by Zoe Sharp
Sean’s brother had made it through the tattered wire fence leaving a torn strip of T-shirt behind to mark his hasty passing. The pale cloth flapped feebly as it caught the light, like a pennant. I ducked through the spiked gap and followed, slithering precariously over the rubble under foot. In the darkness it was lethal.
Some months before, the demolition team had brought down the structure of the old factory building behind the gym and then knocked off – permanently, it seemed. In the intervening period the weeds had done their best to camouflage the ruins they’d left behind with tough-stemmed grasses that whipped against my legs as I ran.
Roger had a decent head start on me, but he wasn’t exactly at his peak when it came to physical fitness. He was fading fast, and he knew it. I caught a glimpse of him, dodging clumsily out of sight behind one of the huge piles of broken bricks. He was stumbling as though exhausted and it galvanised me into an extra burst of speed.
That was probably what saved me.
Behind the bricks, I found Roger wrestling with a length of three-by-two that was tethered into the hard-packed ground by loops of rusty wire.
I came hying into view just as he managed to wrench it free, but he had no time to prepare his ambush. His head jerked, and he tried to wrench the timber up more quickly, but his reactions were badly off.
Hesitation would have been fatal, and I didn’t have time to mess around. I shifted my direction slightly, locking my arm out straight to the side. I hit him from a flat run, just about where his collarbones met, putting the whole of my bodyweight and momentum behind my clenched forearm.
Roger’s feet literally flew up in front of him as the top half of his body was snapped back, like he’d just had a belt off the mains. All it lacked to complete the picture was a gentle wisp of smoke and a bad home perm.
It took him a while to think about getting up again and I admit I made no move to help. Instead, I thoughtfully toed the lump of wood so it was well out of his reach, and stood waiting for him to recover enough to take an active part in conversation.
I knew I should have felt guilty about the placing of that punch. I’d deliberately aimed a fraction high, which was malicious at best, and could have been very unhealthy if I’d got it wrong. Then I remembered his urgent commands to Nasir to shoot me, and faced him coolly unrepentant.
After a minute or so, Roger’s breathing returned to some semblance of normality. He used one hand to push himself up into a sitting position, rubbing at his throat with the other and eyeing me warily. I made sure I was standing with my back to the lights.
“So, what’s this all about, Roger?” I asked, surprised that I could put the question without rancour.
He shook his head. “You wouldn’t understand,” he said and, while his face was sour, there was the faintest trace of fear, like an underlying thread.
“Try me.”
He gave me a look that would have been taken off him if he’d tried to go into a nightclub wearing it, and remained pigheadedly silent.
I squatted so my eyes were on his level. He met my gaze cursorily, then slid his own away. “I think it’s you who doesn’t understand the shit you’re in, Rog,” I said lightly. “In fact, you’re in it so deep you need a snorkel.”
I was rewarded with a sneer.
“This isn’t just aggravated burglary any more, Roger,” I said, speaking slowly and keeping my voice neutral. “This is serious. You can’t claim this was accidental, or it wasn’t you. This is full-on premeditated attempted murder.”
I let that one settle for a moment. “Attempted murder,” I repeated, pressing on without mercy, refusing to let myself weaken, “is an adult crime, Rog, and you’ll be dealt with in an adult court. Left to rot away your youth in an adult hell-hole.”
The fright jumped, full-fledged, in his eyes, in his face. “I can’t!” he cried, suddenly very much a child.
“Oh you can,” I said, “and you will. You’ve gone way beyond the limits of teenage rebellion this time. What do you think O’Bryan’s going to do about that?”
I glanced at him then, wanting to see how he was taking the information on board. He looked stricken. Tormented. I suppose I should have been pleased, but it wasn’t much of a victory.
Roger opened his mouth to reply, but before he could speak we heard it, and it stopped both of us stone cold in our tracks.
A single gunshot.
The echo of it rolled over and round us, stark and uncompromising. I froze, straining for additional sounds, but there was nothing.
