The Mercy Seat (42 page)

‘Alone at last,’ he said.

Jamal closed his eyes, expecting a blow.

It never came.

Instead, Hammer dropped him.

Jamal opened his eyes. Hammer was bent over by the
washbasins, holding a hand to his right kidney. Behind him stood Amar. Poised, ready to strike again.

Amar pulled back his arm, but Hammer turned, lunged at him. Amar jumped nimbly to one side, letting Hammer crash against the door. The wall shook. He turned, enraged.

Before he could make a move, Amar hit out hard with his fist, landing a perfectly weighted blow against Hammer’s chest, upsetting his centre of gravity, knocking him back against the handbasins, cracking the mirrors.

Hammer, shocked at having been bested again, didn’t move for a few seconds. Amar, expecting and exploiting that, grabbed Jamal and ran from the toilets.

They reached the landing. It was choked with people obeying instructions, trying to leave in as orderly a manner as possible. Despite that, a cloud of barely suppressed panic hung over them.

Amar turned to Jamal. ‘You’ve got to get down,’ he said hurriedly. ‘Go through—’

His next words were lost. Hammer emerged from the toilets, punched Amar in the back. He crumpled to his knees. Hammer picked him up, punched him again. Amar was in too much pain to respond.

Hammer, having punched him beyond retaliation, pulled him back by his collar and pitched him forward into the descending crowd.

The barely suppressed cloud of panic broke as he collided with them.

Surprise turned to anger turned to shock. Some turned, saw Hammer, and that was enough for them. Screams and shouts competed with the alarms. Walks turned to runs. Self-preserving Darwinian nature reasserted itself. A human stampede began.

Jamal looked around. The floor was crowded. He had
nowhere to run. Knowing that, Hammer slowly turned to him.

‘Now,’ he said, ‘where were we?’

Before he could make a further move, there was a tap on Hammer’s shoulder.

‘Don’t you think it’s about time you picked on someone your own size?’

Peta.

Amar tumbled downstairs. He was trampled and tripped, carried along, then left. The crowd dragged him down a floor, where he managed to spin free and fall to the ground.

He lay panting, hurting, the occasional kick or mis-step by a passing evacuee hurting him even more. He closed his eyes.

The kicking stopped.

He opened his eyes, looked up. People were still moving about him, but not over him. Kneeling before him was DS Turnbull.

‘What happened, Amar?’ he shouted over the din. ‘Where’s Peta?’

Amar managed a vague gesture. ‘Up there … Hammer …’

He didn’t have to say any more. Turnbull was off.

Amar managed to drag himself against a wall, get his breath back.

He couldn’t move.

He hurt.

Feedback and static knifed through Donovan’s head. Clawing at the side of his face he managed to rip out his earpiece. He looked around.

Chaos and carnage everywhere.

Screams and cries. Bodies moving and unmoving. No
more bullets. The sound of sirens getting louder. He looked at Sharkey, kneeled before him.

He lay twisted on the floor, blood pooling from beneath his left shoulder. Donovan took off his jacket, placed it under the wound, tried to prop his head up.

‘I’ve been shot,’ said the lawyer, more in surprise and anger than pain. ‘Who the bloody hell did that?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Donovan. ‘Keenyside was as surprised as us.’

‘Where is he?’

‘He ran.’

‘You’ve got to go and get him, Joe.’

‘Will you be OK?’

‘Course I bloody won’t. I’ve been shot. Where’s the fucking ambulance?’

Donovan took that as a yes. Gave another look around. People were beginning to move again. Assess the damage.

Alarms were still ringing, evacuation instructions still being issued.

‘Go and get him, Joe.’

The entrance hall was starting to fill with people. Donovan stood up, ran to the doors. Following the route he had seen Keenyside take. Then outside on to Baltic Square.

He had on only a black short-sleeved T-shirt beneath his jacket, and the cold hit him hard. He shook it off; that was no more than most people wore in Newcastle on a Friday night. He scoped the square.

Police, ambulances, paramedics were arriving. Moving in, taking control.

He looked at the Millennium Bridge. Saw a figure almost at the Newcastle side, running, carrying an aluminium briefcase.

Keenyside.

Donovan pushed his way through the crowds, gave chase.

Keenyside had a good start on him, but Donovan was determined. He eye-tracked him, jumping out of the way of pedestrians, shouting at others to move for him.

