Simon Kernick - The Business of Dying

The door marked 'Private – Staff Only' was my only means of escape. I headbutted it open, crawling on my hands and knees, and desperately pushed my body through. I was in a small corridor leading through to the kitchens. Back in the shop, I could hear shouting and the sound of someone else coming over the worktop. I ran forward into the kitchens where half a dozen Chinese in chef's whites were busy at work. They all turned round as I charged in, and one jumped in front of me.

'No, no. Not allowed. No customers!'

I looked round desperately for an exit door, knowing I had seconds.

The chef, who just about came up to my chest, grabbed me by the lapels of my jacket. 'No customers! You must leave!'

He began pushing me backwards, and another younger chef armed with a wicked-looking meat cleaver started coming round the main worktop. I spotted the back door behind them in the corner. It was held slightly ajar by a piece of cardboard. I felt a surge of relief and panic in roughly equal measure.

Hearing the rapid footfalls in the corridor behind me, I screamed something incoherent and pushed the chef aside. He fell into a load of pots and pans and cried out. The other chef, the one with the cleaver, went to raise it above his head, and I thought momentarily that this would be a very stupid way to die, cut down by an irate kitchen worker while fleeing a professional assassination team.

I ripped the warrant card from my pocket, the last time I would ever use it. 'Police! I only want to get out! Get out of my way!' I charged past him, and he actually did get out of the way. There was a load of panicked shouting from all around me, and I knew that my pursuers were in the room.

I kicked the door open without pausing and ran out into the litter-strewn back yard as it slammed shut, rattling, behind me. A few yards ahead was a wall piled up with rubbish, facing on to the backs of terraced houses. I could have run for it but I didn't think I'd make it over before they put a hole in me. It was a time for hard decisions.

Resisting the temptation to bend over and throw up, I sidestepped and positioned myself by the door on the opposite side to the direction it would open, knowing that if I fucked this up then they would have me. No question. But there was little time for fear. Within a second, there was a commotion from inside the kitchens, more shouting – most of it foreign and unintelligible – and then the door flew open again and shotgun man came charging into view, automatically looking towards the wall ahead.

With a speed I didn't think I was capable of, I threw myself into him, grabbing the gun in the process. I shoved it upwards, pushing all my weight against his body, the power and surprise of my attack forcing him back so he blocked the doorway. At the same time, instinctively, reflexively, whatever you want to call it, he pulled the trigger, not having had the time to realize that the barrel had just been thrust into position right beneath his chin.

The noise was louder than anything I think I've ever heard in my life. It ripped through my ears and shook my whole body right down to the toes. A huge splash of blood soaked my face like warm, vile treacle as the top of his head was ripped away, its contents scattered high up the door and across the windows. He fell backwards, and I tugged the weapon from his grasp.

His partner was right behind him and he was forced to get out of the way as the corpse hit the floor. He looked down at the bloody head, then back at me, his face a mask of rage.

'Bastard!'

He raised the gun and I threw myself backwards as he fired, landing on my back on the paving slabs. He fired again, missing my head by inches, the bullet ricocheting up off the concrete. But I'd swung the shotgun round now so it was facing him, and finally it was my turn to pull the trigger.

I tried to balance it and take aim, but time was too short. The weapon kicked in my hand and a huge meaty chunk of his left leg just above the knee disappeared. The leg collapsed uselessly, and he collapsed with it, dropping the gun as all his efforts were put into howling in agony. He was still sitting upright when I got his head in my sights and pulled the trigger again.

But the weapon was empty.

The Chinese had gathered around the door and were looking down at the carnage with a mixture of fear, shock and morbid excitement on their faces. I was panting heavily, I was exhausted, but this wasn't over yet. In the distance, above the ringing in my ears, I could hear the sound of sirens converging on the scene from all directions, but it sounded as though they were still some way distant.

I got to my feet and waved the weapon at my audience. They all scuttled out of the way and I stepped forward, grabbed the wounded would-be assassin by his hair and dragged him outside, before picking up his gun and putting it in my pocket. I shut the door and turned to face him. His howls had now subsided into heavy, desperate breathing interspersed with little shrieks of pain through clenched teeth. He was holding on to the huge wound with both hands in a vain attempt to stem the copious flow of blood.

I leaned down. 'Who sent you?' I hissed, between pants. 'Who sent you?'

He looked Mediterranean, Turkish perhaps, and I put him in his early thirties. He could easily have been the guy who'd spooked Danny. Probably was. He could even be the man who'd killed him. Because, by now, I was sure he was dead.

He didn't answer. He didn't even look at me. In the distance, the sirens were getting louder and more numerous. Time was running short. I hit his hands with the butt of the shotgun, forcing him to release his grip on the wound. As he did so, I thrust my hand into the torn flesh and scraped my fingernails along it. His scream would have deafened me under normal circumstances, but by now I was partially deaf anyway.

'Who sent you?'

'No speak English,' he whimpered, shaking his head. 'No speak English.'

This time I slammed the butt into the wound, and when he put his hands on it instinctively, I slammed it into them too. He was screaming, so now I cracked him in the face to shut him up, cutting his lips. Blood spewed down his chin.

'Who the fuck sent you? Tell me! Now! Who?' I grabbed him by the hair again and snapped his head back so he was looking me right in the eye.

I think he saw the ruthlessness in my expression and realized there was no point delaying any further, even though the sirens were coming in from all sides. 'Mehmet Illan,' he whispered.

'Who?'

'Mehmet Illan.'

'Who the fuck is he?'

Before he could answer, there was the sound of footsteps from inside the kitchens and I heard someone running through. I took a step back and raised the butt so that it was level with my head. This time, as the door opened, Coke Drinker emerged, panting into the darkness and right into my line of fire. I heard one of the Chinese staff shout 'Look out!' in a high-pitched, dramatic voice, but it was way too late for that. I hit him full on in the face with the butt, demolishing his nose like soft fudge and scattering flecks of blood across both cheeks. He went down on both knees, hands covering his injured face, and I knew he was no longer any problem. There were other voices coming from the street, shouting, giving orders. Coppers' voices, doing what they do best: bringing situations under control.

Still packed with adrenalin, I dropped the shotgun, turned, and ran for the wall, vaulting up on to it in one less-than-graceful movement before manoeuvring myself over. I slid down the other side and landed in more sacks of rubbish. I was now in someone's ill-kept back garden. There was an alley running down the side of the adjoining house, so I clambered over the rickety wooden fence separating the two gardens and followed it, emerging on the next street. I crossed it straight away, then began jogging in the opposite direction to the Gallan, trying to wipe the blood from my face.