The Ashes of an Oak (24 page)

‘I just need your help with something, Val,’ said Frank as lightly as possible.

‘Sure,’ said Val. ‘Anything for you, Frank.’

Kelly took the clear bag out of her purse and laid it on the glass topped table between them.

‘Have you seen one of those before?’ asked Frank.

Val bent forward and looked at the bag. ‘Yes, of course. It’s a knife sharpener. We have one just like that.’

Frank’s heart fell. ‘Could I see that please, Val?’

‘Of course. Give me a moment and I’ll get it for you.’

She got up and went to the kitchen.

‘Shit,’ said Frank.

‘I’m sorry, Frank,’ said Kelly. ‘She may find their one. You never know. This could still be anybody’s.’

They waited an uncomfortable moment for Val to return. ‘I can’t seem to find it, Frank,’ she said breathlessly. ‘It’s not in its usual place.’

‘Oh,’ said Frank. ‘That’s okay. I knew you had one like it and just wondered where you’d bought it, that’s all.’

Val laughed. ‘I didn’t buy that. Good Lord, no. That belonged to Steve’s mom and she gave it to Steve. I never use the damn thing. I get Steve to sharpen the knives around here.’

‘Well, that’s fine,’ said Frank. ‘I’m sorry to have disturbed you.’

‘You could have saved yourself a journey and just asked Steve.’

‘I know that now, but we were in the area anyway, working on stuff. You know how it is. Even on a Sunday.’

‘You should be taking things easy after all you’ve had to put up with,’ advised Val in her most motherly tone.

‘I will,’ said Frank. ‘I promise. I’ve just got some things to do. We’d better go.’

She kissed him affectionately on the cheek and embraced him. ‘Will you come to dinner sometime?’

‘I’d like that,’ said Frank. He loathed himself.

‘Well, don’t let me hold you up. It’s nice to meet you, Kelly.’

Kelly shook Val’s hand. ‘You too, Val.’

Frank was relieved to hear the front door close behind them.

As they walked back to Kelly’s car, he suddenly veered off, went behind a tree and threw up.

Chapter 33

Frank sat with Kelly in the car, parked opposite the precinct. He looked up at the grand red brick building and wondered how different it would look tomorrow.

‘You want me to wait?’ asked Kelly. ‘Or come up?’

Frank looked at his watch. He didn’t know why, it was completely irrelevant.

‘Would you hang on here? Just in case Emmet wants to see you? If we both go marching in there past Steve and into the Captain’s office, he’ll know something’s up.’

‘I’ll wait,’ said Kelly. ‘It’s not a problem. Are you okay to do this?’

‘No,’ said Frank. ‘I never thought anything like this could happen to me. Sure there are cops on the take and the odd kooky arrest, but overall they’re a good bunch, just trying to get by. I never envisaged arresting my own partner. I never envisaged arresting anybody for the murder of my wife. ‘ He ran his hand over his knees and wiped the sweat from them. ‘It’s an absurd life in an absurd world, don’t you think?’

‘I hope not,’ said Kelly. ‘Absurd things happen sometimes, that’s all.’

Frank opened the door. ‘I’ll be back to let you know,’ he said.

‘Take your time.’

Frank crossed to the precinct house. He felt cold inside and nausea swept over him in waves. This is it, he thought. This is my last arrest. After this I’m away, away to the woods, to the lake, to a solitary life where the only absurdity is that the sun still rises and falls.

‘Sinatra,’ said Coleman as he came through the door. ‘How you doing?’

Frank raised a hand and headed quickly through the stairs and into the squad room.

Steve looked up as soon as he heard the gate go.

Don’t look him in the eye, said the voice in Frank’s head. Don’t look him in the eye or you’re done for.

He walked past Steve at an even pace, but felt like he was weaving like a drunk.

‘Hey, Frank,’ he heard Steve say. ‘How was lunch?’

He ignored him, walked on towards the Captain’s office and, without knocking, entered. 

He closed the door and sat down in a chair.

