Roy’s brain ripped through his few options. The stairs were a big gamble, and if he got this wrong, he would be trapped. A sitting target. But right now they seemed to be his only real chance. It was a dangerous gamble. He had to make it work.
Two more shots fired. Pellets pinged off the tray and off the banisters as he sprinted up the stairs to the landing, turning off his torch again at the top. He leaned the silver tray against the wall, then squeezed into the gap behind the massive stag as another two shots fired. Pellets thudded into the wood panelling above him. Ignoring them, he pushed as hard as he could with his hand.
Shit, it was heavy.
For a moment he wondered if he had misjudged his own strength. The bloody thing would not move.
Come on, come on, come on.
Wedging his back against the wall, he lifted his feet off the ground, one at a time, and pressed them against the belly of the solid animal. Its weight supported him. But his back was starting to slip down the wall. He couldn’t stay here for long. But he had to stay long enough.
Pushing with every ounce of strength he had, he felt the stag finally budge, a few inches.
‘Not a smart move, Roy Grace,’ Esmonde’s voice called out. ‘No way down from there! Monica, you remember all those vile names he called you in court — do the honours, ma chérie!’
Yes, Roy thought, do the honours! He rapped the knife hard against the wood panelling of the wall, deliberately making as loud a noise as he could. Moments later he heard movement in the darkness below him.
He heard a female voice, with a mocking French accent, call out, ‘It will be my pleasure, mon chéri!’
He rapped the knife again and seconds later heard footsteps coming up the stairs. Slowly. Steadily. Getting closer. Nearer.
Taking a deep breath, after years of doing leg-presses in the gym he kicked both legs out, sending the stag toppling over the top step of the landing and tumbling down. Down. Down.
THUMP... THUMP... THUMP...
Then a terrible scream and a crashing noise.
There was a moment of complete silence.
Followed by a horrible gurgling.
He snapped on the torch and looked down. And saw the stag lying on its side with a woman trapped beneath it. Before he switched the torch off again, he saw that one of the antlers had pierced her neck.
Esmonde shouted. ‘Monica! Monica! Are you OK?’
Without waiting, grabbing the tray and again gripping the knife tightly in his teeth, Roy sprinted along the landing. He climbed as fast as he could up the spiral steps of the tower, switching on the torch again as he went. He raced on round and up, his chest heaving, gasping for breath and his whole body pounding, until he stopped at what he guessed to be one spiral turn below the landing where the fuse box was.
3 per cent battery.
Please last. Please, he willed it.
2 per cent.
Then, from down below, he heard Esmonde’s voice again, now an awful scream. ‘Monica, oh my God, Monica! MONICA! Oh Jesus, oh no!’
Then an instant of silence before Roy heard him again.
‘You’re not going to get away from me up there, you evil bastard, Roy!’ Esmonde’s voice was full of bitter anger. ‘You’ve put yourself into a trap — a rat trap! Tut tut, and I thought you were smart. Not too smart now, are you? I’m coming for you! I’ve got two very special cartridges with nice heavy shot for bringing down wild boars. Just right for shooting a pig!’
As silently as he could, aware he was taking the gamble of his life, Roy placed the tray down on a step below him. To his relief, the stone step was just wide enough for the tray to balance. Then he hurried on up to the landing.
He shone the light on the two-inch-thick insulated cable running from the base of the fuse box and down the wall, held by old, rusty metal clips all the way to the floor. Here, it disappeared into a small hole in the wood. Roy grabbed the bottom of the cable and wrenched it free of the clips. Then he yanked it up, hard. It rose a few inches, giving him the slack he had prayed for. He began sawing through the cable with the knife.
Shit, it was as hard as steel. And making a loud grinding noise.
Down below he heard footsteps.
He kept sawing away, desperately pushing the blade with all his strength, ignoring the noise. The footsteps were approaching. Coming closer.
Closer.
With one final effort, the blade cut through the cable.
Footsteps nearer still.
He had maybe thirty seconds. Desperately, gripping the bottom end of the sawn-off cable, he hacked away at the thick plastic insulation, working round until he had a good inch of bare copper wire exposed.
Roy could hear Esmonde breathing heavily. Coming closer.
Closer.
He put the cable on the metal handrail, winding the wires around it as best he could. Then he raised his arm, gripped the handle on the fuse box with his fingers and switched off the torch. He held his breath. Opened his mouth.
He could hear the footsteps and heavy breathing even more clearly now.
‘I’m coming for you, Roy!’ Wheezing, Esmonde called out, ‘How does it feel to be a dead man walking? Good, eh? Does it feel good?’
Then he heard a clank, signalling that Esmonde had reached the tray. It was followed, a second later, by a loud clattering, as if he had tossed it aside and it was now tumbling down the steps.
‘That your best effort to stop me?’ Esmonde shouted, wheezing even more. ‘You’d better try harder than that!’
Roy heard him panting, clearly struggling to climb. Roy desperately hoped that he was using the handrail to help himself up.
Then, praying he wasn’t making the most terrible mistake of his life, Roy pulled the fuse box handle down with all his strength.
Instantly the staircase lights came on. At the same time there was a fierce crackle of electricity. He held the handle down, grimly. And in the same moment he heard a terrible cry, followed by the echoing explosion of a gun discharging.
And he heard an awful, pitiful croaking sound.
‘URR! URRRRRR! URRRRRRRRR!’
He waited several seconds. Then the sharp smell of burning flesh struck his nostrils.
Waving the knife, Roy took a careful step back, down and round. Then, as he took a second step, he saw Esmonde. His left hand was clamped to the rail. His feet, in fancy loafers, were doing a jig that reminded Roy of Irish dancing. His hair, which was gelled flat in the photograph downstairs, was standing on end, as if a thousand invisible strings were pulling the strands. His eyes, inside night-vision goggles, were wide open and bulging as if they were about to pop their sockets. Smoke curled out of each of his ears. His skin was visibly darkening with every second that Roy looked at him, as if he was being cooked from inside.
‘Toasting your freedom, eh, Curtis?’ Roy couldn’t help saying as he yanked the handle back up, plunging them again into darkness. He snapped on his torch — 2 per cent power left — in time to see Esmonde topple backwards.
1 per cent.
Roy just had time to get down the few steps to where the villain lay. He checked his pulse in the remaining light, to be sure he was dead. He pulled the night-vision goggles off the man and put them on himself, just as his phone gave out.
19
In the green glow of the goggles, Roy saw wisps of smoke still curling up from Curtis Esmonde’s body. Squeezing past, he grabbed the gun, broke the barrel open and ejected the spent cartridge. He rummaged in the man’s jacket and found a handful of live cartridges. He pulled out two, stuck them into the barrel and closed it. He pushed the remaining cartridges into his trouser pocket.