The New Eastgate Swing

by Chris Nickson

  A few seconds dissolved into a minute. He waited, as still as if he’d been on parade, ear cocked for the slightest thing. Then he heard a metallic click. Without even thinking, Markham fell to the floor just as a shot was fired, whining harmlessly down the tunnel to his left.

  He’d seen the muzzle flash, aimed his pistol and fired once, then rolled over to his right, away from where he’d been. He heard his bullet strike brick, the echoes of the ricochet reverberating around the large room.

  Harker’s second shot was closer, where Markham had been when he fired. It hit the wall less than three feet away, raising chips of stone. One struck his cheek and he could feel the warm trickle of blood on his skin.

  Harker was good. Markham gritted his teeth. He’d never been a great shot and he hadn’t pulled a trigger in years.

  Where the hell was Baker? He should have been back before this. He must have heard the shots.

  Markham tried to think, to come up with a plan. If he stayed here, Harker was trapped. There was only one way out now. To reach it the man would have to kill him. And he planned to make that as hard as possible.

  Seven rounds in the clip. Six left now. Each one needed to count. Once they were gone he’d be defenceless.

  He wiped the sweat away from his forehead, eyes straight ahead, trying to make out something, anything in the distance. But there was only blankness. Darkness. Silence.

  Sound would carry and reverberate. He felt around on the ground until he found what he needed. A piece of mortar about the size of his thumb. Standing, he drew his arm back, aiming towards the tunnel that led to Kirkgate.

  For something small it made a lot of noise, bouncing off the brick and concrete. Enough to make Harker fire off two shots in quick succession. It didn’t look as though he’d moved. The reverberations rolled around the dome like thunder.

  It gave Markham the opportunity to move to the other side of the Bridge Street tunnel. He could confuse the man, at least. The gunfire still filled his ears. It was hard to believe that people outside couldn’t hear it. But they were deep under Leeds, everything muffled and hidden.

  He had to be careful. To make sure every decision was the right one.

  His life depended on it.

  And he daren’t move too far. That would just give Harker a fighting chance of reaching the tunnel and escaping.

  Christ, where was Baker?

  His throat was coated with dust. There were decades of it gathered down here. He wiped his face for a second time.

  Harker wasn’t going to fall for the stone trick again. Markham needed something that would keep the man on edge. Something to wrong foot him. An advantage. It was the only way he might come out of this alive.

  He rubbed his palm on his jacket, getting rid of the sweat. When the opportunity arrived he had to be ready.

  Something caught his ear. One step, a sole coming down on the concrete, then another and another. Slow, insistent. Jesus. Harker was walking towards him. Daring him to shoot, to stop him. The man was gambling with his own life.

  He didn’t have a choice.

  He raised the pistol, trying to aim it out towards the nothing, to gauge the direction of the sound among the echoes. Gentle pressure on the trigger. He remembered the instructor’s voice. Squeeze it, slow and steady.

  One shot and he was spinning away to his right, back into the tunnel.

  No answering fire, just another footstep. Then another.

  Think. Why wasn’t Harker going the other way, towards Kirkgate? Only one answer: he knew there wasn’t a way out for him there. While Markham was still outside he must have gone and checked.

  He felt the panic rising inside, the fear making his body start to shake and shiver. That’s what he’s banking on, he told himself. That you’ll be so scared you’ll do something stupid.

  Two more footsteps, the second just a fraction longer. Harker must have crossed the beck. Too close. Markham had five bullets left. And there was only one way to be certain he aimed in the right place.

  He hefted the torch, finger over the switch. In his right hand the gun was ready. As soon as he flicked on the beam and saw Harker, he’d shoot. No hesitation. And then the light straight off again.

  A small breath. He stood exactly the way the weapons instructor had taught him in military intelligence. Feet apart for balance, the wrist of his gun hand tucked against his belly.

  One. Two. He heard another step but he didn’t rush. Three. Four.

  The light hit Harker, blinding him. The man couldn’t help himself, he had to close his eyes . In the split second before he turned off the torch, Markham fired twice.

