George
George pulls on his trainers, which are still wet and muddy from the previous day. He ties the laces as fast as he can, with trembling hands. They keep slipping from his grip. Why is it that such simple tasks seem to become impossibly difficult when needed to be done with the most urgency? When his laces are tied, he leaps to his feet. ‘Jessie, you stay here and keep an eye on Polly. Try not to—’
‘For God’s sake, George, justgo.’ Polly glares at him.
‘Okay, okay.’ George darts to the kitchen and opens a drawer, removing two kitchen knives. He hands the smaller one to Reubyn, who accepts it with a look of horror. ‘Come on, let’s move.’
George and Reubyn leave the bus, bouncing down the steps and sprinting across the car park. The cold steel of the knife feels absurd in George’s hand. Not to mention dangerous. Running with an unsheathed blade probably isn’t the most sensible idea. And what the hell would he do with it, if called into action? George hasn’t got it in him to cut someone. Reubyn definitely doesn’t. As they leave the car park and run down the road, George vaguely recalls reading some statistic about how carrying a knife significantly raises the likelihood of the carrier being stabbed. For a moment, he considersabandoning the knife, but decides against it. Faith is likely armed, and they have to help Miles.
They charge down the road. The asphalt is covered with trembling spots of light, and the trees link bony arms above them, encasing them under a tunnel of leaves and branches. George wonders if he’s set the starting pace too high. There’s a knack to distance running, and Reubyn was never very good at cross-country. They’ve only done a couple of hundred yards and Reubyn sounds out of breath already. His cheeks flush and his under-chin wobbles in a way that doesn’t appear sustainable over a long distance. And what distance is that? Miles and Faith set off more than half an hour ago, albeit at a walking pace. George’s ears are full with the sound of his laboured breathing and the pounding of feet as he performs a mental calculation. Half an hour at a typical walking pace, say three to four miles per hour, would be around one and a half to two miles. That’s quite far. Assuming they maintain their current pace, which doesn’t appear likely, it would take them—
A bang causes them to stutter their steps and scatters birds from the trees.
Reubyn slows to walking pace and turns to look at George. ‘What was that?’
‘I’m not sure.’ George chooses not to vocalise the most likely answer, for fear of frightening Reubyn. He also isn’t keen to admit the reality of it to himself. If they were out in an area of British woodland, George would assume what they just heard was a twelve-bore shotgun: the completely normal sound of country folk hunting pheasants and grouse. But here? In an area closed off for wildlife protection? That’s not possible. More benign explanations – that it was some kind of firework or other small explosive – seem equally far-fetched. That leaves one possible answer: what they just heard was the sound of a gun being fired with nefarious intent. And the source of it is dead ahead.
They jog hesitantly onwards. Holding their silly kitchen knives. Bringing a knife to a gunfight. That’s a phrase he’s used countlesstimes to describe being underprepared. Never in a million years has he thought he might literally find himself in that scenario.
Another shot rings out across the forest.
George and Reubyn have stopped running. They stand and look at each other, wearing expressions of bewildered horror. Whatever was happening between Faith and Miles is finished. It’s over. They’re too late to do anything about it.
Chapter 57
Miles
A hellish sequence of sensory firsts is unleashed on Miles as he charges towards Faith. It all happens in a rapid, confusing blur, within one or two paces, in a single second. A terrible onslaught of sound, agony and terror.
He’s halfway towards Faith when he feels the impact of the bullet. It doesn’t propel him backwards, like when someone is shot in an action movie. His forward momentum remains. The initial hit is simply a realisation – his skin and muscle registering the contact with a sudden signal to his brain.
Then comes the sound. The deafening crack of gunfire. The blast splits the air and sets a dull pulsing in his ears.
And then, as he’s still running the no man’s land between his starting position and his target, comes the most profound experience of all – the physical pain. It’s a sudden agony, like nothing he’s felt before – an explosion of white heat that pokers deep into his right shoulder. He’s still running when that searing pain intensifies, blooming out from the point of impact.
Miles didn’t see the bullet leave the barrel because his head is down as he charges forward. There’s no time to dwell on thepain. He continues to rush on, bracing himself for being shot a second time.
His shoulder screams anew as it crashes into Faith. He roars as he hits her with a tackle from straight off the rugby field. His injured shoulder slams into her chest and her body gives way, hurled backwards under his momentum, and he lands in a heap on top of her on the road. Miles instinctively grabs her forearms. He needs to get her hands under his control. He can’t let her point that gun at him again.
He slides his grip up her arms, to her wrists, and Faith is writhing beneath him, kicking, and jabbing with her knees. She screams, inches from his face. Miles gets a grip on Faith’s wrists and quickly hoists her arms so they are outstretched above her head. The act of doing so causes a fiery sensation in his right shoulder. Her face is so close that her growls and groans are loud. Miles tilts his head to look up her arm and sees she has a tight grip on the handle of the gun. He, in turn, has a firm grip on Faith’s right hand – the one holding the weapon. But his grip on her other arm is failing. He should be able to overpower her easily, but the injury to his shoulder means the muscles aren’t working as they should. He strains to keep hold of her left wrist but he’s losing his grip, one finger at a time. They both make low, guttural noises through gritted teeth as Faith tries to free herself from his grasp. Miles simply cannot keep his shoulder tense any longer. He loses his grip. Faith lashes her left arm free, and, in one quick motion, grabs the gun, switching it from her right to her left hand. Miles shifts his body, and attempts to restrain her arms under his weight, but it’s too late.
Another shot. It’s even louder at this close range, like the slamming of a steel door right next to his ear. Miles braces for the pain. But this time, the pain doesn’t come. This bullet missed.
Miles makes a desperate lunge to try to gain control. Again, he grabs hold of her arms, and brings her hands together above her head. He braces against the burning pain in his shoulder and lifts her hands off the ground, then brings them down. Faith squeals as they thud against the tarmac. But she retains her grip on the gun. Miles repeats the action, this time summoning every ounce of strength to fight against the agonising pain in his shoulder. He lifts higher this time and slams her hands down on the road. Faith groans, and there’s a rattle as the gun falls loose. Miles reaches out and sweeps the gun away. He scrambles to his feet and runs over to it. Faith is up in pursuit, but Miles gets there first. He grabs the gun and sprints up the road.
Faith chases after him, but Miles is quicker. He runs twenty yards further and turns, pointing the gun at him.
She stops dead, and a rush of relief sails through Miles’s body. Her power over him has gone. It’s over. He holds the gun in his left hand, keeping it aimed at the centre of Faith’s chest. His right arm hangs loosely at his side. Any movement of it only increases the agonising pain in his shoulder.
Faith stands in the middle of the road, her shoulders sagging miserably. She glares at him and nurses her right hand. She’s hurt. But it’s impossible for Miles to find any sympathy regarding any injury she may have suffered – not when he’s enduring such crippling pain in his shoulder. Pain she inflicted.
Faith takes a step forward, and Miles responds by taking a step back.
‘What are you going to do, Miles? Shoot me? You get off on that, don’t you? Killing women.’
Miles doesn’t respond. The overwhelming relief he felt has already abated. Whatishe going to do? He has no idea. Miles might be lucky to be alive, but the situation he finds himself in – pointing a loaded gun at someone – is still one of mortal jeopardy.The weapon feels unreal in his hand. Cold and heavy. His rests his finger delicately against the trigger, as lightly as he can. He can hear the beats of his heart – reassuring markers of life and time – but the passing of each heartbeat brings him no closer to the answer of what he should do.
Faith simply stares at him, pure venom in her eyes. After maybe twenty seconds of silence, she folds her arms. ‘Just tell me why you did it.’
