by Neil White
‘You know what we want,’ the man said.
‘I don’t know what you mean.’
‘Don’t be foolish, Mr Barker. Amelia tried to keep her secret, but everyone has a pain threshold.’ He nodded slowly. ‘She was good, better than Billy, but it ended just the same. So we want the footage. Where is it?’
‘What footage?’
The blade pressed in more, making Charlie wince.
‘The video of Billy,’ the man said coldly, the laughter gone from his voice.
‘You took them,’ Charlie said, his mouth dry, swallowing hard.
‘Not the original, but you know that,’ he said. ‘We’ve just got copies put onto discs. I want the original footage, and any copies that are left.’
Charlie took no comfort from the fact that he had guessed right. He tried to think of what to say, but his mind was confused by adrenaline, so that all of his thoughts rushed him at once. He knew the original footage would most likely be in the office safe, but he remembered the sight of Amelia, and how she had ended up.
‘We use an off-site facility for things like that,’ Charlie said, hoping that they couldn’t detect the lie. ‘We keep the child witness videos there, and only Amelia or I can get access. We are the only signatories.’
Charlie closed his eyes again and felt the rise and fall of his chest, his heart beating hard. If they believed him, they would have to keep him alive.
‘And if you or Amelia couldn’t go to the facility anymore?’
‘The child witness videos belong to the prosecution, not us. We have them just for the trial. Everything we have stored there would be sent to the prosecution.’
Charlie opened his eyes and saw the two men exchange glances and shrugs. The blade moved from his skin, just a fraction, but it was enough of an opening.
He stamped hard on the big man’s foot and pushed at him, the surprise move giving Charlie an advantage. He bolted towards the door. Someone shouted. There was the rumble of heavy boots. Charlie’s hands were slick on the latch as he panicked, but he was able to turn it and pull the door open as someone came up behind him. He ran through and slammed the door shut, so that the chasing figure banged into the glass, knocking Charlie onto the landing, the door slamming shut. It gave him more time.
He thumped the light button and ran for the stairs. He had little idea of what he was doing. There were shouts from the flat, and all he knew was that he had to get away, driven by panic and instinct.
The door to Donia’s flat flew open as Charlie reached the stairs. There were people coming after him. He couldn’t stop. His hand slid along the painted rail as he ran, his feet banging on each step. He stole a glance upwards. The large man was running along the landing and got to the top of the stairs as Charlie reached the bottom. Charlie didn’t stop to get a good look.
As Charlie ran along the landing below, just two flights to go, something metallic flew at him. He didn’t have a chance to avoid it, and he cried out as it stuck into his shoulder, only the shoulder pads in his suit stopping it from sticking too far in. He yanked on it and winced with pain as it came out.
He got to the next stairs, and thought he was losing the race. There were more people running after him, loud shouts in the confined space of the stairway that turned quickly into screeches of rage.
Charlie looked back. The large man looked strong, his teeth set in a grimace behind a goatee beard, his biceps bulging from the black T-shirt that was tight to his chest.
Someone opened a flat door, probably curious about the noise, but closed it quickly again. Charlie’s feet skipped down the next set of stairs, barely touching each step, his skin hot against the stair rail as his hand ran along it. The chasing feet were quicker, hitting the top step before Charlie had got to the bottom. All Charlie could do was try to go faster as he dashed along the landing and then turned to go down the stairs. He was breathless from fright and exertion. As he rushed for the final set of stairs, he saw the front door ahead and tried to speed up, but when he was halfway down, one of his feet missed a step. He skidded forward, his arms flailing for balance.
Charlie stumbled into the hallway, his hands and knees hitting the floor, but he couldn’t stop. The footsteps were getting closer, and so he ran at the front door, the street visible as the orange glow of streetlamps through the glass panel.
The night air outside turned the sweat on his forehead cold but Charlie kept on running, his shoes making loud slaps on the tarmac, his arms pumping hard, his throat hoarse with effort. The door banged behind him, but as Charlie ran down the street, he couldn’t hear his pursuers anymore.
