Chapter 30 - That's What People Do!
Doe Park
Farmhouse
B&B
Violet alternated her gaze between the sign on the fence post and the road she'd just travelled. Disappointment drizzled through her. She'd made it to the road! Through the wood, ever westward! How was this not the pub!
Because you turned right, instead of left, Sherlock told her in her imagination. Scolded her, in fact.
But he didn't say! He just said take the road to the pub, not which way to turn once she hit the road.
Because most people would have a sense of direction. Most people would head in a westerly direction, then turn left, so they wouldn't end up completing a full circle.
To go back meant about four miles until she hit the pub. If there even was a pub.
I used to jog five miles, almost every day! This will be easy, won't it? A light jog up the road. Four miles. The circuit through Hyde Park wasn't so hard either.
Yes, agreed Sherlock, until the day Jake drove by.
Violet shuddered.
Scanning the driveway, she tried to make out the farmhouse, but it wasn't visible from the road.
She could just…
What? Walk up to the cottage and use her own damn phone to call the police? But it didn't look or sound like anything dramatic was happening there now.
How could she tell, though? The sun had set. Twilight stretched beyond the line of trees, and it would be too dark to see anything by the time she reached the farmhouse. And Sherlock was expecting her to make it to the pub. She should've been there by now! What if he was waiting for her at the bar, cradling a pint, wanting to tell her there had been nothing to worry about in the end.
Violet drew in a deep breath.
Sherlock nursing a pint? What kind of fantasy world was she living in?
So move. Just go somewhere.
Grumbling to herself for having no sense of direction, Violet started up the driveway. She may as well return to comfort, to warmth, to a place she knew, where there were people who were hospitable, rather than hiking along the road towards an unknown destination in the rapidly chilling evening.
As her footfalls crunched along the driveway, the dark and silence pressed in on her. The back of her neck prickled.
What was she doing? If there was danger here, then she was heading straight for it! Sherlock said to trust him. Do as he said without question. But she hadn't phoned anyone! She'd failed.
Heart thudding, Violet cautiously moved to the edge of the driveway.
Move along the tree line, Sherlock told her. Stay low. Approach the side of the house where there are no windows.
Violet closed her eyes for a moment until her breath steadied.
Crouching, she moved through the trees and shrubs. Leaves and branches raked at her skin, until finally, she walked straight into a low bough.
"Fuck!" she ground out, with a stomp of her foot.
Who put this here!
Who planted this tree!
She wanted to look around and make eye contact with a production assistant, a 3rd AD, or even Mandi—some underling who should've been doing their job and not bringing her tepid tap water on those mornings she'd been hungover!
Violet rubbed her forehead.
What had she become? An entitled spoilt diva?
You're better than this.
Sherlock had taught her how to stalk people. Acting had taught her how to pretend to be a badass superhero. Or a psychotic drunken private investigator. Oh no… the drunken bit was added by her.
Stupid film, she thought, finally continuing on. Who would ever get to see Arthur Avenue—a film noir, with Violet Hunter as the P.I. who ended up being the killer! What a twist! Without a distributor, nobody other than film festival enthusiasts would get to see it.
A laugh caught in her throat. They would've secured a distributor if Violet hadn't tried to approach Jim Moriarty with a butter knife while the deal was being negotiated in a New York restaurant. Who does that?
Violet finally reached the farmhouse, arguing with herself all the way. An orange pin of light danced across the front of the house, turned a corner and disappeared down the side. Her heartbeat echoing in her ears, Violet chased after it, keeping low.
A lit cigarette, she deduced. The ache in her heart longed for it to be Sherlock, but she knew it wasn't. Why would he be casually smoking when his girlfriend was missing?
The figure stopped short in the spotlight produced by the wedge of light spilling from a window, as if he was preparing for a soliloquy.
Wait, Violet thought, straightening up to get a clearer look.
The shaven head, the boyish form in an ill-fitting suit. She knew that type!
Sebastian Moran's toy soldiers!
The boys would flank the notorious gangster as he sat on the couch in Kabuki's, laughing on cue, the sycophants that they were. Fear drizzled into Violet's core.
Moran's men were here, now, and Sherlock was probably inside with them.
The lad turned, and Violet could see a gun at the end of one gangly arm. Her throat ran dry. How had this happened? Had Moran ordered his crew to follow Sherlock or Violet here? But that's…
That's all wrong.
His people were now Jake's crew, weren't they? And Jake would never do this. Never scheme to do something so sinister…
Unless…
Violet's mind was reluctant to grasp the obvious.
Jim.
Only Jim Moriarty had the reach to organise something like this. But from the U.S.? From prison? Asking Manchester gangsters to venture so far from their own patch? This far south?
Violet watched the young man drop his cigarette and crush it, before he continued on his way. He turned the corner once more and headed for the back of the farmhouse.
