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  His cycle helmet and jacket – and the gun – were tucked away in the dark rucksack on his back and he felt it heavier than normal, weighing down his progress with the awareness of what lay within.

  Close to the end of the path, he ducked into the shadows and slipped the rucksack off his shoulders, opening it and taking out the gun. He stood and quickly pushed the barrel of it down the front of his jeans, pulled his hoodie down to hide the handle from sight and resumed his walk.

  The road he wanted was left out of the park and then a first right. Martin lifted his head just high enough to check if there was anyone around as he exited the park and he saw a man walking a dog to his right, but he was heading in the opposite direction and was too absorbed by checking whatever was on the screen of his phone to have noticed the figure in black.

  Less than a hundred yards ahead, he saw the opening he knew was the one he was looking for and fear growled deep inside his guts. Martin crossed the road and read the street sign. Silverwood Close. He almost wished he had got it wrong and that the sign had told him he was at the bottom of a completely different street, but there it was. Only a short distance ahead was number fifty-two. This was his last chance to back out, submit to good sense and go home. He would have to tell Mrs Dawes he could not go through with it. She would understand.

  Would she? He dragged back the mental image of Mrs Dawes in the arms of her daughter and pooled the last remains of his resolve. It had to be done. He trudged forward again.

  The even numbers were on the right and he counted down – twenty-four, twenty-six, twenty-eight. Almost there. At forty-eight, he stopped and pulled the dark scarf over his nose so that only his eyes could be seen under the hood. He drew a long, deep breath. The detached houses along the road, neat and respectable with their tidy front lawns, were all built to the same template and had their main doors set into the side wall, providing welcome shelter from exposure to the road. Anything that might hide what he was about to do was welcome.

  Martin spoke quietly to himself.

  ‘This is the most ridiculously stupid thing you have ever…’ he scolded and walked on anyway.

  ***

  Darrell Morrison lounged on his sofa and eased a hand down the front of his black cotton shorts to scratch a sudden itch. Within reach of his other hand, next to the empty beer bottle on the laminated flooring in front of him, was the lesson plan he was due to deliver the following day, examining the underlying pessimism of TS Elliot’s The Wasteland, but he had been far too easily distracted by the dull Premier League football match on the TV to give it a great deal of attention.

  The overwhelming majority of his Year Ten English Literature class had no interest in the work anyway and, honestly, neither did he, but the GCSE mocks were coming up and it was on the curriculum. They still had a fair bit to get through, but Darrell was not panicking. He had been a teacher for almost fifteen years and could reel off Elliot’s underlying influences and imagery references in his sleep.

  The doorbell rang and he turned to look suspiciously towards where the sound had come from. He picked up his phone to check the time. Just after quarter past nine. Who the hell would ring the doorbell at quarter past nine? It was almost certainly not for him but Helena was working in the study and he knew she would be pissed off with him if he made her break off from what she was doing to trail downstairs to get the door herself, so Darrell hauled himself to his feet, slipped on his flip-flops and lumbered lethargically to the bottom of the stairs.

  ‘You expecting anybody, babe?’ he yelled. Helena had an important job at the council, and it was not entirely unknown for her to receive visitors at odd hours.

  ‘No,’ she called back. ‘Who is it?’

  He looked at the closed front door and thought about saying something sarcastic in response but stopped himself. It wouldn’t go down well.

  ‘I don’t know,’ he said.

  ‘Better answer it then,’ came the terse reply and he shuffled to the door.

  ‘I’d figured that bit out for myself,’ he muttered, turning the key in the lock and gripping the handle.

  At first, he didn’t fully take in what was before him but as he stood in the open doorway and his eyes adjusted from the brightness of the house to the gloom outside, he realised there was a short figure whose features were almost entirely obscured by dark clothing around ten feet in front of him and that what appeared to be a gun was being pointed at his chest.

  ‘Jesus fucking shit!’ he yelped. A shockwave of terror made his heart leap as, almost involuntarily, his hands shot to head height, palms open.

