Authors: Kevin Brooks
The first thought that raced through my head was – what the hell was Cal
doing
, letting Ray Bishop come back without letting me know? But as I heard the front door opening, I quickly realised that there were more pressing things to think about. Ray Bishop was downstairs. Ray Bishop killed people. And any moment now, he’d be coming up here.
I heard the front door closing.
I wondered, briefly, if there was any chance at all that I could reason with him. I imagined him downstairs, standing in the hallway, perfectly still, sensing the presence of a stranger in his house.
No, he wasn’t a man to be reasoned with.
I heard a cautious footstep on the stairs.
He killed people.
Another step, more confident now …
I pulled back the heavy black curtain and yanked at the window, trying to open it. But it wouldn’t move. The frame was painted shut. I paused for a moment, listening again. He was coming up the stairs now, moving quite slowly, but I knew that I only had seconds to get out. I rushed over to one of the shelves, grabbed a bone-handled sheath knife, and hurried back to the window. Tearing away the curtain, I started hacking at the frame, trying to slice through the age-old paint, but it was too thick, too hard … it was like trying to cut through superglue.
‘Fuck it,’ I hissed, starting to panic now.
I could hear Bishop on the landing outside.
I dropped the knife, looked around, and saw a heavy glass jar on a shelf to my right. It was a gallon jar, filled to
the brim with some kind of creamy-grey ash, and I was just stepping over to the shelf and picking it up when the bedroom door swung open and there was Ray Bishop, standing in the doorway, brandishing the samurai sword in his hand.
He was smiling.
I barely even looked at him. I just went over to the window, heaved the jar through the glass, and with the deafening crash still resounding round the room, I quickly scrambled out through the broken pane. As I heard Ray Bishop lunging after me, I let myself drop from the window, keeping hold of the sill, and at the same time I swung my body to the left, reaching out with my feet for a drainpipe that I vaguely remembered seeing and desperately hoped was there. But my feet felt nothing. No drainpipe, no foothold, just a sheer brick wall. And I had no time at all now. Ray Bishop was at the window, his head poking out, the sword in his hand, his eyes staring coldly into mine.
‘Hello, John,’ he said, still smiling.
I met his gaze for only a moment, then I closed my eyes, braced myself, and let go of the windowsill.
I don’t remember falling. All I can remember is letting go of the sill, and then – almost immediately – a shuddering impact as I hit the ground. A sharp pain shot up my right leg, and as I rolled over and got to my knees, sucking in air, the pain rose up into my stomach, making me feel nauseous and faint. I was shivering, shaking, sweating in the cold night air … I wanted to lie back down in the dirt, curl up into a ball, and cry.
But the face at the window had gone now.
Bishop was on his way down.
I had to keep moving.
I forced myself to get up, forced myself to take a step … and the pain ripped through me again. But my leg held. It hurt like hell, but it wasn’t going to kill me. The only thing that was going to kill me was the man who, right now, was opening the front door and coming after me with a samurai sword in his hand.
I took a breath, braced myself again, and started running.
Down the path, out the gate, along the road …
I didn’t look back to see if Bishop was coming after me. I didn’t have to – I could hear him. He was running, not with any great speed or energy, but then I wasn’t moving all that fast myself. I kept going, not knowing where I was going, just going. Across the road, round a corner into another street, and then – before Bishop turned the corner – I skipped clumsily over a low hedge into the front garden of a bungalow and ducked round the back of the house and into the back garden. As I stopped for a moment to catch my breath and rest my leg, I heard Bishop’s footsteps entering the street. I kept still, trying not to breathe too loudly, and listened. The footsteps stopped for a moment – and I imagined Bishop standing still, gazing down the street, wondering where I’d gone … and then I heard him start running again. Along the pavement, towards the bungalow, his footsteps getting louder all the time … and then, at last, I heard them pass by and disappear down the street. I carried on listening for a while, just in case he decided to double back, but after a minute or two I was pretty sure that he’d gone.
There was no telling when he might come back though.
