by Tom Bale
No. There was only one option. The one she had so recklessly proposed to Craig as they waited in the ambulance on Wednesday night.
Fight back.
* * *
She kept low, crouching awkwardly as she descended, one stair at a time, testing each tread as though negotiating a minefield. The hall edged into sight, revealing several open doors. All the rooms were dark. No sign of anyone lying in wait, but that didn't mean no one was there.
She reached the bottom stair and jabbed the knife as if shadowboxing. The hall was empty, all the way to the front door in one direction and the kitchen in the other. The doors in between led variously to a cloakroom, a dining room and a living room.
Just as in the farmhouse, the open door was the better bet. From here it seemed an impossible distance away, standing like a prize at the end of a tunnel filled with unimaginable danger.
But a minute or two had now passed, and there had been no other suspicious noise, no movement. Maybe she had imagined it. Maybe it had just been the wind.
Then she heard him.
He breathed out.
He was in the living room. Very close. Perhaps hiding behind the door.
But he didn't react. He didn't spring out and attack her.
He couldn't see her, she realised. He must be relying on sound alone, and she'd come downstairs too quietly to be heard. If she could walk along the hall without making any noise . . .
It was a tough challenge, tiptoeing slowly when every nerve in her body was screaming at her to run. Her resolve lasted only until she got to the kitchen, saw it was empty and knew she had at least a few seconds' advantage while he got out from behind the door. She would just have to make those seconds count.
She ran across the kitchen, distantly noting that she could hear nothing from the hall. He was too slow to react, she thought. Ha! She made it to the back door and was about to burst into the cold raging night when suddenly he stepped into her path.
She jerked to a halt, slithering on the broken glass. It was impossible, but he was standing right in front of her, close enough that she could taste his rancid breath in her face. He held the gun in one hand and in the other a two-way radio, a radio he had taken from Kendrick's men. She guessed there must be another radio, set to the same channel, behind the living-room door. It had worked perfectly. It had flushed her out.
So this is it, she thought. This is where it ends.
He thought so too. 'Give up,' he said. Not a demand, or a request. A statement. A statement of the obvious.
No. She wasn't sure if she said the word aloud, or just thought it. He was aiming the gun at her, but some reckless intuition told her he wouldn't shoot. He wasn't done with her yet.
She turned fast, twisting on the balls of her feet, and at the same time hurled the letter opener like a spear. He flinched away but it caught him on the cheekbone. A line of blood materialised from nowhere and cascaded down his face.
She moved fast, but Toby was faster. As soon as he saw she wasn't intimidated by the gun, his hand dropped and he jumped forward, knowing he couldn't let her get the advantage. She was too unpredictable. Too fucking resourceful.
The cut on his face didn't hurt yet, but it pissed him off. If it had been on target it might have killed him. Blinded him, at least.
He hated her for that. He added it to all the other reasons for hating her. It fuelled him, made him more determined. He got to her while she was still on the threshold, still turning. He dropped the radio but kept hold of the gun. One free hand should be enough.
He was on her before she could move. Wrapped his arms around her, jamming the gun into her stomach. His other arm reached over her shoulder, locking around her neck.
'Give up,' he said again. 'Or Kendrick will kill Craig.'
For a bluff, it was pure genius. Totally instinctive. He had no idea he'd say it till the words came out of his mouth.
And it worked. All her resistance ceased. He almost heard the whoosh as the fight drained out of her.
Thank Christ for that.
Too slow. Too stupid. Not thinking clearly.
She had run right into his trap. Now he had her, literally in his grasp. She was aware of everything as if in slow motion: her mouth opening, drawing in a breath to scream. Adrenalin pumping furiously into her bloodstream, muscles primed for fight or flight. Some primordial imperative told her to run: get upstairs, create some distance and a chance to regroup . . .
A smarter section of her brain knew better. You can't move forward. Even if he doesn't shoot, he'll tighten his grip and crush your windpipe.
'Give up,' she heard him say. 'Or Kendrick will kill Craig.'
In that moment she wrestled control of her instinct and let herself go limp. She released a breath and with it some of the tension. She felt his body close in on her, but the hand around her neck relaxed. He thought she had surrendered.
She threw herself against him with all her weight. Drove both her elbows into his stomach. Whipped her head back and connected with his face. A loud crack as bone gave way to bone.
He screamed a guttural scream. His arms fell away and he stumbled. She heard a thud and didn't register it, but he had dropped the gun. It made no difference. By then she was moving, running across the kitchen, towards the only weapon she could see.
His nose was broken. The pain was atrocious. It felt like she'd driven a burning hot spike into his sinuses. There was a flap of skin hanging loose on his cheek. Blood pouring down his face. Only his fury kept him moving. The thought of what he'd do to her once he got her away from here.
He'd been so clever, planting the other radio inside the house. And now he was being denied the reward that his ingenuity deserved. His resentment was accompanied by a much darker thought: one he'd been struggling to deny for weeks.
It was over. From the moment he learned Julia was alive, he was finished. As soon as she'd reappeared with Walker, bleating about a second killer, he should have cut and run. And now it was too late.
