Adrian Magson - No Help For The Dying

She was on the opposite side of the house, where the windows overlooked a large expanse of lawns and flowerbeds, when she sensed someone close by. Expecting to see Palmer coming up behind her, she turned in time to catch a blur of movement as somebody charged out of the tree line and bore down on her. Before she could react, she was hit a stunning blow on her shoulder and sent spinning against the wall of the house, her head smacking into the brickwork.

Riley felt nauseous and tried to get up, her head pounding from the blow she had received. She was vaguely aware of a dark form standing over her, and of a man’s heavy breathing. Whoever it was wore a long dark coat. Quine? No, the outline was too broad. Meaker, then. His mate. The unknown quantity. She waited, wondering what he was going to do. If she tried to get up now, he’d simply slap her down. She scrabbled with one hand for some gravel off the path, the only weapon available to her.

Suddenly Meaker turned and was gone.

Riley climbed shakily to her feet, puzzled but relieved at his sudden departure. The gravel thing only worked in corny films, anyway. Maybe he’d been spooked by Palmer moving around on the other side of the house. She was about to retrace her steps to warn Palmer that the American was on the loose when she heard a distinct noise from inside the building. She turned and continued her search for an entry. Palmer would have to look after himself.

She hurried along past more windows, and was on the point of giving up hope of finding a way in when she came across a single glass door set into a recess. Peering through the small panes, she saw it opened into a small room fitted out with rows of books and a large desk. The door was locked tight.

She cast around and spotted a piece of rockery the size of a football which had rolled loose from the edge of a border. She debated the wisdom of what she was about to do for about three seconds, them muttered, ‘Ah, what the hell.’ With her head still pounding and with a swift prayer to the god of all ethical burglars, she picked up the boulder and heaved it through the glass close to the handle.

The noise was spectacular, showering the carpet inside with shards of glass and splinters of broken framework. She felt around for the handle, and with a quick twist, felt the retaining rods slip free of their moorings at the top and bottom of the door. With a push she was inside.

The air was musty and heavy, like an overheated room left too long undisturbed. She listened, straining for a telltale sound while trying to ignore the heavy-metal beat of her heart. This was a bad idea. She should have waited for Palmer.

She stepped out of the study and walked down the centre of a corridor, dark with heavy panelling. The carpet underfoot deadened any sound she might have made save for her breathing. On her left was the meeting room where she had first seen de Haan. She peered round the door, but the room was deserted, save for a few cardboard boxes with bibles and literature spilling from them, and a roll of parcel tape. It looked like someone had been interrupted in the middle of packing. The chairs were still stacked against the wall as they had been before, except for one in the centre of the room, lying on its side. She felt her pulse quicken, and the bruise on the side of her head began to throb with a vengeance. Attached to the chair back was a length of frayed blue nylon string, bizarre and out-of-place.

She heard a noise from overhead, muffled and distant. Riley swallowed, wondering why her throat had chosen this moment to dry up, and wishing she had some water. That and a couple of pain killers and a nice cup of tea…

Whatever the noise had been, it clearly meant someone — or something — was in the building in spite of the locked gates, doors and windows. A cat maybe? An opportunist thief? But waiting down here wasn’t going to answer the question.

In the empty reception area, there were more boxes. The stairs were to her right. She went up two at a time, the effort making her head even worse, and pulled out her mobile, intending to ring Palmer when she got to the top. Failing that, she could always throw it at whoever was up there.

As she reached the top step, she heard what sounded like a cry of pain from a corridor to her right. She followed the noise to a door that was slightly ajar, allowing a shaft of light to cut through the gloom of the corridor, followed by the sound of… so meone humming?

Riley was ready to run, feeling all kinds of nameless horrors lining up in her imagination. Whatever was on the other side of the door was no cat. It had to be human.

She pushed the door and stepped into the room.

It was about fifteen feet square and virtually devoid of furniture, apart from a single bed and cabinet against one wall. On the floor lay a heavy glass decanter on its side, near a ceramic bowl and a syringe, all no doubt knocked off the cabinet, the crash she’d heard earlier.

On the bed, a body moved, and an arm flopped over the edge, pale, thin and clutching at air. Riley started forward, her stomach tense. Then, from the edge of her vision, a dark figure swam into view from behind the door. Unable to turn away in time, her mobile was knocked from her hand and sent skittering away across the bare boards.

Palmer barely heard the first noise from the inside of the house. Then came footsteps, heavy and obviously running — too heavy for Riley — followed by the crash of breaking glass. He swore fluently and set off at a sprint, abandoning caution. If it was Riley, the noise she had just made would have been heard in the next county. Seconds later he skidded along the back of the house and found the smashed window, but there was no sign of Riley apart from a set of muddy footprints across the carpet inside.

Instinct and training made him stop and hold his breath. One of his first instructors had had a mantra which said: two seconds of listening is worth thirty seconds of useless action. More importantly, he recalled the man saying, it might also save a careless Redcap from having his head bashed in. Palmer took a deep breath and stepped across the study and out into a corridor, trying to get his bearings. The house was a warren.

He heard a faint scuff of noise from upstairs. Footsteps? Then what could have been a shuddering moan which stirred the hairs on the back of his neck. He pushed through a half-open door and found himself in the large room where he had last seen de Haan. He noted the chair in the centre, and recognised its purpose. A door to his right was open, and the room beyond looked familiar. The reception area. The main stairway. He ran through the door and heard a creaking of floorboards from above his head. Taking the stairs at a run, he reached the landing with a main corridor leading off either side. He hesitated. Left or right?

More sounds, the clatter of something hard hitting the floor. Then a scrabble of movement, fast and violent.

‘Riley!’ he yelled.

‘ Palmer! ’ Riley’s voice, shrill, from somewhere down to his right. He sprinted along the corridoruntil he saw an open door. He stopped, taking in a snapshot of the scene beyond.

Riley. Kneeling on bare floorboards by a single bed. She was hunched over, her hair hanging down over her face. A glass decanter lay on he floor close by. Other than a single bed and bedside cabinet, the room was bare, little more than a prison cell. He took in the bed, with a huddled shape dressed in pyjamas, the material soiled and crumpled.

‘Riley?’

She didn’t respond. She was breathing heavily, holding herself across the middle, her shoulders shuddering as if in pain. Hurt or winded? Her mobile lay nearby, the back of the casing several inches away. Palmer tried to make sense of it as he stepped through the door. Had she fallen? Tripped? Was the decanter on the floor significant? Then another shape floated into view and stood before him, dark and still, and his questions were answered.