Wilderness of Mirrors (23 page)

Five cars away, a Peugeot, silver, 308 SW, no plates, nick in driver’s wing mirror, moved over the center markings, judged the distance and went for it.

There was a tour bus rounding the curve behind them, just where
The Timbralls
slumbered away the centuries.

To make it, the car needed incredible speed and an even better driver. And Nigel doubted the fragmented view he’d snapped of a wild-eyed yobo fit the bill. The sidewalk nearest them wasn’t too crowded, most spectators being on the field and the rest taking the inner path. But there were no breaks in the wall, only a set of toe holes carved every twenty yards or so. And they’d just passed one.

He whirled Sam, and, using the second toehold for leverage, tossed her up and over the wall. There was a last vision of upturned mittens and a rather neat landing involving bouncing golden hair, before he spun back.

The driver of the bus, used to foreign tourists driving rentals on the wrong side of the road, took the maneuvering in stride. A soft whoosh of airbrakes melded with the thunk of his wheels topping the curb. The Peugeot driver, panicked by the sight looming above him, overcompensated, swinging back and clipping the pretty face of a silver Jaguar. His vehicle whipped sideways and careened its back tires off the curb nearest Nigel before plowing into the grill of the nearly stopped bus.

There were two men in the front of the 308 and something large sloshing against the darkened windows of the back. Behind Forsythe, people were shouting. The driver of the car that had been hit was yelling about the state of his fender, and the Rover behind him had pulled into the opposite lane in an effort to navigate the accident. The stream of traffic behind the bus was of similar mind.

Eton had reverted to Continental driving in less than ten seconds.

Realizing he had nowhere to go, Mr. 308 sprang from the vehicle.

Nigel knew the driver was tooled-up before the bastard even remembered.

The unceremonious dumping was nothing to what came next. If she were to have slowed it, to hit pause on some life-large camera, maybe then everything would make sense. Instead, it was a jarring piece-by-piece snatch of breath-catching conflict.

The car’s driver, lanky, wired, and wearing a black goatee over pale skin, leapt out of the screeched-to-a-halt car. His jacket flapped back baring a Russian heavy-metal tee, low-riding jeans and the foul black sketch of a gun.

Still, Nigel stood, like sheaf before the combine, his back to her, just a hint of that profile so new and yet so familiar. She’d seen a photo once, of a lighthouse lodged in the core of a brutal sea. There’d been a man, some horribly blessed keeper, waving from a small, rear window at whoever had taken the picture. That man knew something about bravery and of luck.

Like Nigel.

Then he sprang at the gun-toting kid and her heart slammed to the ground like a swatted butterfly.
I will not lose you.
Spinning, she whistled for Tam and picked up the blur of black flying across the filled fields.

Adrenaline charred Dylan like an atom splitter. His godfather was here! Nigel had
actually
come to see one of his games. Pumped by the roar of fans, driven by his heart’s cadence, he thundered down the field, one aim in sight – to score.

John Reilly, the Belfast kid he’d hated when first they met, raced beside him, blocking the shite out of the enemy. Dylan had room now, booted the ball into a defending player – making it rougeable – and headed, exultant, for the goal.

Until he spotted his uncle beside a traffic accident he’d failed to notice before.

Had someone jumped the curb? Where was the blonde?

Dylan refocused on Nigel’s tense figure. Something was wrong. Bloody wrong. There was a man exiting a suped up Peugeot.

Fuck!
Dylan recognized the skinny bastard. It was the piece of shit dealer supplying William with gear. Without a thought, Dylan veered away from the goal, his mother’s screams drowning in the smashing surge of his blood. Shin guards bit savagely as he careened around stunned players. His feet ate the field. God, he hated that man. Wanted to crack his skull against the pavement until the bastard stopped breathing.

He heard a sharp whistle. Then the Alsatian’s deep growl - the bloody enormous one he’d spotted with the cracking blonde. It cleaved the field behind him like a launched missile.

Players scrambled, but the dog never faltered, ears back racing demon-like through the throngs.

Spectators turned, eyes trapped by the haze of ebony.

Dylan’s gaze followed the dog’s trajectory and he spotted his uncle’s girlfriend, hunched against the brickwork a few yards down, eyes locked on Nigel.

The dog’d keep her safe.

