The Dying Place (39 page)

Peter had seen the man first.

Pulled everyone else to a stop. His feet were frozen to the ground as the man walked right towards them. The shotgun in his hand making Peter’s eyes grow wider, his breath shorten and heart start banging away at his chest wall.

Frogmarched away.

Why him? There were three others he could have chosen, but it was him. Always fucking him.

He’d driven once before. Wardy’s cousin had nicked some car one night, was offering everyone a go for a flim. Peter thought five quid was worth it to drive a car, even if it was some shitty little Clio. He’d let Wardy’s cousin start it up and then sat behind the wheel.

Now he was driving with a shotgun pointed at his chest. A sweaty and shaking man who couldn’t stop talking to himself sitting next to him.

Peter swallowed again and again, his mouth hanging open as it seemed to fill endlessly with moisture. Hands moving about the steering wheel as he drove, trying to remember to change gear as he moved up in speed.

‘What’s your name?’

Peter tried to breathe normally. ‘P—Peter.’

‘Okay, Peter. Don’t do more than thirty. They’ll stop us and I’ll have to kill you. I don’t want to kill you here. Not here. I need to get home … need to get home …’

The man trailed off as he spoke, once again murmuring under his breath to himself.

Every now and again he’d shout a direction. ‘Next right. Next left.’ Each time, Peter slowed, hoping he wouldn’t crash into a wall.

On the other hand, maybe that wouldn’t be such a bad idea. Wondered if he would have enough time to speed up and smash the car into one before having his head blown off.

After what seemed like twenty days, but was more like twenty minutes, the man stopped talking, breathing in and out heavily, like one of those weird martial artists.

‘Park here,’ he said, pointing to a grass verge. Peter aimed but missed, leaving the car half on and half off the kerb.

‘It’ll do.’

Peter kept his eyes on the road ahead, scared to look to his side. The man shifted next to him, the car door opening and shutting in one long movement. Then he sensed his door being opened and sneaked a glance to his right, saw nothing but black trousers and black boots.

‘Out. Walk by my side.’

Peter willed his legs to move, but it didn’t matter anyway. The man was bored of waiting, he imagined, as he was grabbed by the shoulder and forced out the car, tripping over his own feet before righting himself and walking.

He tried to take in details of the house, just in case. Saw nothing special. Nothing that jumped out at him.

Peter’s mind went blank as he tried to think of something, anything. What would Uncle David do?

He had no fucking idea.

Instead, he allowed himself to be led through the front door, into a room on his right, the darkened room lighting up with a click. The furniture looked old, decrepit. Old people smell came wafting towards him, as dust sprung up in the air.

‘Over there. Sit.’

Peter shuffled towards an old wooden chair which had been placed in the centre of the room, indentations from where a coffee table had once stood dotted in four places in front of him as he sat.

The man moved around him, pulling his arms back and wrapping something around them, attaching him to the chair. Tight, too tight, around his wrists, cutting into them, pain shooting through them up into his shoulders.

‘Don’t move.’

The same went around his ankles, trapping him against the chair legs. All the time, a part of his mind was telling him to do something, kick out, scream. Anything.

The thought of a bullet entering his chest stopped him.

‘There. Done,’ the man said.

Peter tried to speak, but it came out as a whisper.

‘Speak up, lad,’ the man said, standing in front of him now. ‘Can’t hear you.’

Peter swallowed and tried again. ‘Wh—what are you going to do?’

‘We’re just going to have a talk. That’s all. It’s all going to end now, I know that. You know it as well.’

Peter shook his head. ‘I don’t understand …’

‘Course you do. You’re just too thick to realise. It’s because of people like you. Stupid little kids like you. That’s why we’re here.’

Peter’s throat felt like it had grown twice the size, a lump the size of a ball suddenly stuck back there.

‘This house … this house is where it all started. When you took my mother away from me …’

‘I … I didn’t …’

‘Shut up,’ the man said, slamming something against Peter’s head. His vision went cloudy, starry, then slowly cleared. He felt something wet slowly fall along the side of his face.

