Dead Man Walking (47 page)

Gemma grabbed the gunwales as she felt the current take them. ‘You think we can handle the Race?’

‘If the others made it, why can’t we?’

‘We don’t know whether they made it or not.’

‘We will in a few minutes …’

They ducked down as they were sucked under the bridge. The white-water boomed in their ears. And then they were dropping, nose-diving downward into a chaos of noise and spray and rolling, tumbling waves.

At first glance, Cragwood Race was like something manmade, the river roaring steeply downhill between high earthen banks and heaped, slab-like rocks, but with no central obstructions, nothing to impede the velocity of the water.

The initial experience was of a frantic downhill chase through roaring foam. Little or no paddling was needed. In fact, the best thing was to keep one’s arms firmly to one’s body as the boat swerved around bends, constantly sideswiping the moss-clad embankments. Oftentimes Heck and Gemma hit rocks, only the thick layer of vegetation covering these hard surfaces preventing serious damage to the canoe, but the sheer force and noise of these collisions made them realise why modern day wildwater enthusiasts wore crash helmets. It was certainly impossible to steer. Wind hit their faces as well as spray, forcefully and constantly. Heck was already wet through, but now Gemma was drenched too, from head to foot.

The foggy darkness persisted even down this hectic channel, which made all attempts to gauge the speed they were moving at pointless, though it was clear they’d quickly travelled several hundred yards downhill, merely having allowed the torrent to take them. The trouble was that they were now hitting a series of natural platforms, the river boiling monstrously over every level stretch before dropping sharply downward again. On each of these occasions, there was a tremendous backward surge which required strenuous paddling to get through and which always saw them deluged from behind, gallons of frothing, icy water pouring over them in sledgehammer cataracts. No sooner were they free of this than the canoe was driven forward furiously, rising, falling and rocking, bumping and scraping its way across submerged stones. For several seconds on the third platform, they were travelling sideways, like an airbed on an ocean wave. They shrieked in unison as they began to tilt, hurling their bodies the other way to right themselves, and paddling frantically for fear the boat would turn around and take them down the rest of the Race backward, or even worse, upside down. They pulled it around just in time as the gradient re-steepened, water like frothing milk exploding past and over the top of them, and shot down the next stretch like a cork from a bottle, battering the rocks along its sides, bodies jerking left to right, necks whiplashing.

But it was only when they entered a deep canyon between pitted granite walls, with a tangle of roots, mosses and hanging grasses interlaced overhead, that they understood the true meaning of peril. Initially it was so dark in here that it was virtually a tunnel, but then a fiery flash seared the dripping walls, and though the roar of the torrent was amplified a hundred times, they still heard the dull
blam
.

A slug whipped past Heck’s shoulder, ricocheted from the gully wall about twenty yards ahead, and with a flash of sparks, caromed from the opposite wall before vanishing into the maelstrom.

‘Jesus!’ Gemma shouted.

‘Guess again!’ Heck craned his neck to look behind.

A dim form was descending the foam-filled channel at their rear. There was another flash-bang, and the slope dipped just in time as the round zipped past overhead. In front, the canyon turned sharply. This was the Switchback, Heck realised, the one Mary-Ellen had mentioned – supposedly the only really dangerous section. For several seconds, the rolling waterway turned glass-smooth, the current moving so fast it was broken by little more than ripples. But as they approached the turn, the river level rose rapidly and they were jolted upward and to the left, clinging for dear life as the Race banked around the tight corner. Briefly, they were horizontal, as if they were riding the Wall of Death in some crazy amusement park. But then they were dropping again, descending a muddy, root-filled throat, bouncing over another series of steps, the canoe elevating into mid-air with each one, then crash-landing again, the echoing impacts deadening their ears, the river raining over them from behind, rollback buffeting them from every side.

If that wasn’t enough, as soon as Mary-Ellen rounded the Switchback, she opened fire again, twice. Both projectiles struck blistering sparks along the underside of a leaning, egg-shaped boulder even as Heck and Gemma were bowing their heads to pass beneath it.

‘You’re right!’ Gemma cried. ‘She’s out of her bloody mind!’

