I leaped for her.
I was far too far away. I would never have made it. I should have died there and then, knowing that I’d lost everything.
Dr Bairstow swung his stick and caught her behind the knees. She sagged forwards, instinctively catching at the table to save herself, dropping the gun. I threw myself on her. We both crashed to the ground and fought for our lives.
I’d once killed her. She’d once killed me. A score draw so far. Now we were into extra time.
I drove my fist hard into her face, feeling bones shatter. Hers and mine. She was jabbing below my ribs – short, hard blows, every one precision-delivered in exactly the same place. I felt pain sheeting through my kidneys, around my back …
She bucked suddenly and I flew through the air, rolled, and staggered painfully to my feet. I couldn’t stand straight, but she couldn’t see properly. Blood streamed from her nose and mouth. Already, her eyes were swelling.
My hand was a ball of throbbing fire.
Face to face really wasn’t her style at all. She was looking past me for a way out. No, she wasn’t – she was looking for her gun. We both saw it at the same moment.
She tried to scramble for it and I fell on top of her, which must have driven the breath from her body, because she suddenly went limp. I seized a great lump of her stupid red hair and banged her battered face into the parquet. Hard. She screamed in pain. I put my knee on the back of her neck, leaned forwards, removed the gun from her fist, and slapped it on my sticky patch.
Rolling off her, I stood shakily.
‘Get up.’
She moaned something indistinguishable and I kicked her hard on her knee.
‘Get up.’
She was crying. Great bloody bubbles frothed from her nose. Blood ran down her chin. Her jaw looked the wrong shape. I’d done some real damage there.
I wasn’t much better myself. My hand looked and felt like a purple, puffy football. A belt of fire encircled my waist. Every time I breathed, a sharp pain stabbed my ribs.
I left her for a minute and bent painfully over Dr Bairstow.
‘Sir?’
He was very white. I stared anxiously, but couldn’t see any blood. Kevlar does its best, but he’d been shot at close range. At the very least, his ribs were broken.
His eyes flickered open.
‘Buy … me … time.’
‘I will, sir.’
I picked up the precious data stick and placed it in his hand. His fingers curled around it and a little colour came back into his face.
I placed the blaster within his reach and left him.
Time to find out what was happening elsewhere.
And buy him some time.
I had to help her up. I wasn’t very gentle, but as far as I could see, her weakness was genuine. I heaved her out of the door, and with the gun rammed into the back of her neck, we took the short walk to the gallery and looked down.
The Battle of St Mary’s was over.
People lay where they had fallen. My heart clenched. They couldn’t all be dead, surely? I forgot Barclay, forgot everything. I stood on the gallery and stared down at the ruins of St Mary’s.
The Hall was wrecked. Small fires burned. Scorch marks bloomed up the walls. The plaster was pockmarked and scored from flying shrapnel. Splintered wood lay in heaps. Most of the banisters around the gallery had just – gone.
Bodies sprawled everywhere. I forgot this was another St Mary’s. These were people I’d known. People I’d worked with. People I’d loved.
If I turned my head, I could see Ian Guthrie, slumped against the wall like a broken doll, his chin resting on his chest, looking curiously vulnerable.
Dieter lay where he’d fallen. His eyes were open but I was certain he didn’t know where he was. Markham was partially buried under a pile of rubble and broken glass. What I could see of his face was just a mask of blood.
There was so much blood. Great arcs of it sprayed up the walls and pooled across the floor. People had walked through it and bloody footprints criss-crossed the floor.
Professor Rapson and Dr Dowson lay as they’d fought – together. The professor still clutched the remains of his homemade crossbow. By the looks of things, he’d run out of bolts and been using it as a club. Dr Dowson’s blood-stained morningstar had fallen from his grasp and lay nearby. Even now, he was making feeble moves to pick it up.
Our caretaker, Mr Strong, lay nearby. He’d disobeyed the order for the civilian staff to retreat. His glorious comb-over was in disarray. Long strands of grey hair flopped over his face. He lay very still. He was an old man and he had pinned on his medals and turned out to fight for St Mary’s. He lay very still as dust floated downwards, slowly covering the brightly coloured ribbons on his chest. It looked as if he’d been defending St Mary’s with some kind of garden implement.
A dirty and furious Dr Foster was supervising the removal of the wounded. Hunter knelt over someone I couldn’t see, packing a wound, and calling over her shoulder for more dressings.