Nick Oldham - Facing Justice

Henry tried to peer round at him. ‘Not a chance in hell, Tom — any detective worth his salt will see through that in a flash. It’ll all get too complicated. Your lies will screw you — as they already have done.’

‘Nah — cops’re thick.’

‘We’ll see.’

Tom raised the weapon up to the side of Henry’s face. Henry ground his teeth together and closed his eyes, but Tom swung the gun away in a short, flat arc and pointed it at Flynn.

‘For screwing my wife…’

Flynn gasped in terror as Tom’s fingertip curled on to the trigger.

But then from his position on the floor, Callard kicked out and smashed the steel toecap on his right foot hard into Tom’s shin, causing him to scream out in agony, twist around and discharge a single barrel upwards, tearing a huge hole in the ceiling above the men.

Flynn spun, as did Henry, as a cloud of white plasterboard poured over them.

Tom staggered backwards, but wasn’t going to be put off his chosen course of action because of a kick on the leg. He tried to bring the shotgun down, but Flynn launched himself low and hard. Flynn was extremely fit and fast and he moved quicker than Tom could have anticipated, but he still clicked his finger back on the second trigger, firing the second barrel at a slight upward angle.

Henry jolted back with a scream, clutching his upper chest and left shoulder.

Flynn ignored this and powered into Tom, who hacked down at Flynn’s unprotected head, catching him a glancing blow off the side of his head and cutting his ear. It knocked Flynn off track, and he smashed into the desk awkwardly.

Tom shrieked something incomprehensible, hurled the gun across the room, ran out of the office, slamming the door behind him, down the hallway to the kitchen.

Flynn came up into a one-kneed starting position and looked worriedly over at Henry.

Pale and wounded, Henry had crashed against the wall and slithered down, sitting there dumbly, his right hand holding his left shoulder. Blood oozed through his fingers.

‘Shit,’ Flynn uttered and scrambled over on all fours to Henry, whose terrified eyes played over Flynn’s face.

‘Just get him,’ he said to Flynn. ‘Don’t let him get away, whatever happens.’

‘You sure?’

‘What’re you going to do — operate on me? Go!’

Flynn gave a short nod, glanced at Callard who, still drunk and glassy-eyed, was sitting up, a look of horror on his face. Flynn got up and ran to the door.

The pain in Henry’s shoulder was incredible. It was like a dozen blunt needles had been hammered deep into his flesh. He took a long steadying breath and began to unbutton his shirt.

Flynn opened the office door cautiously, stepped into the hallway, paused, listened. He kept to the wall, using the staircase as part cover, and edged towards the kitchen, moved across the last gap and flattened himself against the wall next to the door frame. He reached for the handle, turned it slowly and opened the door a crack, trying to remember the layout of the room.

Pretty standard. A work surface immediately to the left of the door, on which he’d foolishly left the shotgun. Then ninety degrees to the sink and draining board, a gap where the back door was, another ninety degrees to another work surface, with cupboards along the walls, the door to the garage, cooker, and a huge fridge-freezer.

So — open the door and diagonally opposite, basically, was the back door.

Flynn felt something around his legs and his heart leapt. Roger, the German shepherd, had nudged him with his forehead. The old dog looked up kind of sadly.

‘I think you’re going to be an orphan,’ Flynn said and patted him.

But then the dog did what Flynn was hesitating to do — simply barged through the door into the kitchen.

Tom fired from the back door, two bullets smashing through the door panel by Flynn’s head. Flynn leapt backwards, slamming the damaged door. Another door closed and he knew Tom had gone outside.

Roger sat at the back door on his haunches, big tail wafting back and forth like a feather duster. Flynn glanced through the door to check that Tom had definitely gone, then ran back into the office to find Henry still propped up by the wall, his shirt unfastened to reveal the nasty-looking wound. He was touching it gingerly with dithering fingers as if it wasn’t real.

He looked up at Flynn, ashen, shaking. ‘I hope you’ve caught the bastard.’

‘Done a runner out back. Got another gun, a pistol of some sort I think.’

‘He seems pretty well armed.’

Callard, propped up on one arm, said, ‘He is.’

‘Is what?’ Henry said.

‘Well armed. That shotgun’s his. He gave it to me. They made me go and try to kill Cain.’

‘Ahh,’ Henry gasped as his finger touched the injury.

Flynn squatted down by him. ‘Phew — lucky.’

‘This is lucky?’

‘Two inches to the right and I’d be taking you to the butcher’s.’

‘Cheers… look, I think you need to find him… no, no, zap that. You don’t have to put yourself in any more danger. Let him go and let’s hope he goes to ground and not on a shooting spree. We’ll get back-up tomorrow, whatever the weather.’

‘I have a horrible feeling he’ll be back.’

‘Do you think you could get Alison back up here?’

‘Yeah, good idea. I think I need her again.’ He touched his ear that had been cut by the shotgun and rubbed the back of his neck where the muzzle had been skewered into his skin.

‘I meant for me… and can you let Karl know what’s going on?’

Flynn grinned, looked at Henry’s shoulder, feigned an ‘Ooh’ of pain. ‘Now do you believe me?’

‘I’d shrug, only it hurts too much.’ Henry winced. Sweat drizzled down his forehead; his face went a grey-blue shade.

‘Whatever,’ Flynn said and headed for the door, where he paused and turned to Callard. ‘Thanks mate — you saved us all.’

‘Unph,’ he grunted. ‘He’d’ve shot me too.’

‘Oh, for definite.’

Flynn left the room and went back into the kitchen, slid the bolt across the outer door, dropped the blinds over the windows. Roger was still there, watching him with interest.

‘If only you could talk,’ he said. The dog responded with a deep bark and a wag of the tail. ‘Maybe you can.’ Flynn patted his head and made his way back into the hall to the front door. He opened it slowly, looking at the snow-encrusted vista, his eyes drawn to Tom’s VW Golf behind Cathy’s Shogun on the drive. The inner light was on.

Then he saw the bob of a head just before the light went out.

‘He’s made it to his car,’ he yelled for Henry’s benefit, before bolting out. The Golf’s engine screamed as Tom reversed down the drive, slewing backwards, glancing off the back of Flynn’s hired car that Henry had parked on the road.

Flynn ran through the snow, unsure of what to do. Leap on the bonnet? Or the roof? The Golf slithered to a stop at an acute angle, then Tom slammed it into first, revved the engine and let out the clutch. The front wheels spun, tried to grip, sending a shower of slush up against the mudguards. The car veered forward as Flynn skated down the driveway and came alongside the car.

Tom raised the pistol and fired. The window shattered but the bullet missed, though only because a split second before Tom pulled the trigger, Flynn had completely lost his footing and smashed down on to his backside in the snow. He was sitting there, his jeans getting soaked, as he watched the Golf eventually get some grip and speed off. He sat there, watching the rear of the car, his mouth popping like Toad of Toad Hall.

He swore and clambered to his feet, brushing himself down in disgust, his eyes on the car as it gathered speed. Too much speed.