Kymiera

by Steve Turnbull

  She stopped running. There were people around—couples, people alone, others in groups—but they barely gave her a glance. This was freedom, she realised, to be in a place with no one to know who you are. Nobody telling you what to think or do.

  On the other hand, she had never been in a place like this, at least not alone, and not at night. She stuck her hands in her pockets and tried to think herself into confidence. After all, no one could touch her. And if they tried, well, she knew how to look after herself.

  Stepping into the shop was like walking into an oven. A very noisy oven.

  Chips and fish were hissing and bubbling in the hot oil. From the restaurant section in the back came the noise of people talking and the occasional piercing screech of a table or chair leg shifting. A big serving counter stood between her and the cooking area. Well-to-do people lounged in the take-away zone. Half a dozen staff worked behind the counter, and above them was the menu.

  Chloe stepped out of the way and read the prices. A lot of items had subject to availability next to them. There was a chalk board on a side wall which listed just what fish and other meats were available. Almost everything was crossed off, except scampi. She had no idea what that was, but the price, with chips, was within what she thought she could afford.

  ‘What would you like, love?’ asked a middle-aged woman with a sweaty red face. She seemed impatient, though Chloe knew no one had come in behind her.

  ‘Scampi and chips?’

  ‘Right.’ The woman turned away, gathered up a portion of small round balls and tossed them in a fryer. They sizzled noisily, which went some way to hiding the sound of Chloe’s stomach. It also hid, for everyone else except Chloe, the sound of a gun being cocked.

  Chloe had never heard a real one before, but the sound itself seemed to be in the shape of a gun. And it was located just to the right of Chloe’s spine, at stomach level. She could also picture the man, taller than her, lots of mass.

  At that moment the woman behind the counter turned back.

  ‘Yes, dear, what about you?’ she said to the man behind Chloe.

  Chloe had received a lot of training in disarming a person with a gun, but it had never involved having someone else in the line of fire. If Chloe moved now, and he fired, he might hit any one of the others here. And if she didn’t move, and he fired, he could still hurt other people as well as her.

  But she knew exactly where the gun was.

  Rather than letting her muscle memory respond, she snaked her hand behind her back and slipped two fingers behind the trigger. He reacted to her movement and tried to fire, succeeding only in squashing her fingers, which hurt. Without any further hesitation her training kicked in. She spun on the spot and lifted her arm so he was pointing the gun at the ceiling. Her knee impacted with his groin. He groaned and bent over. Her knee lifted again and smashed into his face, breaking his nose with a satisfying crack. The gun came loose in Chloe’s hand; she got her fingers out and tossed it under a table.

  She stepped back into the ready pose: hands raised, knees bent. All he did was fall to his knees. She stepped in, grabbed his wrist, twisted it back and round. Using her limited weight she forced him to the ground. Holding the wrist in one hand, she reached for the other and brought that up into a double arm-lock.

  She pushed his wrists up hard behind his back to make sure he was fully immobilised. He groaned in pain. Chloe knelt on his hands. Her fingers really hurt; she hoped he hadn’t broken them. She flapped her hands and made fists. Well, if they were broken she wouldn’t have been able to do that. Just bruised then.

  Applause broke out around her. She looked up in confusion. The other people waiting for their food were staring at her, some smiling, some clapping their hands.

  ‘That was amazing,’ breathed one.

  Chloe looked back at her prisoner. His hat had slid to the floor, it was woollen on the outside but inside it looked like chain mail; just as well she hadn’t tried to hit him on the head.

  She picked it up. She knew what it was.

  ‘Need any help?’ It was a man in his forties, wrapped in a heavy coat.

  Chloe got up carefully, making sure she maintained pressure on his wrists. It didn’t take skill, as long as his arms were held there he could do nothing.

  ‘You could put your foot there,’ she said, pointing at where his wrists crossed. She held the attacker’s elbows while the man placed his foot.

  ‘Ow.’

  ‘You don’t have to press hard,’ said Chloe.

  ‘But it’s okay if I do?’ he asked with a grin.

