The Mammoth Book of Best British Crime 9 Part 62

Niall went against every instinct in his body and inched forward. Towards the man who'd taught him fear. "That's right. You got a problem?" It would have been a perfect moment of defiance if he'd dropped his voice an octave or two.

His da fired the uppercut from his hip. It moved in a blur and stopped less than an inch from Niall's chin. It would have popped Niall's head right off his neck if it had completed its arc. Niall barely had time to blink. His da misinterpreted his lack of reaction.

"f.u.c.king h.e.l.l, son." He flashed his crooked, nicotine-stained teeth. "You've found your spine." He clapped a heavy bricklayer's hand on Niall's shoulder.

"Get yourself another beer, Frank," Niall's ma said. "I'll put your dinner out in a minute. Niall, go you upstairs and get out of them tracky bottoms. I've just noticed how stinking they are. What were you doing today?" She went on and on, diluting the atmosphere with chatter. Her voice sounded normal, but Niall thought her complexion paler than usual. He gave her a nervous grin and retreated to his bedroom.

After he'd pulled on a fresh pair of jeans, Niall flopped on to his bed. He lay spread-eagled atop the faded duvet his ma patted straight with military precision every morning, and waited for his heart to slow down and his mind to catch up. He'd just stood up to his da and saved his dog's life. In that moment, he felt like he could do anything. Then the mingled shouts of his parents arguing cut through his victory buzz.

Niall sat up on the bed and c.o.c.ked his ear. He couldn't make out the words, but his da seemed to be making most of the noise. His scalp tightened when he heard the back door slam shut. Lewis. He bounced to his feet and thundered down the stairs.

He stormed past his apologizing ma and yanked open the back door. Lewis cowered in the f.a.g b.u.t.t corner. Blood trickled down his shoulder. His da gripped the chef's knife from the wooden block in the kitchen. He glanced over his shoulder at Niall and sneered.

"You should have been man enough to do this yourself."

"Da, don't."

"Or what?"

Niall went for the flick-knife in his pocket. Empty. He'd left it in his tracky bottoms, now in a heap on his bedroom floor. Before common sense could freeze him in place, he darted forward and grabbed two handfuls of his da's thick black curls. He jerked back hard and smiled when his da yelped. Then his breath whooshed out as a vicious elbow caught him in his solar plexus. He stumbled back.

His da turned to face him, rubbing his scalp. "You're going to regret that, you wee b.a.s.t.a.r.d."

Niall got swept up in an adrenalin wave. He sucked in as much air as his winded lungs could take and wheezed his words. "Come on then, you f.u.c.king psycho. Teach me a lesson."

Niall heard a sharp growl. He looked beyond his da to see Lewis had come out of his corner. His peeled-back lips framed his canine maw. Twin lines of drool swayed back and forth. Niall's da tutted.

"Jesus Christ. Now the mutt is going to stand up to me. f.u.c.k this s.h.i.t." Niall's da kicked out. He cracked Lewis's jaw. Lewis backed up and shook his big head.

"Go on, Lewis," Niall said. "Sic the b.a.s.t.a.r.d!"

Lewis loosed an aggressive bark. Niall's da backed away from the dog, into his son's reach. Niall punched him low in the back. His da wheeled on him and grabbed the front of his T-shirt with his free hand.

"You wee f.u.c.ker!" He head-b.u.t.ted his son.

Niall felt his nose crack. Warm blood streamed over his mouth. His head lit up with pain and his legs buckled beneath him. He crumpled on to the concrete. Instinctively, he raised his hands to his face then recoiled from his own touch. He closed his watering eyes and curled into a foetal position, sure his da would kick lumps out of him.

Lewis barked louder then yelped with pain. The b.a.s.t.a.r.d had hurt his dog again. Somewhere in the midst of his own pain, he registered his ma's screaming protests. He felt bony but warm hands on his cheeks and risked opening his eyes. His ma gazed down on him with concern. He gripped her wrists and tugged on them. She nodded and helped him to his feet.

Then Lewis attacked.

Niall watched as his wounded dog leapt at his da. Lewis took down his target with blinding speed and accuracy, leaping higher than Niall thought possible. As the powerful jaws clamped down on his throat, Niall's da screamed then gurgled. He fell back under Lewis's weight and pa.s.sed out with shock. The b.l.o.o.d.y chef's knife tumbled from his grasp. Lewis ripped at his fallen prey.

"Oh Jesus, Niall, stop him."