I looked around to see where I was. In the low light of the moon I could see that it was a fairly large garden, mostly laid out to lawn, with decorative wooden fences on either side. The lawn was split in two by a concrete path that led all the way down to another wooden fence at the far end of the garden, and in the middle of this fence was a gate. I had no idea what was on the other side of the gate, but it was a gate – it had to lead somewhere. And somewhere was all I needed.
I set off down the path – half running, half hobbling – trying not to make any noise, still listening out all the time for any sign of Ray Bishop … but I didn’t hear anything. I didn’t allow myself to wonder where he was now, or what he was doing, I just kept my eyes on the path and concentrated on getting to the gate. By the time I got there, and discovered to my relief that it wasn’t locked, my leg was hurting badly and I desperately wanted to stop for a moment … just for a moment or two, to rest, to catch my breath, to think about things … but I knew that I couldn’t.
This was no time for thinking.
I just had to keep going.
I opened the gate and stepped through into a narrow dirt track. There were fenced gardens on either side of the track, and although I couldn’t see much further than ten yards or so in each direction, I guessed that if I followed the track to the right it would bring me back out on to Long Road, and if I went the other way …
I didn’t know where I’d end up if I went the other way. All I knew was that I didn’t want to go back to Long Road.
I went the other way.
About fifteen minutes later, after winding my way through a maze of back lanes and pathways, I finally emerged into an unknown side street that led me down to a busy roundabout at the north end of town, next to the old railway station. Long Road, I guessed, was about a mile away to the east, and so – I hoped – was Ray Bishop.
I made my way over to a bus stop, sat down on a bench, and lit a cigarette.
I looked at my watch.
It was nine o’clock.
The night was cold, my leg was numb …
I pulled out my mobile and called Cal.
There was no answer, no voicemail message, no nothing. The phone just rang. I tried another of his numbers, and then another, but the result was the same – no reply. And when I called his ‘special’ number, the one for the mobile that was totally anonymous and completely untraceable, and again got no answer, that’s when I really started to worry. Cal
always
answered his mobile, wherever he was and whatever he was doing. And if you couldn’t get him on one of his numbers, he was
always
available on another.
Always.
Without fail.
Unable to think of anything else, I started calling all the numbers again. I wasn’t really expecting anything to happen, so when the second number I called was answered almost immediately, and an unfamiliar female voice said ‘Hello?’, I just assumed that I’d made a mistake and misdialled.
‘Sorry,’ I said. ‘I think I’ve got the wrong number.’
‘Don’t hang up,’ the voice said quickly. ‘My name’s Lisa Webster, I’m a paramedic, I need to know who the owner of this phone is.’
‘What?’
‘I’m a paramedic,’ she repeated, speaking more calmly now. ‘I need to know the name of the person you’re calling.’
‘What’s going on?’ I said, still confused. ‘Has something happened to Cal? Is he all right?’
‘Who’s Cal?’
‘Cal Franks –’
‘Is he a young man, in his late twenties?’
‘Yes, what’s
happened
–?’
‘Does Cal drive a black Mondeo?’
‘Yes –’
‘And could you tell me who you are, please?’
‘John Craine –’
‘John
Craine
?’
‘Yeah, I’m Cal’s uncle …’ I took a breath. ‘Could you
please
tell me what’s happened to him?’
‘Where are you, John?’
‘Why do you want to –?’
‘Are you in Hey?’
‘Yes –’
‘All right, listen. A man in his late twenties was attacked earlier this evening. He’s been brought into Hey General Hospital, but as yet we haven’t been able to confirm his identity. There was nothing in his pockets to tell us who he is, but this is his phone – one of three he was carrying – and
he was found beside a black Ford Mondeo, so it’s very possible that he’s your nephew.’
‘He was
attacked
?’
‘Yes, I’m sorry, it looks as if he was quite badly beaten. We managed to stabilise his condition in the ambulance on the way to the hospital, and he’s undergoing emergency surgery right now, but I’m afraid that’s all I can tell you at the moment. If you could come in to Hey General to confirm his identity –’
‘Was he wearing a hat?’
‘A hat was found nearby, yes.’
‘A trilby?’
‘Yes.’
‘I’ll be there as soon as I can.’
