A moment later he heard the heavy slap of approaching trainers and Jay’s silhouette appeared before him.

  Jay switched off the rape alarm. ‘Uh, Boyd – Sam say’s we’ve got company on the road coming up. Two men. With weapons.’

  ‘Shit!’ Boyd instinctively reached for the police baton under his coat, unclipped it and flicked it out – retained muscle memory from those long-ago uniformed days. ‘How close? Where are they?’

  ‘Coming down the lakeside track towards the entrance.’

  Probably running down the track by now.

  Boyd’s car was about fifty yards away, invitingly close with the doors open, puffing out a cloud of exhaust at the rear that looked like baited dragon’s breath in the glare of the brake lights.

  Car or Nix?

  Fuck it. Car.

  He jumped down the entrance steps and started sprinting towards the waiting vehicle.

  ‘Let’s go!’

  ‘What do we do?’ Emma’s voice was shaking.

  ‘I’m already doing it,’ Okeke replied. She had her finger depressed on the panic button of her radio handset. A code zero would be going out on all police frequencies along with a GPS signal.

  ‘Try not to worry, Emma. Help’s on its way.’ She started up the van. ‘But we have to get a bit closer.’

  ‘Oh, God. I… I’m not sure…’

  ‘You can get out and stay here if you want,’ offered Okeke.

  The option nudged Emma off the fence. Emma nodded so vigorously her glasses lifted off the bridge of her nose. ‘Do it. Go, go!’

  Okeke turned the key, and Jay’s transit van rattled noisily to life. She threw it into gear and swung out into the lane, kicking up a spray of crumbled tarmac and wind-borne sand.

  Boyd grabbed the edge of the open driver-side door when the rear window suddenly shattered, showering him with granules.

  ‘FUCK ME!’ yelped Jay as he hurried around the front to shield behind the passenger-side door. ‘What was that?’

  ‘A gun, you muppet!’

  The windscreen suddenly exploded too.

  Warning shots. Two of them. The next explosion would almost certainly be his head. Or Jay’s.

  ‘STOP!’ a heavily accented voice barked out of the darkness.

  Boyd dropped the baton, stood up and raised his hands. Jay saw and quickly followed suit. They held their pose, both panting out clouds of breath, waiting to see what would come next.

  ‘Are we gonna be shot?’ said Jay.

  ‘Shut up,’ Boyd hissed.

  Finally, emerging from the gloom into the crimson pool of the car’s rear lights, two men approached.

  As they neared, Boyd could see that they were both holding silencer-tipped handguns. They advanced quickly and confidently. No caution, no wary approach – just two hard-faced men who had absolutely no doubt that the situation was theirs to control.

  They separated, one coming towards Boyd, the other walking around the car towards Jay.

  Boyd found himself staring down the silencer’s barrel at the face beyond it: pockmarked skin and grey eyes, a crew cut of silvered hair. A slim, scrawny even, old man who was a foot shorter than him, all twitching tendons and varicose veins.

  ‘Hello, Boyd,’ he said in a thick accent.

  ‘Do I know you?’ Boyd asked, meeting his eyes and trying not to look away.

  The old man’s smile broadened, showing his teeth – all metal fillings, tobacco stains and gaps. He tapped the side of his head with his free hand. ‘Ear,’ he said.

  ‘Ahh.’ Boyd nodded. ‘That was you.’

  The man grinned again as he looked around. ‘Nix. Where is?’

  Boyd jerked his head over his shoulder. ‘Gone.’ He wasn’t ready to be a hero, but he wasn’t going to be a total pushover either. ‘He left. Minutes ago.’

  ‘Where?’

  Boyd tipped his head in the opposite direction to the one he’d seen Nix take off.

  The old man turned to his younger colleague. ‘Poyti! On v lagere!’

  The other man pushed past Jay and hurried forward into the glare of the headlights, through the open gate and into the campsite.

  ‘You speak English?’ said Boyd.

  ‘Yes, good,’ replied the old man. ‘Fluent.’

  ‘The cavalry’s on its way.’

  The man cocked his head and frowned.

  Not that fluent, then.

  Boyd pointed back down the track. ‘Police are coming. Lots.’

