Maybe part of him wanted to try to grasp the steering wheel and swerve the car away from its impending doom, maybe he wanted to take the cushioning effect of both airbags or maybe he hoped that Howard’s body would somehow save his; maybe it was a last ditch attempt to attack the man who was trying to steer him into the wall.
He didn’t make it across in time.
With one final shout of horror from Richards in the back seat, the car crashed hard into the concrete wall. The front of the Mercedes crumpled like an aluminium can.
Phillips, halfway off his seat at the time of the impact, flew from the car. His body careered through the front windshield; the glass exploded on impact and showered him in glittering shards as he soared.
The shrapnel peppered his skin and cut into every inch of him, some chunks sliced and parted, other bits imbedded themselves like clear splinters. The transparent knives severed various tendons and muscles in his body.
The car had been doing over fifty miles per hour over the rugged woodland terrain and the force of the crash was enough to demolish the front end and then rebound it. Phillips suffered a similar fate, his journey through the air ended when he hit the wall head first and collapsed back upon the beaten bonnet.
The crack of his skull reverberated through the night, following on echoes left by the destruction of metal and brick; adding an organic touch to the catastrophic cacophony.
His mangled body folded in on itself as blood leaked from every pore, his body had been ravaged by wounds, covering him from head to toe. The crack in his skull had splashed blood and pink matter over the wall, like paint on the canvas of a flamboyant artist.
His left arm was hanging by a thread of skin and drooping loosely across his bloodied body, his forearm and hand dangled over the edge of the bonnet. A river of blood ran down his arm, onto his hand and through his palm, before dripping a steady line of crimson from the end of his little finger onto the soggy ground below.
98
Michael Richards was stunned, his world shook before him in a hazy glow, a glow that had been dotted with stars, fuzzy lines and a feeling of shock and confusion.
He had noted the shouts and the commotion in the front seat and had reacted upon it, nervously twitching his vision between Phillips, Howard and the dimly lit woodland beyond the windscreen. He remembered shouting in horror, he remembered his own screamed obscenities which had stuck in his throat.
He hadn’t seen the wall until the last minute; it seemed to attack the car, coming out of the darkness like a deer in the night. He had seen Johnny Phillips move and grow increasingly agitated, he had worried that his friend might get hesitant and pull the trigger.
Seconds later he was rocketed forward and dragged back with a crushing thump as the locking features on the seatbelt took effect. It knocked the wind completely out of him and sent his vision into the starry abyss.
He heard a crash, a smash. Something had gone through one of the windows.
Whatever had happened he knew he needed to act fast, Howard or Phillips could be injured or dying. He pulled himself out of his trance and tried to focus as hard as he could, he tried to see past the blotted blur that had covered his vision and when he did he caught sight of the trauma.
Howard Price was still in the driver’s seat, he was leaning forward against the wheel, his chest resting on the port of an unexploded airbag. There was no Phillips in the passenger seat, only sprays of blood.
As Richards became more aware he discovered blood on himself, spattered on his cheek and hand. He wiped at it and studied it, instinctively checking his face for wounds. The blood wasn’t his.
What disturbed him most was the collection of torn flesh still dripping from the shards of glass that protruded from the shattered windscreen. A three inch line of flesh hung from the top of the windscreen like meat in a butcher’s shop, it had been snagged by a splinter of glass that had remained rooted into the fixtures and it dangled there, still dripping.
With his heart beating like an amphetamine addict, he unlocked his seat belt -- feeling the kinks it had left in his skin -- and staggered out of the back door.
Johnny Phillips, once a strong figure and his best and only friend, lay in ruins. His body was crumpled on the front of the car, slowly sliding off as a pool of blood lubricated the metal underneath him. Richards’s heart stopped and so did his legs, he wanted to run to his friend but he knew it was too late. He saw the gouge in his skull; he saw the ripped arm and the shards of glass that had pierced his entire body.