Think, Violet, Sherlock insisted.
This is so not on her. She should go and get help, not go marching in there like… like… like Satis! One of the Five. She wasn't a superhero, for goodness sake!
Bile caught in her throat.
You've done this before, Sherlock told her.
She went marching into Kabuki's and provoked Sebastian Moran. He almost strangled her, and she had spat in his face! How was this any different?
Because I had John as my backup.
Because Sherlock and Mary were waiting for us.
Because Danny was there.
Because…
Because it was my plan, Sherlock added. A good one, too.
So what would Sherlock tell her to do?
I asked you to phone for help.
God! Stop it with the phoning people, Sherlock! I don't have my phone! My phone's…
Oh.
Go and get your phone!
Violet continued on, away from the house, her heart rate accelerating. The dark patch of nothingness told her she was alongside the lawn now. So in just a few seconds she could veer back onto the path.
The air grew chilly around her, and she felt exposed when she emerged from the shrubbery and took the red brick path towards the terrace at the rear of the cottage.
Her breath came in short bursts as she grasped the door handle and twisted slowly. Violet entered the room, warmed by a dull glow from the fire which had died down to embers.
After hastening over to the bed, she rummaged inside her hand bag for her phone.
It should be there! Right on top!
She tipped the contents onto the bed, pushed aside lipsticks and lip balms, store loyalty cards, lotions and pens, a small notebook she used to take to auditions but hadn't looked at in months, a crumpled serviette, her coin purse, a small hairbrush, a compact mirror (thought I'd lost that!), and more bits and bobs… but no phone!
Violet scanned the bed. Didn't Sherlock throw his phone onto the bed after turning it off, too?
The fire cast shadows over all her items, but neither of their phones lay amongst them.
They've taken them, she thought, the shadows of the room now weighing heavily on her. Whoever they were.
You're going to have to manage this yourself, whispered Sherlock.
In the eerie stillness of the cottage, Violet listened to her own breathing, willing it to slow down. Her insides fluttered.
Remember the crane, she told herself. Five metres high. Tethered by wire, she had to leap towards the crash mat. The first time was terrifying. She had stood, paralysed by fear. But Heidi, her stunt double, and Scott, their stunt coordinator, had taught her how to launch herself and how to fall. Over and over they'd practised before she'd even been hoisted onto the platform.
Sherlock had taught her how to fight. Falls and blocks and counter-attacks.
Yes, but… that was foreplay, wasn't it?
Well, Sherlock said, giving her a half smile. Wrestling would invariably lead to sex, but one of us took the fighting seriously!
He did. She'd be giggling during their wrestling holds, but his furrowed brow told her to concentrate. This was important!
But it was the thought of the unknown that could cripple her if she didn't move now, quickly and without too much thought.
Violet seized the cast iron poker from the fireplace. She tested its weight and made a half-hearted attempt to remember her single stick drills.
One - forward, downward diagonal. Two - backhand, downward diagonal. One, she puffed, Two.
Oh God. This is too heavy. And I'm going to seriously hurt someone with this.
Violet looked towards the door, her chest heaving.
No, she thought, letting the poker drop. No direct assault weapons. She had other skills at her disposal.
#
Down, on the floor! Kevin mouthed.
His imaginary adversaries slowly crouched, hands raised, before stretching out, face down, in front of him. He chuckled and nodded in satisfaction. He would've spun the gun around his forefinger, like he'd seen Tommy do, but he didn't want to drop it. Still, with the safety catch on, he could have a go.
Kevin cast his gaze wide. Everybody else was inside. He was well hidden out the back. Nothing but him and the dark—
He paused. Something stirred across the lawn.
"Someone out there?" he called, his heart beginning to pound.
Prob'ly just a rabbit, he thought. Or a deer. They come right up to the cottage, they said. He'd read that in a brochure inside. While they were waiting. Waiting for that… that detective—that big shot detective from down south. Sherlock Cunt'olmes, Uncle Seb often spat. The gangster boss hated him. And his bird.
Violet fuckin'unter, Uncle Seb ground out. She was that bird what was on the telly. Regency Road. Jake's tart, Tommy had told him. But now she was with that plod.
A giggle floated through the darkness. Kevin pointed his gun at it, securing his hold with both hands.
"I said, who's there?" he called again.
Another giggle.
"Would it kill you people to have some f-fucking lights out here?" came a woman's voice. Bit of a posh London accent. "How can anyone…" A figure emerged from the shadows, wobbling a bit. "Your torch isn't working," she added, her hand shielding her eyes as if his torch was working.
But he wasn't holding a torch.
Kevin quickly dropped his gun and shoved it into the back of his trousers. He didn't want to be seen pointing a gun at some bird. And a drunk one at that.
"What you doing out there?" he asked.
