‘I’ve run this Layla scheme nine times before. I quickly learned that it’s best to use the photos of a local girl, manipulate them slightly. Men were always less suspicious when they could see photos taken in places they recognized, and a face that might seem vaguely familiar to them. But it backfired here, and Jamie found out Layla wasn’t real. And he wasn’t ready yet; I wasn’t ready yet. But we had to try the plan that night, while Jamie was still under Layla’s thumb.
‘But I didn’t know who Child Brunswick was. I’d narrowed it down to two suspects: Luke Eaton and Stanley Forbes. Both the right age, the right appearance, neither had jobs that ruled them out, neither ever mentioned any family and avoided questions about their childhood. So I had to send Jamie to both. I knew it had all gone wrong when I heard Jamie was missing. I suppose you killed him?’ he said to Stanley.
‘No,’ Stanley whispered.
‘Jamie’s alive. He’s fine,’ Pip said.
‘Really? That’s good. I was feeling guilty about what happened to him,’ Charlie said. ‘And then of course, after everything went wrong, I couldn’t make any more moves to find out which one of them was Child Brunswick. But that’s OK, because I knew you would.’ He turned his face, gave Pip a small smile. ‘I knew you would find him for me. I’ve been watching you, following you. Waiting for you. Pushing you in the right direction when you needed help. And you did it,’ he said, steadying the gun. ‘You found him for me, Pip. Thank you.’
‘No,’ she shouted, stepping in front of Stanley with her hands up. ‘Please don’t shoot.’
‘PIP, GET AWAY FROM ME!’ Stanley screamed at her, pushing her back. ‘Don’t come near me. Stay back!’
She stopped, her heart so wild and fast it felt like her ribs were caving in on her, bony fingers closing around her chest.
‘Back!’ Stanley screamed, tears chasing down his pale face. ‘It’s OK, get back.’
She did, four more steps away, turning to Charlie. ‘Please don’t do this! Don’t kill him!’
‘I have to,’ Charlie said, narrowing his eyes along the sight of the gun. ‘This is exactly what we talked about, Pip. Where the justice system gets it wrong, it’s down to people like you and me to step in and set things right. And it doesn’t matter if people think we’re good or not, because we know we’re right. We’re the same, you and me. You know it, deep down. You know this is right.’
Pip didn’t have an answer for him. Didn’t know what to say other than: ‘PLEASE! Don’t do this!’ Her voice ripped at her throat, words cracking as she forced them out. ‘This isn’t right! He was just a child. A child scared of his own father. It’s not his fault. He didn’t kill your sister!’
‘Yes, he did!’
‘It’s alright, Pip,’ Stanley said to her, barely able to talk because he was shaking so hard. He held his trembling hand up and out, to comfort her, to keep her back. ‘It’s OK.’
‘NO, PLEASE,’ she screamed, folding in on herself. ‘Charlie, please don’t do this. I’m begging you. PLEASE! Don’t!’
Charlie’s eyes twitched.
‘PLEASE!’
His gaze shifted from Stanley to her.
‘I’m begging you!’
He gritted his teeth.
‘Please!’ she cried.
Charlie looked at her, watched her crying. And then he lowered the gun.
Took two heavy breaths.
‘I-I’m not sorry,’ he said quickly.
He lifted the gun and Stanley gasped.
Charlie fired.
The sound ripped the earth out from under Pip.
‘NO!’
He fired again.
And again.
And again.
Again.
Again.
Until they were just empty clicks.
Pip screamed, watching Stanley stagger back off his feet, falling hard against the floor.
‘Stanley!’ She ran to him, skidding to her knees beside him. Blood was already overflowing the wounds, sprays of red on the wall behind him. ‘Oh my god.’
Stanley was gulping at the air, a strange whine in his throat. Eyes wide. Scared.
Pip heard a rustle behind her and whipped her head around. Charlie had lowered his arm, watching Stanley writhing on the floor. Then his eyes met Pip’s. He nodded, just once, before he turned and ran out of the room, his heavy boots careening down the corridor.
‘He’s gone,’ Pip said, looking down at Stanley. And in just those few seconds, the blood had spread, seeping out until there were only small channels of white shirt between the red.
Stop the bleeding, need to stop the bleeding. She looked over him: one gunshot in his neck, one in his shoulder, one in his chest, two in his stomach and one in his thigh.
‘It’s OK, Stanley,’ she said, pulling off her jacket. ‘I’m here, it’s going to be OK.’ She tore at the seam attaching one arm, biting it until she ripped a hole and pulled the sleeve free. Where was the most blood? His leg; must have hit the artery. Pip slid the sleeve under Stanley’s leg, the warm blood coating her hands. She made a knot above the wound, pulling it as tight as she could and double-knotting to keep the material in place.
He was watching her.
‘It’s OK,’ she said, pushing the hair back from her eyes, a smear of wet blood on her forehead. ‘It’s going to be OK. Help will come.’
She ripped off the other sleeve, bunched it up and held it to the gushing wound in his neck. But there were six holes in Stanley, and she only had two hands.
He blinked slowly, his eyes slipping shut.
‘Hey,’ she said, grabbing his face. His eyes snapped open again. ‘Stanley stay with me, keep talking to me.’
‘It’s OK, Pip,’ he croaked as she tore more strips of fabric from her jacket, balling them up and stuffing them against the other wounds. ‘This was always going to happen. I deserve it.’
‘No, you don’t,’ she said, pressing her hands against the hole in his chest and the hole in his neck. She could feel the pulses of blood pushing against her.
‘Jack Brunswick,’ he said quietly, eyes circling hers.
‘What?’ Pip said, pushing down as hard as she could, his blood pooling out in the webs of her fingers.
‘It was Jack, that was my name,’ he said, with a heavy, slow blink. ‘Jack Brunswick. And then I was David Knight. Then Stanley Forbes.’ He swallowed.
‘That’s good, keep talking to me,’ Pip said. ‘Which name did you like best?’
‘Stanley.’ He smiled weakly. ‘Silly name, and he wasn’t much, he wasn’t always good, but he was the best of them. He was trying.’ There was a crackling sound from his throat; Pip felt it in her fingers. ‘I’m still his son, though, whatever my name is. Still that boy that did those things. Still rotten.’
‘No you aren’t,’ Pip said. ‘You’re better than him. You are better.’
‘Pip . . .’
And as she looked at him, a shadow crossed over his face, a darkness from above, something smothering the light of the torch. Pip glanced up and that was when she smelled it too. Smoke. Rolling black smoke creeping out across the ceiling.