I had just pointed out my tenth alternative route on the map and was running out of ideas. Laura was looking edgy.
‘It’s time to go up there,’ I said, stepping away from the car.
Laura looked up at the house. It looked the image of Dales charm: a stone-built box house, set among trees and fields, facing south, roses scattered around the front porch.
She took a deep breath. ‘You’re not going.’
‘Yes, I am,’ I said, and set off walking.
‘No, you’re not,’ she replied, ‘because it’s too dangerous. We’re unarmed, and you might get hurt. And I might get hurt. I’m not leaving Bobby without a mum. When we got out of the car, I got my phone to send in our location. I’m sorry, Jack, but some things are more important than a story.’
I paused, took some more steps. And then stopped and turned around. I knew she was right. Was I doing this for the exclusive? I had it anyway. But I felt betrayed. I thought I was piggy-backing her. Maybe it was the other way round? I looked up at the house.
‘I need to go up there,’ I said. ‘I’ve got a personal stake in this.’ I looked back at Laura and said, ‘Professional stakes aren’t always worth risking your life over, but personal, well, that’s different.’
Laura looked down at the floor, playing in the dust with her foot.
‘This is non-negotiable,’ she said.
I looked at her, and then shook my head. ‘Who said we were negotiating?’
I set off again towards the house.
He moved his foot away slowly and placed it on the side of the step. He put his foot down gradually, but the wood didn’t creak.
He stepped up onto the first stair. He put his back against the wall and took each step slowly, his gun pointing up the stairs. The television was still playing, giving him a sound source. After four steps, the door came into view, the muted light from the bedroom showing through. The talking had stopped.
He slid his back along the wall, his clothes making a light brushing sound. He took the remaining stairs slowly, certain he’d been heard. He reached behind his back and pulled out the pepper spray. If she was hiding behind a door or somewhere, a burst of spray would bring her out.
He got to the top step and flattened himself against the opposite wall. She’d have to put herself into the doorframe to shoot him. The light wasn’t good on the landing, although maybe it was better than the bedroom, which looked in shadow, just the blues from the television making the walls flicker.
He walked sideways, crab-style, against the wall. His ears were straining for any sound above the television, anything to confirm that she was there.
He went past the closed doors to the other bedrooms and then ended up in front of the open doorway. He had one ear to the gap between the door and the frame. There was only the television. He couldn’t even hear her breathing.
Then he heard the squeak of a foot on a shiny floor. She had moved. She was waiting for him.
He smiled and took a silent deep breath. She wouldn’t have to wait any longer.
Liza crouched on the floor, trying to hear past the television. Cricket talk, golf news. The room was too full, too loud, crowding out any sounds trying to break through. She’d heard nothing else since the creak on the stair.
Her eyes were fixed on the door, but there was no one there. But then she thought she heard something. Her heart clenched. She crouched down, her eyes fixed on the light on the floor. It was faint, but there was enough of a glow to see. She tensed her finger, wrapped snugly around the metal, the trigger starting to give. She felt the shadows close in on her, could feel darkness creeping in from outside the room. Her eyes flashed to the television. Still nothing from David Watts. She looked again at the door. Was this his message?
She edged slowly around the bed, her knees shuffling, her feet squeaking on the varnished boards. The sheen was still there on the floor. The doorframe started to come into view, a slice of muted light that spread as she moved around. But it was only light. No sounds. No movement.
Then it changed. Her eyes shot to the floor. Someone had stepped across the light. The boards by the door were in shadow. There was someone there. Someone was coming in.
She’d stopped breathing, her panic making everything stop. Her chest beat hard and her mouth went dry and lifeless. Was this it? The end?
Her thoughts gelled in a flash.
She threw herself to the side so that she landed on her shoulder. She drew the gun up quickly at the bedroom door and started to pull on the trigger. She was sliding on the boards, the trigger hard against her finger, fighting back as she squeezed harder, her fall still taking her along the floor, the gun pointing at the door.
The sound was like an explosion in the room. The recoil from the gun shot her hand upwards as she fired, and again, and again. She shot four times into the door. Dust flew up as the bullets hit and went through, wood splintering, the noise still echoing round, the filtered light catching the dust and wood as it twirled to the floor.
