by Deborah Finn
And Beth. It caught in his throat when he thought of her. How stupid he’d been. How could he ever have caused her pain? How could he have gone with those women? He was a fucking idiot and he’d never deserved her. And this was his punishment.
He pushed the car into gear again and pulled out. What did he think he was achieving, driving round like this? He knew he was achieving nothing, but he couldn’t go home. Not yet. He looked at his watch. An hour, McIntyre had said. He still had twenty minutes. He drove off to the shopping centre where Gallagher had tried to strangle that girl. He parked across the street. It looked dismal in the rain. Mind you, it probably looked dismal in the sun. The strip lighting inside reflected on the wet tiles on the entrance ramp. He watched an old woman walk down the ramp, hanging onto the metal rail. She walked slowly, with one foot turned in. The bag looked too heavy for her. She stopped half way to catch her breath.
Martin sighed. What was he doing here? It was pointless. Gallagher wasn’t here. It was like McIntyre said, he’d gone to ground. He wouldn’t be in a shopping centre, he wouldn’t be in his house. Was someone sheltering him? Was there anyone he could trust?
Martin pulled the keys out of his pocket and looked at them. They were rusted, obviously old. And they were big. They weren’t domestic keys; something industrial then? He closed his fist over them and clenched hard, feeling the sharp edges cut into his hand. And then he felt it coming, like a door opening in his mind, but he couldn’t quite see where it led. Something about the keys, something about that phrase, going to ground. And then he saw it. It was obvious. The Hallowfield development. The plans of the building flashed into Martin’s mind. He remembered it clearly: the ruined buildings, the wasteland all around. The walls were solid with big, industrial doors. And then with a dawning horror he remembered the vaults, with their heavyweight metal doors where you could be sealed up forever and die. He remembered the darkness of the wet passage that led to the underground river. He pictured them there, the black, fast-moving water. He felt sick. He put the car into gear. Please let it not be too late.
“You don’t have to do this,” she said. She tried to laugh. It wasn’t convincing. “You’re Lester Gallagher,” she said. “You can do whatever you want.”
“I know I fucking can,” he said. He took another swig from the bottle.
She inched closer. “I see you,” he said. He pointed the knife at her. “You keep your fucking distance.”
She froze in position. “That’s right,” he said. “You stay there, or else blood is gonna flow. Isn’t it, my buddy,” he said, looking down at Ben, sitting right beside him.
The kid looked back at him, unflinching. “You can’t be my dad,” he said.
“Why not, kid?”
“You’re too old.”
Gallagher laughed. “Fucking cheeky bastard,” he said. He took another swig from the bottle. “You’re never too old to fuck, my son.” He looked over at Beth, and raised the bottle in salute. “Isn’t that right, darling?” He licked the inside of his mouth, looking her up and down. “You fancy one last fuck?”
Her face was a mess of confusion. Gallagher laughed, a laugh that rapidly turned into a cough. When he’d finished, he turned to look at Ben. “She doesn’t like me, boy,” he said. “That’s not nice of her, is it?”
“You’re not nice,” Ben said.
Gallagher pulled a face, as though weighing it up. “You’re probably right,” he agreed. He looked over at Beth again. His tongue licked over his front teeth. She was all huddled up, trying to hide herself. “Move your arms,” he said.
“What?”
“I want to see your tits.”
She swallowed hard. He saw her eyes flick down to Ben.
And then there was a sound up above, some kind of bang, something hitting the floor. He sat upright, listening. “What was that?” he said.
“I didn’t hear anything,” she said.
He looked at her, saw the lie. She started lifting her top. She pulled the vest up. She was wearing a sports bra underneath. His mouth was dry, his eyes moving between her body and the ceiling, as if he could see what was up there. She was starting to unhook the bra, when there was another noise.
He was on his feet now, all of his attention focused on the floor above. It was silent now, but there was someone up there. Who was it? Just kids, breaking in? Druggies? Or was it the police? If it was the police, they’d come down here in the end. They’d come down to the vault. They’d find him. Unless he finished these two now, then they’d scream. And then they’d find him, locked up in this piss stinking room, like an animal. He wasn’t having that.