He looked back. The small group in black were emerging onto the street, watching Charlie as he got further down the street. One of them went towards a white van. Were they going to chase him in that?
Charlie ran across the road and into an alleyway, too narrow for the van. He didn’t want to stop yet, just in case they appeared round the corner on foot, but as the evening echoed with the sound of shoes pounding hard on the bricks under his feet, he began to realise that he was alone.
As he rounded a corner where the alley emerged onto another terraced street, Charlie stopped to put his head against the wall. His chest ached with effort as he gulped down air, and sweat streaked down his temples. The pain in his shoulder began to make itself known as sharp jolts, and once he was able to straighten himself, he looked at his jacket. There was a tear and a dark stain. It looked like blood.
He put his back against the wall and looked upwards and blinked at the stars. He let his breathing get back to normal and then started walking across the road, heading for the shelter of another alley, where it was long and dark, no streetlights, just chinks of light that came from the houses that backed onto it, and the occasional glow of a side street.
He had to keep moving though, and so Charlie hobbled along, wincing, his shoulder sending sharp jolts of pain. He thought about Donia. She was in danger now. He had to help her, but then he realised how little he knew about her. Why would anyone believe him? Julie’s phone call earlier told him that he was someone, and he knew how blinkered investigations could get when the police fixated on a suspect.
Charlie had worked out where he was going next. He just needed to get there without being seen.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
John was walking round the house, checking each window, when he saw her.
He shouted, banged on the window, but it was no use. It was Dawn, running across the field, her hair streaming behind her, pausing only by the Seven Sisters, just for a moment, touching one of the stones. Then she looked back and set off again, before heading for the wall.
‘Shit! No, you don’t,’ he shouted, and then he bolted towards the stairs, taking them two at a time. People called his name in the house, curious, but he kept going. Dawn must have heard him as he ran out of the house, because she looked round, but it just made her run faster, sprinting for the tumbledown section of the wall.
His footsteps were loud in his ears as he ran, and he remembered to avoid the traps. As he went past the Seven Sisters, Dawn was scrambling over the wall, crying, sounding desperate, heading into the woods and making for the path.
John hit the wall at a sprint, vaulting over, ignoring the scrape of his knees on the top or the judder in his ankle as he landed. His lungs ached, but he had to keep going. Panic was driving her. All he had to fall back on was his own strength. He almost stumbled on tree roots, and his knees gave way as his feet hit hollows in the path, but still he kept on going. She was still within sight, a dark shadow moving quickly, not heading for the long path towards Oulton but for the road, hoping to stop a passing car.
Dawn looked back as she ran though. A mistake. It slowed her down, so that he gained on her and could hear her fear coming out in yelps and cries, audible over the thumps of his feet and the urgency of his breaths. She wasn’t going to make it to the gate.
He got within ten yards of her, and Dawn went to her knees, gasping for breath,
her arms over her head. ‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry,’ she cried, between gulps of air. ‘Please don’t hurt me. I won’t do it again. I was weak. I’m scared. I’m sorry. Forgive me.’
John stood over her, his heart beating hard in his chest, his lungs dry from exhaustion. ‘Why did you run?’
Dawn scrambled to her feet, and so John grabbed her, to stop her running again. She looked down and her shoulders started to heave with sobs.
‘It’s not going to end how you think, believe me,’ she said. ‘There is no rebellion, no uprising. So help me, please, just let me go.’
John pushed her to her knees. His fists clenched and Dawn shrank back, frightened, her eyes frantic. ‘Don’t hurt me.’
He closed his eyes, one hand gripping her shoulder. He breathed through his nose, deep and angry. A flush crept up his cheeks.
‘Why are you trying to escape?’ he said in a growl. ‘We have to stay together. It’s important.’
‘You sound like Henry.’
‘Of course I sound like him. We are part of the same group. We have the same ideals, don’t we?’
