Chapter 57 Miles
Miles
A hellish sequence of sensory firsts is unleashed on Miles as he charges towards Faith. It all happens in a rapid, confusing blur, within one or two paces, in a single second. A terrible onslaught of sound, agony and terror.
He’s halfway towards Faith when he feels the impact of the bullet. It doesn’t propel him backwards, like when someone is shot in an action movie. His forward momentum remains. The initial hit is simply a realisation – his skin and muscle registering the contact with a sudden signal to his brain.
Then comes the sound. The deafening crack of gunfire. The blast splits the air and sets a dull pulsing in his ears.
And then, as he’s still running the no man’s land between his starting position and his target, comes the most profound experience of all – the physical pain.
It’s a sudden agony, like nothing he’s felt before – an explosion of white heat that pokers deep into his right shoulder.
He’s still running when that searing pain intensifies, blooming out from the point of impact.
Miles didn’t see the bullet leave the barrel because his head is down as he charges forward. There’s no time to dwell on the pain. He continues to rush on, bracing himself for being shot a second time.
His shoulder screams anew as it crashes into Faith.
He roars as he hits her with a tackle from straight off the rugby field.
His injured shoulder slams into her chest and her body gives way, hurled backwards under his momentum, and he lands in a heap on top of her on the road.
Miles instinctively grabs her forearms. He needs to get her hands under his control.
He can’t let her point that gun at him again.
He slides his grip up her arms, to her wrists, and Faith is writhing beneath him, kicking, and jabbing with her knees.
She screams, inches from his face. Miles gets a grip on Faith’s wrists and quickly hoists her arms so they are outstretched above her head.
The act of doing so causes a fiery sensation in his right shoulder.
Her face is so close that her growls and groans are loud.
Miles tilts his head to look up her arm and sees she has a tight grip on the handle of the gun.
He, in turn, has a firm grip on Faith’s right hand – the one holding the weapon.
But his grip on her other arm is failing.
He should be able to overpower her easily, but the injury to his shoulder means the muscles aren’t working as they should.
He strains to keep hold of her left wrist but he’s losing his grip, one finger at a time.
They both make low, guttural noises through gritted teeth as Faith tries to free herself from his grasp.
Miles simply cannot keep his shoulder tense any longer.
He loses his grip. Faith lashes her left arm free, and, in one quick motion, grabs the gun, switching it from her right to her left hand.
Miles shifts his body, and attempts to restrain her arms under his weight, but it’s too late.
Another shot. It’s even louder at this close range, like the slamming of a steel door right next to his ear. Miles braces for the pain. But this time, the pain doesn’t come. This bullet missed.
Miles makes a desperate lunge to try to gain control.
Again, he grabs hold of her arms, and brings her hands together above her head.
He braces against the burning pain in his shoulder and lifts her hands off the ground, then brings them down.
Faith squeals as they thud against the tarmac.
But she retains her grip on the gun. Miles repeats the action, this time summoning every ounce of strength to fight against the agonising pain in his shoulder.
He lifts higher this time and slams her hands down on the road.
Faith groans, and there’s a rattle as the gun falls loose.
Miles reaches out and sweeps the gun away.
He scrambles to his feet and runs over to it.
Faith is up in pursuit, but Miles gets there first. He grabs the gun and sprints up the road.
Faith chases after him, but Miles is quicker. He runs twenty yards further and turns, pointing the gun at him.
She stops dead, and a rush of relief sails through Miles’s body. Her power over him has gone. It’s over. He holds the gun in his left hand, keeping it aimed at the centre of Faith’s chest. His right arm hangs loosely at his side. Any movement of it only increases the agonising pain in his shoulder.
Faith stands in the middle of the road, her shoulders sagging miserably.
She glares at him and nurses her right hand.
She’s hurt. But it’s impossible for Miles to find any sympathy regarding any injury she may have suffered – not when he’s enduring such crippling pain in his shoulder. Pain she inflicted.
Faith takes a step forward, and Miles responds by taking a step back.
‘What are you going to do, Miles? Shoot me? You get off on that, don’t you? Killing women.’
Miles doesn’t respond. The overwhelming relief he felt has already abated.
What is he going to do? He has no idea. Miles might be lucky to be alive, but the situation he finds himself in – pointing a loaded gun at someone – is still one of mortal jeopardy.
The weapon feels unreal in his hand. Cold and heavy.
His rests his finger delicately against the trigger, as lightly as he can.
He can hear the beats of his heart – reassuring markers of life and time – but the passing of each heartbeat brings him no closer to the answer of what he should do.
Faith simply stares at him, pure venom in her eyes. After maybe twenty seconds of silence, she folds her arms. ‘Just tell me why you did it.’
‘I didn’t do it.’
Faith shakes her head.
‘I shouldn’t have lied. I shouldn’t have dragged Elis into it. But I didn’t kill her.’
She says nothing.
‘I’ll tell you what happened. What really happened.
’ The power balance between them has shifted, and now Miles can do the talking.
He takes a moment, trying to formulate the right way to explain it: the truth.
