Free No True Echo by Gareth P. Jones

taken his life.
    â€˜Eddie, I told you not to come in.’ Scarlett winced with pain as she spoke.
    â€˜You’ve been shot,’ I said. In the corner of the room was an overturned chair and camera tripod. I couldn’t make sense of any of it.
    â€˜This doesn’t concern you,’ she replied.
    â€˜Doesn’t it?’ said Cornish. ‘Doesn’t it concern him more than anyone?’
    â€˜No,’ she said firmly. ‘Not here. Not this Eddie. What you’re doing doesn’t make any sense.’
    â€˜Sense is the thing we’re trying to reclaim.’
    â€˜You can save the speeches and the flawed logic for your hearing.’
    I couldn’t follow much of what they were saying but I was clear on one thing: we were sharing a room with a dead man and Cornish had killed him.
    â€˜Have you gone mad, sir?’ I asked.
    â€˜No, Eddie,’ he said. ‘I know exactly what I’m doing.’
    â€˜This is a complicated situation,’ said Scarlett, ‘and it’s one I need to deal with in accordance with protocols.’
    â€˜You have protocols for this?’ I exclaimed. I was trying not to look at the dead body but I couldn’t tear my eyes away.
    â€˜Eddie, you have to get out now,’ said Scarlett.
    â€˜Not without you,’ I said.
    I was trying to stall for time. Any second, I thought, the police officer would be here to sort everything out.
    â€˜Patrick, you’re leaving me no choice,’ said Scarlett.
    â€˜There’s always a choice,’ said Cornish.
    Whatever happened next occurred too fast for me to work out the precise order of events. I could not say if Cornish pulled the trigger before I dived in front of the bullet or if I stepped in his way before he fired. All I knew was the agony of the bullet ripping into my chest.
    And the shock.
    And the fear.

A Night at the Hospital
    Liphook had hoped the museum would bring back memories but it had changed too much from the original. The smart museum, with its extensions and explanations, was a far cry from the rundown farmhouse. Besides, her main memory of that long day wasn’t the farmhouse but the hospital.
    She remembered how Sergeant Copeland had ambled in and immediately made a beeline for the vending machine. It seemed to Liphook that he was very calm, given the situation. Certainly he looked calmer than she felt. It had been his day off, which explained why he was wearing a snug-fitting wool jumper and a pair of shorts.
    â€˜Well, Liphook, you did want excitement,’ he said, pondering which of the chocolate bars on offer was worth his money. ‘What’s the situation, then?’
    â€˜One dead, three unconscious,’ replied Liphook.
    â€˜Unconscious? Why?’
    â€˜The doctors can’t work it out. Two of them have gunshot wounds but that doesn’t appear to be connected. It’s like they’ve fallen asleep with their eyes open. All three are still breathing, but their heart rates are unnaturally slow.’
    â€˜Sounds a bit peculiar.’
    â€˜It’s very peculiar,’ said Liphook. ‘Neither of the gunshot victims sustained serious injuries to the head. The shooter shows no sign of injury at all and yet it’s as though they are all in a coma. Also, two of the victims are minors, sir.’
    â€˜Children?’ said Sergeant Copeland.
    â€˜Yes.’
    Having finally decided on the chocolate bar he wanted, Copeland dropped the money into the slot and hit the buttons to extract it. ‘Do you want anything, Liphook?’
    â€˜I would, actually, sir, yes.’ She chose the biggest bar in the machine, feeling in desperate need of something sweet to replace the bitter aftertaste left by the long wait for the ambulance to arrive, with only the wide-eyed lifeless bodies for company.
    â€˜So who’s who then?’ asked Copeland.
    â€˜The shooter is called Patrick Cornish. He’s an English teacher at