The Last Voice You Hear (28 page)

The ledge beneath her right foot crumbled, and fell away into nowhere.

Zoë stepped back into the shed, even as she did so thinking: how stupid was
that
? She’d boxed herself in . . . She wasn’t breathing. She made no sound at all. And he didn’t, in fact, see her; he was looking towards the treeline, and didn’t turn her way before she’d become invisible.

After studying the trees, he looked up at the corner of the house. From here, because of the way the land rose, his head was almost level with the guttering. He stood there a moment before going back the way he’d come: round the house, out of her line of vision.

She let out a long breath and pulled the door to, realizing, a moment too late, that she’d made the wrong choice. That she’d just boxed herself in again.

These are the things that run through your mind when you’re about to break your neck: that the past few years have been the best of them; that it’s not your first love that matters but your last; that the window frames need attention, but remain pretty reliable nevertheless. It was that
nevertheless
saved her; she caught the woodwork before gravity caught her; was gripping it two-handed before that chunk of stone hit the ground. From below, she must have looked like a circus performer. Heaving herself through the bedroom window was the most physical she’d been in recent memory, but she had more to worry about than a few stretched muscles.

And she hoped the shower was still pounding, because she hadn’t been too quiet about that last bit.

Which it must have been, because Burke didn’t come crashing into the room. Closing the door had helped: damn Russell, who always left it wide open, because he liked a through draught. Falling on the bed, she pulled the phone towards her, lifted the receiver with one hand and punched buttons with the other as soon as the dial tone reached her ear:
nine nine nine
.

Somewhere else a phone rang once, and almost twice, then died.

ii

When the cop came back, just long enough later for Zoë to wish she’d made a run for it, he was holding the orange-handled cutters Russell had used to clip the handcuff from her wrist. There was a patch of green on the cop’s knee where he’d knelt. The junction box was round that corner. He’d cut the phone line; and the area – Russell had said – was mobile-dead.

She wondered what was happening in the house right now.

There were a couple of certainties: that if this one was here, the others were too; and sooner or later they’d be told where she was. This wasn’t a matter of blame or treachery. It reduced to fundamental logic; was almost physics. Laws of action and reaction. You push, and in time you are pushed. Having come all this way, these three wouldn’t back off out of squeamishness. They were desperate men, and desperate men resorted to devices. Sarah would shield Zoë to her limit, but still had a limit. Sooner or later, one of them – probably Ross – would discover it.

I just don’t want to let anybody down
.

Well, Russell would get his chance now.

She did a quick recce of the shed’s shelves: the hoes, the spades, the weedkillers that could be converted to semi-lethal use, if there were squirting devices handy. Which there weren’t. Through a flaw in the woodwork, she estimated the distance to the treeline, and reckoned it five hundred yards, with little cover; just the tuck and ruffle of uneven ground. And there was no telling when they’d wander outside again, or if they were watching from windows. She wondered if Russell had managed to shift her car. And she wondered why these cops thought she knew anything, when she was simply a frightened woman in a shed.

Sarah, she supposed, would be glad she was frightened.

Would take it as further proof that Zoë wanted to remain among the living.

. . . Everything came down to choices. She could stay in the shed, or she could run. She could head towards the house or away. She could make it or she could not. As with everything else, some choices were out of her hands; she simply had to do the best with what was left.

For some reason there was a tune ringing in and out of her hearing, as if it were the last song she’d heard, and still echoed among her recent memories:

This old heart of mine, been broke a thousand times
Each time you break away I feel you’re gone to stay

She shuddered. Whatever happened next – whatever choice forced itself upon her – she wished she’d kept hold of her leather jacket. Zoë could have done with that comfort; with something zipped and familiar. She was going to make a run for the treeline now, and had her hand on the door, about to open it, when she heard feet scrunching on the gravelled area, and knew she’d left it too late.

‘I got through.’

‘She didn’t,’ said Burke.

‘The call was answered. First thing they do, they read your number back –’

‘We know the first thing they do,’ said Ross.

‘She didn’t get through,’ said Burke.

‘They’ll be here soon.’

Producing this lie felt like throwing pebbles at a cliff face, while Russell watched her eyes, watched her lips move, and knew the truth.

