Who Is She?

by Ben Cheetham

  Jack squeezed the handgun’s trigger. A round thudded into the bulletproof vest. The figure stumbled and tripped over Craig’s corpse.

  Jack swung the handgun towards the second figure who was advancing on him brandishing a combat knife.

  “Don’t,” warned Jack.

  The figure thrust the blade at him. Jack pulled the trigger and his attacker’s head snapped back. The bullet hadn’t come from a converted starter pistol. It didn’t get lodged in its target’s skull. It passed clean through and thunked into the wall behind. The figure swayed for an instant before toppling to one side.

  “Gav!” cried out a winded voice.

  Jack jerked his attention back to the other figure. The balaclava had been pulled up, revealing the flushed, sweat-sheened face of Ryan Mahon. Ryan’s shotgun was once again aimed at Jack.

  Jack flung himself sideways as the shotgun went off. A disc of pellet holes materialised in the wall behind where his head had been. He returned fire. Sparks flared as the bullet ricocheted off medical equipment.

  Ryan ran for the doorway. Jack fired again, hitting the doorframe as Ryan disappeared from sight. Jack clambered to his feet and warily cast an eye into the corridor. Two nurses were frantically working on a figure on the floor. They flinched aside as Ryan raced past them. Jack took aim, but there was no way he could risk a shot. He was trembling uncontrollably. Pain was washing over him in hot waves that gathered strength with every inrush. He lowered the gun and glanced at his shoulder. A bloodstain was flowering across his shirt. The bullet appeared to have struck him near his collarbone. A few centimetres lower and to the right and it would have hit his heart. He reluctantly accepted that he was in no condition to pursue Ryan. Besides, he had no intention of leaving Butterfly unprotected.

  He pushed the Glock into his belt. Head swimming, he staggered to the mattress and moved it away from the wall. Butterfly stared up at him, her eyes wide with fear. The fear turned to relief, then concern. “You’ve been shot,” she exclaimed.

  “I’m OK.”

  Butterfly’s gaze strayed to the gory remnants of Craig’s head. “Oh Jesus,” she gasped, clasping a hand to her mouth.

  Jack grabbed a sheet and draped it over the upper part of the corpse. He checked the constable’s radio. The handset was shattered. He took out his phone and awkwardly dialled Paul with one hand.

  Paul picked up on the first ring and said anxiously, “Jack, we’re receiving reports of a shooting at North Manchester General.”

  “The Mahons came after Butterfly.” Jack stooped to pull up the gunman’s balaclava, revealing Gavin Mahon’s lifeless face. Tears of blood were haemorrhaging from Gavin’s eyes. “Gavin’s dead. Ryan fled the scene.”

  “Where are you now?”

  “I’m with Butterfly.”

  “Stay there. We’re on our way to you.”

  Jack grimaced as another tsunami of pain hit him. His phone clattered to the floor. He staggered, putting out a hand to steady himself. A stream of blood dripped from his other hand.

  “Help!” Butterfly shouted. “We need help in here!”

  Doctor Medland cautiously poked his head into the room. His keen grey eyes assessed the situation. He darted forwards to catch hold of Jack and guide him to the mattress. He took out scissors and cut open Jack’s shirt. The bullet had ploughed a trough through Jack’s shoulder.

  “Did it go in and out?” Jack asked.

  “Looks that way,” Doctor Medland replied noncommittally. Bullets did all sorts of strange things when they hit people, fragmenting, ricocheting off bones, burrowing deep into places a long way from the entry wound.

  Several nurses appeared at the doorway. Two of them hurried to Butterfly’s aid. “I need a gunshot trauma kit,” the doctor told a third.

  As Doctor Medland pumped Jack full of painkillers and set to work on staunching the bleeding, the nurses manoeuvred Butterfly onto a trolley bed and wheeled her out the door. Jack made to stand up.

  “I need you to stay still,” said the doctor.

