Cath Staincliffe - Ruthless

‘It doesn’t work like that, Connor.’

She was so hot, burning up, and her stomach clenched hard as rock. ‘No one will do anything while you’re holding a gun.’

He walked up to her and touched the weapon to the base of her throat. She felt the hard cold steel. Smelled oil and a hint of gun smoke, and his sweat pungent and acrid. ‘Sit down,’ he said, moving the gun away a little.

She did, trying not to betray the fear thick in her blood.

He took a step back, then another, the gun levelled at her but his hold on it unsteady. The drugs, whatever he was on, affecting his motor skills, or maybe it was the excitement.

‘We can sort something out,’ she said, her voice catching. She coughed to clear it. ‘Maybe you want to see your dad, but not like this. Think about it. I’m a police officer.’

‘A pig, yeah,’ he said, ‘two niggers and a pig. That’ll show him.’

‘Who?’

Her phone rang, a shocking blare of sound. He jabbed the gun at her. ‘Leave it.’

‘It’ll be work,’ she said. ‘If I don’t answer, they’ll be round here in minutes.’

He looked doubtful. The ringtone repeated.

‘It’s a safety thing, me on my own. They call, we answer. No answer – rapid response.’ She moved to get her phone but he said, ‘No,’ moved closer.

‘I’ll tell them I’m fine,’ she said, ‘clocking off, yeah. Done here. Then they’ll leave it. Your call, Connor, they won’t hang on for ever.’

‘You say anything…’ he threatened.

‘With a gun to my head? I’m not fuckin’ stupid.’

He gave a sharp nod and she pulled the handset from her pocket, her heart hurting in her chest, her pulse galloping. Glanced at the display, hit the green key and said, ‘Hi, Janet, everything’s OK here.’

Connor was poised, eyes locked on her, gun too.

Janet began to speak but Rachel kept on, ‘I’m going to clock off after this, nearly done, shocking migraine so I’ll go straight home.’

‘Migraine?’ said Janet. ‘Since when have-’

‘Like your Taisie, eh? Head’s banging fit to burst.’ Please please, fuckin’ get it. ‘Mrs Tandy’s out shopping so we’ll have a word with her in the morning.’

Connor began to make winding motions with his free hand.

‘What’s wrong?’ Janet said, very quietly.

Connor moved forward, the gun swinging in his hand, his face darkening.

‘Got to go,’ Rachel said.

She made a show of ending the call but immediately after pressing the button she activated the voice recorder and set the handset on the seat beside her.

So what’s the plan? she wanted to ask him. You stupid little shitbag. What? You kill me too? Or hold me hostage and escape in a helicopter to a boat waiting to whisk you and your dad away to a far-flung country with no extradition agreement, like some shit-stupid video game.

‘Can I ask you something?’ she said.

‘What?’

‘Why did you kill them? Victor and Lydia?’

‘To show him.’ His mouth worked for a moment then he went on. ‘He wouldn’t take me with him – said I was just a kid, a nancy mummy’s boy. To get in touch when I’d grown a pair.’ His eyes were hot with rage. ‘He’d been well impressed with the wino. But I done two, black bastards. Coons.’ Hatred livened his face.

‘I heard you knew them, used to hang out. Friendly,’ she said.

‘So what?’ he said. ‘He’s blood, my dad, he’s family.’

And he doesn’t give a fuck.

‘What about your mum? She looked after you all the time he was away.’

‘She chucked him out,’ he yelled, spittle flying from his lips. ‘She started it,’ he complained, an outraged child.

‘Where did you get the gun? Did you nick it from your dad?’

Connor laughed, making the gun swing wildly, and Rachel flinched.

‘No, off of Victor. The Perrys, they sold it to Victor for some gear. They wanted rid, after doing the alkie, I reckon. Victor was showing it off. I asked to hold it. Bare luck, wasn’t it?’ He shook his head, grinning. ‘I had a knife – that could have got messy. Victor had the gun. How good is that?’ Delight danced across his face.

‘And the accelerant?’

A sudden blast of sound sent electric shocks through Rachel’s arms. The buzzer from the entry phone. They both glanced up at the screen. Janet.

‘You fucking tricked me, you bitch!’ he screamed.

‘No,’ Rachel said, scrambling up, ‘no, wait-’

The gunshot cracked loud as a mortar. Rachel was flung back, swung round, searing pain in her upper arm, and the stink of gunpowder in her throat. She fell, landing on her back, smacking her head on the floor. Her ears were ringing, roaring, and she could just make out the noise of the buzzer sounding again and again.

‘Fuck!’ She heard him swear.

There was a throbbing in her left side, a deep ache travelled down her arm and through her back. A safe house, shot to death in a safe house. Fucking ironic, no?

She would not let him do this to her. Not some fucked-up little tosser from Manorclough adding her to his hit list, to impress his racist twat of a father. No way, mate.

Rachel felt the floor shake as he came closer, sensed him bending over her. Felt him nudge her with his foot. A move that sent pain slicing through her and brought vomit in her throat. She played dead, tried to still her breathing and cracked open an eyelid the smallest possible fraction.

She would have one chance.

‘Fuck,’ he said again.

Rachel lunged. One hand, her good hand, a vice around his ankle. Her right foot flying up, knee bent, to kick at his wrist. She heard the muffled snap as she connected with the bones, his howl and her own yelp as the agony washed through her afresh, the world spinning and darkness looming. The crash as the gun hit the sliding frosted-glass door to the kitchen, shattering it like crystal rain.

He bent to free himself from her grasp and once he was low enough she let go of his leg and grabbed his arm, using his own momentum to pull him forward and haul him off balance, yanking him down and to her side, shuffling past him. A move she taught beginners at the self-defence class. Use the assailant’s weight and direction of movement in your favour. Work with gravity, pull, don’t push.

She scooted across the floor to get the gun.

Her left arm was useless, warm blood spread a growing stain on her blouse across her left breast, dripped down her arm. He was on his knees as she staggered upright, gun pointing at him.

Janet was still outside, visible on the screen, talking on a phone.

Keeping the gun on Connor, who was getting up, Rachel edged over to the intercom. Using her right elbow to press the buzzer, she missed, tried again and heard the crackle. ‘Janet,’ she said, ‘we’re coming out.’

‘Shot fired,’ Janet told Gill before the connection was lost.

Gill acted immediately, calling for help. ‘Gill Murray here, I’ve an officer under threat, possibly injured, shots fired at a safe house. I want an armed response unit there now. A second officer outside the scene can update you on arrival.’

‘Will do.’

Immediately that call was over, Gill rang and requested a hostage negotiator. She also rang the contact in witness protection who had allocated the safe house to the Tandys. ‘The safe house, how do we get in?’

‘Only one entrance, at the front,’ she said. ‘Do you know whereabouts in the property they are?’

‘Not as yet, why?’ said Gill.

‘We have a back-up procedure. Access through the house next door, via the basement, which leads up to a locked storage room adjoining the kitchen at the rear of the property or via the first-floor stairs near the entrance hall.’