Hit and Run (17 page)

Billy ran, Jeanie alongside him. His stride was erratic and he stumbled as he went on, but he kept running down the street, his heart thumping, his head pounding, his body aching and complaining, Jeanie right there next to him, tail wagging, looking up at him with big eyes.

‘Good girl,’ he said between gasps.

He kept on running, his lungs on fire, his legs heavy with every thudding step. Straight past St Leonard’s police station and up the cobbled lane that rose behind it to a tiny street. He turned the corner.

All quiet. He stopped and sank to his knees on the pavement, tried to gulp air into his heaving chest. He spat on the ground, it was black and slick. Blood. His own, maybe some of Charlie’s. He wiped his nose and it came away thick with blood and mucus.

He slumped on to his arse, his breathing slowly returning to normal. Jeanie fussed over him, in about his arms and legs, looking for attention. He gave her a tight hug.

‘Thank you, girl.’

He checked the back of his head. A damp patch on the bandages over the hole where he’d backwards headbutted his brother. His hand came away more pink than red, not like blood at all. What liquids were inside your skull? He popped two more Pervitin and a couple of Oramorph. Had to stay together a little longer.

Just over the rise in the road was Salisbury Crags, looming over him. The Radical Road slashed a faint line across its face, splitting the cliff from the gorse.

It was so warm, even in the middle of the night. It felt like he was breathing smoke, not air, the molecules clinging to his throat and lungs, scorching his insides.

He stood up and looked at his phone. Half three. The Radical Road filled his vision.

Not much time. Not much time left at all. He stood in silence. Jeanie sat down on the pavement and began scratching herself.

He looked at her, then at the phone still in his hand. Flicked through the menu till he got to Rose. Took a deep breath. Pressed ‘call’. Brought the phone to his ear.

Five rings. Answer-machine message. Long bleep. Deep breath. Steady voice.

‘Hi Rose, it’s Billy, your favourite trainee crime reporter. Listen, I have something to tell you. Hold the front page, and all that.’ He coughed out a laugh. ‘This is all going to sound insane, but everything I tell you in this message is true. I’m sorry. You trusted me, and I let you down. Big time. This story we’ve been working on, the Frank Whitehouse thing, you were right when you said I got too involved, but you don’t know the half of it . . .’

He rubbed a hand over his bandaged head, from the lump on his temple to the damp indentation at the back of his skull.

‘OK, so I just need to tell you everything. I don’t know how much time I have.’

He probed at the bandages over the hole in his head. It felt invasive and comforting at the same time. His fingers came away damp.

‘Anyway, when I finish, you’re going to have the biggest front-page scoop of your career, I promise you that.’

He gulped in air, found his throat sticky, struggled to swallow.

‘Right, here goes. I killed Frank Whitehouse. I was driving the car that hit him on Queen’s Drive that night. My mum’s Micra. A red family car, more than ten years old, see? The same car I gave you a lift in the next morning. That crack in the windscreen you spotted, that was where his body hit. Zoe and Charlie were in the car too, but I was driving. We were all drunk and wasted. Charlie steals drugs from hospital and we all take them. I can’t remember what we’d taken that night, but I was out of it. I shouldn’t have been driving, I know that. There’s no excuse. I’m not trying to make excuses.’

Billy wiped snot and blood from his nose, then tears from his eyes.

‘We stopped. Frank was lying in the road behind us. I wanted to call for an ambulance or the police, but Charlie and Zoe talked me out of it. We were all in shock. Charlie checked the body and thought he was dead. Charlie’s a fucking doctor, so I didn’t argue. A taxi came up the road. We panicked and carried his body off the road, rolled it down the embankment, then tumbled down ourselves. I was lying next to Frank.’

He tried to catch his breath, feeling the words pour out of him at last.

‘Except it turned out he wasn’t dead. We didn’t know that then. We left him there, got in the car and drove home. God, that was so fucking stupid. I don’t know why we did that. OK, that’s not true, I know exactly why we did it. We did it to save ourselves, to save our skins. But I’ve been living in hell ever since. Going over and over everything that happened. And, of course, to make matters worse, you called the next morning about the jumper. It was Frank, but he wasn’t where we left him. Which means he wasn’t dead at all. Maybe we could’ve saved him. He must have got up and walked away, then collapsed again.’

The tears felt like release, like a levee bursting and letting the floods wash everything away.

‘I should’ve told you. When I saw Frank’s body. I should’ve told you a million times that it was me, but I didn’t. I don’t know why not. I was lost. I’ve been lost since it happened. That bump on my head, that was from the accident. The aneurysm, I guess that was payback. For killing Frank, for all that crazy shit with Adele. Jesus Christ, Adele. What the hell have I done to her? This is all so fucked up.’

