The Business Of Dying

by Simon Kernick

  ‘Police! Drop your weapons now!’

  It was the tall one again, but his voice betrayed his desperation as he suddenly realized he’d almost certainly bitten off more than he could chew. I kept running, but briefly turned round. He was ten yards behind me and the gunmen had stopped in front of him. One was looking round him at me, and I could sense his urgent desire not to let his quarry disappear.

  There was a second’s silence. Instinctively I slowed down as the drama played itself out. On the street cars were stopping to get a look at what was happening, allowing the other copper to cross. He ran towards me, but he too was watching his colleague. It looked like the whole street was.

  Then the shotgun barked again, and the man who’d tried to prevent my execution flew backwards through the air. He seemed to hover above the ground for an indeterminate but memorable period of time before hurtling downwards with a crash, as if an invisible hand had tipped him out of its palm. He lay there, not moving.

  His colleague froze. Still in the middle of the road. And then he put a hand to his mouth as the shock of what he’d just seen hit him. He tried to shout something, something that could give him some control over a chaotic situation, but nothing came out.

  And before he’d even moved, my pursuers came after me again, the shotgun guy reloading and running at the same time. His friend with the handgun was ferociously quick. He came at me in huge bounds, reminding me bizarrely of one of the two-legged hunting dinosaurs in Jurassic Park, and there was a fixed, maniacal smile on his face. For a moment I felt like I was in some sort of slow-motion nightmare, that whatever I did, however fast I moved, he was going to catch me. But I kept running, knowing there was no choice, not daring to look back as the shots cracked around me. And as I ran, my lungs and throat filled up with phlegm and I couldn’t breathe, and I knew I was just seconds away from the end.

  There was a yelp and the sound of someone slipping, and I looked over my shoulder to see handgun man falling on to the wet ground, holding the gun up in the air. Relief didn’t even cross my mind. The one with the shotgun was right behind him, and by now he’d reloaded. He jumped over his colleague, then stopped, lifted the weapon to his shoulder, and prepared to fire. Eight yards separated us. Even though I was still running, he couldn’t miss.

  Coming up on my left was a Chinese takeaway. It was my only chance. I flung myself forward on to the pavement at just the moment he pulled the trigger, taking it at a roll. The shot flew shrieking over my head and into the distance, and I was immediately back on my feet and charging at the takeaway door like a runaway bull. He fired again, but I’d already hit the door at a dive. It flew open and I fell inside, hitting the tiled floor elbow first, ignoring the pain that shot right up my arm.

  I wanted to lie where I was for a couple of seconds and get my breath back, and it took a huge effort of willpower to force myself to my feet. I heard footsteps on the pavement outside and I knew that they were only seconds behind me. The lone customer in the place – a middle-aged man with a checked shirt and an expression of sheer dismay – stood watching me silently. Behind the counter, the young Chinese server, who couldn’t have been a day over eighteen, looked just as confused by the whole situation.

  I turned round as shotgun man appeared at the door. He levelled the weapon, the customer swore and fell back on to one of the chairs, and I charged the counter. The Chinese guy shrieked and dived out the way as I rolled over it like it was an assault course obstacle, crashing down the other side. The shotgun barked again and the glass covering the menu board above my head exploded into a hundred pieces that fell about me like jagged snowflakes as I wriggled maggot-like across the floor.

  The door marked ‘Private – Staff Only’ was my only means of escape. I headbutted it open, crawling on my hands and knees, and desperately pushed my body through. I was in a small corridor leading through to the kitchens. Back in the shop, I could hear shouting and the sound of someone else coming over the worktop. I ran forward into the kitchens where half a dozen Chinese in chef’s whites were busy at work. They all turned round as I charged in, and one jumped in front of me.

  ‘No, no. Not allowed. No customers!’

  I looked round desperately for an exit door, knowing I had seconds.

  The chef, who just about came up to my chest, grabbed me by the lapels of my jacket. ‘No customers! You must leave!’