There was a rumble of feet, the thump of someone dropping to the floor. She shuffled backwards so that she was out of shot of anyone in the doorway, her feet scrambling across the floor. She shook her head to try to shift the noise of the gun out of it. She could hear a voice, a male voice, snarling with pain. She had hit him.
She sat on the floor, panting, trapped in the room, the only way out through the door or the window. She took a deep breath. She wasn’t creeping out. It was her house.
She stood up and began to walk slowly across the bedroom. She held the gun out, ready to fire, letting the doorway come fully into view this time. Her view slowly grew as she moved across the room. She went past the television and reached behind with her spare hand to switch it off. When the room fell silent, she stopped and listened. She couldn’t hear anything. She stayed like that for a minute, wondering where the noise of pain had come from. There was nothing.
Then she edged towards the door and saw the spots of blood on the floor. They were for real. Someone was in the house. It wasn’t just in her head.
But where had he gone?
I ducked when I heard the first shot.
I turned round to Laura. She had taken cover behind the car. I looked back towards the house. I was in open space, halfway along the path. I quickly scanned the house, but I couldn’t see anything. No windows open, no one watching me. The shots sounded muffled, as if they were indoors.
Three more shots, quick bursts.
‘Get back here, Jack.’
I ran back, every step a lifetime, the car never drawing near. Evinto the empty doorway.ery crunch of my feet on the path was shouting out my location, like traces on radar. My leg jolted with pain, but I went into a slide as I went for the rear of the car, feet first, flying through the air.
I skidded to a halt, the gravel ripping at my trousers, a cloud of dust surrounding me. I was behind the car. I put my head down and sucked in air, and then looked at Laura. She was in a crouch.
‘Ever the drama queen,’ she said.
I looked down at myself. ‘I think I scuffed my new jeans,’ I announced, and then laughed nervously. I pointed up at the house. ‘Was that meant for us?’
She followed my gaze and then shook her head. ‘It was inside the house, but who was she was shooting at?’
I thought about it for a moment, and then said, ‘We know she’s due another visitor.’
We both thought about that for a second, and then Laura said, ‘You stay here. I’m going up to the house.’
‘Not on your own.’
‘Don’t be the hero, Jack. I’m a cop. Let me be one.’
I sighed. ‘And let me be a crime reporter.’
Laura’s hand was in the glove box, scrabbling for her warrant card. ‘At least you’ve got a witness for this crime scene.’
She found the card, and then raised her eyebrows. ‘Gotta go.’
I followed not far behind.
Liza looked into the empty doorway. Spots of blood dotted the floor. Her eyes tried to track them but they didn’t go anywhere.
She edged forward and framed herself in the doorway. She let her hand do a sweep, her gun ready to fire. Still nothing. She sounded alone. But she knew that she wasn’t.
She thought she could hear every sound in the house, even the dust settling. She felt flutters of fear in her stomach, her mouth going dry. The gun had a slight tremor as she tried to see along the landing. She squinted hard, just seeing the same old scene. She swallowed, felt frantic, when she saw a chink of something. Her eyes strained towards it. It was a sliver of grey, just a brighter shade than the rest of the light. She realised what it was: the last room along was open. The door was ajar, just, letting out a slice of light.
She stepped onto the landing, her foot landing slowly, her toes spreading on the boards, her footstep silent.
She ignored the first door. She was about to take another step when she stopped, her stance in mid-stride. She’d heard something. It was like a rumble, just light, but she couldn’t tell where it was coming from. She stepped forward again, her gun ready, her body poised and coiled to react. She couldn’t see anything. Just shadows, dark and long, each full of echoes of Annie, and her own father, his voice slurred and angry from whisky, shouting, hitting, sometimes crying. They grabbed at her, willed her forward, their entreaties mixed in with their cries as they choked on the smoke.
She quickly stepped back into the bedroom and stood there, her chest heaving, her brow moist with sweat. She took a few fast breaths to try to calm herself and then set off again out of the bedroom.
She took one step and closed her eyes, tried to force away the shadows. She had to see what she was doing, had to stay alert, ready.
She opened her eyes and kept on walking, three steps, then four. The door at the end inched towards her, each step taking her closer to it. The slice of light grew larger and the rest of the house grew darker. The door was definitely open. And she knew that it was never open. She had no reason to go in there. But now someone was in her house, trying to wreck all she had left.
