albert throws one glance over my head to the pub door. No alarm sparks in his eyes; the shooter still isn’t here.

  “How much longer?” I ask. My whole body is buzzing.

  He checks his watch. “Four minutes. Let’s hope it’ll be enough.”

  There’s a layer of uncertainty in his voice that sends a blast of fear through my chest. “What are you going to do?”

  If he Pulled, I assume he’s planning to change the scene like he changed the mugging on the heath, but Max and Luther didn’t have guns. This is a whole different ballgame.

  He pushes open the bathroom door. “I’ll take care of it. Stay in here and don’t come out unless I come get you.”

  “What about the others? We can’t let them sit out there.” Images of the dead pub-goers flip through my mind like a horrific slideshow, bloodied faces and matted hair and splayed limbs. I remember the crunch of the killer’s shoes on glass and wood, the thud of bodies hitting the floor.

  Instead of answering, he lifts the collar of his T-shirt up to his mouth as if he’s about to wipe crumbs off his lips—but then he speaks into it. “Hare & Billet. Now. One of them just came in. I’ve already Pulled once; were you close enough to feel it?” He stares at the air in front of him. It looks like he’s listening to someone whisper a secret into his ear. Then he says, “Nah, mate, this one’s got a gun. Definitely a new convert.” More listening. “In the men’s loo. That’s where I’m going to put them all; there’s no time to evacuate, and I don’t know if there are more outside. Just get here, yeah?”

  He’s calling for help. Can he not handle this on his own? We have less than four minutes, and we’re waiting for backup?

  “Albert,” I blurt. “What about the police?”

  He shakes his head at me. “Can’t.”

  “Why not? That guy is coming back right now, and whatever we can do—” I spread my hands in front of me. My throat is tightening and my voice sounds pinched. “We’ve got to stop this.”

  He holds up his index finger, telling me to wait. Sure, I can wait. We have all the time in the world.

  “Right,” he says into his shirt collar. “I’m going for the others. Let’s just hope they listen.” He drops his shirt, lets out a quick breath, and looks at me. “Stay in the loo.”

  I don’t even have time to respond before he walks out into the pub, approaches Matilda at the bar, and leans over to whisper in her ear.

  Her expression goes from elated to horrified in a matter of seconds. She nods once, then again, and Albert walks out to the middle of the room. He pulls out a chair and uses it to step up to the top of an empty table.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” he says, his voice booming across the room almost as if he had a microphone. The noise in the pub shrinks, but it takes him a second time— “Ladies and gentlemen, please—” to reduce it to whispers. Everyone looks at him. “What I’m about to tell you may seem unlikely, but it’s the absolute truth. A man is headed this way with a gun. He is extremely dangerous and looking to kill.”

  No way. Nobody’s going to believe him.

  Then a voice pipes up from the bar: “Listen to him. I’ve already called the police.”

  Matilda. She watches Albert with a strained expression while twisting a dirty dishrag between her hands. But she didn’t call the police—I was watching her the whole time Albert spoke into her ear.

  The whispers have come to a complete stop. People look from Albert to Matilda. The Guinness clock above the liquor shelves ticks softly, a reminder that the minutes Albert bought are running out.

  “We have very little time left—not enough to evacuate, and even if we did, I can’t be sure the streets are clear,” Albert goes on. “Take your things and move into the men’s loo. My friend Rosie is already there and will keep you safe while I handle the situation.”

  There’s that phrase again— han
dle the situation. Like it’s a simple matter of taking out the trash. I trust him and his fighting skills far more than I trust myself to keep anyone safe in the bathroom. I have no weapons, no skills whatsoever. If the shooter gets past Albert, and his friends don’t arrive soon, there’s nothing I can do.

  Murmurs fill the room as people turn to each other with frowns, uncertainty plain on their faces. Should they believe this guy? Is this some kind of trick? I swallow and shift my weight, leaning against the doorframe.

  “How do you know this man is coming?” a woman shouts. “Why should we believe you?”

  Muttered yeahs and exactlys ripple through the crowd.

