Sweat dripped into his eyes. He brushed it out with a blood-soaked hand, making it worse. Nearby was a large clump of fern leaves. He ripped them out of the ground and wiped his face and hands with them.
A burst of fire clattered dangerously over his head, only a matter of inches above.
He tried to think clearly, logically. He was still in danger, but he was here, in a better position strategically, and the odds had evened up slightly, even if the man with the gun still remained the clear favourite.
He snaked further into the trees. When he thought he was completely safe he raised himself to his haunches and started to make some progress around the tarn. Anger kept him going. Nobody takes pot-shots at me and gets away with it, he thought viciously.
A good twenty minutes later with half a mile’s rough travelling through trees behind him, he was within metres of where he believed the gunman had been laid out. He peered through the foliage. Saw nothing.
Taking out his Swiss Army knife, he unfolded the longest blade with shaking hands. Now he was hunting for real, not for sport, and another man was the target. Mild-mannered Henry Christie had become a predator.
He tested the sharpness of the blade with a finger. Satisfied, he edged forwards on all fours, an inch at a time, dead slow.
It had all been in vain. The would-be assassin had gone.
Henry stood up and walked over to where the man had been lying down, the grass flattened by his weight. He’d even left his gun there.
Henry picked it up. ‘Jesus,’ he whistled, ‘a fucking Kalashnikov.’
As he studied the gun, a twig cracked behind him.
He cursed, dropped the gun — it was no use without a magazine in it — and spun round wielding his pathetic knife.
Too slow.
The man charged into Henry from the undergrowth like a rhino from a thicket, bowling him backwards. The knife went flying from his grasp. Suddenly high foliage and sky swept past Henry’s eyes and he found himself on his back, face up, with an immense guy on top of him, the man who’d tried to shoot him.
The man’s head reared back and then rocketed towards the bridge of Henry’s nose. In that instant Henry saw he had wild, demented eyes and a twisted smile on his face.
Henry flicked his head to one side and held the man back as best he could with one hand.
The head-butt deflected into the edge of Henry’s right eye-socket.
At least he hadn’t got a broken nose.
Once more the man reared back.
Henry smacked him hard in the mouth with his right fist, but he was only stunned for an instant. He got a grip of Henry’s arms, straddled all seventeen or eighteen stones of himself across Henry’s chest, and almost tenderly placed one arm at a time under each of his knees.
Henry was like a butterfly pinned to a board.
‘ I’m going to kill you,’ the man informed Henry.
Henry believed him.
One of his hands went to Henry’s throat, and his fingers closed unhurriedly on the windpipe. Slowly, but surely, Henry was being throttled by a man who was enjoying his work.
He gasped, gurgled, struggled for air. His vision misted over. Blackout, followed by death, wasn’t far away.
It was amazing what such a realisation could do to a person. Everything that Henry had left went into what he did next.
He smashed his right knee up into the man’s backside.
He’d wanted to connect with his privates, but that would have been physically impossible. However, the effect was just as good. The impact sent him shooting over Henry in a messy forward roll.
As the hands came off his windpipe, air whooshed down. Henry scrambled to his feet as quickly as possible. He staggered weakly and turned to his attacker, who was up on his knees already. Henry lurched towards him and executed a double-fisted swipe across his face that sent him sprawling again.
Blood flowed from the man’s mouth, coupled with spittle and a tooth. He shook his head and looked meanly at Henry who stood over him. Then, suddenly, he dived for Henry’s ankles — and nearly had them. Henry managed to step smartly backwards and all the man managed to do was grab thin air.
So Henry kicked him in the side of the head as hard as he possibly could.
Twice.
Henry was going to end it now. He had to.
While the man crouched on the ground, recovering, Henry picked up a large, oval-shaped rock. Lifting it high in both hands, he brought it down with all of his fading strength on the crown of his assailant’s head. There was a horrible splintering noise and the big man was felled like an ox. He was probably as good as dead, but Henry wanted to make sure.
He hit him again with the rock. Then he found he couldn’t stop himself. He continued to hit him. There was no point to it, but he couldn’t hold himself back. He kept hitting and hitting until he collapsed next to him, exhausted.
It began to rain lightly.
A lifetime later, soaked to the skin, Henry staggered through the trees, and up the path. The cabin was ahead of him, nestling innocently in the trees, the Metro parked in front.
He stopped in his tracks, fearing the worst. Suppose the killer had visited the cabin on the way?
He ran to the door and burst in.
The girls were sat in front of the electric fire, contentedly playing draughts. They looked up, their beautiful faces suddenly transformed with looks of horror at what they saw.
A man. Dirty. Bloody. Wet. Bedraggled. Not their father.
Leanne screamed.
‘ Jenny,’ said Henry. His voice came straight from the hell where he’d been.
Her mouth fell open.
Dizziness overcame him. He teetered. His limbs weren’t working; they were suddenly jelly and couldn’t hold him up.
He pitched headlong onto the floor of the cabin.
Henry surfaced several hours later. He had vague recollections of flashing blue lights, two-tone horns and a sensation of speed, but nothing more. When his eyes focused they saw a nurse in uniform and a tube sticking out of his arm.
He tried to speak, but the words wouldn’t leave his voice box. His throat was very badly swollen and sore.
The nurse smiled. ‘Carlisle Infirmary, Casualty Department,’ she said brightly, reading his mind. ‘Your children are in the waiting room with your wife and they’re fine, so don’t worry. I’ll get a doctor now and once he’s seen you he can decide whether or not you’re fit for visitors, OK?’
Henry nodded. Well, that was everything taken care of, he thought. Nurses just seem to know everything.
When Kate and the children came in to see him, it was clear they’d all been crying. His wife was dabbing at her eyes and the end of her nose looked red-raw from snuffling. Henry wanted to grab her and hug her. He knew, however, that she would not allow it.
‘ You look a bit better now, Dad,’ said Jenny, eyeing him critically. She managed a weak smile.
He laid his good hand on her head. ‘Thanks to you, that is,’ he said. He went on slightly falteringly, ‘Well done for getting me to hospital, love. I owe you one.’
‘ No, you don’t. I love you,’ she said heartbreakingly.
He’d been told of Jenny’s cool head and quick reactions. She had covered him with a blanket, given Leanne strict instructions to stay with him and she’d run over two miles to the nearest public phone box and called an ambulance. She had then run back to the cabin where a petrified Leanne held her father’s head on her lap whilst pressing a towel onto the wound in his back. She had been sobbing and was covered in blood.
Henry looked at Leanne. ‘And you, pet — thanks for looking after me.’
‘ It was nothing,’ she said bravely, her lips quivering with remembered fear.
‘ That’ll do,’ said their mother stiffly. ‘Now you two give your Dad a hug and a kiss and go and wait for me in the Matron’s office.’