by John Connor
54
Rebecca was running for all she was worth. She heard the shots but they sounded distant, off to the left and behind her, two sharp cracks that echoed multiple times off the slopes in front of her. Ahead, from deep within the tree line, a large flock of big dark birds took off in alarm, squawking loudly. She stopped running and looked frantically behind her, back to the main building.
The front of the house had pillars and arches framing the windows, the back was a messy jumble of smaller buildings and more modern extensions. She could see almost to the front now, but no one was coming from there. She was clear of the flat garden area and almost at the edge of the woods. The distance had been further than she thought. Still, another dash and she would be in the shadows, she could drop down and hide, rest her lungs and legs.
She tried to pick out the window she had jumped from, but the house was maybe a hundred metres back, and there were so many windows. She couldn’t see Viktor anywhere. She sucked big breaths of air, felt her face burning. Running was hard because she was sinking knee-deep in snow with each step. She had been giving it all she could but it wasn’t the same as running on a race track.
Another shot split the brittle air. She flinched automatically, started off again, then caught movement at the edge of her view, coming from the other direction, from around the back of the house. She hadn’t looked there. But when she tried now the sun was full in her eyes, blinding her. She brought her hand up and felt a sudden kick of fright. Someone was very close, running at her, throwing up great flurries of snow as he came – a man in heavy coats, holding something. She heard him shout, was sure it was one of the guys who had been in the car with Viktor. He was going very fast.
She had to try to out-run him. She started to sprint, putting everything into it. In front of her the land rose sharply up a three-metre bank where the forest began. If she got that far maybe she could lose him in the trees. There was a tangle of undergrowth and young trees. If she could get into it and hide, get down low, keep still.
She was thinking she could do it – he was fast, an adult, but she was trained for this – but then suddenly the snow got deeper and she started to stumble. She was determined to get over the top and down into the shadows beyond. He was still shouting as she heaved her knees up the gradient, pulling with her gloved hands at the saplings poking through the snow. She glanced back as she was past the first tree, took a breath, saw him still coming at her.
Carl was near the edge of the woods, about thirty metres to the side of her, when she came over the top, running, stumbling, falling through the thin cover of bare saplings and broken branches. Her eyes were wide with fear, the breath puffing out in front of her.
He had been crouched, past the frozen stream, scanning what he could see of the main building over the top of the little fold of land that ran like a wall along the edges of what would have been the garden. Seconds before there had been three shots from the direction of the hill where he had left Liz. That had panicked him so much he had changed plan immediately, decided to get back up there, but before he could start moving the shouting had started from somewhere near the rear of the house. He thought the voice might be Viktor’s. So he had hesitated. Within seconds she was there. Rebecca.
Between them there was an actual wall, or the knee-high remains of one – the old boundary wall – broken stones tumbled in the snow. She was dashing towards it, cutting across to the left of him. She hadn’t seen him. He stood to shout to her as another man came over the slope behind her, running very fast, a long rifle in one hand. In seconds they were past his position, into the woods, the man gaining rapidly, chasing her.
There was no shot he could risk. The separation between them was less than ten metres and he had no idea how the MP5 would fire, except that it would definitely be more like a spray than an accurate, tight pattern. He straightened and started to run for them instead, coming from the side and a little behind the man, trying to pick a course through the light undergrowth that would cut him off, but without getting into his field of vision.
The man was focused on Rebecca, shouting at her, head down, concentrating on leaping through the litter of obstacles. She was going very fast, considering the snow, but he was bigger, with a longer stride. He would get to her before Carl could stop him.
Carl kept his eyes on them. He was still fifteen metres away when the man reached her, stretching out and catching her hair, dragging her back with a scream. She twisted round and fell, then rolled towards him and started kicking at his legs while he was still recovering his balance. At that moment, Carl was less than ten metres from them, closing fast, weaving through the branches, the MP5 held to the side of him. He was making so much noise he was sure the guy would turn, but he was too busy yelling at Rebecca, trying to control her hysterical struggles. She was shrieking and shouting, kicking with all her might at his shins. As Carl got to within five metres, the man raised the rifle to bring it down into her face, and at that moment he saw Carl hurtling towards him. His eyes widened with surprise, his arm froze.