  “You have no reason, really,” Albert says. “You’ll just have to trust me. If I’m wrong, you’ll simply be inconvenienced. But if I’m right, and you ignore me, you’ll be dead.”

  There is a beat of silence so profound, I could wrap up in it like a blanket.

  “If you don’t trust me,” he pleads, “then trust Matilda. Most of you have known her for years.”

  Everyone looks at Matilda.

  “He’s saved my life once before,” she says. “If he says something’s going to happen, you should listen.”

  They stare at her. Then they stare at Albert.

  And then finally, thank God, they start to move. How long do we have? One minute, maybe less?

  One by one, they shoulder their purses, stuff phones into their back pockets, and follow each other to the bathroom. I stand where they can see me, holding the door open with my foot, waving people in. Their eyes brim with insecurity; I’m sure half of them are worried this is a trap, and the other half are too drunk to really understand what’s happening, and then there’s probably some remainder that are convinced they’re about to die.

  Here’s hoping they’re wrong.

  Albert follows the last person to the bathroom, and as I take a quick glance around the pub, I’m relieved to see that everyone has followed his orders. Thankfully, there were only about a dozen people here.

  “Stay quiet,” he says to us.

  A hush falls over the crowded bathroom. I let out a shaky breath and stare at the floor.

  “Rosie,” he says, and I look up. “Make sure everyone stays in here unless you’re sure there aren’t any more outside. Sometimes these blokes travel in packs, and they keep one or two near the exits to take down escapees.”

  My stomach bottoms out. I can’t talk, so I just nod. Albert speaks into his collar again.

  “Hope you’re close, lads, because he’s nearly here.”

  He steps back into the pub. I catch the door before it falls shut, leaving it open about an inch. Albert stops in the center of the room. He stretches his fingers out at his sides and then clenches them into fists. His shoulders rise and fall as he takes a long, deep breath. He must have done this countless times before—stepped into a life-threatening situation without knowing whether or not he’ll see tomorrow. He could back down. He could let whatever’s going to happen, happen. But he doesn’t. I’m only brave enough to hide in a bathroom with a dozen would-be victims, which really isn’t brave at all.

  With a quick “right” and a subtle lift of the chin, he strides toward the door.

  It opens.

  The man—the killer—stands there, gun held at his side. He is huge, with stringy brown hair and muscles lined with popping veins.

  This is the same man that attacked me under the willow trees.

  I sag against the doorframe as the memory comes rushing back. It’s like I can still feel his bicep digging into my throat, feel the pounding of his fist against my cheekbone. I thought they dragged him toward that Volkswagen bus. I thought Albert said they took care of it.

  What happened? Why is he here?

  Albert puts his head down and launches himself toward the doorway. Toward the giant man holding a weapon. Toward possible—almost probable—death.

  My heart nearly stops. The people behind me who can see through the crack suck in a collective gasp.

  “Oh God,” Matilda whispers. She’s right next to me.

  Albert slams into the man’s enormous frame with enough force to drive him out of the building. Their voices roar as the front door falls closed and they stumble onto the street. Something thuds against the exterior wall once, then again. Which of them is throwing the other around?

  I don’t hear gunshots—did Albert get the gun away from the killer?

  I let the bathroom door swing shut. Nothing to do now but wait.

  FOURTEEN

  IT FEELS LIKE A YEAR HAS PASSED BEFORE I HEAR VOICES in the pub again. Five years. A decade.

  It’s an unfamiliar voice first—male, but not Albert’s. At first I’m sure it’s my attacker. He’s killed Albert and come back to finish off the rest of us; this is it, we’re dead. But I barely have time to come to grips with my fate before another voice joins in—rumbly and deep, and thrillingly familiar. I sling the door open without really meaning to and step into the alcove. Albert is about midway across the pub, limping, and the redheaded guy I saw at the video store—Dan, I think is his name—is pretty much holding him up. A ribbon of blood trails down Albert’s arm all the way to his hand. His right eye is almost swollen shut and bruises have bloomed across his jawline.

  “Who is it?” Matilda whispers beside me.

