HANGED
That same night in Manchester
‘Shit . . .’
Foxy opened his eyes. Couldn’t see anything, his vision all blurred and smeared black. He closed them, tried again. Wiped his hand across his face. That hurt, like dragging needles, but at least he could see, if not fully. He blinked again. There. Some kind of liquid in his eyes, thick, viscous. He blinked again. Put his hand to his face, looked at his palm. Realised it was blood. And something else in the pooled blood in his palm. Small, glittering shards. Glass.
He tried to pull himself into a sitting position and felt pain like he had never known before. His body wouldn’t respond, his left side refusing to follow commands. Then he remembered. The crash. He looked up. Through the blur he saw the BMW wrapped around a lamppost, the windscreen shattered and himself in front of it. He worked out what had happened.
When the police arrived, everyone in Foley’s gang had driven off straight away, looking for any exit the police hadn’t covered. They all panicked, drove any which way. Foxy tried to keep a cool head. He tried to work out which exits the police would have blocked, come up with alternative routes around them. He could still get away with this, he thought. Still convince them he was on their side. That all the easy money and pussy, the drugs and the violence, hadn’t turned him. Salvage something. He just had to get out of the estate to do it.
He pulled himself up using the front bonnet of the car and the lamppost. They were almost one since the crash. He gasped for breath, pain singing through his body like a choir of demons. His right arm hung uselessly at his side. His first thought: get away. Get help. He heard a noise. The passenger seat airbag had inflated, saving that half of the window from splintering. The cry came from behind it. He pulled himself round to the side of the car, looked in. The girl he had been with, Hayley, was still sitting there. Trapped.
‘Oh god . . .’ She began to move, coming round slowly, then faster as she realised what was in front of her face, fought with the airbag, thinking it was suffocating her.
‘It’s all right,’ Foxy said, or tried to say. His mouth didn’t seem to be working well. ‘It’s all right . . .’
She managed to fight her way through the bag and out of the car. Unsteady on her legs from both high heels and the shock of the crash, she was bloodstained but not to his extent. Her wide eyes told him that shock was setting in. He didn’t have time for that. He had to get away. And her as well.
‘Come on,’ he said, letting go of the bonnet and reaching out his good hand, wobbling as a result, ‘we’ve got to go.’
The night came back into focus for her now and she realised where she was, what must have happened. Then she looked at Foxy. And started screaming.
‘Shut up, you stupid bint, shut it . . .’ Anger straight away. He didn’t have time for this.
‘Your face, shit, what’s happened to your face?’
He moved towards her, she pulled back instinctively. He could hear voices, see lights, getting nearer.
‘A fucking car crash,’ he said, or tried to. The words sounded fine in his head, mangled as they left his mouth. ‘Now come on.’
He made to grab her, pull her with him. She flinched away once more.
‘No,’ she said, shaking her head, tears forming in her eyes. ‘No, I’m not, this is . . . not fun anymore. I’m scared, Foxy . . . I’m scared . . .’
‘Come on then.’
‘No . . .’ She refused to budge. The tears came freely now. ‘I want to go home. I want my mum . . .’ She kept shaking her head. ‘This is . . . no . . .’
The voices, loud, angry, were getting nearer. He grabbed her arm, dragged her along with him. Unsteady on his feet, but determined. She refused to move.
‘The fucking law’s coming, come on . . .’
She didn’t move. ‘The law? The law . . . I’m going to tell them, Foxy. Tell them I wasn’t involved, tell them it wasn’t me. I’m going to tell them . . .’
‘You’re coming with me . . .’ Another grab for her. He didn’t have the strength to compel her to move and his words weren’t helping. He had to impress on her the seriousness of the situation, just how badly and quickly they needed to get out of there.
His heart was hammering, pumping blood round his body, out of his body. He needed to move. He needed attention. With no other choice, he pulled his gun out, pointed it at her. He had never been firearm trained. In fact his Glock had barely been fired, except for practice in the Worsley Woods. But he was used to brandishing it in order to get attention, make someone follow his orders. That was usually enough.
‘Now.’ He pointed it at her.
She just stared at him. ‘Foxy, what you doing?’
‘We’ve got to go. I can’t . . .’ Weakening now, a different kind of darkness than the night dancing before him. ‘Come on . . .’
‘I’m not moving.’ Her voice edging towards hysteria. ‘I’m staying here. I’m not . . .’ She closed her eyes, pretended she wasn’t there. ‘I want to go home . . .’
Anger overtook him once more. He couldn’t leave her here, she would try and control the narrative – his narrative – close down his own attempts to come out of this any kind of hero. But she wouldn’t come with him. And he couldn’t hang around here any longer. He made one last attempt to get her onside.
He grabbed her once more. ‘Come on.’ Started walking, hoping he had enough strength to drag her with him.
‘Get off me . . .’ She shook off his grip easily.
He tried again, pulling at her. Again, she resisted.
Then came the shots from behind. The sound of bodies running towards him.
‘I don’t have time for this . . .’
He pulled her along beside him and she twisted her ankle, falling over her heels. She crumpled to the ground in a heap. He bent down, pulled her up.
Just as a bullet whistled past the side of his head.
Shit . . .’
Crouching, he returned fire. Hayley dragged herself to her feet, began running. Towards where the gunfire was coming from.
‘Stay here you stupid bint . . .’
Another bullet, even closer this time. He could see bodies in the distance. Moving slowly towards him. He raised his gun, fired blindly, unable to see clearly.
Later, he told himself that it was an accident. That he hadn’t meant to hit her. He had just been desperate, blacking out, even. But he did hit her. Several times. Damaged nerves from the crash, he told himself later. His trigger finger must have spasmed.
He also told himself that pulling up a nearby manhole cover in a desperate display of strength and dropping the gun down it, waiting for the splash as it hit running water in the sewer below, then replacing the cover was just his instinct as a copper kicking in. Nothing more.
With no energy left, he collapsed next to her.
It wasn’t me. I didn’t do that. It . . .
The questions would have to wait. The voices and those bobbing flashlights were getting nearer.
*
When they found him, he was still alive. But he would never be the same again.