Steve watched them talk, watched their lips as the conversation went from slow to fast to slow again. Frank pointed an arm towards the door and got up to open it, but Emmet hushed him, put a hand on his arm and got him to sit down again. The conversation became animated, heated, the gestures confrontational, despairing and full of disbelief. Nothing could be heard outside the office but the muffled rise and fall passionate reason, but all who looked on through the glass had their own interpretation of what they saw and all who saw knew that no good would come of this.

Then Steve saw Emmet look at him, only for a second, but he saw in his eyes the harsh syllable of doubt and it seemed to last for an eternity.

Without hesitation, he reached into his drawer, grabbed a handgun and fled.

The squad room watched, frozen, unaware of the tornado about to be unleashed, of the damage it would do, how it would affect the periphery of all their lives.

Frank saw Steve go. Emmet stood, his arm repeatedly firing like arrow towards the door. Frank said something and held out his hand. He jumped with urgency. Emmet went into his desk draw and pulled out a gun and handed it to Frank.

‘Now go,’ he screamed in silence. ‘Go.’

The office door opened and Frank bolted past them.

Emmet stood in the doorway and issued orders with absolute calm. ‘Mike, go with Frank. Bob, get a call out. Steve Wayt is to be arrested on sight for murder.’ Bob looked like a rabbit in headlights. ‘Do it,’ said Emmet.

Frank took the stairs three at a time. With each jump he crashed into the wall and with each crash  a pain jolted through the side of his head. As he ran through the precinct reception, he noticed all eyes on the door and knew that Steve had left.

He ran through the doors and saw Kelly standing next to the car.

She pointed right. ‘That way,’ she shouted.

Frank took off, his lungs already screaming in revolt at the extra work they were being forced to do, his head swimming in disarray.

There he saw Steve, a hundred yards ahead, running like a greyhound along East New York Avenue, careless of who got in his way, of the gun in his hand that caused onlookers to shy away at the sight of it.

Frank pushed on, pushed his legs to the point where he thought he was going to fall over them, to the point where they were protesting at the pain, going to jelly as they tried to seize each grain of oxygen from Frank’s leaden lungs.

Steve bolted into Rockaway and Frank followed, but he was losing ground. He had lost about twenty yards already. There was no way on this earth that he would catch him.

He heard sirens behind him and three squad cars raced past him and turned down Rockaway themselves.

As he turned the corner, he heard a squeal of tyres as the cars pulled up, then the sound of doors closing and heavy feet upon the hot summer sidewalk.

He reached the units out of breath and dizzy.

‘Where is he?’ he shouted. His voice broke in desperation. ‘Where is he?’

One of the uniforms pointed at an empty building. ‘He ran in there. Pink McCauley and Jim Baker went in after him.’

Frank spat and went after them.

‘Let them deal with it, Frank,’ called the uniform after him. ‘You look dead on your feet, man.’

Frank dismissed him with a wave of his hand and went in through the broken down door.

The place was recently vacated. It could have been any office in any building, the only thing missing was the people. Someone had left in a hurry. Each desk, each chair, could have held the ghost of someone just departed.

Frank held his gun up ahead of him, his arms flexed at the elbows, wrists tight, hands wrapped around the grip one over another.

‘Jim?’ he called. ‘Jim Baker?’

The deep voice of Jim Baker bounced off the empty walls. ‘That you, Frank?’

‘Yes it is. You and Pink get out of here. Cover the exits.’

‘What about you?’

Frank edged forward and swung round a cabinet. ‘I’ll be fine.’

A shot rang out.

‘Jim?’

‘I’m fine.’

‘Pink?’

There was no reply. Frank called out again. ‘Pink? You there?’

Again, there was only silence.

‘Get out of here, Jim,’ yelled Frank.

He heard footsteps in the distance and a door open. ‘I’m out, Frank. I’m out.’

Frank moved into a large, segregated area. On all sides it was glass. At one time it must have been some kind of telephone exchange or a conference room. There were phones all over the place, all torn from the wall, their wires feeling the air like the tendrils of a dying squid.