  One bullet missed, a high whine as it careened into the far wall.

  But the second one hit the target.

  He heard the grunt of pain. Yet even as he was listening Markham was moving. Don’t bloody stay there. The words had been drummed in. Don’t give them the chance to aim at you.

  A half-second pause that seemed to hang forever. Then something heavy and metallic fell and suddenly the feet were stumbling away, shuffling as they tried to escape. He waited, letting the echo ring around then moved softly forward.

  Harker had been right in front of him. Fifteen feet, no further than that. Close enough to make out the features on his face. The mouth in a rictus grin. The glint on the metal in his hand.

  His hand was trembling. He’d never shot anyone before. Harker was still alive, but where had he gone? He needed to risk the torch again.

  The gun lay on the concrete. He bent and put it in his pocket. A small pool of blood glistened close by, a thick trail of it leading away. He’d done some real damage.

  Markham let the light play over the blood. The dots of it leading over into the distance. Not towards Harker’s pack. Not towards the tunnel to Kirkgate. They seemed to be going to the tunnel where the man had put Peel’s body. Why? It was a dead end, only an unused trapdoor as a way out. With all the blood Harker looked to be losing he’d be in no state to force his way out there.

  He began to walk, softly and gently, letting the torch guide him. Harker didn’t have a gun; he was wounded and losing blood quickly. Markham could still hear the raw explosion of the gun blasting against his eardrums and the thick recoil in his belly.

  The drops of blood made dark, tiny pools spattered across the concrete. Markham kept following them, glancing ahead, looking for Harker. But he must have hidden in the shadows along the tunnel.

  One step after another, always the soft crunch of mortar under the soles of his boots. He breathed shallowly, gripping the gun, aware and ready.

  He stopped at the entrance to the tunnel. The torch picked out Harker. He was slumped next to Peel’s body, his back against the wall, eyes open, staring back at Markham. There was still some fire in his face, some hatred.

  ‘I didn’t think you’d fire.’ Harker’s voice was a tired croak. ‘All the records said you hated guns.’

  So the Russians knew all about his past.

  ‘You were going to kill me. Just like Trevor Peel.’

  Harker shrugged and gave a sad smile.

  ‘I’ve tried twice before. I thought maybe third time lucky.’

  ‘Perhaps you should have learned from the first two.’

  ‘I didn’t have much choice, I like living. I have a wife who’ll be glad to see me.’

  ‘It’s a pity she won’t, then,’ he said. ‘You need to be in hospital.’

  ‘And then jail?’ He shook his head. ‘They’ll never let me go. They’ll execute me.’

  ‘That’s the price. You’re not exactly an innocent.’ Markham moved three steps closer and looked down at the man. His face was drawn, trying to hide the pain. ‘Can you move?’

  ‘I don’t know. Maybe with help.’

  Where was Baker? What had happened to him?

  ‘We’ll get you to the hospital.’

  ‘Why?’ Harker was suspicious.

  ‘Isn’t it better than dying?’

  ‘A secret trial an
d a quiet hanging? That’s not much of a bargain, Mr Markham. Or would you prefer Dan?’

  His accent was good. No trace of Germany or Russia or wherever he was from. He even pronounced his words like a Yorkshireman.

  ‘Maybe they’ll swap you for one of ours.’

  Harker winced and moved the hand covering the wound in his side.

  ‘I’m not important enough. I’m a soldier. They trained me and sent me out to kill.’

  ‘We’ll see. Come on, let’s see if we can get you out of here.’

  He moved closer, watching the man’s eyes.

  There was a sudden, sharp pain in his leg. For a moment he didn’t understand what had happened. Then he couldn’t stand, his leg gave way under him and he fell to the ground. The Walther jarred out of his grasp.

  Harker was smiling. He had a knife in his hand, dripping with blood.

  ‘You ought to know better,’ he said. ‘You’re too trusting.’

  Markham’s hand scrambled for the pistol.

  ‘Don’t,’ Harker said. ‘I can kill you before you’ll reach it.’

  He could feel the blood flowing softly from the wound. At least it wasn’t an artery. If he managed to get out of here he’d be fine. Where the hell was Baker?

