by A D Davies
“I said, pick it up in your right hand.”
Richard slowly bent down and took the object. He knew what it was.
The Ruger.
“There’s one bullet in there,” Lawrence said. “So here’s the deal. You shoot one of your girls in the head, and the other will live. You’re not fast enough to turn the gun on me. I’ll shoot you dead, then do both your girls.”
Richard assessed them both. Katie would be dead soon anyway, and Alicia had arrested him once. There’s no way she could forgive him. No redemption. Katie would find out about him, and he’d lose her too. No one wants a killer for a dad, no matter how justified his reasons.
“Choose, you bastard. And choose quickly.” He took one step forward.
Richard put the barrel against Alicia’s head. He said, “You do believe when I say I love you. Don’t you?”
Alicia nodded.
“And you understand I stopped. I stopped killing people. I only started again when Katie was taken. You understand that?”
That cute little nod, the lilt of her head, her hair falling about her. “Something triggered your psychosis again. I understand.”
“Not ‘psychosis.’ I need…” He couldn’t put it in words. “I don’t know … something to occupy me … Katie was that person—”
“Do it!” Lawrence ordered, stepping closer behind them.
Richard said, “You must know that I mean it when I say I’m sorry.”
She held back tears in her eyes. She mouthed, “Do it.”
It was a strange sort of serenity that swept over him as he made the decision. Not sadness as such. A necessity, like concluding a business deal or pushing a stiletto knife into a vagrant’s heart.
“Have a good life,” Richard said, and put the gun against the side of his own neck, and pulled the trigger.
When the pin struck the primer in the solitary bullet, a brilliant amount of heat erupted in under a tenth of a second. The primer burst aflame, the expanding pressure propelling the bullet out through the barrel and into Richard’s soft skin. This broke under the force and speed of the little piece of spinning metal, and burnt the epidermis black with the heat. The bullet crashed through his flesh, grazed his trachea, narrowly missed his spinal cord, and splashed through his carotid artery on the way out the other side.
It was a gamble. And it paid off.
The bullet continued to travel, virtually in a straight line, although all bullets kind-of wobble in mid-air, especially after chewing through a human neck. This bullet, slowed by the obstacle, managed to find a second target, albeit with less impact than a pure shot.
It landed, and stuck, in Lawrence’s left lung.
Lawrence staggered and dropped the gun, and Alicia was up on her feet. Richard fell to the floor, his blood spilling in a gushing river across the tiles. She dashed to him, unable to stem the flow. And she still wanted to—she still had to save him.
The butler collapsed against the wall, but the gun had landed close by, and the killer still possessed enough strength to stand upright. He was confused, but the shock was leaving him and he focussed around the room.
Alicia had decisions to make and her brain wasn’t fast enough. She couldn’t carry Katie. Siobhan was in a panic. She could run, say she was getting help, but that would be like executing them herself.
Richard’s eyes were still alive, but he gasped like a beached fish. Reaching towards Katie. No. Not Katie. His knife.
Lawrence gained his bearings now and searched for his gun. No ranting, just looking, treading like some hulking ape. Alicia’s instinct was still to run, up the stairs, over the car, and out, into the world above. But she wouldn’t leave these girls.
Noises from above.
She could hear them now, shouting, metal clanging, and suddenly she was crying herself. The relief, that help was here at last.
Lawrence located the gun. Now he was trying to bend down. It wasn’t easy. Blood bubbled and spilled from his chest with every movement.
Alicia yelled, “We’re in here!” but the banging and clanging and shouting persisted with no progress.
They couldn’t get in.
Lawrence, moving so his wound didn’t rip further, touched his fingers to the pistol.
Katie stared blankly at the ceiling, her breathing no more than a jerky movement of her mouth.
Then Lawrence grasped the gun. Unsteadily, he aimed at Alicia. He was trained for this. Even weakened, he would easily kill her.
