Murder by the Book by Eric Brown Page A

force himself on to all fours, then stopped as he felt something cold being applied to the base of his skull. He heard a shout from far away … or was he drifting into unconsciousness? Blackness and blessed oblivion engulfed him.
    He had the impression that he was out for minutes only, though he had no way of knowing for sure. A pain in his ribs brought him to semi-consciousness. He forced himself on to his elbows in order to alleviate the pain in his chest caused by the sharp corner of a brick. He opened his eyes and stared down at a collage of broken glass, weeds and powdered stone. He felt something poke his flank, and realized that it was this prodding which had brought him around. The blackmailer?
    He heard a timid, ‘He’s still alive.’
    â€˜Hey, mister, you OK?’
    â€˜Watch it, he’s getting up!’
    He struggled to his knees, then managed to twist around and sit down.
    Perhaps a dozen dirty-kneed boys and girls surrounded him, staring with big eyes in grubby faces. They gripped wooden weapons and half-brick bombs. The bomb site army.
    â€˜The bloke caught you a good one!’ a blond lad piped up.
    Langham managed, ‘Did you … did you see him? What did he look like?’
    The lad looked at his mates, then said, ‘He was too far away, and he had one of those funny hat things on.’
    â€˜A balaclava,’ a mate provided.
    A little girl said, ‘He was going to shoot you, he was, wasn’t he, Dennis?’
    Another lad nodded. ‘He put a shooter to your head, just here—’ He indicated the back of his skull. ‘But I yelled, “Wot yer doin’!” and the bloke saw us and scarpered.’
    The girl nodded earnestly. ‘Got away on a motorbike.’
    Langham felt the back of his head. His fingers encountered a deep, painful gash and came away glutinous with blood. He inhaled, then looked around at the gallery of staring faces. ‘Any of you smoke?’
    â€˜Why?’ the blond lad said. ‘You got any ciggies?’
    He inhaled again and made out the fading aroma of cigarette smoke.
    He forced himself on to his knees, then paused like a sprinter on the blocks before making a concerted effort and standing. He screwed his eyes shut, then opened them. He felt dizzy.
    He reached into his trouser pocket and found a ten-shilling note. He passed it to Dennis. ‘For scaring him off,’ he said.
    The lad goggled at the note. ‘Ten bob,’ he whispered, and his mates crowded around him excitedly, jostling and exclaiming, before he ran off with the rest of the gang in hot pursuit.
    Langham made his way back towards the façade, pain pounding through his skull in syncopation with his heartbeat. The short walk seemed to take an age, and he realized he was favouring his right knee, which throbbed painfully.
    He pushed through the timber fence and limped along the street towards Streatham High Road, then stopped. The front of his overcoat was marked with whitewash; he would attract attention if he staggered on to the high street with a filthy coat and bloodstained hands. He wiped the blood on his handkerchief, then dusted most of the whitewash from his coat. When he set off, he made a conscious effort not to sway.
    By some miracle he made it back to the Austin without either arousing public alarm or falling over. He sat behind the wheel for ten minutes, then started the engine and set off.
    He drove north slowly, grateful for the light traffic. His vision was only slightly blurred, and he convinced himself that the pain was abating. When he saw the red light at the last second, and halted with a squeal of brakes, he knew he wasn’t going to make it home.
    He was in Chelsea, perhaps a mile from Charles’s office in Pimlico. Very well, then … he’d head there. He turned right, crawled along Royal Hospital Road, and willed himself to stay conscious long enough to reach the office.
    He abandoned the car a couple