Skin and Bones

by Tom Bale

  In her peripheral vision she saw the killer turn and approach the Old Schoolhouse. It should have given her renewed hope, but instead there was an awful temptation to collapse on the grass, just shut her eyes and let it happen: defilement, death, whatever he had planned for her.

  Then she rebelled against the defeatism. But she also knew she'd never make it to the house in the crescent. In any case, there was no guarantee the woman would let her in. Her best chance was the yew tree.

  She limped towards it, dragging her useless leg like a ball and chain. As she drew close she saw the tree comprised four massive trunks, creating a natural hollow in the middle. Moving around the base, she located a gap large enough to squeeze through.

  Walker was speaking again, snarling at the killer, who laughed in response. Julia heard the creak of the garden gate, then footsteps on Walker's path. She concentrated on pushing herself into the centre of the tree, experiencing a burst of excitement as she realised she was now out of the killer's sight.

  Then she heard the peculiar spitting sound of the silenced gun. Peeked out in time to see Philip Walker, shot twice at point blank range, drop at his killer's feet.

  She ducked back, tears clouding her vision as it hit home that he'd sacrificed himself for her. She owed it to him not to waste this chance.

  But what could she do? The only option was to climb the tree. If she could gain some height, she might be able to use the thick branches for concealment. Denied a clear shot, the killer would have to climb up after her. She might be able to fight him off, perhaps kick him or stamp on his fingers.

  She grabbed the highest branch within reach, pressed her back against one of the trunks and began to lever herself up. Even with her bad leg, it was a surprisingly effective way to climb. The bark was cool to the touch and resembled sunburned skin, dry patches flaking away from the smoother surface beneath. The branches were thick and sinewy, like something from a fairy story. At any moment she expected one to curl around her waist and lift her to safety in the higher reaches of the tree.

  She was seven or eight feet above the ground when she regained a view of the killer. He was walking away from the Old Schoolhouse, doing something with the pistol. Reloading, Julia guessed. She could see Walker's body crumpled in the doorway of his home.

  The killer replaced the magazine, reached the green and stopped abruptly. He looked round, at first confused, then angry. Julia felt a savage exhilaration. That's twice I've outwitted you.

  She continued to ascend. The short needles of the yew grew thickly around her, obscuring her from view. He would have to walk right up to the trunk to see her now. Another couple of feet and she could hide completely.

  Now she had a real chance of surviving. After all, she reasoned, this nightmare can't go on for ever. Help must come eventually.

  Something's got to happen, she told herself.

  And then it did.

  Five

  He looked like something from a movie. A superhero, a Special Forces agent and James Bond all wrapped up in one.

  Her saviour.

  He was clad entirely in black leather: boots, trousers, jacket, gloves, like some sort of costume. He wore a black motorcycle helmet with a full-face visor. He burst into view from Hurst Lane and marched towards the killer. He didn't appear to be armed, but he showed no fear. He moved fast, his body confident and determined. It was the most thrilling sight Julia had ever seen.

  He called out in a gruff voice. The killer heard it and spun round. His demeanour changed immediately. He seemed to shrink, bowing his head in deference to the man striding towards him.

  'What the hell are you doing with that?' the man demanded. Julia's heart leapt with joy. Finally, someone with the moral and physical strength to confront the killer.

  The man in black shook his head, as if disgusted, and raised his arm in the air. It looked like he was preparing to punch the killer in the face, and Julia willed him on, praying that the murdering bastard wouldn't read the blow in advance.

  But it wasn't a punch.

  It was a high five.

  * * *

  What shocked her most was that she'd been about to shout a warning. She saw the killer adjust his body to what the other man was doing. He's going to dodge it, Julia thought. And then he'll shoot you. And suddenly she couldn't bear to see this man, this wonderful brave man, become yet another victim. Her best hope of rescue wrenched from her grasp.

  So she opened her mouth to scream a warning. Filled her lungs to fuel the words. Delayed half a second while she searched for the right phrase: Be careful! Or Watch out! Or He's got a gun!