Alicia hated the next bit. She’d only ever learned the minimum about guns as her job demanded; she always thought she’d never be able to kill. If it ever came down to “him or me” it would probably be her. But after everything—the girls, the American, the bodies in pipes, and hostage-taking—after everything that happened in the past week, Alicia was not prepared to allow one more bad-guy to get away with it.
She ducked to the side as Lawrence made his first shot. He was too weak to move fast, but he could still move.
More urgency sounded from upstairs, shouting growing louder, clanging harder.
They would still be too late. Far too late. So in one fluid movement, of pumping legs, and swinging arms, of ribs screaming for her to stop, rest, get better, Alicia charged forward, swept up Richard Hague’s knife, and leapt over the bath. She landed on Lawrence, her damaged arm hooked around his neck. With all the strength she could muster, she slammed the knife down, and plunged the blade deep into the man’s chest. It stopped close to the hilt, oozing red.
She had hit him square in the heart.
Lawrence dropped the gun, eyes wide in surprise, looking at the knife as if he’d never seen one before. His lips drew back, baring his teeth, eyes morphing from confusion to realisation to anger, fingers feeling upwards, inwards, unable to reach this monstrous object protruding from him. The butler’s motion slowed. He growled, even the growl slower than normal speed, but that may have been Alicia’s perception rather than reality.
Then, simply, he keeled over. And died.
Chapter Forty
The room deep inside Sheerton police station was supposed to offer comfort to the bereaved. It was called the Family Room. It held one person. And her family was not with her.
Sat on the table, her cuts tended, her clothes were gone, replaced by a towelling tracksuit normally worn by prisoners. The touch of a brief physical exam still lingered. Her left arm was bandaged and held in a sling, not broken, but hurting, and binding around her ribs, an injection staving off the pain. Inside, she replayed this night.
The gun, the knife, the car crashing through a wall to her rescue. And the initial resistance of a blade on a human being, then the give of splitting bone, and finally the easy slice as it cut through the meat of Lawrence’s heart.
They broke through thirty seconds later to the sight of DS Alicia Friend desperately trying to hold closed a bullet-wound to the neck of the killer who lay on the floor beside her. She had already helped Katie from the bath and lay her next to her father. Where, although neither could talk to the other, plenty was said before Richard closed his eyes and ceased to move. He even managed a smile.
For Alicia, the next hour was like sitting in the centre of a storm. Everything going on around her existed in another realm. Paramedics stormed the old bathroom. Alicia directed them to Katie and they possessed the right equipment to save her. She responded quickly and the first thing she did was cry. She said, “Dad, what the…” but she needed more oxygen. As soon as she was strong enough, the paramedics carried her out.
Ball crouched beside Alicia, asking if she was alright, explaining they couldn’t get through the lift, that he was sorry, so sorry they hadn’t arrived sooner. She heard his words, but they were tinny, as if being spoken from inside a metal box. Even Richard’s occasional feeble judder hardly registered.
Other officers tried to tempt Siobhan back from the depths of her corner, out into the real world, but she screamed and wouldn’t let anyone near her. An indeterminate time later, pre
sumably once Katie was stable, the paramedics returned and sedated her.
Eventually, Sergeant Ball persuaded Alicia to let go of Richard’s wound, stand up, and let the paramedics take over. It was only when she looked down that she realised she had been sitting in a lake of Richard Hague’s blood.
And now she recalled herself. Her choices. Her decision to abandon the job she’d worked so hard at, the job that had battled against her true personality, that would not let her be who she wanted to be. The job had won.
She barely sensed the door open, nor the man enter. He wore a pristine police uniform, silver buttons gleaming in the meagre light, his grey hair flat to his head, as if he’d gotten ready in a hurry but still wanted to look smart. He stood before her, arms by his side. She did not look up.
“Alicia?” he said.
She moved her head, to face away from him, but winced, a pain she had not detected before, shooting through her neck. She turned back, catching the man’s eye. Then she was unable to look away.