  ‘OK, stay cool, stay cool,’ he said, attempting to regain his poise even though every nerve was being stretched to its limits. ‘Nobody do anything silly here, let’s just take this nice and easy. What do you want?’

  The dark figure said nothing. It appeared even more agitated than he was. It was twitching its head jerkily, as if it were desperately searching for the way out of a trap.

  Darrell turned from horror-struck to confused.

  What the fuck is going on here?

  A new calmness settled over him and he squinted, attempting to gaze deeply into those frightened eyes. There was something there he thought was familiar.

  ‘Is that you, Daniel Renshaw?’ he asked. He lowered his hands. He realised what was going on. He was being pranked.

  Darrell peered towards the street.

  ‘Where’s the rest of the gang, eh? Are they hiding in the bushes filming this?’

  He stepped out of the house, cutting off the direct route of escape. The dark figure backed away, its breathing growing noticeably shallower, the shaking of the gun in its outstretched hands betraying its increasing anxiety.

  ‘Give it to me,’ said Darrell, firmly, holding out his left hand and chancing another short step closer towards the figure.

  ‘I can tell it’s only a toy. Give it to me.’

  He inched forward again and the figure retreated further, until its back was almost touching the garage door.

  ‘Come on. You’re already in big trouble and it’s only going to get worse for you unless you give that to me. Come on. Now!’

  The figure was quaking uncontrollably now. Darrell took another short step until his hand was no more than a foot from touching the end of the gun barrel.

  ‘Give it to me. Come on.’

  He lurched suddenly forward, making a grab for the end of the barrel. The movement caught the figure by surprise and his whole body tensed in total alarm.

  What neither of them expected was the bang.

  The noise rang in their ears and, for a moment, they were frozen together in suspended time. It seemed to last an age, but it was only moments. That was how long it took for Darrell to feel the searing pain in his right foot, the full gruesome realisation of what had just happened confirmed as he stared, wide-eyed, at the mess of blood covering his flip-flopped foot and splashed up the dark skin of his legs.

  He screamed, his cry piercing the night and waking the dark figure from his paralysis. Darrell fell to the ground, rolling and gripping his injured bloody foot in overwhelming agony.

  ‘Fuuuuck! Fuuuuck! Jesus fuuuuck!’

  The figure stood and stared. He wanted to help but he knew he had to get away from there as quickly as he could. He heard a woman’s voice from within the house, getting closer.

  ‘Darrell! Darrell! What’s happened?’

  He ran. The figure ran as fast as he could, before the woman or whoever else had been alerted by the sound of the shot and the screams arrived at the scene to stop him running. He ran towards the park, ran along the path, pausing only to frantically shove the gun into the rucksack and pull out his cycling gear to disguise himself, then he ran the rest of the way to the Asda. He slowed to a walk, attempting to not attract attention or suspicion from shoppers, before he fumbled the bike security lock open and cycled away into the night, as fast as he could pedal.

  9

  The nurse at the station glanc
ed up but had to look twice before she recognised him. He wore a green cap, pulled hard over his head, and dark sunglasses. When she arrived for the beginning of her shift, several hours earlier, there was no reason to anticipate a gloriously sunny day and nobody had suggested since that it had turned into one.

  ‘Hello, Martin,’ she said. ‘Everything all right?’

  He appeared on edge, nothing like the bright and breezy Martin who had become such a regular and welcome sight on the ward for the last week or so, making such a difference to the old lady he visited every day and supplying the staff with tasty food.

  He attempted a fleeting, thin smile. ‘Fine, thanks, fine,’ he replied, unconvincingly.

  ‘Rough night?’ asked the nurse playfully.

  He cleared his throat and shuffled uncomfortably. He had hardly slept, his mind constantly playing back the horrible incident with the gun and all that blood and that poor man who, for all he knew, might be emotionally scarred for life and may never walk again. All night he had run over and over what happened and had concocted an ever-worsening list of grave ramifications, while, all the time, he had listened for, anticipating, the heavy thud of the police hammering on his door to arrest him, ever more damned by self-condemnation to believe that he deserved whatever punishment came his way.

