A silence fell. Hill stared at Stark, perfectly still, as if pondering this revelation.
He shook his head. “It doesn’t matter,” he said. “It’s over.”
Calmly, he pointed the rifle at Stoddart, and shot him in the chest. The impact knocked him from his feet. He fell back, colliding with the table, the index book spilling to the ground. He rolled, fell still, a ragged hole in his crisp white shirt.
Stark ran. Another shot rang out, the bullet puncturing a box above his head. He heard footsteps making their way to the bottom of the stairs.
“No point, Jonathan!”
Every point, thought Stark. He ran to the far side of the basement, to the chair where he had sat, beside the three files. Another bullet thwacked into the wall. He glimpsed a fleeting image – Hill striding down one of the aisles, towards him. Stark made his way up an adjacent aisle, slowly, quietly. He sensed movement. He stopped, held his breath. He squinted through a gap in the boxes. There, five feet from him, on the other side, he saw a Barbour jacket, a hand on a rifle, the profile of Hill’s face. Hill had stopped. They were next to each other, separated by a wall of paper, hard and heavy as concrete.
Suddenly, a sharp fluster of wings. A fleeting shadow, from nowhere.
A shot fired at the ceiling. Another, as the shadow flitted up and down, a whisper of movement, quick and sure. Stark took his chance. He heaved against the shelves. Something helped him. He felt a pressure, pushing with him. The column wobbled on its wooden legs, fell forward, slow and ponderous, each box a solid weight. It collapsed, Hill suddenly gone, disappearing under the deluge.
Stark waited. Silence resumed, save his own breathing and the beating of his heart. The aisle next to him no longer existed. Instead, a pile of boxes, contents spilled and scattered. Nothing stirred. Everything settled back to shadows and stillness.
Stark rushed back to the stairs. There, the broken bleeding body of Edward Stoddart. He groaned, his chest spasmed. He raised a hand. His fingers fluttered.
Stark crouched down, gently cradled his head on his lap. The ground was thick with blood.
Stoddart tried to speak.
“No,” whispered Stark. “There’s nothing to say. Time to rest.”
A small sad smile formed on Stoddart’s lips, he closed his eyes, and died in Stark’s arms.
With great care, Stark rested Stoddart’s head on the ground. Beside him, in the pool of blood, was the sealed envelope. Stark lifted it, opened it.
The letter was addressed to him. It was simple, and expressed the matter as eloquently as any letter could.
Two words.
I’m sorry.
Stark tucked the letter in his pocket, made his way back up the stairs. He had a last look back, turned the light off. The room was swallowed by darkness.
He closed the door.
The affair was over.
It was time to go home.