No, he wasn’t a man to be reasoned with.
I heard a cautious footstep on the stairs.
He killed people.
Another step, more confident now …
I pulled back the heavy black curtain and yanked at the window, trying to open it. But it wouldn’t move. The frame was painted shut. I paused for a moment, listening again. He was coming up the stairs now, moving quite slowly, but I knew that I only had seconds to get out. I rushed over to one of the shelves, grabbed a bone-handled sheath knife, and hurried back to the window. Tearing away the curtain, I started hacking at the frame, trying to slice through the age-old paint, but it was too thick, too hard … it was like trying to cut through superglue.
‘Fuck it,’ I hissed, starting to panic now.
I could hear Bishop on the landing outside.
I dropped the knife, looked around, and saw a heavy glass jar on a shelf to my right. It was a gallon jar, filled to the brim with some kind of creamy-grey ash, and I was just stepping over to the shelf and picking it up when the bedroom door swung open and there was Ray Bishop, standing in the doorway, brandishing the samurai sword in his hand.
He was smiling.
I barely even looked at him. I just went over to the window, heaved the jar through the glass, and with the deafening crash still resounding round the room, I quickly scrambled out through the broken pane. As I heard Ray Bishop lunging after me, I let myself drop from the window, keeping hold of the sill, and at the same time I swung my body to the left, reaching out with my feet for a drainpipe that I vaguely remembered seeing and desperately hoped was there. But my feet felt nothing. No drainpipe, no foothold, just a sheer brick wall. And I had no time at all now. Ray Bishop was at the window, his head poking out, the sword in his hand, his eyes staring coldly into mine.
‘Hello, John,’ he said, still smiling.
I met his gaze for only a moment, then I closed my eyes, braced myself, and let go of the windowsill.
I don’t remember falling. All I can remember is letting go of the sill, and then — almost immediately — a shuddering impact as I hit the ground. A sharp pain shot up my right leg, and as I rolled over and got to my knees, sucking in air, the pain rose up into my stomach, making me feel nauseous and faint. I was shivering, shaking, sweating in the cold night air … I wanted to lie back down in the dirt, curl up into a ball, and cry.
But the face at the window had gone now.
Bishop was on his way down.
I had to keep moving.
I forced myself to get up, forced myself to take a step … and the pain ripped through me again. But my leg held. It hurt like hell, but it wasn’t going to kill me. The only thing that was going to kill me was the man who, right now, was opening the front door and coming after me with a samurai sword in his hand.
I took a breath, braced myself again, and started running.
Down the path, out the gate, along the road …
I didn’t look back to see if Bishop was coming after me. I didn’t have to — I could hear him. He was running, not with any great speed or energy, but then I wasn’t moving all that fast myself. I kept going, not knowing where I was going, just going. Across the road, round a corner into another street, and then — before Bishop turned the corner — I skipped clumsily over a low hedge into the front garden of a bungalow and ducked round the back of the house and into the back garden. As I stopped for a moment to catch my breath and rest my leg, I heard Bishop’s footsteps entering the street. I kept still, trying not to breathe too loudly, and listened. The footsteps stopped for a moment — and I imagined Bishop standing still, gazing down the street, wondering where I’d gone … and then I heard him start running again. Along the pavement, towards the bungalow, his footsteps getting louder all the time … and then, at last, I heard them pass by and disappear down the street. I carried on listening for a while, just in case he decided to double back, but after a minute or two I was pretty sure that he’d gone.
There was no telling when he might come back though.
I looked around to see where I was. In the low light of the moon I could see that it was a fairly large garden, mostly laid out to lawn, with decorative wooden fences on either side. The lawn was split in two by a concrete path that led all the way down to another wooden fence at the far end of the garden, and in the middle of this fence was a gate. I had no idea what was on the other side of the gate, but it was a gate — it had to lead somewhere. And somewhere was all I needed.
I set off down the path — half running, half hobbling — trying not to make any noise, still listening out all the time for any sign of Ray Bishop … but I didn’t hear anything. I didn’t allow myself to wonder where he was now, or what he was doing, I just kept my eyes on the path and concentrated on getting to the gate. By the time I got there, and discovered to my relief that it wasn’t locked, my leg was hurting badly and I desperately wanted to stop for a moment … just for a moment or two, to rest, to catch my breath, to think about things … but I knew that I couldn’t.
This was no time for thinking.
I just had to keep going.
I opened the gate and stepped through into a narrow dirt track. There were fenced gardens on either side of the track, and although I couldn’t see much further than ten yards or so in each direction, I guessed that if I followed the track to the right it would bring me back out on to Long Road, and if I went the other way …
I didn’t know where I’d end up if I went the other way. All I knew was that I didn’t want to go back to Long Road.
I went the other way.
About fifteen minutes later, after winding my way through a maze of back lanes and pathways, I finally emerged into an unknown side street that led me down to a busy roundabout at the north end of town, next to the old railway station. Long Road, I guessed, was about a mile away to the east, and so — I hoped — was Ray Bishop.
I made my way over to a bus stop, sat down on a bench, and lit a cigarette.
I looked at my watch.
It was nine o’clock.
The night was cold, my leg was numb …
I pulled out my mobile and called Cal.
There was no answer, no voicemail message, no nothing. The phone just rang. I tried another of his numbers, and then another, but the result was the same — no reply. And when I called his ‘special’ number, the one for the mobile that was totally anonymous and completely untraceable, and again got no answer, that’s when I really started to worry. Cal always answered his mobile, wherever he was and whatever he was doing. And if you couldn’t get him on one of his numbers, he was always available on another.
Always.
Without fail.
Unable to think of anything else, I started calling all the numbers again. I wasn’t really expecting anything to happen, so when the second number I called was answered almost immediately, and an unfamiliar female voice said ‘Hello?’, I just assumed that I’d made a mistake and misdialled.
‘Sorry,’ I said. ‘I think I’ve got the wrong number.’
‘Don’t hang up,’ the voice said quickly. ‘My name’s Lisa Webster, I’m a paramedic, I need to know who the owner of this phone is.’
‘What?’
‘I’m a paramedic,’ she repeated, speaking more calmly now. ‘I need to know the name of the person you’re calling.’
‘What’s going on?’ I said, still confused. ‘Has something happened to Cal? Is he all right?’
‘Who’s Cal?’
‘Cal Franks — ’
‘Is he a young man, in his late twenties?’
‘Yes, what’s happened — ?’
‘Does Cal drive a black Mondeo?’
‘Yes — ’
‘And could you tell me who you are, please?’
‘John Craine — ’
‘John Craine?’