She’d still been trying to rattle life into the receiver when Burke had removed it; replaced it gently in its cradle, exactly as if she couldn’t be blamed for trying. As he’d ushered her downstairs, she’d heard the shower hammering away behind the locked bathroom door. Just as well she’d not opted to run the bath.

Maddock limped in, and deposited one of Russell’s tools on the table, probably scratching it.

‘Is any of this necessary? We’ve told you. She’s not here.’

But Maddock said, ‘Her car’s here. Behind the pen where they keep those birds.’

Ross said, ‘I don’t know about you lot, but I’m fucking sick of this. Let’s go,’ and pushed Russell, who stumbled over a footstool. He scrambled to his feet before Ross could tread on him. ‘Outside.’

‘We’re going nowhere.’

‘You’ll go where you’re told.’

Russell looked at Sarah then back at Ross, who pushed again, with hard stubby fingers that bit the meat of Russell’s shoulder. For a moment, complete bewilderment painted Russell’s face, and Sarah wanted to put her arms round him. She doubted deliberate physical harm had been inflicted on Russell in thirty years. Now something had been peeled away, exposing the gristle beneath. And it frightened Russell, but he hid this immediately, and Sarah ached to see it.

They marched through the front door: Russell, Ross, Burke, Sarah, Maddock. Sarah was out of words. Everything was happening too quickly; as if she’d been cast without audition in a part she’d never wanted to play.

On the gravelled area outside the front door, daylight scratched the surface of things. Ross elbowed Russell aside and stalked to the big black car, whose make Sarah wasn’t sure of: was it important? Maddock put a hand on her, and she pulled away as angrily as if he’d suggested sex. Ross opened the boot. Burke said words Sarah didn’t catch. His moment had gone. The show was now Ross’s, and one-eyed Ross was angry: it wasn’t about covering up what- ever they’d done any more. It was about getting hold of Zoë. Ross was somebody who paid back hurt he’d suffered: in the big world, this fuelled wars. Here, it wouldn’t be pretty either. When he turned he held a twin-barrelled gun in his hands, pointing at Russell. He said, ‘Where is she?’

Russell, staring at the gun, couldn’t answer.

Ross adjusted his grip. ‘Where?’

Sarah shimmered. Maddock’s hand was on her elbow again; his hold as tight as if he needed an anchor. And all of this was happening: a fact it would be as well to keep a grip on. The sky was grey, the grass was green; a one-eyed demon had invaded their lives with a life-swallowing shotgun. Sarah opened her mouth: she was going to tell them where Zoë was. Then closed it again: she wasn’t. There was no way he was going to kill anybody. Not here, by the green grass, under the grey sky.

Russell said, ‘. . . I don’t know.’

‘You know.’

‘She was here. But she left.’

‘So why’s her car over there?’

‘She took mine.’

‘What make?’

Russell’s mouth flapped. Sarah prayed for him. He said, ‘Focus. Ford Focus.’

‘Colour?’

‘Silver.’

‘Year?’

‘Er . . . Ninety-seven.’

‘Plate?’

‘. . . What?’

Ross grabbed Russell’s shirt; pulled him close so the gun was trapped between them, aiming skyward. ‘You’re lying. There’s no silver fucking Focus. Where is she?’

And it would be easy to pretend it wasn’t happening, because now, more than ever like something from a dream, Gwyneth singled Russell out of the pack, and pranced over. Reaching the wire fence she sank to her knees in that at-first-glance impossible manner, her feet projecting in front of her, and began softly crooning. No idea of what was going on. Love was blind, presumably. Everybody looked for one second, then attention refocused on Ross, on Russell.

‘I won’t ask again.’

‘. . . She left.’

Sarah found her voice. ‘Are you mad?’ She looked at Burke. ‘What happens afterwards? You think all this just goes away?’

Burke said, ‘We need to find her,’ and his voice was strained and clutching straws.

Gwyneth fluffed her feathers out. It had never before failed to make Sarah laugh: this lovelorn ostrich making a play for her man. Now it had the bad-taste effect of a gag at a funeral.

Russell said, ‘I’ve told you. She’s gone.’

‘I don’t,’ said Ross, ‘believe you.’

‘She left,’ shouted Sarah. ‘Are you out of your fucking minds? She left.’

Ross swung round. ‘That’s right. I’m forgetting.’ He shoved Russell aside. ‘Why ask the monkey when the organ grinder’s here?’

