Surefire (17 page)

We don’t have much time before he’s down here, flushing us out. I’m going to have to give myself up, take the chance that he
will
let Eva go and she can get down from here, let Tom and Nathan know what’s happening, and bring help. They’ve got to be nearer than the police, and they know these moors. They can find us. Find me.

Then it occurs to me what I need to do, if I can. How to make sure Tom can find me.

“Keep still and keep your head down. I’m going to check on Barney,” I whisper my intention to Eva.

“No, I’m closer. I’ll go.” And before I can protest, tell her to not do anything stupid, or at least if she does to be careful, she’s on her way, slithering through the undergrowth like a commando.

“Get his collar,” I whisper after her.

She halts briefly but doesn’t turn, then she’s out of sight, swallowed by the swaying stalks. I’m not sure if she’s heard me.

“Are you all right, Miss McAllister?”

The operator’s calm, disembodied voice reaches me again, penetrating the fog.

“Are you hit? Is your friend hit?”

“No, no we’re fine. But he’s still there. It’s me he’s after.”

I hear a faint rustle behind me. Panicking I roll onto my stomach, sure he’s found me but it’s just Eva burrowing back through the swaying heather. A moment later she’s back beside me.

“Barney’s not dead. Unconscious though, he needs a vet and soon.” She shoves his collar at me. “I got this. Are you thinking you might…”

“Yes. It’s the only way.”

“Oh no, oh no you don’t. That’s a madman out there. A nutter with a gun for fuck’s sake.”

Yup, that’s my take on this too. But I really can’t see any other option.

I look at her, grasp her hand. “If he wanted me dead, and nothing else, he’d have shot me just then, not Barney. He had a clear shot, could have easily done it. He’d have been clean away. But he didn’t. He’s not going to kill me, or at least not yet. There’s time for help to get here, for you to go and get help. Tom’ll be able to find me with this.” I take the collar from her, studying its length. Good thing Barney’s so bloody huge.

She’s frantically shaking her head, obviously never going to agree to this. Seems neither of us has any choice. Rolling once more onto my back I quickly pull the collar around my waist, pull the two ends together across my stomach. It’s a tight fit, but it fastens. It can pass as a belt, more or less. I pull my the hem of my hoodie down over the top of the collar, make sure it’s well hidden. Kenny won’t even know it’s there.

“Last fucking chance. You don’t get away from me, not his time.” Kenny’s closer now, much closer. No time left to argue, to debate, to come up with anything better. Now, I give myself up and go with him.

“All right, all right. I’m here. Don’t shoot, I’m here.” With a last, desperate shushing gesture to Eva, and taking care not to make any sudden moves, I get to my feet.

Chapter Thirteen

He’s there, maybe twenty or thirty meters away, a double barrel shotgun held stiffly in both his hands, its angry, hostile nose pointed straight at me.

“You fucking deceitful, treacherous little bitch.” He lifts the gun.

I stop breathing. I stand, waiting for the shot, waiting for him to shoot me at point blank range. God, I made a mistake. A stupid mistake. What was I thinking? I should have listened to Eva, should have stayed down, stayed hidden. I had a chance then. Not much of a chance, but…

“Come over here, slag. Slowly.”

Frozen, I can only stand there, rooted to the spot. The roar of the gun again jerks me into action as he fires over my head, then swiftly reloads.

“
Now!
” he screams at me, and I’m not sure in that moment which of us will lose it first. Him probably, I’ve got too much at stake now, and with that realization comes calm, a cool, objective detachment that impels me to think clearly, dispassionately, to treat this as just a film I’m watching, something happening to someone else.

With conscious effort I will my feet to move, to carry me forward, toward him, away from Eva.

His eyes are narrowed at me, bitterness and rage etched there. He hisses at me, malicious, hate-filled. “That’s three times you’ve fucking left me, you tramp. Three times I’ve had to come looking for you. You’re not fucking doing it again. You’re mine. You’ve got responsibilities. To me. You owe me. I got three years ‘cos of what you fucking did, what you fucking told the screws. And you’re gonna fucking pay. Like that old bag paid, for interfering. For messing with me. You’ll learn to do as you’re fucking told from now on. And you’ll learn what fucking happens to lying little sluts who can’t keep their mouths shut.”