Donovan reached the other side, checked on his quarry.

Keenyside was running along the waterfront, away from the bars and restaurants, the city centre, heading towards Byker.

Donovan, chest burning, legs shaking, gave chase.

Keenyside ran by some apartment blocks, jumped over a low fence, on to a grass verge. He ran beneath the Glasshouse Bridge, into shadow. Donovan, at a distance, followed.

Donovan reached the Low Level Bridge, Ouse Burn trickling beneath it. His legs were now liquid, his chest hot, raw meat. He looked around.

No Keenyside.

Before him a building. Derelict-looking, on a weed-choked stretch of concrete. Ringed by a rusting chain-link fence, on the fence a notice:

KEEP OUT
.
BUILDING DERELICT AND UNSAFE
.

A padlock hanging loose from the gate. The gate open.

Donovan pushed open the gate, entered.

Walked slowly over the cracked concrete; listening, wary. He reached the front. Double doors. A small one, inset. Chained and padlocked. The padlock undone.

The door open.

Donovan, struggling to hear anything beyond his own ragged breath, pushed it open further, stepped in.

Inside was dark. He took one step, two.

The door slammed shut behind him.

He turned. Too slowly. Felt pain at the base of his skull.

As another kind of darkness claimed him.

Hammer stared at Peta. Then attacked.

She sidestepped, spun round, landed a kick in the small of his back. He turned, angry to be bested by a woman on the first blow. Swung at her.

Peta ducked, rolled. Sprang to her feet again. Smiled.

He was bigger, stronger and meaner, so she had to quickly adapt her fighting style, turn his strengths against him. Use guile, speed and precision-blows.

Hammer growled, lunged. Peta moved, but not quickly enough. He landed a glancing blow to her shoulder. It hurt. He followed through with another. It hurt even more.

Step it up, she thought.

Peta kicked, hitting Hammer in the solar plexus. He grunted, remained upright. She tried again, higher up. He grabbed her foot, held it firm.

She knew what he was about to do; he telegraphed the move. Twist her foot, snap her leg.

Before he could, she jumped up, pushing against him with her captured foot, using his body for leverage. Balanced on his chest. Clapped both hands over his ears.

He screamed in pain, let go. Blood began to trickle from his right ear.

She jumped back, looked around. The crowd had thinned on the different levels now, but the stairs of the
building were still blocked. The three of them had this floor to themselves. They were standing by the entrance to one of the galleries. Peta caught a quick view of objects behind glass. She backed inside, away from Jamal, coaxing Hammer with her. Hammer, still in pain, charged.

‘Getting tired, are you, Hammer?’ she shouted. ‘Not used to girls fighting back?’

She manoeuvred herself in front of one of the cabinets. Hammer growled and, snarling, let loose a punch. Peta ducked. The glass shattered round his hand.

Peta moved quickly behind him. Punched him as hard as she could in the kidneys. It hurt her hand. He was solid. She tried again.

Hammer spun round. His arm caught on broken glass. Shards gouged. Blood spurted. She took her eye from him, looked at it. He punched her.

The blow caught her on the cheekbone. She spun, hit the floor. Landed hard, winded.

He came at her.

She stuck her leg out, aiming a kick in his groin, but she was too slow. He grabbed her foot and, blood flicking and arcing from his damaged arm, twisted it hard. She felt something wrench in her knee.

She screamed and, going into the movement, not fighting it, spun her body round with it. Hammer let go. She was sprawled on the floor, panting, the pain in her leg, her face, like a hundred red-hot razors.

Hammer looked at her, then the doorway, where Jamal was crouching in fear.

Decided who to go for.

Jamal.

‘No …’ Peta tried to pull herself up.

Jamal stood, ready to run, but Hammer was on him and out of the gallery.

Peta, using one of the gallery’s benches, pulled herself upright and, trying to ignore the pain in her right leg, half hopped, half dragged herself along behind him.

She reached the gallery entrance. Hammer was still standing there holding Jamal, his uninjured arm round the boy’s throat in a choke-lock. The stairs were still blocked. He was looking for another way out.

There was a commotion on the stairs – someone fighting the tide, coming up while the majority were heading down. Peta recognized who it was.

‘Paul!’ she shouted, hanging on to the wall for support. ‘Quick! Hammer’s got Jamal!’

