Nicholas walked silently under the Airlie Crescent house. He and Tristram had run and ridden bikes under here like madmen, but now he had to stoop slightly to avoid the low bearers overhead. The fine dirt underfoot let out puffs of powder, and he was pleased that his footsteps were silent.
He could hear a bath running overhead, and the muffled sounds of a nurse coaxing Mrs Boye.
Near a trellis that separated the under house from the backyard was a workbench. The vice and hacksaw were covered with tiny mothwings of dragon’s blood powder: the police scientific team must have come for fingerprints after Gavin’s suicide.
Beside the bench was a relatively new concrete slab with a solid-looking steel cabinet bolted to it. Nicholas softly placed down the duffel bag he carried, and carefully inserted the key Laine had given him. He listened: overhead, the bath stopped running. There was a shout: ‘Why should I?’ Then the soothing voice of the St Luke’s nurse.
Nicholas twisted the cabinet handle. Inside was a shelf stacked with boxes of rounds and a hard plastic case for a telescopic sight. Below were vertical racks for four guns. Two rifles were there, both dappled with dusky fingerprint whorls. One was a Miroku under-over shotgun. The other was a Number 1 Ruger; Nicholas recognised it because Cate’s father had owned one exactly like it: a hunting rifle with a scope but no magazine because it took only one bullet at a time. He lifted out the Miroku, figuring that its two shots made it. . well, twice as appealing.
He slipped the shotgun into the open throat of the duffel bag; its stock rattled against the four cans of insect spray and two bug bombs. Also in the bag were rubber dishwashing gloves and a cricket stump to clear web, a bottle of kerosene, and the purchase Nicholas was most proud of: imitation Zippo lighters, Fabrique en Chine. He dropped in a box of twelve-gauge shells and relocked the cabinet.
He stepped carefully out from under the house and onto the drive. It was after two in the afternoon. He’d spent hours getting his bits and pieces together, and had rung Suzette and told her what had happened with Miriam Gerlic and Pritam and Laine, and how the rune painted on Laine’s chest seemed to have done some good. He looked up; the sun was just over its high hurdle and arcing down to the west. He hefted the duffel bag over one shoulder. It was as if he was again ten years old and he and Tristram were preparing to fight the Japs at Wewak or the Jerries at El Alamein. . only this time the gun was real.
‘Tommy guns?’ he asked the boy who’d been gone a long, long time. ‘Of course,’ he answered, and strode to his car.
Nothing moved under the shadowed brow of the Myrtle Street shops.
Nicholas walked towards Plough amp; Vine Health Foods with one wrist in the duffel bag and his hand on the shotgun grip. It occurred to him there was no good way for this to finish: at best, he’d go to gaol for the murder of an unidentified old woman; at worst. . well, there were thirty-one flavours of worst. One of the least unappealing was emulating Gavin before Garnock’s extended family had a chance to do a thorough job on him.
The shop’s door was locked. A sign hung in the glass: ‘Closed due to sickness. Sorry!’
He shielded his eyes and pressed against the window. The shop within was dark and still. He let out a slow breath, guiltily relieved. He could move to Plan B.
There was hope now: he could take the fight into a remoter place where, perhaps, no one would hear the shotgun blasts. The downside was that it would be her place. The woods.
Movement caught his eye.
A house spider jumped from its hiding place atop a wooden rafter of the awning. It abseiled down on the silk it spun out behind, and landed soundlessly on the ground. It scurried around the corner and started down the footpath towards Carmichael Road.
Nicholas was about to chase after it and squash it, but stopped himself. Let her know, he thought. Let her know something’s after her. Even if she gets me — and God forbid, Laine and Pritam and Suze — at least she’ll get a taste of being hunted. She’ll realise that things can turn. It doesn’t always go her way. Not any more.
He got in the car and steered it towards Carmichael Road.
Suzette watched her son carefully. Her heart was racing.
Nicholas’s call that morning had made her feel sick; after he’d rung, she’d gone to the bathroom and lost all her breakfast. But then the excitement of his one piece of good news had carried her into Nelson’s bedroom on swift feet.
Her fingers had been shaking when she drew the paring knife over the skin of his thumb — she didn’t want to hurt her boy. But he didn’t so much as wince as the steel bit in and red droplets rose around the blade. She quickly opened his pyjama top, dipped her index finger in the blood, and painted that ugly symbol above his heart.
That had been two hours ago. Now, he was sitting in front of the television, hungrily chewing toast as he played Need for Speed.
She and Bryan exchanged glances.
‘You know what I think,’ said Bryan. She could tell he was unhappy: his voice dropped an octave and his words were clipped.
‘I have to go.’
‘You don’t.’
She shrugged. ‘I can’t leave him up there.’
‘Then let’s all go-’
‘No!’ she said loudly. Nelson looked up from the Xbox game. Suzette waved him back — it’s fine. ‘No way in hell,’ she continued. ‘You keep them here.’
‘Suze. .’ began Bryan.
But she was already on her feet and reaching for the phone book.