  And then the man in black slapped his hand against the killer's hand, and the killer grinned and whooped and nodded ferociously at something the stranger was saying. Talking in a low voice, their heads close together, the killer almost blushing with pride as the man in black spoke to him.

  Congratulating him.

  Julia's whole body spasmed with fear and despair. She threw both arms around the tree and clung to it until the feeling passed. Her left leg was wedged uncomfortably against the trunk, her injured leg dangling in the air as if it no longer belonged to her. Blood ran over her shoe and dripped on to the leaves below. The sight of it made her head swim. She gulped in fresh air and looked up instead. Saw aircraft trails criss-crossing a milky blue sky. It seemed incredible to think that beyond the village there was a whole world carrying on as normal.

  And then she cocked her head. She could hear something. Faint and far away, but it was there.

  A siren.

  The killer's words floated up to her: 'I shot this bitch, but she got away.' Julia peered through the leaves and saw him gesturing towards the tree. The man in black also turned to look. The faceless visor sent a bolt of terror through her. He's Darth Vader, she thought. A dark angel of death.

  '. . . hiding over there,' the killer was saying, his voice whiny and defensive.

  The man in black leaned close and murmured something Julia couldn't hear. To her astonishment, the killer meekly handed the pistol to his partner, then slipped the shotgun off his shoulder.

  Then both men froze. They could hear it too. Urgent pulses of sound, growing louder.

  The man in black took a step away from his partner and pointed across the green. The killer swivelled his shotgun in the same direction. Julia almost went to look herself, but then had a flash of insight: it's a bluff.

  She saw the gun coming up and instinctively shut her eyes. Remembered how the young mother had protected her son from the knowledge of his death.

  Heard the familiar phutt.

  She opened her eyes. Saw the killer falling, shot in the temple at point-blank range. Blood everywhere, all over him, all over the grass. A spray of it on the motorcycle leathers. The man in black stepping back, nodding to himself.

  Julia made a noise, a little horrified yelp. She couldn't help it.

  Then the branch cracked.

  It didn't break. It didn't give way. It just dropped an inch or two and she dropped with it, scrabbling desperately with both hands to hang on. Her movement caused the tree to shake, the leaves whispering as they rubbed together. Telling on her.

  The man in black whipped round and faced the tree. At the same time Julia realised the siren was fully audible. Perhaps on Chilton Way by now, she thought. A couple of minutes away, maybe less.

  But still too late to save her.

  She hung suspended in the tree as the man in black approached. At times his head seemed to be dipped, facing the ground. Julia was confused. Why look down?

  Her trainer offered the answer. Blood. He was following the blood trail. It confirmed the noise in the tree wasn't from a crow, or a pigeon, or even a frightened cat.

  Her bladder let go. Hot urine soaked through her jeans and ran down her legs. She barely noticed it.

  Calmly, even casually, the man in black walked back to the body of his partner, then turned and fired a rapid burst of shots into the tree. Julia heard the bullets str
iking leaves and branches above her head, gouging out chunks of bark. The debris rained down on her, but she couldn't squirm away from it without revealing her position.

  The next sweep was a couple of feet lower. She felt the bullets whipping past, the lethal zing of displaced air.

  Bizarrely, she didn't feel the bullet that hit her.

  The impact caused her to topple sideways, where she struck her forehead on a branch and then slithered and fell through the tree, taking a few smaller boughs with her, finally bouncing off the lowest branch and dropping cleanly the last four or five feet, landing face up on the grass with a dull thud.

  The man in black waited a couple of seconds, watching her body for movement. The siren was very loud now, battering against the vivid peace of the morning. He couldn't fail to be aware of it.

  With a last thoughtful look in Julia's direction, he placed the gun carefully by his partner's corpse and hurried back towards Hurst Lane. Then he vanished as if he'd never been here.

  As if he had never existed at all.

