Gordon Ferris - Truth Dare kill

“But it doesn’t matter, McRae. She’s too involved. She can’t leave me. Not now.

And we can get away with it. Scot free, McRae, as it were.” He grimaced and placed his left hand round his gun hand to steady it. I clasped my pistol and pointed it at his chest. Then I realised he was staring behind me. I thought it was a trick but he kept on staring.

I half turned. I saw a face in the fog. It looked like Val’s.

“No, Val! Go back! Don’t come near.” I moved a little to one side and turned half to her so I could see them both. Caldwell looked terror-stricken.

“What are you doing here?” he shrieked.

Val stepped closer. She had a wild look on her face. I scarcely recognised her.

She seemed to have lost her coat. It was too cold to be here in just a blouse and skirt.

“Stop! Stop or I fire!” Caldwell was pointing the gun at her, away from me.

“Valerie, get down!”

She came on. We formed a triangle, with six feet between us. Mist drifted and coated us, one after the other. Valerie said nothing. Her long dark hair was pulled forward over her shoulder. She did a slow pirouette, so that her back was to us. The neck and top of her blouse were soaked dark. The dark hair above was matted and glistening. In the back of her head, just where the skull joins the neck, was an entry wound. I knew her now.

She turned round to face him. There was blood on her skirt and running down her thin legs. She stepped closer to him.

“Stop or I fire!” Caldwell was demented.

She didn’t stop. He fired once and must have missed. He fired again. And still she came on. I heard a car door slamming and running feet. A cry went up. “No, Tony, no!”

Caldwell dropped to one knee, then the other. He was sobbing. Sobbing and firing. The gunshots echoed round and round in this limbo we’d created.

Valerie stood in front of him, an arm’s length away, a thin smile on her lips.

She leaned forward and carefully touched the barrel of the gun. Slowly she tilted it up. The gun barrel rested under his chin. His sobbing stopped. He looked straight into her remorseless eyes. And pulled the trigger one last time.

I walked slowly over to him and knelt by his side. Blood was pooling round his skull. His legs and body twitched, then stilled. His chest fell, but his eyes stared up in endless horror.

“Oh, no. Oh no.” Kate skidded to her knees and touched his hand. It still held the gun.

“Don’t touch it. The police will want to see what happened. Though god knows what we’ll tell them.” I turned to look for Valerie but she’d vanished into the mist. I wasn’t surprised.

“What did you see, Kate?”

She looked up at me, shocked but dry-eyed. She had no tears left. “I thought he was going to kill you. He shot at you and kept missing. Then he shot himself.

What did you say to him, to do this?”

I gazed down at his lifeless body, then up at her lifeless face. “I dared him, Kate. I double-dared him.”

I’ve always liked trains and boats. My dad took me by train to Millport on the Ayrshire coast one day. He let me stick my head out the window. I got off with my face speckled with black measles and my nostrils filled with the smell of the steam. As if that hadn’t been the best trip of my young life, I nearly exploded with excitement when we walked on board the SS Waverley, a great white paddle-steamer. I ran up and down every ladder on the boat, as tireless as a yo-yo. We sailed down the Clyde estuary like kings, the wind whipping my face and the sun burning my bare arms and legs. A cloud of greedy gulls hovered over our wake, raucous courtiers to our royal passage.

Today the Channel winds tossed spume against my face as I stood on the prow. And later I sat sedately in my window seat as we chugged through the French countryside towards Paris. I changed at Gare du Nord and found I’d forgotten all my French; either that or everyone was talking faster here in the capital. I resisted the temptation to become a tourist in Paris, even though the April weather tried to woo me; a day like this in Glasgow would be counted as a heatwave.

I had a funny moment at the south-bound Gare d’Austerlitz. It was the noise and the steam and the whistles of the guards sending trains off into the southern sunshine. The queuing people sprang yellow diamonds on their chests and arms, and the porters and guards took on grey coats and rifles. For a daft moment I thought they were going to herd me back into the cattle truck. I stopped and smoked a fag till the panic attack was over. Doc Thompson said there could be more to come.

I’d seen him twice since Caldwell’s death. I was still getting the headaches, but they weren’t lasting as long or coming as often. Resolution he called it.

And the memories that I was left with after each episode seemed to be infilling rather than pivotal. Like discovering an old reel of film and playing it and finding holes in it, but not enough to obscure the story.

The Doc had all sorts of explanations for what had happened but I know what I saw. Though I’m not sure what Caldwell saw. After only three months, the fog of that night was beginning to blur the memory of it.

I bought a paper at Austerlitz and waited till we were chugging out of Paris before opening it. I could understand the written word better than the jabbering back at the station. It seemed they were facing the same aftermath as us: lack of food, coal and work. But from what I could see, Paris had hardly lost a chimney pot during the war. And there was no sign of gratitude from De Gaulle for what we’d done for them.

I thought of the papers at home, in the week after that night. I went from villain to hero in five days. Despite what they found on the bomb site – Caldwell’s hand was stiff round his gun by the time they arrived – and despite Kate supporting my version of events, I was hauled off as the Ripper and the attempted murderer of a brave policeman, injured in the line of duty. It was my second time in the cells in a month. This time they treated me with kid gloves.

Wilson, the said brave policeman – damn his black heart, I should have let him bleed to death – survived his encounter with the chair leg, though minus a kidney. But to show his spleen was still in good order, he accused me from his hospital bed of trying to kill him. Fortunately he was too ill to come and beat a confession out of me, and gradually something of the true picture began to emerge as Kate, Liza and I stuck to our story. Of course, we didn’t tell the boys in blue everything. Who needed to know about Kate’s little stint as a Soho tart for example? Or the first murder in France. And I decided not to reveal her knowledge of the London murders. What was the point? To see her pretty neck stretched on the gallows? Though in truth, with what I saw in her eyes, hanging might have been a mercy.

I’d left Kate in her car while I walked off to find a phone box and call the police. They took a while, long enough for us to hammer out our script.

Eventually, even the papers managed to get a fairly consistent version of the same tale we’d spun. That war hero Caldwell had come back changed from his harrowing experiences working with the Resistance. That he’d begun killing while the state of his mind was unbalanced. That he’d tried to blame it on me, his old comrade-in-arms, until in a showdown he’d admitted his guilt and had taken his own life in remorse for his terrible deeds.

Though Kate still didn’t understand exactly what had happened to Tony at the end, our views were close enough, she and I agreed. Especially when she confessed over a shared cigarette while we waited for the police, that she’d set Tony up.

“I didn’t want this to happen, you know.”