Carl leaped with the MP5 swinging towards the guy’s face. The man had just enough space to duck, let go of Rebecca and step sideways. He was trying to get two hands onto the rifle, but Carl was coming too fast, with too much weight. His left shoulder smashed into the guy before he could get a good grip on the gun, knocking him flying. They both crashed into the snow, Carl on top.
As they recovered, the man dropped the rifle and started lashing out, with feet and hands. Two blows connected before Carl could get back onto one knee, then he brought the MP5 above the man’s arms, just out of reach, intending to jab it down into his face, or club him with it. But he was clumsy with the thick, padded clothing, everything too slow. Before he could strike him the guy got his legs behind and they both went down again, Carl to the side of him, the gun knocked from his hand. He tried to get a hand round the guy’s neck as he fell, but the clothing was too thick.
They rolled, locked against each other, snow and sticks in Carl’s face. He started to thump at the man, putting all his strength into it, hitting anywhere he could reach. The guy was grunting and swearing at him, still on his back, but pushing himself away, stronger than Carl, determined to open some space between them. He got far enough off to kick straight through Carl’s arms, hitting his forehead with a heavy, booted foot. Carl dropped to the snow, the world swimming in front of him. As he pushed himself up, he glimpsed Rebecca off to the left, up on her feet and fleeing.
He got onto his knees then stood, his head clearing rapidly.
The man was five metres away, scrambling on all fours, pulling at his clothing as if trying to loosen his coat. Carl’s eyes found the MP5, someway between them. He lurched towards it, stooped, straightened up with his finger over the trigger. The guy was turning towards him, pulling a pistol from beneath the coat. Carl had the MP5 pointed right at him, an easy shot, but behind the guy Rebecca was still in a direct line, running for all she was worth. She was twenty metres off, but it wasn’t enough. Anything going past or through the guy would hit her.
Carl knew at once what was going to happen. He changed his plan and tried to dash forwards, to kick the pistol out of the guy’s hands before he could fire it, or at least spoil his aim. He screamed as he ran, waved his arms, but it was all useless. The guy fired before he could get even half the distance.
A little gun, he thought, as he heard the bang, saw the flash, felt the whack into his chest. Not powerful enough to pick him off his feet, but it stopped him.
He had never been shot before. He straightened up with difficulty, saw Rebecca still sprinting behind the man, nearly thirty metres away. ‘Run, Rebecca!’ he yelled. ‘Run!’ Then felt it, the snapping compression in his chest. Like a heart attack.
Time seemed to unravel and slow. He was still standing. He got both hands onto the MP5 again, braced his legs, waited for the next shot. But the guy was distracted, doing somet
hing with the pistol. It was either jammed or empty. Carl saw him throw it aside and bend down to retrieve the big hunting rifle.
His balance was going, he needed to sink down, drop the gun. But he had to stay standing long enough to get a shot in. Even if the guy fired again he couldn’t go down, couldn’t give in. He saw Rebecca start to turn, curving away from the man, opening up the angle. In a couple of seconds she would be clear enough for him to shoot.
He was surprised by how quick it was – the effect of the bullet. A tiny .22 calibre, he guessed. He was astonished by how lucidly he could think about it all. He had felt nothing in his back, no tearing of flesh and bone as it exited. So maybe it was still in there, not even enough energy to get right through him, from point-blank range. But it had fucked him. He was done. He was bleeding all down the front of his clothing, bleeding inside. Any moment now he was going to black out and collapse. He kept his eyes on Rebecca, the gun up. His vision started to blur.
