Crime thriller serialisation: No Man's Land, by Neil Broadfoot - Part 1
CONNOR Fraser collapsed against the church wall, rain-slicked granite driving icy needles into his back and shoulders. He focused on the sudden chill, tried to use it to clear his thoughts, calm the white noise of pain and confusion and rage. Blood pumped over the hand he had clamped across the wound to his leg, hot and slick between his fingers. He took a deep breath, ignored the flash of pain in his chest, exhaled a cloud of steam into the night air.
The voice drifted from the shadows, as warm and cloying as the blood pouring from his leg.
‘You okay, Connor? Watch your step. Last thing we want is you slipping and breaking your neck. Been enough death here recently.’
Connor looked into the darkness opposite, trying not to think of what had been left there only days ago. Knew now it had been a message for him. A message crafted in blood and pain, designed to make his life a horror story. His attacker slid from the shadows, moving closer. Connor saw muscles tense, the final attack close. The knife rose slowly, flaring orange as it caught the glow from a streetlight overhead.
Connor braced himself against the church wall, tried to draw strength from the ancient stone.
‘Come on, then,’ he hissed, dragging his gaze from the ghost in front of him.
‘I’ve not got all night, and this is getting boring.’
Another smile, almost genuine this time.
‘Mr Take Charge, huh, Connor? I always liked that about you.’
A glance down at the knife. ‘Well, if you insist.’ Connor pushed off the wall as hard as he could as his attacker lunged, using inertia to make up for the weakness in his leg. He surged forward, the fury and pain finally erupting from him in a roar that filled his ears, drowning out even the hammering of his heart.
They collided in a tangle of limbs and fell to the cobbles, writhing. Connor’s leg was engulfed in agony as he jerked the wrong way, the sudden pain forcing another scream from him. He felt small, hard fingers scrabble across his face and twisted away, eyes searching desperately for the knife. He grabbed for it, felt the crazed strength of his attacker behind the blade, inching it closer, closer, to his face.
He took another breath, tasted blood at the back of his throat, and gripped the arms that were quivering with the effort of driving the knife towards his face. He thought about letting go for an instant, the knife digging into the soft flesh under his chin, the blade slicing sideways and down to tear open his windpipe, blood and gristle splattering onto the cobbles. He could let it end with him. Let his blood be the last. Couldn’t he?
CHAPTER ONE
EDINBURGH - three days earlier. Run!
The word was a shriek in his mind, an imperative he could not ignore. He charged forward, shrugging off the hands he felt on his shoulders. Ignored the sudden panicked shouts of his name as he crashed through heavy double doors at the back of the High Court and onto the street.
A clatter of feet behind him, a voice shouting: ‘Stephen! Stop! Tango Alpha to team leader, he’s gone. Repeat, asset is on foot, heading . . .’
He pushed through the throng in front of him, ignoring the indignant shouts, the burning, dazzling flash of cameras and the clamour of questions. Run! Stephen lurched across the street, new shoes slithering across the cobbles, aiming for the gate and the News Steps he knew lay beyond. Took them three at a time, each impact on the age-smoothed stone juddering through his body and driving the breath from him.
He looked up, realised he was running straight for the looming stone wall at the bottom of the stairs, where the path twisted to the left, then on down the hill. He skidded through the turn, colliding with a heap of tattered blankets tucked into the corner of the landing, felt something soft yield against his flailing feet.
‘Ah, ya...’ a voice grunted, the blankets rearing up like some kind of threadbare monster.
A pale, thin face glared at him, eyes wide with shock, outrage and pain. Stephen kicked himself free, dived for the next flight of stairs, reached the bottom and picked up speed on the slope that led onto Market Street. Waverley station was only minutes away. He could duck in, pick a train, any train, and just go. Leave it all behind and...
A figure appeared at the mouth of the alleyway, all shoulders and back, blocking his path. Stephen’s roar was part shock, part fury. No station for him. No escape. Not now. He tried to slow down, but momentum conspired with the slope to confuse his co-ordination and balance. His feet tangled beneath him, the world tilting as he toppled forward, concrete rushing up to meet him.
A dark blur of motion in front of him, then hands on his chest, stopping him smashing face first into the ground. His stomach gave a cold, oily flip as he was spun around and upright, then slammed into the wall of the alley, breath driven from him in a bark.
‘Easy, Stephen, easy,’ the man said, grip tightening on his lapels as he spoke.
‘Connor, man!’ Stephen spat, squirming in the man’s grip.
‘Where did you come from?’
Connor Fraser gave him a you-know-better smile.
‘Come on, Stephen, really? Obvious which way you’d go. Most of the press packing out the front of the court, only way for you to go was the back door, especially after I showed you the way when I took you up those stairs this morning. It was fifty–fifty you’d make a run for it, but I thought I’d cover the bases, just in case.’
Stephen fought for breath, felt his eyes prickle with heat. Waited a beat, fighting to keep his voice even...
To be continued...
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