Dawn shook her head and started to laugh, but it was hysterical, tears streaming down her face.
‘You say we, but you don’t know who Henry is.’
‘I know what he has taught me.’
‘Bullshit! It is all fucking bullshit. You know nothing.’
John shook her by the arm, his own eyes blazing now. ‘I know that if you get away, you’ll talk about Henry, and so whatever great plans he has, they won’t happen, and so it will all have been for nothing.’
She yanked back. ‘Fuck Henry. Fuck Arni. Fuck you. All of you. Think about Henry. What do you know about him? I mean, really know?’
John paused at that, and his mind went back to what he knew about Henry before he arrived, and what he had been told. He shook his head. ‘I know him differently now.’
‘From what? The petty thief? The burglar? The fraudster? What about the sex offender, that kid at the party? Did you know about that? He doesn’t mention that too much, does he, how he went to prison for buggering some teenage boy.’
John swallowed. He glanced back and could see people gathering outside the house, just visible through the trees, cast against the light shining through the doorway.
‘Why do you think he ended up hanging around with the likes of us?’ Dawn continued. ‘Because he was shunned everywhere else. For his violence, his attitude, the way he thinks the world owes him for his own failures.’
‘You need to keep your voice down,’ John said. ‘We’ve all trodden difficult paths to get here.’
She screeched with laughter and then wiped her mouth with her hand. ‘Do you believe all that? It was fun, John, that’s all. But Henry had to take control, because he does that, likes being the focus, except that this time people listened to him. And if they want to believe it enough, they start to believe it, because it gives them answers. But it was never meant to be like this.’
‘Like what?’
‘Murder.’
John’s eyes widened.
‘We were peaceful, loving,’ she continued. ‘Not killers.’
‘Who has he killed?’ John’s grip loosened on her arm.
‘Look around you,’ she said. ‘The stones you’re so fond of, the Seven Sisters.’
John was confused. ‘What do you mean?’
‘You don’t know, do you?’ When he didn’t answer, she continued, ‘It’s not a memorial, or a legacy, John. It’s a graveyard.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘People have tried to run away in the past, or have stood up to him, or not done as he said.’ She flicked her hand towards the field. ‘They are all there, under the ground, a stone for each of them.’
John looked over, the blood rushing through his head making sounds disappear, the shadows amongst the trees getting darker.
‘Seven?’ he said, eventually.
‘Get a spade, John,’ she said. ‘Dig around the stones and you’ll find them, the ones who tried to leave. That was the message – that if you threaten Henry, you die. Fear keeps us together, not love, or fellowship, or revolutions.’
John tried to take in what Dawn had just said. He looked back towards the field again, and the stones seemed different now. Darker. Colder. He looked at the woman in front of him, and he thought back to the nights he had spent with Henry, the truths that Henry had asked him to believe.
‘I’m scared, John,’ Dawn continued, her voice broken by sobs. ‘That’s why I’m still here, because I’m a coward. Henry made us take part, like it was some kind of thrill taken too far, our joint secret.’
‘You’re not making any sense.’
‘You’ve heard of Billy Privett, and that poor girl, Alice, who was found in his pool?’
‘Billy Privett? What has he got to do with this?’
‘Because he’s got money, and Henry wanted it, like he wants yours. That’s all you are, an asset to be stripped. You’ve got a house, and you’ve got money. Henry saw it in the paper.’
‘But what about the girl at the party, Alice?’
Before Dawn could explain, Gemma appeared further along the path, striding towards them. Her mouth was set, her fists clenched.
Dawn looked up at John, her eyes pleading, tears making a slow trail down her cheeks.
Gemma marched past him and grabbed Dawn by the arm.
‘Back to the house,’ Gemma barked at her, and then looked at John. ‘Henry said someone would betray us. Don’t listen to her.’
And with that, Gemma pulled on Dawn, making her get to her feet. Once she was standing, Gemma gripped her hair and started to drag her, stumbling, back along the path.
