My legs kick weakly against the decking. My fingers scrabble at his arms. His grip is like iron, like a vice closing around my neck. His face grins down at me, eyes wide, insane. The last thing I'll ever see, fading and fading and fading. It doesn't even hurt anymore. Now it just feels like I'm floating. I think vaguely of Laura and of Darren and of all the other poor children this man has hurt . . . but there's nothing I can do anymore. I feel a sense of terrible disappointment.
And then suddenly my vision clears, the pain comes crashing back like a knife through my neck. I gasp, drawing in a huge whoop of air that burns even as it flows into my lungs. I struggle to find my feet, the world seeming to tilt and turn crazily about me.
I see Ingleman on his knees a few metres away from me, Laura clinging to his back. He tries to throw her off but she clings there, arm tight around his neck. She won't last long, I know. Ingleman's strong, and Laura's no fighter. I struggle to my feet, every limb feeling weak and swollen. I just mange to stand before a massive wave of pain rolls through me, emanating from my leg. I look down to see that below the knee I'm covered in blood, so much of it that it's pooling on the deck. I feel faint. I grit my teeth. The faintness passes.
There, not more than a metre away from me is a pistol. Ingleman's gun; he must have dropped it when I attacked him. I lean down to pick it up, but end up falling to my knees. My hands close around it and I find the trigger and raise it and point it at the struggling pair of figures on the deck in front of me. Laura's still clinging to Ingleman's back, but as I watch he manages to whip his arm back and land a punch on her face that looks as though it breaks her nose. Blood spatters and Laura gives a muffled cry of pain. Triumphant, Ingleman rises to his feet, shedding Laura like a cloak. As he turns to kick her he catches sight of me holding a gun on him, and freezes.
My arms are sagging under the weight of the pistol. My vision is blurred. I don't even know if the safety is off, or how to remove it if it is. The moment stretches. Slowly Ingleman raises his arms. Even slower, he starts walking towards me.
"Now, little girl," he says calmly. "I want you to give that to me."
"Shut up," I say. I aim low, at his chest, and pull the trigger.
Nothing happens.
The trigger stops short, as if there's something blocking it. And I see the light of triumph in Ingleman's face, and he lunges forward, and I fumble with the gun, searching, stumbling back, knowing that there's no time, knowing that I've got it wrong. And Ingleman's so close, hands reaching for me, and something clicks on the side of the gun, a lever flicks into place, and I shut my eyes and aim wildly and pull the trigger.