  Chloe gave a half-smile. ‘Yeah.’

  ‘You know the old actress, Michelle Yeoh?’ the man said.

  Chloe’s smile got wider. ‘She’s my hero.’

  The man gave her a conspiratorial nod. ‘You do her proud, Chloe.’

  Chloe’s smile vanished.

  ‘Don’t be surprised. You’ve been all over the news,’ he said.

  Chloe took the attacker’s hat and crammed it on her head. It was a bit big and she had to adjust it so it didn’t cover her eyes. The metal inside made it heavy.

  ‘Here you go, love,’ said the woman behind the counter, and passed a paper bag heavy with food.

  ‘This isn’t mine,’ said Chloe.

  ‘Yes it is, love, and no charge.’

  Chloe could barely believe it. She managed to cough out a ‘Thank you.’ And headed for the door.

  She ran.

  Chapter 8

  Yates

  The car pulled up outside the chip shop in Burnage. Yates noted they weren’t far from DI Mitchell’s police residence. The posh one. Yates himself didn’t rate anything so plush, he got a single room that was paid for out of his wages.

  ‘So what’s this little prick called?’

  ‘Lemon Grainger,’ said Lament from the dashboard.

  ‘Lemon? Seriously?’

  ‘Don’t ask me. I just hand out what’s in the records.’

  Yates got out of the car, and the delicious smell of fried fish and chips hit him. It almost made getting pulled out of a quiet evening worth it. Especially if he could cadge a freebie. He adjusted his suit—he hadn’t picked up his coat, having come out in a rush—and he was already regretting it. He wasn’t entirely sure why he was the one to be sent, a uniform could have handled this.

  He followed the streaming light and pushed his way through the steamed-up glass door, and almost stumbled into the man on the floor. There was a woman digging a nasty looking heel into his back.

  Yates pulled out his warrant badge and flashed it. They needed physical identification for this sort of situation. Not everybody had a riffy detector linked to the net. Very few, in fact. ‘I’m Detective Sergeant Yates, and I’d like to know what the buggery is going on here.’

  A bunch of people spoke up immediately. Yates got the gist of it but perked up the moment someone said ‘Chloe—the girl who escaped’. He feigned disinterest, though clearly this was the reason he was here.

  Yates held up his hand to stop the chatter and explanations. Over in the restaurant section people glanced in his direction but did not crowd. He got the impression they were looking for Mitchell. Being a side-kick had its disadvantages.

  He walked over to the counter and leaned against it. Then stood up straight—it was very hot. He smiled at the woman. ‘You were here the whole time?’

  ‘I work here.’

  ‘Who came in first? The girl or the—’ he looked back and down at Lemon Grainger’s face, one cheek flat to the greasy floor, ‘—him?’

  ‘Chloe first, him almost immediately after.’

  ‘Did you notice a vehicle outside?’

  ‘I was just serving.’

  ‘Anyone else?’

  The remainder of the patrons shook their heads. Yates looked at the condensation on the windows, it would be impossible to see more than lights anyway.

  ‘Get her off me!’ said Lemon from the floor. ‘Ow! Oi, Yates, she’s assaulting me.’ />
  Yates allowed his gaze to wander from the dagger-like heel digging into Lemon’s back, up a leg to where a knee-length dress started. She had hips but the rest of her body was bulked out with a padded coat. Black hair, nicely done make-up and brown eyes looking at him.

  ‘You going to arrest me for assault, DI Yates?’ she said through pale peach lips. It was almost a smile but there was an underlying concern. The Mitchell and Yates team were not known for mercy—but then they were usually dealing with freaks.

  ‘There was mention of a gun?’ said Yates. The woman behind the counter handed him a paper bag with handles. Unfortunately it contained the gun rather than some fried cod. Yates pulled the cuffs from his pocket and went down on one knee beside Lemon. The ankle was really quite attractive, and he thought he might like to get to know it better if he was off duty. He attached the cuffs and looked up the legs. ‘You can remove your foot, Miss ...?’

  ‘Simpson, Elaine Simpson.’