  I turn to look at her. “It’s Albert. I think he saved us.” I’m really hoping he saved us, anyway. The possibility that my attacker is still on the loose with a gun is too much to entertain.

  “Oi,” comes Albert’s voice. He sounds annoyed, but his eyes are shining. “Told you to stay put till I came for you, didn’t I?”

  It takes everything I’ve got not to crush him in a hug right now, but he’s clearly injured, and anyway that would be weird. “You did. Sorry. I heard your voice, and I…”

  Dan supports him until he reaches the bathroom door. “Is everyone okay?” He gazes over my shoulder at the gaggle of people behind me.

  I nod, stepping to the side so he can see. “We’re fine. What about you? And what about— him?”

  If Albert knows it was the same guy who attacked me on the heath, he isn’t letting on. I don’t think he saw him closely that night. But Dan the redhead, loitering against one of the wood panel walls in the bathroom alcove, did see him. The grim set to his mouth tells me he knows. He remembers.

  It seems like a huge coincidence that the same guy who attacked me on the heath also attacked the pub while I was in it.

  “We’ll take care of it,” Albert says, and Dan shoots him a wry look. Albert must sense it somehow, because he turns to him with a scowl. “Finish the job completely this time, eh? I’d prefer not to meet this particular one again.”

  This particular…what? Gangster? Murderer? How many of these guys does Albert run into on a daily basis?

  The pub door opens again, and I jump—but it’s only Isaac.

  “No sense accusing anyone of anything,” Dan mutters, crossing his arms as Isaac reaches the back of the pub and surveys us with a curious stare. “You know that wasn’t our fault.”

  “Fair enough.” Albert wipes at the stream of blood on his forearm, smearing it across his skin. “Just do it properly this time, lads.”

  They’re talking about this like I talk about washing the dishes after dinner. Isaac is already checking his phone, and Dan is staring out into the pub, fuming about something—probably Albert’s attitude. It might not be the best time to ask the question I’m about to ask, but I have to do it anyway.

  “It was him,” I say, looking at each guy in turn. “Wasn’t it? Doesn’t that seem like a really weird coincidence?”

  Albert’s eyes shift to Dan’s. Isaac stares at his phone like I haven’t spoken. To their credit, they don’t pretend not to know what I’m talking about.

  “I thought last night was a random attack,” I say in a scratchy whisper. “Was it something else?”

  I can feel the trickle of people behind me as one by one, or sometime
s in pairs, the pubgoers evacuate the bathroom. Matilda pats their backs and reassures them that everything is okay, they can go home now. Many of them shoot grateful looks at Albert. Others keep their eyes on the floor, and I wonder if they’ll try to forget this night ever happened, or if they’ll immediately tell the first person they find. A few of them ask questions—“How did you know? Why haven’t the police come?”—but Albert simply waves them off. They’re too shell-shocked to persist.

  “Seems too coincidental to be random,” he says. “But they wouldn’t seek you out unless they had a good reason.”

  Something about the way he says “they” makes me pause. “They who?”

  “The Mortiferi,” says Dan, pushing away from the wall. He steps toward me with his arms crossed. “If they’re hunting you, they’re probably trying to—”

  He stops short, probably because my eyes are the size of baseballs and my jaw has dropped to the floor. “I’m sorry, what was that word you just said?”

  “That’s enough, Dan.” Albert’s voice is almost a growl.

  I step forward. “You said ‘Mortiferi.’”

  He looks from me to Albert and then shakes his head. “Uh, it’s nothing, really. Don’t worry about it.”

  “You said they’re hunting me,” I go on. “Who’s hunting me? Are the Mortiferi people? A gang of some kind?” I look to Albert for clarification, but he’s still glaring at Dan. He shakes his head the tiniest bit and then turns back to me.

  “Rosie, you’ve already met Isaac,” he says, and Isaac gives me a sharp nod. He looks marginally less irritated about my existence, which seems like a step in the right direction. “But I don’t believe you know the jokester of the group. This is Dan Mason.” He grimaces at Dan, who’s leaning against the wall again, looking sullen. “Sometimes he talks a lot.”