Chris Nickson - Cold Cruel Winter

As soon as the space was wide enough he darted in, the deputy close behind. Light filtered through the high windows, grey and pearl-pale. Water had seeped in, leaving long, shallow puddles like wet fingers on the flagstones.

He moved cautiously along the wall, eyes sharp for any tiny movement, ears pricked for sound. After a few yards he stopped, taking time for his breathing to slow. He could hear the water outside, muted but still deadly.

Slowly he continued. The cloth had been placed up on shelves, on top of cupboards and cabinets, anywhere the flood couldn’t reach it. The air was filled with the smell of wool, the stink of Leeds money.

Wyatt was in here.

Nottingham reached the corner. The river was louder here, just beyond the brick. He saw Sedgwick at the opposite corner, shaking his head. No sign. He gestured and began to edge forward. He brought his feet down lightly, watching where he stood, attempting to make each step silent.

His palms were sweaty and he adjusted his grip on the weapons. For a moment he thought he heard something, some faint noise. He halted, waiting for it to come again. But there was nothing and he began to move, looking forwards, upwards, anywhere a man might hide.

He covered half the length of the warehouse. It had seemed to take hours, but he knew only quick minutes had passed. Nothing. Could Wyatt have already left, he wondered fearfully?

No. The man had nowhere else to go.

The long creak ran around the walls. He couldn’t place where it started. It was followed by sharp silence and then the violent splintering crash of wood and stone. From the other side of the room Sedgwick yelled.

The Constable was already running, soles slapping against the stone, heading in the direction of the sound.

‘He’s going for the door,’ Sedgwick shouted, and Nottingham changed direction in mid stride. He could see Wyatt now, ready to pull back on the knob, crouching, but too far away to catch.

The movement was so swift and smooth that it blurred, like part of a dance. Wyatt tugged, thrust with his free arm, and then rolled through the opening. He was out into the morning, on his feet and running, not looking back.

Worthy was down, clutching at his thigh. A blossom of blood stained his breeches and began to spread down his hose. His mouth was set, refusing to acknowledge the pain. Nottingham raced past him, barely twenty yards behind Wyatt, the rain dashing like needles against his face.

He stumbled in the mud, arms flailing and came close to losing his footing. His boot slid until he could find traction on some gravel and he forced himself forward. Wyatt had gained a precious yard or two, dull light glinting off the dagger in his hand as he moved.

Nottingham dared not think of Worthy or of Sedgwick. He had to keep his mind on his quarry, to go faster, to catch him. When that was done could he go back. He’d help where he could and count the cost where it was too late.

Nottingham was panting hard, feet pounding on the soaking ground. His lungs burned, mouth open wide as he gulped in air. Ahead, Wyatt slid, put out a hand to steady himself and dropped his knife. But he kept moving, never glancing behind.

He was close enough to hear Wyatt straining, his breathing loud and pained. Neither of them could run much further. Wyatt stumbled again, and Nottingham drew even closer, pushed himself harder. He wiped the rain from his face.

He was the huntsman. He had weapons.

His foot slid wide on the slippery ground and before he could save himself he was sprawling face down in the mud. He pulled himself up quickly, his lungs hot as fire. Wyatt had gone.

He felt the panic start to rise. It was impossible.

He was by the pumping engine, just below the bridge. Normally it would be pushing water from the Aire up to the reservoir by St John’s Church, but it was closed now because of the flood. The building stood tall, its small windows set like eyes high in the wall. With careful footsteps the Constable walked to the door. It was unlocked.

Nottingham eased his way in, and immediately the full stench of death caught in his throat, making him retch. It was inescapable. All around the room, stacked across the floor like forgotten wood, were awkward bundles of white: corpses laid out in their winding sheets.

This was one of the places the city had used to store its winter dead, a place to leave them until the ground was soft enough for burying. Now, as the thaw took hold, they were putrefying, and the charnel house smell was like the opened gates of hell.

Wyatt lay among them, a dark shape, and the only one moving. Outside the river raged. In here there was only the rank stillness of death. The Constable moved closer, the knife tight in his hand.

‘You’ve been lucky twice now, Constable.’ Wyatt’s voice was ragged and breathless, with an edge of desperation. ‘I fell over a corpse.’ He laughed bitterly. ‘I twisted something. I can’t get up.’

‘Everyone needs luck,’ Nottingham told him. ‘You’ve had your share. But luck runs out.’

For the first time he could see Wyatt’s full face. The man had thin hair, barely enough to cover his scalp, plastered against his head by the water. His skin was the colour of aged wood, the price of so many years of sun. The T branded on his cheek was bright and loud.

Wyatt gingerly touched his ankle. ‘Fuck, that hurts.’

The Constable simply stared, wondering how many times Wyatt’s victims had complained and screamed from their pain before he killed them and took their skin. He was tempted to kick the ankle to see if it made him yell, so he could experience a tiny portion of the agony he’d inflicted. Instead he kept his distance, wary of a ruse and any weapons the man might have.

‘Get up,’ he ordered.

‘I can’t.’ Wyatt shouted the words, his face contorted.

‘Then you’re going to have to crawl.’

Wyatt tried to roll over, letting out a sharp moan as his foot touched the ground. It was convincing, but the Constable stayed back.

‘I don’t care how you do it, but you’re going to move,’ he said sharply. Slow drips of rain fell from the tip of his dagger. He’d recovered from the chase and breathed normally again. He kept his gaze fixed on Wyatt.

He should kill the man right here, slice his throat open, just the way Wyatt had done with Graves and Rushworth. Kill him and send him down the river. Wyatt had to be erased from history, as surely as if he’d never come back to Leeds.

The man extended his arm as if he was going to pull himself along, fingers curling to prepare for the effort. Wyatt’s eyes flashed with pain, then his arm whipped out towards Nottingham’s leg.

The Constable stepped back neatly, leaving Wyatt clutching at air.

‘Get up,’ he said again.

‘Not going to kill me?’ Wyatt’s voice was a sly taunt. ‘Maybe your shoulder still hurts too much? Or do you want the trophy?’

‘You’ll die. I can guarantee that.’

The man looked up with the furtive gaze of an animal. ‘I’m used to it. I was dead inside from the time the ship left until it returned. Then I came alive again. A resurrected man, Constable.’ He gave a short, sharp bark of a laugh. ‘Dying again doesn’t scare me. I could slide out of here and into the river.’

‘Then why don’t you?’

‘Because I’d rather make you kill me.’ He moved slightly and twisted his mouth at the pain. ‘But you won’t. Not in cold blood.’

Nottingham said nothing. The man was right. He relished the idea, but he couldn’t do it. Not like this. He heard a noise and half-turned, watching Wyatt from the corner of his eye.

Sedgwick and Worthy stood in the doorway. The pimp’s thigh was coarsely bandaged, an old piece of grimy cloth wound tightly around it. He was limping heavily, using his stick and dragging his boot as he hobbled. He seemed aged, suddenly vulnerable, his large body bent and deflated. The creases and folds of his face were deeper and rougher, showing the old man he usually hid so well.