“Oi!” Dylan neared the wall, aiming to scale it and tackle the second fucking wanker who was exiting the passenger seat. “You, mate. I’m talking to you!”

The beady-eyed git paused, recognizing Dylan, and swung round, his own gun a smear of black. Nigel never said a word, just tore himself away from the driver in a mad effort to keep Dylan safe.

But Dylan had copped Nigel’s stiff wave and remembered his mother mentioning the flu.

Flu, my arse
. He didn’t care what his parents said, Nigel did something dangerous for a living and he’d been hurt. Shot maybe. Now things were going from bad to worse.
Who was protecting whom?

Dylan palmed the wall only to crash over an abandoned hamper. He twisted sharply and lost sight of his quarry for an instant. It was enough.

His first thought was that a few firecrackers had exploded. Then his mind went warp-speed and he registered the sharp clatter as gunshots. The tossers selling his classmates everything from cannabis to coke had turned field games into a Guy Ritchie film. Dylan kept low, crab-walking until the shots subsided. He chanced a peek over the hood of the dented Jaguar.

Nigel had reached the bastard, and the flat of his hand sent the gun flying into the tarmac. His next punch centered on the bastard’s throat, collapsing him like a folded shadow. Nigel kicked him hard and turned.

Pain fleeced his uncle’s features. Menace too. He advanced on the Peugeot’s passenger who froze under Nigel’s brutal stare. But the strung-out prick was closer to Dylan.

Trample the weak.
Dylan coiled and flung himself forward. They crashed into the car’s open door and rolled onto the vibrating hood. The bloke was all arms and teeth: nasty stained bits of halitosis-laced rancor.

“Jesus!” Dylan felt the pinch on his forearm before he was hurled away, left to stare once at the bleeding gap in his flesh before witnessing Nigel’s second assault.

He’d been at a few brawls in his time: down the housemaster’s overgrown back garden, behind the darkened ice-cream stall on River Street, in the rubbish-filled tunnel by the Alexandra Gardens.

But they were playground pranks to this destruction.

This violence was revolting. Compelling. Short-lived. One-sided.

If he’d ever wavered about Nigel not being an actuary, he was doubtless now. The passenger’s face was a purpled mass of bruise and terror. His right hand’s fingers had been snapped and he was gasping and thrashing as Nigel smashed him between the door and its frame. When the bastard faltered a millisecond later, the discarded side view mirror crashed against the side of his bleeding head and he dropped like a brick.

Which was when Nigel staggered back, one hand clutched to his ribs, chest heaving, eyes never missing a beat. The street seemed to breathe again. Dylan heard his mother shriek his brother’s name; she was forever mixing them up. But he didn’t turn. Didn’t want to see her reaction to Nigel’s brutal show.

“You okay?” This time it was Nigel talking.

Dylan managed a shaky nod. “You?”

“Fair enough.” Nigel’s blue-cold gaze swept the car wreck.

Then two things happened, and Dylan felt the fabric of his family shred.

W
illiam?

The name hadn’t registered until Nigel had Kate wrapped up in his arms. She was stronger than he would have guessed beneath the St. John’s cashmere.

The face in the glass. The lolling head. His other nephew: William.

“Get off me!”

He swung her scream around with the rest of her, until she was facing her husband.

David, a man of infinite composure, gripped her. If Nigel had needed his brother-in-law’s medical expertise, he’d have packaged Kate into another’s arms. He didn’t. David folded her flailing wrists into his crooked form. “Shhh, my girl, my
cariad
. Let him handle it; it’s what he does.”

Nigel had a last view of Kate’s streaming mascara. Her wild expression of grief was unable to conceal undertones of betrayal. She knew. She’d always known.

There was a faraway scream of oncoming emergency vehicles. Judging from the handful of drivers texting madly, more than one of them had phoned the police.

“Dylan.” The young man moved into Nigel’s sideline. “Tell the paramedics and police what happened. Everything. Whatever was going on with your brother, tell them all of it.”
Christ, I can see it in your face. You know about this. What is it? Drugs? I should have called again. Should have done something to stop this happening.

The fair head dipped. “He disappeared last night. Always doing that. I didn’t want to tell Mum – hoped he’d turn up. Terry said he caught a cab outside The Harte and Garter.”

