Gone Again

by Doug Johnstone

  Mark was standing in the doorway, Taylor beside him, when the door flew open then back at him with force, the wood smashing off his skull and throwing him off balance.

  The gun was knocked from his hand, then the door opened and closed again, someone heavy behind it, and Mark’s arm and chest were crushed between the door and the frame, squeezing the breath out of him. He felt his legs crumple as he stuck his head round the door to see who was there. He saw a flash of light as a heavy torch swung down and connected with his cheek and mouth, splitting his lip.

  He fell to the floor and took another blow, this time to the side of his head, then he felt two kicks to his ribs and he lost all balance and sprawled out in the hallway, struggling to gasp air into his lungs.

  He scrambled around feeling for the pistol he’d dropped, then a boot stamped on his fingers. He yowled and yanked his hand into his armpit.

  He was dragged by his legs to the living room, kicking feebly out, then he was flung into the middle of the room, followed by a couple more boots to his lower back, his kidneys taking the brunt.

  He struggled to breathe. Tried to focus. The room was bright, the light on overhead. The stench of blood, shit and piss filled his nostrils. Also something else. Cologne. Expensive cologne.

  ‘Hello, Mark.’

  A man’s voice. Controlled. Mark hadn’t heard the voice before but he knew who it was and his skin crawled.

  He struggled on to his knees and looked up.

  Fisher was sitting in the same chair Mark had been tied up in, hands on his lap.

  The dead man was still lying on the floor nearby, the spread of blood reaching out all around him.

  ‘Daddy.’

  He turned. Nathan and Ruth were on the sofa. Both had been crying. Ruth’s face was red, like she’d been hit. Nathan was still in his replacement jammies, another pair that were too small for him. His bare feet pulled up under him looked so vulnerable and frail. Confusion and fear on his face. Mark cursed himself for ever leaving the flat.

  He shuffled over to the sofa and scooped Nathan into his arms. Held him tight against his chest and felt the boy shake.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he whispered in the boy’s ear.

  Fisher spoke. ‘This is such a mess.’

  Mark turned. Taylor and the guy in the blue hoodie who had run away earlier were standing at the door of the room. Blue had a torch in one hand and Mark’s pistol in the other. It had been so easy.

  Mark was stupid, stupid, stupid.

  But he was thinking. Thinking how he could get Nathan and Ruth out of this. Calculating his odds if he rushed one of them, if he managed to grapple the gun from Blue.

  Fisher’s eyebrows rose when he saw Taylor’s shoulder and face. He smiled and shook his head. He turned to Mark. ‘You caught up with Gavin, then. I want you to know, this is not what we do.’

  Mark stared at him. ‘Kill people?’

  ‘Precisely.’

  ‘You prefer human trafficking.’

  Fisher frowned at Taylor and sucked his teeth. ‘All my girls work voluntarily. They are paid very well for what they do. And they don’t have to work on the streets, with dangerous, violent punters who rape and beat them. We only deal with the best patrons.’

  ‘Let us go,’ Mark said.

  ‘I wish I could.’

  Taylor stepped forward into the room, hand on shoulder. ‘I need to get to a hospital.’

  Fisher turned and pulled a gun out of his coat pocket and pointed it at Taylor.

  ‘Actually, this is all your fault.’

  Taylor put a hand out towards Fisher. ‘Wait a minute.’

  ‘If you’d been more careful at Caledonia Dreaming, none of this would’ve happened.’

  Taylor shook his head. ‘I didn’t kill Lauren.’

  Mark bristled at the mention of her name.

  Taylor continued. ‘There wasn’t supposed to be any killing.’

  Fisher glanced at Blue. ‘That was a mistake.’

  Mark remembered what the dead man had said. That his partner had killed Lauren. Not exactly a reliable witness. But still.

  Fisher sighed. ‘And now we have all this.’ He waved the gun around, at the dead man, at the three of them on the sofa.

  Mark caught Ruth’s eye. Couldn’t work out what she was thinking. Probably hating him for letting her daughter get killed and getting her grandson into this unholy mess. He couldn’t blame her.

