Wish You Were Dead

19

In the green glow of the goggles, Roy saw wisps of smoke still curling up from Curtis Esmonde’s body. Squeezing past, he grabbed the gun, broke the barrel open and ejected the spent cartridge. He rummaged in the man’s jacket and found a handful of live cartridges. He pulled out two, stuck them into the barrel and closed it. He pushed the remaining cartridges into his trouser pocket.

He was pretty sure Monica was dead, but did they have a friend here? Downstairs, somewhere? In the house or out in the darkness, waiting for him?

Roy took a few seconds to study the gun, trying to remember what he had learned on firearms courses he had attended. When you closed the barrels on most shotguns, the safety catch — a lever on the top — normally engaged. He tried it one way, where it would not budge, then the other. Well-oiled, it moved smoothly, and stopped with a sturdy click.

The gun was now cocked.

Holding the weapon out in front of him, his finger on the twin triggers, he began inching his way back down the steps. Slowly, carefully, breathing as silently as he could, he went on down, able to see perfectly through the lenses. His finger kept pressure on the trigger, ready to pull it, instantly.

Reaching the landing, he looked along it and waited, for several seconds. No sign of anyone. Sweat was running down his back. If there was another villain, did they have night-vision goggles, too?

Almost certainly.

He reached the top of the stairs and saw, on the floor below, the fallen stag, with a wide pool of blood spreading steadily out close to its head. A shotgun and a pair of night-vision goggles were a short distance away. Beside them was a wig.

But no Monique — Monica.

Where was she?

Then he heard a weak moaning sound. And saw her. She was crawling across the hall, between the suits of armour, trying to get to the front door, a trail of blood running from her neck.

Several feet from the stag, her arms stretched out, she slumped down face-forward and stopped.

Watching her closely and keeping his gun trained on her, he hurried down the stairs and grabbed the shotgun. Then, looking around warily, he walked over to her. She was breathing in short, rapid bursts and appeared to be very weak. And now, without her wig, with her short, natural, spiky hair, he recognized her even more clearly.

Her eyes flicked open. ‘Curt? Curt, everything OK? What happened — did you get him?’ Her voice was rasping. Close to a death rattle, a horrible sound he had heard once before.

‘Your lover boy’s lying down, he’s had a bit of a shock.’

‘Curt?’ she whispered.

Roy knelt beside her. ‘Didn’t Curt ever tell you that proverb from Confucius? Before you seek revenge, first dig two graves. One for yourself.’

She blinked at him, looking weaker by the second.

‘You know you’re not getting out of this alive, Monica — just do one good thing. Where is the key to the bedroom and where is my friend, Jack?’

She spoke slowly, her voice weakening. ‘Curt’s — idea. In — my pocket — keys. He — he’s — in — kitchen — wine cellar. He—’

Her eyes froze open.

Her breathing stopped.

Looking carefully around again, Roy rummaged in the pockets of her denim jacket and found two large keys. He checked the woman’s pulse, carefully, counting the seconds. There was nothing. Thirty seconds, then a full minute, to be sure.

She was gone.

Picking up both guns, he hurried back, past the toppled stag and up to the landing, running on pure adrenaline. He raced along and began climbing steps, holding the guns in one hand and the rail in the other. He edged past Esmonde’s body, trying to ignore the stench of seared flesh, and finally, gasping for air, stood — almost sagging to his knees — outside the door to their room.

Taking a moment to calm himself and get his breath back, he shouted, ‘It’s me, you’re all safe, I’m coming in!’

He tried the first of the two keys in the lock. To his relief, it turned. Even so, he was cautious — just in case there was a buddy of the two scumbags in there with them. Laying one gun down and gripping the other with both hands, keeping it pointed at the floor, he kicked the door wide open.

And to his immense relief — and joy — through his goggles he saw Cleo, Bruno and Kaitlynn sitting on the bed, where Noah lay fast asleep, despite everything. They were all staring towards him, although he knew they couldn’t actually see him in the darkness. Bruno seemed to be busily untying the laces of one of his trainers.

Knackered and still panting heavily, Roy spluttered, ‘Are you all OK? Are any of you hurt?’

‘We’re fine, just shaken. Are you OK, darling?’ Cleo asked, anxiously.

‘I’m OK,’ he replied, forgetting at that moment the stinging pain in his arm from the pellet — or pellets — that had hit him. All that mattered was that they all looked fine, that they didn’t look hurt, thank God. ‘I can see you all, I’m wearing night-vision goggles. You’re all safe. I’m going to get you out of here.’

‘Night-vision goggles — cool!’ Bruno said.

‘Where’s Jack?’ Kaitlynn asked, anxiously. ‘Any word?’

‘He’s here. I know where he is.’

‘Is he OK?’

‘Yes,’ he said, fibbing, desperately hoping Jack was OK, not wanting to panic her. He snapped on the safety catch, put the gun down then rushed over and threw his arms around Cleo, hugging her tight, tight, tight. Hugging her and loving her almost more than it was possible to love another human being, as a tear trickled down his cheek.

An instant later, a brilliant light shone in his face, dazzling him.