Dying Light

40

The Gimp stopped halfway down Union Grove outside a grubby-looking tenement and scanned the street, making sure no one was watching him. Jackie turned the radio on, cranking up the volume until it was nearly painful — some late-night DJ on Radio One pounding out dance music into the early morning hours, making the car throb — and drove straight past, eyes forward, not paying any attention to the man with the bag full of drugs. It seemed to work: Rennie twisted and slouched, keeping an eye on the Gimp in the passenger-side wing mirror as the man pulled a key out of his pocket and let himself into the building. Rennie slapped the dashboard. ‘He’s in!’

‘Good.’ Jackie killed the radio and swung the car around, driving slowly back towards the tenement, settling for a parking space a couple of doors down. They sat in the dark, watching the front of the building.

‘Now what?’

‘Now we wait.’ Silence settled on the car, punctuated by Rennie humming the theme tune to Emmerdale. ‘Er... Jackie,’ he said, when he’d finished. ‘Should we not be catching him with the stuff on him? I mean, if he’s not got the drugs, how do we arrest him for it?’

Jackie scrunched up her face and swore. Rennie was right. She opened her door and stepped out into the quiet, night-shrouded street, looking very conspicuous in her Grampian Police uniform. ‘Well, come on then: what you waiting for?’

The building was in darkness, not even a hallway light showing through the glass above the grimy communal front door. Not that much of a surprise: after all it was going on for two in the morning, everyone would be in their bed, asleep. Except for the Gimp and whoever it was he was meeting. Jackie frowned up at the filthy granite. ‘That woman who was done for the drugs: you think this is the same building?’ Rennie just shrugged, so she clicked on the radio strapped to her shoulder and asked Control for an address check on the old woman arrested for running a pre-school drugs cartel. A familiar voice crackled out of the speaker and Jackie cranked down the volume, trying not to alert the Gimp. It was Sergeant Eric Mitchell, asking why she wanted to know and how come she was using a police radio: wasn’t she supposed to be off duty? ‘Aye, well...’ said Jackie, trying to think of a diplomatic lie. ‘I was giving DC Rennie a lift home when we saw a suspicious individual entering an address on Union Grove.’ It came out sounding as if she was giving evidence in a shoplifting court case, but it was too late to turn back now. ‘I wanted to know if this was the same address, as I recognized the individual as someone who has previously been arrested on suspicion of drug dealing.’

‘Have you been practising that?’ asked the voice on the other end of the radio. ‘’Cos it needs some bloody work.’

‘Look: he’s a dodgy character, he’s got a huge holdall with him and we think it’s full of drugs. Now you going to give me that address or not?’ It took a minute, but eventually Sergeant Mitchell confirmed that it was the same building they were now standing outside. No way that was a coincidence.

‘You want me to send backup?’

‘No, we got this one. Just get the letters of commendation ready, OK?’

Sergeant Mitchell said he’d see what he could do.

The building’s front door wasn’t locked — the Gimp had left it on the snib — so they pushed through into the building’s tiny airlock lobby, their shoes scuffing on the coconut matting. It was dark in here, getting even darker as Rennie eased the door closed. Now the only light came second-hand through the rippled glass above the door, the streetlight’s yellow glow doing little to lighten the gloom. A second wooden door formed the far side of the airlock, and on the other side of that was nothing but darkness. Something brushed her hair and Jackie nearly yelled, before realizing it was Rennie’s hand, fumbling about. ‘What the hell are you doing?’ she hissed.

‘Looking for a light switch,’ he whispered back.

‘Are you fucking mental? Do you want everyone to know we’re here?’

‘I can’t see a bloody thing...’

‘Then shut your cakehole and listen!’

Silence. Then slowly, a low puffing and the occasional grunt became audible from somewhere above. Jackie grabbed Rennie’s shoulder and inched forward to the stairs. They crept their way up the first flight, pausing at the bend, where a large stained-glass window let in a faint smear of light. It wasn’t much, but it was better than nothing. Jackie looked up, trying to judge where the noise was coming from and saw it: torchlight at the very top of the stairs, the outline of a man, hunched over, doing something suspicious.

She crept forward again, almost getting to the middle floor when the banister creaked beneath her hand. The grunting from above stopped. Now the only sound was the blood whumping in her ears. Then the torch’s beam brushed the stairs behind them and swept upwards, catching Rennie full in the face. Someone said ‘Fuck!’ then all hell broke loose.

A glass bottle smashed against the stairs above their heads, showering the wall with what smelled like petrol. Jackie took a deep breath and bellowed at the top of her lungs: ‘POLICE! HOLD IT RIGHT THERE!’ then had to jump out of the way as another bottle crashed into the banister, spewing hydrocarbons across the stairs and carpet.

Rennie cried out in pain and stumbled into her in the dark, sending them both crashing onto the landing. And then the stairs juddered: the Gimp thundering down towards them. Jackie struggled to stand, but Rennie was sprawled on top of her, swearing a blue streak. She slapped at him, shouting, ‘Get off me you moron!’

Thud, thud, thud and the Gimp was on the middle floor, running past at full tilt. Jackie flailed a leg out, her boot connecting with a kneecap. A grunt of pain, swiftly drowned out by the crash, thud, crack of the Gimp tumbling head-first down the stairs.

‘Move!’ Jackie slapped Rennie again and he lurched off her, letting loose another agonized yelp and a fresh bout of foul language. She scrabbled to her feet and threw herself down the stairs, aiming for the rounded, bulky shape silhouetted against the landing window. She slammed into him just as he was getting to his feet, sending them both careering into the corner with a clatter of glass bottles. Bang — hot yellow fireworks burst across Jackie’s vision as her head bounced off the wall. She staggered back, ears ringing, and slipped on the top step, collapsing against the banister as the Gimp lurched to his feet.