He found the key, and unlocked the door. He pulled the boy to his feet and held him in front like a shield. He put the blade across the boy’s throat. He looked at Beth. “Any tricks from you, and he’s got a new smile across his throat. You got that?”
Beth nodded.
“Out of the door, boy,” Gallagher said. “Slowly now.” They stepped out into the dark corridor. The roar of the river was louder out here. Gallagher looked left and right. He could see no one in the darkness. He could hear nothing. He turned towards the sound of the river. “We’re going this way,” he said.
On his way to the site, Martin had called McIntyre. The man had sounded animated for once. He told Martin to wait outside. Not likely. Neither of the keys he had unlocked the front gate. He’d seen straightaway that it was a modern lock. But that wasn’t going to stop him. He wasn’t going to sit here waiting for back up while Ben and Beth were tortured by that psychopath. He parked the car next to the wall, and climbed on the bonnet and onto the roof. The walls were topped with razor wire. Martin hesitated. He wasn’t afraid of the pain. He was afraid of losing his grip, of not making it over the wall. He climbed back down and rooted in the boot of the car. He found a pair of padded cycling gloves. It was the best he could do. He put them on and climbed back up. Even from the roof of the car, it was still a leap. He tried to judge the best place, but really no place was good.
“Just fucking get on with it,” he muttered. And he launched himself at the wall. He could feel the razor wire cutting in. It was biting through his palm and the little finger of his right hand. Jesus Christ, he’d be lucky not to lose the finger. But he wasn’t letting go. Inch by inch, he pulled himself up the wall, until he was able to swing a leg up, and get a foot on top. He heaved himself up, until he had both feet on the wall. His chest was heaving. His hands and forearms were raw with pain and he could feel the blood sticking the gloves to his hands. He looked down into the courtyard. He could make out rubble strewn across the ground. He didn’t want to land badly and break an ankle.
He lowered himself, trying to get his hands under the razor wire, so that he could hang down the wall. He kept snagging and catching on the wire, but he got there. He kicked away from the wall as he dropped. He felt a jarring pain in his ankles as he landed. He let himself roll over and felt the stab of pain subside. It was nothing.
He got to his feet and looked around. Two of the buildings were ruined, but two were solid. He tried to orient himself north, remembering which of the buildings contained the vaults. It was this one nearest him; he was sure that was right. He crouched low, and ran towards the building. Some doorways were boarded up, and didn’t look like they’d been touched for years. He came to a small metal door with a lock. He tried both keys, but they were both too big. He crept along further and came to a large double door. He looked at the lock. He knew this was it. The first key slid into the keyhole and he heard the barrel of the lock turn over.
He blew out a shaky breath as he pushed the door slowly open. He stepped inside. The building wheezed and creaked like an old ship, bending to each tug of the wind. Through the darkness, he could see that sections of the first floor had fallen through. Each slow footstep crunched on broken glass then his foot skidded away, like a skate on ice. He thumped into the ground, his hand sinking into something wet and yielding, and suddenly there was a sickening stench
of rot. He caught a glint of light on bared teeth. It was a dead cat. His stomach clenched.
He lay still for a moment, breathing heavily. Had they heard him fall? Wooden boards banged against metal frames, and the wind whistled through holes in the roof tiles. And below it all, there was a deep hum: the river, where Gallagher had gone to ground, like a rat down a sewer.
For a moment, Martin felt his fear making him small as terrified thoughts spiralled out of control. He would fail. They would die in this terrible place, and he would have failed them. Instantly, he pulled himself back. No! No, he wouldn’t let that happen. He closed his eyes for a moment, trying to focus.
