Black retreated, slowly, one step at a time, the children cowering behind his legs. The room was ablaze, the drapes catching quickly, forming a wall of fire around them. If any tried to get past Black, they were only too aware he would shoot them without compunction.
“We’re going to burn!” cried a man. Black recognised him vaguely. A television soap star. Or something of the sort. Black couldn’t have cared less.
Black removed his own mask, tossing it into the flames. “I fucking hope so.”
Black reached the glass corridor, amazed at how rapidly the fire had taken hold. The men were screaming, shouting, pleading. Some had flames licking from their hair, lurching about, human fireballs. It was either fire or Black’s bullets. Another tried to rush past him. Black shot him in the gut. The screams played second fiddle to the crackle of furniture and flesh.
Black got to the hall. He’d seen enough. The children clutched either side of his jacket. The front door crashed open. Black spun round. Two men entered, one tripping over the dead bodies.
Boom! Boom! The cannon explosion of the Desert Eagle echoed through the hall. The first man was literally taken off his feet, the impact bouncing him onto the wall, half his chest eviscerated. The second was luckier, the bullet removing the lower half of his arm.
Time to go. The fire had taken hold of the drapes at the hall, spreading across the carpet. Glass panes were exploding in the heat. More men at the front door, beaten back by the flames. Also wary of more bullets.
Definitely time to go.
57
Black went out the way he’d come in. The children followed close behind. On his way, he encountered a man heading towards him, running full pelt through the kitchen. Black didn’t hesitate. He fired once, the Desert Eagle blasting. The man bounced off his feet, half somersaulting over the cooking island in the middle of the room. Black didn’t stop. They reached the back door. No one was there. They’re busy at the front, thought Black. Death and destruction were a welcome distraction. For a little while. He turned to the children. They were still naked, clutching the white gowns they’d been given.
“Put them on,” said Black, speaking quickly. “We’re going to get out of here. But we have to be fast. We’re going to run to the little wall.” He pointed at it. It was visible in the darkness, illuminated by the flames consuming one end of the building. “We climb over it, then we keep running. No one will see us. We’ll be hidden by the trees. Your feet might hurt when you’re running on the ground, but there’s nothing I can do about that. Don’t make a sound. You understand?”
They nodded, gazing up at Black. He attempted a half-smile.
“Quick!”
They pulled the garments over their heads. Black raised the Eagle, vigilant. The way was clear. They darted across the open space, reached the wall. Black helped them over. They were virtually invisible, hidden by the shadows and trees.
Black walked quickly, half crouching, using the wall as cover. The two children followed closely, remaining silent. A man ran past them, only yards from the wall, a rifle in his hand, speaking urgently into a mouthpiece. Black stopped. The man ran on, towards the commotion at the far end. Black motioned for the children to keep moving.
The going was slow. It was dark, the ground uneven. The path they walked was narrow, a margin of grass and bushes between the trees and the wall. Once, the boy let out a short whimper – he’d stood on a sharp stone. He began to limp. Black tucked the Eagle in the belt of his trousers, reached down, picked him up, cradling him against his chest. The boy huddled into a ball, keeping close.
Time passed. Every step meant a step further from danger. Further from death. There! A silhouette thirty yards distant. The BMW. Black gently put the boy on his feet, motioned them to stay put. He crept closer – the car may have been found, and guards posted. All clear. Black scurried back, ushered the children forward. They got to the car. For one nerve-wracking second, Black thought he’d left the car key in the holdall, abandoned at the building. The second passed. It was in an inside zip jacket pocket. Black pressed a button, the doors unlocked. The two children climbed into the rear seats. Black looked back. The fire had taken hold. With fury. The roof was ablaze, fire flickering from every window. Black saw distant shapes of men running this way and that, like frantic ants. Westcoates Hall was no more.
Amen to that, thought Black. May they all burn in hell.
He got in the car. Slowly, he manoeuvred out through the gap in the wall, keeping his headlights off. He drove slowly. Soon, the image of the burning building disappeared from his rear-view mirror, swallowed up by hills and trees. He got to the main road, which would eventually take him to the motorway.
“Where are you from?” asked Black. They didn’t reply. Who could blame them? He adjusted the mirror, so he could see their faces. Two pale orbs. They stared back at him in the mirror. “Are you from Scotland?”
The girl spoke. “Please don’t hurt us.”
Black had to grit his teeth. He hoped every last fucker in that place felt the lick of the flame.
“No more hurting. That’s over now. You’re safe. Where are you from?”
The boy spoke. “York. Are you taking us home?”
“You’ll be home soon.”
“I’m from Ireland,” said Alanna. “Dublin.” She paused. “We were put on a plane. To a hot place. In a room under the ground. With a monster.” She began to cry.
“What’s your name?” asked Paul.
Black looked at him in the mirror, and smiled. “Adam Black.”
“Thank you, Mr Black.”
He got to the motorway, and took a turn-off for Airdrie. The hospital there was Monklands General. A sprawling building designed by architects specialising in ugliness.
He parked