Niall knew it was too late, but he called his dog's name.

Lewis ignored him.

Slowly, he approached the wild animal tearing chunks out of his father. As he did, he couldn't believe how calm he felt.

Blood ran down Lewis's heaving flank, spattering the ground. Niall's da had inflicted a lot of damage before Lewis finally snapped. Careful to avoid the wounds, Niall reached out to Lewis. On contact the dog scuttled backwards, away from his kill. He hunkered low on his hind legs and rumbled a warning through his b.l.o.o.d.y teeth. Niall made soothing sounds and approached Lewis, presenting open palms.

Master and dog faced each other, both bleeding. Niall saw only fear and anger in his pet's brown eyes. Lewis had been replaced by a feral beast and Niall wouldn't risk his wrath.

"Mummy." Niall spoke in a soft tone, aware that the slightest hint of a threat would set off another murderous attack. "Get in the house."

"You first."

"No, he's watching me. Get in while you can."

"I'm not leaving you here."

"I'll be right behind you." He tried hard to keep his voice calm. "Please, get inside."

"No!"

Lewis flinched and shifted his focus to Niall's ma. His muscled haunches twitched. Niall cursed and smashed his shin into the dog's throat to buy time. Lewis huffed and wheezed.

"Run!"

Niall grabbed his ma by the arm and pulled her into the house. He heard the scrabble of Lewis's claws on the concrete but didn't look back. They charged through the house and out the front. Niall cursed himself when he realized he'd left the front and back doors open. Too late to go back. He dragged his ma up the middle of the street. Lewis's screeching barks bounced off the redbrick terraces lining their escape route. Niall felt his b.a.l.l.s shrink. His ma's arm slipped out of his sweaty-palmed grip. She stumbled and fell. Niall looked around for help. Ahead, two small boys on chrome folding scooters watched the commotion. Further up a little girl peeked out from behind a parked car. Niall's heart thudded.

He heard Lewis growl. His dog was close. His dog, his responsibility.

Niall thought of the little kids, less than fifty yards away. Too close and too slow to be safe from an enraged pit bull. He looked down. His ma struggled to her feet, but he could see the fight was out of her. No time to think. Niall took a deep breath and turned to face his dog.

Lewis was on top of him in a streak of black fury. They collapsed on to the potholed macadam side-by-side. Niall beat at the dog's muscled side with one fist as he tried to keep him at bay with his other hand. He felt the heat of fresh blood with each punch. Lewis whined but wriggled closer and fought harder. Niall pushed his head against Lewis's neck to avoid gnashing teeth. The dog wriggled and snapped its jaws. Niall screamed. He wrapped his arms around Lewis's body, hugging him close.

Niall bit into his dog's neck. It tasted awful.

The slippery pit bull skittered backwards, bleeding hard from a fresh wound and yelping. Niall spat out a hunk of flesh and fur, then sc.r.a.ped at his tongue with clawed fingers. He clambered to his hands and knees and braced himself for Lewis's next attack. He could hear the kids screaming and his ma crying, but he didn't dare spare them a glance.

Niall raised one hand and inched forward slowly on his knees. Lewis backed up. The end of his lowered tail whipped softly across his hind legs. Niall stood and Lewis seemed to shrink as he lowered his head and looked up at Niall like a scolded toddler. The big brown eyes almost distracted him from the pinkish blood and s...o...b..r foam on Lewis's black muzzle.

"Shush, Lewis. Shush-shush-shush."

Lewis peeled back his lips and flopped his tongue over his lower teeth.

"Shush-shush-shush-shush-shush." He lowered a splay-fingered hand to Lewis's head.

"Niall. Stop that." His ma almost broke the spell with her gravelly whisper.

"You shush too, Mummy." He kept his voice light and Lewis tilted his head to direct Niall's hand to the sweet spot. He cupped Lewis's ear and gave it a gentle jiggle. Lewis wagged his tail and lapped at his master's wrist. Niall shuddered at the thought of how much of his da's blood Lewis had lapped up with that tongue.

Still shushing and calming, Niall hooked his fingers under Lewis's collar and led him off the street and back to the open front door. He glanced over his shoulder to see his ma following at a safe distance. She pinched an unlit, white-filtered cigarette in her shrunken slit of a mouth.

"Just wait there until I come back out, Mummy."

She drew her plastic lighter from her hip pocket and gripped it between two shaking hands. The flint sparked and G.o.d held back the breeze to allow her a wee puff.

