Her target was the leader.
To Jago, there was at that moment a trace of confusion on the man’s face. His hand went back behind him, reaching for the pistol, which was given to him.
Jago couldn’t shout.
A hand reached out – quite delicate fingers, with manicured nails. Every detail was clear to Jago, and he started to run. It had the girl by the throat, and the pistol came slowly from behind. The man held her at arm’s length, keeping her clear of him, except for her feet. She hopped from one foot to the other, swinging the free foot at his shins. Her shoes were light, for wearing all day in a pizzeria, not for brawling on the street and disputing extortion money.
Jago ran.
He seemed to see his mother, the pocket-sized Carmel, who had come back into their home, breathing hard, and had tipped his phone onto the table where his homework was unfinished. Then she had enrolled him in the boxing club. Two weeks later he had fought for survival in the ring and stayed on his feet. Four weeks after that, one of the boys who had taken his phone was mismatched with a clever fighter and had had the arrogance punched out of him. Jago had gone to boxing all the time he had been at St Bonaventure’s and had never been hurt again. He had been left alone.
He ran out of the park, through the gap in the trimmed privet hedge, and into the street. Two cars blasted their horns at him, and he heard the screech of tyres.
She had not been shot, but the barrel, a dull black, was inches from her forehead.
There were shootings, knifings and kickings in Canning Town, reports of such filling the local paper, but he had never seen one. He didn’t know what a shooting would look like.
The pistol was used as a blunt instrument. Jago thought it deliberate, calculated. The barrel went into her face, the tip buried in her cheek. The foresight was jerked up, tearing apart the skin, the muscle and cartilage. He saw the blood.
The fight had gone out of her. The hand came off her throat and she sank to the ground.
Jago was on the pavement. What to do?
The leader showed no pleasure in what he had done, no concern, and acted like it was everyday business. In a sharp movement he wiped the barrel and the bloodied foresight on her jeans and apron. A last glance at the wound and the blood now was flowing freely. She whimpered, beaten. The bullet lay close to her. It was picked up and pocketed.
A life-defining moment. Jago took his last steps across the pavement, readied himself for the impact and flew. It would have been a leg that tripped him. He had no control and his arms couldn’t break his fall. The pavement soared at him. He struck it and the breath jerked out of him. He gasped. There was blood on his face. He had no strength. A car pulled away. She cried softly, and he saw the length of the cut on her face, how wide it was. He felt vomit rising into his throat, and felt the depths, too, of his failure.
Bernardo heard the child.
He heard her most clearly, and the clank of the chain, when he had switched off the bunker’s internal lights and was on his hands and knees in the tunnel. The concrete was rough against his trousers, his bones ached and he had only a small torch beam to show him how near he was to the outer entrance.