“Johnny...” he muttered, his mouth suddenly very dry.
He took a step forward but quickly retreated. He couldn’t bear to see his friend like that. His emotions tried to take over but it wasn’t a time to mourn. He had to get away, escape the scene, the ghost of Johnny Phillips would be screaming at him to do the very same thing. But he was rooted; his best friend lay dead and destroyed a metre away from him and he couldn’t look, or run, away.
A breathless mumble alerted him and he turned to see Howard Price awakening inside the car. He was cursing into the rim of the steering wheel in a disoriented fashion whilst trying to propel his body upwards.
Richards stood and stared for a while, unsure what to do. He watched as Price lifted himself and returned to his seat, for a moment he didn’t seem to know where he was or what had happened but Richards saw the realisation cross over his features. The older man first looked at the shattered windscreen, then at the destroyed corpse of Johnny Phillips, then his tired eyes turned to Michael Richards.
The pair looked at each other for what seemed like an eternity, none of them sure what to do next. Then Richards saw a glint in the old man’s eyes, a look of anger and a lack of remorse, he had killed Johnny Phillips, his body within touching distance, yet he barely battered an eyelid.
Richards turned and ran, his feet suddenly capable, his mind thinking straight. He powered through the rough ground and the dark night, trampling through unseen bushes and dodging his way around a succession of trees.
Howard snapped back into reality with a pounding headache. His head hadn’t reached the steering wheel but the force of the crash had shot his brain through his skull. He caught sight of the man in the back seat running away and he noted his direction.
They had locked eyes, Howard had seen fear in the eyes of the younger man before he had watched him leave. He wanted to chase him, to catch him and kill him, doing to him what he had done to his friend and what they had done to Howard’s little girl.
But he didn’t run after him, he probably wouldn’t catch him and he didn’t need to chase him anyway; he had a good idea where he was going.
Still with his seatbelt on Howard struggled to free himself. When he moved he felt a sharp pain -- starting in his lower back -- shoot through his body with agonising efficiency. It felt like a bolt of lightning had sliced through his central nervous system.
He paused to control his breathing, he was wheezing, his chest had taken a hit and his breaths were suffering. Sinking back into the seat he stared at the dead body of Johnny Phillips, he didn’t smile, he didn’t frown; he didn’t react at all. He had no reason to feel sympathy for the crumpled killer, but he didn’t delight in his death like he had hoped he would, the weight of vengeance was still on his shoulders, there was still another killer out there. He didn’t know which one of them pulled the trigger but he wanted them both to pay for it.
99
Howard climbed out of the car. The door had jammed and squished into its own frame, it needed two kicks to encourage its release.
He paused to rest against the damaged roof, gritting his teeth as a stabbing pain incessantly worked through his lower back. Straightening up he slammed the door shut, it crashed into the hinges, rebounded and then dropped off.
He looked into the distance, the building of Rokers Court was partially lit, unlike the greyed scenery around it. He knew the second killer would be going there, if only for a brief time.
He walked away from the car but only made it a few feet before stumbling and reaching for the support of a nearby tree. His body had almost been crippled in the crash, pain roared through him like an angry virus, settling in every cell.
He removed his hand from the tree and allowed his shoulder to fall against it, then he reached inside his pocket and fumbled around for his mobile phone. He stared at the blue screen and considered his actions.
He knew he should phone the police and he certainly needed to phone an ambulance. The police would deal with the second killer and the ambulance would take care of his anguish.
He dialled the first nine.
He knew that he wouldn’t be happy sitting inside a hospital whilst he waited for incompetent police officers to inform him of the current situation with the runaway kidnapper. He closed his eyes and rested his head on the tree.
It wasn’t all about him, he had to think about his wife. Elizabeth still needed him and she certainly wouldn’t approve of him trying to chase down a murderer whilst in his fractured state. She would want him safe, she would want him healthy; together, armed with the knowledge that justice had been done, they could try to move on with their lives. Lisa’s life was over but that didn’t have to mean that their lives were.