Nigel worked his way to the partially opened rear door. His older nephew’s hand sagged against the pavement, a blood-smeared receipt stuck to it. Nigel ripped it away and snatched up the gray-skinned wrist. Rigor mortis had only recently commenced – four hours since death at best. Sirens blared. They’d be over the bridge now. Nigel knelt to keep the body from the public’s view. “Go. Tell them. And make sure they take your mum to hospital. She’s in shock.” He registered Dylan’s bleeding arm - maybe for the first time. “Have that looked at too.”

Dylan didn’t bother to check it. Just turned and made for the oncoming ambulance.

The Goddamn window button
, Nigel raged. Fractured by his battering, it lowered the rear glass enough for the lolling head to protrude. The back half, the part behind the shell of an ear Nigel remembered seeing for the first time in some sort of pram, had been ripped open by a gunshot. Somewhere else though. The boy’d bled himself out poles apart from this bustling jolly street.

Nigel stared at the crusted red opening. At the dark, matted hair. What the hell had William been into? Popping pills, snorting coke, owing money? None of them got your head blown off. Not if you had relatives to touch. Filthy rich ones with ties to royalty.

Nigel caught a whiff of tobacco. Smoked enough to recognize these were Russian bought. He thought about his midnight conversation with Jaak. The bastard had beaten him to the punch.
Fuck.
He should have killed him when he’d the chance.

He tucked his nephew back into the French-made coffin. There were voices behind him. Policemen. Family. His heart was frozen. He’d caused this. Somehow, Jaak had discovered his identity and killed William in retribution.

Turning, he viewed the reel of carnage around him.

Five minutes ago may as well have been a millennium.

He felt intoxicated and horribly sober.

He needed an anchor.

He needed her.

Then, remembering the gunfire, he panicked. Broke into a run and shoved his way through the solemn onlookers. He caught sight of her mane. A peek through a tight knot of players and pedestrians. Someone was trying to comfort her. Pull her attention away from whatever was on the ground.

He scrabbled over the bricks, cold fingers feeling the chipped markings of bullet bites. “Move.”

They parted, knowing what he’d done. Guessing what he was.

Her cap was gone. Blood soaked her once-white mittens and a nasty rip of flesh marred her forehead. She wasn’t crying, though her lips were pressed hard to shut out the quiver.

Tam was there. In her arms, breath labored, a snarl on his open, panting mouth.

Christ. Oh, Jesus Bloody Christ.

Nigel saw a cheetah there. Bravery. Cunning. Loyalty.

He dropped down, jamming his fingers into the dog’s shoulder. Wet with blood. The Alsatian glared at him, eyes hard. But it let him probe.

“Sam.”

She met his gaze. “He must have known my head was higher than the wall.” Her hands were shaking, clutching the black fur with bloodless knuckles. “I wanted him to help you.”

“He’s not dead. It’s his shoulder. We’ve got to get him to the veterinarians.”

She nodded. “Someone went for my car. They’re bringing it round the back. The vet in town is closed, but there’s a Medivet branch open in Slough.”

“You can’t drive. Your head.” He couldn’t bring himself to touch her. “It’s bleeding.”

“No.” Her eyes found the backs of her hands. “It’s his. Oh, God, Tam.”

It wasn’t, but there was little use arguing the point. Nigel shook himself from his coat. His shirt was open at the neck, buttons burrowed deep in the headmaster’s carpet. He wrapped the dog tightly into the canvas’s hold. “Press there. Hold it tight. I’ll drive you.”

But she wasn’t looking at him anymore. Didn’t know he spoke. He took her hand. Pressed it hard against the dog’s shoulder. Once more her tawny eyes met his. “Is he dead? The boy in the car?”

It was Irina staring at him with Sam’s eyes. Then the hole in her head became William’s. He felt a shudder rip him. “Yes, he’s dead.”

And I’m going to annihilate the fuckers who did it.

The drive was short and fast.
179 Tamar Road
. Nigel couldn’t believe the twist of fate. He’d have prayed at that moment if he thought anyone was listening.

The veterinary staff met them outside by the curb, stretcher at the ready. Sam had stayed with Tam, in the back where she’d crawled in after him, hands cradling his head, fingers staunching blood, until there was nothing left for her to do.

The vet hadn’t wasted time discerning the whys and wherefores, just gave them a taut nod and vanished behind the gurney into an even more antiseptic-scented area.