Gregory's Game (32 page)

Gratefully, he collapsed behind them. His clip was nearly empty now and with great difficulty he managed to change it for the new one. Then he took out his phone.

Who could he call? Annie was too far away. And everyone else … There was no one else. Gregory felt suddenly, shockingly alone.

So he called Patrick, knowing he probably wasn't going to make any sense but wanting to pass on what he knew. Someone else could do the rest, couldn't they?

‘I'm hurt,' he said. ‘Patrick, tell that Duncan bloke, tell him I know where she is, but they've got something planned. I don't know what.'

‘Gregory, listen to me. Where the hell are you?' Naomi had seized the phone and was yelling at him. He took a deep, steadying breath and looked around, trying to describe where he was. He could hear the police sirens a couple of streets away. He heard her conferring with Patrick.

‘OK, I know where that is. We're coming to get you. You just sit tight. Understand?'

She was gone before he could argue. Gregory leaned back against the fence, listening to the strange silence. The sirens had ceased to wail; the gunfire had stopped; no one shouted. He could just hear the clatter from the kitchen. He was behind a restaurant, he realized. Offices and a restaurant shared a yard. Had he told Naomi that? He thought he must have done. He closed his eyes, desperate for sleep, then forced them open again, knowing that if he slept he might not wake up again. Instead, he breathed slowly, steadily, using his pain to keep himself conscious, gathering what was left of his strength. The bullet was still in flight, Gregory thought. It had not yet found its mark.

‘You're sure you can do this?'

‘I can do it. You talk to that Home Office man and I'll drive. I think I know the way. I had my lessons near there.'

Patrick took a deep breath, tried not to think that he wasn't even insured yet, never mind insured for driving Alec's car. What mattered was that Gregory was hurt and that he'd reached out to them.

He guessed it would take about ten minutes to get there; it was not far from the university and in an area of town that was largely occupied by students, rundown offices and cheap places to eat. It was the first time he'd had to plan a route on his own and he knew he was lousy at anything like that. He got things back to front and all mixed up. Panic set in.

‘I don't know which way to go. I thought I did, but …'

‘It's all right, Patrick, just tell me where we are now,' Naomi said. ‘And just hope they've not made anything one-way since the last time I drove a car.'

He glanced anxiously at her, something close to laughter threatening to break to the surface. He managed to tell her what road they were on and where.

‘You need to take the next left,' she said. ‘And then right almost immediately. Don't worry, Patrick, between us we can do it.'

He did laugh then, unable to help himself. Then, as though someone had drenched him in cold water, the laughter faded and the panic returned. ‘I can do this,' he told himself, then realized he had spoken out loud.

‘You can do it,' Naomi confirmed.

Gregory heard the car pull into the yard. He peered out from behind the bins and saw Alec's car hove into view. For one surreal moment, he only saw Naomi. Then he spotted Patrick. The boy left the engine running and hurried over.

‘Can you stand?'

‘Yes.' Relief flooded him. ‘I know where she is,' he said.

‘Fat lot of good that's going to do you.'

Gregory whirled around, pushing Patrick aside. The man stood in the gateway leading back on to the cycle path. His weapon pointed directly at Gregory's head.

‘He'll blow the lot before you or anyone else has the chance to get to her. The kid's dead. Rico doesn't like loose ends.

He'd stepped closer, smiling, assured. Gregory guessed how he must look. He didn't blame the man for feeling cocky. If he looked the way he felt, he must look like shit. He summoned himself for one last stupid act and threw himself towards the man with the gun. He was dimly aware that beside him Patrick moved too, following his lead. Gregory smashed into the man, knocking him off balance and then bringing him down. Patrick had aimed for the gunman's arm, knocking it aside. They all hit the ground together, Gregory falling into a burst of pain that almost finished him. The world was red and then black. He fought to stay conscious. He heard the explosion of a gun fired at close quarters. He struggled to stand, to open his eyes, saw the gunman on the ground, a hole in his chest, his pistol on the ground. He must have fired, Gregory realized, as he launched himself on to the man. He had no recollection of there being any conscious thought.

