Cath Staincliffe: Stone Cold Red Hot

“Another killing won’t help. It’s too late.”

“Why can’t you leave it be?” she gasped.

“Jennifer. I think she deserves it. The truth should be known.”

“What good will it do? The truth will only hurt Roger. It will destroy him.”

“I hope not.” But there were no guarantees.

The pain tore at her again. She froze, her face a mask of agony.

“Can I get you anything, tablets?” Before you kill me. She blinked a refusal.

I weighed up the possibilities of escaping from the line of fire. If I ran back into the kitchen I might be able to get out the back door, if it was open. What if it was locked, would the key be there? Or there was the back room ahead a little to my left. Then what? Break a window, clamber out. In either case she could follow and shoot me. I didn’t want her to fire the gun. I didn’t dare make any sudden moves. I’d no idea how fast her reactions would be. And I didn’t want to die. Oh, god I didn’t want to die. What about Maddie? I couldn’t leave Maddie. My knee was trembling uncontrollably, and my hands still shaking, drops of water continued to spill over the edge of the glass and drip from my hand. I’d have to talk her round.

She swayed, her arms jerking as she struggled to keep the gun steady.

“This is ridiculous,” I said. “Give me the gun.”

She shot me.

The noise was stupendous and the hall clouded with smoke and the smell of fireworks. I was on the floor. Smoke. I saw Carl running into the Ibrahims’ house, Mrs Ahmed clutching her baby tight, me thinking it was dead. Jennifer was dead, her baby was dead. The little boy was dead. My left arm, my shoulder were screaming in agony. Lumps of plaster littered the ground around me and dust mingled with the smoke. The sound of the shot still roared in my ears.

The force of the discharge had thrown her to the floor. She’d dropped the gun. I shuffled along the hall on my good side. The piercing pains shot through my arm and made me whimper. I stretched for the gun with my undamaged hand and pulled it beside me. I looked back to the kitchen. Her aim had gone wide, holes had ripped into the top of the door frame, the wall and ceiling. Big holes. Were there any holes like that in me? I felt giddy with apprehension.

She lay there, her breathing harsh and torn. She wore sheepskin slippers. I sat for a few moments propped against the wall and tried to gather some strength. I thought about home, about Maddie, hold on I told myself, get up, get out. I struggled to my feet, the pain surged in my leg making me dizzy. The gun weighed a ton, I took it into the kitchen put it on the table.

I made my way slowly down the passageway and stooped over her. The smoke scratched at my throat and made me cough. My heart was still thumping wildly in my chest, the adrenalin making all my senses taut. She’d shot me. The woman had shot me. She could have killed me for fuck’s sake.

I tried to get her into a sitting position; she was shivering and her eyes were empty and fixed on something only she could see.

“Mrs Pickering?”

There was no response. I could still hear her breath see her chest moving. Saliva trickled from one corner of her mouth, her face looked lopsided, she held one arm rigid against her body. A stroke? I struggled to lay her down again in the recovery position. Crying out as the pain ripped along my arm.

The dogs next door were going apeshit, presumably all their hunting race-memories awakened by the gunshot. There was hammering on the front door as well.

I went and opened it. Mrs Clerkenwell. “Hello, I heard an awful…Blimey.” She spotted Mrs Pickering.

“It’s alright. An accident. But Mrs Pickering is very upset. She’s in shock I think. I’m going to call an ambulance. Ring Roger. Could you come and sit with her while I sort things out?

“Yes, of course. What on earth happened?”

“An accident, with a gun.”

“A gun! Oh, dear. Right. I’ll just lock up at mine.”

I shut the door and turned to Mrs Pickering. She looked awful, pale and her face slack.

I dialled 999. Gave all the details and even had the presence of mind to ask where they would take her. Then I rang Roger.

Roger was confused and anxious when I spoke to him. Not surprising really as I was giving a highly edited version of exactly what had happened. I told him that I’d called for a second interview with his mother, that she’d become upset, that her gun had gone off and she was badly shocked. I wasn’t sure whether she had suffered a stroke.

“A stroke! Oh, no. And her gun! What the old shotgun? Oh, God. Oh, I am sorry. I thought it was in the cellar. She’ll kill someone with that one day. Farm mentality. Shoot first, ask questions later. She probably thought you were an intruder or something.”

“Mmmm. Look, I don’t want to leave it here, I’ll take it with me. Mrs Clerkenwell’s coming over to wait for the ambulance with me.”

“Oh, God,” he said. “And are you alright?”

“Fine,” I lied and was immediately rewarded with a swirl of anxiety.

“You didn’t say you wanted to see my mother again, I could have warned her.”

“Yes. I know. But with her being so unhappy about my enquiries I didn’t think she’d agree to see me if she had any choice. I decided to just call on spec, give it a second go.”

“And she got the old gun out. Oh, what a mess. And you think it might be a stroke? Is she going to be alright?”

“I don’t know. It could just be shock, but her mouth’s all pulled down at one side. There’s an ambulance on the way, they’ll know or the hospital. You’re probably best going straight there. To M.R.I. We’ve our meeting fixed for Monday but I’ll talk to you before then. Let me know how she is.”

“Yes, I will. Erm…there’s no good news, then? Mother didn’t say anything…”

Oh, heck. “No, there isn’t. I’m sorry.”

It wasn’t the time or the place to reveal to Roger the tragedy of Jennifer’s disappearance and part of me wondered whether in the intervening days Mrs Pickering might tell him herself, if she was able to speak.

“And this business with the gun,” he stumbled over the words, “you won’t…will you report it…the police?”

“No, I’m not going to report it.” Not that.

“I am sorry,” he repeated. “What was she doing? Of all the stupid things.”

“Let me know how she is, won’t you.”

“Yes. I’ll see you on Monday.”

I put the gun in a bin liner from the kitchen. I sat down and looked at my arm. There were holes in my jacket and fleece top and blood soaking through in patches. Not obvious from a distance as I was wearing my black jacket so the blood didn’t show much. I could feel it warm and sticky and it was running down my hand in little rivulets. I wiped it clean with a tea-towel which I chucked in the bin. The pain from my burn actually felt worse than the throbbing in my arm, except when I moved it, then I had to breathe through it – like they teach you for childbirth. I couldn’t face Casualty again. I’d try and clear it up myself and see the GP if that failed. I’d had a tetanus jab not all that long ago so hopefully I’d be protected from lock-jaw. If it was a real mess I’d get myself along to the hospital. But there was no way I was going in then with Mrs Pickering and a lot of tricky questions to answer.

Mrs Clerkenwell knocked at the door again and I let her in. The hall reeked of gunsmoke. She coughed and covered her mouth.

“Gun powder,” I explained.

“Where on earth did she get a gun?”

“It was an old shotgun, came from when they had the farm.”

“Oh, heavens,” her eyes widened with concern and she lowered her voice, “she wasn’t, you know, trying to…if the pain got too much.”