The barely suppressed cloud of panic broke as he collided with them.
Surprise turned to anger turned to shock. Some turned, saw Hammer, and that was enough for them. Screams and shouts competed with the alarms. Walks turned to runs. Self-preserving Darwinian nature reasserted itself. A human stampede began.
Jamal looked around. The floor was crowded. He had nowhere to run. Knowing that, Hammer slowly turned to him.
‘Now,’ he said, ‘where were we?’
Before he could make a further move, there was a tap on Hammer’s shoulder.
‘Don’t you think it’s about time you picked on someone your own size?’
Peta.
Amar tumbled downstairs. He was trampled and tripped, carried along, then left. The crowd dragged him down a floor, where he managed to spin free and fall to the ground.
He lay panting, hurting, the occasional kick or mis-step by a passing evacuee hurting him even more. He closed his eyes.
The kicking stopped.
He opened his eyes, looked up. People were still moving about him, but not over him. Kneeling before him was DS Turnbull.
‘What happened, Amar?’ he shouted over the din. ‘Where’s Peta?’
Amar managed a vague gesture. ‘Up there … Hammer …’
He didn’t have to say any more. Turnbull was off.
Amar managed to drag himself against a wall, get his breath back.
He couldn’t move.
He hurt.
Feedback and static knifed through Donovan’s head. Clawing at the side of his face he managed to rip out his earpiece. He looked around.
Chaos and carnage everywhere.
Screams and cries. Bodies moving and unmoving. No more bullets. The sound of sirens getting louder. He looked at Sharkey, kneeled before him.
He lay twisted on the floor, blood pooling from beneath his left shoulder. Donovan took off his jacket, placed it under the wound, tried to prop his head up.
‘I’ve been shot,’ said the lawyer, more in surprise and anger than pain. ‘Who the bloody hell did that?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Donovan. ‘Keenyside was as surprised as us.’
‘Where is he?’
‘He ran.’
‘You’ve got to go and get him, Joe.’
‘Will you be OK?’
‘Course I bloody won’t. I’ve been shot. Where’s the fucking ambulance?’
Donovan took that as a yes. Gave another look around. People were beginning to move again. Assess the damage.
Alarms were still ringing, evacuation instructions still being issued.
‘Go and get him, Joe.’
The entrance hall was starting to fill with people. Donovan stood up, ran to the doors. Following the route he had seen Keenyside take. Then outside on to Baltic Square.
He had on only a black short-sleeved T-shirt beneath his jacket, and the cold hit him hard. He shook it off; that was no more than most people wore in Newcastle on a Friday night. He scoped the square.
Police, ambulances, paramedics were arriving. Moving in, taking control.
He looked at the Millennium Bridge. Saw a figure almost at the Newcastle side, running, carrying an aluminium briefcase.
Keenyside.
Donovan pushed his way through the crowds, gave chase.
Keenyside had a good start on him, but Donovan was determined. He eye-tracked him, jumping out of the way of pedestrians, shouting at others to move for him.
Donovan reached the other side, checked on his quarry.
Keenyside was running along the waterfront, away from the bars and restaurants, the city centre, heading towards Byker.
Donovan, chest burning, legs shaking, gave chase.
Keenyside ran by some apartment blocks, jumped over a low fence, on to a grass verge. He ran beneath the Glasshouse Bridge, into shadow. Donovan, at a distance, followed.
Donovan reached the Low Level Bridge, Ouse Burn trickling beneath it. His legs were now liquid, his chest hot, raw meat. He looked around.
No Keenyside.
Before him a building. Derelict-looking, on a weed-choked stretch of concrete. Ringed by a rusting chain-link fence, on the fence a notice:
KEEP OUT. BUILDING DERELICT AND UNSAFE.
A padlock hanging loose from the gate. The gate open.
Donovan pushed open the gate, entered.
Walked slowly over the cracked concrete; listening, wary. He reached the front. Double doors. A small one, inset. Chained and padlocked. The padlock undone.
The door open.
Donovan, struggling to hear anything beyond his own ragged breath, pushed it open further, stepped in.
Inside was dark. He took one step, two.