  He began pushing me backwards, and another younger chef armed with a wicked-looking meat cleaver started coming round the main worktop. I spotted the back door behind them in the corner. It was held slightly ajar by a piece of cardboard. I felt a surge of relief and panic in roughly equal measure.

  Hearing the rapid footfalls in the corridor behind me, I screamed something incoherent and pushed the chef aside. He fell into a load of pots and pans and cried out. The other chef, the one with the cleaver, went to raise it above his head, and I thought momentarily that this would be a very stupid way to die, cut down by an irate kitchen worker while fleeing a professional assassination team.

  I ripped the warrant card from my pocket, the last time I would ever use it. ‘Police! I only want to get out! Get out of my way!’ I charged past him, and he actually did get out of the way. There was a load of panicked shouting from all around me, and I knew that my pursuers were in the room.

  I kicked the door open without pausing and ran out into the litter-strewn back yard as it slammed shut, rattling, behind me. A few yards ahead was a wall piled up with rubbish, facing on to the backs of terraced houses. I could have run for it but I didn’t think I’d make it over before they put a hole in me. It was a time for hard decisions.

  Resisting the temptation to bend over and throw up, I sidestepped and positioned myself by the door on the opposite side to the direction it would open, knowing that if I fucked this up then they would have me. No question. But there was little time for fear. Within a second, there was a commotion from inside the kitchens, more shouting – most of it foreign and unintelligible – and then the door flew open again and shotgun man came charging into view, automatically looking towards the wall ahead.

  With a speed I didn’t think I was capable of, I threw myself into him, grabbing the gun in the process. I shoved it upwards, pushing all my weight against his body, the power and surprise of my attack forcing him back so he blocked the doorway. At the same time, instinctively, reflexively, whatever you want to call it, he pulled the trigger, not having had the time to realize that the barrel had just been thrust into position right beneath his chin.

  The noise was louder than anything I think I’ve ever heard in my life. It ripped through my ears and shook my whole body right down to the toes. A huge splash of blood soaked my face like warm, vile treacle as the top of his head was ripped away, its contents scattered high up the door and across the windows. He fell backwards, and I tugged the weapon from his grasp.

  His partner was right behind him and he was forced to get out of the way as the corpse hit the floor. He looked down at the bloody head, then back at me, his face a mask of rage.

  ‘Bastard!’

  He raised the gun and I threw myself backwards as he fired, landing on my back on the paving slabs. He fired again, missing my head by inches, the bullet ricocheting up off the concrete. But I’d swung the shotgun round now so it was facing him, and finally it was my turn to pull the trigger.

  I tried to balance it and take aim, but time was too short. The weapon kicked in my hand and a huge meaty chunk of his left leg just above the knee disappeared. The leg collapsed uselessly, and he collapsed with it, dropping the gun as all his efforts were put into howling in agony. He was still sitting upright when I got his head in my sights and pulled the trigger again.

  But the weapon was empty.

  The Chinese had gathered around the door and were looking down at the carnage with a mixture of fear, shock and morbid excitement on their faces. I was panting heavily, I was exhausted, but this wasn’t over yet. In the distance, above the ringing in my ears
, I could hear the sound of sirens converging on the scene from all directions, but it sounded as though they were still some way distant.

  I got to my feet and waved the weapon at my audience. They all scuttled out of the way and I stepped forward, grabbed the wounded would-be assassin by his hair and dragged him outside, before picking up his gun and putting it in my pocket. I shut the door and turned to face him. His howls had now subsided into heavy, desperate breathing interspersed with little shrieks of pain through clenched teeth. He was holding on to the huge wound with both hands in a vain attempt to stem the copious flow of blood.

  I leaned down. ‘Who sent you?’ I hissed, between pants. ‘Who sent you?’

  He looked Mediterranean, Turkish perhaps, and I put him in his early thirties. He could easily have been the guy who’d spooked Danny. Probably was. He could even be the man who’d killed him. Because, by now, I was sure he was dead.