  ‘You’d better hope I die soon so you can go,’ Harker continued, no emotion in his voice. ‘Or maybe I’ll kill you first. Who knows? Your fat friend, too, if he appears.’

  ‘What’s the sense in that?’ Markham swallowed. He felt dizzy, trying to force his thoughts into focus. Shock.

  ‘It rounds things off.’

  ‘Amanda Fox.’ The name came into his head.

  ‘Of course,’ Harker said with satisfaction. ‘She knows everything.’

  ‘Then why didn’t you kill her when you kidnapped her?’

  ‘You don’t understand, do you?’ The man chuckled.

  ‘Understand what?’

  ‘She’s my contact here. I never took her. She left with me. We just made it look that way.’

  ‘But …’ He tried to make sense of it all, but he couldn’t concentrate properly. ‘Why didn’t she leave with her husband?’

  ‘Because someone had to tie up the loose ends. That was her job.’ Harker sighed. ‘All we need now is your friend and everything will be complete.’

  ‘He’s already here.’

  Baker came out of the shadows at the far end of the tunnel. His face was set and hard. The knife blade shone in his hand.

  Christ, Markham wondered. Where had he come from? How had he got down here?

  The big man moved with surprising speed. With a short, graceful kick he sent Harker’s blade flying off into the darkness.

  ‘The lad here might have some compassion. I don’t.’

  ‘Then you win.’ Harker sounded resigned. Markham pressed down on the vein above his wound, trying to staunch the thin flow of blood. All he wanted to do was close his eyes and go to sleep. But he kept them open, watching what was going on in front of him as if he were at the pictures.

  ‘That’s right,’ Baker told him coldly. ‘I win.’

  ‘And what will you do with your victory?’

  ‘I’m going to get me laddo there to casualty and make sure we leave the police a puzzle they’ll never solve.’

  ‘Perhaps.’

  ‘I’m certain of it. I used to be one of them. But I’m sure your file told you that.’

  ‘Of course.’ Harker dipped his head in acknowledgement.

  ‘And did it say what I did during the war?’

  ‘Soldier?’ the man guessed.

  ‘Commando.’ He glanced across at Markham. ‘See if you can stand, Dan. I’ll be done with this one very soon.’

  Markham crawled to the wall, gasping from the pain. His hands touched the brick. Inch by inch, so slowly it seemed impossible, he pushed himself up. It hurt. Fuck, it hurt. Finally he was standing, panting, sweating hard, leaning back, closing his eyes against the dizziness.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  ‘Just stay there.’

  Markham nodded. He heard Baker’s voice but he didn’t open his eyes. Simply leaning against the bricks was all he could manage.

  ‘You’ll be my executioner?’ Harker asked.

  ‘You started that when you killed Dieter de Vries,’ Baker told him. ‘Vreiten or whoever he was.’

  ‘He committed suicide. Wasn’t that what they said?’

  ‘So you’re clever. It doesn’t make you less of a killer.’

  ‘And does murdering me bring justice?’ Harker asked.

  ‘For that poor bugger you’re sitting next to, yes it does.’

  ‘Then you’d better do your job, commando.’

  Markham didn’t want to see. All he heard was a sound like a quiet sigh. Then Baker was there, taking his arm and putting it around his neck to support him.

  ‘Don’t worry, we’ll have you out of here in no time.’

  He could feel the man reaching around and removing one of the guns.

  ‘Just hang on to me,’ Baker ordered. ‘I’ve got your weapon.’ He took out a handkerchief and wiped the pistol before dropping it back on the floor. Then the same with the one Harker had dropped. ‘Right. Two guns, both with the prints gone. That should confuse everyone. Now, try to limp. Let me take the weight, all right?’

  They moved slowly. Markham hung on to the bigger man, hopping each pace and letting the wounded leg drag. Step after step. Baker had the torch in one hand, lighting their way.

  ‘You killed him.’

  ‘Of course I did. Don’t be daft.’ He spoke through clenched teeth. Caught in deep shadow, his face looked determined. ‘I told you I always preferred a knife.’