He stared at the Crags, dominating his sight, ghostly in the moonlight, towering over the city.

‘So everything that’s happened has been down to me. Jamie Mackie getting shot, that dog getting killed, the Mackies’ house burning down. Adele was pregnant. She lost the baby. And now the Mackies have taken Ryan Whitehouse. Adele’s boy. They’re meeting Dean soon.’

He felt hollowed out, an empty wooden statue, rotten on the inside.

‘I’m going to crash the party. Up on the Radical Road. Try to get Ryan back. I have to do something. If I don’t see you again, Rose, thanks for everything you’ve done for me. I can’t explain what I’ve done, except to say that I never meant anyone any harm. But that’s a useless thing to say. I’m sure you’ll have fun piecing all this together. I wish I could help you with the story, but I suspect that one way or the other I won’t be around.’

He looked up and down the street. Complete silence.

‘One last thing. If I don’t . . . can you look after my dog? She’s been pretty good to me. Thanks, Rose, and take care.’

He ended the call and checked the time. Twenty to four. He switched the phone off and turned to Jeanie, who pricked up her ears.

‘Come on, girl.’

He stood teetering on the edge.

His head reeled, as if his brain had shaken free of its moorings. The gorse below seemed to sway like rolling ocean swells, but there was no wind. The bandages over his ears made everything muffled. The far-off lights of the city were gauzy and diffuse, like a fogbound dream. But the sky was clear, impossibly distant stars blinking through the spread of sky, black then violet then sapphire on the horizon where the sun was preparing to rise.

The city looked like Toytown. The cliff he stood on was just a pimple on the landscape. Everything in too much perspective.

He looked around. He was surprised neither gang was here yet. Made sense to arrive early, get the jump on the opposition.

He was still struggling to get his breath back after walking up the slope. He felt like his body was floating above the ground, drifting through life. The painkillers, no doubt, all that fucking morphine. He shook his head, felt his brain rattle. Was that his imagination? The patch on the back of his skull was still damp. He suddenly wondered what the surgeon had done with the bit of skull he’d removed.

Jeanie was doing her usual sniffing routine around the edge of the gorse, tracing the movements of dogs from earlier in the day, or other invisible scents. He’d toyed with the idea of leaving her behind, she had no business here, but where could he have put her? He couldn’t go back to Rankeillor Street and he had nowhere else. He hoped Rose got his message. He smiled as he pictured her face when she heard it.

He looked down to the start of the Radical Road. Nothing. He waited to see car headlights on Queen’s Drive, but there were none.

He heard voices. Harsh accents. The Mackies. The voices were coming from behind him. He turned and crouched, almost falling over the edge of the cliff, grabbing a handful of grass and dirt as he steadied himself.

Just appearing over the rise were three figures, slouched in the semi-darkness. Of course, the Radical Road went all the way round Salisbury Crags. He’d forgotten all about the other end because he’d never had reason to come that way. There was a way up from Holyrood Park, the Mackies must’ve used that.

Billy clicked his fingers and Jeanie came to him. He held her collar and scurried across the path, the Mackies still a good distance away. He pressed himself against the base of the cliff, in a shadowed crevice, and knelt down. He calmed Jeanie and stroked her back and sides, quietly shushing her. He made sure he held her collar with as much strength and conviction as he could muster.

The Mackies slowed as they approached the highest point in the road. The path spread out into a wider plateau at that point, an obvious place for the meeting.

Billy risked sticking his face out for a glimpse. The brother he’d met, Wayne, was nonchalantly swinging a sawn-off shotgun, talking in a constant murmur. Another man dressed in a shell suit was resting on crutches, leg bandaged, occasionally talking back to Wayne, a lit joint hanging from his mouth. Jamie. A third man, much bulkier and thicker, stood a little apart, holding on to the shoulders of a small boy. Ryan.

Billy imagined stepping out from the darkness, striding over and grabbing hold of the boy, dragging him away from all this. He pictured getting a shotgun blast in the chest for his trouble.

He tried to see Ryan’s face. He remembered first meeting him in the summerhouse, the green haar of grass smoke and the evening sun giving the boy a halo as he came in looking for his mum. Who is the strange man with Mummy? Good fucking question, little guy.

He couldn’t see Ryan’s face now. The boy wasn’t struggling, didn’t seem upset. A five-year-old taken from his bed by strangers in the night. The big guy’s hands gripped Ryan’s shoulders in a stance that seemed uncomfortable for both. Neither of them moved. Jamie continued to drag on his joint, cradling it in the cup of his hand. Wayne shuffled his feet and waved the shotgun with agitated movements, providing a low running commentary that Billy couldn’t make out.