Patrick stared at him, then grabbed Gregory's sleeve and started to pull him towards the car. Somehow Gregory found himself on the back seat, Naomi shouting at him again. ‘Are you all right? What the hell just happened?'

Patrick shoved the car into reverse, shot back and then forward again.

‘Tell me where to go!' He was shouting too. Maybe it was catching, Gregory thought. He was bleeding really heavily now; it was seeping into the seat covers and dripping on to the floor mats. He could hear it, hitting the rubber, unnaturally loud.

‘Tell me where to go!'

He heard the words properly this time. Struggled to recall the address.

‘That's close to the university,' Naomi said. ‘Patrick, it's left at the lights, OK. Gregory, are you sure?'

‘Sure as I can be.'

He heard her on the phone again. Alternating a sharp conversation with commands to Patrick.

‘They won't get there in time,' he said. He wasn't sure how he knew; maybe the gunman's words, maybe his obvious confidence, but he just knew they were nearly out of time.

‘How bad are you hurt?' Naomi asked him.

‘I'll survive. You did well back there.'

Patrick laughed nervously. ‘My dad's going to kill me,' he said.

Gregory studied the boy. His hands were trembling from the adrenalin rush, but his face was calm, his eyes focused and intent as he scanned ahead.

‘I look too young to be driving something as expensive as this,' he said.

‘So you drive carefully, but not too carefully. Keep up with the flow of traffic and don't make eye contact with anyone,' Gregory told him.

Patrick nodded. ‘OK,' he said. He slowed for the lights, then turned, following Naomi's instructions.

Gregory closed his eyes and leaned back in his seat. They'd be too late. He knew they'd be too late. All this effort, all this risk, but he was sure they wouldn't be in time.

‘Y
ou know where that is?' Branch asked Tess as Naomi's message was relayed to his team.

She nodded. ‘Get going, then. I'll get you some back-up.'

She nodded again and then ran from the briefing room, Vin at her heels. They'd only got back an hour before, arrived to news of fires and explosions and dead lawyers and a shooting at an office block. Someone had declared war, she thought, but no one knew where the front lines were.

Beside her she heard Vin murmuring something that sounded suspiciously like a prayer. At that moment, she'd have joined in, if she could remember any, but the only thing she could recall was something from Sunday school when she'd been about five years old.

‘Gentle Jesus, meek and mild' probably wouldn't cut it just now.

Please God, Tess thought, just let this turn out right. Too many people have died. Don't add Kat's little girl to the list.

Patrick brought the car to a halt. ‘There's a fire,' he said.

Gregory cursed.

‘Then we wait for help,' Naomi instructed. ‘There's nothing we can do.'

They all got out of the car, Gregory leaning against the door, not trusting his legs to support his weight. They had pulled on to a strip of waste ground beside an old factory by the canal. The building next door had been demolished and this one was heavily boarded, ready for the same. Flames and smoke billowed from the roof.

‘What if she's in there?'

‘Patrick, there's nothing we can do.'

The boy moved away from the car. He was scanning the building, his hands clasping and unclasping, horrified that he might have to stand and wait, knowing that the child might be inside, that the flames might get to her, that she might burn.

‘Patrick! No!'

Gregory had seen the intent in the boy's eyes, but still not quite believed it and then when he'd reached out, he'd been too slow to stop him as Patrick took off. He stumbled forward a step or two, but the ground came up to meet him, red and black and painful.

He could hear Naomi yelling at him, demanding to know what was going on. Knowing but not wanting to know. Painfully, Gregory made it on to his knees.

‘He's gone in,' he said. ‘Naomi, I can't follow him. I can't even bloody stand.'

Patrick dragged the door open and ran up the stairs. He could hear the flames roaring, but they'd not yet reached this part of the building. The smoke had, though, drifting towards him down the stairs.

What the hell was he doing? This was just mad. His dad really would kill him – if the fire didn't get to him first.

And then he heard her. A small sound at first, until he rounded the next flight of stairs. A child, crying, scared and angry in equal measure.

