Behind Dead Eyes (25 page)

They
would have been showered with broken glass but the debris from the window was cushioned by the curtains. Instead large pieces tumbled loudly to the wooden floor below, breaking into dozens of smaller fragments on impact. The half-brick had been hurled in anger and it parted the curtains, landing on the coffee table between them with a violent thud.

Tom went straight to the window and looked out. As he did so another half-brick shot past him, narrowly missing his head.

‘Jesus,' he hissed and the youth outside jeered at him.

‘Come on then!' roared the teenager and Tom's first instinct was to run outside and grab the lad until he realised he was not alone. Another half-dozen boys in their late teens were behind him, mostly obscured by the darkness; a snarling pack of animals in jeans and sweatshirts. Another brick thudded against the wooden frame of the broken window. There was a bang on the front door then and he realised there were more of them.

He turned to face Helen, who looked like she couldn't believe what was happening.

‘I'll call the police?'

‘No time.' He grabbed her by the arm. ‘We get out now!'

They ran into the hallway just as one of the glass panels on the front door shattered as a wooden post came through it and landed on the hall carpet. ‘Back door?' he asked
frantically and she nodded dumbly. Tom started to run but Helen broke away from him.

‘My bag!' she shouted.

‘There's no time!' But she was already back in the lounge. Tom watched helplessly from the hallway as the remaining glass panel in the front door broke and an arm came through it. A hand snaked round and a palm slapped against the door frame in an effort to find the lock and open it. They'd be inside in seconds and Helen was still looking for her bag.

Tom grabbed the only weapon available, the wooden post used to break through the door. He swung it hard on to the invading hand and there was a gratifying howl of pain from the invading teenager before he pulled his arm away. Tom watched him retreat holding his damaged hand, but others were trying to get through the door now. He backed away just as Helen rushed out clutching her bag. They ran down the hallway and through the kitchen. Behind them someone kicked what remained of the door in. Tom wrenched open the door and pulled Helen through it into the back yard.

Ahead of him was the back street and his car, but before they could reach it another youth stepped out in front of them swinging a baseball bat. Expecting Tom to retreat he raised the bat high but Tom did not stop or go backwards. He knew their only chance was to break though, and tackling one armed man was better than the snarling gang whose noisy, threatening progress through the flat could be heard behind them. As the thug brought the bat back, Tom ran into him, thrusting his head forward hard at the last second right into the young man's face. He cried out in pain and fell to the ground clutching his bloodied face.

Tom didn't have time to take advantage of his felled
opponent or even wrench the baseball bat from him. Instead he powered on through the back yard and out through the open gates, with Helen behind him. The car faced Helen's flat and Tom had his keys out to open it but the mob were too close and he couldn't wait for her to go round the other side. Instead he grabbed Helen and forcefully flung her through the opened driver's door. She landed heavily as he scrambled in after her. They were a tangle of arms and legs now, as she attempted to right herself in the passenger seat and he tried to slam his door behind him. Tom managed to close it and pop the lock just as the first snarling youth reached him. His attacker's face pressed right up against the side window as he tugged hopelessly on the door handle, cursing and spitting at Tom, who thrust his key into the ignition and turned it while the thug banged on the glass. The engine started first time and Tom had never been more grateful, but his relief was short-lived. Just as he was about to put it into gear the youth nearest his window retreated and the face of the man he had headbutted appeared. There was blood all over the lower part of his face and his nose looked broken. The baseball bat came smashing down against the window.

There was an almighty crash and Tom's senses were filled with a combination of noise and pain as he was showered with broken glass, which sliced the skin on his face as he closed his eyes against the fragments. He blinked furiously to try and clear them. The man with the baseball bat struck again, trying to steer it into the gap he had made with the first swing. He narrowly missed Tom's head and caught him a glancing blow on the shoulder. For a moment Tom felt as if every nerve of his body was united in pain. With a cry of rage, he jerked the car into reverse gear and slammed his
foot on the accelerator. The car shot backwards and the front wheel ran over his attacker's foot. Tom heard the young thug cry out in agony but they weren't safe yet.