"I'm trying," she said, sighing heavily, "to get to the — fucking — pub."
She emerged into the light. Her brow immediately furrowed, and she asked, "Who are you?" Her eyes dropped to his suit. "Are you the waiter?"
Kevin stepped back, his hand stealing around to his gun. But it was her! Violet fuckin'unter off the telly!
"You're not!" she went on, incredulous. "We told Cecil we'd eat at the pub! I'm so sorry! Were you here just for the night?"
"No… no," Kevin replied, with a shake of his head.
Her eyebrows were arched in that way that made her look all sad, like when she talked about her dead brother. But she was doing 'er boyfriend's dad, weren't she? Christa, the tart. She 'ad 'is baby 'n all. But this bird didn't sound like Christa.
"Which way's the pub?" she asked, turning her back on him and peering into the darkness.
He had to get her inside, without a big song and dance. Kevin didn't fancy holding Violet Hunter at gunpoint. Sherlock 'olmes's bird or not. She was on the telly.
"Come 'ere, this way," he said, approaching her and placing light hands about her arms.
Whack!
A bolt of pain shot through his nose, rattling his cheekbones. Kevin groaned, bringing his hands to his face and stumbling backward. What the fuck—
The next thing he saw was herself, her face lit in fury, then—
Oof!
The wind was knocked out of him. He sank to his knees.
Can't…
… breathe.
Can't breathe.
His lungs had collapsed.
As he tried to gulp in air, he was hit on the back of the neck and he crumpled to the ground. Head ringing, chest crushed like a paper bag, Kevin curled himself into the foetal position, waiting for more blows to rain down on him.
"Who's inside?" she insisted, pushing something hard and metallic against his head.
Kevin held his hands up, trying to shield his face.
"I said…" she began again.
"Ah… jus… jus… jus…"
His thoughts were scrambled. His face was wet with tears, blood or snot. Maybe all three.
"Who?"
"Ah… me… me… me… Uncle Seb… an'… an'… an' Mist… Mister M-Moriarty. The others went… went to look for you. At the p-pub."
The gun eased back.
"Where's Sherlock?" she asked. "Is he in there, too?"
Her brow was furrowed now. She didn't look tanked anymore.
Oh, you dumb cunt. It were just an act! And he fell for it!
"Yeh," he said, his voice cracking. "Yeh, he is."
"Is he all right?"
"D-dunno."
She stepped back from him. He could see what she was holding now. A gun. His gun. With both hands. Steady and confident.
Then she clicked the safety off.
Kevin felt his bowels loosen.
"Why don't you know?" she asked. "Is he or isn't he?"
Her voice was devoid of all emotion.
"Ah… coz… coz… they sent me out 'ere. I dunno what's going on in there."
"Get up."
Kevin started shaking his head. He wanted to stay on the ground, curled up. Where it was safe.
"I will shoot you."
"Oh… God…" he gasped out.
Trembling, he curled up into an even tighter ball. This was the end. He knew it.
#
Violet regarded the young man, a member of Sebastian Moran's entourage, curled up at her feet. Hardly the gangland enforcer he probably aspired to be.
With a sigh, she crouched in front of him.
"What's your name?"
"K… K… K-Kevin."
"Kevin," she repeated. "Look… Kevin. I'm not going to kill you. That's not something I do. But if you don't co-operate, I might be forced to shoot you in the foot. I do know how to handle a firearm."
He whimpered.
"All I want you to do is walk inside. Okay? I have to find out if my boyfriend is all right, and I need you to walk in front of me."
He shook his head.
"Just sit up for a moment. Catch your breath. I've winded you, that's all."
He gurgled and grabbed at his nose.
"And I elbowed you in the nose," she added. "Nothing that a bag of frozen peas won't fix. Now, sit up. There's a good lad."
He really was in a poor state, Violet observed, as the young man hoisted himself into a sitting position. She advised him to pinch the bridge of his nose to stymy the flow of blood.
"How old are you, Kevin?"
"N-nineteen."
"Nineteen. That's a good age to be. The whole world is yours for the taking. When I was nineteen, I didn't know what I wanted to do. I dropped out of uni. I wanted to be an actress, but not in the way they wanted me to. And now look where I am."
Violet attempted a smile, but Kevin frowned.
"What I'm saying is—you don't have to do what everyone around you is doing if your dreams lie elsewhere."
"I want to be a car mechanic."
"There you go."
Violet scanned the back of the farmhouse. Most of the windows were darkened. Only through the backdoor could she make out a dull glow from inside the house.
"So, come on," she said, straightening up. "On your feet."
"I can't go in there like this. Uncle Seb'll be fuckin' mad."
"Of course you can. I snuck up on you. I… I hit you with a… a… poker from the fireplace. From the cottage. Nobody could defend against an unseen assailant like that. It wasn't really fair, in that respect."
