(1998) Denial (58 page)

Then he heard a male voice behind him, nervous, short of breath.

‘Thomas, we need to talk about this.’

Glenn spun round. The voice came through the open door behind him. He listened, but could see nothing. It had sounded as though the voice was addressing him.

Then the voice again, louder, more insistent; more desperate. ‘Thomas, I know you’re a caring man and you’ve been a wonderful son to your mother. Don’t you want her to be proud of you?’

Glenn called out, ‘Who is that?’

There was a brief silence, then, filled with surprise, the voice came back, ‘Michael Tennent. Who are you?’

‘I’m a police officer.’

Glenn was close to weeping at the emotion in the man’s voice when he heard him again.

‘Thank God! Oh, thank God! We’re here, through here, in the back chamber! Thank God!’

Glenn stayed where he was, weight against the door. Just what in God’s name was going on down here?

Why hadn’t Lamark come down the spiral stairs to finish him off? Had he run out of bullets? Had he fled?

He had to do something, fast: he was going to bleed to death if he didn’t get medical help.

His heart in his mouth, he turned from the door and ran through into the second chamber, then the third. Then he stopped in his tracks. It felt as if he had entered some tableau in the Madame Tussaud’s Chamber of Horrors.

Two bodies on the floor. A man in a bloodstained shirt, hanging from his arms. A woman, intubated through the mouth, in bloodstained clothes, strapped down to a wheeled operating table.

When Michael saw the tall, bald black man stumble into the room, his face scratched to shreds, blood gouting from his sodden shirt front, his elation fell away.

Then they were plunged into darkness.

A trinity of green figures in front of him. He concentrated on the detective, who had positioned himself between Dr Michael Tennent and the bit of fluff. One hand on the end of the operating table. Staring this way, looking startled.

What can you see Detective Constable Branson? Darkness? Even darker darkness beyond that? Too bad we didn’t get to talk more about my mother’s films. I hope you understand that I’m getting no pleasure from killing you
.

In the magazine of his gun he had three bullets left. Good that he had stopped to check. If necessary, one for each of them, but he hoped that would not be necessary. Bullets were for people who did not matter. Bullets were for people like Detective Constable Glenn Branson.

Bullets were too quick.

We haven’t come this far, Dr Michael Tennent, to end it all with a single headshot
.

The doors were all secured from the inside now. No one was coming in without an invitation. There was no need for him to hurry. He could think everything through carefully. Take his time.

Enjoy!

Get rid of the detective and then resume. He patted his scrub suit pocket, checking that he now had the adrenaline. The vial was there. Perfection!

He sighted the gun on the detective who was now crouching down low – as if this would protect him! – but he was twenty feet away and there was a danger that if he missed from this angle, he would hit the psychiatrist. No need to take this chance. Shoot the detective point blank, put the gun against his temple.

Suddenly he heard the psychiatrist shout, ‘He has night-vision goggles!’

Glenn, in the giddying darkness, gripped the end of the metal table as if it were a life raft; so long as he was touching the table, he had his bearings.

He knew where the entrance to the chamber was, where the man hanging from his arms was, he could reach him in one step. He knew where the woman was. And the position of the tray attached to it containing sharp medical instruments, just a short distance along this same edge that his hand was gripping.

All his thoughts were focused on the two people in terrible trouble in this room. Somehow, in the pitch darkness, in a room where there was a man with night-vision goggles who had shot him once and was going to try to shoot him again, he had to protect these people.

The image of the two bodies on the floor flashed in his mind.

He was starting to feel dangerously weak and light-headed, and he had no idea how many minutes of consciousness remained to him. He had to keep focused on what he needed to get onto a level footing with the madman in this room.

Light. Weapon. Shielding
.

There were surgical instruments on a tray attached to the trolley just in front of his hand. But where were the lights? Where the hell was the master switch?

Keep low, keep in a tight ball, keep moving
.

Still holding the table, he skittered on his feet right, then left, bobbing, ducking, thinking. Thinking. Thinking.

Clearly and firmly, sounding a lot more confident than he felt, Glenn said, ‘Mr Lamark, there are police outside the house, at the front and rear. Turn the lights back on and put down your gun. Surrender peacefully. You don’t want to make this any worse for yourself than it already is.’