Silence.
There were no further shots fired. No angry protests. No agonised screams. No evidence of continued pursuit, either, which could have meant Nasir had simply missed.
Or it could have meant that Sean was dead.
My mouth dried instantly as my system shut down unnecessary functions, like the production of saliva. My heartrate had accelerated faster than a top fuel dragster. The shaft of panic that arrowed through me was quite dazzling in its intensity.
There was a time when I’d come damned close to praying for Sean Meyer’s death. But not like this.
Oh no. If anyone was going to kill him, I’d wanted it to be me.
With half my brain numbed into insensibility by the picture my imagination had painted, I’m almost surprised it took Roger so long to take advantage.
I caught the faintest glimmer of colour and movement from the corner of my eye, then his lashing foot connected hard with the underside of my chin and it was my turn to go pitching raggedly onto my backside among the brickwork.
By the time I’d laboured to my feet, I took one look at Roger’s dim figure disappearing into the darkness on the other side of the site, and ruefully gave up any idea of the chase.
I put a hand up to my tender jaw, wriggling it experimentally a few times, but there was no permanent damage. Still, as an object lesson in what happens when you’re stupid enough to take your eye off the ball, I suppose it could have been a lot worse.
***
When I got back to the gym, I found Sean leaning on the front wing of the Cherokee, waiting for me. He looked very much alive and kicking. I ran through a track-list of emotions about that, most of which I didn’t care to put names to.
He straightened up as soon as he saw me, instantly alert like a cat, and lamentably unruffled by events. “You OK?”
I bit back an angry retort about why should he care, and nodded. “You?”
“Yeah.” He’d seen, of course, that I was alone and gave me a lopsided smile that suddenly took ten years off his harsh features. “And Roger?” he asked.
“Long gone, I’m afraid,” I said shortly, half-heartedly batting some of the brickdust and extinguisher powder from my jogging pants. It was a losing battle. “What about Nasir?”
“The other kid? Likewise,” he said wryly. “He freed the blockage and his aim seemed to be getting better with practise. I came down strongly in favour of tactical retreat.”
I shrugged and walked past him, wanting to check on the external cabinet that housed the electricity meter, which was on the front of the building. Even without benefit of a torch I could clearly see that the cover was hanging off and the main circuit breaker had been thrown.
“They knew just where to look,” Sean commented quietly from behind me.
“Hardly surprising,” I pointed out, without turning round, “seeing as how Nasir’s an electrician.”
“Who was he, the other kid?”
“Nasir Gadatra. He’s the son of my next-door neighbour,” I filled in. “He and your baby brother seem to be big mates.”
Sean didn’t answer, so I clicked the power on again and the fluorescent tubes inside the gym vibrated back into life. We went in to survey the damage. I was expecting it to be bad, and I wasn’t destined to be disappointed.
The now-defunct extinguisher lay on its side on the floor at the epicentre of a sea of the pinkish white powder. The stuff had coated the carpet in the immediate area so thick you couldn’t tell the original c
olour of the weave. It had blasted up onto the walls too, and layered round the machinery like dust in an old abandoned crypt.
We left trails of footprints as we moved into the main gym area. I noticed that the weight I’d chucked at the boys had splintered part of the wood panelling that Attila had used to line the lower half of the brick walls. I swore under my breath.
Sean bent and picked up the extinguisher. “This your idea?” he asked.
“Yeah,” I admitted. “It seemed like a good one at the time. No doubt I’ll have to get the damn thing refilled.”
“I wouldn’t bother,” Sean said, and something in his voice made me turn. He was staring at the cylinder in his hands. When I looked, I saw a big raw gouge out of the side, slicing through the paint like skin to the metal underneath. “You were lucky, Charlie,” he said, voice sober. “The round glanced off it rather than penetrated the steel. If this thing had gone up it would have taken your arms off.”
No, I thought, I had it on my shoulder at the time. It would have blown my damned head off instead . . .
