Fourteen months ago
Noah
Noah was bored. Dead bored. Any minute now his brain would jellify from the mind-numbing waiting and he’d simply cease to exist. Fuck, he almost willed it to happen. Anything. Anything to escape the freezing cold temperature inside the car and stop Benton’s blah blah blah prattling about his exploits on Tinder. The bloke was bald, overweight, divorced, and edging close to fifty. Man, the fact Benton was even getting dates was impressive.
Noah made a mental note to check Benton’s Tinder profile when he was off shift. He’d bet anything his DI’s profile picture was at least ten years old.
Benton’s jokes had been almost amusing on day one of their stakeout, but now ten nights in, the jokes and the constant droning were five steps beyond irritating, whatever that was.
They’d been tailing the same brothers for almost a fortnight. Both were tall and skinny with shiny black hair cut short, and always together. Nearly three hundred hours of manpower, night after night spent screwing their body clocks, fighting to stay awake in a cramped unmarked VW Polo. And daytimes spent draping towels over the curtain rails in his bedroom, trying to block out the penetrating sunlight shining through the flimsy curtains so he could get some sleep.
Noah might’ve only been on the counter-terrorism surveillance unit for a month but even he could see this was a bullshit tip from a sketchy piece of Iranian intel. Every night had been the same. Clock on at five. Catch up on the day’s surveillance, drive to the hand carwash place in All Saints. Watch the brothers finish their shift, before climbing into their beaten-up maroon Citroën, and driving to their rented terrace house in West Ham. Sit in the car watching the flickering lights of the television from the living room window until nine, sometimes nine-thirty, before the lights switched off. Then sitting in a freezing cold car as bored as fuck until five when the next shift car arrived to take over.
The brothers had no visitors. They never went out in the evening, and until the team found any evidence that the tip was legit, they couldn’t get eyes inside, and were stuck watching.
‘Time for a coffee and a slash.’ Benton unclipped his seatbelt, pressed his hands on the steering wheel, and arched his back. ‘I’m getting too old for this shit.’
Noah raised his eyebrows but kept his mouth shut. He’d thought the same thing more than once this week. No way in hell would Noah be sitting on pointless stakeouts in five years let alone when he was Benton’s age. Noah was on a fast track. He’d be bouncing out of surveillance and into undercover in six months.
A fast track to where though? a voice in his head asked. Noah pushed the thought away. Somewhere, anywhere, as long as he got out of this surveillance shit, he didn’t much care.
‘Want anything?’ Benton asked, glancing at the house five doors down from where they were parked. It was pitch-black. Noah thought of the brothers asleep in their warm beds and felt a stab of resentment.
A cold pint of Kronenbourg with his mates around him and Rachel by his side.
‘Nah,’ Noah replied.
‘Write the log, will you?’ Benton said, opening the driver’s door and allowing a blast of cold air in.
‘Sure,’ Noah sighed as Benton closed the door with a soft thud.
Noah picked up the biro and flicked the plastic between his fingers before checking the time. 12.56 a.m. Noah’s mouth stretched into a wide yawn. His eyes stung with the urgency to sleep. Noah blinked and watched Benton in the rear-view mirror. The DI bent into a brief squat before rummaging in his crotch and stepping into the road towards the kebab shop.
Noah checked the Citroën parked outside the house, then the house itself. Everything was dark and still. Everyone in the goddamn world was sleeping apart from him, Noah thought with another deep yawn. He checked the clipboard, tempted to write Sweet FA in the comments box, but scrawled the usual No Movement instead.
The least Benton could do was let him sit behind the wheel for once, and drive them back to the station at the end of shift, Noah thought, dumping the clipboard back into the side pocket and stretching. A dull ache had begun niggling his arse.
‘Against protocol, buddy boy.’ Benton had chuckled on their first shift before prodding at the few remaining spikes of black hair left on his disappearing hairline. ‘You might be the golden boy, but only I drive the car. Another ten years and you’ll be breaking in the rookie just the same.’