No. He had to stay focused. You can still do this, he told himself. You've seen off four of Kendrick's men. You can deal with this bitch.
Stupidly, she didn't try to run upstairs. She stayed in the kitchen, and that meant he could easily catch her.
She reached the worktop next to the fridge. No knife block, thank God. There were probably knives somewhere, but she wouldn't have time to reach them. Another second and he'd slam into her from behind. Maybe trap her hand in a drawer and crush her fingers. He'd enjoy that.
He was two feet away. A foot. Close enough to smell her sweat and fear. Now she was turning. Probably about to beg for another chance. Well, she could forget that. He'd suffered enough at her hands. Now it was her turn.
Seventy-Eight
She could feel him close behind her, right on her heels. Not even enough distance to turn and fight properly.
This had to work.
She knew Craig was living in his father's house at the moment, but he obviously wasn't doing much cooking. The kitchen looked more like something from a show home. No dirty dishes on the unit in front of her. No spice racks or mug trees or egg holders. No knives. No clutter. Just a brushed-steel toaster and a matching kettle.
The kettle was modern, high-tech. Shaped like a tall jug, resting on a detachable base which plugged into the mains. It had a vertical strip of transparent plastic to show the water level. It was half full.
She grabbed it in desperation. Her stomach was protesting again, a terrible splitting sensation that could only mean something was seriously wrong. There was no way she could get upstairs. No way she could outrun him.
As she lifted the kettle clear of the base she realised how heavy it was. A solid, expensive piece of kit.
Good.
She could feel Toby closing on her. He was going to ram her, crush her against the units. She didn't even have time to turn properly. She just spun her upper body and brought the kettle round in front of her, swung it over and down like a tennis serve, aimin
g for the point where she hoped his head would be.
At the moment of contact she thought of the dream. She was on the beach at Camber Sands and the killer had fallen from the tree. She'd beaten him to death with a poker or a crowbar.
Only it wasn't a poker, or a crowbar. It was an ordinary domestic kettle. And she didn't beat him over and over. She hit him twice.
But the result was the same.
His own momentum contributed to the force of the blow, like a man running into a wall. The kettle landed on the top of his head and she saw his skull crack. The sound it made was unlike anything she'd ever heard. It entered her ears and seemed to trickle through her body like an infection, a chilling nausea.
Toby came to an abrupt stop. His eyes rolled up in his head and his legs gave way.
She hit him again as he dropped. She didn't know why. Perhaps in response to some vestigial echo of her dream. Even as she did it, there was a voice telling her it was unnecessary. Sadistic, even.
Well, maybe I'm entitled, she thought. Maybe he owes me this one.
He lay at her feet, not moving. There was so much blood on his face, she couldn't tell if his eyes were open or shut. The back of his head was oozing dark, clotted blood. Blood mixed with something else. She didn't want to think about what it might be.
She was pressed against the kitchen units. Trapped. She couldn't move without stepping over him. She stayed like that for a long time, still holding the kettle, the water inside sloshing because she was shaking so hard.
Gradually the shock subsided. You have to move, she told herself. It's not over yet.
She stared at the kettle as if seeing it for the first time. Blood and hair had adhered to the underside. She set it down on the unit and looked at the body once more. Watching it for movement.
Holding the worktop for balance, she brought her right knee up and extended her foot over the body. She had an image of his hand whipping out, grabbing her ankle. She could feel her nerves jangling like a fire alarm, a wailing inside her head that made it an effort to think or breathe or move.
She planted her right foot on the far side of his body, then repeated the move with her left leg. A big exaggerated motion, her knee arching high, like some absurd mime artist.
When she was finally standing clear she felt drained, as though she'd just run a marathon. She gave the body one final glance, then left the kitchen, stumbled through the hall and into the cloakroom. She grabbed the sink as she felt herself blacking out. Possibly she did, for her next memory was of climbing to her feet, running cold water over her wrists while she looked in the mirror and a killer stared implacably back at her.
For a moment her parents were standing behind her, just as they had stood on the terrace in her dream, regarding her with quiet shame.
'I'm not her,' she whispered. But she knew it was a lie.
The last words he ever spoke floated back to her.
Kendrick will kill Craig.
Could she believe him? What would make Toby say that?
She knew Kendrick was here, in the village. It wasn't impossible that Craig was here too. Perhaps . . .
Perhaps he had come looking for her. Perhaps he hadn't given up.
She sighed. She faced herself in the mirror and made a conscious decision: she would ignore the pain in her stomach until she knew that Craig was safe.
If he hadn't given up, neither could she.
Seventy-Nine
Ten minutes, Kendrick had said. And then they would be dead.
Craig believed him. He found himself counting the seconds, knowing he had to act now or he might never see his children again.
With two minutes to go, the lights went out again. This time they didn't come back on.
Kendrick had just made another attempt to contact his men. The pair he'd sent after Toby weren't responding. Now, when the room went dark, he reacted as if they were under attack. Craig saw him draw a gun and fire several times, wild panicky shots directed at the driveway outside. There was a loud crash as one of the big windows shattered.