I called four taxi companies before realising that I was never going to get one at short notice on a Saturday night, and I was just about to call Imogen to see if she’d give me a lift to the hospital, when my mind suddenly flashed back to the moment I was hanging from Ray Bishop’s windowsill, and he’d looked down at me, his eyes staring coldly, and said, ‘Hello, John.’
He knew who I was.
And if he knew
who
I was – and I was guessing that his brother must have told him – then he probably knew where I lived. And even if he didn’t, it wouldn’t be too hard for him to find out …
I called Bridget’s mobile.
‘Hey, John,’ she answered. ‘I was just thinking about you.’
‘Where are you?’ I said.
‘At home … why? Are you all right? You sound a bit –’
‘Listen, Bridget, this is really important. I want you to get out of the house as quickly as possible. I don’t have time to explain, but please … just trust me. You
have
to get out of the house right now. OK?’
She only hesitated for a moment. ‘OK … if you say so. Where shall I go?’
‘I’m at the old railway station, near the roundabout. Do you know where I mean?’
‘Yeah …’
‘Pick me up as soon as you can. I’ll explain everything then.’
‘All right …’
‘And ring me as soon as you’re out of the house and in your car. OK?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Go …
now
.’
She called me two minutes later.
‘Are you in your car?’ I said.
‘Yeah.’
‘Did you see anyone on your way out?’
‘No …’
‘Are you OK?’
‘Not really. I mean, this is pretty fucking scary, John.’
‘Yeah, sorry … but everything should be all right now. Just get going, don’t stop for anyone, and when you get to the roundabout, drive round it two or three times before you stop to pick me up. All right?’
‘Just drive round the roundabout?’
‘Yeah … I’ll be waiting for you.’
I moved from the bus stop and positioned myself at the south side of the roundabout, making sure that Bridget would see me when she arrived, and after about five minutes or so I saw a white Escort van with
HEY PETS
written on the side coming towards me. Bridget waved as she went past, and I nodded back, but I was more concerned with watching the road behind her. I was looking out for familiar cars – a silver-grey Renault, a green Nissan Almera, a white Toyota Yaris, Mick Bishop’s Honda Prelude – or familiar faces in unfamiliar cars, or cars that were just acting strangely … following Bridget around the roundabout, slowing down without any reason, stopping suddenly – but by the time Bridget had passed by me again, making her second circuit of the roundabout, I hadn’t seen anything untoward.
The next time she came round, I held up my hand and caught her eye, and she slowed down and pulled in beside me. As she leaned across and opened the passenger door, I saw that Walter was in the back of the van, sitting upright in a wicker basket. I quickly got in and closed the door, and Bridget immediately pulled away again.
‘Where are we going?’ she said.
‘The hospital.’
She looked at me. ‘What’s going on, John?’
As we drove across town to the hospital, I told Bridget everything. She didn’t interrupt me as I talked, she just
drove the car, keeping her eyes on the road, and listened. There was a lot to tell, a lot of explaining to do, and by the time I’d finished we were almost at the hospital.
‘Is Cal going to be all right?’ Bridget asked.
‘I don’t know … the paramedic couldn’t tell me very much, just that he’d been badly beaten.’
‘Who do you think did it?’
‘Some of Mick Bishop’s people, probably. He must have had someone following us. Or maybe it was Ray Bishop … I don’t know.’
‘And you really think that Ray Bishop’s going to come after you?’
I nodded. ‘I know what he’s done, what he does. I know what he
is
. And he must know that I’m not going to keep quiet about it. Which means that if he doesn’t do something about me, or get someone to do it for him, he’s fucked. So, yeah, I’m pretty sure he’s coming after me.’
‘And you can’t call the police?’
‘I can’t
trust
the police. Mick Bishop owns too many of them. Whoever I call, even if it’s just the emergency number, there’s a good chance it’ll get back to Bishop … and if he finds me, he’ll kill me. Simple as that.’
‘Do you really think he’d go that far?’
‘What else can he do? I know that his brother’s a serial killer, and I know that he’s covered up for him on at least one occasion. The only way Mick Bishop can save his skin is by making sure that I don’t talk.’