Authors: Tom Bale
T
hey were gone a long time
, or so it seemed. Wendy and the boys didn’t talk much as they waited it out. There was a new and dangerous uncertainty in the air. Milo and Lara kept whispering between themselves, then one or the other would go over and confer with Ilsa.
Evan was suffering physically, trying to stretch his aching limbs. He and Josh quietly debated what Kyle might be discussing with their father.
‘It’s a negotiation,’ Evan said. ‘Got to be money.’
‘In exchange for what? They aren’t letting us go.’
Evan was shocked by his brother’s blunt tone. ‘We’ve got to hope. . .’
‘Maybe.’ Josh shrugged. ‘I think there’s more to it than that.’
A burst of muffled shouting was followed by the thump of footsteps, then Kyle manhandled Rob into the room and shoved him to the floor. He waved the gun at his colleagues. ‘Get out of here.’
‘Why?’ Ilsa asked.
‘I need five minutes. Now go!’
Gone was the pretence that they were working together. Wendy sent Rob a mystified look, and he started to say, ‘Gabriel’s dead. Kyle—’
‘Shut up!’ Kyle kicked him in the back and Rob cried out, falling to his side, his face contorted with pain.
Once the others had left the room, Kyle said, ‘I’ve been trying to help you, but Daddy here isn’t playing ball.’
‘He k—’ Rob groaned in agony. ‘Killed Gab—’
‘Never mind that,’ Kyle hissed, with an uneasy glance at the door. ‘Are you gonna tell them, Rob? Or shall I?’
Still trying to recover, Rob shook his head in disgust. ‘Kyle claims that I’m. . . his father. Says his mum had a fling with me, got pregnant and said nothing. It’s nonsense.’
‘Is it?’ Kyle challenged him, then turned to Wendy. ‘Do
you
think it’s nonsense?’
Quashing her horror at the revelation, she said, ‘When. . . when was this?’
‘Summer of 1993. Julie Jacques, from Chichester. She dated Rob a few times. He said something to her about breaking up with his partner, but I guess that could have been a lie. Men’ll say anything to get some action, isn’t that right?’ He glanced at Evan and Josh, both of whom were rigid with shock.
Gasping, Rob said, ‘What matters is Kyle. . . Kyle pointed Gabriel at us in the first place, and now wants thanks for saving us.’
As dismissive as he sounded, Wendy pounced on that final phrase. ‘Is that true?’ she demanded of Kyle. ‘Are you going to let us go?’
He looked taken aback, as if he’d expected her to focus on his bizarre claim, but Wendy was nothing if not pragmatic. All that mattered was getting her family out of here.
‘If I can, I will,’ he said, ‘but it won’t be easy. And I need something, you know, something to offer, because it isn’t just me. . .’
All bluster
, Wendy thought, and it almost broke her heart.
He was lying.
G
eorgia hated herself
. She was an idiot. A coward.
She’d worked at the window until the sweat poured out of her, but it was hopeless. The metal hanger wasn’t nearly strong enough to shift the sash, and the gap wasn’t big enough for the wooden hanger. If she had half a brain, she’d give up trying and go for the only option available to her.
But she didn’t. She chickened out. She went on poking and prodding with the hanger, haunting herself with the thought that she might turn and see Mark Burroughs behind her, the knife in his hand, all ready to finish her off. . .
She knew she wasn’t thinking straight. Her head was pounding and her mouth felt like she’d swallowed a sock. At times she had to pause and shut her eyes, taking big gulps of air to stop herself from flaking out. And still she wouldn’t accept what it was she had to do.
Finally the exhaustion overcame her, and she sank to the floor. She was wasting time, precious seconds that might mean the difference between life and death – not just for her, but for Mum and Dad, for her brothers.
They needed her. And wasn’t that idea enough to give her a little more energy, a little more courage?
She still hadn’t sorted out a weapon. Staring at the coat hanger gave her an idea. She got to her feet and used the lower part of the sash like a vice, jamming the neck of the hanger into the gap and then twisting it until the wire poked straight out. By the same method she was able to fold the triangular part in two, forming a more compact handle. Now she could wield it like a dagger.
But there was still the decision she had to make. Instead, some cruel part of her mind kept taking her back to Nyman, and the way he had died. Was it too quick to feel pain, or was there a moment of absolute agony, when you felt your skull bursting apart?
Georgia knew exactly why she was torturing herself like this. It was still preferable to thinking about what she had to do next. What she had to do but couldn’t.
You
have
to do it.
But I can’t.
R
ob was struggling to concentrate
. The kick had struck close to one of his kidneys, and it hurt more than anything he had ever known. Waves of nausea and dizziness were shuddering through him; at times it was too painful to breathe, let alone speak.
