Chapter 10 of A Net Too Wide To Break His Fall, by Matt Boothman
I wrote this story chapter by chapter, without outlining first. It was an experiment in writing consistently, producing a chapter once a month, without fail, for the Foggy Outline newsletter. So don’t expect something polished or finished; but what it does have is momentum, and a fluidity that came from wanting to change things up enough to keep myself interested enough to write more.
If you’d be interested in a properly edited, fleshed out, finished version of this story, let me know!
“So none of these sorry sacks can see you?” said Big Anton, jutting his chin at the grey-faced parents on the supermarket run with the pushchair, the rough sleepers in the doorways, and the prowling uniforms.
“See or hear,” said Callum from three steps behind Anton, hands in his pockets, head in his hood.
“So to all them, I look like I’m chatting to myself.”
“Yep.”
“But if I yelled out, ‘hey–’”
“Don’t.” Callum rounded his shoulders to deflect incoming attention.
“–if I went over there and said ‘Officer, I’d like you to meet–‘“
“Don’t even joke,” said Callum. “It’s up to the boss who’s in on the secret.”
“I’m only asking questions. This is some X-Files stuff,” said Anton, dating himself. “The way you are makes no sense. And we’re supposed to work together. Do you blame me for wanting the facts straight?”
“You’ve had weeks to ask this stuff,” said Callum. “Not my fault you left it ’til we’re out on a public street. And we’re meant to be working.”
“I ask questions when they occur,” said Anton. “This is the door.”
Anton half-sat on a junction box and lit a cigarette, while Callum took a screwdriver and needle-nosed pliers to an unmarked door in between a nail salon and a bookie’s.
“You could yell in this woman’s face,” said Anton, chinning at an elderly passer-by approaching with the help of a wheeled shopping bag.
“She wouldn’t notice. Wouldn’t hear anything.”
“You could spit on her?”
“She’d feel that,” said Callum. “If I time it right, she’ll decide you must have done it.”
“Never,” said Anton. “I have a face all grandmothers trust.”
Callum dropped the dismantled lock on the pavement and kicked the door open hard, so it rebounded off the inside wall with a noise like a gong. Big Anton fumbled his cig and glanced at the pair of uniforms across the road; Callum allowed himself an inner smile as he courteously held the door for the other man.
If it wasn’t Anton, it was Evelyn, or Benson, or Vivian Hithercombe herself; in the weeks since the card game, Callum had been hard pressed to avoid supervision. As a quantity previously unknown to any but Vivian, he now found himself under a sort of probation with her senior lieutenants, emphasis on the probing. It was a status he shared with their fellow lieutenant Lisaveta, who’d only just and only precariously regained Vivian’s trust, thanks to his false confirmation of her loyalty; and both of them being under scrutiny had so far made it impossible to talk to her alone and explain things. Things like why he’d assured Vivian she was loyal when really she was poised to jump ship at the first safe opportunity, and how they could help each other not just to escape Vivian’s organisation, but to blow it up on the way out.
“How nice,” said Big Anton. “They gift-wrapped her for us.”
Inside the street door was a staircase leading down. At the bottom of the stairs was an open door. Inside the open door was a small room. The only thing in the small room was a swivel chair with a person tied to it. They wore a dirty white coverall and no shoes, and their head was inside a canvas tote bag.
“Bit much, isn’t it?” Callum entered the small room walking a tightrope: keep it casual, but not so casual it seems obviously forced. “She’s only a suspected informant. I thought the plan was you loom a bit and remind her who’s boss while I go through her phone.”
“And I thought you were Her Highness’s invisible devil, not some squeamish child,” said Big Anton. “Suspected informants make everyone nervous. You can’t keep them in the team. But they’ve been in the team. They’ve seen things. Can’t keep them, can’t let them go. What can you do?” He lifted the bag straight up with finger and thumb.
“I haven’t said anything,” said the woman underneath. “My cousin, he’s on the force, but we don’t–”
Big Anton tossed the bag aside. His other hand levelled a handgun at her forehead. He stood very close; he did indeed loom. The gun’s barrel was almost comically short.
“Whoa,” said Callum. “Were you just carrying that on the street?”
Anton’s focus was all on the woman. All hers was on the stubby muzzle of the gun. “Shut up,” said Anton. “Did you hear that?”
She nodded tightly.
“No,” said Anton, “did you hear someone talk besides me?”
She moved her head as little as possible while still communicating no.
Anton took a step back and, still holding the gun loosely at his hip, pointed it at Callum. “See someone standing there?”
“Don’t,” said Callum.
She glanced straight through Callum, then back to the gun. Shook her head no again.
Still with his eyes on her, Big Anton tossed the gun underhand to Callum, who fumbled it, then got it awkwardly cradled in both hands.
“See where the gun went?” said Anton.
She’d tracked it as far as Callum’s hands, but now scanned the room in jerking motions before returning to Anton and shaking her head tensely no.
When it met Callum’s, Anton’s gaze was that of a kid observing a wingless fly. “So weird,” he said. “Real X-Files stuff.”
Callum couldn’t take his eyes off Big Anton and his hands couldn’t work out which end of the stupid stubby gun was which.
Anton’s fist spun his head. Lightning cracked down his spine. The gun was back in Anton’s hand, and Anton was back looming over the suspected informant.
“What was your name again?”
“N–Nina–”
“Do the words matter? Can I say ‘This is Callum,’ or does it have to be ‘I’d like to introduce you’?”
He was talking to Callum again. All Callum could gasp out was another “Don’t.”
“Nina,” said Anton, “meet Callum.”
She frowned. Then noticed him swaying, punch-drunk, in the corner of her eye.
She looked into his eyes and saw what was coming.
“So that worked,” said Anton, and shot her.
This time he hit Callum with the gun. As loud and bright and sudden as a second shot. By the time Callum recovered, his tools were gone and so was Anton. The third shot was the door of the small room closing and the deadbolt slamming home.