Rookie. Noah rolled his eyes. His father might be the Deputy Commissioner, but Noah had joined the force like any other grad. He’d done his years as a constable on the beat, followed by six-month stints across the departments, learning the ins and outs of his father’s business. How exactly did that make him a rookie?
Noah glanced one more time in the rear-view mirror before unclipping his seatbelt and scrambling over the gearbox and into the driver’s seat. No way Benton was coming out of the kebab shop with a coffee. The man had stuffed a greasy doner kebab down his neck every night for the past sixteen shifts, and stank the car out in the process. Tonight would be no different.
Sod it. Noah might as well sit behind the wheel for the next four hours of shift.
A moment later the passenger door opened with another blast of cold air and the stench of grease and meat flooded up Noah’s nose.
‘I wondered how long it would take you to move over. I thought you’d have done it on day one.’ Benton grinned. He dropped into the seat before leaning forward and checking his hair in the rear-view mirror.
‘What about protocol?’
‘I was just shitting with you, buddy boy. Wanted to see how long it would take you to break. Like I said, I had my money pegged on day one.’
Noah grunted and ran his hands over the wheel. Now all he needed was a high-speed chase to shake things up. Hell, he’d take a visitor to the house. One measly visitor. A passer-by. A light switched on. Anything. Anything to pierce the boredom.
Noah dropped his head against the headrest and breathed through his mouth. He could feel the stink of the kebab seeping through the pores of his skin into his body. How many more nights would he be stuck doing this?
‘What the hell?’ Benton shouted.
Noah’s eyes shot open, half expecting to find Benton had spilled sauce down his shirt. Noah glanced to his left and followed Benton’s eyes to the house. The front door was swinging open and both brothers were diving into their car. A shot of adrenaline hit his body as the eyes of the second brother locked on to his for a split second before he disappeared.
‘We’ve been seen,’ Noah said, his voice almost a shout.
The engine of the Citroën roared into life.
‘Do we follow?’
‘Of course we follow,’ Benton replied, dumping the kebab out the window. ‘Go, go, go.’
Noah turned the key and jammed his foot on the clutch. He pulled into the street and accelerated just as the maroon car disappeared around the corner.
‘They went left.’ Benton pointed. ‘I’ll call it in.’
As Benton rattled off the details to a team member at headquarters, Noah focused on the road and the silhouette of the car ahead of them. Its lights were off but the brake light flashed red every few seconds as the car weaved down street after street.
‘Why are they running? What happened?’
‘Bloody kebab shop. I knew something was iffy about the blokes in there tonight. Just don’t lose them,’ Benton said before relaying their movements down the phone.
Noah was no longer tired, but wide awake. Focused.
The car in front picked up speed, its wheels skidding as it shot out of a side road and onto the A11 at Stratford.
‘They’re heading into Central London,’ Benton said down the phone. ‘Get some units ready to cut them off by Liverpool Street.’
Noah pressed his right foot to the floor, gaining speed as he took the turn onto Whitechapel Road.
‘Easy,’ Benton yelled, as the wheels hit ice and lost their grip on the road. For two full seconds the car skidded across the patch of ice, careening them to the right before finding the tarmac and propelling forward.
Noah grinned as he pulled back into the left-hand lane and shot forward.
‘Teams are in place ahead, Noah. Ease off a bit.’ Benton’s stern voice cut through Noah’s excitement.
Noah nodded but didn’t lift his foot from the pedal. His eyes remained focused on the car five metres ahead. No way was he letting the other unit get this. Noah could take them down right now, he thought, pulling forward.
‘Noah,’ Benton bellowed beside him. ‘Ease off.’
‘I got it,’ Noah said, his voice louder than he’d intended.
The impact came from nowhere. A jolting bang that clipped the bonnet followed by a thud under the wheels. Noah jammed on the brake, instinct taking over his movements as he swerved to the left away from whatever they’d hit. He felt the wheels change and the smooth feel of the ice carrying them sideways, flying straight towards the orange glow of a lamppost.
Noah threw the wheel to the right and pumped the accelerator, willing the car to respond. It didn’t. Benton dove towards him, his arms up to his face as the car collided with the lamppost. The frame of the Polo folded inwards as if it was made of nothing but the flimsy aluminium of a tin can.
