Chapter Twenty-Three
A Killer Escapes
Although it was only on the first floor, the drop to the street below was too much for Roman. He lacked the physicality of the other two men and didn’t like heights. He scrambled back into the apartment and bolted for the door.
A security guard and two neighbours were standing in the hall.
“What’s going on?” the guard asked.
Roman pushed past him, heading for the stairs. “They’ve gone over the balcony,” he shouted. “We need police and ambulance. Tell them it’s the Blyham Strangler. He’s down on the waterfront heading towards the town.”
“The Blyham Strangler?”
Roman didn’t hang around to the explain. He’d lost enough time already. He leapt down the stairs, two and three at a time. His heart hammered against his chest. He was breathing so hard and fast it hurt the back of his throat.
What was Mallon thinking? Going after him . He was wounded, more than likely concussed. Climbing over balconies in pursuit of a serial killer was crazy. But Will was injured, too. He couldn’t get far if the cops arrived fast.
Roman reached the bottom, sprinted across the lobby and out through the main doors. He turned immediately right and saw the two figures about three hundred yards ahead. He pummelled onwards, fuelled by adrenaline.
Did Will still have the steak knife? He couldn’t remember what had happened to it after their fight. Mallon was completely unarmed. And in his wounded state, his martial arts skills might be useless.
Roman raced on, gaining on the two men. Their injuries were slowing them down. As he got closer, he saw that Mallon had gained ground and was almost on top of Will.
Why is there no one else to help?
They were in front of the riverside developments, a stretch of bars and restaurants. Roman glanced to his right, hoping someone might notice.
“Help,” he yelled, his throat raw with the effort. “Help.”
It worked. Several faces appeared at the window of one of the restaurants.
He repeated his call for help. “The Blyham Strangler,” he bellowed.
Ahead of him, Mallon put on a sudden burst of speed and, with a leap, was upon Will. He latched onto his back. They were still a hundred yards ahead of Roman. Mallon had his arms and legs wrapped around the killer, using his weight to restrain him. Roman pounded the pavement. If he could reach them, he and Mallon should be able to hold Will until the police arrived.
The two men struggled. Will twisted from side to side, trying to dislodge the weight on his back. Roman glimpsed a flash of steel. He still has the knife . Tapping undiscovered reserves of energy, Roman ran faster. His could no longer feel his legs, was just a blur of motion, propelled by fear and desperation.
The fight had drawn more attention from the waterfront businesses. A group of people rushed across the terrace of one of the pubs, making their way towards the fight.
Will staggered, weaving back and forth, unbalanced by Mallon, who clung resolutely to his back.
Thirty yards. Then twenty. Roman would reach them before the people from the pub.
The two men wavered, precariously close to the edge of the quay. Ten yards. Roman was almost there. He reached out his arms, ready to wrestle Will to the floor. Just as he was about to grasp Will’s jacket, he staggered backwards.
Mallon and Will topped over the edge of the quay. Roman’s heart fell a fraction of a second before he heard the splash.
“Nooooooo.”
The river was black, save for the illumination of the buildings on either side. Roman scanned the surface. Apart from the disturbance of where they had gone in, he saw nothing.
“Mallon,” he screamed.
Nothing. Neither of them resurfaced.
There were voices behind him.
“The current will take them down,” someone said.
Then a head broke the surface, ten yards on and drifting downriver. He recognised the black woollen hat. It was Will.
Then another head appeared farther out, choking on the water.
Roman reacted on instinct, diving straight into the river.
The shock of the cold made him draw an involuntary breath. He burst for the surface, coughing. He was alive. He still had feeling. He struck out in the direction he’d last seen Mallon. Frantic voices yelled at him from the riverside. He powered on. The river drew him downstream. He’d heard about the currents before but had no idea they were this strong.
Mallon was weak, injured. Roman knew he had to find him before the river took him. He crawled through the cold, black water. It would not end like this.
He paused, lifting his head.
“Mallon,” he yelled into the night.
“H-here…”
Roman lowered his face into the water and sped in the direction of the voice.
Can’t lose him. Won’t lose him.
Every stroke was more leaden and laborious than the last.
He paused again, searching.
There was a figure in the water, just ahead of him. Mallon. Thank God .
With another surge, he made it.