Tom reversed the car a few yards into the dead end in Helen's street so he could drive out the other side. He was now faced with a vicious, screaming gang armed with bricks and bats, and they all descended on the car before he could move it. Blows rained down on them and the sound of denting metal and broken glass was terrifying – then a brick was hurled, causing a spider's web of cracks to the windscreen on Helen's side. Another attacker reached his broken driver's side window now and a punch came through it. Tom ducked but not quickly enough and a hard, bony fist crashed into the side of his head. He instinctively floored the accelerator. The car shot forwards and one of the youths was knocked violently to one side. The car flew past the gang but the back street they were in was short and narrow. Too late, Tom realised he was going far too fast and there was another brick wall straight ahead of them.

‘Jesus,' he hissed as he slammed on the brakes just in time. He was forced to reverse a short way, so he could get the angle needed to turn into a tight bend with walls on either side. They were heading back towards the gang now. Tom changed gear and twisted the steering wheel, guiding the car round the bend and down the tiny side street that bordered the block of flats. Heavy objects hurled in frustration by the youths banged against the rear of his car but he didn't care about that now.

Tom sped down the side street and out into the main road without looking or stopping. At the bottom he took another sharp turn, taking them even further from danger.

‘Are you okay?' he shouted.

‘Yes.' Helen looked shaken. ‘Oh my God,' she said, ‘your face.'

A quick glance in the mirror made him realise the cause of Helen's alarm. He looked like a gunshot victim. The cut at the top of his forehead was bleeding so much it was in danger of restricting his vision, but he wasn't going to pull over. They'd left their attackers trailing behind but he wasn't going to take any chances in case they were following in a car, and kept going till they were well clear. Only when Tom was convinced they were far enough from the scene with no one behind them did he turn into a well-lit pub car park to deal with the wound.

‘Let me see,' urged Helen, concern in her voice, but after a moment's scrutiny she told him, ‘I don't think it's as bad as it looks, thank God. You've got one cut on the side of your head and a whole bunch of little ones above your eye. I don't think it needs stitches.'

He swivelled the rear-view mirror, took a quick glance at the cut and said, ‘I'll be fine. My thick head took most of the impact.'

‘How can you joke about it?' she asked. ‘You saw what they did back there.'

‘I'm just thanking my lucky stars we got out of there more or less in one piece.'

‘I suppose we were lucky,' she admitted. Helen didn't want to think about what would have happened to them both if they'd been trapped in her flat by that mob.

‘You got much in the house?' he asked, and when she didn't seem to understand he said, ‘You know, stuff.'

‘A few clothes …' Her voice trailed off. She was relieved she didn't have a lot for them to take. ‘But I don't want to go back there.'

‘Don't worry, we can phone the police.'

‘They never come,' she said quickly, and he wondered how she knew that. Had there been other incidents at her home?

‘We can call Ian,' he said, ‘he'll sort it. There'll be a phone in the pub but you'd better make the call.'

‘Why?'

‘I don't think they'd be too chuffed if I walked in there looking like this.'

‘Okay,' she said, ‘I still don't want to go back there though.'

‘You don't have to,' he told her firmly, ‘just call Ian and tell him what happened. He'll get someone over there. And don't worry. You're staying with me tonight.'

‘I'm
afraid the boiler is playing up again but it's a warm house,' he told her when they finally made it back to his home. Tom snicked the top off two bottles of beer, handed one to Helen and took a big swig from his.

‘Should you be drinking alcohol after a blow to the head?'

‘Probably not,' he admitted cheerfully and he took an even bigger drink. Tom checked his answerphone and there was a message from Bradshaw. He had managed to get someone down to Helen's house to secure it overnight. As expected, there was nobody at the scene to apprehend.

They sat in his lounge and relived the events of the evening. ‘Those articles of yours really upset someone,' he said. ‘They may have looked like young thugs but you were targeted. They were let off their leash by Jimmy McCree.'

‘Or someone who asked him to do it.'

‘Is there anybody you haven't fallen out with?' he asked.

‘No one that matters.' She drank her bottle of beer far more quickly than usual then said, ‘I'm really tired for some reason. Thanks for letting me use your spare bed.'