  ‘Ah, politsiya.’ He shrugged like it wasn’t that big of a deal. ‘Not worry.’

  ‘They’ll be here, mate. Any second now,’ continued Boyd. He was struggling to keep his voice even and calm. Captive–captor psychology 101 – sound like you have leverage or a deal to offer. ‘You really don’t want to shoot a British cop dead. Trust me. You’ll have the whole force after you.’

  ‘Shhh,’ said the old man gently. ‘I decide.’ Then he pursed his lips and began tilting his head from side to side, looking from Boyd to Jay, almost as though he was running through a silent eeny, meeny, miny, moe.

  ‘Mate. You’re making a big mistake,’ Boyd said, trying to catch Jay’s eye. They’d have to move soon if they were going to get out of this, while it was two against one.

  Shushed him again and smiled. ‘I choose now.’

  With that, he swung his aim to the right and fired over the top of the car.

  PHUT! The silencer reduced the shot to something that sounded like an abrupt comedy sneeze.

  Boyd took what would undoubtedly be his only chance.

  He ducked down and charged forward, bulldozing into the small man and knocking him off his feet. They were both now sprawled on the ground, tangled up with each other. Boyd’s hands were frantically trying to get a purchase on his gun hand before –

  PHUT!

  The shot whistled past his ear, off into the night somewhere. Even though there was a small glow of red light from the rear of the car, Boyd was doing this blind, relaying on touch. His hand followed what felt like an arm, then grabbed the wrist – fucking well hoping to God it was the correct bloody one.

  PHUT!

  Shit! He felt a puff of air beside his other ear this time. Another inch to the left and the shot would have been right in his eye.

  The Russian writhed around, trying to tear his wrist free of Boyd’s desperate grip. Boyd felt the man’s weight shift, then a sharp elbow came out of nowhere and smacked him in the cheek. It knocked him almost senseless, but he hung on, his left hand creeping over his right until it, suddenly, touched the hot metal of the gun.

  ‘Thank fuck,’ he grunted.

  The sharp elbow hit again, mashing Boyd’s lips against his teeth. The squirming ball of intertwined men rolled over to the side of the lane like dung beetles clinging tightly to each other. All of a sudden, Boyd found his face was pushed up hard against the side of the Russian’s head, one fleshy cauliflower ear temptingly within range of his teeth. An ear for an ear you, fucking bastard.

  He sank his teeth into the flesh and ground down hard into crackling cartilage.

  The older man barked out in pain and swung his arm up, aiming for Boyd’s face again.

  The first swing was a glancing blow. Boyd hung on. He could feel his front teeth beginning to meet each other through the flesh. His mouth was filling with warm blood.

  The Russian managed to jerk his gun hand free. He swung it up hard so that the pistol grip slammed into Boyd’s temple. Stunned, Boyd came loose with a chunk of ear in his mouth.

  The old man – so goddamned fast and agile for his age – twisted round sharply. Something cracked into Boyd’s forehead. Right between his eyes.

  Boyd flopped backwards to the ground. His hearing was gone. There was just the dull roar of blood in transit. He was lying flat on his back and looking upwards at swirls of dust caught in a headlight’s beam, dancing like cigarette smoke.

  Boyd was dully aware that he must be dying.

  The impact was undoubtedly a bullet. He didn’t need to feel around the back for some jagged exit wound to confirm that.

  He felt drunk and dizzy – light-headed, like he’d felt the last time he’d tried a joint. That was decades ago now. He could feel warm blood rolling down from his forehead, past his temple and tickling his good ear as it found a groove and began to pool there.

  Sorry, Emma, was all he could think right now. Sorry, Emma.

  The Russian appeared in his narrowing cone of vision, looming over him. The ugly little bastard was actually nodding appreciatively down at him, as if to say, Good effort, comrade. He raised his gun arm, lined up the end of the silencer at Boyd’s eyes, ready for a second and final tap.

  A baseball bat swung gracefully, beautifully, into view.

  The Russian disappeared.

  A moment later Jay’s face appeared over him. He was a picture of adrenalin-fired exhilaration – wide-eyed and grinning like a winning Strictly finalist. His mouth started moving. It looked like, You all right, mate? You all right? But all Boyd could hear was that steady traffic roar of his own rushing blood.