She stopped outside the door. She leant forward and tried to listen through the opening. There was nothing. She was listening out for the sounds of someone in pain, maybe even the final sounds of someone dying. There was none of that. There were just the creaks of the house, every one part of the structure now. She had sat in silence so often that she knew them all.
She pictured the room on the other side of the door. There was just a bed, some drawers, and a wardrobe, just in case of visitors. There weren’t any. He’d be out in the open or under the bed. The door went right back to the wall. If he was exposed in the room, she’d shoot him.
She tensed herself ready to go. She held the gun against her chest, clenched her finger on the trigger. Once inside, she thought, she’d get low, start firing, try to get some shots under the bed.
She counted to ten, took a deep breath, and then flung herself through the door.
Laura crept up the path, trying to get to the door as quickly as possible.
She hoisted herself up onto the porch and made herself flat against the wall. She stole a glance back at me and then looked up, breathing heavily.
I knew what she was thinking. She was praying that the reinforcements would arrive. She was thinking of Bobby, not wanting him to grow up without her.
She peered round to see if she could see through the glass in the door. Then I saw her try the handle. It was locked.
‘People are on their way,’ I said. ‘Stay put.’
She paused for a moment, and then nodded. Then she looked angry as I walked away.
‘Where are you going, Jack?’
‘I’m going for an interview.’
Laura looked at the door, and then at me.
‘Jack, you bastard!’ she hissed.
I ignored her and carried on walking. I was going round the back.
Liza kicked the door open. She swung the gun around. No one there. The door was flat against the wall, still juddering. Her eyes shot around the room, and then she threw herself to the floor. She looked under the bed, ready to fire, but it was empty. Nothing there. Just empty space. Like it always had been.
She put her head on the floor, panting, relieved. She stayed like that for a few seconds, and then shuffled backwards to lean against the wall. She sat down and put her head back, letting her breathing calm down. Her chest was going fast, her lips were dry, her throat hoarse.
She got her senses back and had another look around. She glanced towards the window. It was getting bright outside, but there was a touch of redness about the sky, as if storms were on the way.
She looked around the room again, wondered if she had imagined it. Maybe the door had always been open. Then she thought about the blood. She hadn’t imagined that.
Her eyes snapped back to the window. Something caught her eye. She gasped when she saw. It was open, just a crack, but it was open. She froze. He’d gone out that way. He might have dropped down to the floor and run round the house. He could come back in, through the front, or the kitchen, or he could just be waiting in the trees.
She looked to the door, her nerves creeping back up again. She tried to listen, but she couldn’t hear anything over the rush of blood through her veins and the frantic beat of her heart.
She didn’t see the foot on the ledge. If she had looked, she would have seen his left foot on the corner of the sill. If she had looked up, she would have seen the fingers of his left hand clenched against the stone, the ends white with the strain. If she could have seen through the stone, she would have seen him straining against the wall, his whole body-weight taken by his left hand and foot, his right hand fixed into a gap in the stonework. He was facing outside, his gun tucked into his belt, ready to swing back in through the window.
Then she heard a noise at the front of the house, someone shouting and banging on the door. She whirled around, her gun pointing.
Then she heard movement outside the window.
I was at the front corner of the house, my head low, trying to keep out of sight, when I heard Laura bang on the door, shouting that she was police.
I stopped and looked up, checking for faces at the window. There was nothing.
I used Laura as a distraction and ran around the back of the house. Just as I got there I heard movement above me, and then came the smash of glass.
Liza Radley spun towards the window, her gun coming up, when his feet crashed through.
She screamed as glass flew around the room. It prickled her face, stung her skin, clattered on the floor around her. She put her arms up and her gun skidded across the floor. She felt wetness on her cheeks, knew she had been cut. She was scrambling backwards as he thumped to the floor and rolled over. She yelped as her hands landed on the glass, but she kept going, her feet kicking away at the floor, trying to get out of the room.
He sat up and grinned. ‘Good morning,’ he hissed, his voice packed with menace. ‘I’ve come to kill you.’
He went for his gun. It was in his belt. She saw wetness on his right leg, a dark patch. Blood. He was reaching down with his right hand, almost at the grip.