He’s ranting, incoherent. His eyes are blood shot, I can see that as I come closer to him. I wonder if he’s drunk, but dismiss that quickly. No smell of alcohol, although he smells of just about everything else. His clothes are dirty, filthy, torn in several places, his skin weather beaten, his hair not washed in God knows how long. He’s a mess, totally wrecked, looks as though he’s been living rough, and probably has. His hands are shaking, and despite his accuracy in hitting Barney with one shot I’m wondering now if he really is that good with a gun. Maybe he just got lucky that first time.

The one thing that’s absolutely beyond doubt, though—the one beacon of certainty in the whole of his rabid tirade—is his malevolence toward me. His hatred is there, palpable, obvious and undisguised. Malicious, bitter and eating him alive. My survival instinct is screaming at me now, telling me to calm him down, to do, say anything, whatever it takes to cool his rage.

I try the most obvious first. A groveling apology— “I’m sorry. I was scared, that’s all. I was upset, not thinking straight. I’m here now.”

“You’re here because I fucking found you again. I had to come all the way up here to fuck knows where to bloody get you back. Again.”

“I’m sorry, I…” My words are cut off as he backhands me across my jaw and I fly sideways, landing in a heap a few feet away from him.

He strides over to me and I know what’s coming. I’ve been here before, many times. I instinctively curl around my stomach, protecting my baby as he kicks me in the ribs. I gasp, but manage not to cry out as I know from long experience that that will only enrage him even more. I’ve had years of practice at this, at surviving this. I keep my head down, lie still, wait for him to stop.

“Get up, bitch. Get up and start fucking walking.” Again, that angry, hate-filled hiss.

I try to get to my feet, the pain in my side agonizing, every breath hurting and I know I have at least one broken rib. Not satisfied with my progress he grabs my hair and hauls me up. Now I do scream as he twists his hand viciously, and I’m sure my hair is coming out by the roots.

“Shut your sniveling mouth, you cheating, lying little cow.”

He lifts his fist and I brace for the next blow, but instead he shoves me, hard, pushing me up the incline, farther from Eva.

This is what I want, to give Eva a chance to get away, to raise the alarm and get help. I stumble forward, cooperating but not too obviously. Every few yards he jabs me in the back with the shotgun, cursing me, promising retribution for all my crimes against him, imagined and otherwise. My mind spinning, desperately seeking an opportunity to escape, to tilt the balance back in my favor, however slightly, I shuffle forward. Uppermost in my mind, I’m trying to understand how the hell he came to be here. How could he have found me? He doesn’t know this area, doesn’t know anyone here.

My breathing is labored, painful. My ribcage is moving and shifting with every breath. Just one rib? Probably more. I can taste blood in my mouth, the inside of my cheek throbbing mercilessly. My right eye is swollen, closing. I try to calculate how long I might need to hold out, how long until Eva can get help and how long it might take Tom to find me.

Oh, God, what if he shoots Tom?
He would, I know he would. Terror and despair start to build, threatening to overwhelm me, but the helpless presence of my baby grounds and steadies me. I
have
to survive, I just have to. It’s that simple.

“Thought you could just grass on me and then fuck off and leave me, didn’t you? Thought you could get one over on me, you and that interfering old bitch of a mother of yours. Well I taught her a lesson, showed her what happens if you mess with me. And you’ll get yours soon enough, you lying little whore, same as she did.” He’s ranting, rambling, the words seem to be aimed at me, but he’s not waiting for an answer, just babbling.

“Should have waited, waited for me, you should have been there waiting when I come out. Should have never put me in there in the first place, you slag. But you tried to fit me up and then you was going back with her, I knew it. Not fucking having that, saw to her good and proper. Stupid bitch. Interfering snooty old cow, looking down her nose at me like some bit of scum. Not good enough for her precious daughter, her little slag of a fucking daughter…”

I stumble, confused. He’s babbling, right? He seems to be talking about my mother, but it makes no sense. He doesn’t even know she’s dead. How could he, I never told him?

“Got rid of the old bat, but I’m thinking I might keep you around a bit longer. Have some fun, eh?” He reaches for me, grabs my arm and spins me around to face him. “You were never up to all that much, frigid little cow, but you’ll do for a quick shag…”

At last something penetrates. He’s talking about raping me, but that’s not what horrifies me. There’s more, something much, much more dreadful here. I stagger backwards, staring at him, wide-eyed, appalled. “Got rid? What do you mean, ‘got rid’?” An awful notion, something truly unthinkable, truly horrendous, is curling darkly around the back of my mind, an ugly suspicion, gathering form and taking root. My voice is a whisper, “What are you talking about? Who did you get rid of?”