  Mark turned. He had Nathan in his grasp and he was five feet from the living-room door. Then another ten feet down the hallway to the front door. Fisher and Blue had guns. Taylor was in between them. Blue was pointing the Browning at Mark, while Fisher waved his gun around.

  Mark wondered.

  Then the buzzer went.

  Everyone flinched.

  Fisher got up and went to the window. Peeked out the side of a curtain. Looked back in the room and shrugged.

  The buzzer went again.

  Fisher looked at the clock on the mantelpiece. Twenty to four in the morning. He waved the gun at Blue to head towards the front door.

  ‘Should I answer it?’ Blue said.

  ‘No. Just get behind the door.’

  Blue went out to the hall.

  The buzzer went a third time, longer, more persistent.

  Mark could feel a chance coming. He was at the edge of his nerves, but he was ready, he felt ready. His body ached where it had taken a beating, but he drew energy from Nathan’s touch, from the boy’s heartbeat through his jammy top.

  The flat was silent. All listening.

  Footsteps up the stairwell. Mark must’ve left the bottom door open.

  How many people? Mark couldn’t tell.

  He kept his eyes on Fisher, who was creeping forward, looking at the hallway, watching Blue behind the door. Blue had his torch raised, shoulder prepped for slamming into whoever came in, same as he’d done to Mark.

  Fisher’s attention was on the hallway. That’s where his gun was pointing too. Mark stared at it. Taylor was also watching the front door.

  Mark listened for anything from the stairwell and kept his eye on Fisher’s gun.

  A knock.

  With the lock broken, the door swung open a little. Light bled in from the stairwell. The door opened out the other way from the living room, so Mark couldn’t see who was there, just Blue waiting, torch above his head.

  ‘Hello?’

  Ferguson.

  ‘Mr Douglas?’

  The door opened wider, Ferguson’s shadow blocking the light from the stairwell, the hallway thrown back into darkness.

  Then she was in the doorway. Mark saw her head and neck as she peered round.

  Blue pushed his shoulder into the door, which rammed into her, knocking her against the door jamb so that she dropped to the floor.

  But just as he was about to bring the torch down on to her head, the door was flung open again, knocking him off balance.

  Another cop.

  It was the uniformed kid she’d been with last time, at the doorway, flinging punches behind the door, landing a few on Blue.

  Mark looked at Fisher. He’d edged into the hallway and was wondering what to do. He didn’t have a clear shot. Taylor had moved in the opposite direction, backing away from it all and further into the room until he stumbled over the corpse then righted himself.

  Mark saw his chance.

  He held Nathan’s hand tight and flicked his head to Ruth, indicating the front door.

  Then he got up and ran, hauling Nathan with him, Ruth close behind.

  They were already out the room and into the hallway when he heard Taylor.

  ‘Fisher.’

  But Fisher didn’t have time to turn. Mark brought his fist down on Fisher’s hand, making him drop the gun, then threw a shoulder at him on the way past, enough to knock Fisher off balance so that he had to lunge at the wall with his hand.

  Ferguson was struggling to her knees. The door was wide open now. Blue had the kid cop by the throat, but the kid
was swinging a baton and as Mark got there, the baton connected with Blue’s nose and his grip loosened.

  Mark pushed Nathan ahead of him, turning to check Ruth was still behind.

  The three of them scrambled over Ferguson crouched on the floor then tumbled out the flat and into the stairwell. They clattered down the stairs in a flurry of limbs.

  ‘Get them.’ Fisher’s voice.

  Mark grabbed the bottom door and heaved it open and the three of them spilled out into the night.

  39

  He pushed Ruth and Nathan down the street and ran after them.

  The boy was fast, even in bare feet. He was up front.

  Mark could hear Ruth puffing beside him.

  They were heading towards the prom.

  The crack of a gunshot made Mark flinch.

  He ducked, glanced back, ran on.

  Fisher and Blue, both with guns. A hundred yards behind.

  He couldn’t see if Ferguson was there, or the other officer.

  He looked at the houses as they ran past. No lights on. He thought about ringing a doorbell, but by the time anyone came Fisher and Blue would be on them. Game over.