‘You bastard,’ she screamed and leapt towards him. She wrapped her hand around a long shard of glass, gripping it hard, the edges cutting into her fingers. He was only a couple of feet away, a point-blank shot. She kept moving, flying at him with the glass, the point aimed at his hand, the one going for the gun. He leant backwards and began to pull the gun out. He lashed out with his left hand, catching her on her cheek. It knocked her to one side, but she just lunged again, screaming loud, her eyes wild.
She pushed the glass down into his arm. He shrieked, high and full of pain, and tried to move away. He couldn’t, the glass was stuck fast in there. He tried to thrash around, but she held on, her ears full of his screams, the glass slicing into her fingers. She hissed with rage and pain and then gave her weapon one final push, her hands wet with blood, and then she felt the glass hit something hard, maybe bone. He yelled out loud and she heard the gun hit the floor.
She kicked it away and let go of the glass. It stayed in his arm. She began to scramble across the floor again, leaving blood as she went. He screamed and gripped the glass, pulling it out. She tried to get to her feet, tried to run, when his other hand flew to his leg and a knife came out. He lashed out with the blade. She yelped and kicked away, the knife catching fresh air. She made it out of the door and slammed it. A shot was fired and she was showered in wood splinters. And then another. She screamed and ducked down, running for the stairs.
He was grunting with pain. ‘You bitch, you bitch,’ he kept saying as she heard him get to his feet.
She ran fast for the stairs, too fast. She stumbled at the top and fell forward. She twisted in midair, put her shoulder first, but the impact hit her hard, her arm going dead. She rolled down half the stairway, clattering against the stair-rail, and then came to a stop. She groaned with pain. Her shoulder hurt and her arm was limp. But then she heard the door open upstairs. He was angry, his pain coming out in seething breaths, his left leg dragging behind him. And he still had his gun.
She scrambled to her feet and ran down the rest of the stairs, jumping the last two and then ducking into the room on her right.
A shot rang out as she made the corner, her feet skidding on the floor, the sound of the glass exploding in the front door making her flinch. She heard someone outside scream and scramble away.
I heard the scream too. Laura. I knew it straight away.
I started running, my leg sending flashes of pain upwards, but I didn’t stop. The dust kicked up around me as I ran, the front of the house taking forever to reach. My mind was hot, images of Laura, sounds of Laura.
As I reached the front of the house, I saw her. She was lying on her back, wood splinters around her.
I ran again.
*
Liza was trapped. Blood was dripping from her hand onto the floor but she had stopped feeling the pain, her mind racing, her heart beating fast. She had dropped her handgun upstairs. She might need something bigger. Her rifle was in the car. Her shotgun was in the bedroom. She looked around, trying to remember where the gun cupboard was, her mind fuzzy, confused. Then she cursed when she remembered it was in the garage, at the back of the house. She could hear him on the stairs, his footsteps slow and heavy.
The only way she could get into the garage was through the other room, across the hall, across his line of vision, in his firing range. If she stayed where she was, she would be trapped.
She didn’t think about it for long.
She ran at the doorway and across the hall, heard a shot, then made for the doorway into the other room. She was going as fast as she could, bolting across his path. Another shot was fired and hit the doorframe as she took the corner. Wood splintered around her, but she kept going, her feet skidding on the boards.
His footsteps got louder. He was coming after her. She could hear his grunts of pain. She ran towards the door that went into the garage. Another shot. She ducked and screamed. He was moving faster now, sensing her panic. She could see the garage door ahead. She couldn’t remember if it was locked. As she ran, she remembered: it was always locked. She skidded to a stop to get the keys off a hook, and then ran again. The door was just a few feet away. He was in the room. She could sense his presence, could hear his footsteps, his breathing.
‘Come here,’ he shouted, snarling.
He could see her now. He was trying to get closer, his shooting hand weak. She scrambled with the key in the lock, her panic making her fumble, wasting time, but then she got the door open, the cold air from the shade of the garage rushing past her.
She ran in and closed the door behind her. The place was a mess. She hardly ever went in there. She had her own weapon store, but that was back in the house, upstairs, right past where he was.
She could hear his footsteps just outside the door. He was getting closer.