  ‘Grab, The. Gun,’ Boyd managed to say, his voice sounding like someone had thrown a thick wet blanket over a shitty little PA speaker on the other side of a submerged room.

  Jay disappeared from view, then returned, holding the gun by the long barrel of the silencer. He winced at the heat and promptly dropped it.

  Boyd scrabbled for it blindly in the dusty ground beside him. His finger brushed it, doubled back, and he grasped it before Crazy-Bloody-Ivan could return from wherever he’d gone.

  Well, I guess I’m not dying, Boyd reasoned, his head still spinning. He struggled onto his elbows to get a look around at the current situation.

  The Russian was on his back, legs crooked and splayed like a spatchcock chicken ready for the oven. But not dead, and definitely not out. He was cradling his head in his arms, his legs rocking from side to side.

  Jay got his hands under Boyd’s armpits and began to lift him up.

  ‘Just get me in the fucking car and drive!’ Boyd shouted.

  Jay nodded, hefted him into the passenger seat, then dived into the open door on the driver’s side.

  ‘Go! Go! Go!’ Boyd yelled.

  Jay threw the car into reverse and kicked up a cloud of grit and sand into the twin headlight beams.

  Boyd realised, just in time, he still had one leg hanging outside the car, the toe of his shoe scraping along the ground. ‘Fucking wait!’

  Jay slammed the brakes on and Boyd smacked painfully against the door frame – half in and half out of the car. Boyd writhed frantically and somehow managed to get himself fully in the car. ‘Now go!’ he screamed, pulling the passenger-side door closed.

  As the car bumped and lurched wildly, Boyd fumbled for a seat belt. The sprawled form of the Russian, now joined by his younger colleague, receded as the reversing car jolted chaotically over the muddy ruts in the lane.

  Then the younger man raised his arm.

  Followed by several silent flickers of muzzle flash.

  Sparks pinged off the edge of the windscreen.

  Shrieking, Jay raised an arm to protect his face. The car bounced and rocked and skidded as it continued its erratic retreat.

  But all this was like a silent action movie to Boyd. He was still hearing nothing but that damned roaring in both ears, and he was frantically blinking to keep a steady trickle of blood out of his eyes. Blackness was edging in, narrowing his field of vision.

  That was annoying. Because he really, really, really needed to see how this was all going to play out. He especially needed to see Emma.

  That was all that mattered to him now.

  Not Nix. Not himself. Not this case.

  Just Emma.

  45

  Ahead of him, a receding procession of red tail lights and blinking hazards. The PC on traffic duty recognises Boyd and seems to instantly pale at the sight of him.

  ‘Uh… up ahead, s-sir,’ the PC stutters, pointing. ‘But –’

  Boyd pushes past him, but the young copper grabs his arm.

  ‘Sir, I don’t think it’s a good –’

  ‘FUCK OFF!’ Boyd snarls, shaking off his grasp and shoving the young man aside. He can see the flash of blue lights, the yellow stripes of the ambulance, a solitary twist of smoke rising into the grey, overcast sky.

  It was a very average Tuesday, mid-morning, not even rush hour, not even raining. He got to work a couple of hours ago, enough time to gossip a bit in the canteen, make a coffee and make a start on some paperwork.

  Then the call.

  He got here in less than seven minutes – courtesy of blues-and-twos all the way. Got as close as the patrol car could get. And now he’s running towards that spiral of smoke, treading granules of glass spread far and wide across the motorway tarmac.

  The smoke’s coming from their car.

  Only it doesn’t look like a car any more. It looks more like a big compressed ball of KitKat foil.

  Two articulated trucks flank it, wheeled back to allow the first responders enough elbow room to reach it.

  He races past a first responder who’s trying to stop him, trying to prevent him from seeing what no husband and father should ever have to witness. He deftly dodges traffic police, firemen, paramedics.

  And then he arrives.

  He’s seeing heads shaking. He’s hearing words quietly exchanged.

  Then one of the paramedics is beside him. ‘I’m sorry, sir.’

  He remains hopeful. ‘She’s still alive?’