I swallowed and didn’t comment on that one. There wasn’t a whole hell of a lot I could say. But my legs suddenly felt a lot less steady than they had done, before Sean had pointed it out.
I glanced round, pulling a face, distracting myself with the practical. “I suppose I’d better call the police,” I said wearily.
“No.”
The denial was too instant, too emphatic. It stilled me, brought my head up. Sean put the extinguisher down, moved in. I had to fight the temptation not to back away from him. I remembered what had happened the last time I’d let him get too close, even after four years. God, he even smelt the same.
“I don’t suppose you’d mind telling me why the hell I shouldn’t?” I inquired, my voice low with resentment.
I had to tilt my head up to meet his eyes. Liquid black eyes, deep enough to drown in. “He may be your kid brother, but he and his mate have just tried to kill me. That’s not something you can just sweet-talk your way out of, you know.”
He sighed, hunching his shoulders. “I realise that, Charlie, but I’d like some time to find out why.”
“I was hoping you’d be able to tell me that,” I said. “Does Roger think I got him beaten up, is that it?” The last time I’d spoken with Nasir in the back garden he’d certainly seemed to think I was responsible, however indirectly.
Sean shook his head. “He didn’t say so, but he was in a pretty bad way when we got him home.” His face closed in for a moment, cold and hard at the memory. “He says he doesn’t remember much, and he certainly isn’t aware that you tried to help him.”
“If I’d known who he was at the time,” I said bitterly, “I might not have done.”
Sean cast me a searching gaze. “Why? Because he hurt one of your neighbours?” he asked, still grim. “Or because he’s my brother?”
“Well now,” I said softly, “there’s a loaded question.”
I tired of the stare-out contest first, breaking away to do another sweep of the gym. “Besides, it’s out of my hands whether the police are involved or not. I’ll have to call Attila about this, and then it’ll be up to him.”
To my surprise, Sean broke into a smile. “This place belongs to Attila, does it?” he said. “Me and him go way back. I think I can persuade him to give me a few days to try and straighten things out.”
I shrugged and turned away. I suppose I shouldn’t have been surprised that Sean was acting on his own motives, without any regard for me. Running true to form.
I moved to the phone on the counter and dialled Attila’s home number. He agreed to come at once when I gave him the outlines of what had happened, then he asked to speak to Sean. I held the receiver out to him without speaking, and left them to their man-to-man chat while I went to shower and change out of my dirty clothes.
When I came back, in my bike leather jeans and the fresh shirt I always kept in my locker, Sean had finished the call, and was sitting on one of the cleaner benches, surveying the mess. “Attila’s on his way over to secure the place,” he told me. “He says no police.”
“There’s a surprise,” I said dryly, plonking my helmet and jacket down on the counter.
Sean paused for a moment. “I assume you got my message the other night, Charlie,” he said carefully. “I meant what I said. We’ve unfinished business you and I.”
“Oh, I think things are well finished between us, don’t you, Sean?” I said, keeping my voice brisk. “There’s nothing more to be said or done. It was a mistake. A big mistake that cost me dear, and it’s not one I intend making again.”
Sean regarded me sadly, his head on one side, suddenly looking older.
“I thought I knew you, Charlie,” he said quietly. “I wasn’t even close, was I?”
“Yeah, well, people change,” I bit back, fatigued. I was in no mood for some clever verbal fencing.
“I never would have believed you’d change so far, or so fast,” he said. “What happened to make you so bitter?”
I stared. How could he ask that when he knew damn well what had gone on? What game was he playing now? He may not have started events rolling, but he’d sure as hell given them a push on their way down hill. Old resentment surfaced unexpectedly.
“What happened?” I struggled to keep my voice level. “I got thrown out of training, Returned To Unit in disgrace, and muscled out of my career. What the hell do you think happened?”
“And you think I’m to blame for you being RTU’d?” My God, he even sounded affronted. “You think that justifies you crying rape?”