  ‘You could say that,’ he answered.

  ‘Is there…’ he looked nervously from side to side in case there was anyone close who might overhear. ‘Is there a private room where I can talk to Mrs Dawes today? I need to talk to her privately.’

  The nurse realised their usual friendly rapport might not be appropriate this time. Something was clearly bothering him.

  ‘Sure,’ she said, checking the list of patient names on the whiteboard at the side of the station. ‘One of the side rooms is available. Shall I get a porter to take Mrs Dawes through in a wheelchair?’

  ‘Yes please,’ he replied, pulling on the peak of his cap. ‘Thank you.’

  He watched from the entrance to the bay as the porter helped the old lady into the wheelchair and followed behind them as she was steered to the side room. The porter left the door open after making sure the brakes of the chair were on, but Martin moved quickly across the room to shut it.

  Evelyn’s face was alive with eager expectation. ‘Did you see him?’

  Martin was still on the move, pacing by the end of the bed.

  ‘No,’ was his flat reply.

  Disappointment overwhelmed her. ‘You didn’t go.’

  ‘Oh, I went,’ he responded, still pacing.

  ‘He wasn’t there?’ Her eyes followed his agitated movements. Something was wrong.

  ‘He wasn’t. He doesn’t live there. Not unless Frank is in his mid-thirties, about six foot four and is of Afro-Caribbean ethnic origin, that is.’

  She was confused. ‘Did you go to the right address?’

  ‘I went to the address you gave me. Exactly the address you gave me. Fifty-two Silverwood Close.’

  ‘Court,’ she said, almost attempting to retrieve the word back into her throat as soon as it escaped, realising in a moment exactly what was wrong.

  ‘What?’ He stopped pacing.

  ‘Fifty-two Silverwood Court.’

  ‘You said Close.’

  ‘I meant Court.’ She glanced at him sheepishly from the top of her eyes, unable to meet his incredulous stare. ‘I was upset. You upset me.’

  ‘Jesus Christ!’ Martin leaned against the bars at the end of the bed and his head sank into his chest. He held the pose as he attempted to compose his thoughts, then slowly rose and meandered a few steps towards the window, taking off his sunglasses with his right hand and rubbing his eyes with his left.

  ‘I shot him,’ he said.

  The delivery of the words was flat and was directed away from where Evelyn was sitting. She thought she heard what he said but if that was what he was really saying it didn’t make any sense. He must have said something else.

  ‘What did you say?’

  He spun quickly to face her. ‘I shot him. The man at the house. The man who wasn’t Frank.’

  ‘With my gun?’

  ‘Of course with your gun. How many other guns do you think I have access to? He tried to take it off me and I must have pulled on the trigger in trying to stop him and it went off. I shot him. In the foot.’

  Martin turned again towards the window. He hadn’t intended to be so short with Mrs Dawes but could not help himself. His nerves felt so tightly wrapped that he feared they may snap at any moment.

  ‘Thank god it was only his foot. I could have shot him through the heart or through the head or… Oh, god!’

  Evelyn sat quietly, trying to process the information. ‘But the gun wasn’t loaded,’ she tentatively suggested.

  Martin took off his cap and ran his fingers through his hair.

  ‘Well, evidently, it was,’ he replied, in a calmer tone. ‘I looked it up when I got home. There weren’t any bullets in the magazine – I know that because I checked – but apparently that type of gun stores a bullet in the barrel behind the firing pin thing. It must have been there since 1945 and, clearly, everything was still in full working order.’

  ‘Well, I’ll…’ Evelyn eased back in her wheelchair. ‘Say what you like about the Germans, they certainly made things to last.’

  Martin was not in the mood to endorse her new-found admiration for the high standards of German small arms manufacture. He sat on the bed and slumped forward, his head in his hands.