  Six

  The first police car arrived twenty seconds later. It was an armed response vehicle with two male officers from the Tactical Firearms Unit, PCs Davies and Eade. They had been diverted from routine patrol in mid-Sussex following a report of an incident involving a firearm. A second ARV, from Brighton, was approximately fifteen minutes away. Two unarmed police vehicles and an ambulance were also en route, but wouldn't enter the village until the ARV gave clearance.

  According to the control room, a householder in Chilton had witnessed the shooting of a Royal Mail driver. The 999 call had been logged at 8.09 a.m. It was now 8.22 a.m. If it had been an armed robbery, which seemed the likeliest explanation, the perpetrator would be long gone.

  PC Davies, in the passenger seat, had checked the village's location and noted that it had only one access road. He'd warned his colleague of the possibility that they might encounter the getaway vehicle driving towards them along Chilton Way. He had also drawn his weapon, a Sig Sauer P226.

  As it was, not a single vehicle passed them on the short journey from the B2112 to the village. This gave Davies a twinge of unease.

  Rounding a bend close to the village shop, they saw the Royal Mail van parked at the kerb. As Eade reduced his speed, Davies killed the siren and began scanning the village for any visible threat. The passenger window was open, and he realised how quiet it was. Apart from the sound of their car, all he could hear was birdsong. There was no one in sight. Nothing moving.

  Then he spotted a form on the green, maybe ten or fifteen yards away. At the same time PC Eade realised there was a body lying behind the van.

  Both men exclaimed softly in unison. As the car pulled up, there was a moment when they exchanged a glance and understood they'd each reacted to something different.

  As soon as he got out of the car, Davies saw the shotgun lying on the grass next to the body. The 999 call had described the suspect as carrying both a shotgun and a handgun. The description of his hair colour and jacket also matched the body lying on the grass.

  'I think this could be our shooter,' he called to Eade, who had also drawn his weapon. Eade took aim at the body, providing cover while Davies made a cautious, circular approach, ensuring he didn't stray into his colleague's line of fire.

  Another few feet and he could see enough to know the man was dead. A single shot to the temple from the handgun. Looked like a .22. Nevertheless he knelt down, careful not to disturb the scene, and checked for signs of life.

  Then he stood up. Made a note of the time. Looked at PC Eade and pointed to the postman's body.

  'Take that one. I'm going to have a look round.'

  Even as he spoke he spotted the next victim, in a large house across the road. He had a direct line of sight along the garden path. There was an elderly man slumped by the front door.

  Twenty past eight on a Saturday morning, in one of the smallest, sleepiest villages in the county. What the hell was going on?

  He turned to Eade, who was standing by the postman. 'Dead?'

  'Yep.'

  'Hit the siren for a minute, will you?'

  Eade frowned, but wasn't in the mood to argue. He returned to the car and activated the siren. The slow whoop sounded eerie as it echoed off the fine Georgian terrace. A flock of birds took flight from the trees around the church.

  Davies raised his hand: that's enough. The silence returned so abruptly it made him shiver.

  He resumed a slow 360-degree scan of the village, using his hand to shield his eyes from the sun.

  Ten seconds. Nothing.

  Twenty seconds. Nothing.

  After half a minute he was convinced there would be no reaction. But then came the sound of a front door opening. One of the big Georgian houses on the far side of the green. A woman peeped out, face as white as snow, a slash of dark hair across her forehead.

  She made eye contact and seemed to sag, like a punctured balloon. Davies broke into a run, skirting a large yew tree, and almost collided with a body. This one was a young woman, face up on the grass, covered in leaves and blood.

  'Another victim here,' he yelled to his colleague, and hurried on. His priority was the living witness. He wanted to get to her before she fainted, or slammed the door on him.

  'It's all right,' he called. 'It's all under control.'

  She went on staring at him, her eyes haunted. She was going into shock.

  'Are you okay?' he asked. 'Are you hurt?'

  She managed the tiniest shake of her head.

  'I'm PC Davies,' he said. 'Just relax now. We're going to take care of this. It'll be fine, okay?'

  She laughed, and it made him flinch. It was the bitterest sound he'd ever heard.

