John Harvey: Cold Light

“Nancy,” she said with a sniff, needing to say something, needing to talk. “Did you know her too? Beforehand?”

Michael seemed surprised, his mind full of calculations, seedlings, yields. “That was nothing,” he said eventually. “Casual. Not like this.”

The main buildings were several hundred yards from the caravan and the ramshackle shed nearby, with its buckling walls and rusting corrugated roof. “It’s more than I can ever manage myself,” the farmer said, “since I had this trouble with my leg. When he come along last year looking to rent that parcel out, seemed like a fair blessing.”

Resnick nodded and passed through to the back of the house. Sharon Garnett handed him the binoculars, pointed in the direction of the cream caravan standing on blocks in the corner of the far field.

There were marksmen in place on three sides, the nearest flat on his belly only ninety yards away, elbows braced in the ridged earth. Just moments before, he had had a partial sighting of the target through the caravan window, moving left to right across his vision. He swore softly when he failed to get the order to fire.

“I’m going to try,” Resnick said, “to get to the shed.”

“Michael,” Lynn had said, “why don’t you leave all that for now? Come and talk to me.”

In response, he had laughed. “I’m not stupid, you know. You won’t catch me falling for some old trick.”

Lynn had rattled her handcuffs against the chain. “What can I do?”

So he came over and sat beside her, wary, as if maybe expecting for the first time that it would all come springing back at him. What had attracted her in his eyes had disappeared and been replaced by the uncertainties of a child.

“You were going to tell me about Nancy,” Lynn said.

Michael moved closer, his leg almost touching hers. “She wasn’t like you. Screaming and swearing and kicking out at me every chance she could get. The rest of the time pretending to be nice, nice as could be. Making all those promises, things she would do for me if only I’d let her go.” He laughed.

“What happened to her, it was her own fault. There was nothing else I could do.”

“You kidnapped her. You killed her. How can that be her fault?”

“Don’t!” The chair spun back, knocked from beneath him. “Don’t talk to me like that. As if you had any right. Who d’you think you are? I’m in control here, me. And you’ll just do well to remember that. You hear?”

“I’m sorry.”

“Oh, so you say. Got you frightened now, have I? Well, maybe that’s not before time.”

“I mean it, I’m sorry.”

“Yes? You expect me to believe that? What you always say, all of you, when it’s too late.”

“All of who, Michael?” Lynn asked. “All of who?”

But by then it was too late; he had heard the sounds of the helicopter, distant, coming nearer.

Not quite in position at the shed, still some twenty yards away, Resnick heard it too and swore repeatedly as he began to run, heavy-footed, cursing whoever had given the order too soon.

The caravan door burst open and Lynn emerged first, pushed out, Michael close behind her, one arm tight about her neck, the knife held unsteadily in front of her chest.

“Police,” Resnick called, stumbling, running, stumbling again as the helicopter circled above them. “Armed police,” came the distorted warning. “Stand still. Stand still where you are.”

They ran. Lynn’s ankle twisted beneath her and she fell sharply sideways, Michael grabbing at her arm and dropping the knife as he did so, grasping for her hair and catching nothing, Lynn rolling fast as soon as she touched the ground.

For a moment, Michael gazed about him and saw Resnick running, arms flailing, towards him; he felt the currents of air from the helicopter tugging at his clothes and hair. He turned and began to run again, back towards the caravan; the marksman in the field was up on one knee now, the back of Michael’s head smack in his sights.

“Michael!”

Lynn called his name, yelled with all her might, and he faltered in his step and turned towards the sound of her voice. Resnick’s dive struck him halfway up the body, head into his midriff, elbow sharp against his chest. Winded, Michael toppled backwards, kicking wildly, as Resnick, breath rasping, clung on so hard it took three officers to prize him free. They cuffed Michael Best and read him his rights before dragging him away.

Only then did Resnick turn to where Lynn had sunk back to her knees and begin to walk towards her, walk, then run. No holding the tears now, no stopping till finally he lifted her into his arms and held her, sobbing, safe, the daughter he had never had, the lover she would never be.