  Yates got to his feet, dragging Lemon Grainger with him. ‘Thank you for your diligence in keeping this villain under control.’

  ‘We took turns,’ she said.

  ‘You should remain in the area for interview, Miss Simpson.’

  ‘I thought it was called debriefing,’ she said.

  Yates smiled. ‘We can do that too.’

  ‘Seriously?’ said Lemon Grainger.

  Yates accidentally hit the perp’s head against the door frame.

  ‘Ouch. It was a fucking nightmare,’ said Lemon. ‘You took your bloody time getting here.’

  Yates cuffed his ear, ‘Language’, then looked hopefully at the woman behind the counter. Unfortunately there was no sign she was preparing any food for him. And he was not the sort of person that would ask. That would be against regulations. Not that he had a lot of time for regulations—with that thought he cuffed Lemon a second time.

  ‘What was that for?’ said Lemon, reminding Yates of whining child.

  ‘Regulations.’

  Yates thanked everyone for their help and pushed his prisoner into the cold, and very helpful, darkness. He took Lemon around to the far side of the car, and punched him in the gut. Lemon doubled over and struggled to breathe for a few moments.

  ‘What was that for?’ he said when he could finally speak.

  ‘Lack of information.’

  ‘But you didn’t ask me anything.’

  ‘You know what I want, Grainger.’ Yates hesitated. ‘Why have you got such a stupid name?’

  ‘My mum liked citrus fruits; got a sister called Clementine.’

  ‘Your mum must have really hated you.’

  ‘You leave my mum alone.’

  Yates punched him again but barely had time to dodge as Lemon threw up. It took him longer to recover this time.

  ‘Will you fucking stop that? That’s police brutality, that is.’

  Someone came out of the chip shop carrying a bag. Yates looked at it greedily. He was getting cold.

  ‘Where did you get the gun, Lemon?’

  ‘I don’t know about no gun.’

  Yates slammed his head against the car. ‘Where did you get the gun?’

  ‘Armourer sold it to me.’

  ‘And where’d someone like you get the money for that?’

  Lemon hesitated. Yates went to hit his head again. ‘They’ll kill me.’

  ‘If you don’t tell me, I’ll kill you.’ Yates unclipped his gun and took it out. ‘Just a bit of paper work, I mistook you for a freak. With a lemon for a head.’

  He pressed the gun against Lemon’s chest.

  ‘I can’t—’

  Yates moved the gun to between Lemon’s legs. ‘Won’t kill you, Lemon, but the ladies won’t be interested.’

  A shot rang out.

  Something warm splashed on Yates’s cheek.

  Lemon became a dead weight.

  Yates threw himself to the side as another bullet went through Lemon’s chest and shattered the car window. The shooter was behind him. Yates rolled over twice then came to a stop, his gun held steady in both hands, trying to see where the shot had come from.

  Nothing.

  There was the sound of a car starting up and driving off in the distance, but it might not have even been connected.

  A couple of faces looked out tentatively from the chip shop.

  ‘Stay inside!’ shouted Yates. They disappeared back and shut the door.

  This is a stupid fuck storm, thought Yates. He stood up warily, keeping his gun ready, watching for a flash—not that anybody could dodge a bullet. If he saw a flash he was a dead man. The sniper was good, professional too. He’d taken out Lemon with a headshot from a couple of hundred yards at least.

  The sirens tickled his ears, then got louder and more distinct. The ambulance arrived first, followed closely by a couple of police vehicles. Heavy duty armed response, of course. Lament probably should have called them as soon as the first shot went off. Yates was grateful he hadn’t fired when Lemon was hit, they might have tried to shoot him too.

  A couple of the streetlights flickered on, bathing the area in sickly yellow.

  It took twenty minutes for support to arrive and relieve him as the most senior person at the scene. Lament provided a second car since the first would have to be processed—and repaired. The paramedics checked him over and, apart from a tear in his suit and a couple of bruises, they declared him fit.

  Yates sat in the passenger seat while Lament replayed the event. There were no riffies registered in the area the shots came from, which was no surprise to anyone, and no vehicle riffy driving away after the incident.

