Mo Hayder: Ritual

'Shit,' he muttered. 'Shit, oh, shit, oh, shit. There would be a window, wouldn't there?'

In a previous life, before it had been boarded up by the council, this had been a bedroom — a woman's, from the ornate plastic wardrobe in the corner. The door into the bathroom, shabby now, the veneer peeling off it, still had the crystal-cut glass handle that must have once been someone's pride and joy.

Flea and Caffery stood in the corridor. Flea had her back to the wall, alongside the boarded-up window. She took her eyes off the door, bent slightly, craning her neck up under the grille, peering through the gap where the corrugated-iron covering had been ripped back, seeing the cars parked outside. She pulled her head out again and looked back at the room they'd come from: the hole wasn't big enough for Tig to get through, but the little black guy, he could make it through if he wanted. She should have handcuffed him to Mallows or shut him in a cupboard. Too late now. The sirens were louder — the first of the support-unit serials would be pulling up outside.

'Ready?' Caffery mouthed.

She nodded, remembering a protocol she'd once trained in: the 'deranged-man' tactic. It needed at least three officers with shields, not just her and Caffery sharing one person's equipment. Fuck only knew what would happen, but she racked the ASP anyway, flicking it up and bringing it to rest on her shoulder. 'OK,' she murmured. 'Give it a hoof.'

He smiled at her sideways, ironic. Then he aimed his foot at the door. It flew open and they threw themselves forward, Caffery first, then Flea, coming in too fast behind him, half tripping, righting herself by putting a hand on his arm, getting balanced and snapping into the combat position: weight low, knees unlocked, presenting her side, left hand in front of her face.

And then what happened was nothing. Silence. They blinked a bit, their faces yellow in the dim light from the grille on the window. It wasn't like any bathroom either of them had seen. A St Andrew's cross had been welded with workmanlike durability on to the cracked tiles above the bath, and where the toilet had once been there was a powder-coated, galvanized-steel cage that stood tall enough for an average man to get into but not to stand up in. Otherwise the bathroom was empty. No hidey-holes, no exits. Nothing could have got through that tiny window.

'Fuck,' Caffery said, dropping the knife wearily. 'Lying little shits.'

'Listen,' Flea said, catching his arm, looking back at the boarded-up window in the corridor. If the skinny guy tried to climb through it he'd see him, and if he'd already tried going back through the flats he'd be mopped up by the serials coming round the front. But Tig — Tig could be anywhere. 'I think he's still somewhere in here,' she said. 'There's another door out of that room, leading back into the middle of the flat. Let's go back in and, if they're still there, I target the black guy. 'K?'

He turned to her. For a split second their faces were so close she could see details of his skin. 'OK,' he said. 'Yeah — OK.'

'Right,' she said, holding up a finger. 'When I count to five, we're going to do it. Yes?'

'Yes.'

'One. Two. Three. Four…'

The words died in her throat. She went still. Very still. A drop of water had appeared on Caffery's shoulder, a perfect, clear, tear-shaped drop on his white shirt — and for a moment she couldn't do anything but stare at it, while the drop ran down and spilled on to his chest. He watched it, too, then raised his eyes to hers. Neither spoke, because they knew, even before they turned their eyes upwards, what they'd see.

He was above them. Hanging from D-rings bored into the ceiling, spreadeagled, sweating and trembling with the effort of holding himself in place. Dressed only in black combats, his body glistened with sweat and blood. His mouth was open, his teeth were bared and the blood pooling in his bad white eye made it bulge out at them. An avenging angel.

Flea felt a sound coming into her throat, a voice in her head screaming, You didn't follow your training, you effing idiot , and she had time to think, The 360-degree sweep should take in the ceiling too . And then Tig was falling from the ceiling like a hawk, nails outstretched, landing with a sickening crack on Caffery's shoulders. His knife and the CS gas spun away across the floor and the two men tumbled backwards on to the tiles, colliding with the bath panel, coming to a stop against the wall on their sides, facing each other like lovers, grappling at faces, ears and hair.

She wrenched her Quikcuffs out of the body armour's front pocket and threw herself down next to the men, trying to push the ASP between them, but she couldn't get at Tig's hands.

'Flip him,' she yelled at Caffery. 'Flip the bastard — let me get the cuffs on.'

'He's trying to fuck me first,' Tig hissed. 'Wants to give me one before you cart me away.'

Caffery gritted his teeth and used his elbows to lever Tig's hands down. Flea reached out to grab his legs but he yanked them away, drumming his feet on the floor. 'Did you hear me?' he screamed at Caffery, saliva foaming at the corners of his mouth. His bad eye was flicking from side to side. 'I said, do you want to give me a little hand-job while we're down here, you City Road whore-fucker?'

On top of him Caffery went still. Sweat ran down from his forehead into his eye, but he didn't blink or move.

'Let me get at his arms,' Flea shouted, trying to find a good place on Tig's arm to bring the ASP down. 'Let me get at him!'

'Hey, filth , answer me,' Tig roared up into his face. 'Yes, you , you fucking filth john.' He thrust up at him with his hips. ' Answer me. Come on! Say you want it.'

Time seemed to stop. Then, in an instant, it accelerated forward with a jolt. Somewhere behind her, Flea could hear voices, a radio cackling, someone in a far-away room yelling, 'POLICE', and Caffery rocked back, grabbed Tig's ears, pulling his head up. Tig screamed, trying to wrench himself free. Flea had to change sides, stepping over them, banging her legs on the bath, trying desperately to reach under and get Tig's arm, but this time it was Caffery who was stopping her. Without a sound, not a sigh or a word, he released Tig's ears, letting his head crack down on to the tiled floor.

'Jesus!' she yelled. 'Stop it! You'll-'

But Caffery wasn't listening. He hauled Tig's head back again, and slammed it down, harder this time. Something shot out across the floor — a tooth, maybe. Blood pumped from Tig's nose in a thin fountain, the width of a straw. ' I will fucking kill you .' Caffery knelt back to adjust his grip on Tig's ears. He was going to do it again.

'Stop it. Stop it! ' She grappled at him, digging her fingers in, trying to get him to loosen his grip, but he shouldered her away, scuffling on the floor so his back was to her. Under him Tig's feet were kicking for purchase. She rolled back, got on to her haunches, not enough time to get the position right, just enough to choose a target — not the ribs, because of the body armour, but his ankle. That would do: his ankle. His feet in the smart Loakes shoes and grey socks, trousers snagged up enough to show a bit of dark hair on his shins. She muttered a prayer and brought the ASP down fast, just once, on the bone.

There was a split second's silence — absolute quiet. Caffery went very still, his head held back. For a moment she thought he wouldn't move, thought he'd snarl at her, but instead, with a long exhalation, he loosened his grip on Tig and rolled away in a foetal curl, clutching his ankle. She expected him to scream at her, but he didn't, just lay on his side with his back to her, holding his foot, his ribs rising and falling, rising and falling under the body armour.