  Nathan turned to look at him and Ruth.

  ‘Don’t look back,’ Mark said.

  He and Ruth were gaining on the boy. Nathan had energy, but his legs didn’t have the reach. Mark could hear the boy’s feet slapping on the pavement.

  Another shot.

  Jesus Christ.

  Mark zigzagged into the road then between parked cars, drawing the aim away from Ruth and Nathan.

  He saw Nathan looking over at him, worried.

  ‘Just keep running.’

  They were already halfway to the bottom of the road. There was a downward slope driving them onwards, but it was doing the same for the guys behind.

  A third pistol crack. Mark heard a fizz then a clunk as the bullet embedded itself in a parked Skoda.

  He slalomed out on to the road then back in again.

  He pulled at Ruth, who was lagging behind.

  Up in front, Nathan staggered and fell.

  Mark almost kicked him as he stumbled into him on the pavement. He clambered upright, dragged the boy by the arm on to his feet and pushed him on.

  Crack.

  Mark’s heart was thumping, head pounding, lungs raw. He wondered about Ruth. She was ahead of them now as Mark urged Nathan forward, glancing behind.

  They were still the same distance away.

  They hit the bottom of the street and ran over to the prom.

  ‘Head for the beach,’ Mark shouted.

  The streetlights along the prom were fizzing with sodium light. Low cloud scudded overhead. Wind in their faces. The clouds were orange with reflected light over the city, but dark grey out to sea. The tide was way out, three hundred yards of damp sand between the edge of the water and high tide.

  No moon meant it was hard to see out there. Mark tried to follow the ribs of a wooden groyne, his eye running along the spine as it stretched towards the sea. But it got lost in a black fuzz before the water.

  Hopefully they could lose Fisher and Blue in that darkness.

  He couldn’t hear the waves from here, the wind roaring in his ears.

  He glanced along the prom as they got to the sand. No one.

  Mark headed left. ‘This way.’

  The dry sand under their feet sucked at their legs. Like wading. But it would be the same for the other two behind.

  Then after twenty yards the sand was compacted, easier to run on.

  They scrabbled over a ridge of seaweed, high tide, and Mark guided them into the darkness, further away from the glare of the lights on the prom.

  Another look back. Fisher and Blue were standing on the prom, looking around. Frantic movements spotlit under a streetlamp.

  They caught sight of Mark and headed towards the beach.

  Mark backed away, still looking at Fisher and Blue.

  A stench came to his nostrils.

  He tripped and fell over something. Something big. It sent him reeling and tumbling, his face full of sand.

  He lurched upright spitting sand and saw what it was.

  A whale. A dead pilot whale. Its skin greasy in the half-light, its bulk ominous and alien.

  The crack of a gun.

  He flinched, turned and ran.

  Then he saw the rest of them.

  Dozens of dead whales, scattered all across the beach, stretching for several hundred yards at least, like sleeping giants. Their sleek, oily outlines looked like an invading army.

  So they’d done it, they’d finally killed themselves.

  Nathan and Ruth were holding hands ahead of him, darting in between the whales’ bodies, zigzagging across the sand.

  Mark propelled himself towards Ruth and the boy, into the encroaching darkness.

  The smell was overpowering. Saltiness, ammonia and rotting meat clung to the back of his throat as he heaved in air and staggered forward.

  He passed another dead whale, then another, the black eyes staring at him.

  Nathan and Ruth were over a groyne up ahead.

  Mark approached another whale corpse and spotted something. A piece of flotsam, a thick wooden slat from a packing crate, about the length of a baseball bat.

  He picked it up, rough wood against his hands, and felt the heft of it.

  It would do.

  He sped on to the next whale, then skidded down behind it as he passed, pushed himself against the animal’s skin, holding the slat in both hands.

  The whale’s body was hard and dry, like rubber. Not oily at all up close.

  His heart was hammering in his throat, his pulse singing in his ears.

  He hoped they hadn’t seen him duck down.

  He looked the other way. He couldn’t make out Ruth or Nathan. Good. If he couldn’t see them, Fisher couldn’t either.