The door slammed shut behind him.
He turned. Too slowly. Felt pain at the base of his skull.
As another kind of darkness claimed him.
33
Hammer stared at Peta. Then attacked.
She sidestepped, spun round, landed a kick in the small of his back. He turned, angry to be bested by a woman on the first blow. Swung at her.
Peta ducked, rolled. Sprang to her feet again. Smiled.
He was bigger, stronger and meaner, so she had to quickly adapt her fighting style, turn his strengths against him. Use guile, speed and precision-blows.
Hammer growled, lunged. Peta moved, but not quickly enough. He landed a glancing blow to her shoulder. It hurt. He followed through with another. It hurt even more.
Step it up, she thought.
Peta kicked, hitting Hammer in the solar plexus. He grunted, remained upright. She tried again, higher up. He grabbed her foot, held it firm.
She knew what he was about to do; he telegraphed the move. Twist her foot, snap her leg.
Before he could, she jumped up, pushing against him with her captured foot, using his body for leverage. Balanced on his chest. Clapped both hands over his ears.
He screamed in pain, let go. Blood began to trickle from his right ear.
She jumped back, looked around. The crowd had thinned on the different levels now, but the stairs of the building were still blocked. The three of them had this floor to themselves. They were standing by the entrance to one of the galleries. Peta caught a quick view of objects behind glass. She backed inside, away from Jamal, coaxing Hammer with her. Hammer, still in pain, charged.
‘Getting tired, are you, Hammer?’ she shouted. ‘Not used to girls fighting back?’
She manoeuvred herself in front of one of the cabinets. Hammer growled and, snarling, let loose a punch. Peta ducked. The glass shattered round his hand.
Peta moved quickly behind him. Punched him as hard as she could in the kidneys. It hurt her hand. He was solid. She tried again.
Hammer spun round. His arm caught on broken glass. Shards gouged. Blood spurted. She took her eye from him, looked at it. He punched her.
The blow caught her on the cheekbone. She spun, hit the floor. Landed hard, winded.
He came at her.
She stuck her leg out, aiming a kick in his groin, but she was too slow. He grabbed her foot and, blood flicking and arcing from his damaged arm, twisted it hard. She felt something wrench in her knee.
She screamed and, going into the movement, not fighting it, spun her body round with it. Hammer let go. She was sprawled on the floor, panting, the pain in her leg, her face, like a hundred red-hot razors.
Hammer looked at her, then the doorway, where Jamal was crouching in fear.
Decided who to go for.
Jamal.
‘No …’ Peta tried to pull herself up.
Jamal stood, ready to run, but Hammer was on him and out of the gallery.
Peta, using one of the gallery’s benches, pulled herself upright and, trying to ignore the pain in her right leg, half hopped, half dragged herself along behind him.
She reached the gallery entrance. Hammer was still standing there holding Jamal, his uninjured arm round the boy’s throat in a choke-lock. The stairs w
ere still blocked. He was looking for another way out.
There was a commotion on the stairs – someone fighting the tide, coming up while the majority were heading down. Peta recognized who it was.
‘Paul!’ she shouted, hanging on to the wall for support. ‘Quick! Hammer’s got Jamal!’
At the sound of her voice, Hammer turned. Frantic for a way out now. He scanned the floor, saw an open archway at the opposite end of the hall to the stairwell. Assuming it led to another set of steps, he made for it, dragging Jamal along with him.
Turnbull reached Peta.
‘He’s getting away …’ She gestured to where Hammer had just gone.
Turnbull ran towards it, Peta, limping along, supported by the wall, following.
It wasn’t a stairwell. It was an observation box. Out in the open air, walled in on three sides by glass, unroofed. The view was spectacular: the Tyne stretching away in both directions, the bridges and the waterfront lit spectacularly against the dark. It looked warm, exciting.
Like another city.
Hammer realized he was trapped. Stopped. Turnbull stood in the entrance way.
‘Let the boy go,’ he said, hands outstretched. ‘Just let him go and we’ll talk about it, OK?’