In the distance to the left, Billy saw lights. The clunk and thunk of car doors. Voices, getting louder.

Here we go.

He pulled Jeanie closer and edged back into the crevice.

He saw four figures trudging up the slope.

Wayne stopped fidgeting to watch, and held the gun against his leg.

The four figures approached. They were silhouetted against the purple sky, easily distinguishable. Adele, Dean and the two lumps of meat. So there were three psychotic hardmen against three psychotic hardmen, Adele, Ryan, Billy and Jeanie stuck in the middle. Fantastic.

They slowed and stopped talking as they spotted the Mackies. Dean at the front pulled out a handgun and pointed it at Wayne. In a synchronised movement, Wayne pointed the shotgun at Dean.

Adele broke rank and ran towards Ryan.

‘Hey,’ Wayne shouted, stepping in her way with the shotgun raised.

She stopped, hands to her face, sobbing. Dean spoke quietly and one of his thugs gently pulled her back.

They were talking, Dean and Wayne. Billy couldn’t make it out, he was too far away. Guns were waved, heads cocked, fingers pointed. Behind them, everyone was standing waiting. Ryan was now struggling against the grip of the big guy, Adele shaking as Dean’s goon held her back. Jamie casually flicked his roach over the edge of the cliff and pulled out another joint.

It seemed like Billy was watching it with the sound and contrast turned down. The drugs made his vision foggy, the bandages echoing back the sound of his own pulse in his ears. He screwed his eyes shut and opened them again, but it all seemed blurry, floaters drifting and jerking across his eyeline.

He strained to make out what Dean and Wayne were saying, but could only hear burble and static, like a radio stuck between stations.

He let go of Jeanie and felt around the back of his head. He scraped his broken nails against the bandages, and eventually found a starting point. He picked at the loose end until it came away, gummy against his fingers, but peeling off all the same. He pulled and felt little resistance as the bandages unravelled. He looped his hands round his head, feeling the release of pressure with every sweep, his skull relaxing, his brain breathing. Four, five circuits of his head and he had most of the white gauze off, the warm air of the night fresh against his scalp.

Then the bandages were off. He bunched them into a ball and dropped them on the ground. He ran his fingers through his hair. There was a large shaved patch at the back. He felt around the edge of the area, his heart hammering in his throat, his pulse so loud he thought they all must be able to hear it, everyone across the city must be deafened by it.

He felt air at the back of his skull.

His fingers moved lightly across from the hair to the shaven scalp, then suddenly there was nothing solid beneath his touch, just skin against skin, no support, like pushing at the hollow of his cheek. The skin was still there. He’d presumed it would be gone, just a big gaping hole in his head, open to the elements. But there was still a skin flap. As he fingered it, he realised it was loose. Had they sewed him back up or not? Either way, it was loose now. That was the source of the leak. Blood leaking through the edges where the skin didn’t quite meet up.

He felt suddenly alive. As if he’d just broken the surface after months under the sea. His ears were full of noise now, a rushing sound he couldn’t account for. He still couldn’t hear what Dean and Wayne were saying. They stood a few feet from each other, hands moving, mouths opening and closing. No one getting angry, it seemed. Not yet, anyway.

Billy looked at Adele then Ryan. He felt a surge of something through him, moving down from his head and radiating out through his body to the surrounding area. Immense energy.

He straightened up and came out of the shadows, walking as calmly as he could towards the scene in front of him, ready to interact with the world. It felt like he was walking on the deck of a ship in a storm, and he put his arms out to steady himself.

Everyone turned.

Dean shook his head. ‘Jesus fucking Christ.’

The Mackies looked confused.

‘Who the fuck is this cunt?’ Wayne said, turning to Dean. ‘Is he with you?’

‘No, but every time I turn around, the cunt seems to be there.’

‘I’m Billy Blackmore.’ His voice sounded like ice cracking in a glass. ‘And I have something to say.’

‘No you don’t,’ Dean said. He turned to his two thugs. ‘I thought I told you twats to give him a message he’d understand.’

The one standing on his own shook his head. ‘I think he’s brain-damaged or something. He had bandages round his head.’

‘Oh yeah,’ Dean said. ‘What happened to your bandages, dickhead?’

‘I need to tell you all something.’

‘Billy, stop.’ It was Adele.

He turned to her. She had a pleading look on her face.

‘It’s OK,’ he said.

She shook her head. ‘You’re going to ruin everything. We’re getting Ryan back.’

‘And I can help.’

‘This is a fucking joke,’ Wayne said, turning to his gang. ‘We’re out of here.’