“Graham,” she said. “Sir.”
“You saved them,” Rhapshaw said.
Alicia nodded.
He said, “Katie and Siobhan are sedated but healthy. Katie will need some more medical care, but Siobhan should be out in a couple of days.” A slight chuckle, then, “Even Henry Windsor survived somehow. The way he fell seemed to stem the wound. He should recover.”
Alicia nodded again.
Rhapshaw sighed deeply. “I’m glad you’re okay, Alicia.”
“Me too,” she said. “Glad. Very glad I’m okay.”
“Murphy was asking for you. Whiplash, bruised ribs, a little grumpy you left him. Seems to understand, though.”
“Sergeant Ball? He was bleeding.”
“They’re keeping him in overnight in case of concussion.” He smiled awkwardly. “His wife showed up, started crying. Told him never to do anything like that ever again. I couldn’t tell if he was happy or scared by that.”
Alicia found a smile of her own. It faded quickly. She didn’t want to ask about the final man in that basement.
Rhapshaw didn’t need prompting.
He said, “Richard Hague died twice on the way to the hospital. If he sees out the night, they’ll be surprised.”
Alicia tried not to feel anything about that. To her shame, she failed. Relief that he wasn’t dead; sad that he would be soon.
She said, “I’ll have my resignation to you ASAP. Once the doctors clear me.”
“You wouldn’t go to the hospital. Why?”
“I didn’t want to see them. Ball. Katie. Murphy. I didn’t want to see anyone.”
“Come on. Let me take you to St James’s. The others are at the General.”
She shook her head again. “I just need some rest.”
Rhapshaw unbuttoned his jacket and sat on a chair, looking up at Alicia. “I spoke to someone else at the hospital. One Alfie Rhee? He’s willing to play his part in the enquiry. Says he knows what it’s like when an officer has to go outside the usual procedures.”
“I’m resigning, Graham. I can’t stay after what I’ve done.”
“You used an illegal weapon in a high-stress situation. Your life was threatened. The lives of two girls were at stake. I’m sure the bullet to Mr. Windsor’s thigh was an accidental discharge due to your lack of experience with firearms.”
“Yeah,” she said with a humourless chuckle. “That’ll be it.”
“About the only concrete thing you did wrong was to enter the Windsor estate without a warrant. But since the proprietor is at death’s door, and likely to be charged with conspiracy if he wakes up, there’s no one to press charges but the CPS. You can get away with a formal reprimand.”
The consideration she gave lasted a heartbeat, maybe two. Carry on as before. Be herself again, return to that cute-as-sin kitten-eyed girl—her true self—solving crimes that the men found too hard. Getting a kick out of seeing their faces when she opened her mouth for the first time. That shock, that disbelief that she was one of the best, one of the most successful, that she, this little girl, was going to be in charge. Murphy the latest.
Could she go back to that person? Or would she turn into one of those bitches, trying to prove herself in all the wrong ways?
“Alicia?” Rhapshaw said. “You still with me?”
“Will you drive me home?”
He smiled, nodded. He presented a carrier bag, opened it, and removed some of Alicia’s clothes. “I stopped by your place on the way up. Your flatmate’s waiting for you.”
“It’s a school night.”
“She’ll phone in sick tomorrow.”
“She’s a good friend.”
“I can see why you two get along. She’s some lady, that Roberta.”
“She’s special.” Alicia realised that thinking of Robbie was keeping her going, the prospect of crying into her considerable bosom the one thing she wanted more than anything else. She hopped onto the floor and held up the “Men are for here for a good time, not a long time” sweatshirt.
“Sir?”
“Yes?”
“Are you going to watch me change, or will you wait outside?”
One thing Rhapshaw had not brought with him was a coat. So while he retrieved the car and brought it around the back, Alicia sat in the rear foyer. The door outside was discreet, and no reporters lurked.
Sat on the single seat, legs up, arms hugging her knees, Alicia heard voices. A woman and a man.