She scrambled over boxes and tools to the gun cupboard.
She saw the padlock. She stamped her foot in anger and panic. ‘Shit!’ She remembered she’d done that so she couldn’t tempt herself, so she could fight the urge to stick one in her mouth and blow her own brains out.
She looked around, frantic, trying to see something she could use, her hair thrashing around her face.
Then she saw it.
As I reached Laura, I saw the blood on her chest and flecks on her cheeks.
I jumped onto the porch, skidding to a stop next to her.
‘You okay?’
I saw her grimace, and then I sagged with relief when she moved.
‘Bloody splinters,’ she hissed, and then she sat up. ‘Is hanging around with you always this dangerous?’
‘It only got spicy when you came to town.’
Laura brushed the bits of wood onto the porch. I saw a look of determination in her eyes.
‘I’ve been shot at now,’ she said quietly. ‘I don’t like that.’
‘You going in?’
She nodded. ‘You bet.’
Liza stood flat against the wall, a circular saw in her hand.
It was big and heavy, with a large two-foot blade and a bulky orange handle. She used it to cut logs. It was powered by petrol, so she could take it out to the fields. There was some fuel left in there.
Her chest was heaving, her cheeks flushed red. He was just the other side of the door. There was no point in starting the saw now. He would just hear it and get her at a distance. Or maybe he’d sit outside and wait for her. No, she had to swing at him as he came in through the door, starting it up as she swung, hoping it would gather enough power to do some damage.
She thought about what she was going to do. She knew she had no choice. He was right outside the door. He had walked up to it and not gone away. She held the saw up, the handle in her left arm, the one not hurt by the fall down the stairs, with her bad arm on the switch. It became sticky with blood from the cuts on her hand. She squeezed her eyes tightly shut and prayed. She looked up, but saw only a ceiling.
Her breath caught as she saw the handle on the door move. It was only a twitch, but it meant he was coming in. The door would open inwards, the hinges nearest to her. He’d get a good sweeping view of the garage, but to see her, he’d need to put some of his body into the doorframe. And then she had him. Even if the saw didn’t turn on, the weight and force of the swing might do enough to knock him backwards, the teeth sharp enough to tear at his skin.
The door handle began to move downwards. She could hear it creaking in the silence of the garage. It edged down, inch by inch, until it was almost as far down as it would go. She held her breath, bracing herself against the wall. He had to open the door soon. The saw was heavy. She couldn’t hold it there much longer. It was above her head, her bruised shoulder screaming pain at her, but still she held it there, trying to hang on to some advantage.
The door flew open and stayed open. Her hand tensed on the start button. She could hear him breathing, could sense him looking around his field of vision, trying to work out where she could be. There was nowhere to hide. It was a square room, strewn with boxes, but with no large cupboards to hide in. She could hear his feet shuffling forward as he tried to see all the corners. He would have to come closer.
She pushed back against the wall, tried to give herself that extra inch.
His gun arm started to edge through the doorway. The pistol was pointing downwards, but he was just behind it. Time split into fractions. His whole hand was through, and then she saw his foot. He was edging his body in, ready to swing his arm to point the gun right at her.
She tensed, her hand flicked the switch, and then she began to scream, her arm starting to windmill towards him.
We stepped away from the door when we heard the noise.
‘What the fuck is that?’ I shouted, and pointed along the house. ‘It’s coming from down there.’
Laura nodded: Go.
His body swung into the doorframe and the gun started to come up. As she was halfway through her swing, the motor caught, and the room was filled with the scream of the saw, loud and deadly. The jagged teeth, shiny steel, became a blur as the saw spun fast. He came into view but began to recoil, his arm pulling away. She didn’t stop. Her swing continued, her scream mixing with the saw’s and drowning him in sound. He was stumbling backwards, trying to fire a shot. She lunged forward, the swing ending its arc, and the scream became a whine as it made contact.
His gun clattered to the floor. She fell forward as he fell back and out of the way, the saw meeting little resistance, his screams now mixing with hers. She noticed his hand still on the gun, clenched tightly against the trigger, but he was still stumbling backwards, retreating into the house. Then she saw the trail of blood. The door shut behind him and his hand and gun were still there on the floor. A red circle spun on the blade like the swirls on a spinning top.