Niall wanted to go to her. Comfort her. But he had to get Lewis's chain. He wasn't ready to let go. One last walk. His ma needed time to grieve for her husband and Niall needed to take Lewis for one last walk. Tears welled in his eyes.

He didn't know who to cry for first.

A TOUR OF THE TOWER.

Christine Poulson.

THE FIVE O'CLOCK tour was the last of the day.

Sadly, for Miriam it was to be the last one ever.

The grey-haired American in his early sixties, Miriam judged, around her own age had been the first to arrive. He was wearing a cream linen jacket: good material and very nicely cut. Miriam's working life had been spent in the menswear department of a big store and she couldn't help noticing what people were wearing. She glanced down at her chocolate-brown linen shirt and trousers: a devil to iron but worth it.

She stole another glance at the American. He was talking to a middle-aged couple (matching red anoraks) and their teenage son (hooded blue sweatshirt). There was also an older couple: a T-shirt that he really shouldn't be wearing with a paunch like that, and a pale-blue cotton sweater for her. The Australian couple in their twenties (chinos and a short skirt with high-heeled slingbacks) looked like newly-weds. There were a couple of French girls (cropped top and shift dress), who were probably from the local language school. The two young men, a tall blond (ancient Fruit of the Loom T-shirt), and a shorter, s.h.a.ggy-haired youth (blue waterproof) were campers, she guessed, judging by their wrinkled clothes.

The group was a typical mix of nationalities and ages and Miriam had seen hundreds like them in her time as a cathedral guide. She was already leading them across the nave to the locker room, when two late-comers, a middle-aged woman in a cream raincoat and a stocky young man in a blue anorak, came hurrying up. That made fourteen fortunately. She didn't like having thirteen in a group. After rucksacks and umbrellas had been placed in lockers, Miriam asked for a volunteer to stay at the back of the group so that she could be sure that no one was left behind. The American raised his hand and she smiled her thanks. He'd probably ask the best questions, too. She led the way to a door in the corner of the locker room. From there a spiral staircase wound up through the wall of the west front.

"It's a long climb," she warned.

One by one they followed Miriam through the narrow entrance. The staircase was lit by electric lights that threw a shifting pattern of shadows on to the walls. The group toiled up the steep stone steps, hollowed by generations of feet. When they were almost at the top Miriam made her usual comment to the people behind her.

"It's just when you think you can't go any further that you get there!"

She had timed it just right. They emerged on to the narrow gallery as the choir came in for evensong. There were exclamations and gasps of surprise when people realized how high they were. To Miriam's mind this was the best view of the cathedral. There was a lump in her throat as she watched the white and crimson robes moving in stately procession down the nave.

When she had heard about the new regulation, she had gone to see the Dean, but he had explained to her that his hands were tied: "... new rules ... insurance company ... no one over sixty."

"It's not fair, I know," he said, smiling at her, "when one feels as fit as one ever did." And that was kind of him, because she knew for a fact that he was a good three years younger than she was and he was in good shape. He might be a Very Reverend, but he was also a keen sportsman who coached a cricket team and ran half-marathons to raise money for charity.

His cropped hair and natural tonsure gave him a monastic look. He had asked her to call him Jim, but she really couldn't bring herself to be so familiar, and after that she tried to avoid calling him anything.

The Dean was right. It really wasn't fair and Miriam was as fit as she had ever been. Even after this climb, she was scarcely out of breath, unlike the woman in the red anorak, who was leaning on the parapet and breathing heavily. The stocky young man in the blue anorak was suffering too: beads of sweat were standing out on his forehead.

When everyone had had time to recover, she led them up the next flight of stairs to the s.p.a.ce over the clerestory. Her voice seemed to run on independently of her, weaving in the history of the cathedral with little jokes and anecdotes.

"Pardon me," said the American, "but this render on the walls, what would that be?" He had an "aw-shucks" kind of voice that made her think of James Stewart.

"That's pumice stone covered with lime wash," she told him, thinking she'd been right about his asking the best questions.

"You really know your stuff," he said admiringly.

She did. It was scarcely an exaggeration to say that she knew every inch of the building. At nights when she couldn't sleep, she explored the place in her imagination, roaming the vast dark s.p.a.ces of the nave and the glorious soaring transept, wandering through the tranquil cloister and the chapter house, where the treasures of the cathedral were displayed. There were some wonderful things in there early printed books, embroidered altercloths and vestments, silver plate and, most precious all, St Edmund's silver-gilt chalice. It had escaped being melted down during the Reformation, when the bishop had buried it in the garden of the palace.