  “I’m going with her.”

  “She’s safe. The gunman’s gone and you’ve lost a lot of blood.”

  “I’m going with her,” Jack repeated in a tone of steely resolve.

  His hand resting on the Glock, he followed the trolley bed to a nearby room. A bed was brought in for him. He lay looking at Butterfly as the nurses set up her monitoring equipment. She looked back at him in a way that only one other person had ever done. Rebecca. A sigh shuddered from him. He’d loved Rebecca so much. He still did. But she was the past. Butterfly was the present and, hopefully, the future.

  Doctor Medland finished dressing the wound. “I’m ninety-nine percent sure it’s just a surface wound,” he told Jack. “But we need to do some x-rays to make certain. Your trapezius has been almost severed. It requires immediate surgery.”

  “I’m not going anywhere.”

  “It’s your choice, but you need to remain as still as possible. If your trapezius detaches, you might never regain full movement in your arm and neck.”

  “Go,” urged Butterfly.

  Jack’s gaze returned to her. “I’m staying right here until backup arrives.”

  A faint smile pulled at the corners of Butterfly’s mouth. “Have you always been this stubborn?”

  “I suppose I have been,” said Jack, thinking about Rebecca. She’d called him stubborn too – stubborn for refusing to give up on their marriage through all the years of her depression. I’m no good for you, she would say. I know it, your sister knows it, everyone knows it but you. To which he would reply, I couldn’t care less if the rest of the world knows it. All I care about is what I know. And I know that I love you. “Rebecca once accused me of always having to be right even when I know I’m wrong.”

  “Who is Rebecca?”

  Who is Rebecca? Even with everything that had come to light since Rebecca’s death, he couldn’t fully answer that question. “Someone who’s gone.”

  Perhaps sensing he wasn’t comfortable with the subject, instead of pressing for information Butterfly said, “Well I like your stubbornness.”

  A smile touched Jack’s lips too. Butterfly had a troubled past, but she wasn’t Rebecca. She was someone who’d taken the worst life could throw at her and was still around to tell the tale. Stubborn like him. A survivor. She would never choose death over her family. She would fight until her last breath.

  They lay silent, content simply to be close to each other. There was a thundering of feet in the corridor. Jack’s hand darted to the Glock. He released it and held up his ID when an officer armed with a semi-automatic rifle appeared at the door.

  Paul wasn’t far behind. Concern spread over his features at the sight of Jack.

  “It’s not serious,” said Jack.

  “Not serious? They tell me you need surgery. So what the hell are you doing here?” Paul motioned briskly to someone in the corridor. “Get this man to where he needs to be right away.”

  Jack’s gaze flicked to Butterfly. She smiled again, but there was fear in her eyes. She didn’t want him to leave any more than he wanted to go. “I’ll be back as soon as I can,” he assured her.

  “I know you will.”

  “For god’s sake stop moving your head,” reprimanded Doctor Medland, beckoning two porters into the room.

  Jack kept his eyes exactly where they were until Butterfly was out of sight. The trolley bed passed through several large smears of blood on its way to the twisted remains of the ward’s entrance door. The corridors beyond were a buzzing hive of police checking every corner, crevice and room. Armed constables were posted at the entrance to every ward and department.

  Jack stated the obvious. “You haven’t found Ryan.”

  “He was seen leaving the hospital,” said Paul. “We’re making sure he didn’t double back. It would be suicide for him to do so, but…”

  He trailed off meaningfully. Who knew what Ryan’s mental state was? His dad and brother were dead. Maybe he was
ready to join them just so long as he could take a few more coppers with him.

  “Where’s Steve?”

  “Carrington. We had to call in the bomb squad. The warehouse is booby-trapped.”

  “We have to bring Ryan in alive.”

  Paul nodded understanding. A firearms officer now numbered amongst the victims. There would be some hair-triggers out there looking to take Ryan down. But if he died, how would they find Butterfly’s baby? “Don’t you worry about that right now, Jack. Do you want me to contact Laura?”