Adele broke free from the thug holding her. ‘No, wait. Ignore him. Let’s sort this out, I need Ryan back, please. This guy has nothing to do with it.’

Billy walked closer. ‘I do.’

Both Dean and Wayne pointed their guns at him.

Adele turned to him. ‘Just shut the fuck up,’ she said.

He thought he could smell burning. He stopped for a moment, waiting for the flashes in the corner of his eye, the blissful release of a seizure. But nothing happened. He raised a hand and rubbed at his head, making Dean and Wayne focus their guns on him.

Everyone was looking at him, even Ryan. He tried to read what was going through the boy’s mind. Billy had never had a dad, his mum never talked about it. But he knew about losing a parent. How old was the boy again, five? What could Billy remember from when he was five years old? Next to nothing. He hoped Ryan wouldn’t remember any of this, would be able to blank it from his mind and live a good and productive life. As much as anyone could.

The burning smell came back to him, a flicker of smoky acidity somewhere at the back of his palate.

Adele turned to stare at Ryan, almost breaking down at the sight of him so close but still unreachable.

Billy looked out beyond Dean and Wayne and the guns pointing at him, at the twinkling of the city, thousands of ordinary people sleeping and dreaming. He wished he were out there with them.

‘I killed Frank,’ he said.

Adele looked like her face was about to dissolve. ‘What did you say?’

He cleared his throat and looked away, couldn’t stand to see her eyes on him.

‘I said I killed Frank.’

‘You must be fucking brain-damaged,’ Dean said, stepping closer. ‘This is some sick joke, you little shit.’

Billy turned to face Dean, serenity washing over him.

‘No joke. I killed your brother. It was an accident.’

‘Are you serious?’

Billy nodded. He stepped forward, ignoring the guns pointed at him, and walked between Dean and Wayne. He pointed down to Queen’s Drive, to the smattering of trees that lined the road.

‘We were driving home from a night out. We hit him. We thought he was dead. We moved him off the road and drove away.’

‘Billy.’ It was Adele behind him. ‘Look at me.’

He turned and raised his eyes to hers. Her face was full of confusion and hate.

‘You killed Frank?’

He tried to speak but couldn’t, just nodded.

‘All this time, it was you. I can’t . . .’

He felt the blow from Dean’s gun before he saw it, a heavy thunk of metal on his temple, right about where the bump was, sending familiar bolts of agony through his wrecked body, his fucked mind.

He dropped to his knees and tears came to his eyes.

Dean stood over him, eyes blazing, teeth bared.

‘I’m gonna enjoy killing you.’ He swung a boot into Billy’s stomach. The breath wheezed out of his body along with his spirit, and it felt good to have nothing left in him, nothing left to fight for, just pain and more pain sweeping through him.

He looked up. Adele was watching, tears in her eyes, her hands shaking.

Another blow, this time a kick to his side, a deeper pain than before rocking him as he flinched away from the force of it.

‘Jesus fuck.’ It was Wayne’s voice. ‘Look.’

The blows stopped. Billy looked up and Dean was gazing over his head, out over the cliff. Adele was looking the same way. Billy shuffled round slowly to see the flames. He scrunched his eyes tight then opened them again. Still there. Thick orange flames licking up over the edge of the cliff, only twenty feet away, spreading left and right.

Wayne walked over as far as he could, but the fire had already caught the top of the gorse, and he was pushed back by the heat as thick, flowery smoke billowed upwards into the crystalline sky. He turned back to his brother.

‘That was your joint, you dick. You’ve set fire to the whole fucking hillside.’

Billy’s sight was blurry with tears, his eyes now stinging from the smoke. The flames were rampaging through the dry, spindly gorse, weeks of hot weather turning the whole of the Crags into perfect kindling. Reams of smoke rolled over each other as they fought their way into the sky. Billy could feel the heat against his damaged face, searing his skin as he sat hunched over, struggling for breath.

‘We’ve gotta get the fuck out of here,’ Wayne said.

‘Not until we’ve got Ryan back.’ Dean produced a second handgun. He was pointing one at Wayne, the other straight at Billy. ‘And not until I’ve killed this cunt either.’

‘Hey.’

It was a voice from the other direction. The Mackies’ third guy. Billy’s head swam as he turned and saw Ryan running. It all seemed to slow down, the flickering flames, his little legs moving, Adele reaching towards him, Wayne swinging the shotgun round. He seemed to hesitate as he tracked the small figure with the barrels.

Billy found himself rising, his muscles aching beyond words as he thrust his body forward, a couple of stumbling steps, then he threw himself into Wayne’s arm, knocking the shotgun, sending a deafening blast ricocheting around the cliff walls opposite.