  A pause. ‘Your wife is. While everything’s kept in place. But it won’t be for much longer.’

  ‘Kept in place?’ That doesn’t make sense to him.

  ‘We’ve given her ketamine. She’s not in pain,’ is all he hears before he ducks down and peers inside the compressed wreck of their car. A glance to the right. Noah’s gone from the bridge of his nose up. Just gone. There’s hardly any blood on his pale cheeks. It doesn’t seem real. Somebody’s put a sheet over the mess above. In his chubby little hands he’s still holding an action figure. It’s an Avenger – the blue one with the round shield.

  Julia, though, is alive – just as the man said.

  She’s pinned into her seat by a jagged sheet of plastic dashboard. It’s gone right through her waist, into the back rest, cutting her almost completely in half. The dashboard is holding everything in.

  She sees him and smiles with relief.

  ‘Hey, Jules,’ he whispers.

  ‘Noah?’ She looks at him, hope in her eyes.

  He’s going to have to lie. He wants her to go knowing her boy’s just fine.

  ‘He’s okay, honey.’ He manages a weak smile. ‘He’s going to have a corker of a bruise tomorrow, though.’

  She wheezes with relief.

  He grabs her hand and squeezes it. ‘They’re going to get you out next.’ Then he quips, to make her smile: ‘Tell me you renewed the insurance?’

  She smiles and rolls her eyes.

  He looks down. There’s so much blood. She must have seen it. She must know this doesn’t end well.

  Like him, she’s pretending it’s all fine.

  Like him, she’s avoiding heart-breaking final words.

  How stupid of them.

  Her eyes roll again, but it isn’t forbearance this time. This is the close-down.

  He leans forward, ‘Jules. I love you,’ he whispers in her ear. Then he kisses her. ‘I love you.’

  He feels her squeeze him back, to let him know she’s heard. To let him know she loves him too.

  Then she’s gone.

  46

  ‘Dad?’

  Boyd opened his eyes to see Emma leaning over him, stroking his head. He could hear a bustle of activity beyond the green curtain that had been drawn around him and his daughter.

  ‘We’re in A&E,’ she said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘We came in earlier. For some stitches. Don’t you remember?’

  No, actually he didn’t. The last thing he’d had in his head was Julia.

  ‘What time is it?’ he asked, disorientated.

  She checked her watch. ‘Half past two… in the morning.’

  Boyd reached up – more bandages around his head. He felt oddly misplaced, hovering in a timeline he couldn’t quite make sense of. Were they back in London? His head was pounding with the most dreadful ache that synced perfectly with the thudding sound of his heartbeat. A hangover from hell, plus he was wearing a turban-like wrapping of bandages around his head. He must have gone on another bender and either been knocked down or face-planted into the pavement.

  Oh, what a stupid mess you are, Boydy.

  ‘Dad!’ Emma’s voice again.

  ‘Hey,’ he said groggily. ‘Sorry, love. I think I might’ve got pissed again.’

  She frowned. ‘What the hell are you talking about?’

  Maybe not a bender, then.

  He suddenly remembered gulls. And chips. His timeline was hopelessly confused.

  He had a flashback of an old man with a crew cut and shit teeth, grinning at him. I will choose now.

  Scenes reshuffled in his mind’s eye. Hastings. Nix. The campsite.

  The Russians.

  ‘Shit.’ He tried to sit up. ‘Where’s Okeke? Where’s Jason?’

  Emma put a hand on his shoulder reassuringly. ‘She’s at home, Dad. Jay’s at… Well, I guess he’s finished work and back at home too now.’

  The confusion was sorting itself out. Events slotted back into their correct order.

  Julia and Noah had died nearly three years ago.

  Boyd turned to his daughter. ‘What happened?’

  ‘The doctor said you suffered a concussion,’ she replied. ‘They wanted you to stay in for a few hours so they could keep an eye on you.’

  ‘No. I mean, after the campsite.’

  She lifted a finger to her lips to indicate his voice was getting a tad too loud. ‘You don’t remember?’

  He shook his head, which only made him groan. ‘The last thing I recall is Jason doing a Vin Diesel impersonation behind the wheel.’