doing this for … ?’
‘I’m doing this because I escaped my hunt, and because of that the Trail murdered my family. And now I’m going to kill them. All of them. See? Understand?’
‘I can’t escape,’ Chris said softly.
‘No. But you can run. They know that, which is why they chose you. But by bringing you up here, into the wild, I’ve done you a favour. You have an advantage over the rich fat fucks now, and whatever the Trail had set up in Cardiff is useless to them. It’ll all last much longer.’
‘But my wife. My girls.’
‘Are safe while you’re still on the run.’
Chris closed his eyes and tried to take it all in. It was impossible to digest, too huge to contemplate. Too unbelievable.
‘It’s a joke,’ he said. He even managed a small laugh. ‘A wind-up. Reality TV, or something. Derren Brown’s hypnotised me.’
Rose said nothing. He saw the dried blood on her hands, remembered what she had done. That had all been real. Nothing like that could be faked, not without movie trickery. He’d been there to smell the blood, hear it hitting the ground, see the ragged mess of the man’s throat, see the impact of bullets.
‘It’s real,’ he muttered. Rose glanced across at him, then pointed.
‘There,’ she said. ‘By that spur of rock on the ridge. That’s where you get out. Hide for a bit, get ready. You’ll know when to head off.’
‘How?’
‘When they get there.’ She slammed on the brakes, turned to him. He thought perhaps she’d hand him the gun, but she didn’t. Maybe that would make things too easy for him.
‘You don’t give a shit about me,’ Chris said, and a glimmer of something passed across Rose’s face, an expression he could not identify. Then she smiled, and for the first time it seemed almost genuine.
‘There’s a phone in the rucksack. It has my number, only mine. I’ll do my best to look after you. But I’m going to be busy, and you have to look after yourself, too.’
He could hear the helicopter now, rapidly coming closer. He stared at Rose. She wasn’t about to change her mind. Nothing was going to change, and Chris knew that he had to take action.
‘What happens to my family if they kill me?’
‘Usually they’re let go if the hunt’s successful.’
‘Usually? How many times—’
‘Out,’ Rose said. She touched the gun.
‘What, or you’ll shoot me?’ But he could see that she was getting edgy now, hand resting on the gear stick, foot caressing the gas pedal. Itching to go.
Chris opened the door and stood from the car, hanging on to the metal for a moment as dizziness threatened to drop him. He slung the rucksack over one shoulder, and Rose threw the Adidas bag out at his feet. He was hoping she’d say something else to reassure him, or to help. But even before he could close the door the car skidded away, raking his legs with shards of gravel as it tailspun back onto the road and up towards the ridge. He saw her silhouette lean over and slam his door shut.
Chris stood there swaying in the midday sun, cooled by the mountain breeze. He had never felt so far away, and so alone.
The helicopter appeared to the north, higher up against one of the mountains, describing a gentle descent towards the ridge where the road disappeared. He couldn’t see the BMW right then, but he knew that Rose was accelerating up towards that ridge, too. They might just reach it at the same time. He wondered what would happen then.
Hunt, he thought. That’s ridiculous. That’s crazy.
Then the helicopter changed course, its shadow flitting and leaping down the mountain’s craggy side like some wild animal.
Coming right for him.
Of course, he only wanted to fuck her.
She couldn’t imagine why any man would show interest in her otherwise. She was a physical mess, an alcoholic, dirty, her hair now long again and knotted, clothes unkempt and worn through in several places. When she did look up from her feet it was to search for the next drink. She only saw as far as the morning after, and never took much notice of how hard that would be. She was a failure, a wreck, a hollow woman with a dead family and nothing left to live for. Existing was now simply a habit.
There was before, a beautiful utopia of love and friendship, joy and pleasure, and a contented pride in everything her children did, every single day. And then there was after, a smoke- and booze-filled miasma of crippling, unbelievable grief. In between was the unbridgeable gap of her pursuit and their murder.
How could anyone be attracted to what she had become?
But he sat next to her at the small corner table all the same. He didn’t speak for a long time, just continued to drink from a smoked glass. He topped up from a bottle in his bag, and she liked that. His expression when he tipped the bottle against his glass made her smile. Smiling was an unfamiliar expression, and it made her facial muscles ache.
The bar had seen better days, but worse days too. Apart from the regular clientele – her, a grizzly bear-sized African man with one arm, a couple of old women who looked like vultures and must have been sisters – it sometimes entertained more adventurous tourists on their way back from a trek in the Italian mountains, or perhaps some local workers looking to expand their horizons across the area. She’d seen several fights here, one randy couple having a drunken, clumsy screw out by the basic bathroom, and four alleged Mafia men playing cards. The barman made his own wine, and offered it for sale only to people he knew would appreciate it. Rose drank at least a bottle each night. She supposed the joint had its charm.
‘Drink?’ he asked.
‘Single malt.’
‘But of course.’ He sounded French. That surprised her, though she wasn’t sure why. Maybe because she’d expect a Frenchman to have more class. He called to the barman and ordered her drink, and the same for himself. When the two glasses arrived he tipped his into hers and slid the glass in front of her.
‘My name’s Holt,’ he said.
‘Jane Doe.’
‘I thought I recognised you.’
She drank her double in one, then dribbled half back into her glass, keen to give the appearance of making it last. Stupid, really. He’d been watching her drink for half an hour, and she’d managed three in that time. He topped up his own glass from his bottle once more, and she paid close attention for the first time. And frowned. The fluid didn’t have that vaguely oil-like consistency of a spirit, not even vodka, and it was completely clear.
‘You’re drinking water?’
‘Please don’t tell anyone,’ Holt said. ‘My reputation won’t survive. And Celso will eject me from his bar.’
She snorted laughter and took another drink. She couldn’t tell whether it was really single malt, but she didn’t give a fuck. It burned on the way down. That was all that mattered.
He might have been one of them. They’d found her at last and he’d come out here to deliver the killer blow. She’d been expecting it, and fear of the Trail had no bearing on why she continued to hide. It was life she was trying to elude, not them. And right then she didn’t care if he was Trail. The difference between death and this excuse of an existence was negligible.