I strain to remember, finding my head is swinging as though searching for something physical…
Think…
Someone knew I was setting the explosives to destroy Finchby’s building and made no attempt to prevent it.
That certainly wouldn’t have been Finchby. Money mattered to him.
Still…
… when James checked over the footage on Finchby’s system, I didn’t appear. These images must have been captured some other way.
What happened?
Jenny’s cell… She, cradled back against Michael, straining, in the grip of her labour pains…The camera indicator light… blinking red…
Me, jerking my chin up… “Michael, time’s up.”
“Got my hands full here. You’re just going to have to hold them off.”
“Wonderful.” Me, looking out into the corridor… then jerking back as a shot ricochets from the wall, spitting plaster at me…
But none of that was in Finchby’s data.
My spine prickles, but I move closer to examine the other boards:
Several threads from the shots in Jenny’s cell connect outwards to other images of my daughter.
Some are obvious, shots taken from above, looking down on her, chained and pregnant, in the cell where they held her. Others seem to be long-distance photos. One is taken across a street, looking into a cafe window. Jenny’s sitting at a table across from… I look in closer… Kirstie… Each has a coffee mug. Jenny has a vast sandwich on a plate. Kirstie a salad.
I move to the next photograph: the mountain home where my daughter lives with her paired husbands. The lighting and the lush greenery suggests summer. And there, sitting on the wall that edges the terrace, Jenny and Mitch.
Mother and daughter look so alike. Jenny is flat-stomached with no visible sign of any pregnancy. Mitch… I tug the photo from the board, holding it up to the light for a clearer view… Mitch has a black eye and the side of her face is swollen.
My mouth dries and it’s hard to swallow.
From that photo, another thread, this time leading to an unattractive figure exiting the door of a house. Conners. Belly sagging, his face is bloated red and his shoulders stoop. But it’s the only one of him. There are no more photos of Conners. No more threads from the photo.
Of no interest?
Not my friend…
I trace the line back. Dozens of threads link me with Mitch and with Jenny. But then, as I move the other way, leftward, the threads connect me to James. And to Michael.
A couple of newspaper cuttings: Maniac Brother Murdered! A photo of Michael’s City sports centre. Another of the spa hotel next door to the home. And that’s it. No more.
But James is a different matter: his face looks out at me from dozens of cuttings, announcements, brochures…
Mr James Alexanders, Technical Director of the Haswell Corporation and close personal friend of Richard Haswell announced today that work will begin on Phase Two of the redevelopment of the River Shopping Mall…
More threads follow through from shots of James to photos of two women. One is some blowsy, middle-aged female I don’t recognise. The other is dark-haired woman I now know to be his daughter… His other daughter… Georgie…
James… I saw it, the tragedy in his eyes when he held her, holding up a mirror to my own feelings over Mitch’s distress when Jenny had been taken.
… our lives have been completely fucked now for so long, I can barely remember what normal living feels like. And it’s all because of you…
My stomach twists…
Then I spin as I hear… something… and my attention wrenches back to my immediate situation…
What the hell is that fucking noise?
Gun in hand, I spin, seeking the source of the sound that just echoed past me. It came and went, so fleetingly I couldn’t identify it.
I’ve broken my own rules. Here I am, exposed, and in the most obvious place possible. They must be able to see me. They must surely be watching me.
Want to play?
And I came out to play….
So, what’s the game? What are the rules?
Cat and mouse?
Predator and Prey?
The crack of a shot reverberates against hard floors and low ceilings. Glass shatters in an aged windowpane and something spits pasts me, planting itself in one of the boards.
Reflexively, I jerk back, then drop to a crouch behind the only available cover, the desk. Glock gripped in both hands, arms outstretched, I seek my target…
… which, beyond the glass and in distant gloom, is nowhere to be seen…
A second shot, this time clearing through the gaping pane. As I duck, again it hits the board, this time holing a photograph. My senses are focussed elsewhere, but my fragmented attention notices the hole is squarely through Jenny’s forehead…
And I freeze…
… A red dot of light hovers, then moves lower, settling over a photo of Mitch. It floats, a ruby eye centred on her forehead…
Time slows…
… and I follow the dot backwards, a crimson beam marked by floating motes, a blood-stained shaft of light projecting from the gloom across the floor…
And with a whizz and a crack, a quarter-inch circle holes Mitch’s forehead.
Indecision freezes my muscles, my brain…
My phone vibes…
I’m a sitting duck here. Whoever’s out there in the darkness…
The mobile vibes again and I fish it out of my pocket.
Please Mrs Klempner, can Larry come out to play?
And just like that, the bubble bursts. It was supposed to intimidate? A line so childish… So infantile…
I crack out laughing…
… then jerk back as, in quick succession, three more shots slam into the photograph: a tight circle of four bullet-holes centred above Mitch’s eyes
My gut churns and my bladder tightens…
… I ignore both. If I let myself think about the implications… let my fears do my thinking for me… it’ll disable me…
Deal with it…
Focus on what’s important…
Someone’s a fucking good shot…
Baxter?
Whoever it is, they could have easily picked me off.
But they haven’t…
What game are we playing?
Whose rules?
Baxter’s?
Hers?
Who’s pulling the strings here? My cheeks burn. My fucking strings…
He could have shot me.
But he hasn’t.
My gut is clenching, my fingertips tingling, but I fight it down.
What’s the game?
Giving me the runaround?