“Where are we going?” the man asked.
“Home, Freddie, we’re going home.”
Closer, the man said, “Back to my pipe? My well?”
“No, baby, home. Our home.”
“But we don’t love me anymore.”
“We?” the woman said.
“You hate me. I don’t like me either.”
“Don’t talk like that, Freddie.”
They came into view. A woman in her forties and a man with a bushy beard and smart suit.
“But Brenda,” the man protested, “you threw me out. You told me never to come back. And then Jodie didn’t want me anymore either…”
“Honey, I was angry. I didn’t mean it. Oh, you silly thing.”
The woman kissed him on the lips, a sloppy one. Alicia couldn’t help but feel something good was happening. She was unsure what, exactly, but the numbness in her chest began to ease.
As they passed, both acknowledged her with a smile and a nod of the head. The man said, “She was in the papers! The one sat with the man from my well.”
“Honey,” the woman said, stroking his beard. “We’ll get it all sorted out. Come home for a little while, and if you still want to go back to your well, then we’ll go back together. Okay?”
The man thought for a moment. “Okay,” he said, and opened the door, put his arm protectively around his wife as the cold air rushed in, and led her outside. The last thing Alicia heard before the door clicked shut was, “I think you’ll like my well. It’s sheltered … lots of fresh air…”
Then they were gone. And the flicker of a smile played at the corners of Alicia’s cute little mouth.
Epilogue
The snow crunched underfoot, cold air not biting but caressing the skin, like winters folk remember from those “better” times. Even the sun radiated brighter than it had not so long ago.
Donald Murphy had been out of the hospital for almost two weeks when he decided to visit Alicia Friend. Her resignation still hung in limbo, neither she nor the Serious Crime Agency willing to back down. His neck still hurt, but he’d taken off the brace. The last thing he needed was Ms. Friend telling him what a sissy he was.
He’d called her four or five of times, the conversations always short, stilted affairs, like a divorced couple discussing their kids. In their latest he told her in bullet points about the latest fallout: as soon as he got threatened with a long stint in a tough prison, Red McCall made a deal for a softer sentence and sang loud and clear, and DCI Chambers’ involvement with Al
fie Rhee came out along with her expensive poker addiction.
But Murphy didn’t like those unnatural chats. He felt they’d grown closer than that, despite leaving him in the wreck of a car in the snow. He knew he’d have done the same if it meant finding Katie and Siobhan. Both of whom were doing fine. Physically, at any rate. He spent time with Katie, explaining what he knew about her sick father—and he meant “sick” in the medical term, not as an insult, although what he said away from the girl was vastly different. He couldn’t understand why Richard Hague did what he did, only that Katie’s existence changed him. Was it possible to be two different people? To change so absolutely?
Maybe one day he would wake up and tell them.
Richard Hague had died three times in total. Twice in the ambulance and once on the operating table. His life was now one of perpetual darkness, unlikely he’d ever wake up. Brain dead, they said, but Katie pleaded for him to remain alive. She wanted answers. She needed answers.
Murphy remembered describing Susan’s father as a psychopath when he brought her home late one night and the old man chased him with a cricket bat. That was another time though. Back then, the idea of so much death in one place was unthinkable. Now, the papers ate it up for a week or so, laid Alicia’s apartment to siege, then got bored and moved on. A few people did follow-ups, the scumbag Clancy demanding a witch hunt, but when another tabloid scooped a politician’s gay affair, the others—including Clancy— had to follow.
Now Murphy needed to persuade Alicia to take a little more time deciding her future.
Alicia’s apartment block was fairly new, rising out the rubble of an old factory, as did many of the housing developments nearby. From the street, Murphy accessed the building without passing a barrier—no need here; this was a nice neighbourhood.
He was out of his work clothes, still on sick leave himself, and the jeans he hadn’t worn for a year seemed to have shrunk. He climbed the stairs, the effort once again reminding him to get more exercise.