Crying rape? Did he really think none of it happened? That I’d made the whole thing up? Suddenly I was tired of all this side-stepping, this careful dodging round the point without ever getting right down to it.
“Get out, Sean,” I said, quiet and flat, not meeting his eyes.
He stood up, moved to come past me, then changed his mind, whirling fast, angry, and catching hold of my upper arms. “Talk to me, Charlie,” he demanded. “I need answers from you and I can’t deal with your silence.”
Instinctively, I brought my forearms up to break his grip. His hands slid off my shoulders, but his fingers stayed wrapped in my shirt, stretching it back away from my throat.
He stiffened abruptly, and I knew he’d seen the scar. That close he’d have to have been blind not to have noticed something that looked like an Ordnance Survey map of a railway line running halfway round the side of my neck.
“Christ. Jesus,” he whispered. “What happened to you?” He reached out tentatively to touch it, as though it might have been a trick of the light.
I should have told him then that the scar was much more recent. That it had nothing to do with my getting thrown out of the army, but the fake sincerity in his voice choked my words.
I jerked back, shrugging his hands away, and pulled the shirt collar back into place. All the while I was blinking back the tears that were rising unbidden and unwelcome to my eyes. “What the hell does it matter to you?” I growled. “Just go.”
For a long time Sean just stood there, hands clenched tight by his sides. Then he turned on his heel, and walked out.
Physical pain would have been a relief at that point. The urge to smack my fist into something solid and unyielding, and to keep doing it, was uppermost in my mind. I barely resisted the temptation.
***
I admit I slept in the next morning. It wasn’t until Friday started howling his protest downstairs in the living room that I finally hauled myself out of bed.
Feeling muzzy, I went down and let him out into the back garden, then headed for the shower. By the time he’d finished sniffing at tree trunks and doing whatever else it is that dogs do in gardens, I was dressed and much closer to being human again.
Friday seemed overjoyed when I got his lead out. It had been so late when I’d got back the night before, taking him out for a walk had been the last thing on my mind. Besides, with both Nasir and Roger
still roaming around, I’d been more than a little nervous about wandering round at night in the open.
So, this morning I knew I owed Friday more than a quick turn around the block. I pulled on my jacket and gloves, and unlocked the front door, patting my pockets to check I’d got my keys. The dog pranced out onto the path almost skipping with delight. He did his best to sabotage my efforts to secure the door behind me, yanking the lead in my hands.
I took him the long way, crossing the wasteground and letting him nose around in the piles of rubble and fallen bricks that surrounded the derelict terrace of houses between the Lavender and Copthorne estates. But, as the dog dragged me along the home stretch of Kirby Street, I found that we hadn’t been away nearly long enough.
There was a man walking down the short drive towards the police cruiser that was parked by the kerb. At first, I thought he must have been knocking at Pauline’s door, but as I drew closer I realised he’d been calling on Mrs Gadatra instead. The man was in late middle-age, and his dark hair was longer than I recalled, worn brushed back from his face.
My feet slowed, despite Friday’s insistent pulling. Was he here because of the gunfight at the gym last night? How had he pieced that one together so fast? For a moment I debated on making a tactical withdrawal before he noticed me.
I should have known I wouldn’t be that lucky.
As if I’d spoken out loud, the man turned and then stilled, waiting for me to close the gap between us. Reluctantly, I complied.
I’d run in to Superintendent MacMillan before, and not in the happiest of circumstances. Only the winter before, I’d helped him stop a killer, but had damned near become another victim in the process. He hadn’t liked my methods much, and the whole affair hadn’t exactly endeared me to the man.
Which brought me round to a sudden realisation. MacMillan was too high-powered to be running round investigating unconfirmed reports of gunfire. He was strictly a murder and mayhem kind of bloke. So what was he doing outside my door on a Saturday morning?
“Charlie.” He greeted me now in that familiar clipped tone. “I wouldn’t have expected to see you living here.”