  He had to bring this to an end. Had to protect what was left of his family.

  Footsteps and breathing.

  There was a scuff of sand kicked up, then Fisher was past, gun held out in front of him as he stumbled forward.

  Then Mark heard Blue wheezing, almost at the whale.

  He stepped out, lifting the slat back and swinging it with all his power into Blue’s face.

  Blue’s cheek crumpled and burst open, his jaw caved in and teeth went flying. He collapsed on to his knees and swayed as Mark lifted the slat and whipped it across his face again, sending more teeth and blood spraying on to the sand, ripping his jaw away from his face on the near side. Blue slumped sideways and dropped the Browning.

  Mark picked up the gun.

  Fisher was turning round at the sound of the attack.

  Mark pulled the trigger and Fisher span as a bullet caught him in the hip, a small spurt of blood at the entry wound.

  Fisher fired his gun as he fell, way off balance.

  Mark staggered back as a burning sensation spread through his left shoulder. The stench of gunpowder and blood was overpowering. Shot. His shoulder was on fire with pain, but he didn’t fall down, just walked towards Fisher, lying in the wet sand.

  Got to him in three strides and stamped on his gun hand, digging the heel of his foot in as hard as he could.

  Fisher screamed and pulled his arm away, leaving the gun behind in the sand. He shuffled backwards, clutching at his hip, glistening with blood.

  Mark tried to pick the gun up with his injured arm, made a grimace. He had no power, couldn’t move his fingers for the pain shooting through his body. Instead he kicked the gun away across the sand.

  He pointed the Browning at Fisher. Had the urge to squeeze the trigger. Felt the pain sweeping along his left arm, swarming into his body. Glanced down at the wound. A fucking mess.

  He looked at Blue. Out cold on the beach. Like a miniature version of one of the whales.

  Turned back to Fisher.

  ‘Don’t,’ Fisher said.

  ‘Give me a reason not to.’

  Fisher s
wung his leg round across the surface of the sand and caught Mark on the calf, sweeping him off his feet. The Browning flew out of Mark’s hand, somewhere out into the dark, and he landed with a thump on his back.

  Fisher scrambled over, clutching his hip, leaking blood. He punched Mark on his injured shoulder, making him howl and squirm.

  Fisher was on him now, throwing punches at his face and shoulder. Mark tried to push him off but he had no energy left. With each punch he was losing the fight, the pain soaking into his bones and sapping his strength. He took another hit to the shoulder then one to the face and felt a tooth come loose and slip down his throat. There was blood in his mouth and nose and his eye was closing up. He held his good hand up to stop the blows but Fisher was much stronger, despite the bullet in the hip, and he punched through Mark’s hand as if it wasn’t there.

  Crack.

  A spray of blood sputtered out the side of Fisher’s head. He sat there for a moment looking surprised, then fell on top of Mark in an awkward embrace.

  Mark heaved him off and turned.

  Ruth stood a few feet away, eyes glazed, pointing the gun. A smudge of smoke curled up from its barrel.

  Mark checked Fisher’s body. Small entry wound on his right temple, large exit wound on the left-hand side of his skull.

  Mark hauled himself over and up on to his knees, spitting blood on to the sand.

  ‘Where’s Nathan?’

  Ruth didn’t move.

  ‘Ruth?’

  She lowered the gun then nodded behind Mark.

  Mark turned and saw the boy emerge from behind a dead whale fifty feet away, face white against the darkness, as if he was a source of light himself.

  Mark looked at Blue. Still out cold, his jaw and part of his ear hanging off. Maybe dead.

  He turned back to Nathan and struggled to his feet.

  ‘Come on, Big Guy. It’s OK. It’s safe now.’

  Nathan crept towards Mark and Ruth, like he was sneaking out of bed after lights out.

  Mark raised a hand to his beaten face, blood and swelling across his eye and cheek. Then he beckoned Nathan.

  Nathan began jogging, then running, then he launched himself into Mark’s embrace. Mark got a jolt of pain at the contact, his shoulder pulsing blood out the wound.