He’s recounted the alternative narrative – the lie – so many times that it almost feels like it really happened that way.
‘I admit,’ he says, nodding earnestly, ‘I lied to the court about where I was. But I didn’t hurt Caira.
I didn’t touch her. I know you don’t want to believe me, but when I left Caira’s flat that night, she was fine. She was happy.’
Faith turns her head to the side, dismissively. She stares vacantly into the forest.
Miles takes a deep breath, then continues.
‘When I left her flat that night, I wasn’t sure how I was going to get home.
My car was parked on her street, but I’d drunk way too much to drive.
On a normal night, I would’ve called an Uber, but my phone had died.
’ Miles winces at the pain in his shoulder, which is getting worse as the adrenaline wears off.
‘So, I got in my car and had a lie-down on the back seat under my coat and fell asleep. I woke up shivering with cold about five hours later and drove home. And that’s it.
That’s the whole story. That’s what happened. ’
Faith scoffs. ‘And you expect me to believe that?’
‘No!’ Miles shouts. ‘I don’t expect you to believe that.
I don’t expect anyone to believe it. That’s the whole point.
It doesn’t sound very bloody believable, does it?
That’s why I had to come up with something that was believable – someone to back me up – otherwise there was a chance I was going to get locked up for something I didn’t do. ’
‘You’ve lied and lied and lied. You lied to the court. You lied to Jessie and me. How do I know you’re not lying to me right now?’
‘Because you haven’t got the gun pointed at me anymore, have you?’ He waves the pistol. ‘I’ve got one pointed at you. If I was the murderer you think I am, wouldn’t I just put a bullet in you right now?’
‘Yeah, well, maybe you should.’
Miles points the gun high into the air and pulls the trigger. It fires, the gun kicking back in his hand. It’s an unreal sight: the bullet leaving the barrel in a shudder and a wisp of smoke. Branches shake and wings flap as birds scarper from their perches.
Faith also flinches at the noise. She closes her eyes for a moment, then takes another step forward and throws her arms in the air, her brow and nose creased with fury. ‘Just do it! Get it over with. I wasn’t planning on walking out of this forest alive, anyway.’
Miles takes a step back, and fires another shot high into the trees.
He can taste the sulphurous tang of gunpowder on the air.
‘Maybe I should. But I can’t. This is one of those times where being totally wrong about something has saved you.
’ He aims the gun upwards again and fires another shot.
‘Because I’m not a killer.’ Again, he fires into the air.
‘I couldn’t kill you even if I wanted to. ’
Miles pulls the trigger again. But this time it responds only with a click. He pulls the trigger once more, and again it doesn’t fire. He’s emptied the chamber. He lets go of the pistol, and it falls to the ground, landing with a heavy metallic clack as it strikes the road.
He watches Faith for a reaction. She doesn’t move. He can’t read her expression; is it surprise, or something else? Has he made a mistake? Faith’s backpack is still on her shoulders; could she have another weapon in there? If she does, she isn’t reaching for it. Her arms dangle limply by her sides.
Miles outstretches his good arm – an open gesture.
‘Look at me.’ He speaks at a slow, calm pace that is at odds with the urgent thumping of his heart.
‘Look at me. I’ve never harmed anyone. I hate violence.
’ Miles touches his shoulder and grimaces.
When he removes his hand from the wound, his fingers are crimson with blood.
‘I’ve never been in a single fight, until just this minute.
I’ve never raised my hand to a woman in my life. I don’t even kill bugs.’
Faith stares silently at him. He’s staring at her, too.
It’s a strange feeling, like they’re meeting one another for the first time.
And then, like a magic eye coming into focus, Miles sees her: the girl who suffered years of neglect and abandonment.
He sees the woman who felt a loss so great that her feelings couldn’t be controlled.
A woman whose grief turned to anger and then hate.
Hate that fuelled a need for revenge that brought her all the way here.
Something has changed in her eyes, and Miles knows exactly what it is. He’s received so much scrutiny, so much judgement, that he can tell from the look in a person’s eyes whether they believe him or not. And Miles can see it. She knows he’s telling the truth. She believes him.
The expression on her face remains impassive. She’s thinking. So is Miles. The way she looks at him reminds him of a cat, the way they stare you down with round eyes as they consider their options: fight or flight.
And then, without a word, she turns on a heel and runs.
She’s made her decision. The pace she sets off at tells him it’s unequivocal.
Faith isn’t coming back. Miles uses his good arm to gingerly lower himself to the ground, and he sits and watches as she sprints down the road, becoming smaller until she disappears around a bend.
The person who has been following him, tormenting him, has gone.
Miles pulls up his shirt to examine his shoulder.
It’s nothing but a flesh wound, oozing blood.
It hurts a hell of lot worse than it looks.
It’s not even bleeding that heavily. The longer he stares at it, the more it loses all importance.
Eventually it will be nothing but a small patch of scar tissue.
A blemish. A triviality. What he has is a wound that will easily heal.
Unlike Faith. Unlike Caira. Unlike Elis.