John Matthews - The Last Witness

Georges struggled to get his head clear.

He’d been close to black-out by the veranda door and had taken deep breaths of the cold night-air, finally managing to raise and stagger out. He gradually picked up stride, but still his head was fuzzy, his step uncertain. He’d stumbled and almost fallen down the last few veranda steps in his haste — then at the edge of the trees when he heard someone behind and a shot zipped through the leaves only a foot away, again he almost stumbled as his legs turned to jelly with fear.

A nightmare race: he desperately needed to gain more distance, but the more his lungs gaspingly pumped his run rather than cleared his head, still hazy and spinning from the gas, the closer he came to blacking-out.

He thrashed his way frantically through the branches and shrubs. As another shot zipped close-by, he realized that his pursuer was either firing blind towards the sound of his movements or had caught a momentary glimpse of him.

Georges stumbled on, saw the clearing ahead. But as he burst through and came to the edge of the frozen lake, he stopped. It was too long a distance for him to be in the open, vulnerable. It was then that he noticed the small jetty with a power boat and snowmobile thirty yards to his right. Sound of rapid footsteps, tree branches flaying behind him. He bolted towards the jetty.

His breath rasped heavy, he had to strain his hearing to pick up the position of his pursuer. His chest ached with the effort, and his legs threatened to give out again in the last few yards; he practically fell on the snowmobile, frantically fumbling: button dead-centre on the handle bars, pull-chord to the right.

Sound of his pursuer flaying through the last few bushes. Georges pressed the button and pulled the chord, but it didn’t start.

His pursuer appeared through the bushes, and with the gas mask now removed Georges could see that it was Roman! There was a suspended moment between them, Georges watching through his breath vapour as Roman orientated and finally fixed on him.

Georges pulled again, and this time the engine roared to life. But Roman was already raising his gun, aiming.

Georges revved quickly, leapt on and started speeding away. The first bullet whistled close by when he’d gone barely five yards, but the second hit: Georges felt it like a mule kick to his left shoulder, spinning his steering off for a second before he straightened again. The third came quickly afterwards, hitting the metal at the back of the snowmobile, and the fourth whistled clear again — by which time he prayed he was too distant for a clear shot.

Still he kept in the same hunched forward position for at least another seventy yards, teeth gritted against the pain of his shattered shoulder, before he raised up slightly and risked a look back at Roman’s position.

It took him a moment to pick out the figure in the weak moonlight: gun held limply at his side, breath heavy on the air as he stared bemusedly towards him. Georges couldn’t resist smiling, then laughing, and as he sped along the ice in no time it became a raucous whoop for joy with the sudden release of tension.

Over half a mile to the far ring of trees, and by then…

Georges thought nothing of the slight jolt at first, but it was the crack and heavier tilting as the snowmobile landed from the bump he’d hit — snow-covered tree branch or whatever — that was more worrying.

Then, as one of the skis caught against the edge of the ice, suddenly everything was spinning and Georges felt the solid thud of the ice against his side and the snowmobile jamming against his left leg. He lay there for a second, breathless, trying to orientate. But as he felt his trapped leg getting wet and saw the snowmobile tilt further and start to slide away from him, he suddenly realized with panic what had happened: the ice had cracked and he was sinking through it!

He frantically tried to scramble away as the snowmobile slipped deeper into the water — but its sheer weight tilted the severed ice block to a sharper angle, and Georges felt himself sliding inexorably with it. The water was like an icy hatchet hitting his groin. Georges clawed desperately at the ice, but it was like trying to grip onto wet glass.

The icy water rose swiftly, taking Georges’ breath away, and at the last second he thrashed his arms against the water to stay buoyant — but the suction of the snowmobile submerging seemed to draw him under as well, and he felt the water fill his mouth and lap over his head for a second before his flailing arms were able to bring him back up again.

He spluttered and spat, grappling desperately for the first solid ice edge. He grabbed on to one block, but it moved. He bobbed down again for a bit, only just managing to keep his mouth clear of the water, eyes frantically scanning as he thrashed around. He could feel his body rapidly numbing, all sensation going from his nerve-ends. If he didn’t get out fast, he wouldn’t make it!

He grappled on to one more loose chunk before finally connecting with a solid edge. But as he started to lever out, his spirits sank. He could see that Roman was only fifty yards away, and fast closing! He’d obviously started his sprint as soon as he saw the snowmobile get into trouble.

If he didn’t hurry, he’d get clear only to be a sitting target! The pain was excruciating with his wounded shoulder, he had to lever and slither mostly on his right side; he was breathless with the strain before finally sliding his torso onto the ice like a landed seal. But as soon as he raised up and put weight on his left leg, he felt it buckle and the pain shoot up through his body — then remembered it getting jammed under the snowmobile.

Georges felt any last hope slip away in that second. And as he hobbled pathetically away and heard Roman’s footfall rapidly closing in behind, he wished he hadn’t bothered. He should have just let himself sink back below the icy water: at least he’d have robbed Roman of the satisfaction of shooting him.

Faint flicker of the eyes. Just for a second.

Ryall leant in closer. ‘Are you awake, Lorena?’

After a second, uncertainly. ‘…No.’ The eyes perfectly still again, no movement.

But Ryall wasn’t totally satisfied. Her answers had started to become evasive, weren’t really telling him anything, and as he straightened up from leaning over and let out a sigh, he was sure her eyes had flickered open momentarily. And she’d had to think for a second about her answer now.

But her eyes hadn’t opened to look at him, more at something over the far end of the room. He turned, following where she’d been looking: the Mountie bear from Canada.

He studied it for a moment perched on a dressing table at the far end of the room, then started moving closer towards it: obscured in heavy shadow, it was difficult to pick out much of its detail.

At the other end, Bell tensed as he watched Ryall peer towards him, moving closer. ‘Oh, shit!’

He glanced again towards the phone, wondering whether to call and abort. But he felt rooted to the screen, afraid to move even for a second in case he missed something. Ryall came to within two yards, then suddenly turned back again.

Ryall was sure he’d seen Lorena’s eyes flicker back shut again as he turned; as if she was curious where he was heading, what he was looking at.

‘What’s the game, Lorena?’ he asked, moving back towards her. No response. Her body and her eyelids suddenly frozen, deathly still. ‘I know you’re awake, so we can stop playing now, Lorena…’

Bell leapt for the phone, punched out the numbers. It rang once, twice. ‘For God’s sake… Come on!’ He banged his fist against the phone table.

‘…All that’s left now is for you to tell me.’ Ryall leant over Lorena’s inert body. He trailed a finger gently up her neck and moved close until he was only inches away, could feel her soft breath against his face. And for a second it would have been easy to believe she really was under his control, like every other night. His voice lowered to a chilling whisper. ‘Tell me… tell me. What’s the game?’