“Your fucking mother, that’s what I’m talking about. God, you’re as stupid as her. Snooty cow, thought she could get one over on me. And you, you were just as fucking bad. Did the pair of you think I wouldn’t know? Did you think I wouldn’t work out that you grassed me up, got me put inside, and then you were planning to dump me again and piss off with her as soon as you got out? No way, not happening. Not fucking happening.”

I dread the answer to my next question, but I have to know. “What did you do?” My voice is low now, controlled, as I ask what I need to ask.

“I got shut. Fucking got rid of her.”

“She died in an accident, a hit and run…”

He laughs. Actually laughs in my face as he sneers at me. “An accident—yeah. An accident I arranged. An accident I fucking paid for. Except I didn’t. I never even had to pay up. ‘Cos Tony’s fucking stupid too. Promised the stupid git five hundred quid to run her over, but the fucking moron never had the sense to get the cash up front.”

My head’s reeling, I’m still struggling to find a reason not to accept, not to believe what he’s saying. It can’t be true. It’s just too awful, too cruel, too senseless even for Kenny. “Tony…?”

And now he’s laughing, no doubt finding humor in my horrified expression, gloating, proud of his brutal solution to his problem. “Tony—Tony who shared a cell with me, got out two weeks before you were due to. Just enough time to nick a car and work out where to do the hit.”

“Oh no, oh, Christ…” I drop to my knees, my face in my hands as the truth settles upon me like a dark cloud, crushing me. The cruel, bitter reality of a senseless, meaningless death. Of a life wiped out because some lowlife thug thought he’d found an easy way to earn a few hundred quid. Five hundred pounds for Christ’s sake. Five hundred pounds was all it had cost to rob me of my family and my future.

“Fucking shut up, it was your fault. You did it, not me. You caused all of it. I’ve got rights, you owe me. You stay with me until I say you can go. Until I fucking say. And you never, ever, grass on me. Not fucking ever. You knew that, you fucking knew what I’d do, what’ll happen to you now. What always happens to lying little shits who go crawling to the fucking cops.” His voice is rising, he’s bending over me, shouting the words into my face. His hatred and bitterness are all that’s driving him, distorting everything in his head, twisting his reality.

I deliberately, forcefully shove my grief aside, try to tune in, try to listen, to understand what he’s saying, how this all looks to him. Because if I’m getting out of this, if I’m going to be able to give myself any chance at all, it’s going to be because I managed to get inside his head, managed to see which were the right buttons to press to calm him down. He’s deluded, just plain crazy. Any moral compass he might once have possessed has now completely deserted him. I can’t honestly recall a time when what Kenny Potts wanted was not exactly what
he
believed he should have. In his self-obsessed world he’s the wronged party, the one owed an apology, entitled to retribution. That much is obvious, but it just makes him all the more dangerous, all the more unpredictable.

I try groveling again, forcing the words out when all I really want to do is throw up. “I know. I know that now. I’m sorry. I should never have…”

“No you fucking shouldn’t have. And now you know what happens if you fucking cross me. If you grass on me? You can’t get rid of me that easily. No fucking way. I got you back, got you to come back. Torched that flea-ridden house of yours and you came running back like a fucking stray dog. Stupid bitch.”

I stumble, turn to gape at him. He stops, returns my stare, his grin malevolent, proud, as he enjoys my growing horror.

“So it
was
you. You set fire to my house.” Even though we already knew, we’d worked out it must have been Kenny, it still shocks me to the core to hear him say it. Admit it. Gloat about it even. “But why? Why set fire to my house. I wasn’t even there. But there
were
people in there, asleep. People could have been killed…”

He laughs, the sound a tinny cackle ugly, out of place here, intruding on the otherwise eerie stillness of the moors. “Serves ‘em right, lazy fucking bastards. If they can’t be arsed getting out of bed when the house is on fire they deserve what they get. Not my problem. I knew you wasn’t there, I knocked earlier, asked for you and some spotty kid said no one called Shaz lived there. Said it was a student house, rented. So I thought if you’d rented it to fucking students you must have some cash by now. And you owe me. So I torched your fucking golden goose, see how long it took you to come running back. And it fucking worked, got you back there, that’s all I wanted. And you fell for it, stupid cow. All I had to do was sit and wait, and you showed up. Like I say, you think you’re so fucking clever, but you’re as stupid as the rest. You and your fancy farmer and his ponsy mate with hair like a fucking girl.”