  He didn’t answer. He didn’t even look at me. In the distance, the sirens were getting louder and more numerous. Time was running short. I hit his hands with the butt of the shotgun, forcing him to release his grip on the wound. As he did so, I thrust my hand into the torn flesh and scraped my fingernails along it. His scream would have deafened me under normal circumstances, but by now I was partially deaf anyway.

  ‘Who sent you?’

  ‘No speak English,’ he whimpered, shaking his head. ‘No speak English.’

  This time I slammed the butt into the wound, and when he put his hands on it instinctively, I slammed it into them too. He was screaming, so now I cracked him in the face to shut him up, cutting his lips. Blood spewed down his chin.

  ‘Who the fuck sent you? Tell me! Now! Who?’ I grabbed him by the hair again and snapped his head back so he was looking me right in the eye.

  I think he saw the ruthlessness in my expression and realized there was no point delaying any further, even though the sirens were coming in from all sides. ‘Mehmet Illan,’ he whispered.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Mehmet Illan.’

  ‘Who the fuck is he?’

  Before he could answer, there was the sound of footsteps from inside the kitchens and I heard someone running through. I took a step back and raised the butt so that it was level with my head. This time, as the door opened, Coke Drinker emerged, panting into the darkness and right into my line of fire. I heard one of the Chinese staff shout ‘Look out!’ in a high-pitched, dramatic voice, but it was way too late for that. I hit him full on in the face with the butt, demolishing his nose like soft fudge and scattering flecks of blood across both cheeks. He went down on both knees, hands covering his injured face, and I knew he was no longer any problem. There were other voices coming from the street, shouting, giving orders. Coppers’ voices, doing what they do best: bringing situations under control.

  Still packed with adrenalin, I dropped the shotgun, turned, and ran for the wall, vaulting up on to it in one less-than-graceful movement before manoeuvring myself over. I slid down the other side and landed in more sacks of rubbish. I was now in someone’s ill-kept back garden. There was an alley running down the side of the adjoining house, so I clambered over the rickety wooden fence separating the two gardens and followed it, emerging on the next street. I crossed it straight away, then began jogging in the opposite direction to the Gallan, trying to wipe the blood from my face.

  I heard a police car approaching behind me so I darted into another side street and kept running. The car continued on, missing me, and I kept going, trying to put as much distance between myself and the carnage as possible.

  But exhaustion was taking hold. I had a stitch in my right side and I was having difficulty breathing. My legs felt as though they were going to go under me at any moment, and the only thing keeping me going was the fear of getting caught.

  And the desire for revenge. One way or another the people who were trying to fuck me up and put me out of existence were going to pay for their crimes. I wasn’t going to die that fucking easily.

  Another hundred yards, another hundred and fifty, and then I could run no more. I half jogged, half staggered into a dingy-looking back alley by the side of a school and found a spot out of sight of the road. I sat down against the wall and panted my breath back to normal – a task that seemed to take for ever. Above my head, the clouds unloaded their rain on the city. Slowly, the sirens faded away.

  The desire for revenge. It was the only thing I had left in the world.

  Part Four

  THE BUSINESS OF DYING

  30

  I could have walked away from the whole thing. Gone underground, waited a few months, then left the country. That was basically what I’d intended to do, but, in the end, I felt that I couldn’t leave things as they were. Questions needed answering, and scores needed settling. It was as simple as that. Everyone had fucked me up: my bosses at work, Raymond Keen, and now even Carla Graham.

  Carla Graham. That she was somehow involved in the murder of Miriam Fox was no longer in doubt. It was almost certainly not her who’d pulled the knife across her throat, not given the size and depth of the wound. But she definitely knew who’d done it. And why. It was her motive for being involved that intrigued me the most because for the life of me I couldn’t understand what it could be. She was right about the blackmail plot – it just didn’t seem enough to kill someone for. And what about the evidence against Mark Wells? Were he and Carla in it together? It was difficult to conclude otherwise, given the evidence against him, and yet it made no sense. Neither could I understand why he’d gone round to Miriam’s flat after the murder and been genuinely shocked to discover police officers there. If he’d been the killer, surely he’d have expected that and avoided the place?

