And she heard, in the distance, down towards the farm, gunshots.
She opened her eyes. To look at The Scribbler.
But he had already turned, had stepped over Gayther’s body, and was moving quickly to the door of the barn.
* * *
“What’s that? What’s happening?” Carrie shouted across to The Scribbler, who was standing by the door, looking out and listening, his head at an angle, as if he might be hard of hearing in one ear.
“My brother. He’ll be shooting at the police. They’ll all be dead. He’s a sharp shooter. The sharpest shooter in town.”
Carrie did not know what to say. Knowing Gayther, he’d have come alone or brought Thomas and Cotton and made them wait in the car while he scouted around. Please God, she thought, don’t let the man with the melted face have seen them sitting patiently in the car. Creeping up on them. Pulling the door open. Shooting them at point-blank range. Those two sweet young boys.
They were both silent, listening intently.
For more gunshots. Other noises. Shouts. Yells. Anything. Signs of life.
But there was just silence, the stillness of the night.
“What can you see?” Carrie asked, her voice cracking.
“From here?” The Scribbler replied. “The barns. The farmhouse. Part of the drive. Your boss must have parked further down, just too far to see. He’d have had other police with him. Yes?”
She nodded. “Two new detective constables, I think, yes. Thomas and Cotton. Both about twenty. All their lives ahead of them.” She stopped, knew she had to be strong now.
He shrugged as he turned towards her as if it were of no significance. “Two, yes, that’s right. Two shots. That’s all my brother would have needed. That’s what we heard.” He nodded, as if satisfied. “They’ll both be dead,” he added as a matter-of-fact afterthought.
She swallowed, composing herself as best she could. The horror of it all. Then spoke in a measured voice. “What will your brother do now?”
“There’s an outhouse with a cesspit. It’s where he … he’ll put the bodies in there. Then he’ll check on Mother … she’ll need putting to bed … then he’ll come here …”
“You have to stop this,” Carrie said. “Give yourself up. You can’t go on.”
He didn’t reply. She thought he was thinking. Weighing the odds.
“I’ll speak up for you. You and your brother.” She had to keep the desperation out of her voice. “I’ll say you were good to me. That you didn’t hurt me. That you let me go. That will help you. Just set me free now. Untie my arms and legs. I will go and …”
“No,” he shouted, wanting her to be silent. “No!”
She hesitated. This man was dangerous, so much harder than the slow brother.
She tried a different approach. Quiet and reasoning.
“You could go. You and your brother. Leave me here. Just take off through the forest into the night. Disappear.”
“Mother,” he said simply. “We cannot abandon Mother. This is her home. She will not leave it, no matter what. She would be better off in a … I did look … at places for her … she was not happy about that. But she could not manage here on her own. She needs her boys. Her best boys. She needs us. And we need her.”
“Go and be with her, then. Now. Leave me here. You and your brother go and put her to bed. Make her comfortable. See her to sleep. I’ll still be here in an hour. We can talk about things then. Sort things out.”
She felt the shard of glass still in her hands.
Knew that, given time, she could free herself.
Be running off into the night.
He stood and looked down at Gayther’s corpse again. Carrie could not follow his gaze. Had to look upwards and away. She knew that if she did see Gayther’s body and his shattered face that she would crack, her heart breaking for the sad, kind old man she’d got to know a little. That she’d expected to work with day after day for years to come. His life taken from him so coldly.
“I’ll need to get rid of this first,” he said, as if it were a nuisance, a bother, no more than a dead mouse found on a doormat. Not a once living, breathing man with thoughts and feelings and love in his heart. Carrie knew she had to switch off, blot out what she was thinking, and focus on practicalities. On getting The Scribbler out. On cutting the cloth round her wrists and feet. On running hard and fast away from here.
The Scribbler tucked his gun into the waistband of his trousers and reached down towards Gayther’s body. He stepped over the corpse and around it, getting into a better position to lift Gayther up by the shoulders. Carrie looked away as The Scribbler dragged Gayther backwards to the door. He stopped close to the doorway, breathing hard already, and looked back towards Carrie and was about to speak. To tell her to wait there.
In that moment, The Scribbler and Carrie both froze into silence.
The sound of heavy footsteps and jagged, panting breath.
The Scribbler pulled Gayther to the side, reached for his gun and turned to fire.
* * *
The slow brother stopped just outside the doorway. In that instant he was about to be shot.
Carrie expected him to throw his hands in the air and shout, “No!”.
But he just stood here, waiting. The smart brother drew in his breath loudly, stepped back, did not shoot.
“What is it?” the smart brother snapped.
“I went to my room,” the slow brother said in his careful, steady voice as Carrie watched, willing him to speak faster, to get to the point. “To get a toy for the birthday party.”
He turned towards Carrie.
The smart brother turned too, confused.
“But two policemen were taking Mother away. In the back of their car. She looked at me as they drove off. She was sad. She was crying. I