  Also, Lemon Grainger had not registered a riffy until he attacked Chloe in the shop. Then he had just appeared.

  ‘Wearing a hat,’ said Yates.

  ‘Obviously.’

  ‘Is there a hat among the evidence? I didn’t see one.’

  ‘You’ve got a call coming in,’ said Lament and his face disappeared to be replaced by a tired-looking Mitchell.

  ‘Looks like you screwed up royally, Yates.’

  ‘I did nothing wrong, sir,’ said Yates. He did not appreciate it when blame was sent in his direction. Even less when he didn’t deserve it.

  ‘You saying you didn’t screw up?’

  ‘I’m saying someone was very keen to make sure Lemon Grainger couldn’t tell us anything.’

  Mitchell absorbed that. ‘You should have brought him in first, then questioned him.’

  ‘If I had, my powers of persuasion would have been curtailed.’

  ‘And you got nothing.’

  ‘Sir.’

  Mitchell changed the subject. Something Yates appreciated in his boss was that he didn’t dwell on mistakes, he’d point them out then move on. ‘So what the hell was Chloe Dark doing there anyway?’

  ‘Getting a takeaway apparently,’ said Yates. ‘No one saw fit to point out to her that if she goes wandering around on her own she’s setting herself up for an attack. Speaking of which, how’s the baby?’

  Mitchell frowned. ‘Slow, vicious, and he’s got some history with the school teacher.’

  ‘Want me to talk to her?’

  Mitchell shook his head. ‘Best not, until I can find out which side she’s on.’

  ‘Are we on different sides now?’

  ‘We always were.’

  Yates let it drop. He was aware that Mitchell’s drive to kill freaks came from something very personal and nothing to do with the Purity. His wife had been infected and died. But it was not something they discussed.

  ‘What do you want me to do?’

  Mitchell spent a few moments thinking. ‘Let it go. Write it up as normal. Carry on with your usual investigation. I don’t think Graham will be too pleased to find out you’re involved with this side of the action.’

  ‘Paperwork’s going to be a pain.’

  ‘It always is.’

  Mitchell signed off and it did not seem as if Lament had anything additional to say. The paperwork could
wait until the morning. Luckily, there was no need now for him to provide a complex explanation of how his gun came to be drawn.

  He glanced up and noticed the Simpson woman step out of the chippy. She paused in the light and peered round at all the police activity. She seemed to be searching for something, and then she found him.

  Yates grinned, got out of the car and gave a casual wave. He leaned back into the car.

  ‘Won’t be needing the car for the rest of the night, Lament.’

  He slammed the door and headed in the direction of the chippy.

  Chapter 9

  Mitchell

  There was a bar in the old hall of residence where Mitchell lived. He seldom used it. It wasn’t that he didn’t drink, and it wasn’t that he couldn’t afford the drink. The truth was he didn’t like socialising, and the rest of the police who lived here, or visited, were bachelors.

  However on this Wednesday night, when Special Agent Graham had given him the evening off, Mitchell made his way down to the bar. There were only five or six other men there. He knew them all by name, but he got himself a whisky and a booth, and made it clear he was not interested in talking.

  It was still early and none of the others were drunk enough to penetrate the unseen wall of his unfriendliness.

  It was about half an hour later that Yates walked in. He greeted everyone, he chatted and joked, he talked about sport and women with that look on his face that told Mitchell he had recently—as Yates preferred to call it—engaged with the public.

  Casually, as if it were the natural thing to do, Yates moved away from the main group and drifted over to where Mitchell was sitting, nursing his barely touched drink. Yates dropped himself onto the bench of the booth opposite and put down his half glass of beer.

  ‘Evening, sir,’ said Yates. ‘Living it up as usual I see.’

  ‘Shut up.’

  Yates gave a quiet smile and drank from his glass. ‘So there was another attempt on Miss Dark’s freedom tonight?’

  Mitchell nodded.

  ‘But no particular investigation?’

  ‘Our extra Special Agent decided that further investigation was not in order.’

  ‘Have you read the reports? My report?’