Nick Oldham - Bad Tidings

He set off and passed an emergency exit which was still secure.

The corridor ahead of him had a ninety-degree turn in it. He rounded the corner, skittering on the polished floor, pushing himself off the wall and using his momentum to power on.

At the next turn Janine was fifty metres ahead of him, hurrying but not running down a deserted corridor. She must have sensed or heard him. She stopped, turned and faced him for the briefest of moments, then hared off down a corridor to the left. Henry upped his pace and as he came around the corner, he found he had her trapped — the corridor she had shot into was a dead end with a fire door which had halted her. She was rattling the bar desperately, unable to get it to open.

Henry stopped, caught his breath. ‘Janine,’ he called.

She stopped instantly, stood upright, revolved slowly. ‘Henry,’ she whispered, defeat in her voice.

‘That’s far enough, love,’ he said and walked towards her, his chest rising and falling. He made a calming gesture with his hands, palms down, patting thin air. ‘You’re going nowhere now.’

He took four more steps, then her right hand slid into her shoulder bag and emerged gripping a small revolver, snub-nosed, six rounds.

Henry stopped. ‘Put it down.’

She shook her head.

‘Let’s talk.’

‘What’s to say?’ There was that hostile, unforgiving look in her eyes again.

‘All sorts of things.’ Henry’s hands still made the calming gesture, but they were now rigid. His eyes flickered between the gun and her face as he spoke. ‘Come on, talk to me, Janine.’

‘I have nothing to say, Henry.’

‘Really? Nothing?’

‘Not to you.’

‘Not even about Terry Cromer not being your real father?’

The gun came up slightly. It was in her right hand, supported by her left, which was cupped underneath it, steadying it. It was pointed at the centre of Henry’s chest.

‘How do you know?’

‘DNA. . you were arrested a few years back in Manchester, weren’t you? You’re not the sweet innocent you make yourself out to be, are you? Doing a bit of dealing, I believe. Anyway, your DNA was taken. I took Freddy’s DNA last week, if you recall, and we already had Terry’s on record. One of my staff fast-tracked a comparison.’

‘Why?’

‘Because I told him to investigate your background. I’m a cop — that’s what we do. I mean — the more I thought about it — a member of the Cromer family being a solicitor! Christ — you’ve never been near a university, have you? Just what have you been doing?’

The gun wavered. Just a little. Henry saw her forefinger tighten on the trigger. He was still ten metres away from her, and he knew if he had any sense he should be reversing not advancing. Let her go. Let her run . That was the intelligent thing to do.

‘You are Freddy’s daughter, aren’t you? Not Terry’s. I saw the resemblance a couple of times, just thought it was a general family thing, but it’s striking in some lights. Like I said,’ he shrugged, ‘I never thought about it. But you don’t look anything like Terry when I do think about it.’

‘Well spotted.’

‘And I saw the way you were with Freddy.’

‘And how was that, Henry? Do tell.’

‘Loving,’ he said truthfully, and saw the word hit the mark — at least for a second. Then she refocused her ire.

There was a door on either side of her down this dead-end corridor. She edged sideways to the door on her left and tried the handle. The door opened, so she pushed it wide and glanced quickly inside before stepping back and jiggling the gun.

‘In here, Henry.’

‘Why?’

‘Because when I shoot you in here, it’ll take longer to find you and that can only be good for me. Not that anyone knows what I did, or saw me. I hit that nurse from behind.’

‘You might be surprised.’

‘Get in,’ she ordered him, waving the gun, keeping him covered, keeping her distance.

‘If I don’t?’ he challenged her.

‘Then you’ll die in a dead-end corridor as opposed to a storeroom.’

‘You’re clearly not the best of shots, though, are you? I assume you put the gun to Freddy’s head?’

‘I did — but he pulled the trigger. It just sort of slipped, which is why the bullet didn’t go straight through his ear, which it should have done. IN! I won’t say it again, Henry.’

Henry, still with his hands out flat, but not so much in a calming gesture now, more a ‘please don’t shoot’ one — slid past her and into the room, which was simply a store with stacks of chairs. He walked in, turning to face her as she came in behind him, closed the door and leaned against it, the gun up, aimed at his body.

He swallowed, amazed at how effective adrenalin was at drying up throats. He folded his arms and tried to look casual and unafraid, when in reality he felt as though someone had rammed a broomstick up his arse, he was so tense and terrified. He wondered if it had come to this: a thirty-odd year career as a cop ending in either a corridor or a storeroom.

Thing was, he knew for certain it would end here if Janine was truly as ruthless as she had to be in order to leave no witnesses behind.

‘Let me tell you something, Henry,’ she said rapidly. ‘This isn’t confession time. I’m not going to tell you about my freakin’ childhood, the abuse, the terror my mother had to endure because of one stupid mistake she made — getting shagged by Freddy.’

‘Sounds like a confession to me,’ Henry observed.

‘Don’t be a smart arse — doesn’t suit you.’

‘But you must have a tale to tell,’ Henry said. He needed her to talk, he needed her to blab, to get emotional, to drop her guard. ‘All that stuff that drove you to self-harm. . yes, I saw the scars,’ he said, responding to the surprise in her face. ‘And I know the pain that drives someone to mutilate their own body. .’

‘You know fuck all, Henry,’ she growled in rage. Her breath came in short gasps. ‘You know nothing about shitty family secrets and having a mother who suffered at the hands of a. .’ She uttered the worst word in the English language. Her face contorted into a hideous mask of anger and pain. Tears cascaded down her face. ‘You know nothing,’ she said weakly. ‘Nothing about loving a man who couldn’t be called Dad or taking revenge with him for the wrongs he suffered as a kid — and as a grown-up. Yeah, yeah,’ she sneered, ‘we killed them all one by one. Each year on the day they almost burned my father alive. . and the last one, the pinnacle, was always going to be Terry. My dad — Terry,’ she almost spat. Her face glistened with flowing tears. ‘Not my fucking dad, actually. . trouble was a gang war kinda screwed it up. . so we improvised. Just sad we didn’t get the chance to make him eat feathers. That would’ve been a real trump.’

‘But why kill Freddy? Or try to kill him?’

‘Because he was a nutter. . isn’t that what you called him? The medical term? Didn’t you snigger at him? Nutter! You arrogant, fucking, uncaring bastard, Henry Christie. Phh!’ Her voice had risen almost out of control, but now she calmed herself, though Henry saw the gun was shaking with her fury. ‘Freddy couldn’t have lived with what he’d done. . to the others, maybe, but not to Terry, because really he loved him. He was his brother, but he had to kill him. . a story as old as the hills.’

‘And you manipulated him into doing just that, didn’t you? I should have realized as soon as I smelled weed on you,’ he said, recalling the aroma he had sniffed when she had hugged him earlier. ‘It was obvious you’d been in the factory.’

‘He wanted to do it. So we took Terry some food and a gun and killed the fucker where he was hiding out from you. . saved you a job, didn’t it? Saved the taxpayer a lot of money. . least it would’ve if Freddy had died too, like he was supposed to have done.’