The cathedral was the only thing that had kept her going after Bill had died so soon after they had retired here from London. But perhaps she shouldn't have let it become her whole life. Maybe she should take up bowls again. She and Bill used to play at compet.i.tion level ...

Someone coughed. She came to herself and realized that everyone was looking at her.

"This way," she said brightly and led the way across a gangplank to the room at the base of the tower that housed the working of the medieval clock. This was the first place on the tour where one could get a view of the close and the surrounding landscape. Pewter-grey clouds were ma.s.sing over the water meadows. Miriam pointed out the bishop's palace through the rain-flecked window. She noticed for the thousandth time that the crevices of the windowsill were clogged with the desiccated corpses of dozens of b.u.t.terflies. She had been meaning for ages to bring up a little battery-operated vacuum cleaner and now she never would.

I'm looking at things for the last time, she thought, and that's almost like looking for the first time. She was struck all over again by how strange it was to be up here, like seeing behind the scenes at the theatre.

An open wooden staircase like a piece of scaffolding wound up around the inside of the tower. They climbed it and emerged into the bell chamber. Miriam had timed this to coincide with the chiming of the hour at six o'clock. They ranged themselves on wooden benches or leaned against the wall and waited. The sound, when it came, was stupendous. It swelled to fill the whole s.p.a.ce and got into your head. It was impossible to speak, scarcely even to think.

When the reverberations had faded away, it was time for the final climb up to the walkway that ran around the base of the spire. Today, the view was literally breathtaking. When you tried to speak, the wind whipped the words out of your mouth. The Australian girl didn't want to go out, and in those heels, no wonder. The metal rails were chest-high, but it felt as if the wind was about to lift you off your feet.

All that was left now was to retrace their steps. She kept up her flow of patter it wouldn't do to short-change the visitors but when the door at the foot of the spiral staircase thudded shut behind her, it had such a final sound that she felt like crying.

She got a grip on herself. Her last task was to count heads before the group dispersed. She counted thirteen. She frowned must have missed one and asked everyone to stand still so that she could count again. She did count again and again but it still came to thirteen.

Someone was missing.

"Did you count them in the clock room on the way down?" asked the Dean.

Miriam blushed to the roots of her hair. She had clean forgotten. That had been the rule ever since a visitor had got stranded on the walkway around the foot of the spire. The guide hadn't realized that he was still out there and had bolted the door. The poor chap had been up there for hours.

The American had been adamant that no one had been left behind. No, he hadn't actually counted them, but he had been the last to leave every room and each time he had checked that it really was empty. Miriam had felt a momentary doubt, but she clung to the knowledge that there had been three dark young men on the way up and only two when they reached the bottom. The trouble was that they were all dark and stocky and they had all been wearing something blue. No one else thought that anyone was missing.

It was just her luck that the dean should have been hanging around to witness her discomfiture. Not that he was censorious, far from it, but that only made her feel worse.

"I'll go back," she said.

"You most certainly won't," said the Dean. "I've been in my office all day. I could do with the exercise. I'll be there and back before you know it."

Miriam could only submit. She took a seat at the end of a pew. The other guides were drifting into the nave one by one. Miriam glimpsed one of the posher ones, a woman who was a leading light in the local Pony Club. She was pleasant enough, but Miriam never felt comfortable with her. She was whispering something to one of the others. From the corner of her eye Miriam saw them glance at her and look away. She wished the earth would open up and swallow her.

It seemed to take hours, but couldn't have been more than fifteen minutes before the Dean emerged from the locker room. As he walked briskly towards her, the skirts of his ca.s.sock flicking out behind him, he smiled and gave her a thumbs-up.

"All clear. There's no one up there," he said. "And there's nothing left in the lockers either."

Miriam felt a surge of relief. She got to her feet and the smiling Dean took charge of her. Chatting at her side, his hand under her elbow, he steered her towards the cathedral cafe. She was surprised to see that the little gathering of guides had swelled to a crowd. The door was opening, there were balloons, and someone was holding a bottle of champagne. The Dean released her and held up his arms like a conductor readying an orchestra. He brought them down and there was a loud chorus of "For She's a Jolly Good Fellow."

"Happy birthday, dear Miriam," said the Dean, and he leaned forward to kiss her on either cheek.