Quid Pro Quo

Chapter Thirty One

It's difficult to explain, but the brain and the body do extraordinary things when you shock them.

You know those stories of elderly grandmothers lifting wrecked cars from the bodies of their family members? That kind of thing. The display of super-human feats of courage or endurance that mark the very limits of this human machine and are only ever plumbed in times of crisis or adversity.

With me it was very different. When Sharp drew his pistol and shot Ty at close range, my eyes took a photograph of incredible detail which burned itself into my mind then and forever.

As Edge was lifted and thrown backwards through the air like a rag doll, I saw the flicker of every wind-swept leaf, the ripple of a hundred thousand raindrops merging with the river and the slate grey billow of cloud overhead. As his hands clawed in vain, I noticed a silver ring worn on Ty's right index finger that I had never before seen. After he hit, white-spumed geysers of disturbed water reached for the sky then fell back in a splayed spatter of green. Then I saw myriad tiny bubbles rising to the surface and passing around the spread limbs of my face-down friend.

Still limbs.

I saw every tree on the distant hillside as a bolt of lightning arced across the heavens. Even the feeling of wind and rain on my face was heightened. I felt the impact of every droplet and the ruffle of every sodden hair on my head. It was as if God had pressed pause on his movie playback and left me running just to make sure that I took it all in.

Ty's body lay face down and motionless as the current took him swiftly away from the boathouse pool. He was semi-submerged, going under for several yards before rising again. He was, very obviously, dead. His body trailed a faint smear of red water as it picked up speed and turned the bend in the river some ten metres away.

Sharp stood stock-still, his gun arm still raised for a second or two after the report of the shot had echoed around the valley, competing with the thunder for attention. His shoulders jumped slightly in an irritable gesture as if he were trying to shuffle some raindrops from running down his neck. His shaved head shone white like a beacon in the rainstorm-enforced gloaming.

The two men who stood behind Sharp watched Ty's body depart with detached interest, their hands moving away from their weapons. The loan shark had acted so impulsively, and without warning, that they had not been able to draw before the deed was done.

Martha seemed to be showing no reaction at all, her eyes were glazed over with fear, and she rocked forward and back in time to the tune of her own demons. After the briefest pause, the world caught up with me and I felt something in my chest move akin to an actual physical tearing of flesh.

Bright colours jumped in front of my eyes and my throat constricted as if it were trying to save Sharp the job of killing me. Part of my brain felt anger; that a great wrong had been done and a good man was gone. Another more animal corner of my subconscious wanted to scratch a hole in the swampy earth and crawl into it; curl tight in the foetal position and wait for the storm and this nightmare to pass.

Three seconds... Three seconds was all it had taken to change my world forever, and the next three seconds changed it irrevocably again.

Sharp barely flinched. He barked an order at his two men, who moved between himself and where I hid. They began to gather the far-flung coins from the bag.

Sharp himself swung his still-extended gun arm in a downward arc from the position where Ty had stood to the spot where Martha kneeled, her arms still tied behind her and rain-soaked hair smeared across her face like streaks of mud.

Sharp's eyes narrowed and I swear I saw the sinews in his hand and forearm tighten, squeezing the trigger home and bringing about the end of Dr. Martha Wimple, just as he had Ty.

Without any conscious thought or command to my body, I was up out of the filth in which I had been crouched. With no pause for breath, I stepped out from behind the tree, and, with no idea how it had got there, the Glock was in my hand. An unintelligible scream burned in my throat as I raised the gun and squeezed the trigger.

Again and again the pistol spat and leaped in my hand as lumps of metal flew through the air. Gone was the combat stance Ty had taught me. Forgotten were the wise words on controlling my breath and the clinical efficiency of a double-tapped two shots per target. All that remained of his teaching was the definite policy of aiming to kill.

In moments, I had emptied the magazine; firing wildly in a desperate bid to save Martha from an execution at the hands of a murderer. The first bullets flew high and wild, helped by my rage and urgency. They did however cause Sharp to desist from pulling the trigger and emptying Martha's skull into the boathouse pool.

He turned towards me with a look of utter bemusement on his face, his gun arm moving slowly up to point at me. I had no idea where my shots had gone, but without pausing I aimed entirely from instinct and continued to fire the Glock without pause.

The noise of the discharge must have shocked Sharp's men, both of whom rose from being bent double, picking spilled coins from the path. They stood directly in line between Sharp and me.