Spook Street полностью

Catherine knelt by Lamb’s desk, tugged at the bottom drawer, found it locked. There’d be a key somewhere, but she didn’t have time: there was a metal ruler on the desktop, acquired to break him of the habit of shattering plastic ones, and she slid this into the gap and pulled upwards until the drawer gave. From it, she pulled a shoe box and—because the mind won’t stay in its kennel—found herself thinking When did Jackson last buy a pair of shoes?, a thought that burst like a bubble. The lid of the shoe box was taped in place, which cost her another second. And then Lamb’s gun was in her hand, surprisingly small, though heavy enough. There was nothing else in the box—no bullets—so she hoped it was loaded: time would tell. As she left the room, the door to her old office opened, and an irritated Moira Tregorian appeared.

“What in the blessed name of—”

“Stay in there.” The gun in her hand would have done the trick anyway. Moira changed colour, and faded back inside, closing the door behind her.

Catherine was on the stairs when she heard the third shot, and almost felt it on her cheek—the displaced air the bullet pushed aside on its upward journey.

The kettle missed Patrice’s head by half an inch, though it struck him on the shoulder, spouting scalding water onto his face. He leaned back against the wall to rub his eyes. The kettle bounced down the staircase, its contents arcing across the walls, and overhead a door slammed. Vision still blurry he raised his gun, and when he heard someone on the stairs, fired blind. The bullet whistled up the stairwell and buried itself in the roof.

Deliberately, he banged his head against the wall, twice. Clarity of a kind returned.

Ignoring his scalded cheek, Patrice took the stairs two at a time, swivelling on the half-flight to aim at the figure on the landing above.

Coe grabbed Shirley and pulled her into his room, where she swiped at him with her corkscrewed fist, and tried to get back onto the landing. He tripped her, and when she hit the floor he threw his knife aside to grab her by the collar and the seat of her jeans, and haul her back.

“Fuck you—”

“Yeah, you too.”

He was reaching for the door when Catherine appeared from upstairs, looking wild—her hair had come loose and floated wide behind her, and in her eyes was something savage; in her hand was Lamb’s gun.

“Move!” Sam Chapman screamed—he was emerging from Louisa’s office, where he’d flung himself after hurling the kettle downstairs. Now he was brandishing a chair, and moving like someone who’d forgotten his knee didn’t work.

Coe grabbed Catherine, pulled her through the open door, and slammed it shut.

Bad Sam Chapman hurled the chair at Patrice just as Patrice raised the gun and fired again.

Frank had been right, or half-right at least: it was Sam Chapman on the landing; Chapman, whom he’d hunted yesterday, and earlier today. Package undelivered. Not any more, thought Patrice, and fired just as a chair came hurtling towards him; one of its slats splintering in flight as the bullet ricocheted off it; the chair itself, a wooden thing, caught him mid-chest. He barely blinked. This was what they fought with, kettles and furniture? A door slammed, then another; they were hiding in their rooms. There was a fairy tale about the houses little pigs built. They were about to find out how it ended.

Patrice kicked the chair aside, and arrived at the kitchen landing.

There was a lock, a bolt like you’d find on a toilet door; something to let outsiders know it was occupied, but not hefty enough to deter assault. Coe used it anyway, then got behind River’s desk and pushed it towards the doorway.

Shirley stepped round him and drew the bolt back.

“What the hell are you—”

“Marcus,” she said.

“He’s either okay or not, but you can’t—”

“Don’t tell me what I—”

There was a crash from the landing. A splintering noise.

“Shirley?” Catherine said. “Lock the door. Or I’ll shoot you.”

“Or,” said Shirley, “you could give me the gun, and I’ll go shoot him.”

Bad Sam didn’t know how this had happened so suddenly, so completely, but it had, and when things went to the wire, you did what you could. This wouldn’t be much. Sonny Jim out there had a gun, and Sam had none; and Sonny Jim, judging by the afternoon’s events, barely needed a weapon. He could take Sam apart with his bare hands if he wanted. And then he’d do the same to the others, including—especially—the old man upstairs, who had been under Sam’s protection once, and was again now, not that this would help him. Sam ought to push something against the door, to slow events down, but there didn’t seem any point, and when he put his hand to his side, he understood why he felt this way. That last shot, as Sam had thrown the chair—well, bullets had to go somewhere. That was a law of physics, or nature; a law, anyway, that Bad Sam Chapman had just found himself on the wrong side of.