M. Lee - Death In Shanghai

Another scream pierced the air. Li Min staggered in front of him, the Parker pen buried deep in his right eye.

***

Strachan heard another scream, this time even louder. Where had it come from?

He rushed down to the bottom of the stairs. He stopped and listened. There were the muffled sounds of somebody in pain, moaning like a ghost. It seemed to come from within the wooden walls.

He put his ear to the panels. There it was. A keening moan, like a dog with a broken leg.

He rushed into the lounge of the club. The moans were slightly louder now, and they seemed to be coming from below. He got down on his knees and listened once again, but the thick maroon carpet dissipated the sound.

A door at the end of the room was half open. He ran to it and flung it out of his way. More shouts now. Much louder. Coming from beneath his feet.

He ran down a short corridor and entered the kitchen. Pots and pans hung from the hooks above a long range. On a long table in the middle sat a tea pot, milk jug and two empty tea cups.

There was more shouting from below. The sounds of fighting. Another shout. Was that Danilov’s voice? He ran to the back of the kitchen, hurdling one of the chairs in his way.

He was in a larder now. Bags of sugar and flour, assorted tins of fish and beans, bottles of oil and jars of soy sauce lined the shelves. There were more shouts. The loud crack of a gun being fired, another shout, indistinct and muffled. It was the Inspector.

‘Danilov,’ he shouted back.

There was a shout in return, muffled, indistinct. He shouted back but there was no answer this time.

He banged on the wooden wall. It shook but stayed intact. He stopped and listened.

Nothing.

Silence.

He banged harder. The wood sounded hollow; there was nothing behind it. He slammed the edge of his fist against one of the panels. It shook, but held solid.

He stepped back to the door of the larder and then jumped at the wall with his feet. The panel cracked in the centre. He kicked again and again, each kick becoming more and more violent as the wood splintered.

There was a space behind. Empty space.

He reached in and tore the wood away with his hands. ‘Inspector Danilov,’ he shouted into the void.

There was no answer.

Li Min screamed again and fell moaning to the floor. Danilov reached down to his left leg. Got to get it free. His fingers struggled with the knot, clumsily undoing the first few strands of rope.

Allen just stood there, transfixed by the moaning Li Min lying on the floor. Danilov’s fingers worked faster, the knot was coming loose, just a few more pulls.

Allen suddenly came alive, roared at the top of his voice, and launched himself at Danilov, hitting him square in the chest. Danilov felt his arms being knocked upwards, away from his foot. The chair toppled over backwards.

Allen was on top of him, hitting down with the leather belt across his face. The silver points snagged the skin beneath his eye. Blood poured from the cut.

He kicked out with his right foot and caught Allen just below the knee. A loud crack as a bone snapped. A sharp gasp came from Allen’s mouth.

Danilov tried to roll away from the chair but his left foot was still tied to its leg. He jerked himself over onto his left side and reached down to his foot. The knot tore into his ankle. He managed to undo another strand, just one more and he would be free. He kicked hard with his left leg and there was movement.

Allen was getting slowly to his feet, one leg dragging beneath him. He still had the leather belt in his hand. He steadied himself for a few moments against the wall and then lashed out with the belt again, the silver points cutting into the upper part of Danilov’s arm.

Ignore the pain.

His fingers carried on tugging and pulling at the knot around his foot. It was coming loose. The belt swooshed down again, catching him where his neck joined his shoulder, ripping into the soft flesh beneath his clavicle.

Ignore the pain.

He twisted and tugged at the rope gripping his ankle. It began to come loose. The brown leather of the belt was coming straight towards his face. In slow motion, he could see the silver points, the holes of the belt and even the grain of the leather coming closer. It caught his jaw on the right. His head snapped backwards and his whole body, and the chair, rolled over. He spat out a tooth through a mouthful of blood.

Ignore the pain.

He kicked out his left leg. It was free. The room went darker. He looked up. Allen was limping through the doorway blocking the light from the corridor.

Danilov kicked away the remains of the chair and rolled over onto his knees. He spat another tooth and a mouthful of blood out onto the floor of the cell.

Got to get to his feet. Got to go after Allen.

He tried to stand up but immediately fell backwards.

Slowly, take it slowly. He reached out to the wall and used it to lever himself up. Allen was nowhere to be seen.

He staggered to the doorway and was immediately stunned by the light. His name was being called from above. At least, he thought it was his name, but it was faint and so far away. He shouted back. ‘Here, down, here.’

His head was spinning. He leant on the side of the door to steady himself for a moment. Allen was getting away, got to go after him.

He staggered through the doorway into a long corridor, lit by two bulbs hanging from the ceiling. He leant into the walls for support. His legs wobbled beneath him, as if he was learning how to walk all over again. He stopped, leaning into the wall, taking deep breaths, calming his body, focusing his mind.

Got to find him.

He lurched down the corridor, bumping from wall to wall. A door was open at the end. He stepped through it and there was a loud bang, followed by a crunch as the bullet struck the stone door surround.

Danilov ducked back behind the doorway. He took two deep breaths and quickly stuck his head out, searching for Allen.

There he was, on the path by the creek, limping towards Garden Bridge.

A mist was rolling over the creek. A cold mist, flavoured with all the smells of rubbish and shit and rotting fish. A few boats chugged past on the creek, the rest having put away their nets and cargo, tying up for the night.

His name was being shouted again. Still behind him, but closer now. He couldn’t stop and wait for whoever it was. He ran after Allen.

Mustn’t let him get away.

After three steps, his feet became entangled in a heap of discarded nets and rubbish. He tumbled over, banging his left knee on the edge of the road.

Don’t let him get away. Can’t let him get away.

He picked himself up and lurched after Allen. He could see him eighty yards away, climbing up the stairs leading to the Garden Bridge, leaning on the balustrade as he limped upwards.

Can’t let him get away.

He heard his name being called again. It was Strachan’s voice. He shouted over his shoulder. ‘This way, over here.’

Allen turned as he shouted, levelled his pistol, firing another shot. The bullet whistled past Danilov’s right shoulder. He ducked again, far too late. No point in trying to get out of the way of a bullet that had already been fired.

He got up and staggered after Allen. He felt stronger now as the adrenalin surged through his body. He was getting closer, nearer with every step.

The sirens of the Red Marias blared in the distance, faint but getting louder with every second.

He mustn’t let Allen get across the bridge. In the chaos of the lanes and lilongs on the other side, he could escape and kill again.

Allen was nearing the top of the stairs that led onto the bridge. People scattered as they saw the gun. Women screamed, men shouted, rickshaw pullers raced to the other side of the road, pulling for all their lives were worth.