Patrick ran, climbing higher, taking the steps two at a time. The sound of flames was louder now, the smoke thicker. He could hear her, on the other side of a closed door. Not even stopping to think that anyone but Desiree might be inside, Patrick hurled himself at the door. Half rotten, it gave against his weight. She was there, sitting alone in the middle of the floor. Desiree saw him, wailed louder and lifted her arms.

Naomi was shouting at the phone, her words only partly intelligible, control all but gone. Gregory thought about taking it from her, but he didn't seem to have the strength. From what he could gather, help was on its way.

He struggled back on to his feet, resting against the car for support. Small explosions from inside the factory pushed blasts of heat and flame through the roof. As Gregory watched, two of the windows blasted outward, glass showering down into the canal.

‘Get out of there, Patrick, please get out. Now!'

Gregory could see nothing beyond the smoke that billowed outward from the building. His ears rang, some sounds obliterated by the effects of the blast, others seeming oddly amplified, though he couldn't tell if he really heard the sounds or if his eyes supplied the cues and his brain filled in the gaps. The groaning of falling timbers filled the air, the shattering of glass as it fell from the upper windows. Christ Almighty, Gregory thought.

He stumbled forward. Patrick was in there. He had to try and get him out. A louder, larger blast knocked him from his feet, knocking the air from his lungs as effectively as a left hook to the stomach and his feet didn't seem to belong to him any more. He'd forgotten how to walk, never mind how to stand upright.

Patrick, Gregory thought. Desi. Oh God, this would kill Harry.

Behind him he could hear Naomi cry out in her own agony of fear and then, belatedly, sirens as help finally arrived.

Slowly the dust and smoke had begun to clear, the sound of crashing glass now more real – definitely sound and not memory. Gregory peered through the fog, a movement catching his attention and then a sound. The unmistakable crying of a young child. The cry was angry and scared and utterly indignant and Gregory felt his heart leap. His logic and the rest of his senses told him what he was hearing was impossible, but it was there; he could hear the child crying. It was real.

He stumbled forward again, his feet still ready to fail him, legs as weak and unsteady as if he'd been recovering from a fever. And then he saw them. The boy standing in the dust, blood pouring from a cut above his eye, but standing. And he held the little girl tightly in his arms. Both were soaking wet, shivering, water pouring from their bodies and on to the ground.

‘She's cold,' Patrick said. ‘We had to dive into the water. I was scared she'd drown.'

The baby had begun to wail, clinging to Patrick as though searching for any residual warmth. Gregory could see how hard the pair of them were shivering. I thought you were dead, he thought. I thought I'd killed you both.

‘You're crying,' Patrick observed.

‘Fuck,' Gregory said softly. He wiped his eyes, but the tears kept falling. ‘Fuck.'

I
t seemed as though everyone had been holding their breath. Finally Bob looked up from the portfolio he had been inspecting and gestured to Patrick to sit down. The young man did so, trying not to show the desperation he felt; trying not to jinx things.

‘I can't offer you much in the way of pay,' Bob said. ‘But I do need an assistant. You could work here on the days you're not at uni and … I'd do all I could to help you develop …'

‘Yes,' Patrick said. ‘Please. That's what I want to do.'

Annie gently drew Harry aside, leaving the artists to talk.

‘He will get over this,' she said. ‘And he can drive over every day, stay when he wants to. We'll take good care of him.'

‘No,' Harry said. ‘He won't get over it.' He seemed to be ignoring the rest of her statement and so Annie waited, understanding that he had something important that he needed to say.

‘He won't get over it. What's happened will just become a part of him. We don't deny our pain or our fears or our memories; they shapes us, but if we're wise enough we just learn to use them. Not let them use us. You understand me?'

He looked directly at Annie and she nodded. ‘You know I do,' she said.

‘Have you heard from Gregory?'

‘He's away on his boat. Nathan is with him. I think they've both got a lot of thinking to do. Gregory's found some land up in Scotland. He's talking some nonsense about keeping sheep.'