He sank into a kneeling position as the guy worked the bolt on the rifle. He could hear himself coughing and gasping, taste the blood welling into his mouth. Rebecca seemed way off now, very distant, the angle safe. The guy was bringing the rifle up to finish him. He summoned all the strength he could muster and pulled the trigger. The gun shook crazily, making a small crackling sound. Almost instantaneously, the burst was over, the magazine empty.
Now he couldn’t see the man, couldn’t see Rebecca. His eyes were fixed on a small patch of snow-covered ground thirty centimetres in front of his face. His hands wouldn’t move. He tried to breathe without choking but it was like he was drowning. He knew there was blood running out of his mouth. He moved his eyes with immense difficulty, trying to lengthen the focus. Where the man had been there was a heap of darkness against the white. He fell forwards, flat onto his face, the gun beneath him.
This was what it was like, then, he thought, to die of a gunshot wound. He had considered what it might feel like so many times. There was no pain, no sensation at all from his body, except a kind of detached awareness of the choking. He had imagined he wouldn’t care when this happened. But he did care. He didn’t want it, not now. A wave of dizziness washed through him.
He wanted to see his daughter. He wanted to hold her, hug her, say sorry, tell her he had tried his best. She was running, getting away. There was nothing more he could do. It was down to Liz now. He was going to go in seconds, pass out. And that would be it. He was certain of it. He couldn’t get enough air. The blackness was already rising through him like a tide.
55
The road twisted down through the trees, dropping quickly towards the house. Julia drove as fast as she dared, her heart thudding heavily in her chest, her eyes more on the rear and side mirrors than the road right in front of her. She was frightened he would be running at her, cutting the corners where the road curved, trying to get a clear shot in. But she could see nothing in the mirrors, no shape moving through the woods, no one on the road behind. She had seen him falling backwards, hit, but couldn’t get herself to believe it.
She drove for seconds like that, not thinking clearly about where she was going. From way ahead, over the other side of the house, she thought she heard the crackle of gunfire, an automatic weapon firing off in a long burst. But she could see no one. She braked through a long bend and then suddenly it was there in front of her, no more than fifty metres away: the house. The trees dropped away, the land levelled out and she could see it. She braked harder and the car skidded to a halt. She was already where the road opened out onto the wide space in front of the place – a car park or turning circle. She could see the long façade, the big entrance, the door open, she could even see lights behind the windows.
She was trapped. She had driven the wrong way. But there had been no space to turn the car round. She needed to turn it now, to get away from here and wait for Alex. She started to pull it round and the engine just cut. She forced herself to think methodically, tried to start it again. A metallic clunking sound issued from somewhere in front of her, a wisp of smoke curled from beneath the bonnet. He had shot at it, twice, she remembered. She tried to start it again. This time there was no response at all.
She couldn’t see Alex anywhere. But she had his number. He had given it to her. She fumbled in her pockets, feeling pinned and exposed, in full view of the house, the panic rising in her gut. At any minute they could come out of the house with a gun. They were going to kill her. She would never see Rebecca again.
She needed to call Alex, tell him what had happened, get his help. She started to shake, her vision blurring so that she couldn’t see the numbers clearly on the phone. She wiped her hands across her eyes, squinted, opened them, started looking for the number he had given her. But it was the wrong phone. His number was in the one she’d just dropped. A high-pitched scream cut across the land in front of her, coming very clear through the smashed windscreen. Her heart jumped with a different kind of terror.
Rebecca. It could only be her. It had come from directly in front of her, from past the house, not inside it. She grabbed the shotgun, fumbled the car door open, stepped out into the snow. And saw her.
She was about one hundred metres distant, way past the house, at the other side of the shallow valley. She was a tiny shape running through the whiteness, the dark line of the forest behind her. She was coming from behind the house, moving up towards the far side of the hill Julia had just come down.
Julia started running forward at once, shouting her name at the top of her voice, dropping the phone, sprinting across the flat area right in front of the house. She had to get to her.
She got past the front door, her legs picking up speed, her arms swinging. She shouted again, but either Rebeca didn’t hear or couldn’t stop, because she just kept going, heading up the hill towards the forest.