  I was still in the dark, and I didn’t like it. I should have cut my losses, but I guess I’d simply hit the point where everything had gone so far downhill that I no longer cared what happened, as long as I got the chance to get even with the people who’d been pulling the wool over my eyes through all this.

  That night, after getting my breath back and wiping the worst of the blood off my face, I hurried home through the back streets and threw on a single set of new clothes, before hailing a cab on City Road and getting it to take me to Liverpool Street station. From there, I got on the Underground and took the Central Line right back across town to Lancaster Gate, before making my way to Bayswater using a combination of walking and the bus.

  It was five to eleven by the time I arrived at the hotel where I kept the safety deposit box. I knew the owner vaguely from my previous visits, and he was at the desk in the cramped foyer when I walked in, smoking a foul-smelling cigarette and watching football on a portable TV. He nodded as I approached, and I told him I wanted a room. Without taking his eyes off the TV he leaned over, removed a key from one of the numbered hooks on the wall behind him, and put it down on the desk.

  ‘Twenty pounds per night,’ he said, in a thick foreign accent. ‘Plus twenty deposit.’

  I told him I wanted to book for three nights and counted out four twenties. He took the money, again without taking his eyes from the TV. ‘Up the stairs to the third floor. It’s on the right.’ One of the teams scored and the commentator shouted excitedly in Arabic or Turkish, or something like that, but the owner didn’t bat an eyelid. I assumed he supported the other side.

  The room was small and horrifically done out in 1970s-style orange and purple, but it looked clean, and that was good enough for me. It was private, too. I wouldn’t draw attention to myself staying here, where the remainder of the occupants were almost certainly going to be newly arrived illegal immigrants and asylum seekers, and where the owner probably wouldn’t go voluntarily to the police about anything.

  I threw off my clothes and lay down on the bed, lighting a cigarette and taking a deep breath. The chase was on now, but the police were still in a difficult position. They couldn’t just print my photo in the next day’s papers. It might have been pretty obvious that I had been involved
in the Traveller’s Rest killings, but they still couldn’t be absolutely sure that I didn’t have an alibi for the night in question. For all anyone knew, I could have had a mistress up in Clavering I’d been seeing on the sly; I could have been with her on the night in question. And maybe it was simply coincidence that the killer looked so much like me. For the first, and probably the last, time in my life I actually gave thanks to those who had drafted the laws of our great country for making them so obviously in favour of the criminal. They needed hard evidence against me, and maybe at the moment they just didn’t have enough. They’d be pulling out all the stops to find me, but they’d still be doing it with one hand tied behind their backs. For that reason, and that reason alone, I still felt there was hope of evading capture.

  I finished the cigarette and lay there for a long time, staring at the ceiling and wondering where I was going to be in a year’s time. Or even a week’s. Out in the hallway a door slammed and I heard a lot of shouting in a foreign language. A man and a woman were arguing. It lasted about two minutes, then there was the sound of someone running down the stairs. I picked up the mobile and wondered whether it was worth trying Danny again. I decided against it. Somehow I knew he wouldn’t answer.

  I sighed. Somewhere out there, Raymond Keen was relaxing, enjoying the fruits of his success. Some time soon he’d find out that the attempt on my life had failed, which was going to be more than a little inconvenient.

  And some time soon after that he’d find out that he’d made a big mistake trying to silence me.

  31

  I left the hotel at just after eight o’clock the following morning, dressed in the clothes I’d changed into the previous night, and took a walk in the direction of Hyde Park. It was a brisk morning and a watery sun was fighting to push its way through the thin cloud cover. I stopped for breakfast and coffee at a café on the Bayswater Road and took the opportunity to take a look at the papers.