‘Speak when spoken to. Something else you’re not taught these days, just like so many others. I tried to help you, you know that? Tried to make you all see the errors of your ways, but you weren’t having it, were you? No, you just want to piss around, fucking with everyone’s lives. Well … not any more. No. You’ll all be shitting yourselves now, won’t you?’

Peter choked back as tears sprang from his eyes. He didn’t understand, didn’t get it. What was happening? What had he done?

‘Yeah, you cry now, but what about when you’re destroying people’s property, eh? What about when you’re beating up some kid for daring to be different to you? Where’s your fucking tears then?’

Peter screwed his eyes tight, willing the room to disappear. To be transported back to his own house. Anywhere. Anywhere but there. He could hear the man’s breathing, closer to him now. If he opened his eyes, he knew he’d be there, centimetres from his face.

‘What about when you’re knocking old women down in the street, robbing their handbags and laughing about it? You don’t think I didn’t know? I knew what you all did when she was lying there, helpless, breathless. You laughed and thought it was all just one big laugh. Spat on her as she lay on the ground. What had she ever done to you, what the fuck could she possibly ever have done to you lot?’

‘Please …’ Peter said, his voice hitching around his sobs. ‘I don’t know who you think I am, but I haven’t done anything wrong …’

‘Oh,’ the man replied, his voice louder now. ‘That’s always the line, isn’t it?’ His voice became mocking. ‘“I didn’t mean it. I didn’t do nothing wrong.” Bollocks. You know what you’re doing and you enjoy it. We let you get away with it, little by little over the years, and now we’re paying the price. Well, no more.’

Peter heard movement, then the sound of the door swish along the carpet. He opened his eyes a little, seeing headlights play across the window. The man returned to the room, peering outside through the curtains, stood still for a minute … maybe two.

‘You’re all going to get it,’ the man said, without turning around. ‘You’re all going to see what happens when you push us too far.’

Peter thought he heard voices outside, the bubble of hope forming in his stomach quickly diminished by the sight of the man raising up the shotgun he was holding in his hand and leaving the room again.

Footsteps outside the house. Peter tried straining against the binds that were tying him to the chair, but there was no give. Tried bucking against the chair, but it was solid wood, barely moving as he pulled against the weight of it.

The bang when it came … he thought that was it. Thought he was gone. So loud, so deafening, it felt as though it had happened right next to him. As he opened his eyes, slowly, carefully, the room was still empty, still the same. If there’d been an explosion, it hadn’t happened in there.

He cried out, but made no noise, just a horrible, gargling sound in the back of his throat as his cries were drowned out. The man returned to the room, spoke but made no sense. What had he done?

Then Peter heard the voice.

Outside, bellowing, shouting for help. Telling someone to get there fucking fast.

Peter breathed in, tried to contain himself. Didn’t think he’d get more than one shot. Knew there was a chance he’d die either way. Decided it didn’t matter if he tried or not.

Finally, he shouted at the top of his voice.

36

Murphy’s hands shook as he tried to decide what to do first. Taking his phone out of his pocket, he dialled 999 and tried pulling the dead weight of DC Harris away from the open doorway.

‘This is Detective Inspector David Murphy with St Anne Street CID. I’ve got an officer down, firearms present …’ he reeled off the address and stopped talking as he managed to move DC Harris around to behind the front garden wall.

‘Just get everyone you can down here now,’ he shouted into the phone.

Murphy pulled pepper spray from his belt loop, looked down at the can and, thinking of the man in the house, almost laughed.

Then a shout made him stop short.

‘Uncle David … it’s Pe—’

Cut off without a sound that he could hear out there. Murphy was on his haunches, listening, a trail of blood leading towards the house as Harris’s shortening breaths tried to force their way into his chest. He reeled around, looking at the houses opposite, the odd light on here and there. One snapping on, then going off just as quick.

‘Harris … can you hear me?’

Murphy turned Harris on his side as the DC began to shiver uncontrollably. ‘Wh—What’s going on?’ came his response, the effort it took making Harris’s eyes glaze over.

‘No …’ Murphy shouted into Harris’s face. ‘Stay awake, you hear me? I need you to stay awake. The ambulance is on its way, you’re gonna be fine, you believe me?’