‘Steve?’

He listened for footsteps.

‘Steve? Are you there?’

A pain shot through the left side of his head where the scar was. He put his hand up to it and pressed, closed his eyes until he felt the overwhelming throb subside. By the time it had gone, he was on his knees. It felt like someone was twisting a knife through his skull.

‘Steve,’ he called. ‘God dammit, answer me, you murdering son of a bitch!’

A shot whined past, wide of him, and took a lump out of the wall ten feet away.

This was the point of no return. Frank had met this a thousand times before, not with cops, for sure, but with anyone who had decided to make their stand. There was always that moment when, decision made, that final battle was declared, either by gunfire or laughter or silence. At a certain point, a person became unreachable, beyond redemption.

The pain lessened, one thump at a time. It took hold just behind his left eye. It had its claws in him and had no intention of letting go, but the relief was magnificent.

Frank pressed the heel of his hand into his socket and tried to massage the remnants of pain away. It made no difference.

‘Steve,’ he called. ‘Give it up. Come on. It’s not just me here. Half the precinct’s outside.’

Another shot, blindly taken from behind some defensive wall, went wide.

Frank moved forward, sure of the direction from which the sound had come. The floor still had the thin carpet on it. No one had got to the windows yet. Maybe the landlord was hoping for another rent. You’ll be lucky, thought Frank. It was probably some pin striped asshole from Long Island who thought nothing of separating money from the people of Brownsville. One fly dies, there’s always another to suck the shit.

Frank darted out from behind the cabinet and put himself behind a table. He pulled the table over and made it into a shield. Every move he made seemed to bring back the pain. His face felt red, swollen, as if his head was about to explode. He kneeled again on the floor and rolled forward until the top of his head was on the carpet. He couldn’t think. He couldn’t move. His entire world was rooted to this one spot just below his skull. It felt like it was trying to force his teeth from their sockets, his eyes from his head.

A shot thumped into the back of the table and caused it to shudder. Frank tried to raise his gun, but his arm just wouldn’t work. He put every ounce of effort into his shoulder, tried to think it into his biceps, into his triceps, into his elbow, into his forearm and lift the ton weight of metal from the floor.

It was beyond him. He dropped his gun and clawed at his head in an effort to remove the pain. He heard a cry, high-pitched, like a wounded animal, distant, in the forest, camouflaged among the undergrowth, just waiting to die. Then he realised it was him.

He heard footsteps and turned his head an inch to the side. He saw Steve’s feet. His eyes grated across the sockets and he looked up.

Steve towered over him. He was wet with sweat, his face ruddy, his eyes wide and red with fear.

He raised the gun.

Frank cringed as the pain returned.

How absurd, he thought. How absurd. All this way, for this.

A shot rang out.

              ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Chris Bradbury was born in 1962. He attended schools in Bracknell, Windsor, Mauritius and Bloxham and, despite all these, failed to learn a thing. He spent his formative years in a cocoon and failed to see the time go by. When he woke up he realised that it was too late.

He has been a shop worker, a hospital porter, worked in medical records, in the CSSD department, as an estate agent, as a nurse, as a delivery driver, a bus driver and as a teaching assistant to those with learning difficulties.

He lives in Yorkshire.

He is married to a lady and has some lady children.

He loves them.

He has always wanted to write or act or do something that brings him praise and attention.

Sadly, he has always been average.

He is also the author of:

The Ghost of Dormy Place and Other Tales

The High Commissioner’s Wife

Looking For the Light

A Kind and Gentle Man

Acceptable Behaviour (Poetry)

Praxis (Sci-Fi Fantasy - with Ian Makinson)

Praxis – Part Two: Regeneration Paradox (Sci-Fi Fantasy - with Ian Makinson)

Chine (Horror)

Sniff – The Meanderings Of An Average Man (Poetry)

Uncomfortably Numb (Play)

Chris Bradbury’s Poems for Kids

A Beginner’s Guide to the Wars of the Roses