The river now veered to the left, but beyond this, the descent flattened out, and the route unexpectedly broadened. They decelerated as the canyon walls fell away, and found themselves in open space. They were back on a level stretch, and this time it persisted, though they were still moving fast. They got to it with their paddles, doing the best they could to create another effective rhythm. The problem was they were novices at this, while Mary-Ellen had done it several times before. Heck glanced back again, though now saw only white-water and fog. Had she come unstuck?

The answer came quickly, with another dim gun-flash, and the whining impact of lead striking a boulder, this one tooth-like and jutting up just ahead of them. In anticipation of rapids, the water began to boil. They swerved around the obstruction, but could see more outcrops beyond it.

‘Shit!’ Heck shouted. If Switchback Canyon was the only dangerous part, he didn’t know what this was supposed to be.

They attempted to steer with their paddles, but crashed and bounced around one boulder after another. If they got through this, he reckoned, it would mainly be due to the force of the flow, which rose and fell and swelled and burst over them in storms of spray. And yet shortly, when they
had
passed it, the downhill race recommenced, shunting them over another series of stair-like platforms, the heavy edges of rock hammering the underside of the canoe with such nauseating force that it left them groggy. When a brackish wave swamped them from the left, all but capsizing them, it did less to revive them and more to half-drown them. They now drooped limply in their seats, lifeless and exhausted like broken dolls, when the course of the river changed dramatically, surging around a few more S-bends but now at a gentler, almost meandering rate.

Heck mopped water from his face, but had to blink to make sure he wasn’t seeing things. The fog had lessened. It was still a notable presence, but not as all-enveloping as it had been. It helped that they were suddenly on very level ground, but he realised he could see tens of yards beyond the banks of the river, into sparse woodland, skeletal underbrush and the pillars of ivy-clad tree-trunks stretching away in all directions.

There was another hairy moment when the boat grated over hidden surfaces, lurching side to side – it seemed they were among rapids again – but these were actually a minor issue: a few scattered cobblestones cluttering the decelerating flow.

‘I think … I think we’ve made it,’ Heck risked saying. ‘Look, there!’ Some thirty yards ahead, a stone-built structure arched over the channel. ‘That bridge carries the B5343. The other side of that and we’re into Langdale Beck.’

‘You sure?’ Gemma gasped. Again, she was rigid with pain, her torso angled left.

‘It must be … there’s no other road along here.’ His jubilant tone faltered. ‘Trouble is …’ He glanced back. Despite the receding fog, there was no sign of Mary-Ellen, but how far behind could she be? ‘Now we’ve
really
got to work.’

They paddled strenuously again, passing under the B5343. It was tempting to try and run the vessel aground, get out and climb up to the road. But the embankment looked steep and in any case, even if they made it, they’d still be in the middle of nowhere, with miles to go before the next habitation.

Perhaps forty yards past the bridge, now amid open, flattish farmland, increasingly more of which was visible thanks to the dwindling fog, they joined Langdale Beck, a broad, slow-moving stream. Even in the dimness, it was so shallow – no more than two or three feet – and so clean and clear they could see the layers of pebbles at the bottom. However, its eastward current was laboriously slow, so they had to paddle even harder – until Gemma stopped abruptly, the paddle slipping from her shuddering grasp, dropping into the water. ‘Shit, Heck … I’ve really hurt my back …’

‘I know,’ he said. ‘Don’t worry. We’re almost there. We’ll get you to hospital ASAP.’

But neither of them believed that.

‘You know … she’s gonna catch us if we stay on this river,’ Gemma gasped.

‘I’m open to suggestions.’

‘How far …’ She’d hunched sideways against the port gunwale, both hands clawed into fists. ‘How far to the next village?’

‘That would be Chapel Stile. A few miles. But it’s only a church and a handful of cottages.’

‘You think the others will have got there?’

‘Bella McCarthy will most likely have headed there.’ Heck was guessing, but it seemed reasonable. They hadn’t seen any trace of the others yet; no wreckage or bodies, which had to be a good sign, but no beached craft either, which meant they were all still on the water. ‘She knows the owner of the Wainwrights’ Inn, which is a popular pub around here. She might be there already. Trouble is, Chapel Stile’s not necessarily any refuge. We could call for help from there, but Mary-Ellen will have killed everyone by the time it arrives.’