  ‘What happened to you?’

  ‘I was coming back when I saw you go in. I thought if I went in the other way we’d have a better chance of catching him. I was lucky, the door to the tunnel’s round the back of the office building. No one saw me. Then I waited.’

  They crossed the culvert then the opening of the tunnel leading to Bridge Street.

  ‘Not long now,’ Baker said. ‘You’re not too bad. A few more minutes and we’ll have you in casualty.’

  Each step seemed harder. Markham wanted to stop, to rest and catch his breath, but he knew the other man wouldn’t let him. He wasn’t even going to ask. Baker was older, large, out of shape. Yet he was the one doing the work, concentrating, forcing them on and taking the strain.

  How long had they been moving? It could have been three minutes, it could have been twenty. The only thing he could think of was the next step, moving one more pace. His leg hurt. Every time it caught on something he wanted to scream, forcing himself to stifle it.

  Finally they reached the ladder.

  He looked up. Only a few feet but it seemed like a mountain. How was he going to climb that?

  ‘I’ll go first,’ Baker said. ‘Use your arms and your good leg. Pull yourself up, just one rung at a time. I’ll be waiting at the top to haul you over.’

  He was gone, taking the torch with him. For a minute Markham was in darkness, resting his hands on the cold metal.

  ‘Start climbing.’ The order came down to him and Baker moved the beam so he could see.

  It was like being back at school, on the bars or the rope in the gym. Letting the shoulders do the work, dragging himself higher. One leg hanging free, the other resting on a rung to balance him.

  Even before he was halfway up, his muscles ached. He started to raise his head, to glance up to the top.

  ‘Don’t,’ Baker shouted. ‘Keep facing straight ahead. You’re doing well, Come on, Dan, you can make it. Slow and steady.’

  Higher up and he needed to stop, to keep resting and give his muscles time before he moved on. Breathing, telling himself he could do it. One more, than another. A short break. He was soaked with sweat from the heavy effort, the shirt sticking to his skin.

  ‘Only five more, Dan. Almost there now.’

  One. Two. Stop for a few seconds to catch his br
eath. Three. Four. Then a pair of strong hands was gripping him tightly around the wrists and pulling him up and over the top of the ladder. Keeping hold of him when he simply wanted to collapse.

  ‘Just a few more yards now and then it’ll be fresh air.’ He lit up the doorway with the beam. ‘See? Almost there.’

  By the time they came close he had no strength left. He was simply hanging on and letting Baker drag him. The door swung back and the grey November daylight flooded on to his face. The cold air was a shock, taking his breath away for a moment.

  ‘Are you all right?’

  He answered with a nod, fumbling for a cigarette, then his lighter. He could scarcely keep his hand still enough to light it. Baker was wiping the door handles, getting rid of their fingerprints, leaving the door slightly ajar.

  ‘Stay here a minute. Enjoy your smoke.’

  ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘Wipe our prints off the ladder. So no one can ever show we’ve been here.’

  Markham looked down at his trousers. The right leg had a dark stain that ran down to his calf.

  As he inhaled, the smoke left him dizzy. It hadn’t done that since he was fourteen. Three minutes and Baker returned.

  ‘You wait here. I’ll bring the Wolseley down.’

  ***

  The bright lights in the Public Dispensary didn’t allow any rest. He was lying on a trolley in a curtained-off cubicle, waiting to see the doctor.

  ‘What should I tell them?’ he’d asked as Baker drove to North Street and parked in the small, weeded space next to the building.

  ‘Say you cut it on some scrap metal. And you got that graze on your face when you fell. Give them a false name,’ he added.

  ‘No one’s going to believe a story like that.’

  ‘They will, especially if you stick to it. Trust me on that. People believe what they want.’

  ‘What about …?’

  There was no doubt what he meant.

  ‘In a few minutes the police are going to receive an anonymous call from a telephone box,’ Baker told him. ‘A man will tell them about the metal door on Bridge Street and say he thought he heard shots from inside. That’ll bring them running.’ He kept his hands tight on the steering wheel.