Burke said, ‘Jack, I think we’ve gone –’

‘Shut up.’

Russell lunged at him, and in a manner so casual it hardly seemed to happen until it was over Ross raised the gun so Russell’s forehead ran slap into the stock. He stepped back then sat down suddenly.

Sarah screamed.

Russell fell flat on his back. He made no noise during any of this.

Maddock’s grip tightened on Sarah’s shoulder; less – she thought afterwards – to hold her steady than from simple alarm at the turn events had taken. Burke stepped forward.

Gwyneth flapped: stood, pranced two steps left, then dropped again. Whatever courtship ritual her mind embraced, Russell had just introduced new dimensions to it.

Burke said, ‘Is this necessary?’

‘You want to die in prison?’

‘Jack –’

‘Shut up.’

Maddock said, ‘He’s right.’

‘Where is she?’

‘Fuck off,’ Sarah told him.

Russell groaned. Sarah tried to reach him, but Maddock pulled her back.

Burke said, ‘Just tell us where she is. This can all be over right now.’

Ross said: ‘You see? Even the voice of sweet reason’s come round.’

‘Did it take all three of you to kill the little boy?’ she asked. ‘Or was that just you?’

‘Sturrock deserved to die.’ His teeth were flecked with spit. ‘He was ten years overdue.’

‘I don’t care about Sturrock. You killed a child.’ She spoke to Burke: the weakest link. ‘That’s why you’re here.’

He said, ‘He wanted money . . .’

‘He recognized you.’

‘Are we quite fucking finished?’

She turned back to Ross. ‘It was you, wasn’t it? Who threw him. Did he scream? Did that turn you on?’

‘I wasn’t even on the roof, you dumb bitch.’

And now she was looking at Burke again, who opened his mouth then wiped something invisible from his cheek. ‘It didn’t . . . It wasn’t like that. Nobody threw him.’

But he didn’t jump, either.

Ross said, ‘What is this, true confessions?’ He shifted the gun in his hands: letting her know that he unequivocally held it. ‘Your turn. Where’s the woman?’

Burke went on as if Ross hadn’t spoken: ‘We meant to scare him, that’s all.’

‘I’d say you managed that.’

Ross said, ‘Yeah, right. So now he’s pavement art, and if that don’t teach him, nothing will.’

Burke, to Sarah, said, ‘None of this was meant to happen. We were righting a wrong, that’s all.’

Of course. So now they were here with a shotgun, and her man lay on the ground bleeding. What was wrong with this picture?

In the background, Russell struggled to sit up. Sarah willed him to stay put: just lie there out of the story. But he wouldn’t; didn’t. He held one hand to his head, and with the other pushed himself to a sitting position.

She strained forward without realizing it. Maddock’s grip tightened.

‘Whatever happened,’ she said, ‘whatever mess you made, you’re making it worse now. Can’t you see that?’

‘Thanks for the information.’ Ross was speaking from beyond anywhere she recognized as rational: a place where he’d helped murder a man for whom, let’s face it, she wouldn’t be lighting candles. But that wasn’t a place you travelled back from easily. And now he was looking for Zoë, who he thought had found him out; and here were Sarah and Russell too – what were the chances he’d be seeing sweet reason himself anytime soon? And judging by Maddock’s grip, Ross wasn’t alone. They’d all three stumbled over the point of no return.

Gwyneth’s crooning became louder; stuttered, stopped. Started again.

Ross waved the gun at Russell, who was holding his head in his hands; trying to rub the pain away.

‘You want me to shoot him?’

‘You’re not going to do that,’ she said bravely, unless it was stupidly. How did she know what he was going to do? It wasn’t enough to cling to a vision of the way things ought to be: that this couldn’t happen, not here in her quiet home.

‘You want to bet his life?’

But this wasn’t Sophie’s choice: Russell or Zoë. She wouldn’t get to keep one of them.

She looked at Burke. ‘Are you still sane? Or are you as far gone as him?’

‘Just tell us where she is,’ he said. Answer enough.

‘You said it was an accident. You never meant to kill the boy. There was a witness.’

‘Christ,’ said Maddock behind her.

‘Ross,’ said Burke. ‘Ross was the witness.’

Russell stood, and wobbled like a newborn foal. ‘Sarah?’ His voice carried a tremble she’d not heard there before: in sleep nor love nor grief. ‘Are you okay?’