At the sound of her voice, Hammer turned. Frantic for a way out now. He scanned the floor, saw an open archway at the opposite end of the hall to the stairwell. Assuming it led to another set of steps, he made for it, dragging Jamal along with him.

Turnbull reached Peta.

‘He’s getting away …’ She gestured to where Hammer had just gone.

Turnbull ran towards it, Peta, limping along, supported by the wall, following.

It wasn’t a stairwell. It was an observation box. Out in the open air, walled in on three sides by glass, unroofed. The view was spectacular: the Tyne stretching away in both directions, the bridges and the waterfront lit spectacularly against the dark. It looked warm, exciting.

Like another city.

Hammer realized he was trapped. Stopped. Turnbull stood in the entrance way.

‘Let the boy go,’ he said, hands outstretched. ‘Just let him go and we’ll talk about it, OK?’

By way of a reply, Hammer pulled Jamal up, tried to push him over the glass wall. He would have managed it in
one movement if his arm hadn’t been damaged. And if Jamal hadn’t struggled.

Jamal pushed and kicked against him, screaming, fighting for his life.

Turnbull drew his gun, aimed it.

‘Let the boy go and step away,’ he called. ‘Or I’ll fire. Do it.’

Hammer ignored him, pushed Jamal further. Jamal was balanced on the edge of the glass. He looked over. It was a long way down.

Jamal was too scared even to scream.

Peta arrived, clutching the doorway for support. ‘Don’t fire. You might hit Jamal …’

Turnbull looked between the three of them, weighing up his options. Speedily deciding what was the best thing to do.

Hammer pushed Jamal further. Smiled his blue-jewelled smile.

Turnbull fired.

‘No!’ shouted Peta.

Once. Twice.

Chest shots. The impact flung Hammer back against the glass. The bullets tore straight through him. The glass began to buckle and crack. Hammer crumpled, but stayed upright.

Turnbull fired again.

The third bullet killed Hammer. Head shot. His body banged against the glass, then began to sag downwards into a sitting position, leaving a huge red smear in his wake.

Jamal was left balancing on the glass wall. He tried to keep his balance, scramble back inside.

The fractures in the glass deepened. The wall began to sway.

Jamal began to slip, to fall.

‘Jamal!’

Peta rushed forward and, ignoring the pain in her leg,
grabbed him, pulling him back inside. He tumbled into her and she lost her footing. They landed on the floor of the observation box in a heap.

She pulled the terrified boy close to her.

‘It’s all right now,’ she said. ‘You’re safe.’

Donovan opened his eyes.

Head spinning, eyes pinballing in their sockets.

Tried to move his arms. Couldn’t. Waited for focus to return, looked down. His arms were tied to the arms of a chair. No, not tied, taped. Bound tightly.

He tried his legs, his body; pulled them hard. Same story. Taped to a chair, upright, in a sitting position.

He sat back, head spinning, aching. He felt nauseous.

Deep breaths. Then a look around, attempting to work out where he was.

Saw old car parts. Tools. Smelled cold, fetid air. Squinted from harsh overhead lights. On the floor by his feet, motor oil stains. Others. Human oil stains.

A radiator on the far wall; two people, a man and a woman, cuffed to it, huddled under blankets. The man old, frail. Sick looking. The woman younger, wasted. Both with the pallor of hopelessness. What he imagined Belsen inmates looked like during the Second World War.

Then the shock of recognition.

Colin and Caroline Huntley.

‘Colin Huntley …’

The old man looked at him, confusion in his eyes, as if hearing a name he hadn’t heard in years. A name he was known by in a previous life.

‘Caroline Huntley …’

The woman didn’t answer. She looked to be in shock.

‘Well, I’m glad you’ve made your introductions,’ said a voice behind Donovan, ‘Because you’re all going to be
together for a long time. Till death do you part, unless someone finds you.’

Caroline Huntley let out a little whimper.

Donovan turned, or tried to; pain flashed through his head when he attempted to move it, starburst fireworks exploded at the sides of his eyes. He waited for the speaker to come into his line of vision. He knew who it would be.

Alan Keenyside had changed out of his suit. He now wore a leather jacket, polo shirt and pressed chinos. He had a packed holdall by his feet, the aluminium case next to that. He stood in front of Donovan.