  “Yes, but tell her not to come rushing over here. I don’t want her or Naomi anywhere near this place while that psycho’s out there. Also, do me a favour, put a couple of officers on Laura’s house. I killed Ryan’s sibling. I wouldn’t put it past him to try to do the same to mine. An eye for an eye. Blood for blood.”

  “Will do.”

  The porters wheeled Jack into a lift and pressed for Radiology. “Good luck, mate,” said Paul.

  Jack replied with the slightest of nods. Mate. He hadn’t thought he would ever hear Paul call him that again. He still wasn’t ready to respond in kind. Perhaps he never would be. But who knew? The older he got, the more he came to realise that nothing was ever certain. As the lift juddered into motion, he closed his eyes and pictured Rebecca’s perfect pale face. He’d taken it for granted that they would be together forever. He wouldn’t make that mistake with Butterfly. He would be grateful for every second they had together.

  Chapter 32

  Jack put the 24-hour news on and was greeted with Ryan Mahon’s mugshot. Ryan’s hard-bitten face had dominated the news for the past four days. Not that there was anything new to report. One of the largest manhunts in UK history had so far failed to turn up even a scent of him.

  Jack’s jaw muscles pulsed as he stared into the dark holes of Ryan’s eyes. His knuckles whitened on the remote control. He quickly turned off the telly as Steve entered the room followed by Laura and Naomi. He somehow managed to simultaneously smile and frown at the sight of them. His smile turned to a laughing wince as Naomi ran to fling her arms around him and the stitches in his shoulder pulled. “Sorry,” she said, drawing away worriedly.

  “It’s OK, sweetheart.” Jack’s shoulder had been throbbing like a hammered thumb all morning, but the love in Naomi’s eyes did more to soothe the pain than any of the tablets he’d taken.

  “How’s it feeling?” asked Laura, surveying him from the opposite side of the bed to Naomi.

  Jack gingerly rolled his shoulder. “Stiff and sore, but it’s getting better. My arm feels stronger too.”

  “You’ll be back to your normal self in no time,” said Steve, grinning from the end of the bed. “Mind you, I’ve been enjoying the peace and quiet with you out of the office.”

  Naomi’s forehead wrinkled at the mention of the office. Jack knew what she was thinking. She didn’t want him to go back to the office. Not ever. He changed the subject. “Did you bring anything to eat? I’m starving. Breakfast this morning was two slices of rubber posing as toast.”

  Laura handed him a Tupperware container. “Salad, chicken and baked potato.”

  Smiling thanks, Jack peeled off the lid and tucked in.

  “Are these new?” asked Laura, sniffing a bouquet of red roses and white lilies.

  “Yes. You can have them if you want. Every time I give one bunch away another seems to arrive.”

  The entire window ledge and floor beneath were crammed with cards and vases of flowers. Some were from colleagues. Most were from strangers praising Jack for his heroics and wishing him a speedy recovery. In the aftermath of the attack, he’d become something of a minor celebrity. He’d switched off his phone to avoid unwanted calls from television and newspaper representatives. He’d been offered five figures for an exclusive interview, but he had no intention of doing anything that might provoke further retaliation from Ryan.

  “Any idea when you’ll be discharged?” asked Laura.

  “They’re talking about today or tomorrow.”

  “Today. Yay,” exclaimed Naomi. “I could make your favourite pasta. Aunt Laura’s been teaching me how.”

  “That sounds great, sweetie,” said Jack. “Would you get me a coffee, please sis?” he asked Laura, flicking a meaningful glance at Naomi.

  Laura took the hint. “Do you fancy a coffee, Steve?”

  Smiling at her, Steve nodded. Jack spotted a gleam in his colleague’s eyes that suggested he fancied a lot more than just a coffee. “Come and help me carry the drinks,” Laura said to Naomi, ushering her from the room.