Julia got past the flat parking area and vaulted a low wall, into what might have been a meadow. She sank almost up to her thighs in a drift of snow, pushed out of it and yelled Rebecca’s name with all the energy she could find. She saw her daughter pause, turn, see her, heard her small voice float over the flat, pure white field of snow – ‘Mum,’ she shouted. ‘Mum.’ She changed direction and started tumbling across the meadow towards Julia. And exactly then Viktor Rugojev came into view from the right, from round the side of the house, rushing towards Rebecca, a blur of movement as he closed the distance.
Within seconds he had caught up. Rebecca tried to dodge him, swerving sideways and going under his arm. He lunged in the snow, fell, got up, started chasing her again. She swerved again and Julia was sure she could hear him laughing. Like they were playing a sickening game of catch in the snow. She kept going towards them, running full speed, her lungs heaving at the air, running harder than she had ever run in her life, going towards it because there was nothing else she could do.
He caught Rebecca by her coat and hauled her back against him. Julia could see her struggling and kicking back. She was about ten metres from them, still going fast, when he brought a gun up and placed it against Rebecca’s head.
Rebecca stopped squirming, stood still, her eyes bulging like a crazed animal. His free hand was around her upper body, pulling her back into him. He was tall, but her head was against his chest.
Julia slowed, skidded to a dead stop, one arm stretched out towards them, the shotgun dangling limp in the other. She was paralysed with fear. She thought he was going to pull the trigger. ‘Viktor,’ she shouted. ‘Please don’t. Please, Viktor.’ She couldn’t see his face properly because her eyes were blurred from running through the cold air. She forced her limbs to move, started to walk very slowly towards them.
‘That’s right, Liz,’ he shouted. ‘You come to me. Keep coming forward. Get closer.’
She got to within five metres. Rebecca was very still now, catching her breath, her face twisted up. Julia could see her terrified, pleading eyes, looking straight at her, her hand
s hanging onto Viktor’s arm, the knuckles white.
‘Please leave her,’ Julia said. ‘I’m begging you, Viktor.’ She didn’t have to shout. She was close enough to whisper.
‘My brother is dead,’ Viktor said, almost in a whisper, his eyes darting off to his left. ‘There’s no point in running any more. There’s just us now.’
The words stabbed at her heart but she had no idea if he was telling the truth. She didn’t look where he had looked. She kept her eyes right on him. ‘You said you wanted to talk,’ she stammered. ‘I can talk. But please leave Rebecca. Please let her go.’
His thoughts seemed to pause, some other expression coming into his eyes.
‘I’m here now,’ she said. ‘I’m who you want, not her, not him. It’s me, Viktor. It’s Liz. We can talk, right now. Please don’t hurt anyone else.’
She watched him look at the ground, then up at her again. ‘You are here,’ he said. A strangled noise caught in his throat, then angrily he brushed a sleeve across his face, the one holding Rebecca. He took his arm off her, then stepped back from her. ‘We’re alone now,’ he said. ‘We’re finally alone.’
Rebecca looked like she couldn’t move for fear. She was almost close enough for Julia to touch. Viktor took another step back, further away from her.
‘Walk to me, Rebecca,’ Julia said. ‘Come to me.’
Rebecca took a step. Viktor was standing perfectly still, shoulders slumped, the gun hanging at his side. He did nothing to stop her, so Julia stepped forwards to meet her, caught her arms, pulled her roughly sideways. Rebecca wanted to get her arms around her, to embrace her, but he still had the gun and Julia had to keep her eyes on him, get Rebecca behind her. She stepped forwards so that she was between Rebecca and him, her body across Rebecca’s. ‘Stay behind me,’ she hissed. ‘Stay there, Rebecca.’ She could hear Rebecca sobbing violently. ‘It’s going to be OK,’ she said. ‘It’s OK, Rebecca.’ She kept one hand on her arm, behind her, holding her there, the other on the gun.