By way of a reply, Hammer pulled Jamal up, tried to push him over the glass wall. He would have managed it in one movement if his arm hadn’t been damaged. And if Jamal hadn’t struggled.
Jamal pushed and kicked against him, screaming, fighting for his life.
Turnbull drew his gun, aimed it.
‘Let the boy go and step away,’ he called. ‘Or I’ll fire. Do it.’
Hammer ignored him, pushed Jamal further. Jamal was balanced on the edge of the glass. He looked over. It was a long way down.
Jamal was too scared even to scream.
Peta arrived, clutching the doorway for support. ‘Don’t fire. You might hit Jamal …’
Turnbull looked between the three of them, weighing up his options. Speedily deciding what was the best thing to do.
Hammer pushed Jamal further. Smiled his blue-jewelled smile.
Turnbull fired.
‘No!’ shouted Peta.
Once. Twice.
Chest shots. The impact flung Hammer back against the glass. The bullets tore straight through him. The glass began to buckle and crack. Hammer crumpled, but stayed upright.
Turnbull fired again.
The third bullet killed Hammer. Head shot. His body banged against the glass, then began to sag downwards into a sitting position, leaving a huge red smear in his wake.
Jamal was left balancing on the glass wall. He tried to keep his balance, scramble back inside.
The fractures in the glass deepened. The wall began to sway.
Jamal began to slip, to fall.
‘Jamal!’
Peta rushed forward and, ignoring the pain in her leg, grabbed him, pulling him back inside. He tumbled into her and she lost her footing. They landed on the floor of the observation box in a heap.
She pulled the terrified boy close to her.
‘It’s all right now,’ she said. ‘You’re safe.’
Donovan opened his eyes.
Head spinning, eyes pinballing in their sockets.
Tried to move his arms. Couldn’t. Waited for focus to return, looked down. His arms were tied to the arms of a chair. No, not tied, taped. Bound tightly.
He tried his legs, his body; pulled them hard. Same story. Taped to a chair, upright, in a sitting position.
He sat back, head spinning, aching. He felt nauseous.
Deep breaths. Then a look around, attempting to work out where he was.
Saw old car parts. Tools. Smelled cold, fetid air. Squinted from harsh overhead lights. On the floor by his feet, motor oil stains. Others. Human oil stains.
A radiator on the far wall; two people, a man and a woman, cuffed to it, huddled under blankets. The man old, frail. Sick looking. The woman younger, wasted. Both with the pallor of hopelessness. What he imagined Belsen inmates looked like during the Second World War.
Then the shock of recognition.
Colin and Caroline Huntley.
‘Colin Huntley …’
The old man looked at him, confusion in his eyes, as if hearing a name he hadn’t heard in years. A name he was known by in a previous life.
‘Caroline Huntley …’
The woman didn’t answer. She looked to be in shock.
‘Well, I’m glad you’ve made your introductions,’ said a voice behind Donovan, ‘Because you’re all going to be together for a long time. Till death do you part, unless someone finds you.’
Caroline Huntley let out a little whimper.
Donovan turned, or tried to; pain flashed through his head when he attempted to move it, starburst fireworks exploded at the sides of his eyes. He waited for the speaker to come into his line of vision. He knew who it would be.
Alan Keenyside had changed out of his suit. He now wore a leather jacket, polo shirt and pressed chinos. He had a packed holdall by his feet, the aluminium case next to that. He stood in front of Donovan.
‘Joe Donovan,’ he said. ‘Small world.’
‘But I wouldn’t want to shag it …’ Donovan’s voice, cracked and rough.
‘Do what you like,’ said Keenyside, straightening his jacket. ‘I’ve got my money.’
‘No, you haven’t,’ said Donovan, licking his dry lips. ‘There was no money. You were right. It was a setup.’
‘What d’you mean?’ said Keenyside dismissively. ‘I know you tried to entrap me. But the money was real. I saw it enter my account.’
‘Smoke and mirrors, Alan. Smoke and mirrors.’
Keenyside became red in the face. ‘You’re lying.’
Donovan did his best to give a nonchalant shrug. Keenyside seemed to struggle not to hit him. Instead he smiled.