Josh caught Kyle’s attention and said, ‘How much are you hoping to screw out of us?’
Then Wendy intervened, in a more amenable tone: ‘I can’t begin to imagine how traumatic this has been for you,’ she told Kyle. ‘Why didn’t you approach us sooner?’
Looking stunned, he said, ‘I-I only found out. . . well, it was a few years ago. But I was in a bad way then. I met Gabriel, got caught up in all his. . .’
‘Manipulation?’ Wendy offered, with a nod of regret. ‘We’ve all seen what he’s capable of. The control he can exert over others.’
Rob was amazed by her manner; they might have been social worker and client, chatting in the safety of some bland meeting space.
‘It warped us,’ Kyle said, with a self-pitying sniff. ‘We grew to believe that treating people like this was. . . normal.
Desirable
. It was expected of us.’
Wendy tutted. ‘And all through that ordeal, you knew there was a
real
family out there, your father and your half-brothers and sister. People who could have given you genuine support, genuine love. . .’
Rob had assumed she was just playing along, faking the sympathy, but after seeing her pause, as if about to choke up, he wasn’t so sure. When she said, ‘You’re his victim, too’, it was all Rob could do not to shout out an objection.
Kyle, Lara and the others were every bit as warped as Gabriel. They had to take responsibility for their actions.
She said, ‘Fortunately, with Gabriel’s spell broken, you have a chance to move on. You can – and you must – bring this to a peaceful conclusion, Kyle.’
‘I want to. But what about me? What happens once I. . .’ He gestured with the gun, as if fearing Wendy was going to take it off him.
‘We’re all witnesses to your courage, I promise.’ She looked quickly at the twins, then gave Rob another, more loaded glance. ‘We will speak up in your favour, and say you withstood intolerable pressure and did the right—’
A
noise
from upstairs broke her flow, just when she could see her approach was having an effect.
‘Did the right thing,’ she finished, desperately trying to work out what she’d heard.
Kyle had caught it too, so there was no sense in pretending otherwise. But perhaps this would get him out of the room and give them a chance to plan their next move. She’d been so worried that Rob would object to the sympathy she was offering Kyle.
Then came the loud, unmistakable crash of shattering glass. Kyle wrenched the door open, and they saw Milo running for the stairs.
‘Go that way!’ Kyle shouted to someone in the hall – Ilsa or Lara – and pointed towards the kitchen. ‘In case she’s got out.’
Oh, yes
! The thought of it made Wendy almost delirious with hope. Could Georgia really have found a way to escape? She glanced at Rob, who was trying to haul himself on to his knees. He looked dreadful.
‘You stay here,’ Kyle was saying. ‘It might be a trap.’
It was Lara who nervously stepped into sight as Kyle turned his attention back to the family. Another couple of seconds, Wendy thought later, and Rob’s attack might have worked.
The cuffs hampered him, and the blow to his kidney had clearly taken its toll, but still he put everything into the attempt, launching himself at Kyle with furious determination. But the younger man reacted quickly, bringing the gun round and letting off a shot. The bullet struck the floor about six inches from Rob’s feet. Wendy gave a horrified shriek as he threw himself to one side, then staggered back. She managed to grab him by the leg and he slumped to the floor, crying out in frustration.
‘It’s too dangerous.’ Wendy leaned against him, trying to offer what comfort she could. But she felt his despair just as keenly, because it meant that Georgia was on her own.
There was nothing they could do to help her.
A
t last Georgia
accepted the truth. If she wanted to live – if she wanted her family to live – then she had to do it. She had to break the window.
The problem was how. If she could remove all the glass from the frame, then she might be able to hang by her arms, reducing the distance that she had to fall. But that meant breaking the window quietly – and how could she do that?
She tried using the sharp point of the coat hanger to score the glass, but it made a horrible squeaking noise and barely scratched the window. Then she got a pillow off the bed, pressed it to the glass and punched, gently, with the side of her fist. That did nothing at first, so she tried again, hitting harder.
There was a cracking sound, which seemed loud enough to be heard throughout the house. She froze; a few seconds later there was movement downstairs.
Shit.
No time to do it slowly. Placing the pillow in the centre of the window, she drove her fist through it. The glass was weaker than in a modern window and shattered easily, falling to the ground in large fragments.
Then, at the sound of footsteps running up the stairs, Georgia lost her mind.
Mark Burroughs, with a knife.