The fear was paralysing.
Shit. What had just happened? What had he done?
The rectangular orange bulb of the lamppost flickered by his window. He could feel the heat of it radiating against his face, and there was something wet on his cheek. Noah touched his face and felt the sting of a cut. He stared at the blood on his fingertips with a nauseating sense of detachment. What had he done?
What had he done?
Noah pushed the airbag away from his chest as a wave of claustrophobia sliced through the fear. He blinked and stared at the smashed glass of the driver’s window and tried to move his head to the left. It wouldn’t budge. The left side of the car was completely crushed from the weight of the streetlamp pressing down on it.
Noah swallowed and tasted the metallic tang of blood and nausea in the back of his throat. ‘Benton?’ he said, his voice a shaking croak of a sound he didn’t recognize.
The silence that followed sent a chill racing down his spine.
‘Benton?’ he said, louder this time as his hands reached out, fumbling for the bulk of Benton’s body. Noah felt Benton’s shoulders and realized the DI’s head was pushing against Noah’s knee. Noah didn’t need to see to know there was something very wrong with the angle of Benton’s body.
A rock formed in Noah’s throat. ‘Benton? Please answer me,’ Noah whispered as he traced his fingers along the Benton’s shoulder blade to his neck and the side of his Adam’s apple. Noah held his breath and waited for the beat of a pulse to push against his fingers. Nothing. He moved his hand, trying again.
Nothing.
‘Benton?’ Noah cried out.
A creaking of metal sounded from the roof. Noah felt the pressure of the weight against his head increase along with the desperate need to escape the car.
He fumbled his hand against Benton’s body until he reached the clip of his seatbelt and pulled at the door handle. The door didn’t move, jarred from the impact of whatever he’d hit, or the lamppost now crushing the roof, Noah didn’t know. He leant his shoulder into it and felt it give way. A moment later he landed in a heap on the cold tarmac and lay still.
Benton’s dead. You killed Benton. The voice in his head carried the authority of his father, and yet the fear in those words was childlike – a bad dream whispered in hurried incoherent rambles to a half-asleep parent.
The second creak of metal echoed in the empty street. Noah dragged his body across the tarmac, his knees scraping the rough contours of the road as he tried to distance himself from the wreckage. He glanced back at the car as the remainder of the roof gave way under the weight of the lamppost. The metal seemed to scream as it flattened into itself.
Noah lay against the cold tarmac. He stared at the sky as the blinking of the orange streetlamp burned at the backs of his eyes. What had he done? His throat constricted as he forced his mind back through the last few minutes.
He’d skidded on the ice. Lost control. Hit the lamppost. Benton’s final words ricocheted through his head. ‘Ease off.’
If only he’d listened. Noah could see himself slowing down, allowing the maroon car to pull ahead. Skidding on the ice but swerving only for a second before righting his course and continuing with the chase, the night, the rest of his life.
Something else niggled his thoughts. A shadow crossing the windscreen. Noah hadn’t hit the patch of ice, then swerved. He’d swerved then hit the ice. Why? The shadow in the periphery of his vision, the thud under his wheels.
He’d hit something. Someone.
The thought galvanized his fear, pushing him to his feet. Pain shot out from his left knee. The leg gave way, sending Noah stumbling like a drunk across the road.
Noah staggered away from the car, one step, then another and another, his eyes scouring the street he’d been driving down just minutes earlier, his eyes searching for any sign of what he’d hit.
Be a bin. Be a bin, or a dog at worst. Please be a dog.
The street was empty. Shut down for the night. A clothing shop and a currency exchange. A halal butcher’s and a restaurant. Empty. Dark. Silvery-grey shutters marked with graffiti covered the shops. Even the convenience store on the corner showed no sign of life.
All of a sudden Noah’s eyes shot to the tree on the pavement. There was a hump or something at the bottom of the trunk and he was sure it had moved. The pain in his knee disappeared. He stood up straight and ran full pelt, skidding on the slick layer of ice covering the pavement.