‘I didn’t mean to do it,’ Dawn shouted, her voice desperate. ‘You don’t have to do this.’
John walked behind them. He looked at the standing stones as he got closer and started to think that he should have let Dawn escape, because what if she was telling the truth, that there were people under the ground? Then Gemma turned to smile at him, and he felt the same flutter in his chest whenever she did that. A glow, a warm feeling inside, despite what had happened. He knew then that he couldn’t leave just yet, because he couldn’t abandon Gemma. He loved her, he had known that from the start, and so he would do whatever it took to keep her safe.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Charlie moved quickly along the alley, despite the pain in his shoulder, always keeping an eye on the exit, waiting for someone to appear. The walls were high, and so for as long as he kept in the shadows he was safe. Then he passed an open gate, a thin stream of light just reaching across the bricks. He glanced in and saw someone he recognised. A client, sitting on his back step, smoking.
‘Patrick?’ he said, sighing in relief.
The smoker stopped and peered into the gloom, his cigarette disappearing into his hand. ‘Who is it?’
Charlie stepped into the light that was coming from the kitchen door.
‘Fucking hell, Charlie Barker,’ Patrick said, laughing. ‘What the fuck are you doing, creeping around behind my house?’
Charlie shrugged, and then winced as his shoulder sent a sharp stab of pain. As he looked down, he saw that his suit was ripped where his knees had hit the floor. ‘Trying not to get killed.’
Patrick must have noticed Charlie’s blood-stained and torn clothes, because his gaze went to his body and then back up to his face. His look grew serious. ‘Oh yeah, man, I heard about Miss Diaz. It was on the news. What the fuck’s going on?’
‘That’s what I’m trying to find out,’ Charlie said, breathing heavily, the relief chasing the adrenaline away. ‘Except that some people don’t like the idea.’ He looked at his hand. It was shaking. ‘Look, can we go inside, Patrick? I need some help.’
Patrick nodded and got to his feet. ‘You’ve always been there for me, man. Come in.’
Charlie mumbled his thanks and followed Patrick inside.
The house was a typical terrac
ed house, except without the kitchen extension. There was a room at the back and one at the front, and then straight onto the street. Once the door closed, Patrick opened out his palm to reveal what he had been smoking outside, and Charlie got the hot, sweet smell of relaxation.
Charlie reached out for it, and as he passed it over, Patrick looked surprised. Charlie inhaled deeply, the roach wet from Patrick’s lips, but it was what he needed. ‘I wasn’t always a lawyer,’ he said, and the pain began to recede from the wound in his shoulder.
‘What the fuck happened to you, man?’ Patrick said, his voice low.
‘I fell down some steps,’ Charlie said, and then passed the reefer back. ‘Have you got a car?’
‘Depends who’s asking,’ Patrick said, and grinned.
Charlie smiled, despite himself. ‘Call it legal privilege.’
‘I use an old Corsa,’ he said. ‘It’s out the front, but if anyone asks, it’s nothing to do with me.’ He reached over and grabbed some keys from a worktop. ‘Bring it back when you can.’
As Charlie thanked him, he noticed something in Patrick’s eyes, and realised what it was: gratitude for Charlie never looking down on him. Charlie had put forward Patrick’s excuses over the years as if he believed in the whole truth of them, and so Patrick saw him as an equal, despite the letters after his name and the lawyer label. Charlie had turned to Patrick because he knew Patrick would help him, and he was right. This was Charlie’s circle of support, and he needed them. And what Charlie knew about his clients was that although their morality seemed to point in different ways to most people, they would always help out someone in trouble, because they recognised some of that need in themselves.
Charlie shook Patrick’s hand and then cut through the house. In the living room was a young woman he had seen trailing Patrick at court, a lank-haired brunette with homemade tattoos on her wrist and blackened teeth. She didn’t look up when Charlie went in, and then he spotted the bottle of bargain sherry. There was a young child, maybe eighteen months old, lying alongside, playing with a cuddly toy, but his mother was fast asleep, in a stupor.