Thomas Lamark used the time while the detective talked to move in on him. Now he was less than six feet away. Keeping his breathing down slow and calm, he raised the gun, holding the grip with both hands, angling the barrel
forward until he had the front sight lined up in the V-shaped nick in the rear sight. Hand guns tended to fire high from the kick, he had read this on the Internet. He needed to aim low, as he had before.

Both sights were lined up on the detective’s chin now. Allowing for the kick, the bullet should go through one of his eyes or his forehead.

He could afford to get closer still, why not? Only three bullets left – why take any chances?

Conveniently, the detective spoke again. Thomas detected a tremor in his voice. Good. The detective was less confident than he was trying to sound.

No tricks, good.

‘Mr Lamark, I know you can hear me. Let’s deal with this in a sensible way. You’re proud of your mother. Don’t you want her to be proud of you?’

Thomas ignored him. Then he heard Dr Michael Tennent’s voice cut through the darkness. ‘Thomas,’ he said, ‘I’d like to talk about your mother.’

Thomas froze.

‘Tell me about your mother, Thomas.’

He closed his eyes.
Shut up, Dr Michael Tennent!

Michael persisted, ‘Tell me about your mother, Thomas. You always seem to have a problem talking about your relationship with your mother.’

Thomas was quivering. He knew what the man was trying to do and he had to stop him.

Ignore him.

Close your ears.

Just get on with what you were doing. Don’t let him get to you. He destroyed your mother, don’t let him destroy you, too.

He was less than four feet away from the detective. But his hand was shaking too much now. Another two feet and he’d be point blank.

Point blank would be better. Gun right up against his temple. No missing.

‘Tell me about your relationship with your mother, Thomas,’ Dr Tennent said.

Thomas, in a haze of anger and confusion, took another step forward and as he did so, there was a loud crack under his foot, as he trod on something.

The sound told Glenn his position. Ducking as low as he could behind the operating trolley, knowing the woman was strapped securely, he pushed it with all his force in the direction of the sound. It stopped, abruptly, with a jarring, clattering thud, accompanied by a pained grunt, followed by two bright sheets of flame in rapid succession, and gunshots that boomed through the chamber like thunder, accompanied by the banshee howl of ricocheting bullets.

Grimly, the dense reek of cordite in his nostrils, Glenn yanked the trolley back, then hurled it forward again, with every ounce of muscle-power he had left in him. He felt it crash into its target and jar to a halt with a crunch of what might have been bone, followed almost instantaneously by a searing flash of flame, another explosion, and this time he felt the shock wave of the bullet as it cracked past his head.

No ricochet.

Christ, he hoped to hell the man hanging hadn’t been hit.

Frantically pressing home his advantage for all he could, he yanked the trolley back and shoved it forward again with even more force. Again it jarred home. He heard an oath, presumably Lamark, and something clattering across the floor. The gun?

He jerked the trolley back and slammed it forward again.

‘Fuck you, bastard.’

Lamark’s voice, for sure.

Glenn slammed the trolley forward again; then again, and again. Then he reached up, scrabbled for the instrument tray, found something long-handled, and launched himself around the side of the trolley into the darkness.

Almost instantly he stumbled over legs on the floor and fell on top of a writhing figure. Flailing for Lamark’s gun-hand, he lunged down his instrument with his right hand, and heard the ping as it struck the bare concrete floor. Then he lunged again. This time it plunged into something soft and firm, and he heard a scream of agony.

He had a wrist in his left hand! Letting go of his weapon, he scrabbled frantically with his other hand for the man’s face. He found the goggles! Ripped them up off Lamark’s forehead. The strap was caught under something, maybe the man’s neck. He pulled harder, heard a strangled gasp beneath him.

Then something slammed into his face; a fist or a gun butt or a bullet, he had no idea, he just knew he was falling backwards and crashed against something, almost splitting his head open.

Somehow he got back onto his knees.
Keep moving
. Crablike to the left. His knee came down on something hard.

He felt. Broken plastic. It was a torch!
Careful
. Ready to dive left or right, he switched it on, thrusting it forward into the darkness like a dagger.