  'It's never going to be fine,' she said.

  He glanced round, taking in the scene behind him. Eade was returning from the house where the man lay in the doorway. He made a thumbs-down gesture.

  Davies turned back to the woman. He had to work hard to control his voice. 'What happened here? Where is everyone?'

  The woman shut her eyes tightly, perhaps praying she was still asleep and this was just a dream. Then she opened them, settled her gaze on his and gave him the answer he was dreading.

  'They're dead.'

  He heard a shout from Eade and told the woman to go back inside. Someone would be with her very soon.

  This time he gave the body by the tree a wide berth. Eade was almost hopping with impatience. 'What did she say?'

  'Says they're dead. I don't know if she means the entire village, but it's not looking good, is it?' Although the adrenalin was pumping like crazy, he felt a wave of weariness at the thought of what lay ahead.

  'What's the call, then?' Eade said.

  'Got to be Major Incident,' said Davies. 'We'll have to seal the whole area. Search every house.' He sighed heavily. He was supposed to be off duty in a couple of hours. A tiny voice reminded him of his intended plans for the day: quick scoot round Homebase with the missus, doze in front of the telly, out with some friends for a few pints and a curry in the evening; then a lie-in and hopefully a legover Sunday morning.

  All of it blasted away by some nutter.

  Christ, he thought, if this is another Hungerford we'll never hear the end of it.

  'The church door's open,' Eade said. 'I'm going to check it out.'

  Davies nodded, still absorbed in his reverie as he reached for his Airwave radio. He wondered if Eade had considered the firestorm of activity about to descend on them.

  Then he heard a groan, and nearly jumped out of his skin.

  As he turned, he saw the woman's leg twitch. He knew that corpses sometimes made little movements, caused by stray electrical impulses running through the muscles. The process of dying could take hours beyond the actual moment of brain death.

  But then her head moved, no more than half an inch. Bubbles of blood appeared on her lips.

  Oh shitting hell. She's alive. She's alive and I ran right past her.
<
br />   He fumbled with his radio and shouted: 'We have a Major Incident here. Repeat, this is a Major Incident. Three confirmed fatalities so far, plus one serious casualty. We need that ambulance ASAP. Hotel 900 too, if it's available.'

  He dropped to his knees and checked her airway was clear. Felt for a pulse and found one. Very weak. There was so much blood that at first he couldn't work out where she'd been hit. Somewhere on her right side, he guessed, with various cuts and scratches adding to the confusion. If he didn't know better, he'd say she had fallen out of a tree.

  He looked up in time to see Eade stumble out of the church. 'Two more in there,' he shouted. 'This is a fucking disaster.'

  No, it's a massacre. 'This one's alive,' he shouted back. At the same time he was told Hotel 900, the police helicopter, could be there in ten minutes. The paramedic on board was being briefed about the situation.

  Good luck to him, Davies thought. He took the woman's hand and squeezed it gently. It felt very cold. Her eyelids fluttered and he leaned close, urging her to focus on him.

  'Hang on, love,' he said. 'Be strong for me. We'll have you in an ambulance in no time.'

  He hoped he sounded more confident than he felt. He'd seen plenty of dead and dying bodies before, mostly from his time in Traffic. The woman lying here looked just as bad as any RTA victim. He wouldn't have given her more than a ten per cent chance of surviving, but he prayed she would prove him wrong. If she died, he'd always ask himself whether he could have made a difference if he'd noticed her sooner.

  'Be strong,' he said again. Whether to her or to himself, he wasn't quite sure. 'Stay alive for me, love.'

  Stay alive.

  Seven

  The killer ran along the narrow lane. His vision blurred. Despite the cold morning, it was hot inside the leathers. There was sweat rolling down his face, a stinging pain in his eyes. The helmet bumped against his shoulders and the visor entombed him, made him feel like an exhibit under glass. But he couldn't risk lifting it, not even for a single gulp of air. He had risked too much already.

  The killer was scared. And he was angry. His meticulously planned operation had turned into an almighty fuck-up.