Beyond the hall was an even larger room, and somewhere was a doorway with steps that led down to the vaults. He moved forward, and his foot connected with a piece of rubble, sending it skittering across the floor. He froze. He couldn’t see a thing in here. He took his phone out of his pocket. No signal, he noticed. He turned on the torch and suddenly the space was illuminated like a bad home movie. He was standing right next to a stout wooden door. He turned the handle and it fell open to reveal a bricked up wall behind. Ten feet further down was another door. It was a heavy metal door with internal bolts. He remembered this door. He was sure he’d seen it before. He slid a finger around the lip of the door and pulled gently. The door didn’t move.
“No,” he whispered. “Please.”
And he tugged again, a little harder, and he felt movement. The door opened, and he could hear the rush of the river much louder now. He turned off the torch and felt his way down the steps to the half landing, and then back down again. He was in the corridor now. The vaults were to the left, he remembered that. He tiptoed forwards. He could hear nothing but the river. As his eyes adjusted to the dark, he could just about make out an opening in the wall up ahead. He crept up to it, his fingers feeling around it. Yes, this was the metal doorframe, with the heavy door cranked open. This was the first of the vaults. He knew it was empty, but he stepped inside. Instantly the smell of rot and shit filled his nostrils, and a wave of panic sent his heart hammering. He pulled out his phone and switched on the torch. His breath was rasping as the torch beam lit up the room. He could hardly bear to look. He swept the beam around the room quickly. They weren’t here. Thank god, at least they weren’t lying dead here. He looked again more slowly, and saw the bucket, the empty bottles and sandwich wrappers shoved into the corner. His mouth opened, no sound coming out. They’d been here. They’d really been here in this stinking dungeon.
And suddenly his body was flooded with rage. He was going to find that bastard and he was going to kill him with his own hands. He turned back to the corridor. They were still in this building. He knew it, and they weren’t far. Something in that room still reverberated with their presence. He knew they were close. Which way would he have gone? He stood listening, and he knew it would be the river. Martin turned left.
He was trying to hold the knife against the boy’s throat and shine the light ahead at the same time. It wasn’t easy, and the kid kept stumbling.
“Look where the fuck you’re going,” he said. “Through there.”
The feeble beam picked out the lines of the archway ahead. Beyond it was darkness, and a huge roaring noise.
“What’s in there?” Ben asked.
“That’s the river, boy,” Gallagher said.
Ben ‘s feet locked on the ground.
“There’s a ledge,” Gallagher muttered. “I’m not shoving you in the river. Not yet. Walk along the ledge. Careful. You don’t want to fall, do you?”
The boy was tiptoeing forwards, Gallagher pressed up behind him. The wall arched over just above head height, and water dripped on his head.
“OK. Stop here,” he said. He pulled the boy down, so that they were squatting on the floor together. He shone the light up into Beth’s face. “Don’t try anything,” he said. “One wrong move from you and we’re all in there.” He shone the light over the river, but it was hard to see anything, just a rushing blackness. The torchlight picked out the occasional rill of froth. The sound was enormous, as the river rushed on. It was like some underworld train, endlessly crashing through the darkness.
They waited, saying nothing. Minutes went by and then they heard a sound. Someone was moving nearby.
“You hear that?” said Gallagher quietly.
“They’re coming to get you,” Ben whispered.
Gallagher laughed softly. “That is the sound of a man walking towards his own death,” Gallagher said. “Who do you think it is?”
He swung the light back towards the archway. There was a length of thin rope coiled on the wall. He stood up and picked it up.
“I know a lot of knots,” he said to Ben. “Have you learned any knots yet?”
Ben shook his head.
“Here, I’ll show you one.” He grabbed Beth’s wrist and wrapped the rope around it. He made a knot and pulled it tight. “Did you follow that?” he asked Ben. Ben shook his head. “Oh well, hard luck,” he said. He looked at Beth. “Can you swim?” he asked.
She opened her mouth to respond, but before she’d even got the words out, he shoved her hard. For a moment, her arms windmilled against the air and there was the start of a scream, cut off as she disappeared over the edge, into the river.
“Mum!” Ben screamed. He was on his feet, staring down into the blackness.