The beam wasn’t great but it was enough. He could see everything in one sweep. The man hanging did not seem to have been hit; he couldn’t see the woman. Thomas Lamark was three feet in front of him, crouched in an attack position, the handle of a scalpel sticking out of his thigh. The gun lay on the floor, six feet behind him.

Glenn dived for it a fraction ahead of Lamark. Crashing down onto the concrete, he hauled himself forward. Grabbed it, scrabbled forward more, then turned, pointed it straight at Lamark, whose hand was gripping his ankle.

The beam of the torch was fading. Holding the gun steady on Lamark, he shook the torch. A flicker. The beam was stronger for a second then faded again.

Don’t die on me, baby, please don’t die on me
.

He shook it again. Stronger beam now. Lamark was staring at him. Smiling. Totally unhinged.

‘Put your hands on top of your head and stand up,’ Glenn gasped, the rattling wheeze in his chest startling him.

Thomas Lamark stayed where he was.

Close to panic at his own condition, Glenn wheezed, as loudly as he could manage, ‘Put your hands on top of your head, Mr Lamark, or I’ll shoot.’

Sounding as charming as when he had opened the front
door, Thomas said, ‘I counted before I came in, Detective Constable Branson. There were only three bullets left in the magazine, I’m afraid. You have an empty gun in your hand and you are bleeding to death. We can wait, I’m in no hurry and my friends here aren’t going anywhere. I’m afraid I really don’t have any alternative to suggest at this moment.’

‘Thomas,’ Michael Tennent said suddenly, again, ‘I’d like you to tell me about your mother.’

With no last-minute warning flicker, Glenn’s torch went dead. Then out of the darkness, he sensed something coming at him. Pointing the gun dead ahead, no idea whether Lamark was bluffing or not, just sensing imminent danger, he pulled the trigger.

The muzzle flash, the numbing bang, the heavy kick of the weapon all took him as much by surprise as the terrible shrieking that followed. It was like some wild animal in mortal agony.

For some moments it was impossible to tell whose voice it was. Glenn got to his feet. The howling continued, deep, gulping bellows of pitiful agony.

It was Lamark’s voice.

‘Help me, oh, help me, help me!’

Glenn shook the torch again, slid the on-off switch back and forwards. A weak beam flickered on. Lamark was on the floor, writhing like a snake, his face contorted, screaming. Glenn stood at a safe distance from him, not trusting him. Then he saw the bloodstained right leg of the cream linen suit and knew that he had shot Lamark through the kneecap.

The man looked up at him, begging, ‘Get me something, oh, God, please get me something.’

Still wary, not knowing what strength the man had, Glenn studied him for a few moments more, then in a swift movement, using almost his last reserves of strength, he knelt down, yanked Lamark’s arm onto his stomach, ignoring his shrieks and clamped handcuffs on him.

Then he stood up, and staggered sideways, his legs starting to buckle. He gripped the side of the trolley and
gave Amanda a reassuring smile. ‘You’re going to be all right, you’re going to be fine, you’re safe. I’ll free up your friend, and we’ll help you together. Don’t worry about anything, we’re going to make you fine.’

On the floor, Thomas Lamark screamed again. ‘Do something for me! Oh, God, please, do something to stop – stop – stop – pain oh, please – please, somebody, do something!’

Glenn looked down at him, and Thomas fell silent.

‘I’m surprised at you, Mr Lamark,’ Glenn said, his breath shorter and raspier every moment. ‘“
There’s always one bullet left in the chamber; never forget that one in the chamber
.” You didn’t remember, did you? The last line of
Wings of the Wild?
Your mother’s greatest film.’

Amanda clung tightly to Michael in her sleep, shuddering, making little sounds every few minutes, tiny, frightened moans.

In the morning she would stare at him with wide eyes and say, in genuine innocence, ‘I did it again, didn’t I? I don’t remember, I really don’t remember!’ Then she would kiss him and say, ‘Poor darling, I woke you again, I’m not being fair to you.’

But she never woke him. He was always awake – like now, wide awake at three o’clock in the morning, exactly one year, four months and eleven days since that sweltering July Friday last year when he had entered the Lamarks’ house.