‘Be that as it may,’ he said. ‘I’ve still got this little beauty. And how much is this worth on the open market?’
He brought up the aluminium case, gave it a pat.
Donovan could have laughed if the situation wasn’t so desperate. ‘Oh Alan, Alan,’ he said, ‘you’re a study in self-delusion.’
Keenyside’s face creased into an ugly frown. ‘What d’you mean?’
Donovan turned his head to the side. Slowly. ‘Tell him, Colin.’
Colin Huntley wanted to speak but was unsure whether to or not.
‘It’s all right, Colin,’ said Donovan. ‘I know what’s been going on.’
‘There is no compound, Alan.’ Colin couldn’t keep the sense of triumph from his voice.
‘What?’
‘There never was.’ His eyes shone with vindication.
Keenyside swung his gaze between the two of them. He looked like a trapped animal searching for an escape route.
Donovan pushed the point home. ‘The whole thing was a setup. Right from the start. Just to entrap you.’ Then he added in his best John Lydon: ‘Ever get the feeling you’ve been cheated?’
Keenyside was speechless.
‘Was it worth it?’ shouted Donovan. ‘Everything you’ve done, every life you’ve ruined, every person you’ve killed. Eh? Was it? For nothing?’
Keenyside spun round. He wanted to lash out, strike at something, vent his anger.
‘It’s over, Alan,’ said Colin Huntley. ‘One way or another, it’s the end.’
Keenyside’s eyes were wide, staring. He was witnessing his whole world collapse around him. Close to breaking point, thought Donovan. Either that, or past it.
With a cry of near primal-rage, Keenyside hit the floor, went rummaging through his holdall, pulled out a gun.
‘Over, is it?’ His voice was shrill, hysterical. ‘Finished? Well, if that’s the case, you’ll all be coming with me.’ He swung the gun round. It pointed at Donovan. ‘Starting with you.’
Donovan looked at Keenyside, about to come out with another fearless quip to annoy him even further. But stopped.
&n
bsp; There was the gun. Pointing towards him. About to kill him.
Donovan was scared.
Keenyside noticed. Laughed. ‘Not so brave now, are you, Mr Clever Fucking Journalist. D’you believe in God? No? Yes? Think there’s an afterlife?’ He tightened his grip on the trigger. ‘Well, you’re in the mercy seat. You’re about to find out. For yourself. Very soon.’
The Mercy Seat. The song back in his head, the hotel room flashing before him.
Donovan blinked it away, stared at the gun. Transfixed by the end of the barrel. Any second now, metal would be hurled from there towards him at a speed he couldn’t measure. And it would be the last thing he would ever see.
This wasn’t Russian roulette. That had only ever been a game of chance to take the pain away. This was different. Someone else was in control. Deciding whether he lived or died.
Donovan was powerless.
Faces, voices swam before him:
Tosher. Think about it, Joe Donovan. Which of us would you rather be?
Maria. Was this what it felt like for her? The disbelief? The useless struggle to not let go? The anger and injustice of having something taken from you when you’ve still got so much more to give?’
Johnny Cash kept singing in his head. The Mercy Seat. The condemned man only showing fear when confronting death. Finding truth for the first time in that same moment.
And David. Dying not knowing what had happened to his son.
Dying without finding him.
He didn’t want to die.
That was the truth.
He didn’t want to die.
Donovan stared at the gun. His world reduced to that one piece of lethal metal.
Saw Keenyside smiling, squeezing the trigger.
He closed his eyes.
‘I want to live …’
The choice no longer his.
He waited, eyes screwed tight shut, for the shots. He heard them.
One. Two. Three.
He jumped. Gasped. They didn’t hurt as much as he thought they would.
He remained still. He was breathing.
He opened his eyes.
Keenyside lay on the floor before him. Blood geysering from his spasming body.
He died. Donovan watched.
Then looked up. In the doorway stood a man he had never seen before. Dressed like a trainee tramp in overcoat, old jumper and trousers and filthy trainers. Youngish, but prematurely aged. He looked lost, homeless. He had a gun in his hand.
The Mercy Seat Page 34