The guard, Moss, gave a shout of alarm and moved towards his boss. In the confusion Craig dived forward and threw all his weight into a tackle, trying to bring him down while also wrestling the gun from his hand.
He failed on both points. Moss was simply too strong. He was knocked off balance, but he didn't fall. For Craig it was like hurling himself at a brick wall. He grappled with the man's wrist, but Moss jerked his elbow back and caught Craig in the chest, knocking the air from his lungs. He was driven backwards by the blow, and in the darkness saw Moss turning, trying to aim the gun in his direction.
Then something flew past his head, and there was a loud thud. The big man groaned and fell back, and as he did the gun went off. Craig also dropped to the floor, expecting another shot, but none came. Instead he could hear Moss breathing in painful gasps and swearing quietly.
Then a controlled voice said, 'Stay there, Craig. Move and you're dead.'
It came from less than three feet away. Craig was lying awkwardly on the floor, one of his legs caught beneath a chair. He wasn't in a position to get up quickly, even if he wanted to. His rebellion had failed.
As his eyes adjusted to the dark, Craig risked moving his head slightly. George was on his knees, facing Craig. Kendrick stood behind him, the gun against George's skull. It was a classic execution pose, but far from looking defeated, George's eyes were blazing with determination. Like Craig, he had been biding his time.
Kendrick said, 'Moss, are you all right?'
'Fucker threw something at me,' Moss growled. His voice was tight with pain. Craig turned, saw the dark gleam of blood on the big man's forehead. There was a broken ashtray on the floor next to him, but Moss was more concerned about his leg, clutching his calf with both hands. 'Gun went off as I fell,' he said. 'Caught my fucking leg.'
Kendrick sighed. 'Can you walk?'
'I don't know, boss.'
'Well, you're gonna have to. We're getting out of here.'
Then another voice shouted, 'Drop your gun.'
Kendrick turned towards the sound, his mouth forming an incredulous smile. From his position on the floor, Craig couldn't see the person who had just entered the room. But he recognised the voice, and for a moment thought he must be dreaming.
The power failure nearly killed her. She was approaching the grounds of Chilton Manor when a ferocious gust of wind was accompanied by a loud rending sound from the field to her right. Without consciously understanding what it was, Julia surged forward. The pylon toppled slowly, colliding with a tree and then landing in the field. At the same time she had the impression of a dark cable whipping through the air above her head.
Flinging herself down on the opposite verge, she saw a bright flash of lightning just feet away. There was a harsh burning smell in the air, and she understood it wasn't lightning. It was the live wire sparking as it hit the ground.
She lay on the wet grass, watching for another strike. The pain in her stomach was back with a vengeance, but she had no choice but to ignore it. She hadn't made it this far just to end up electrocuted in a freak accident.
At the next lull in the wind she got up and dashed clear of the cable's reach. Clutching her belly as she ran, she reached the manor gates and found little more than two twisted heaps of metal. Kendrick must have rammed right through them.
Seconds later she spotted Craig's car, destroying her last faint hope that Toby had been bluffing. On the approach to the house, she noticed one of the living-room windows was shattered. She could dimly make out shadows moving inside. Praying she wasn't too late, she struggled up the steps and found the front door was open.
Crossing the hall, a spasm of pain almost caused her to black out. It felt like someone was pouring hot tar into her stomach. She blinked away tears and checked the gun in her hand. After taking it from Toby, she had gone into the garden and fired into the air. If the moment came to use it in anger, she wanted to know she could pull the trigger.
She stepped into the doorway and took aim.
'Drop your gun,' she ordered.
Eighty
She moved further into the room. Close enough to see who she was aiming at, but not so close that he could spring at her.
She recognised him straight away. He turned his head and looked at her in amazement. He glanced at the gun in her hand, then back up, studying her face. A quick, professional assessment. Would she have the guts to shoot?
'Toby's dead,' she told him, by way of an answer. 'I killed him.'
He gave the merest nod of his head, almost a congratulation. 'And my men?'
'Toby killed them.'
'Well, well. Quite a mess to clear up.'
Keeping her eyes locked on him, she called out, 'Craig? Are you all right?'
'I'm here,' said a voice from the floor. 'I'm okay. So is George. He's kneeling in front of Kendrick.'
'I can see him,' Julia said. 'Is there anyone else?'
'One of Kendrick's guys. He's on the floor near me. He's wounded, but he has a gun.'
'And he'll use it,' said Kendrick. 'He'll shoot Craig, and I'll shoot George, unless you put your gun down right now.'
'Don't listen to him,' Craig said. 'He was involved in the massacre. Toby's only targets were the Caplans. It was Kendrick who persuaded Carl to murder the others.'
'I know,' said Julia. 'And I know why.'
Kendrick was still smiling, still radiating confidence. 'You don't know anything. Give me that gun and I might, just might, let you live.'
Now George spoke up. 'He's bluffing. Shoot him now. Don't worry about me. Shoot him.'
Julia's finger tightened on the trigger. Deep down she knew George was right. Her best chance of survival was to fire now, while Kendrick had his own weapon aimed at George. But in that scenario George was also likely to die. Kendrick knew it, and he was banking on the assumption that she wasn't capable of such ruthlessness.
