“Turn the fucking light on!” Cohen shouted towards Morton. Morton ran to the booth at the back of the seats and flicked as many switches as he could. A purple light finally soaked the stage and Russell lay in the centre, grasping his leg and wailing in pain. Alpha stood a few metres away with his gun pointed downwards.
“Take the gun off him!” said Cohen, pistol prone.
“You know how long I worked for today?” said Alpha.
“Put the gun down Tremaine.”
“I worked my whole life for today. I gave everything.”
Cohen stepped forward. “I’m not going to tell you again.”
“You think you have the country’s best interests at heart.” Alpha took a step forward, still looking down at Russell. “But you’re wrong.”
Cohen tightened his grip on the trigger.
“People like me are necessary. Every country has people like me. It’s just in some places they admit it and in others we are kept in the shadows. But the shadows are where the world is run from. You’ll realise that in time, then you’ll come running to people like me.”
Cohen ran forward as Alpha slid the gun into his mouth and pulled the trigger. A splatter of purple-tinged liquid shot up towards the lights and scattered around the back of the stage. Alpha’s knees hit the floor and he toppled forward with a thud.
“An ambulance would be nice,” said Russell, clutching his knee.
“I’m on it,” said Pearce, grabbing his phone from his pocket.
Morton came rushing down the aisle from the back of the theatre and jumped up on to the stage. “That’s one person I won’t miss.”
“Me neither,” said Russell. “Wait. Where’s Harper?”
Morton put his finger on Alpha’s pulse. “He bolted straight after the speech. Must have seen something I didn’t.”
“Or someone.”
- Chapter 48 -
I am the Constant
The front door to St Paul’s Cathedral was ajar as Harper slowed to a walk and approached the entrance. He scanned the square in front of him for Varndon’s lanky gait. A couple of stray tourists and a street sweeper were the only people left after the offices had cleared out. A piece of paper pinned to the wall showed that visiting hours had ended five minutes previously. Harper pulled the heavy door open and stepped inside. The temperature was a few degrees below the street and he felt a chill on his neck. He pulled the door closed behind him and put down the metal bar, locking it from the inside. The evening light shined down from the dome onto the walls below. Harper moved forward, his senses on high alert for noise or movement up ahead. He flinched as a faint moan came from behind the chairs to his left. He looked over and saw a priest’s black shoe jutting out of the gangway. He turned him over and checked his breathing. The pulse was strong, but blood seeped form a nasty looking head wound. Harper sat him up against the wall and waited until he opened his eyes.
“Drink this,” he said, passing him a cup of water from a nearby fountain. The priest took a sip and winced in pain. The sound of metal on stone screeched out from somewhere inside the building and Harper jumped back to his feet. He crept forward, using the pillars as cover. He took his gun out of his belt, crouched down and moved further towards the cathedral’s centre.
“Miiissshhkkaaa.” The sound of Varndon’s voice was faint and echoed off the walls. “That’s the name you try to forget, isn’t it?”
Harper pressed one ear against the stone and tried to work out which end of the cathedral the voice had come from. He dropped on his front and crawled past some candles into one of the aisles. The smell of smoke had crept down to the floor and under the chairs. Thoughts of Northern Ireland rushed around his mind. He squeezed the sides of his temples as the kid’s face stared into the back of his eyes.
“A killer needs to commit to the vocation Harper.” Varndon’s voice echoed less this time and Harper edged towards the sound, his gun out in front of him. “A lack of commitment will cause a killer to put a gun to his own head in the end. Do you understand what I’m saying little Mishka?”
A feeling of motion swept over Harper’s body. He grabbed the nearest chair leg and screwed his eyes closed, battling to convince his mind that he was static. Varndon kept talking, but the words were no longer audible. The bright colours of the church’s décor turned grey and Harper observed himself from above, crouched on the ground with tears in his eyes. His mind hovered above his body and his fingers reached out to himself. After a few seconds, he felt his mind melding itself back to his flesh. He took deep breaths and steeled himself to keep moving. The sound of a door creaking open howled through the building and Harper ran across the centre of the cathedral, pushing his back up against a pillar on the opposite side. The door slammed shut at the end of one of the wings and he ran towards it, his footsteps slapping on the stone. He was blinded for a second as he ran under a ray streaming through the window. He reached the door, pushed it open and crouched down, investigating the room inside with the barrel of his gun. Sweat dripped onto the metal and dropped off the butt onto the floor. The start of a spiral staircase stood in front of him. He kept moving, sticking to the outside of the steps and pointing the pistol skywards. He moved at the sound of footsteps ahead of him and stopped when they ceased.
“You’re weak Mishka. It sickens me to smell your fear.”
He reached the midway point and looked down to the floor to stave off oncoming nausea. A surge of burning liquid hit his throat and he vomited on the stone. He spat a few times and wiped his mouth before continuing up towards the summit. He took two steps at a time as he heard the door to the roof slam up above him. He knew Varndon was only a few metres away from him as he reached the top, somewhere on the outside of the dome. He stepped out into the open air and snapped his head left and right, looking along the narrow path.
“What’s your next move?” shouted Varndon, his voice clearer and more human than before. “Make it the right one.”
Harper jumped and squeezed his fingers onto the stone ledge up above, heaving himself up by placing his legs on the outer railings. He inched round, making as little noise as he could. He held his breath as the pigeons flew from their perches and swooped down onto Ludgate Hill. He looked down at the cars below. A woman ran out of a coffee shop and waved down a black cab. The figure looked tiny and his head span. As he reached the opposite corner, he looked carefully around the stone. Varndon stood directly below, looking in the opposite direction.
Harper pointed his gun downwards at the back of the other man’s head. “Turn around.”
Varndon moved slowly to face him. “Looks like you win.”
Harper climbed down from the ledge and stood opposite him. “Put your hands in the air.”
Varndon raised his hands. “Anything you say.”
“Now, we’re going to walk back down. Let’s go.”
Harper motioned with the gun and they started off back towards the exit. They circled the steeple and Varndon walked back through the door to the top of the spiral staircase. As Harper followed, Varndon kicked out and swung the wooden door into his face. Harper fell backwards into the iron railings outside and his gun dropped to the floor. He looked down at the road and the vomit rose again in his throat. Varndon leapt at him and peppered his body with punches, taking his head and smashing it against the stone. Harper felt his cheekbone shatter and his lip split. His mouth filled with blood and his vision blurred as small bone fragments slipped into his eye.