  “What are you looking at me like that for?” Steve asked as Jack stared at him.

  Bloody hell, I’m right, thought Jack. There’s something going on between the two of them. The idea seemed absurd. Steve stood for everything Laura despised. And yet, who knew? In some messed up way, perhaps he was precisely the type she would go for. “You know I’m not comfortable with them coming here, Steve.”

  “Relax. I won’t let any harm come to them. Besides, it’s been days since that wanker went on the run. We’ve kicked in the doors of practically every scumbag in Manchester and found sod all.”

  “Doesn’t mean he’s not still in the area. We made the mistake once before of thinking he’d left the country.”

  “Yeah, but that was before his face was plastered over every TV channel and newspaper. On top of which, we’ve got the entire Mahon clan under round-the-clock surveillance. They can’t fart without us knowing. I’m telling you, Ryan Mahon is long gone. And if he isn’t, he won’t be able to poke his head out of whatever hole he’s hiding in without being recognised.”

  Jack chewed over Steve’s words. They made sense – that is, if Ryan valued his life above revenge. In some ways, he hoped Ryan was unhinged enough to try something. Their chances of finding Butterfly’s baby could well depend on catching him.

  Heaving a sigh, he set aside his half-eaten food. Every second that the baby remained missing was a torment to Butterfly. Like him, she was regaining strength with each passing day. Doctor Medland’s prognosis had shifted from overwhelmingly negative to cautiously optimistic. The bullet was still beyond reach, but daily scans showed no movement. At least for now, its position appeared to be stable. Of course, there was always the chance that it could suddenly move with fatal consequences. Butterfly’s greatest fear was that she would die without being reunited with her baby. Even as her body recovered, this constant state of anxiety was mentally wearing her down.

  Steve eyed Jack knowingly. “You’ve really fallen for her, haven’t you?”

  Jack nodded. They hadn’t discussed his feelings for Butterfly, but Jack knew that Steve knew the score. It was obvious to anyone who saw Butterfly and him together. “You think I’m crazy.”

  “Who am I to judge anyone else’s love life? All I’d say is be careful. Make sure she is who you think she is.”

  “And how am I supposed to do that?”

  Steve shrugged. “You’re asking the wrong person, mate. Women are life’s biggest mystery to me. Oh that reminds me.” He handed an iPhone to Jack. “I downloaded Find My Phone onto it so you can keep tabs on Butterfly.”

  Jack gave Steve a narrow look. They hadn’t talked about what he wanted the phone for, but Steve was shrewd enough to guess. “I don’t want to stalk her,” said Jack. “I just want to make sure she’s safe.”

  “Did I mention stalking? It hadn’t crossed my mind for a second that you’d do something like that.” Steve’s impish grin contradicted his words.

  “Oh fuck off, will you?”

  Steve put on a mock-hurt expression. “That’s lovely, that is. How about thanking me for bringing you the–”

  He fell silent as Naomi and Laura reappeared with the drinks. For the next half-hour, the four of them chatted about lighter topics – Naomi and Laura’s day, the weather, the upcoming Manchester derby. When it came time for them to leave, Naomi hugged her dad and said excitedly, “I’ll make the pasta sauce as soon as I g
et home.”

  Jack laughed. “I should wait until we know for certain whether I’m getting out today.” He kissed his sister and said, “Be good.”

  Her forehead creasing, Laura gave him a What’s that supposed to mean? look. He lifted his eyebrows as if to say, You know exactly what I mean.

  Jack watched them leave with sadness, but also relief. The entire time they’d been there, images of the Mahon brothers blasting their way into Butterfly’s room had kept flashing into his mind. Every footstep in the corridor, every raised voice had made his heart skip and sweat gather on his palms. He’d felt that way a lot since the attack, especially in the dead of the night when he awoke gasping and disoriented with the stench of smoke and blood in his nostrils and the echoes of gunshots and screams in his ears.