‘I don't have a spare bed.' And he was amused by the look of panic on her face. ‘Don't worry, you can have mine. I'll take the sofa.'

‘Have you got any blankets?'

‘Don't need them,' he said. ‘I'll be fine. Haven't you ever slept on a sofa after a party?'

‘No,' she admitted.

‘I have,' he said, ‘loads of times.'
Though not for years
, he thought. ‘Go on. Get some sleep. Things always seem better in the morning.'

‘I feel terrible, taking your bed.'

‘It's no bother.'

They said goodnight a little stiffly and Helen went up the stairs. She sat on the double bed in Tom's room and was about to get undressed when she heard the stairs creak and the unmistakable sound of footsteps coming up them. She instinctively froze.

There was a soft knock on the door. ‘Yes,' she said.

‘Can I come in?' he asked.

‘Yes,' she repeated unsurely.

Tom opened the door and went to a chest of drawers, opened it and pulled out two T-shirts then handed one to her. ‘Thought you might need something to sleep in,' he said, ‘and there's clean towels in the airing cupboard.'

‘Thank you.'

‘Night-night pet.' And he left her to it.

Helen immediately felt guilty because she had automatically assumed he was going to climb into bed with her, but she should have known Tom wasn't like that. She felt even worse because of the slight thrill of anticipation that thought had given her.

Helen took off her clothes and pulled on Tom's T-shirt then she climbed into the big double bed and pulled the thick duvet over her. Within minutes she was in a deep sleep but Helen was awakened an hour later by a sudden sound outside. Two cats were fighting. They screamed at one another repeatedly before going their separate ways.

Helen realised she was cold, and then thought of Tom downstairs with no blankets.

Tom was fully clothed, lying on the sofa with his coat pulled over himself, but he couldn't sleep. He had consumed two more bottles of beer after Helen had gone to bed and now he was trying to doze off in a freezing room, but his legs were too long for the sofa. That and the injuries to his face, head and shoulder meant that no matter what position he lay in he couldn't get comfortable.

He heard a click then and a crack of light shone under his door from the hallway onto his carpet-less floor. He sat up groggily as Helen opened the door. She was wearing his T-shirt and he had to make a conscious effort not to stare at her bare legs.

‘You're going to freeze,' she announced. ‘Come on, you don't have to stay down here.'

Helen deliberately left the light off in the bedroom. She climbed into her side of the bed and turned away from him while he took off his jeans. Somehow she knew Tom would not get the wrong idea about this and he didn't, but she was very aware of the weight on his side of the bed when he joined her and the heat from his body.

‘Thanks,' he said quickly.

‘No problem,' she said.

When Helen opened her eyes in the morning it took her a moment to remember where she was, then she rolled over and saw Tom Carney sleeping next to her. She tried not to think what Peter would have made of this but soon that thought was banished by the memory of the attack on them at her flat. All of sudden her jealous boyfriend seemed to be the least of Helen's problems. She glanced at her watch on the bedside table and was surprised at how late it was. They had both been exhausted by their ordeal. She left Tom
sleeping and slipped out of the bed to use the bathroom. Tom stirred and she watched him as he rolled over without waking.

Helen came out of the bathroom moments later, and when she reached the top of the landing she yelled out in alarm. A strange man was standing at the foot of the stairs, staring back up at her.

The man almost jumped out of his skin when he saw her. ‘Sorry, pet,' he spluttered, though he looked at least as alarmed by their contact as she had been, ‘I didn't know you were … I didn't realise he was …' Then he stopped and took a different approach: ‘I'll put the kettle on.'

‘What's the matter?' asked Tom as he opened the door and blinked at her.

‘There's a man …' she managed.

‘Oh shit, yeah, I forgot about him.' When Helen looked at him disbelievingly he said, ‘That's Darren, my brother-in-law. He's a joiner.' And when that proved insufficient he explained, ‘He's out of work at the moment. I hired him to finish some of the jobs on the house while I'm busy with these cases.' He then realised the effect that seeing a strange man in the house must have had on Helen, following their ordeal the night before. ‘I'm really sorry.'