  ‘What am I going to do? I shot a man. I can’t just pretend it didn’t happen. I should turn myself in. I should go to the police and confess before they trace me and come to get me. At least that would look better when it comes to the trial. I might even get a lighter sentence. I’ve not got a proper criminal record – just a few minor convictions for trespass and obstruction, nothing like this. If I confess now, they might be lenient. I might get out in a few years.’

  Evelyn stared at the pathetic, crushed figure. ‘You can’t go to the police,’ she said, firmly. ‘If you tell them what you did, they’ll want to know where you got the gun from and then they’ll want to know why I had the gun in the first place and why I sent you round to that house with it and then I’ll be in trouble. I’ll be a whatchacallit – accessory. I can’t go to prison, not at my age. I’d die there. I’ll never see my daughter again and Frank will have won.’

  He shook his head. ‘Then what should I do?’

  ‘This man you shot, did he know who you were?’

  Martin sighed. ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘Did he get a good look at your face?’

  ‘No. I wore a scarf over my face, like a mask.’

  ‘Did you leave anything at the scene that they might be able to use to trace you? Did anybody else see you? Could anybody have noticed you going to the house or have seen you getting away?’

  ‘I don’t think so. There was a man walking his dog, but he was going in the opposite direction and I don’t think he noticed me at all.’

  Evelyn preened triumphantly. All those afternoons spent watching repeats of Midsomer Murders and Miss Marple were paying off.

  ‘Well then,’ she said. ‘You’ve nothing to worry about. How could they know it was you as long as you don’t go to them and tell them?’

  He sat still, considering the point. He had tried to take precautions and wasn’t aware of any potential snags. He couldn’t think of any reason for the police to suspect he was the gunman. He’d just kind of assumed the police knew these things, like it was obvious.

  ‘But what about the gun?’ he asked at last.

  ‘You’ll have to get rid of it,’ said Evelyn. She was seeing it all so clearly now. It was a plan that would even fox John Nettles.

  ‘Wipe it clean, really thoroughly, so that there are no prints on it and get rid of it, somewhere it will never be found. Bury it. Throw it in a lake. And the clothes you were wearing last night – you’ll have to get rid of them as well. Burn them a
nd bury the ashes.’

  She reflected that the last bit might have been a little overcautious, but she was in the zone.

  It had worked. Martin was on his feet again, no longer beaten. No longer the condemned man.

  ‘You’re right,’ he said. ‘I did go out first thing this morning – I couldn’t sleep – to pop some money through the letterbox at a florist near where the man lives so that they could deliver a bunch of flowers, anonymously, by way of an apology – let him know it was an accident. I thought that would be the right thing to do. I’ll keep an eye open for news about him and his foot and, as long as it’s not too serious, it might be best if I leave it at sending the flowers and keep quiet about it from now on. I don’t deserve to go to prison. I’m a good man and I don’t deserve to be punished for one mistake when I was trying to do a good thing. It’s not as if I meant to shoot him. I’ll get rid of the gun. I’ll not do it tonight. I’ll leave it a day or two, just until the initial heat dies down, and then I’ll get rid of it.’

  ‘That’s the spirit!’ said Evelyn, adding a flourish with a small punch of the air.

  ‘Then you can go to the proper address and sort Frank out. You can take something else to threaten him with – like one of those baseball bats.’

  Martin stared at the old lady in the wheelchair. Was she really suggesting…?

  ‘There is no way I am ever going to threaten anybody with any sort of weapon ever again,’ he said, leaving no room for misinterpretation. ‘I will find Frank for you and then I will bring your daughter to you. I promise you that, Mrs Dawes, but this time we will play it my way. I’ll do it as soon as I’ve cleaned up this mess.’

  ***

  That morning, Pam had pushed open the door to Pam’s Petals flower shop and the bell above the door gave her a welcoming tinkle-tinkle. Her entrance also activated the harsher buzz of the intruder alarm and she stepped purposefully across the floor of the shop to key in the passcode before it could burst into full-blown jarring siren.