S
he snatched
the wire coat hanger, rested the pillow on the ledge and climbed up, putting one leg out, then the other. While she was facing back into the room, the door handle moved. Bracing her feet against the wall, she straightened her arms, then propelled herself outwards, trying to land clear of the broken glass, arms and legs windmilling as she dropped; glancing down to see, in the foggy gloom, the grass rushing up to meet her.
At the first hint of contact with the ground she threw herself sideways, screaming as her ankles absorbed her weight, but then she was falling, rolling, and the pain wasn’t quite as severe and at least she hadn’t felt a
snap
.
If nothing was broken she could run. She could get away.
The grass was cool, and soaking wet. It felt soothing, after all the hard work, and the stale air of the bedroom; she wanted just to lie here and nurse her wounds. But she knew they’d heard her, knew they were chasing—
It’s Mark Burroughs, with a knife.
She grabbed the hanger, which she’d dropped in the fall, and got to her feet. But her ankles refused to hold her up, and her knees wouldn’t lock. She stumbled, took a few wavering steps like a newborn foal, the pain so intense that she thought she might pass out.
She heard a gunshot, and for one terrifying moment thought it had been aimed at her. But at least that wiped the pain from her mind. She sped up, unaware that she was yelping with every step, trying to dodge a little and keep her head low, in case of another bullet. She thought of Nyman, and how he must have felt just like this – so gloriously alive and so unbelievably scared – as he waited for the end. . .
But there were no more shots. Deep in her mind she understood that the gun had been fired not at her, but at something inside the house. Something or someone.
One of her family, maybe.
S
he had reached
the gap in the hedge when she heard the back door opening. Although it must have been well into the afternoon by now, the mist lay thick and heavy, reducing the world around her to a collection of grey, ghostly shapes – and hopefully that would make her harder to spot.
She pushed through the hedge, her ankles hurting even more as they swelled up. Limping along the path to her left, she made for the tall grasses of the reed beds. Running far wasn’t an option; if they were coming after her, she would have to hide.
She wondered about calling for help, but knew that would draw her pursuers. And not much point if there wasn’t anyone around. It was eerily quiet and still, which meant her own noise, as she tramped through the grass, would be easy to hear.
No chance of anyone reacting to the gunshot, either, she realised. Up here people were always out shooting rabbits, pheasants and God knows what else.
She slowed, searching for a clump of grass away from the path, thick enough to conceal her. The ground was starting to soften, and she could make out the gleam of water puddling in little hollows. Suddenly worried that she might be leaving footprints, she looked down and saw it was worse than that.
She’d left a blood trail. Must have caught her foot on the broken glass—
Without warning she was knocked flat: someone crashed into her with the full force of their body weight. Georgia sprawled forward, felt a hand pressing her head into the earth, another grappling for the coat hanger, hot breath on her neck; all the air was crushed out of her lungs and the panic, the terror, filled her whole world.
No one could have followed her so silently –
it’s Burroughs, marching out of her nightmares
. Georgia’s stomach heaved as she wriggled; it felt like her lungs had been pulled inside out. She was going to suffocate, and her flailing hands lost the stupid coat hanger, and the killer on her back was speaking but she couldn’t understand the words; she remembered the slash of the blade, that first time: how it hadn’t felt like anything much until she’d turned, practically in mid-air, and seen the stream of blood pouring from her leg—
She fought to get on her knees, managed to drag one leg up a little, and there were more words dancing around her ears, kept out by the dull whoosh of the blood pumping through her head. She thought of Ilsa, the new star of BitchWorld; Lara, who could make Amber and Paige look like rookies when it came to cruelty, and Milo, so heartbreakingly cute when he’d joined her on the bench: it was all betrayal, a lot of lies and bullshit designed to cause her pain, and now she was losing it, could feel the world turning black because there still wasn’t air. . . Ilsa’s eyes suddenly vivid in her memory, glittering with scorn at Georgia’s tantrum in the café, and she clawed at the killer’s side, her fingers brushing something solid – metal or plastic, and more dancing words, now – and with her last few seconds she grabbed it and hit out, hit out, found some air, enough to hit again, and now the weight was coming off and she could move—
Georgia, no, I’m with you don’t do this. . .
Words that registered, but far too late; the killer now falling to one side and Georgia moving over and up, still hitting with all the strength she could find, all the strength and all the
fury
, an endless well of fury; and something hot splashed over her arm but she kept on hitting, punching,
stabbing
; because the thing in her hand was a knife, and the killer wasn’t Burroughs, it was Ilsa, and now the blood was bubbling on the woman’s lips and the light was fading from her eyes, and it was done.
A look on Ilsa’s face like. . . regret?
‘They’re my family.’ She felt it was important to explain. ‘And you were gonna kill them.’
And I’m Georgia the Savage
. Don’t forget that.