Surefire (16 page)

“Miss Byrne, you shock me. That’s not the sort of remark we normally associate with such a respected academic.” Tom’s dry tone belies the twinkle in his eyes as he reaches for more coffee.

“Have you been spying on us?” I glare at her sternly.

She shrugs, smiles sweetly at both of us before delivering her next killer blow. “Just a lucky guess. Well, why not marry him. He’s not totally minging.”

Tom’s expression takes on a distinctly frostier air now, suggesting he’s less than flattered by that assessment, but I do wonder if he might actually swallow his tonsils at her next remark.

“And he can manage a passable fuck by all accounts, and then a breakfast like this to follow. You could certainly do worse, Ashley.”

Tom gapes at her, his eyes glittering now with what I so sincerely hope is mirth, but I’m not entirely convinced. I manage, with not inconsiderable effort, to keep my face straight, homing in on her initial question. “It’s simple. He never asked me. Not really.”

“I did.” Tom dumps his coffee mug on the table with more force than usual, and has apparently recovered his powers of speech sufficiently to mount some sort of defense. He’s not come up with much of a rebuttal, in my view however.

“No, you didn’t. You offered to talk to my father. That’s not the same thing.”

“Ashley…” His warning tone is clear, the Dom asserting himself.

But now, I have a secret weapon, my hidden advantage. “Uh-uh, no spanking, right? And no whips. Your rules, and we agreed.”

Eva’s coffee shoots across the table as she coughs violently, gasping for breath. I reach out to pass her a cloth as Tom stands, moves around the table to pat her smartly on the back. Solicitous, he offers to fetch her asthma inhaler for her, but she manages to wave away his suggestion with a frantic flapping of her arm, her vocal chords still seemingly paralyzed. Satisfied her death is not imminent, he turns back to me.

“You two deserve one another. If you’re going to talk dirty I’m out of here. Is Nathan around?”

“Yes, he’s at home. In his office. Daniel’s staying for a couple of days so they’re planning a boy-fest—beer and football. That’s why I’m over here borrowing Ashley.” Eva’s still gasping a little, a distinct wheeze detectable in her voice, but her coffee now seems to be all going down the right way again.

“Beer and football, that’ll do me. I’m going over there then, so I’ll tell them the good news and raid Grace’s fridge since you two have eaten just about everything in sight. And, Ashley, you and I still have stuff to settle. With or without spanking. Given the prowess Eva seems so convinced I can drum up if pressed, I’m sure I’ll come up with something suitably memorable by way of teaching you the lesson in respect you so clearly need right now. And I
am
going to have that conversation with Bajram.” He nods politely to Eva, comes over to me, drops a light kiss onto my mouth and whistles for his dogs. “See you later, and take care out there. Have a lovely day, ladies.”

Chapter Twelve

We pass Top Withens at a steady purr as we make our way up the moor, the warm late summer breeze whipping our hair around as we climb steadily toward my favorite spot, my viewpoint. I marked the exact patch of ground with a pile of stones and come back here every couple of weeks or so to capture and record the seasonal changes, the repainting of the landscape by fickle weather and shifting light. The footprints left by my tripod are etched in the bracken, like some sort of moorland crop circle, or lunar landing strip. This is my very own little bit of England. I’ve claimed it, staked out my territory, and I chart its journey faithfully. It’s the same place, the exact same place, and different every time I come here. It takes my breath away, always stunning, almost airborne in its vastness, a terrifying beauty all its own.

I love to come here alone, but it’s even better when there’s someone to share it with. Barney’s listened patiently enough as I’ve waxed lyrical over the months, and now it’s Eva’s turn. Soon, smiling to myself, it’ll be the turn of my newest passenger, but I’m still absorbing the reality of that, still not quite ready to let myself believe.

This is the place where I was when I spotted Rosie all those months ago now, stranded up on the moors. During those incredible few days when my life changed, almost in a moment. Days that started when I plunged to what, looking back, was probably my lowest point.

That was the moment when I was crouching, shivering and weeping on my frozen path trying to bury my beloved cat in the cold, hard earth. A small loss in the great scheme of things, but for me, then, it was the final straw. I’d nothing left, no reserves, nothing left within me that I could call on to pick myself up and carry on. Then Tom came. Out of nowhere, he picked me up, made me warm and took me with him. He took my side, refused to leave me on my own any longer, showed me what it was to be safe and cared for. Home, family, friends, work I love, a future I just want to grab with both hands.

