I looked over at Bridget, and just for an instant my mind flashed back to Stacy again … ripped open, butchered, bled white, dead …
And then … I don’t really know what happened. Something inside me just snapped. A howl of rage screamed out of me, erupting from deep down inside, and I put my hands together, raised them above my head, and brought them crashing down on the chair. Wood snapped, and I felt a bone break in my hand, and when I stood up and kicked out at the remains of the broken chair, my feet were suddenly free.
I turned and ran at Bishop.
He’d almost reached Bridget now. He was about two steps away from her, walking awkwardly but deliberately, dragging his wounded leg, and I could see his lips moving as he whispered to himself under his breath. He still seemed oblivious to my presence, but as he started to lean down towards Bridget, moving the knife towards her face, I let out another deafening scream that stopped him in his tracks. He froze for a moment, frowning almost casually, and then — as he turned to look at me — I kicked the knife from his hand and threw myself at him. We both crashed to the floor, and before he had a chance to fight back, I drove my head into his face, breaking his nose, and made a grab for the gun. He tried to wrench his hand away, but he was too weak to put up much of a struggle, and after I’d smashed his hand into the floor a couple of times, he let go of the pistol.
I snatched it up, jammed the barrel into his neck, and manoeuvred myself so that I was sitting on his chest with his arms pinned under my knees.
And now I had him.
He couldn’t move.
He was mine.
I glanced over my shoulder at Bridget. She hadn’t moved since Bishop had smashed her head against the wall — she was still just lying in a crumpled heap on the floor.
‘Bridget?’ I said. ‘Bridget … are you all right?’
She didn’t answer.
‘Bridget? Can you hear me?’
Still no answer.
‘I think she’s fucked,’ Bishop muttered.
I turned back to him and aimed the gun at his head. He looked up weakly at me, blood bubbling from his broken nose, and tried to smile. ‘You’re not going to kill me, John,’ he said. ‘You haven’t got what it takes.’
I stared at him, letting him see the hole in my soul, and when he saw it, recognising it for what it was, he suddenly began to panic.
‘No!’ he spluttered, struggling and squirming. ‘Please don’t — ’
‘Time’s up,’ I heard myself say, my finger tightening on the trigger. ‘No more talking.’
And then the sitting-room door crashed open.
32
Mick Bishop came striding into the room like the police officer he was — cautious but confident, ready for anything — and it only took him a second or two to take everything in. He saw me sitting on his brother’s chest with the pistol held to his head; he saw Bridget lying unconscious on the floor; he saw Walter’s dead body, the broken chair, the cords, the blood … and then his eyes fixed on mine and he began moving towards me.
‘All right, John,’ he said calmly. ‘Just put the gun down — ’
‘Stay there,’ I told him, pressing the barrel of the gun into Ray’s head. ‘If you come any closer, I’ll kill him.’
He slowed to a stop and held up both hands, palms out. ‘All right, all right … take it easy — ’
‘Hello, Micky,’ I heard Ray say. ‘What took you so long?’
‘Ray,’ Bishop said. ‘Are you all right?’
‘Do I look all right? I mean, shit, look what that fucking cunt’s done — ’
He shut up suddenly as I cracked the pistol into his broken nose and then jammed the barrel into his mouth.
‘John,’ I heard Mick say. ‘Please, don’t…’
I pushed down harder on the gun, shoving it into Ray’s throat … and I knew that I’d gone somewhere else now. I’d gone to a place where killing him was no longer enough; I wanted to hurt him too. Hurt him, then kill him … just like he’d done to Anna …
‘John!’
And all the other girls …
‘John!’
Make him suffer …
‘For Christ’s sake, you’re killing him!’
Just like Stacy had suffered …
‘He can’t breathe!’
And Bridget …
‘JOHN!’
Bridget.
I pulled the gun out of Ray’s mouth. He coughed and moaned, spitting up blood and bits of teeth.
‘Fuck!’ he spluttered. ‘You fucking — ’
I cracked the gun into his head. He grunted, then groaned, his eyes flickering and rolling. I hit him again and he went limp. I turned back to Mick and saw that he’d moved a lot closer to me. He was sweating now, pale and rigid. He didn’t look quite so calm and confident any more.
I pointed the gun at him. ‘Go over there and check on Bridget.’
He glanced down briefly at his brother, then moved over to where Bridget was lying on the floor.
‘Make sure she’s still breathing,’ I told him.
He crouched down beside her and began looking for a pulse. I watched him, surprised at how gently he moved — placing two fingers on her neck, concentrating quietly for a while, then carefully lifting her eyelids and looking into her eyes.
‘Did Ray do this to her?’ he asked, studying her battered face.
‘What do you think?’
He nodded, still looking at Bridget. ‘I don’t think there’s any serious damage … nothing broken.’ He eased her over onto her side and carefully tilted her head back. ‘It’s just a heavy concussion. She’ll live.’
‘Call an ambulance.’
He looked at me. ‘I can’t do that.’
‘She needs treatment. Call an ambulance.’
He got to his feet, shaking his head. ‘It’s not going to happen, John.’
I jammed the gun into Ray’s senseless head. ‘Your brother’s dead if it doesn’t.’
Mick stared at me in silence for a while, glanced down at Ray again, then went over and sat down on the settee. ‘If I call an ambulance,’ he said wearily, ‘the police will automatically be informed. And when they get here … well, that’ll be it. Everything’ll be fucked then … everything.’ He shook his head again. ‘I won’t be able to talk my way out of it. There’ll be too many people involved. They’ll find out about Ray and me, the Gerrish girl — ’
‘And all the others he’s killed.’
He looked at me. ‘You know?’
‘Yeah, I know. I know everything.’
He sighed. ‘Ray can’t help it — ’
‘Oh, fuck off,’ I spat. ‘Don’t give me that shit. He’s killed nearly thirty women, for God’s sake. Thirty. He’s tortured them, stabbed them, mutilated them … and you’re trying to tell me that he can’t help it?’
‘He can’t … it’s just …’
‘Just what?’
Bishop looked at Ray for a moment, studying his brother in much the same emotionless way that Ray had studied me. ‘It’s just what he is. He’s wrong. Wrong in the head, the heart … whatever. He’s got something missing. He was born like it … he was born broken.’
‘And that makes it all right, does it? That makes it all right for him to spend his life killing people?’
‘No…’
‘So why do you cover up for him?’
‘Because he’s my brother. He’s all I’ve got. He’s all I’ve ever had.’
I didn’t know what to say to that. As Bishop sat there, staring silently at the floor, I could see the years of pain and sadness in his eyes, and I knew that it was only his pain, his suffering, and I knew that what he’d done, what he’d allowed his brother to do, had caused so much more destruction and despair to so many innocent people …