What’s the point?
What’s at the end of all this?
?
?
Only one way to find out…
Holstering my Glock, I stride out, standing in full view of whoever’s lurking in the shadows.
Standing straight, legs akimbo, arms folded, I shout out into the dark “Okay, you don’t want to shoot me. What do you want?”
The words echo, a brief vibration in the air that shimmers and fades to a taut silence.
“Come on then. Make up your mind. I’m here. I’m playing your game. What do you want?”
Still, there’s no reply, but…
… there…
… in the darkness, something moves…
… something clicks…
… and lights blaze.
Without meaning to, I turn my head aside, blinking away the burn on my retina. Lights glare out of the darkness, a line of four spots, like a cheap remake of Close Encounters, although I suspect the occupants of the glare are more like the bad guys from Alien.
Play the game…
“Baxter?”
The darkness shifts and there’s that sound again…
And this time, I get it.
A giggle…
Hardly a sound Baxter would make.
A female sound…
I’ve never cared for giggling women, but that’s just me. Always before, it’s been simple irritation on my part. This sound sets the hairs prickling up my neck and my pulse yammering…
… and it occurs to me that the Bad Guy in Alien was in fact, a Bad Gal… a Queen…
It’s a mad sound. An insane sound. It’s the sound heard in every children’s fairy tale since Hansel and Gretel pushed the witch into that oven. It’s a sound that monsters make.
Moving slowly, sucking some saliva back into my mouth, I reach for my Glock. Perhaps I’ll have something to aim at. But if I’m honest with myself, I want to hug my safety blanket.
More movement: a figure steps out of the lights, only by a couple of feet, but enough that, my eyes adjusting, I have a clear view…
… of a male figure aiming at me…
A zing by my ear, the crack of splintered glass behind, and, all on instinct, I duck, then dive…
… throwing myself to the floor.
It’s a soft landing, with time to roll and take the sting from the impact on floorboards spongy with age and rot. But dust swirls into my face: the fallen crap of years, powdered timber and Christ-knows-what in spores. It stinks of decay.
Coughing and spluttering, swiping grit and cobwebs from my mouth and nose, I roll. Another shot, this time by my feet. Splintered wood bounces up and my knees jerk up on automatic, tucking into to my chest…
The fucking giggle again…
To hell with this…
I’m not going to play their game…
The next shot cracks close by my hand, but this time I resist my body’s reaction, forcing myself to remain still…
… and this time there’s no giggle.
I yell into the lights, “Sorry… am I not being funny enough for you?”
A snarl…
And I yelp at the round which slams into the floor only an inch from my face, firing splinters into my cheek…
Fuck!
Snatching at my face and the hot trickle over my skin…
… A quickly physical self-inventory…
… No serious harm… but someone out here is one helluva shot…
And that sodding giggle jars over me again…
My muscles tense, heat flushes up my throat and face. My heart’s thumping, my lungs pumping…
Fuck this…
… and I roll and twist, leaping to my feet, Glock in my swinging hand, seeking a target.
The shadow retreats into the shadows behind the lights, but my brain’s working now, my thinking clear and I hear something skitter off, ahead of me and to my right…
What’s the game?
What are the rules?
I’m supposed to chase?
And what if I do?
I need time to think. Time to look…
… and I dodge behind the only cover available; the veneer-thin office wall. Then ducking, I drag the desk across the floor, turning it on its side to give me the extra layer of cover. It’s fuck-all use against a direct hit from anything sizable, but at least it’s something to hide my actions while I squat on my haunches to think…
I’m supposed to be off-balance… panicking…
What would I be doing if I gave in to my fears? What am I supposed to be doing?
The smell of mushrooms invades my sinuses…
Ahhh…
I jerk a brief look over my flimsy cover, scan, then throw myself to one side just in time to avoid the round which punches through the tabletop and jams itself into the opposite wall…
… And I spring up, aiming into the glare. I’d like to claim I’m trying to wing him, to make him mad. I’m not. If I can take the bastard out, I will. He’s too good a shot to play with.
But all the while, I’m aiming against the lights. Centring on where I think his chest must be, I aim and fire…
But I’ve missed and he’s gone; a shimmer in the shadows
I’m supposed to be drawn. Supposed to go nearer. Supposed to…
A silhouette darkens, indistinct, shifting behind the glare, I fire again, cursing as I miss… then dodge back smartly, avoiding the replying bullet, but not the plaster and brick which shower over me as it slams into the wall close by.
The laughter again… that insane, stupid, mind-numbing giggling… but this time I follow the sound, the muzzle of my Glock following my command, apparently without the intervention of my hands…
And I fire…
A shriek… Outrage and pain and shock…
A figure comes charging out at me, screaming abuse… “You bastard! You think you can hurt her…”
From the dazzle of the lights, the darkness in between, it runs towards me, firing: two barrels blazing in a continuous stream of shots I don’t try to return, simply ducking down behind my desk.
A round punches through and I hurl myself sidelong, now behind the metal filing cabinet, curling into a ball, instinctively wrapping my hands over my head and somewhere in the process, losing my grip on the Glock…
One round after another slams through the office walls, swallowed by the metal carcass of the cabinet. It clangs and pings and…
… and falls silent…
Out of ammo?
From somewhere close, cursing and the metallic clatter of a magazine being unclipped…
Unravelling from my knot of arms and legs, I leap to my feet…
The Glock?
No time…