“That’s not true.”
He smiles. “You think you can read people, Professor. You pick apart their motives and peer inside their heads, but I wonder if you ever look at yourself. I think you’re a coward. I’m going to make you brave.”
“I live with a disease that makes me brave.”
“It gives you an excuse.” He spits the words. “You couldn’t stop the man who kidnapped your wife and daughter and now you’re balking at this. You’re making excuses. Stop me. She’s dying. Just do it!”
He lifts Piper’s eyelids. Her pupils have rolled back into her head and white foam is leaking from one corner of her mouth. Every minute gives the pills longer to dissolve in her stomach and enter her bloodstream. Five minutes after ingestion she has a 90 per cent chance of survival. By sixty minutes it falls to less than 15 per cent.
The pistol has grown hot in my hands. I stare along the barrel with a mixture of loathing and awe.
“Let her go.”
“Shoot me. It’s not difficult. You walk over here. Point the gun at my head and pull the trigger. Don’t go trying to miss. I don’t want to be left a vegetable. And don’t try shooting me in the leg or shoulder. This knife is very sharp. It won’t take much to slice into her chest.”
The pistol is growing heavier. I look at Piper and imagine her heartbeat slowing and her organs failing. In the next breath I can picture Charlie lying on a filthy mattress, chained to a radiator with masking tape wrapped around her head, breathing through a hose. I would have pulled a trigger a dozen times over to save her and Julianne. I would have emptied the magazine and reloaded. I would have done anything… given anything… if only…
“If I hear sirens, I will kill her, Professor. You’re running out of time.” He is rocking Piper in his arms. “Pull the trigger. People take lives all the time. You might even enjoy it. It could be cathartic. I mean, you’re separated, your wife left you, you’re riddled with disease, so much for ‘in sickness and in health.’ ”
“That’s not why she left me.”
“You must really hate her.”
“No.”
“Liar!”
I scream at him then. Aiming the gun at his head. Stepping closer.
“PUT DOWN THE KNIFE!”
“No.”
“LET HER GO!”
“Shoot me.”
“NO!”
“Tick tock, tick tock.”
“LET HER GO!”
“Pull the trigger.”
“SHE’S DYING!”
Grievous begins screaming back at me. “SAVE HER! JUST DO IT! PULL THE TRIGGER! DO IT. SHOOT ME! PULL THE FUCKING TRIG-”
The gun recoils and a noise seems to detonate directly inside my head. Echoing. Drawn out. Groaning like a turntable on the wrong speed. I stare at the gun and smell the cordite.
My finger is still on the trigger. I’m locked in place as though turned to stone, while the Earth has turned ten thousand revolutions. Nothing stirs or shifts until Piper slides sideways, her hair plastered to the back of her head, slick with blood.
For a moment I think I must have shot her. Somehow the bullet must have ricocheted off the wall. I put my hand over the back of her head and discover the blood isn’t hers.
Grievous is staring at me with his lips peeled back and mouth open, his last sentence cut short. The entry wound in his forehead is smaller than a five pence piece, while the exit wound has sprayed blood and brain matter across the painted wall.
Fumbling with the key, I remove the handcuffs and reach under Piper, lifting her easily and carrying her to the door and down two flights of stairs.
Adrenalin is still surging through me like the bass beat at a rock concert. Setting her down in the hallway near the front door, I put my ear to her mouth and nose and my hand on her lower chest. She’s breathing, but her eyes are fixed. Dilated. I turn her on her side, putting her in the recovery position.
Where are the paramedics? I call 999 again, yelling at the operator, telling them to hurry. The sedative has been in Piper’s system for nearly thirty minutes.
I have to act now. Gastric lavage. Pump her stomach. I remember my medical training-three years of studying to be a doctor, doing my filial duty because God’s-personal-physician-in-waiting wanted me to carry on the family tradition.
I rip open kitchen cupboards and grab a container of salt and run the hot tap until the water is warm. Mixing the water and salt in a clean plastic container, I create a saline solution. Next I need a tube: something about the width of my pinkie and three feet long.
Beneath the sink is a water filter with a flexible blue plastic pipe. I tear it away from the fittings and cut off the ends, hoping it’s long enough. Crouching next to Piper, I turn her head to one side and lubricate the end of the tube with soap, before inserting it through her nose, pushing it gently until it reaches the pharynx. I feel the slight resistance and turn the tube 180 degrees. It continues sliding towards her stomach.
I put my head on her chest and blow a puff of air through the tube, listening for the telltale bubbles from the fluid in her stomach. Holding the plastic container of saline solution above her head, I punch a hole through the base and insert the tube, letting about 300 ml of the warm fluid flow into her stomach.
Then I suction, letting the mixture of saline and her stomach contents flow out onto the floor. Repeating the process, I keep going until the liquid runs clearer. My mobile has been ringing. I’ve been too busy to answer it.
Drury’s name appears on screen.
“What’s happened in there? Neighbors reported a gunshot.”
“Where are the paramedics?”
“Outside. They’re waiting for the all clear.”
“It’s clear. Tell them to hurry.”
“Where’s Grievous?”
“Dead.”
“Casey?”
“I’m sorry.”
Moments later the door jerks open and the DCI’s eyes meet mine. He’s wearing a bulletproof vest and helmet, like a modern-day warrior. In the dim light the scar on his cheek looks like a birthmark.
A dozen police officers surge into the house. Behind them I see two ambulances, their lights beating with color, sirens muted. Four paramedics follow. Two of them crouch beside Piper. The younger one has a farm girl face.
“What did she take?”
“Diazepam.”
“How much?”
“Unknown.”
“How long has she been unconscious?”
“Thirty minutes, maybe longer.” I point to the tube. “I’ve done a nasotracheal intubation and a gastric lavage. She needs activated charcoal to absorb the rest.”
“We can take it from here, sir.”
Drury appears at the top of the stairs. Ashen-faced. Tortured by what he’s witnessed. Two colleagues are dead. A kidnapped girl is alive. It doesn’t feel like a victory.
On the night we were taken,
I left Tash at the church while I went to Emily’s house and told her that we were running away. In the winter Reverend Trevor leaves the small door open at the side of St. Mark’s of a Saturday night so that parishioners who arrive early on Sunday morning don’t have to wait in the cold for the curate to unlock the door. I left Tash lying on a pew, curled up like a kitten.
