Free The Devil in Amber by Mark Gatiss Page A

something goes wrong I’ll need to find you—’
    ‘I’ll get in touch,’ he muttered. ‘Soon as we’re both in England.’
    ‘No more coffee?’ The soda-jerk was grinning stupidly, the steam from the pot fogging his owlish glasses.
    ‘NO! Thank you!’ I hissed.
    But the fellow pushed back his spectacles from the bridge of his flat nose and shook his head. ‘I insist!’
    Suddenly he’d upended the pot and scalding black fluid was raining down onto Volatile’s hand. Volatile yelled and jumped from his stool. In a flash, the soda-jerk had pulled a snub-nosed revolver from his apron and the dim interior of the drugstore flashed yellow as a bullet spat out. Volatile was hit in the knee and flung backwards into the far wall, shattering the mirror, snapshot images of Key West and Orlando fluttering about him like confetti.
    All this I observed as I grabbed Volatile’s shipping documents, dropped to the floor, rolled over–my coat skirts dragging in the pool of spilled coffee–and reached for my Webley. It was out of my pocket in an instant and replying to the soda-jerk in kind. Two sang off the counter and the fat man ducked behind a cardboard advertisement for stomach-acid relief.
    I looked rapidly about, my bandaged hand throbbing appallingly. There was no way I’d make it into the back room, my only chancewas the door to the outside world. Letting fly another bullet, I scuttled over Volatile’s prone, groaning form and reached a hand towards the glass door. The big display bottle immediately to my right exploded with a nerve-jangling smash as, once again, the villain blasted at me. Red liquid like diluted blood hung in the air for a moment before splashing down onto the tiled floor and into my eyes.
    I let fly another bullet as I rubbed at my lovely face, praying the stuff from the bottle wasn’t toxic.
    With an ugly grunt such as I imagine water buffaloes give, the soda-jerk heaved his bulk over the counter and landed before me, kicking the gun from my hand as I floundered about.
    ‘Now just stay calm, like a good boy!’ he cried, settling himself on the slippery floor and casting a quick glance at the semi-conscious Volatile.
    ‘What do you want?’ I moaned miserably, rubbing the red stuff from my dazzling optics.
    He dropped to one knee and frisked me very thoroughly, batting my hands apart with the barrel of his revolver and sending my Webley skittering across the tiles with another well-aimed kick. Swinging his pistol towards me again, he aimed it squarely in the centre of my forehead. Naturally, I put up my hands.
    ‘Just tell me what you want!’ I cried in a shamefully panicky fashion. ‘I can be very accommodating.’
    ‘So I heard,’ chuckled the brute in a whiskey-soaked rasp. ‘Now get up.’
    I sighed, my gaze flicking about for any sign of advantage. ‘Who are you? Why did you plug that poor sap?’
    He scowled and kicked me hard in the solar plexus. I flopped to the floor, wincing in pain.
    ‘Just keep your mouth shut!’
    He lashed out again but this time I twisted onto my side and grabbed hold of his shoe, wrenching his foot over into an unnaturalangle. He screeched in pain and tumbled onto me, knocking the breath from my lungs. For a moment, my face was flattened against the cold white tiles, red fluid pooling into my hair, overpowered by the sweaty stink from the barman’s grease-splashed crotch. Then I managed to rise to a crouching position, jerking my elbow out and into the rolls of fat that encompassed his gut.
    He groaned in pain and fury. I jumped to my feet and slammed the heel of my shoe onto his hand. There was a sound like kindling crackling in a fire and, screaming, he let go of the revolver.
    Darting to the floor, I retrieved the weapon and had it levelled at him before he had a chance to recover.
    ‘Now,’ I gasped, trying with some difficulty to catch my breath. ‘Start talking.’
    ‘Go screw yourself,’ he croaked, holding his ruined hand as though it