His heart thundered in his throat as he reached the tree trunk and grabbed at the heap beneath it. The smell of rotting vegetables hit his senses as he scrambled through the rubbish bags.
Could he have hit a bin bag that had been thrown into the road?
A panicky hope gripped his body. He slumped to sitting and drew in a breath of cold air.
It had been a rubbish bag. That’s all. His focus had been on the suspect’s car, on driving. He’d taken the corner too fast and skidded on ice. He’d hit a rubbish bag.
The cold tarmac seeped through his jeans and into his muscles. His heartbeat slowed. Then he heard it. A noise. Not from the street, but from his car. A clang of metal on metal. A groan. Not a bin bag. A person. A man.
Noah saw the shadow in his side view again and the shape of a human face. He scrambled across the road, throwing his body onto the tarmac. The smell of petrol hit his senses. The vapour stinging his eyes and hitting the back of his throat and making him cough and gag.
Legs. He could see a pair legs underneath the car. Don’t move an injured body. It was one of the first rules of his first aid training. Except the body was being covered in petrol. He had to move it.
He reached out and gripped the denim jeans of the man. Noah heaved him out from underneath the car. In slow awkward drags, Noah scrambled across the road with the body until they were away from the car.
The streetlight suddenly felt brighter – a flashing spotlight on them both. Noah gagged again, nausea burning in his throat.
He felt for a pulse and counted one, two, three, four, five, no beat, just like Benton. He leant forward, tipping the man’s head back and opening his airway. Noah breathed into the man’s body. He formed an x with his hands and thumped the man’s chest. Breathe, thump, breathe.
A panic stretched across Noah’s chest. His eyes scanned the street again. ‘HELP!’ His voice echoed down the road. He searched the windows above the shops. No lights. No people.
‘HELP.’
The wound on the man’s stomach was deep. Noah could see the squishy pinky-white tube of an intestine prodding out. That wasn’t good. Noah’s arms screamed in agony as he continued chest compressions over and over. But every thrust of his hands caused another well of blood to pump out of the man’s body.
‘HELP!’ Noah screamed, his voice hoarse as tears fell from his eyes. He threw a punch at the man’s chest, then another and another.
The squeal of the ambulance siren filled the silent night. Noah continued with CPR. ‘Don’t die. They’re coming. They’re coming now.’
A moment later the blue siren lights filled his vision.
‘We’ve got this,’ a woman in a green uniform said, guiding Noah to one side.
***
It was two hours later before anyone would tell Noah that the man he’d hit was dead. ‘It’s against the rules for me to talk about a patient with you, but …’ the paramedic glanced over her shoulder and lowered her voice ‘… he most likely died on impact or very soon afterwards from a skull fracture. There was nothing you could’ve done.’
The inquest was sealed. ‘To protect the operation,’ his boss had claimed, although Noah suspected his father’s involvement. To protect the golden son more like.
It was another two weeks before Noah realized he’d never go back to the force. He’d killed two people: Benton and the man. He never did find out the name of the second victim. Until Molly told him.
Billy.
Noah had killed Benton. And he’d killed Billy.
He’d killed Billy.
Billy was Molly’s brother and he’d killed Billy.
The nausea rose in his throat. He bent forward, dropping his head between his knees, and retching into the snow – the whiskey burning his throat on the way up, just as it had on the way down.
Darkness crowded his mind, the night closing in around him as the blare of sirens rang in his ears. You’re too late.
Noah stumbled from the mound, his eyes scouring the ground as he swept the torchlight over the stark white snow. Where was it? How far had he thrown it?
His legs felt weak, his left knee throbbing with pain as if he’d fallen to the cold tarmac only minutes ago. It was no use. The penknife was gone, lost to the snow. If it weren’t for the desperation surging through his body, Noah would’ve laughed at his own stupidity. Why had he ever thought he could do without the knife?
He had to find another way.
The walk to the cabin felt endless as he staggered through the snow. Every breath seemed to snag in his throat and the golf-ball-sized lump blocking his airway. There had to be a knife in the cabin. Hell, a corkscrew would do. A fork even. Anything that would slice through the flesh of his skin and rid his head of the darkness, the sirens, his screams.