Buried

‘Whatever else happens,’ Lardner said, ‘she’ll be thinking about them a damn sight more from now on.’

Thorne looked at the distance between himself and Lardner.

No more than eight feet. At the end of the rope, Luke was another five or six away, to Lardner’s right.

‘It sounds to me like it was just about shitty timing,’ Thorne said. ‘That’s all. Probably nobody’s fault…’

Lardner held the knife out hard in front of him. His arm was tense, shaking with the effort and the intent, but his tone when he spoke was tender, regretful.

‘I’ve thought of little else but her for five years, and it was instant, you know? Well, it was with me, at any rate. Maybe what happened with Sarah Hanley bound us together, made what we already had stronger.’ He turned the grip of the knife slowly in his fist. ‘She tried to end it once, back when her husband found out, but I knew she was only doing what he wanted. So I didn’t know she meant it this time, either. I didn’t know how serious she was… serious enough to do it when she did. I didn’t know she could be so completely fucking heartless.’

Maggie Mullen’s eyes stayed on her son, but she shook her head.

‘And I didn’t know how hard it was going to hit me. You don’t, do you, even if you see these things coming? And I didn’t see either of them coming. Mags or Mum. They were like car crashes, both of them right out of the blue. You kid yourself that you’ve walked away unscathed, but there’s a delayed reaction.

‘It was like everything was happening to someone else, and all I could do was watch this other person’s life slide away, out of control. Even while I was contemplating terrible things – even while I was doing them – I couldn’t get hold of anything… I couldn’t reach it. There was no way to pull back.’

The knife turned faster in his fist as his speech slowed. ‘Everything just gets away from you. Can you understand that? Your grip, your respect for yourself, for other people’s lives. Everything. Changing a bloody light bulb…’

His lips were still moving, just a little, and he stared along the blade of the knife as if he were trying to work out what it was for. Suddenly, he looked lost.

Thorne was the only person in the room not crying. He looked at Lardner and willed away any hint of compassion.

He focused on the boy.

Thought of Kathleen Bristow’s body. Her stained nightdress. Her sparrow’s legs, twisted…

‘Let Luke go,’ he said.

Lardner shook his head. Thorne could not be sure if it was a refusal or the gesture of a man who was unsure, distracted. There were no more than a couple of paces between them…

He tensed. A heartbeat away. Lardner had not been afraid to use the knife before.

Thorne knew he would be lucky to come away unscathed.

He had no idea what Lardner’s response would be to an attack. Would he lay down his weapon and throw in the towel? Or would he take a child’s life as easily as he’d taken that of an old woman? Whatever his appearance, however beaten and confused he seemed, the unpredictability of the man opposite made him as dangerous as any gangland enforcer or flat-eyed psychopath Thorne had ever faced.

A few years earlier, in a similar position, he’d frozen while a man had held a knife to the neck of a female officer. He had done it by the book, afraid that heroics would cost the officer her life.

Then he’d watched her die anyway.

The boy himself had become completely still and silent. His eyes had closed. Then the words of Luke’s mother – calling his name, asking him repeatedly if he was all right – seemed to snap Lardner back into the moment.

‘He’s fine, really,’ Lardner said. ‘We’ve become good mates, haven’t we, Luke?’

The boy opened his eyes.

‘We’ve had some good old chats down there, I reckon.’

‘No…’

Thorne saw the spasm of panic around Maggie Mullen’s eyes.

‘Talked about all sorts.’

‘Like what?’

A shrug. ‘Family, you know. The important things in life…’

‘Don’t.’

Luke Mullen moaned, a long, desperate ‘no…’ from behind the tape.

‘I wasn’t pla

It was no more than a couple of paces, but Thorne knew Lardner could have the knife at Luke’s throat before he reached him.

‘What did you tell my son?’

‘Want me to repeat it? Even police officers can be shocked, you know. But he looks up to it.’

‘Stop it!’

‘Should I tell him what the pair of us got up to in bed? Or how about why you started having an affair with me in the first place?’

If she rushed towards her son, if she could distract Lardner for just a second, he’d have a chance. There was just no way to let her know what to do.

‘Luke, listen to me. I don’t know what he’s been telling you.’

‘We’d better not pretend it was my looks.’

‘He’s sick. You know that, darling, don’t you? You know he’s sick.’

Thorne would need to go for the left hand, for the knife. Maybe if Luke was quick and moved away at the same time, Lardner could be caught off balance…

‘Driven into my arms,’ Lardner said. ‘I think that’s a fair description.’

‘Twisted. What he’s been saying.’

‘Certainly driven out of her husband’s.’

‘Please look at me, Luke.’

‘I think we all know each other pretty well by now. A home truth or two can’t hurt, can it?’

‘Luke. Please!’

There would be no perfect moment. He just needed to pick one…

‘Why don’t you tell the inspector all about it?’ Lardner’s mouth was firm, grim, but there was gentleness in his eyes. ‘Why you can’t bear to let him touch you…’

The sound was unearthly, as the howl of rage and horror vibrated against the gaffer tape. Luke lurched towards his mother, and, as he was hauled back, he let his momentum carry him fast and hard into Lardner, taking the two of them down on to the sofa.

Thorne saw what was happening too late.

Saw the hand that the boy had kept pressed against his leg come up high. Saw the light catch something in his fist. Heard the sigh as the flesh was pierced, and the snap.

Then everything was happening at double speed. Crowded with screams and coloured red.

Thorne found himself at Lardner’s feet, staring at the broken shard that Luke had dropped. Its edge was bloodied, and the gaffer tape, wrapped around one end as a makeshift handle, was slick with sweat.

Picture-glass, it looked like. Thin, easily snapped.

He looked up for the piece he knew was embedded in Peter Lardner’s neck, saw that it was already lost beneath a bubbling spring of scarlet.

Maggie Mullen was on her knees, whispering, one arm wrapped tight around Lardner’s neck, both of them slick with blood. Her other arm was reaching desperately for Luke, the hand flapping, trying to grab the son who stood a few feet away, still screaming as though it were a language he had just mastered. The boy’s eyes were saucers, wild with horror and exhilaration.

And with something else Thorne could not name, something more shocking than all the blood that flowed into the cracks between the chipped and flaking boards.