He dialled the second digit whilst nodding to himself.
He paused. He knew he could never live with himself if he let this moment pass. The police would take their time in arriving and would probably only stop to ask questions about the wreck and the dead kidnapper, wasting precious time whist the other man made his getaway.
He pictured his future with Elizabeth. A future where they both sat in separate worlds, ignored each other and rarely spoke; their refusal to bring up the subject of Lisa’s death and the killer that had gotten away would place a tension between them that was so thick it would surely cause their early demise.
He cancelled the call. Inside the car was the gun that the dead kidnapper had held. Howard reached in through the door less driver’s side and picked it up, tossing it from hand to hand. Looking through the trees ahead of him he slipped the handgun into his pocket and set off at a steady jog.
Pain ravaged his body and each step perpetuated it, but he ignored it, he pushed it to the back of his mind and increased his pace.
100
The trees and bushes ripped at Michael Richards’s skin, opening up small wounds and grazes, but he continued running. The last thing on his mind was the pain being inflicted on his body; it was the pain inside that was destroying him. He tried to take the images and thoughts out of his mind, concentrate on the moment, but no matter how hard he tried, part of him wanted to settle down, relax, and mourn; part of him needed to think about the death of his friend.
Instincts were needed too; he needed to escape to avoid the same fate. He rushed on. He couldn’t see much in front of him but he had a good idea where to go.
Ahead he heard the sound of a car rushing past, it startled him at first, almost stopping him in his tracks as he instantly thought about the rows of police cars that had halted him earlier, but the worry dissipated as the vehicle sped away.
The road was near and beyond that lay Rokers Court. As he continued onwards he could see its lights breaking through the trees ahead, the sight forced him to pick up his speed, he was nearly there.
Howard Price fought back the pain. Adrenaline rushed through his body and stirred up the sleeping alcohol that had rested during the time of distress; everything combined in a rush of endorphins that eased his suffering and allowed his tortured body to keep going.
He hadn’t run in years, his job or his social life didn’t call for it, he was a desk man not an athlete, but now he had a goal.
He could feel crumpled fauna underneath his feet and the thought that he was treading the same path as the man he was chasing spurred him on even more, he felt like a predator chasing its prey.
He never thought that vengeance wouldn't provide the solace he needed, because he needed
some
solace and revenge was the only thing he could think of. Lisa’s death had destroyed him and time would be no healer, nothing ever would. Just the thought of hunting down her killers and dealing out his own justice was enough to relieve his despair.
He never thought of how the police would react. They would certainly arrest him and that would only make things worse for Elizabeth, she had just lost a daughter to a thoughtless murder and now she would lose a husband to an equally thoughtless act of personal justice.
He could see the road. Light broke through trees ahead, somewhere further down he could hear the fading roar of a car engine. He stopped and rested against one of the trees, checking his surroundings to make sure the criminal wasn’t waiting to ambush him.
The moonlight and the light from the huge flat-block ahead provided him with a greyed, shortened view of the woodland around him. Shadows and shapes danced in the dark, jumping with the wind. Behind him he heard the ground settling, the mud floor was peppered with weeds, trigs and scraps of bushes, all of which had been trodden on or kicked out of place.
A beam of silver light fell overhead and landed inches away, highlighting a broken chunk of tree which had bled sap that had dripped and dried.
He inspected the gun in his hand, pushing it underneath the stream of light to study it closely. The weapon was dull and scratched; it showed signs of heavy use. He wondered how many times it had been used.
He tried to catch his breath as he studied the deceptively heavy gun.
How many shots had it been fired?
Turning it over in his hand he saw a small switch above the handle which indicated that the safety was off.
How many families had been destroyed because of this single piece of metalwork?
He had never held or fired a gun, he didn’t even know how to load the weapon or to check if it was already loaded.