Gallagher was laughing. The rope spooled out, and only at the last second did he grab it. The pull of the rope yanked hard on his shoulder, and the pain sent a spike of anger through him, but he held on, pulling her back towards the edge where the drag of the river was less fierce.
“Mum?” Ben called, trying to see her in the river.
“It’s alright,” Gallagher said impatiently. He was bracing himself, reeling in the end of the rope and wrapping it round his wrist. “I’ve got her,” he said. He leaned over the edge of the ledge and shone the light on Beth. She was being thrashed around by the water, about three feet below the ledge. She was scrambling to try and get a grip on the slimy wall. Her head was bobbing up and down, as she caught mouthfuls of air and water.
“Mum,” Ben whimpered.
Gallagher laughed.
Martin heard the scream, and then Ben shouting. His heart thumped so massively in his chest that he had to stop for a second and suck in a breath. They were alive! He ran towards the sound. He ran down the passageway, and found himself in a room. There was an open archway from the room, and beyond it he could hear the river.
“Ben!” he called.
“Dad!”
Weakness flooded his body at the sound of Ben’s voice. He felt like his knees would give way. He steeled himself and called out again. “Where are you, Ben?”
“We’re by the river, Dad. But Mum’s in the river.”
“She’s what?”
Martin moved towards the archway, shining the torchlight. There was a ledge. It was no more than a yard wide, and in places it was crumbling, some sections entirely fallen away into the river. Just a few feet below, the water roared. Martin had not pictured it like this. He had thought maybe a stream, some harmless trickle. But this was a real river, churning its way beneath the city, eating the foundations. He looked along the ledge, and there they were. They were about twenty feet away. Gallagher was squatting down and Ben was in front of him. Gallagher was holding a rope in one hand and in the other he held a knife to Ben’s throat. There were tears running down Ben’s face.
“Mum’s in the water,” he said. “She’s tied to the rope. Dad, you’ve got to help her.”
Martin’s eyes flicked to the rope, to Gallagher’s hand. He followed the trail of rope over the ledge. He leaned over and shone his light down into the water.
His heart clenched when he saw Beth. She was bracing herself against the side, just holding her head above water. She had one hand on the rope. Their eyes connected. She took her free hand and made the tiniest mime of pulling downwards. Martin’s eyes flicked back quickly to Gallag
her, to the knife at Ben’s throat. He shook his head.
Gallagher cackled. “There’s nothing he can do, Beth.” He looked at Martin and nodded towards the rope and the knife. “What a choice,” he said. “You hurt me to get the boy, and I drop the rope. Your wife or the boy: which is it going to be?”
Martin looked back steadily at Gallagher, ignoring his words. “Let him go,” he said.
Gallagher laughed. “Now why would I do that?”
“Because it’s all over, Gallagher,” Martin said. “You’re all washed up, and you know it. The police know everything.”
“The police know everything?” Gallagher echoed incredulously. “Your faith in the boys in blue is touching.”
“They know about Marilyn,” Martin said. “They know you killed her.”
Ben twisted round to look at Gallagher and then he looked back at his dad. “He killed a woman with a steak knife,” Ben said. Martin could hear the eagerness in his voice, like this was helpful evidence.
Gallagher laughed. “That’s my boy,” he said. “You were paying attention.”
“So there’s no point,” Martin ground out. “You’re already going down for one murder. There’s no point in this.” He looked at the rope again, looked at the way it was pulling as Gallagher held on. The river was running fast. He had no idea where it went after this section. Did it dive further underground or get funnelled into a pipe?
Gallagher pulled a sceptical face. “I’m not going down for murder, Martin. They’ve got no proof,” he said.
“But you told us,” Ben said.
Gallagher nodded. “Yeah,” he agreed, pulling a sad face.
Ben’s eyes flared wide as he understood. Martin could hardly bear it, the look in Ben’s eyes as he turned towards him. Martin held up his phone. It was a desperate move. “The thing is,” Martin said, “I recorded every word you just said. That’s proof.”
There was a momentary silence then Gallagher laughed again. “Well done, Martin. But that’s not going to be much use when you’re dead, is it?”