She grinned.
She went for the door, full of fresh energy, the saw still whirring, and ran back into the house. He was easy to find: she just followed the blood and the shrieks of pain. She ran after him. She saw him shuffling towards the front door. She knew it was locked.
‘My turn,’ she screamed, and then ran at him across the room.
We lifted the door to the garage, our eyes wild, hearts beating. As daylight flooded the garage, the scream of machinery moved. We saw a door close and realised they had gone.
But we hadn’t heard a key. We could get into the house.
Then I saw the hand and had to take a breath to keep down my breakfast.
Laura flicked the severed hand away and picked up the gun.
‘C’mon,’ she said, and moved towards the door.
He turned around, his face white with shock. His other hand reached into his pocket and pulled out a canister. She was getting closer, the saw held in front of her, the blade shrieking.
He grimaced and pointed the canister towards her as she ran. She was only a few feet away. He pressed the button. Nothing came out.
‘Fuck,’ he shouted, and then jumped out of the way.
She was still running, it was too slippy to change direction. She tried to stop herself but she started to slide, the saw swinging wildly in the air as she fell. She skidded past him, her arm flailing, and she heard a wet noise and a scream, and then a thud as he fell to the ground.
She came to a stop on her back, the saw skating off the boards, throwing up dust before the blade cut into the doorframe.
She lay back, panting, her eyes wild with victory. She glanced over and saw him trying to get up. He was twitching and trying to move, like still-warm road-kill, squeaking on the wooden floor, but he couldn’t get anywhere. He was moaning, trying to fight his pain.
She stood up slowly, gingerly, her own pain coming back now: her bruised shoulder, her cut hand, the spots of wetness where she had been struck by flying glass. When she got to her feet, she tried to suck in some air, and then stood up straight. She went over to the saw and switched it off. The spinning red circle on the blade slowed to smudges of blood, coated in sawdust. She looked over to him, at the base of the stairs, trying to slide away.
She limped towards him, the saw in her hand. When she got near him, he stopped trying to crawl away. He turned his head to look at her. She stood over him and looked down. His foot was at an unnatural angle, dragging on the floor as he had tried to move. She looked up his leg and saw a cut in his trousers. Then through the cut she saw wet redness. She realised that her last swing had sliced through his lower leg, leaving the ankle and foot barely attached. It must have been the leg he used to try to swivel away from her. He was lying on his back now, his breaths coming short and fast, his eyes wild. She noticed that his leg was losing blood badly. He was holding his forearm against his body, hoping it would stop the flow of blood from where his hand used to be. It wasn’t slowing.
She smiled at him. He put his head back on the floor. His eyes looked listless, his cheeks hollow. He was fading.
‘Who are you?’ she asked, her voice soft.
He shook his head.
She watched him, saw the life slipping out of him.
‘Tell me. I can get you help, if you help me.’
He shook his head again, weaker this time. A smile teased the corners of his mouth.
Her hand went back to the switch on the saw. He didn’t say anything. She turned on the saw, his eyelids just flickering at the noise.
‘Please tell me,’ she mouthed to him.
He didn’t respond. He just looked at her.
She thought about what to do with the saw, what she could threaten him with, but when she looked into his eyes, she saw that he knew he was dying.
She placed the blade over his throat, inches from his Adam’s apple. He flinched slightly, but only from the noise. The breeze from the saw made his hair flutter.
‘Please tell me,’ she said. ‘Who sent you?’
He lifted his throat towards the blade, until the spinning teeth were almost skating across the skin. He looked into her eyes, pleading. She saw what he wanted: make it quick, end it now.
She shrugged. Okay.
Then his eyes just flickered with life, his mouth opened, one last effort. He grinned at her, his teeth bared, half a grimace.
‘David Watts told me one thing,’ he hissed, his voice barely audible over the shriek of the saw.
She moved the blade away.
‘David sent you?’ she asked.
He exhaled, his chest only just moving, his eyes closed.
‘What did he tell you?’ she asked, her voice sounding urgent.
His eyes opened. His tongue flicked at his lips. He tried to speak, but nothing came out. She put her head closer. Then he tried to speak again.
‘David told me,’ he said. Then he grinned again, his last play. ‘He told me he liked to jerk off when he thought about Annie’s face as he strangled her.’
