Nick Oldham - Facing Justice

Vincent released the first barrel, the recoil thumping his tensed stomach muscles. The pellets exploded out with a huge bang and splattered across Diller’s upper torso, chest, neck and head. The cartridge wad hit his throat, punching a hole in it the side of a ten pence piece. The impact hurled him against the cabin wall like a stunt man on a rope.

Vincent rose, aimed the shotgun again. Haltenorth, already stunned from the pistol whip across his head, held out his left hand beseechingly. ‘No, man, no,’ he cried.

Callously, Vincent shot him too.

Henry dropped unsteadily from the bar stool but kept his balance. Donaldson emerged from the gents’ toilet, wiping his mouth and walking towards Henry in a less than straight line across the pub. Henry watched him with a slightly warped grin.

‘You OK, pal?’

‘Yup.’

The pub had closed an hour ago and all the customers, barring Henry and Donaldson, had left. The pair had been invited up to the bar by Clayson, the landlord, where he plied them with a couple of extra pints each and a few chasers.

That meant they had each downed five pints plus numerous spirits. Henry held it quite well, whereas the American did not. He had allowed himself too many that night and it was taking its toll.

There had been times during the evening when Henry’s little voice of reason told him that any over-indulgence was not a great idea. In the morning they planned to get out into the hills and do their walking trip and a skinful the night before was not the greatest of ideas. But his little devil was seduced by the ambience of the pub, the excellent taste of the beer — Clayson was proud to bursting over his clean pipes — and, of course, the offer of free drink. Their defences were well and truly weakened. They had planned to be in bed at Henry’s house by eleven, but by the time they bade farewell to the landlord, who was even drunker than they were, it was quarter past midnight.

As the extremely cold night hit them, Henry staggered back a pace and Donaldson almost fell over.

‘Just whoa there,’ the American said as though he was steadying a stallion.

‘You OK?’ Henry asked him again.

‘Yup… nope.’ He walked unsteadily over to a low wall by the car park and was copiously sick.

At the same time as Karl Donaldson was emptying the contents of his stomach, Steve Flynn’s flight from Las Palmas touched down at Manchester Airport. It had been uneventful. He had read his book, nodded off a few times, visited the loo and not spoken to the people either side of him. A fairly typical flight.

Although the plane docked right up to the airport terminal, Flynn could instantly feel the biting cold British night air as he stepped off the plane and entered the building via the walkway.

With no luggage to collect, he went straight out through the green channel, nothing to declare. On the flight he’d bought a bottle of Glenfiddich but had nothing customs would be interested in. He sauntered into the arrivals hall and made his way to the overhead meeting board, expecting to see Cathy.

She wasn’t there.

Using his height he scanned around, but couldn’t spot her. Frowning, he wandered around the terminal for a few minutes and even stepped out into the night to check outside. He knew she liked an occasional cigarette and thought she may have sneaked out for a drag.

There was no sign of her.

He resisted the temptation to have her paged. Instead he switched on his mobile phone and waited for the signal to be picked up, expecting a text or voice message from her. Nothing landed.

After fifteen further minutes, still nothing.

After half an hour the arrivals lounge was virtually empty. Flynn stood alone, looking slightly forlorn under the sign, like he’d been stood up. Thinking he had given her enough time either to call him and explain why she was late, or actually turn up flustered and apologetic, he called her. It went straight through to the answering service. Then he called the landline number she had given him. After half a dozen rings, that too clicked on to answerphone.

Cathy’s pre-recorded voice came on the line. ‘Hello, this is the police office at Kendleton, Lancashire. I’m PC Cathy James, your rural beat officer. I’m sorry I can’t take your call right now, but if you leave a message after the tone, I promise I’ll get back to you as soon as possible. If you’re calling with an emergency, please hang up and redial 999.’

The tone beeped. Flynn hesitated, but hung up without saying anything. He thumbed his end-call button, a very strange, uneasy sensation in his gut. He knew Cathy well enough to be sure that if she said she would be here to pick him up, she would be. And if she wasn’t, there would be one hell of a reason why not.

One hell of a bad reason, Flynn thought.

He spun on his heels and trotted over to a car rental desk, just in time to catch the booking clerk who was just about to pack up for the night. He gave the tired-looking woman his best smile and said, ‘I need to hire a car, please.’

Squinting unsurely at Donaldson, Henry pursed his lips. The big American looked pale and ill. Henry knew he had spent some time both on and over the toilet overnight.

‘You sure you’re OK?’

‘Yeah, I’m fine,’ he said shortly. He hitched a medium-sized rucksack on to his back and stamped his feet. He didn’t look fine, certainly not up to a five to six hour hike across the moors of Lancashire.

‘We can do this another day, if you wish,’ Henry persisted.

‘Said I’m fine. Just had too much to drink, that’s all. Once I get walking, I’ll get it out of my system.’

Henry backed off and swung his own rucksack over his shoulders, securing the straps comfortably. He squatted slightly and leaned into the driver’s window of his Mondeo, in which sat his wife, Kate. Behind Henry’s Ford was Donaldson’s excessively large four-by-four Jeep driven by Karen, his heavily pregnant wife. The two women had kindly consented to drive the men up to the starting point of their proposed hike, then take one of the cars to the finishing point at Kirkby Lonsdale, park it up and leave it for them to pick up when they finally got to their destination after two days of walking.

‘Thanks for this, babe,’ Henry cooed. He realized he would never have been able to do this ‘guy thing’ with Donaldson without Kate’s — or come to that, Karen’s — blessing. He had only managed to convince her by taking her away on a delayed holiday to Venice, which he had secretly extended to include four days in Tuscany, supplemented by the subtle use of flowers, the completion of chores and a lot of lurv. He knew she wasn’t fooled by the sudden surge of attention, but it seemed to work. He leaned in and kissed her.

At the Jeep, Donaldson was doing much the same thing. ‘You gonna be OK, baby-doll?’ he said, leaning through the driver’s window. He reached in and lovingly patted the ever-expanding bulge that was her third, unexpected but eagerly awaited child. ‘And you too, blob.’

‘We’ll be fine,’ she assured him. ‘But you look really pale.’

‘I’m OK. You know me and alcohol don’t mix.’ They kissed lingeringly, tongues and all. As a couple they’d had a rocky road to travel over the last few years, but that was now behind them. They were as passionately in love with each other as they had ever been.

The men stood back and the women gave waves and kisses before the cars pulled away from the side of the road, leaving primitive man to his own devices. They waved until the cars disappeared over the hill.

‘Good,’ Donaldson said. ‘Now they’re gone, let’s end this charade and call a cab to take us to Blackpool for a night of debauchery.’