Shaun Hutson: Knife Edge

Doyle knew that Neville would have ensured he could see in all directions. He would have picked his vantage points carefully.

That's what Doyle himself would have done.

He smiled to himself.

The gate which led to the rear of number six was open and Doyle eased up the latch and beckoned the two policemen to follow him.

The garden was a mess. The lawn was overgrown, the flowerbeds infested with weeds. A child's swing was at the bottom of the garden, the seat swaying gently back and forth in the wind, the rusty chains creaking noisily.

The fence which separated this garden from that of the next house was six feet tall, weather-beaten, rotten in places.

Doyle gripped the top and hauled himself up, glancing swiftly over into the garden of number eight.

Beyond it there was a low privet hedge.

'Fuck it,' hissed Doyle, dropping back down.

'What's wrong?' asked Scott, the larger of the two armed policemen.

'Don't fuck about when you get over this fence,' Doyle said sharply 'There isn't much cover. Just head straight for the back door and keep your heads down, otherwise you're likely to get them blown off.'

Doyle pulled the Beretta from its holster and worked the slide, chambering a round before slipping it back beneath his left arm.

Wilde looked at his companion then at Doyle.

'What if Neville opens fire?' he asked nervously.

'You're wearing body armour, aren't you?' Doyle said. 'Just hope he doesn't aim for your head.'

'Do we return fire?' Scott wanted to know.

Doyle shook his head.

'Then what's the point in us having these?' Wilde blurted, holding up the rifle.

'Just do what you're told,' Doyle snapped, turning towards the fence once again.

He gripped the top, dragged himself up and over it, landing lightly on the other side. As soon as he hit the ground he ducked down and scuttled towards the rear of the house, casting a swift cautionary glance towards one of the back windows of number ten.

No signs of movement.

Had Neville seen them approaching?

Cat and fucking mouse.

Doyle saw Scott heaving himself over the fence, the rifle slung around him.

He jumped down, landed heavily and overbalanced, sprawling on the grass.

'Get up, you prat,' Doyle hissed under his breath as the policeman hurried across to join him.

Wilde followed a moment later, banging the fence hard with one foot as he swung himself over.

Doyle looked up towards the back of number ten.

Are you waiting for us, Neville?

Doyle half expected to hear a shot ring out, to see Wilde fall.

Instead the policeman sprinted over to join the other two men. He was breathing hard and Doyle suspected that it wasn't the exertions which were causing it.

The younger man's face was pale.

'Now what?' said Scott.

'We get inside,' Doyle told him.

'But Neville's in number ten,' Wilde protested.

'Do you want to go and ring his fucking doorbell then?' Doyle snapped.

The younger man lowered his gaze, contenting himself with staring around the garden instead.

There was still washing on the line. Just a solitary blouse and, for some reason, a single white sock.

A plastic tricycle lay overturned on the well-manicured lawn. Close to it a black and white football.

Children's possessions, thought Wilde.

He could feel his heart pounding hard against his ribs and he gripped the rifle tightly.

Doyle was staring at the back door, which was wooden with glass panels in the top half.

Using one elbow he broke the panel above the lock and snaked his hand through, turning the key.

He pushed open the door, took one last look up at the rear of number ten, then ushered the two armed policemen inside ahead of him.

If Neville had seen them arrive he was keeping quiet about it, thought Doyle.

What little surprises have you got in store, you fucker?

Doyle stepped inside number eight and flicked on the two-way.

'Calloway, it's Doyle, come in, over.'

The radio hissed and crackled and Doyle fiddled with the buttons on it.

He heard the DI's voice.

'Doyle, this is Calloway. Over.'

The counter terrorist held the two-way close to his mouth.

'We're inside number eight,' he said.

Robert Neville sat on one end of the sofa and poured himself another glass of Scotch.

'Join me?' he said, smiling crookedly at his wife.

Julie shook her head and looked away from him, shifting position. She could feel the first twinges of cramp in her left calf and began to massage the affected area slowly.

Neville suddenly got to his feet and crossed to her, gripping her chin in his hand, forcing her head around so that she was compelled to look into his face. Into his eyes.

They locked stares, then he released his grip and walked towards the window, whisky glass in one hand.

'Bob, just promise me one thing.'

Neville turned to look at her.

'Promise me you won't hurt Lisa. I don't care what you do to me but-'

'Don't you?' he said sharply. 'You really don't care. What's the matter? Do you put that little value on your own life? I thought it was just me you didn't give a shit about.'

She sighed resignedly. 'I know you'll kill me if you want to, I'm just asking you not to hurt Lisa. She is your daughter, in case you'd forgotten.'

'So, you want me to promise?' he said cryptically.

She watched as he downed what was left in the glass then crossed to the wooden sideboard and refilled the tumbler.

There was a photo perched on top of the mahogany cabinet.

A wedding photo.

Neville picked it up and studied the figures in it.

Himself and Julie. So long ago. How long? He could barely remember.

Neville in his uniform. Julie resplendent in a knee-length blue dress.

Nine, ten years ago.

Jesus, where had the time gone?

The photo had been taken outside Camden Register Office. There'd been fewer than a dozen people there. Family, what little they had. Friends, those who'd bothered to turn up.

Neville replaced the photo.

'It hasn't all been bad, has it?' he asked softly, eyes still fixed on the picture.

'What?'

'Our life together.'

'No. We've got Lisa.'

'We just never had each other, did we?' he said, his tone hardening rapidly.

'You were never here, Bob.'

'I was doing a job, for Christ's sake. You knew what I did when you met me. You knew I was in the army.' He turned to face her.

'You were different then,' she told him.

'Bullshit.'

'We were both different people, Bob.' She opened her mouth to speak again but he held up a hand to silence her, his ears attuned to the slightest noise.

He moved across the room, towards the living-room wall, then he cupped a hand to it and listened.

Movement on the other side.

He leaned closer, trying to distinguish the sounds.

Then, silence.

He wondered if the noise had come from the front of the house, but something told him his initial instinct had been correct.

Sounds of movement from the house next door?

Neville retreated from the living room for a moment.

When he returned he was carrying the MPi 69, his face set in a stern expression.

Julie looked at the automatic weapon and shuddered involuntarily.

Neville slipped off the safety catch.

It seemed the waiting was over.

Doyle noticed that there were still cups and plates on the kitchen table of number eight. Even a bottle of milk was propped in the centre of the table, bowls of half-eaten cornflakes close by.

The resident must have been evacuated during breakfast.

On one of the plates a fried egg had congealed along with several rashers of bacon and a couple of sausages.