Mallon’s face was ghastly in the lights from the riverside. His skin was as ashen as a corpse. There was barely any animation in his features. If he stayed in the water much longer, he would be finished.
“I’ve got you,” Roman said. His own teeth chattered as he spoke. He swam behind Mallon, slipping his arms beneath his shoulders and easing him onto his back. He would need strength for both of them on the return journey. Roman kicked for the bank. His body seemed independent of his brain, doing everything it could to keep the two of them alive. The currents dragged at their limbs, trying to take them down, but he kept on pushing, fighting against it.
We’re not going to die like this. Not tonight.
The voices from the bank were nearer, louder. Roman adjusted course, moving in their direction. Mallon was a dead weight in his arms. Please let him be breathing . There was nothing Roman could do to help him until they reached land. Each kick required more effort than the last, and he could no longer feel his legs for the cold.
He twisted his neck to check their progress. A crowd of people beckoned to him. Almost there. Keep kicking. Keep moving .
His head bumped against the wall of the quay. They had made it. Hands reached for him. Roman turned in the water, pushing Mallon towards their rescuers.
“Take him first.”
They were blessed that the tide was in and the gap between the water and quay was less than two feet. He tried to lift Mallon, to propel him towards the reaching hands, but he had no strength left. The cold consumed every part of him. Without the urge to keep Mallon safe, Roman might have given in to the impulse to close his eyes and slip away into the dark depths.
His arms were empty. The people above had gained purchase on his soaking charge and hauled him to safety. Then it was his turn. He tried to help but was a dead weight. Lifting his hand required too much effort.
Somehow, the people on the quay pulled him from the water, and he felt the hard pavement beneath his back. A coat was draped over him, and he heard concerned voices.
“Take it easy.”
“An ambulance is on the way…”
He couldn’t surrender to unconsciousness. He struggled into a sitting position. “Mallon. Mallon.” Where is he?
“Your friend is okay, thanks to you,” a kind voice told him.
“Is he breathing?” he asked weakly.
“He’s alive. Don’t worry for now.”
He allowed the people around to comfort him. Another coat was draped around his shoulders, a hot drink brought to his lips.
“It’s coffee. Sip it slowly,” a woman said. “Nice and easy.”
He wrapped his hands gratefully around the mug, still numb throughout.
Mallon was on the ground to his left. He was unconscious. Someone had brought a pile of tablecloths from one of the restaurants. They shook out one after another and draped them over his still body, trying to keep him warm. A man knelt beside him and rubbed him vigorously from chest to waist. They knew what they were doing.
Please be okay. Please hold on .
There were other voices, close by, raised in concern.
“Hey, you need to sit down. Help is on the way.”
Roman turned to look.
Will, surrounded by four other people, struggled to his feet. He swayed, looking around, getting his bearings.
“Sit down,” a woman pleaded with him. “You need medical help.”
Will locked eyes with Roman. A wild, panicked expression flashed over his face. He pushed aside the concerned woman and staggered backwards. He was in better shape than either Roman or Mallon. He turned and set off along the quayside, slowly, staggering towards the city centre.
“Stop,” Roman croaked.
“It’s all right,” someone told him. “Help will be here soon.”
The people who had tried to help Will looked on in amazement as he lurched away from them, taking stuttering steps, limping on his injured leg.
“Stop him,” Roman said. His voice had little volume. The people closest to Will couldn’t hear him. He grabbed the wrist of a man close by. “Stop him,” he urged. “He’s the Blyham Strangler.”
The man gawped. “What?”
“Don’t let him get away,” his voice grew louder as desperation returned. “He’s the Strangler.”
His words took an age to sink into the crowd.
“He’s what ?”
“The Strangler?”
Sensing the impending threat, Will quickened his pace, breaking into a half-run.
“He’s getting away,” Roman cried.
Finally, realisation dawned. Two young men and a woman grasped the meaning of what Roman had said.
“Stop the fucker,” the woman yelled.
The three of them tore after him. Will moved even faster.
Roman watched as the three bystanders caught up with him. He lashed out with a fist, but cold, water-logged and injured, there was no strength behind the punch. The men grabbed him by each arm and spun him around.
As they marched him back towards the crowd, Roman heard sirens in the distance. The emergency services were on the way.
The nightmare was over.