Tears rolled down Harris’s cheeks as he tried to nod. Murphy grabbed his right hand, squeezing it in his bearlike grip.

‘He … he … he shot me,’ Harris said, his voice barely a whisper.

Murphy tried to smile. ‘He did, but he’s obviously a shit shot. Missed that massive head of yours by a mile.’

Murphy stood, looking back towards the house. Somewhere on the periphery of his senses he heard a phone ring.

Mind made up.

‘You stay here, okay? They’ll be with you any second now.’

Rossi remembered her car was still in Norris Green around the time she reached the car park and started looking around for it.

‘Cazzo
!’

A uniform who had been standing nearby jumped out of his skin, almost off the ground, which would have made her smile at any other time. Right then though … right then, it was different.

‘You need to take me somewhere,’ Rossi said, moving around to the passenger side door of the marked car the uniform had been standing next to.

‘Erm … yeah, sure,’ the guy said, wearing bemusement as if it was his normal expression. ‘Just … erm … who are you?’

‘Detective Sergeant Laura Rossi. Pleased to meet you, I’m sure you’re doing a great job, wife and kids? Blah blah blah. Now get in the fucking car and drive. Pretty please, with a fuckload of sugar on top. Eaton Road, West Derby. Stick the noise and lights on.’

A few seconds later they were hurtling towards West Derby, Rossi answering questions as they tried to break the land speed record on West Derby Road.

‘Don’t worry,’ Rossi said, as the uniform gave her a wide-eyed look when she mentioned the case she was working. ‘You won’t have to get out the car. At this rate we’ll probably beat them there.’

She tried ringing both Murphy and Harris once again. Still no answer. Rossi had recollections of the year before, when Murphy had managed to put himself in a dangerous situation without realising. That he was doing it again was nothing short of what she had come to expect from him. It was almost as if the universe was trying to tell him something. She hadn’t got there in time last year, but things had still been okay.

But that particular bad guy didn’t have the weaponry this one did.

Murphy’s shoes struck a loose paving slab, loosening it further as he moved towards the open door. He noticed the light had dimmed in the front room, the small paved garden underneath the large bay window not as illuminated as before. He lifted the can of pepper spray level with his shoulder, his telescopic baton extended out and in his left hand.

Being a former boxer came in useful sometimes. It meant he was used to needing both hands to fight.

He mentally calculated the door opening, deciding it might be a tight fit, but that he should be able to move through it without opening it any wider and further announcing his presence. What he was going to do once inside the hallway, he didn’t know, but at that moment he was just taking it one step at a time, trying not to think about the bleeding DC a few feet away and listening for any sound which came from within the house.

A voice. Low and staccato. Further inside, not by the doorway.

Concentrating on his breathing, Murphy kept moving forward, holding his breath as he crouched a little, crossing the threshold, and stopping as he made it inside. He tried to stop himself from hurtling through the door, head down, spraying pepper at anything that moved and hoping for the best.

Instead, he looked through the open living room door, the light inside dim and uninviting.

‘Peter?’ Murphy said, moving forward a step. ‘Are you okay?’

‘He can’t talk right now, detective. Why don’t you step inside so we can see you?’

‘I’d rather hear from Peter,’ Murphy said, holding the baton a little way out from his body, finger ready on the pepper spray, trying to work out where Alan Bimpson’s voice – or rather, Simon Thornhill’s voice – was coming from in the room beyond.

‘I’m afraid that’s not going to be the case, David. I can call you that, right?’

‘Call me what you like, but let me hear from Peter.’

A high-pitched wail made him jump back against the wall.

‘You asked … now come in here.’

Murphy moved slowly, shuffling against the wall and around the doorframe, the wood-panelled door still blocking Simon Thornhill and Peter from view.

He stood strong when the scene came into view.

Peter was tied to a chair, hands behind his back, jacket ripped open on one side, revealing a dark T-shirt underneath. One trainer had fallen off, lying a few inches from where his black-socked foot was flat to the floor. One side of his face was dark red, crimson drying blood crusting on his cheek and jawline. His hair was matted from the wound which had caused it. His eyes were red and puffy from crying, the smell of ammonia filling the air as the dampness of Peter’s trousers became apparent.