The Midnight Hour by Neil Davies Page B

her cold cheeks.
    “No. The ghosts don’t frighten me, not anymore. But there are people who would rather I didn’t talk to you.”
    She hesitated, suddenly excited by this new angle. Years of wanting to be a reporter climbed over the fear, pushing it down, if not controlling it then momentarily suppressing it.
    The hitman on the run. This would give her story even more human interest, ensuring more readers and a higher profile in the magazine. I like it.
    He handed her a CD in a clear plastic envelope.
    “This has all the names and details of the people buried here. It should help give them the closure they’re demanding. For them and their families.”
    She tucked it into her coat pocket and was about to speak, to draw more information from him, when the pop , like a firework, echoed in the quiet night air.
    Harry stared at her for a moment, eyes wide with surprise and sudden pain, and then fell, almost in slow motion, folding up before her, lying down on the ground with a grotesque gentleness.
    She stood, saying nothing, not sure what she felt until she saw the blood oozing from beneath his fallen body. Then she knew the fear she had felt before was nothing, not compared to the terror she was experiencing now. The certainty that, out in the dark was a killer, and that she would be the next target.
    She screamed.
           
    The car headlights died, plunging Jennifer into a heavy darkness, intensified by the sudden loss of light.
    A hand grabbed her wrist and pulled her sideways and down. She yelped in surprise, stumbled and fell to the mud, jarring her knee and her hip as she rolled.
    Another pop , strangely subdued in the quiet countryside, and she heard something push through the air above her head. It took her shocked mind a moment to realise it had been a bullet.
    “Jennifer.”
    The voice was barely a whisper, a croaking, wet whisper that bubbled and spat.
    “Harry?” She reached towards where she could see the faintest outline of a huddled body against the skyline. Her questing fingers dropped into thick, viscous fluid and she pulled back for a moment, knowing it was his blood. She reached again, found his barely twitching hand, wet and sticky.
    “Jennifer, listen to me.” His voice was weak and she could hear the blood catching in his words, making it difficult for him to speak. “Without the lights he can’t see you at distance. He’ll have to come in close. I won’t be able to help, I can barely move.”
    He paused and, for a moment, she thought she could hear quiet sobs coming from him. When he spoke again his voice was even weaker. She strained to hear him.
    “Jennifer, I’m sorry this has happened to you. I didn’t mean…”
    “Harry…” She was crying herself now, not sure whether it was for her or for Harry.
    “Reach inside my jacket.”
    She hesitated, unsure she could force herself to feel through the blood for his body.
    “Please, Jennifer. My jacket.”
    She took a deep breath, rolled towards him, wincing as her elbow landed in a pool of… what? She couldn’t be sure. She did not want to think on it. With a final stretch she found his side, surprisingly dry, and slid her fingers inside his jacket. They met cold metal.
    “Take the gun Jennifer. When he comes in close it’ll be your only chance.”
    “I can’t Harry. I’ve never… I couldn’t take a life, I told you.”
    “This man will kill you if you don’t try.” He coughed and spat. She felt droplets of blood hit her face. “Jennifer, you have to try.”
    Desperately she searched the darkness, hoping for something that would take the decision away from her, but she could see nothing save the dark outline of the car, the headlights no longer shining.
    The headlights.
    How had he…?
    “Harry? How did you turn the headlights off?”
    He laughed. It soon collapsed into a spasm of coughing, but for a moment she actually heard him laugh.
    “I didn’t.” She could barely hear his voice. “The ghosts