Who knows what I might have achieved on my own, some of that certainly, but with Tom everything’s just so much better. Tom’s the sparkle, the laughter and the joy that fills my life. He’s pleasure and pain and submission and glorious power all bundled up into one sensual, seductive package. And he’s mine. I haven’t agreed to marry him, not yet. But he’s going to ask me again.

Maybe I can tell some of this to Eva, share with her. Not all of it, some things are just for me, or for us—me and Tom. But I do think this woman—my friend now, but so very different from me in so many ways—will recognize and share the intimate truths and sheer wonder of the lifestyle I’ve discovered.

Eva sits quietly on the heather as I spend the next half hour or so setting up my equipment, monitoring the light from various directions, assessing the most dramatic angles, planning my shots carefully. I’m toying with the idea of developing some ‘concept’ stuff, using digital painting techniques in Photoshop to drop new and bizarre elements into my landscapes. Images intended to amuse, intrigue, shock even. I’m wondering about some new wildlife for hereabouts, maybe a herd of African elephants ambling across the skyline, or penguins waddling along the tops of the dry stone walls. Or maybe some prehistoric images, dinosaurs perhaps, or a Neanderthal family squatting next to my quad bike. Or I could turn the whole thing into some sort of scorched earth, apocalypse scene, or maybe create a tsunami sweeping across the heather.

I mention my ideas to Eva, hesitant at first because after all, she may be a brilliant musician, but she’s not known for her flair in the visual arts. The scientist in her might think I’m just plain absurd. But hey, she has a few ideas of her own, soon entering into the spirit of it. Being a scientist at heart she suggests images from space, alien technology, a Martian landscape complete with explorer rover vehicle. Or maybe we could slice through the hills and contours to show the geological layering beneath, the colors and swirling patterns laid down there over eons of natural erosion. We’re really getting into it, our creative juices flowing freely as Barney ambles around, sniffing hopefully for any unsuspecting and unwise rabbits who might have strayed into our vicinity.

The shot when it rings out explodes around us. An instant of stunned silence, disbelief, confusion and a frantic yelp as Barney flies into the air then slams onto his side, blood oozing from a gaping wound in his massive shoulder. Eva leaps to her feet, we stand, bewildered momentarily, looking around for—what? An Irate farmer protecting his stock? A maniac waving a gun? A tribe of American Indians galloping on horseback across the moors. Momentarily I have a stupid, totally misplaced image of that as a digital painting before the awful reality hits me. Hits us both.

“Christ!”

“Shit!”

We both scream together, not sure who yelled what.

“Christ, some bastard’s shot Barney.” Eva leaps forward, heading for the stricken dog, now whimpering, his paws flailing as he tries in vain to get up. A second shot rings out, exploding the heather a couple of yards ahead of her.

“Get down!”

At my scream Eva throws herself down into the undergrowth. I crawl through the heather toward her, grateful that at this time the year it’s fairly high, enough to give us some concealment. I reach her, and by common unspoken consent we’re whispering. Sound carries for miles up here, depending on wind direction.

“He’s aiming at us. Some bastard’s taking pot shots at us!” Eva’s frantic hiss reaches me as she tentatively raises her head. “Where the fuck is he?”

Another shot, and we both huddle deeper into our cover. We listen, the only sound now that of Barney’s wheezing, labored breaths. He’s no longer whimpering, and I dread what that might mean.
Oh, Christ. Oh holy fucking shit!

Eva and I look at each other, both of us wide-eyed, horrified, terrified. Is it some mad trigger-happy farmer? Unlikely, Tom owns most of the land round here, it’s his stock up on these moors. He wouldn’t do this, neither would the Appleyards. Some idiotic kid’s prank then? I doubt that too—the hole in Barney’s shoulder wasn’t made by an air gun. So what else makes any sense? Who else could it be? Only one answer springs to mind, and it’s a scenario I can’t bear to contemplate. Could it be that somehow he’s found me again? Followed me here to finish what he started weeks ago in Gloucester? What I started two years ago in Bristol? With a dreadful sense of déjà vu, instinctively my hand slides across my stomach, my subconscious kicking in to protect the new life that I’m not even totally sure is there.