He sank back. She stood up straight with a jolt. She looked at him. His eyes were wild with rage now.
He nodded weakly. ‘One good fuck and left her for the buzzards.’
Tears flashed across her eyes.
‘He knew the town would save him,’ he said. He smiled, almost contented. He knew he was going.
She shrieked at him, her body straining with rage, and then plunged forward with the saw. She threw all her weight behind it, met no resistance, only stopping when she heard the whine of the saw in the floor.
She sat back, spent, and turned off the saw, leaving it stuck in the floorboards. Her chest heaved with sobs, and then she looked into his eyes as his head turned away from the saw blade and rolled towards the stairs.
Her shoulders hung as she cried. The house was silent, just her tears. She thought she could hear bird¬ song outside. She put her head back, banged it lightly against the wall.
Then she heard a shout from behind her.
‘Stay there! Police, police!’
Liza grabbed at the saw and flicked the switch again. The saw burst into life. She turned around.
A woman was in her house, a gun pointing towards her, a man just behind her.
‘Police, don’t move!’
Laura was in front of me, her gun arm taut, her stance set.
I watched as Liza Radley put up her hands, the saw in one, the blade still filling the hall with noise.
‘Put the fucking saw down!’ Laura shouted.
I was just behind Laura, needing to be there.
Laura edged closer.
‘Put down the saw.’
Liza looked at the saw, and then back at Laura.
Laura was within a few feet now, still creeping forward, the gun aimed at Liza’s head. Then I saw Laura look past her, to the floor. I followed her gaze, saw the head, the mouth open, the eyes closed. Laura’s gun wavered, distracted.
Then I saw Liza lunge forward with the saw.
Laura looked up at the sudden movement. She lashed out with her hands, useless, impotent. The blade brushed past her fingers, her fingers jolted as the gun was knocked out of her hand. Laura turned, backed away, tried to get out of the way of the saw, its whine too close, too fast. She fell to the floor, scrabbling backwards, came to a stop by a door jamb.
Liza stood over her, the saw still screaming. Laura sat back, panting, scared. She shuffled against the wall, her hands up in surrender.
Liza raised her arm, ready to strike down.
I went for the gun. It felt heavy, cold. My first time. All I could do was pretend.
‘Stop, now!’ I screamed, the gun pointing at Liza.
Liza didn’t look up, was still poised with the saw.
‘She’s got a kid,’ I shouted. ‘Let her go.’
Liza looked at me. She straightened, her stance uncertain. I noticed Laura’s eyes were closed, a tear running down her cheek.
‘Bobby,’ I continued, my voice softening. ‘Starts school next year.’ I paused, and then pleaded, ‘Don’t do it.’
I saw Liza take a breath.
‘She’s not from Turners Fold,’ I said, my gun still pointing at her. ‘She’s just a copper from London, doing her job.’
I saw Laura’s eyes flick open. Liza’s eyes were still on me.
‘Throw me your gun,’ said Liza.
I exhaled and looked at Laura. I thought I saw Laura nod.
‘Why should I trust you?’ I said.
Liza shook her head. ‘You don’t have to, but if you miss with that gun – if it still works – or if you just injure me, I’m going to run this saw through your girlfriend’s skull.’
‘Girlfriend?’
Liza smirked. ‘I can see it in your eyes.’
I looked at Laura again. She nodded.
I knelt down and put the gun on the floor, and then skidded it across to Liza.
Liza bent to pick it up. Now we had nothing.
I stayed where I was as Liza backed down the hall, circular saw in one hand, gun in the other. She got as far as the body on the floor, and then she knelt down, the saw at last stopping its scream.
I watched as she looked at the body, which seemed like a pile of loose clothes, soiled and thrown in a heap, blood pooled on the floor. I looked over to the head and caught a glimpse of his eyes. They seemed to follow Liza, dark and glassy, his mouth open in surprise, one last scream.
She crouched down and pulled his jacket to one side, the cloth pinched between two fingers. She searched the material and paused when she found a phone, stuffed into his inside pocket. She pulled it out and rolled it around in her hand for a few seconds, and then she turned it on. It beeped and then the screen lit up blue. I watched as she put it into her bag, along with his wallet. She found his car keys and twirled them from her fingers for a few moments before throwing them onto his chest.