Kevin looked about them.
"What poker?"
Violet sighed.
"I'm just making it up," she replied. She hadn't wanted to tell him she'd taken him down with her bare hands, but he'd called her bluff. "There wasn't one. Look… I learnt all those moves so my character could fight against the evil henchmen of Apophis in Rise of the Five. Fight choreography. With stuntmen. Anyone could do it."
Kevin looked up at her and blinked uncomprehendingly.
"It's for my next film," she offered. "An action movie… Look, Kevin, we're going to be absolutely fine. I promise. When all this is over, we can have a laugh about it at the pub."
Kevin looked towards the farmhouse door, as if considering his options.
"You mean it?" he asked. "Coz your Violet 'unter, and I'm just… just…"
"A car mechanic from Manchester? All my favourite people are from Manchester."
This time her smile was genuine. It must've done the trick, because Kevin gingerly rose to his feet.
"Is Sebastian Moran really your uncle?" Violet asked.
"'e says we can call 'im that."
Interesting, thought Violet. She had thought there was something sleazy about the way Sebastian Moran gathered young men to him, dressing them in cheap suits and making them shave their heads to match his.
She gestured towards the door.
"I'll follow you into the house. Where are they all?"
"Should still be in the parlour."
"Good. Just walk slowly through the house with your hands raised. You don't have to do anything else, all right?"
"Yeh…" His voice went ragged again. "All right."
When her own heart rate began to accelerate, Violet paused.
Okay. Calm down.
Overpowering a nineteen year old who barely knew which end of the gun was the dangerous end was the easy part.
What lay in store for her inside? And what had happened to Sherlock?
When Kevin entered the kitchen, leaving the door open for her to follow, Violet held out one hand to prevent the door banging as it swung shut.
As they walked along the passageway, Kevin turned his head once towards her, as if checking to see if she was still behind him. Violet kept both hands on the gun. It was steady, even though she felt as if her hands were trembling.
Kevin turned the corner, and suddenly they were through a doorway.
She saw him immediately and the blood froze in her veins.
Jim Moriarty.
He sat casually against the corner of a desk, looking at his phone. A figure Violet couldn't quite make out was slumped in a chair behind him.
Violet felt her spirit separate from her body, but she kept her aim on the back of Kevin's head.
"Nobody move!" she said, her voice sounding distant and foreign to her. "Or I'll shoot him!"
A man rose from an armchair and turned to face her.
Sebastian Moran. Oh God. Larger and more menacing than she last remembered him.
"Drop your weapon!" she yelled at him, upon spying the gun in his hand.
Jim clucked his tongue in amusement.
"Oh, Seb," he mourned, and he made an exaggerated gesture of hanging his head in his hand.
Sebastian Moran raised his gun and Violet froze.
A loud popping sound jolted Kevin's head backwards, making Violet jump. She pulled her own hands away and staggered backwards when Kevin suddenly crumpled to the ground. Moran lowered his gun, his expression wild. Violet's jaw dropped, her mind reeling as she took in Kevin's lifeless body. In the split second that followed, she thought she'd accidentally pulled the trigger herself.
In a rush, Moran was upon her, his arm shooting out. Pain exploded on her face. She stumbled into the door jamb, dropping the gun. Her head was suddenly jerked back, a sharp, wrenching sensation at the base of her scalp, an oily breath on her neck.
"I'll fuckin' kill you, y'cunt!"
"Seb!" commanded Jim.
Violet was half-dragged, half-shoved into the room. She staggered to catch her balance, but still fell heavily against a couch where a body lay outstretched.
Sherlock!
"'ere's lover boy," Moran gnashed out.
"Seb, please. Remember your manners," came Jim's silky voice.
"Sher-lock," Violet gasped. A lifeless hand dangled from the couch in front of her. Her mind felt like it was rattling around in her skull. Her cheek bones continued to ring in pain. But the rest of her?
Seeing Sherlock lying so helplessly lit a spark inside. It was like recovery time during a session of high intensity interval training!
Violet snapped her legs together, rising in one fluid movement. Grabbing the first object she spied, she swung it around, aiming it for the large figure that still loomed beside her.
The antique clock smashed against Sebastian Moran's bald head. Jim gave a yelp in surprise and jumped back from the desk. Violet still hung onto what was left of the clock. Raising it high once more, she prepared to bring it down upon Moran's crumpled form when she was side-swiped.
Crushed against the desk, all she could see was the lifeless body of a middle-aged man slumped back in his chair, a hole in his forehead.
"Don't fuckin' move," a low voice said in her ear, as a body pinned her arms behind her. "Not a fuckin' muscle. You know how this works, Vi. Tom! Get the cable ties."
"No," she gasped. He couldn't be here, too! He wouldn't do this! "Jake," she murmured, as her hands were bound tight.