Eva rolls onto her back and wriggles around to wrestle her phone from the front pocket of her jeans. “I’m calling Nathan. And Tom. You dial nine-nine-nine.” She mouths the words to me.

I nod, reach into the pocket of my hoodie for my trusty Samsung, praying either or both of us can get a signal up here. I can, and I bless O2 for their foresight and tenacity in sticking that mast on the slopes above Haworth, in spite of the objections of the conservationists down at the Rock and Heifer. Eva can’t get signal—seems EE must have been fighting other battles.

“Which service do you require?” The disembodied voice sounds thunderous in the eerie silence.

I murmur my answer, “Police. Armed police. There’s someone up here with a gun.”

“One moment please.” She sounds remarkably calm, maybe this sort of carry on is more commonplace than I thought. They do have some very strange ways here in Yorkshire.

“Police Emergency. Please can I take your name and phone number?” Another seriously laid back woman for me to talk to.

Panic mounting, I try to impress upon her the seriousness of our situation. Is no one listening? Maniac with a gun? Shooting at us?

But me losing the plot will get us nowhere. I bite back my mounting panic, my desperate fears for Barney, for Eva and me, and my baby, my utter confusion about what the hell’s happening. I manage to tell the emergency services operator, quietly and with a degree of calm I consider nothing short of superlative in the circumstances, that someone with a gun has shot our dog, and is shooting at me and my friend. And just in case she still hasn’t grasped the seriousness, I go on to explain that we’re hiding in the heather on the moors above Haworth, the nearest proper road is five miles away, there’s no cover apart from the heather for bloody miles, and we need help. Fast.

Still seemingly unruffled she asks me for the exact location, and as luck would have it I can rattle off an Ordnance Survey grid reference. This is my extensively documented and photographed little bit of England after all, I do know exactly where I am. She assures me help is on the way and asks me if I know who the shooter is.

I tell her I don’t know for sure, haven’t seen him. Her? But I think it might be, could be… I hesitate. If I say the words, it becomes real. My worst nightmare becomes my reality. As if to dispel any lingering doubt, any last remaining hope this might be just some bizarre mistake, some stupid misunderstanding, another shot explodes into the air around us, whistles over us as we huddle in the undergrowth, and shatters the tripod and camera a few yards away, the only landmark visible above the heather apart from our quads. But they’re a couple of hundred yards away, too far to make a run for it, and in any case we’d be picked off as soon as we got on them.

I know the truth, no point trying to pretend this is all going to turn out okay. I stammer out my answer, “I think, I think it might be my ex-boyfriend. His name’s Kenny Potts. He’s known to the police in Bristol. He—he has a grudge against me, from when we split up, I…” God, it all sounds so sleazy, so bloody trivial.

“Was that another gunshot I heard just then?”

I’d forgotten the emergency services operator was on the line, could probably hear everything. “Yes,” I whisper. “Please hurry.”

“Help is on the way to you. Is there anywhere you can take cover?”

“No better than we already are. There’s nowhere…” Another shot, and this time it’s followed by a shout, a voice, one I recognize.

“The other slag can fuck off. It’s just you I want. Stand up, Shaz.” Kenny’s voice, coming from somewhere above us, is still some distance away, but sound carries and can be deceptive out here.

“It’s him, his voice. It
is
Kenny. Oh, Christ.” I start to shake. My inner calm, such as it was, shattering now. He wants to kill me. I know he wants to kill me. And now, up here, all alone, he can. He really can, and he very probably will.

I lie still, my eyes closed, struggling to find some calm, some composure, some shred of resourcefulness buried deep within me. My life depends on it. So does Eva’s, no matter what Kenny might be saying about letting her go. And so does my baby’s life. And that’s it, that’s the key that unlocks my resolve, my determination to survive. Kenny killed one child of mine, he’s not going to do it again. I’ll see him dead first before I’ll ever let him hurt my baby. He’ll never get to hurt another child of mine.

“Shaz, you slag, can you hear me? You better fucking answer me or I’m offing the fucking pair of you. This is your last chance. Your mate can piss off, I don’t give a fuck about her, but you’re coming with me.” Kenny’s voice again, nearer now, definitely nearer.