I kept watching as she took a look around the hall. I could tell she was saying goodbye.
I walked over to Laura and held her, felt her grab my arm and then the soft wetness of her cheeks. I looked down, and when she looked up, she smiled. She wasn’t watching Liza.
I looked up as I heard the saw being picked up again, the weight of it clunking against the floor.
Liza opened up the fuel tank and ran a thin line of petrol from the body in the hall into the kitchen. She stood over the petrol and looked down. Rainbows twisted in the fuel, like flames just waiting to go. I saw her smile. I didn’t know if this was a new beginning, or just the end of everything. Maybe it didn’t matter which one.
She pulled out a cigarette lighter. She held it between her fingers for a moment and shut her eyes.
She clicked the lighter. There was a small spark and then a flame curved and twisted. She looked down at the floor and opened her hand, the gold metal shining back sparkles of sunlight as it tumbled down. The flame went out almost as soon as it hit the ground, but not before it had licked the skin on the fuel. There was a faint whoosh and then a low blue shimmer ran down it, spreading along the line. It raced through the kitchen and into the hallway.
I helped Laura to her feet. ‘Let’s get out of here!’ I shouted, trying to inject some urgency. The flames were beginning to eat up the wall, creeping along the floor, the blinds in the kitchen now ablaze.
Laura looked up, her eyes red, and nodded. Then she pointed to the body, just by the stair rail. ‘I guess he’s the one who shot your father.’
I saw the head again and my stomach lurched, the taste of bile launching itself into my mouth as I dry-heaved. I took some deep breaths, but they were hot, fuel-filled.
I heard the door, a creak above the crackle of the flames, and saw Laura step outside. The living room was ablaze now, the chairs billowing smoke, the lamp-shades dripping hot black onto the floor. But I remembered my camera, remembered I was a reporter. I pointed it at the head and got two shots, and then pointed it in all directions and got some more, the house further in turning black with smoke.
I started to cough, could feel the heat and smoke drying me up, so I backed up to the door and stepped outside. Laura was already there, wiping her eyes. I joined her and put my arm around her shoulder.
Laura looked at me with the disdain and composure she’d had when we first met.
‘It’s the smoke,’ she said.
I smiled and kissed her on the top of her head. ‘I know.’
We stepped off the porch and started to walk down the path. We heard the heat breaking windows inside the house, the fire starting to gain some strength. Every step took us further away, but we only walked about twenty yards. We turned towards the house to watch it burn.
‘Do we go after her?’ I asked.
Laura looked up at me. Then she looked down again. ‘Bobby nearly lost his mum, that’s what I’m thinking at this moment. Liza Radley can go to hell right now.’
There was no answer to that.
I looked back towards the house. ‘I reckon my interview has gone.’
Laura was about to respond when I heard a car engine. We looked at each other. We had no weapons.
We heard the car at the house begin to move, and then a few seconds later, the noise of the engine got nearer, and we realised that it was coming down the path, the tyres crunching on the loose dirt. As we heard it pick up speed, I got my camera ready.
It crawled slowly down the path, heading for the cattle grid. I got some pictures of a side profile and then cursed when she turned to look my way.
She didn’t stop there, though. She drove down to Laura’s car and came to a halt just feet from it. I saw her pull a handgun from her lap and point it down at Laura’s tyres. But then, for a split second, she turned my way and looked me right in the eyes. She held my gaze for a moment, but then she pulled her handgun back into her car and pressed lightly on the pedal. She approached the grid, the noise of the tyres rumbling like a snap thunderstorm, and then she accelerated away up the hill.
I stood up as she pulled away, my hands on my hips. I shielded my eyes from the sun, and the scene seemed quiet again when the car went out of view.
‘You were right,’ said Laura.
I turned around.
‘About the interview,’ she continued. ‘It’s just driven over the hill.’
As the fire took hold, Laura watched while I took pictures. As the roof began to crack and crumble into the flames, we decided to leave.
‘Aren’t you waiting for the reinforcements?’ I asked.
Laura looked thoughtful for a moment, and then shook her head. ‘I’m seeing this through.’
It was another sunny day. And it was time to go back to Turners Fold.