Now that Helen had calmed down, her first thought was that she had just met Tom's sister's husband for the first time in her underwear and one of Tom's T-shirts.

‘Come down,' Tom said. ‘I'll introduce you.'

Tom went down the stairs moments later, while Helen got dressed. He found three steaming mugs of tea on the kitchen table and his brother-in-law grinning at him.

‘Thanks, Darren,' he said. ‘Er, Helen's just …'

‘It's none of my business, bro,' interrupted Darren, ‘but what happened to your face? I hope she didn't do that.'

‘It's a long story,' and he was thankful Darren wasn't the kind to insist on him recounting it, ‘but do us a favour and don't tell sis about it; she'll only fret.'

‘I won't, but I saw your motor on the way in. Looks like you had an argument with a lorry.'

‘Is there any chance I could borrow your car for the day until I can get the insurance company to give me a rental?'

‘No problem. I'll be busy straightening your kitchen cabinets and sorting these ancient floorboards. Just bring it back in one piece.'

‘Thanks.'

‘No bother. Do I have to keep quiet about your new girlfriend too?' he asked.

‘No, but we're not …'

‘Course you're not,' he said as Helen, fully dressed now, entered the room. ‘Sleep well, did you, pet?' he asked her cheerfully.

Bradshaw was waiting for them at Helen's apartment. ‘My landlord's going to go crazy.' She observed the bare wooden boards that had been hastily nailed over the broken windows.

‘He's insured,' Bradshaw told her, ‘but you might want to think about moving.'

She just nodded dumbly. ‘I'm only back here to collect my things.' Though Bradshaw's face betrayed very little, Tom guessed there wasn't much left to collect. They followed Helen into the apartment and Bradshaw left them to it. Tom went with her into the front room. Every piece of furniture had been upended or smashed. She took one look at the scene, turned and left the room.

When she reached the bedroom, the site that greeted Helen stopped her in her tracks. The sheet and duvet had been torn from the bed and slashed with a knife, the mattress had been hacked at with a blade of some kind and its stuffing spread around the room. Helen's clothes had been pulled from her wardrobe; dresses were torn, her coat slashed, jeans and T-shirts were thrown everywhere. Drawers had been pulled out and upended and her underwear scattered around the room. Wordlessly, Helen went to the kitchen and returned a moment later carrying a roll of black bin bags. She tore off the first bag, opened it and began to scoop the nearest debris straight into it. Tom watched her for a moment and when it became clear to him that she no longer wanted to keep a single item from the room, he said, ‘I'll help you.'

‘No,' she said firmly, ‘I'll do it,' then she turned to face him and though she was doing a very good job of keeping it all together, Tom could see in her eyes how much this had hurt her.

‘Helen,' he said again, ‘I'll help.' He took the bin bags from her, tore one from the roll and began to fill it.

Working together, it didn't take long to clear the room, and once the black sacks were stacked outside by the bins they rejoined Bradshaw in the kitchen.

‘This wasn't some random act,' he told Helen. ‘I've spoken to my colleagues in Northumbria Police and they've seen this before, but never round here. It's usually a punishment for those suspected of cooperating with the police in rougher parts of the city. Gangs like this start with burglaries and muggings, which gets them noticed by organised criminals, who use them for jobs they don't want to be associated with. Blitzing someone's house like this is designed to intimidate
people, and it's often combined with a beating.' He stopped and waited for Helen to speak.

‘I see,' she said simply.

‘And we all know who you've been upsetting lately.' Ian Bradshaw felt like an idiot. He'd hoped his word with Jimmy McCree might at least have given the man some pause for thought before he targeted Helen again but he had treated it as a challenge to rise to. Now Helen's flat had been trashed and Bradshaw knew it was his fault, but he didn't quite have the nerve to tell her this.

‘Come on,' Tom said because Helen looked helpless now the mess had been cleared away, ‘let's get out of here.'

‘Where are we going?' she asked him.

‘To the scene of another crime.' And when she didn't understand he said, ‘Lonely Lane. I want to see the spot where that young woman was murdered.'