‘You really think she’d go that far?’

‘Count on it. Like you said, it’s all or nothing for her now. She’s not gonna start this whole thing again somewhere else at some later date.’

‘If Bella and the others have made it to Chapel Stile, they might’ve called for help already. M-E’s going to get caught … she must know that.’

‘I doubt she cares about herself anymore,’ Heck said. ‘She’s been planning all this time to punish you, Gemma – if not ridicule you in the eyes of the nation, to kill you. Brutally, slowly. And now look … you’ve got most of the villagers away, plus you’ve survived. Not only will you be a hero, you’ll be a
live
hero.’

He glanced behind – just in time to see the distant blip of Mary-Ellen’s vessel come veering around the bend into the beck, its passenger working furiously with her two-bladed paddle. Again, even though there was maybe eighty yards between them, he could see that she was gaining ground. In normal circumstances, two to one, they ought to be outpacing her with ease, but Gemma was too stiff with pain to help in any way. On top of that, Mary-Ellen was the ace athlete and an experienced kayaker.

Heck looked around frantically. They were currently passing leafless trees on the north bank and quiet waterside meadows on the south, but some thirty yards back from the river on this latter side, vaguely misted by vapour but still identifiable, stood a row of four hollow, half-built structures. Holiday maisonettes almost certainly, being adapted from more ancient farm buildings. The area around them was cluttered with prefab cabins, cement mixers, piles of building materials, hand-tools and the like, the ground muddy and slashed by caterpillar tracks.

Without conferring on the matter, Heck turned the blade of his paddle, bringing them towards the south bank, the canoe grounding itself on sand and shingle.

‘What’re we doing?’ Gemma asked.

‘Sorry, but you’re right.’ He took her by the elbow and helped her out. ‘Once she gets close, we’ll be sitting ducks on this river …’

‘Is there somewhere here we can hide?’ Gemma asked, as he hustled her forward.

‘We’ll see …’

The maisonettes swam fully into view, their river-facing side covered with scaffolding and hanging plastic.

‘Hell, Heck … what is this, a bloody building site?’

‘It’ll do!’

‘Just so you …’ Gemma’s bottom lip was bloodied, she’d bitten it so hard. Though he dragged her forward mercilessly, she could barely even hobble. ‘Just so you know … I can’t go much further …’

‘With luck, you won’t need to.’ He forced her under the site’s single boundary rope.

‘Maybe … maybe there’s a security guard who can make a call,’ she stuttered.

‘Nope. They tend not to need security up here.’

The gaunt shadow of the maisonettes fell over them.

‘Course not,’ she replied. ‘Not a bad ’un for miles, eh?’

The Stranger’s scorched uniform clung to her in tatters, adhering to the blistered, purulent flesh underneath. She couldn’t imagine what she looked like, but for the moment that mattered no more than the pain itself: it was something she could deal with later. If there was going to be a later. Not that she cared one way or the other, so long as she finished the task she’d set herself.

Pointed statements had been made about her earlier on: that she was scum, a sadistic pipsqueak.

Well, she couldn’t deny it. What she was and what she did revolted her. This very night alone she’d several times puked as her innate self-loathing had threatened to overwhelm her. But they were far past the stage of backing out now. The task was everything – to show the world she was here, she was back, that she’d never gone away, that they couldn’t attribute her work to anyone else, no matter how hard they tried, no matter how blind they were to the innocence of those they despised, especially that one whose life they’d so callously taken. The one known only as ‘Dada’, with all the wonderful things that had entailed: the affection, the care, the shield against a hostile world, the endless, unconditional love. So what if he’d had demons inside him that he’d needed to extinguish? All men did.

The Stranger herself did.

And she was about to extinguish them right now.

She stooped under the rope and limped into the building site. She’d only caught a fleeting glimpse of them before they’d dodged out of sight. But they couldn’t have gone far. She might be hurt, but she had the edge on them in everything: fitness, aggression, guile. She’d toyed with Heck, the strongest among them, all night, running rings around him in the fog, chasing him along the Cradle, knocking off his friends and helpers one by one, even blowing up his police station. Oh,
that
had been a hoot.