The Lover's Children novel Chapter 107

KLEMPNER

A knife at her throat, Hoodie’s got some old woman, her arms locked behind her. God knows how old she is. Stringy grey hair’s not seen shampoo in recent times. Gibbering her terror, she spills tears from yellowed eyes as he drags her backward with him.

I take a step after the pair. “What a hero. Going up in the world, aren’t you. Moving from unprotected street woman to helpless pensioners. Is that your standard? Defenceless hookers and octogenarians?”

He snarls, still inching backwards, all the while with the crone as his shield. Her heels scrape the stinking carpet, trailing through the blood which splats from his hand.

I inch after him, then hold, as he wrenches behind her, and she screams. “I’ll break her fucking arm clean off if you don't stop right there. Don't move. Stay there. Stay right there!”

Hoodie glances back and down at the stairs, directly behind him, then at me. Spinning his hostage, he flings her hard at the wall, her head cracking against the plaster as she crumples. Then he plunges downward, leaping down steps three at a time, pivoting on the rickety newel post from one flight to the next.

And I plunge after him, yelling back behind me. “Call the police!”

Rattie whines after me. “Who’s gonna pay for my repairs?”

I'm already pelting after the clattering footsteps stampeding down below me, but I’m still shouting upwards. “Don't touch that room. Call the fucking police!” He yells back some reply…

But my attempts to talk to the moronic landlord have cost me precious seconds. I’m flying downward but Hoodie’s a flight ahead of me. On the ground floor, the front door slams closed in my face, then the damn thing jams as I try to open it again.

Hissing frustration as I wrench it open, I charge out into sweltering heat, just in time to hear a stream of cursing and swearing…

I grin to myself…

Taken a look at his tires?

… and then, the clatter of retreating footsteps. Running footsteps.

Briefly, I don’t see him, but the sound of his flight is loud against the stifled silence of the street and as I follow the sound…

There he is…

… and I pelt after him.

He flees…

And I follow…

At the run, I tap into my phone. “Michael?”

“Klempner? Where are you?”

“In hot pursuit. I’m certain now he’s the Surgeon. Tell Stanton…

“He’s here. Gimme a sec…” His voice muffles then, “Will, Klempner’s after him. He’s sure it’s your killer…”

Then, Stanton’s boom in the background. “Get those photos circulated… Every spare officer on the street!”

Michael again, “They’re on it now. Larry, where…?”

But his voice cuts off, I think his phone snatched away. “Klempner? Stanton here… What…?”

Panting as I speak, “You need to get to the girl’s apartment. I cut the bastard. His blood is on the wall and carpet. You might have trouble with the landlord. Don’t let him clean up. Get forensics on it.”

My breath is short, my lungs labouring against the over-heated air… “And get an ambulance there. Some old woman got caught in the crossfire.”

“Crossfire? She’s been shot?”

“Figure of speech. But she’s hurt… Got to go…” I gulp and swallow… “Can’t talk and run at the same time.”

“Klempner, where are you? I’ll send a car to come find you.”

“Right now, on the road from the apartment towards the City centre. In the general direction of the Blue Sapphire Club. Get your patrols out. And Commissioner, make sure they know it’s not me they’re arresting.”

His words snap short. “Will do.”

*****

A quiet street, in the sun-blistered heat of the afternoon. Between commuting hours. Before children come home from school. And the sky, a molten blast of blue. Even the birdsong has stilled.

Nothing moves.

Except me…

And my quarry…

The thrill of the chase. It's a cliché. But clichés become clichés because they have something to tell us.

There is something pure about the chase. Something unsullied and perfect. No clever out-thinking and manoeuvring. Just the simple pursuit of the quarry. And as I pursue my fleeing target, the silence howls around me.

The air is suffocating. The sun roars down on the streets, and the streets throw it back, stripping the moisture from my throat yet, perversely, setting perspiration streaking down my forehead and cheeks. But ahead of me, Hoodie’s feeling it too, sagging as he runs.

And the heat is nothing. My blood’s up, thumping behind my ears, an accelerating drumbeat. Eyes stinging, I swipe away the trickle of sweat then, still running, tug my tie loose, unfasten my top shirt button. My shirt, slick with moisture, sticks between my shoulders and under my arms. Abruptly, my jacket is too tight, too confining. I’d like to rip it off, but then my knife and gun holsters would be visible to every eye and every camera I passed.

Swiping my face with a sleeve, I keep running, staying hard on Hoodie’s trail before he has chance to lose himself. Here, in the silence of the backstreets, I can track him. But ahead of us lies the City centre. If he makes it there, even with the police alerted, he could lose himself in the crowds.

He flings a look back over his shoulder. With the lead he has on me, I can’t make out his expression, but his body language says it all. The sag evaporates and his pace picks up.

Some sound penetrates: a rising wail. A siren, a police car, coming in from behind. But as I look forward again, Hoodie has vanished.

Where the fuck…?

Sprinting ahead, a narrow alleyway opens to my left. As I skid in and along, down at my feet lies a discarded grey hoodie.

*****

The alley runs between two blocks of apartments, left and right, making a crossroads with a shabby back-lane, the demesne of garbage cans and feral cats. Skidding to a halt, I swing right…

His face is so forgettable, so undistinguished, that I have trouble bringing it to mind. Minus the grey hoodie, what am I following?

He could be staring right at me.

He could be staring right at me.

What would I do? In his position?

Pressing back into a slit of a shadow, mere inches wide from the overhead sun, I sip my water mouthful by mouthful, watching.

Another police car screams by. Then more appear, parking up, officers decanting out into the crowd, spreading out in different directions.

Stanton’s raised the alarm?

Not so easy for him to run now…

Will they make an announcement?

My answer comes quickly.

Ahead of me, the crowd parts, just one of those random things that happens when the masses move together, but an avenue opens, and my line of sight is clear.

There…

Staring into the window of an electrical goods store…

Even side-on, his expression of horror is clear. A fist pushed to his mouth, Hoodie, minus hood, steps back, recoiling from whatever he’s seeing…

There’s some sort of dressing on his arm, but it looks improvised and…

… is that blood soaking through?

… and without conscious effort, I’m running again.

He looks left, then right… and he sees me. Eye flinging wide, the gutless shit spins and bolts.

As I pass the store, I have a bare moment to pick up what he was looking at: on a displayed TV, his face with headlines in bold:

Patrick Harkness…

Wanted to assist the police with their enquiries…

Do not approach this man…

… and I’m gone.

*****