Dan Waddell - Blood Atonement

In the distance he could hear sirens but he paid them no heed. Upstairs was dark; he opened one door. A bathroom.

At last, some daylight. The smell of damp was almost overpowering. He waited for another sound. In front of him was another door. He forced it open and flicked on the light.

A dark-haired man, the same as in the picture on the mantle downstairs, tall, barrel-chested, was standing there.

Both of them stopped, neither said a word.

Who the hell are you?' the voice was plummy, well spoken.

Foster froze. He wondered if back-up had arrived. He had told them to come without sound, that he would meet them and instruct. Not much chance of that now.

'Police,' he said. 'The game's up, Dominic' He paused.

'Or should I call you Anthony?'

The man's face, puce with anger, bled of all colour when he said the name. Foster tried to think. Here he was, sweating, out of condition, his limbs screaming with pain.

There was no way he could overpower this guy and he had no weapon at his disposal. He needed to buy time.

Chapman started to walk towards him. Foster backed off, hands held up to show he was unarmed. He wished he wasn't. 'Help is on its way, Anthony. You can fight me but not the whole army.'

'Liar,' he spat out. Foster could see a knife gripped tightly in his right hand. Foster continued to back away to the top of the stairs. Chapman closed the door of the room behind him, plunging them both into absolute darkness.

The blast of light from the room meant Foster initially couldn't see a thing. He could feel Chapman's presence, though, a grim spectre.

'It's over, Anthony,' he called out.

'Tell me, do you know the Lord?' a disembodied voice said, closer to him than he had thought.

'Not personally, no,' Foster replied.

There was a muffled scream behind them. From the room they had just left.

Well, in that case, too bad.'

He sensed a figure move in the gloom, felt its sick breath. Foster knew there was no other option. He turned and threw himself down the stairs, rolling and tumbling, the wind knocked out of him, sears of pain taking his breath away. He landed in a heap at the bottom, gasping for air, but managed to scramble to his feet. He reached for the front door, hearing Chapman race down the stairs.

The door was locked. The keyhole was empty.

Instinctively Foster turned and hurled himself at the oncoming man's midriff. It surprised Chapman and knocked him off his feet. Foster felt something in his shoulder buckle but he drove his weight through and slammed his assailant into the banister pole. He deflected into the hall and they both hit the floor, dust and lint flying through the air. Chapman had grabbed Foster's shirt and was trying to wrestle him off while the detective tried to locate the other man's arm and stop him striking with the knife.

He grabbed the right arm and held it away, but in doing so lost purchase on the rest of his body. Chapman scrambled out from beneath him and forced him to one side with his left arm. Foster's back was now on the floor, both hands grasping Chapman's knife arm, trying to shake the blade free from his grasp but his grip was iron tight. The pain in his shoulder grew worse but he gritted his teeth, trying to kick up a leg and force Chapman away so he could get clear. Chapman's left hand found his throat, all his weight bearing down. Foster just didn't have the strength. He was starting to choke, his windpipe crushed, pressure immense. But he couldn't remove a hand from Chapman's arm or his knife arm would be free. Strangulation or stabbing, which end do you choose, Grant? He let go of the right arm with one hand and started to prise away the left, gurgling as he did, head feeling like it might explode. As the knife moved closer to his chest. . .

Then Chapman's body tightened and tautened, his back arched and his weight fell on Foster. He screamed out in what Foster thought was bloodlust. Foster expected to feel the top of Chapman's blade pierce his skin, but there was nothing, just the man's heaving body pinning him down, and his hot breath on his cheek. The breathing was shallow and laboured.

A light went on. Foster blinked, like an owl in daylight.

Chapman was a dead weight. He'd stopped moving.

Foster pushed with all the effort he could muster, ignoring the pain in his shoulder. He lifted him enough to squeeze out from underneath. As he did, so he could see a large kitchen knife sticking out of the man's back. In the distance he could hear sirens.

A figure was standing at the foot of the stairs, scowling at Chapman with consuming hatred.

'Gary?' Foster said.

The kid didn't react. Eventually he looked up, face still set hard.

'Thanks,' Foster added wearily. He noticed for the first time that his front was stained by Chapman's scarlet blood, which was now oozing across the threadbare hall carpet.

'I didn't do it for you,' he said.

Wait.'

Gary ignored him, and ran into the front room, making for the open window.

Foster hauled himself up, body screaming with pain.

Gary could wait. He remembered the muffled screams earlier. He dragged his frame upstairs and into the room where he'd first encountered Chapman.

'Hello?' he said. 'Is anybody there?'

Nothing. He repeated his inquiry. This time there was a response.

'Help,' a plaintive voice said weakly.

He looked around the room. There was a cupboard.

Foster opened it. It was shallow. Empty.

'Help.' The voice was pitiful and weak.

He pushed at the back of the cupboard. It seemed to give. He pushed harder, then he kicked. It gave way.

Behind it was an extra few feet of space.

Curled up in the corner, arms wrapped around her knees, was a girl. The blonde hair was matted and tangled, but the blue eyes and face were unmistakable. They had been staring out from the newspapers every day for the past week.

'Naomi,' he said.

She stood up and launched herself at him, wrapping her arms around his neck, convulsed with sobs.

'It's OK,' he found himself saying, as she wept hot tears on his shoulder. 'You're safe now. You're safe.'

She was shaking.

So am I, he thought.

He heard the front door give way, footsteps on the stairs. 'I'm here,' he shouted, overcome. 'I've got her. She's safe.'

Officers came rushing in from every angle. He held up his hand, making them aware they should tread carefully.

'This whole place is a crime scene,' he said.

He held Naomi for a few minutes, then led her downstairs, handing her to a WPC and asking for her father to be summoned immediately.

He took a deep breath and composed himself. Where had Gary come from? He must have been in the house before him. It was Gary he had heard moving around downstairs. He returned to the room where Naomi had been held. He peered into the cupboard and the false wall at the back of it. There was a duvet lining the floor and a pillow, but it was no more than a couple of feet deep and four feet wide. Naomi would have had no room to lie down flat, and only stale air to breathe; there would have been nothing but darkness and the fear of what might happen.

It was over. He rubbed his head, a wry smile on his face.

^'What's so funny?' a uniform asked.

'Nothing,' he replied. 'Just appreciating a bit of grim irony.

"The kid that was given up for adoption to save him from being hunted down and killed as an act of blood atonement was the one who had ended up carrying out the atonement legacy.

Foster was dozing on the sofa. He'd returned to his house late for a few hours' sleep and rest as they tried to tie up the loose ends surrounding Anthony Chapman. Much still needed to be explained. Too tired to make it upstairs, he propped up a couple of pillows and rested his head, fully clothed, pausing only to kick off his shoes, sinking into unconsciousness immediately.