The Darkest Day

FORTY-FIVE

Victor stepped inside the bathroom and closed the door behind him. The hinges made a quiet squeal of resistance. Twilight filtered through the blinds covering a small window on the wall to his right, perpendicular to the door, and illuminated a space just long enough to fit a bath along the wall opposite the window, and a pedestal washbasin and toilet opposite the light switch. A bare bulb coated with dust hung from the ceiling was useless in the blackout. The walls were about the same size as each other, but were not at exact right angles, creating a skewed cube twice as tall as it was wide. The wall tiles were white, but dulled with neglect. Black mould had sprung up along the silicone sealant where the bath met the wall. Dusty cobwebs hung above the window, their creators long since departed or deceased. A faded circular mat lay in the approximate centre of the room. Maybe it had once been white. The air felt moist and smelled unpleasant — stagnant water and mould.

On the wall across from Victor, a mirror smeared with water marks hung above the sink. Victor’s reflection looked back at him, his features hardened by the twilight and deep shadows.

He turned a brass catch to lock the door. He gripped it hard and turned it harder. The noise it made was loud and distinctive. Clunk.

A cheap plastic shower curtain was suspended above the bathtub by plastic hooks. The curtain’s swirling pattern was obscured in places by mildew. The hooks rattled as Victor drew the curtain back; a long, flexible stainless-steel pipe was attached to the back of the taps and the showerhead supported high above it.

He turned the shower dial, rotating it all the way to the hottest setting. The pelting of water on the cast-iron bathtub was loud enough so that when Victor eased the catch to unlock the door the clunk sound was almost inaudible.

He raised the closed toilet lid, then removed the homeless guy’s jacket and hat and dropped them across the toilet bowl. He stood with his back against the wall to the side of the door next to the handle, thinking. Waiting.

The water coming out of the shower was hot because the boiler had heated it before the blackout had cut the electricity supply. The air inside the bathroom grew warm and humid. Steam began to darken the mirror above the small sink. Victor watched his reflection fade away.

Forty seconds, he decided. Maybe fifty. If he was wrong he lost nothing. If he was right…

He raised his left forearm so it was horizontal before his face, palm facing inwards. When his count reached forty-seven, bullets punched through the door.

Wood splinters, paint flakes and dust burst out into the air. The steaming mirror above the taps cracked. Glass shards rained down into the sink. Wall tiles shattered, exploding fragments of ceramic around the bathroom. Victor’s forearm shielded his eyes from the storm cloud of debris.

Bullet holes appeared in the wall either side of the destroyed mirror as the shooter on the other side of the bathroom door spread out the rounds, then walked them to Victor’s left, aiming at the shower. Bullets sliced through the plastic shower curtain. He heard tiles shattering and the curtain rippled and swayed as it was peppered by shrapnel.

He counted eleven shots from a single shooter by the time the firing ceased. The 9mm SIGs carried by Wallinger and Guerrero held fifteen rounds in the magazine.

Victor waited a second and then stretched out a foot to toe the toilet lid and seat. They fell together, banging shut against the toilet bowl. Nothing like the sound of a dead or dying man falling over, but muted and made more organic by the homeless guy’s jacket enough to convince the shooter to kick the door open and charge into the bathroom.

The door flew open with a bang, crashing into the wall on the other side from where Victor stood, and the shooter stumbled forward, off balance. Stumbling because the door had been kicked hard enough to break the lock that they heard engaged but not disengaged.

The remaining glass of the small mirror was steamed over, preventing the agent from seeing Victor’s reflection, and reacting he slammed a forearm against the extended right wrist to knock the suppressed SIG from the agent’s grasp. It clattered on the floor and was knocked into a corner as the agent twisted round to respond.

It was Guerrero, not Wallinger as Victor had expected.

There was no time to consider how he’d been wrong, because the bathroom was small. There was nowhere to move to; no room to dodge; no space to manoeuvre; no opportunity to create range or openings. Tactics meant nothing here. Ferocity meant everything.

Guerrero was small but knew how to fight. She parried Victor’s next attack and they exchanged blows — short punches and elbow strikes. Some were blocked. Others scored glancing hits. One elbow caught him on the jaw and he tasted blood. He was a lot bigger and stronger, but she was quicker and her shorter arms were better suited to the close confines. She hammered his ribs with hooks and elbows he wasn’t fast enough to defend.

He feinted a similar body blow to lower her defences and struck Guerrero with a palm heel to the side of the face. She collapsed into the sink then rebounded away and to the floor as Victor swept out her load-bearing leg.

She knocked the door shut again as she went down, before scrambling for the gun in the corner, but Victor kicked her in the ribs and she let out a gasp of ejected air. He went to kick again — this time to the face — but she grabbed the mat he was standing on and tugged it out from under him.

With only one foot planted for balance, Victor fell backwards into the bath, tearing the shower curtain from the hooks as he did and passing through the shower spray.

The middle of his back took the force of the impact on the curved shelf of the bath, but spared his skull smacking against the wall tiles. Hot shower water rained down on to him.

He blinked to clear his eyes and struggled to shrug away the shower curtain that fell over him and gain purchase enough to stand, while Guerrero grabbed her disarmed SIG from the corner and stood.

Victor snatched the flexible shower pipe in his left hand, and with a hard pull, wrenched the shower head free from its perch. It fell and he caught it in the same hand, then launched it as she turned to shoot.

The showerhead struck Guerrero in the chest and sent her reeling backwards, slipping and losing balance on the now-slick floor tiles. The unsecured showerhead fell and hung over the side of the bath, pipe snaking back and forth, and spraying water throughout the small room.

Victor ripped the shower curtain aside and threw himself up and into Guerrero as she recovered her balance.

They collided into the closest wall, Guerrero taking the brunt of the impact against her face, dropping the gun once more, and not having the strength to stop Victor grabbing her jacket and pulling her away from the wall and throwing her down to the floor.

She hit the wet tiles with force, but on her hands and knees. She tried to push herself upright, but Victor grabbed the showerhead and looped the flexible metal pipe around her neck. Water sprayed everywhere.

As soon as the metal touched the skin of her throat Guerrero went wild, reacting fast, and flipping over on to her back to face Victor before he could get a secure hold.

She wedged four fingers between the cord and her neck before the noose was complete, preventing Victor from strangling her, but sacrificing one of her hands in the process.

Victor grabbed Guerrero’s free wrist in his own free hand as she went to strike, rendering her defenceless.

But Victor still had one hand to employ, holding the showerhead.

He used it as a club to batter against the side of Guerrero’s head as she turned to protect her face. Two hits was enough to stun her but also half-wreck the showerhead so Victor pressed it against Guerrero’s face, pinning her head against the side of the bath and sending the pressurised spray of water into her mouth and up her nose. She gurgled and thrashed as the showerhead forced hot water down her throat faster than she could gag it away, until her stomach filled with water, and then when her stomach was full the water entered her lungs. She tried to fight with her free hand but Victor had his arm locked out so no matter how fierce her attempts, her strength was negated.

She coughed and retched and vomited but Victor kept the showerhead in place until Guerrero had stopped moving and the bathroom floor was flooded under an inch of water, pink with swirling blood and dark with an oil-slick of spreading vomit.