Adrian Magson - No Help For The Dying

Quine.

Palmer breathed softly, allowing the tension to ease away. Whatever was about to happen here required concentration and fluidity. There was a click and Palmer saw the glint of a knife in Quine’s hand. Bugger. This man was a whole different box of tricks from the youth in the alley near Waterloo. He was fitter, looked far stronger and had the added motivation of needing to get past Palmer without stopping.

Quine seemed to do an odd shuffle dance on the bare boards, a deadly Astaire caught in the sunlight through the window, the knife blade flicking back and forth like a lizard’s tongue. He still wore his long black coat and rimless glasses, and his soft boots seemed to move a millimetre above the floor, a deadly figure almost without substance.

Palmer stepped towards him, making the man shuffle backwards, light as a drift of smoke. He glanced down at the blade to see if there was any blood on it. Riley’s blood. But it looked clean. He shook his head. He needed to stay focussed. Instead, he edged sideways, putting himself between Quine and Riley. Whatever happened now, Quine wouldn’t get past. Not unless he was very, very good.

Then Palmer realised Quine had engineered the move, planning on Palmer’s protective instincts to out-manoeuvre him. With a brief smile, the man stepped over to the door, the knife held at head level in front of him, daring Palmer to approach.

‘Sorry, Palmer.’ Quine’s voice held a note almost of regret, and Palmer was surprised by how soft it was. There was none of the aggression he had expected, no taunting, no vicious undertone. Except for the knife, he could have just stepped out of a pulpit or a radio studio. ‘I’d stay and chat, but I have an appointment.’ He flicked his eyes over to Riley on the floor. ‘She’s not hurt… well, nothing but her pride, anyway.’

‘Why? Are you saying you don’t kill women?’ said Palmer. ‘Or is it just girls?’

Quine’s face gave nothing away. On the other hand, who was going to prove he had killed anybody? If the man was as clinical in his habits as he was in his dress and manner, then he would have covered his tracks very carefully. To have killed Riley here and now would have been too open. Too obvious.

‘Who’s that on the bed?’ said Palmer. He would feel a lot happier about Riley when he saw for himself how she was. He stepped towards Quine, closing the space between them. But Quine mirrored the movement and stepped into the doorway. His way was now clear to flee.

‘A nobody,’ said Quine. ‘Don’t worry about him. I doubt he’s going to be as lucky.’

‘Henry Pearcy.’

‘You got it.’ Quine looked at the knife and his hand seemed to drop as though suddenly tired. ‘I should have slotted him at the outset.’ He smiled, his thin face creasing like a mask. ‘I bet you know that word, don’t you, with your background? Poor old Henry gets slotted for — what? Straying beyond the lines of his responsibilities, shall we say? Not the loyal trooper we thought he was, I’m afraid. Just can’t get the staff these days. It wasn’t me who did him, though.’ His eyes glittered behind the lenses and Palmer decided the statement wasn’t as casual as it might have sounded. Quine evidently wasn’t stupid enough to go for the classic stand-off confession. He knew better. Things could always go wrong. The laws of inevitability.

It made him wonder about Quine’s background. Slotted was a military term, slang for dead. Killed. Shot. It figured. It would have taken someone with a military sense of duty to have performed the tasks Quine and his colleague, Meaker, had undertaken. A clean-up squad with a perverted distortion of the old military credo: if it moves, salute it; if it doesn’t, paint it. For ‘moves’, read ‘slot’.

A phone trilled somewhere close by. Quine looked down at his pocket and shrugged. ‘Oops. Sorry — business calls. Things to do, places to be.’

‘Why Friedman? He get in your way too often?’

‘Who? Never heard of him.’ Quine chuckled. Then, like a phantom, he was gone, and all Palmer could hear was his footsteps jogging unhurriedly along the corridor and down the stairs.

He turned and hurried over to Riley, ignoring the figure on the bed. From what Quine had said, Pearcy was most likely beyond help. He placed a gentle hand on Riley’s arm, and felt a weight shift from his shoulders when her head moved and she looked up at him. One eye was badly bruised and the skin of her cheek was grazed. She was still short of breath but looked fine.

‘What bloody… kept you, Palmer?’ she muttered between gasps. ‘Christ, I’m going to have to sign up someone younger and fitter. You’re over the hill.’

He looked down at her and pulled a face, feeling suddenly more cheerful. Riley on the offensive was a good sign. Better than good. ‘Can you run, dear?’ he murmured pithily. ‘Or are you going to sit here bleating all day?’

She shook her head and tried to get up, clutching her stomach. The movement seemed to bring about a burst of pain and she grimaced. ‘Bastard,’ she murmured. ‘It’s all right — I’m winded, that’s all. You go. I’ll follow in a minute.’

‘I’m not leaving you here alone.’

Riley forced herself upright and looked towards the bed. ‘Forget it, Sir Galahad. I’m fine. I promise I’ll lock the door behind you. Anyway, I’ve got him to look after. Go on… you can’t let them get away. Go! ’

Palmer left.

The sound of Palmer’s footsteps fading away down the stairs and leaving her alone in that bare, deathly room made Riley feel horribly vulnerable. She resisted the temptation to call after him, but knew she’d never forgive herself. Anyway, she doubted he would stop; Palmer didn’t do droopy females, and while he was always ready to step in when the occasion called, he would expect her to get on with things. She wondered where Meaker had got to and whether he was now stalking Palmer in turn. And what of de Haan? To hell with the fat boy, she thought. If he comes near me I’ll rip his throat out.

On the bed, Henry groaned and struggled to move. He was still alive! She gulped in a lungful of air. Come on, girl, she told herself. Time to get back in the game. Then she’d better start praying she could get help here in time before Henry weakened further — and before Palmer began killing people.

She stared at Henry, now on his back, eyes closed. He looked awful; thin as a reed and sallow in colour, his skin was damp with perspiration and almost translucent. She leaned close and could hear the faint hiss of breathing between his lips. With it came a sour, acidic smell, overlaid by the aroma of soiled bedclothes. Whatever else de Haan and his people had been doing with Henry for the past few days, caring for him as a former Church member hadn’t been top of their agenda.

She turned and scooped up the decanter from the floor. It still held a cupful of water, the majority having drained away through the cracks in the boards, and she sniffed it briefly before tipping her head back for a taste. In her eagerness a rush of tepid liquid surged around her mouth and nose, making her cough. Plain water. At least she wasn’t about to poison him on top of his other troubles.

She dribbled a few drops between his lips, which were chapped and flaking and rimmed with a white crust. His throat, covered in white stubble, began working instinctively, and his eyes fluttered weakly before he suddenly gagged and coughed, his head rising off the pillow. He was badly dehydrated. Maybe they’d kept him in a drug-induced stupor to keep him quiet, and he’d knocked over the decanter while reaching for a drink. Or trying to attract some attention.

She put the decanter down. He needed medical attention, and fast. She’d have to get an ambulance here. But what about the front gates? She cast around for her mobile. If she warned them, they’d bring bolt cutters. Must be plenty of times when they had to force their way into places to attend to emergencies.