Jackie lashed out randomly with a foot and missed, but the Gimp didn’t: a heavy boot connected with her ribs, lifting her clean off the floor, sending her crashing back into the woodwork. Oh Christ that hurt! She tensed, ready for the next kick, but it didn’t come: the Gimp was making a run for it.

Harsh light, as if someone had turned on the sun, stinging her eyes, making everything leap painfully into focus. She squinted up to see Rennie leaning against the wall of the first-floor landing, one blood-soaked hand holding on to the light switch, still swearing for all he was worth.

More thudding down the stairs: the Gimp was nearly at the bottom. Jackie struggled upright, then ducked as another bottle exploded against the wall beside her, sending petrol everywhere. ‘BASTARD!’ She charged, stopping dead when she saw what the Gimp had in his hands: a Zippo lighter. Her hair was full of fucking petrol!

Blood oozed from a gash in the Gimp’s forehead, running down the side of his nose and into his moustache. He grinned. Then set the world on fire.

‘Christ I’m bored.’ PC Steve slumped forward in the driver’s seat of his scabby Fiat. Arms crossed over the top of the steering wheel, he let out a theatrical sigh, then said, ‘Spits-or-Swallows?’ Logan said no. ‘If-You-Had-to-or-Die?’ Another no. ‘Shoot-Shag-or-Marry?’

‘No. I don’t want to play anything, OK?’

‘Only trying to pass the time...’ They sat in silence for a whole two minutes before the constable came out with, ‘Did you hear about Karen’s boyfriend?’

Logan frowned. ‘Who the hell is Karen?’

‘You know, Karen Buchan? WPC?’ Bout so tall? She was with me when we found Rosie Williams?’

The frown turned into a scowl. ‘Oh... her.’

‘Aye, well.’ Steve leaned over and dropped his voice into a conspiratorial whisper, even though there were only the two of them in the car and the rest of the street was deserted. ‘Rumour has it her bloke — PC Robert Taylor to you and me — has been playing “non-league fixtures”, if you know what I mean.’

A small bout of schadenfreude made Logan smile. ‘Serves her right.’

‘Yeah, she is a bit of a cow. Anyway, he’s been seen down the docks doing it! Actually doing it! Can you believe it? I said to Jackie, I said...’ There was more, but Logan tuned it out, staring through the window at the dark, silent house. It was nice of everyone to help out, but basically, this was a monumental waste of time. Another half hour and he was calling it quits. Tomorrow he’d talk to Insch and— The light above Chib’s front door blossomed into life.

‘... and then she’s like all, “could he be any balder?” and I said—’ Steve was still babbling away to himself so Logan jabbed him one in the ribs. ‘Ow! What was that for?’

‘Something’s up.’ He pointed at the house where Chib Sutherland was hurrying out of the front door, a mobile phone clamped to his ear. He went straight to the silver Mercedes sitting outside and jumped in behind the wheel. The car roared out of the driveway, speeding away from the house. Cursing, PC Steve coaxed his grubby Fiat into life and hurried after Chib, trying not to make it too obvious he was following him.

‘What d’you think’s got into him?’ asked Steve, as Chib jumped the red lights on Springfield Road.

‘No idea...’ But whatever it was, it wasn’t going to be good.

Blue flames raced up the stairs, leaping from step to step on the petrol-soaked carpet. Jackie turned and ran, trying to stay ahead of the blaze. The wall behind her burst into flickering yellow where the last petrol bomb had hit, tendrils of black smoke curling around the next flight of stairs, spiralling upwards to the ceiling. She slithered to a halt on the first-floor landing where Rennie was banging on the door to the nearest flat and shouting, ‘Open up for God’s sake!’

‘Kick it in!’ yelled Jackie. Rennie took two steps back and slammed his boot into the wood: the whole frame juddered, but the door stayed shut. ‘Again!’ This time the door exploded inwards, taking half the surround with it. A sudden blast of heat from upstairs and the paint began to blister on the underside of the landing, drips of molten carpet oozing down from above. Smoke was rapidly filling the stairwell — thick, black, lung-searing clouds that reeked of petrol and burning nylon. They charged into the flat. Inside someone was screaming the word ‘burglars’ over and over again. And then the smoke detector picked up on the inferno and added its shrill bleeping to the shouting and swearing and the roar of the flames.

Jackie snatched the radio off her shoulder and yelled for a fire engine and ambulances, following Rennie through the nearest door. The screaming became an incoherent shriek. A double bedroom: old woman in bed, clutching the blanket to her chest, teeth on the bedside cabinet next to her; old man already on his feet, wrinkled willy poking out the front of his stripy pyjamas, brandishing a walking cane, snarling.

Rennie slammed the bedroom door closed. ‘We’re the police, you silly bugger! Is there anyone else in the house?’ The old man lowered his makeshift cudgel and shook his head. ‘What about next door?’

‘Mr and Mrs Scott.’ He coughed; smoke was already beginning to find its way into the bedroom. ‘They have a young daughter and a dog...’

Rennie swore. ‘I want you to get that window open!’ he said, pointing. ‘Chuck the mattress out and lower your wife and yourself down. WPC Watson will help you.’ He turned — catching Jackie’s eye as she rattled off a description of their attacker to Control, telling them to pick the bastard up and kick the shit out of him — then Rennie wrenched the bedroom door open and charged out into the hall, slamming it shut behind him.

Jackie didn’t figure out what he was up to till it was too late. ‘Rennie! Rennie, you daft bastard!’ They were out of time: just have to hope he knew what he was doing. She joined the old man at the painted-shut window, yanking and hauling on the frame until it creaked open like an arthritic joint. The double mattress tumbled out, spinning as it fell, leaving the duvet caught on a little oval satellite dish. The old man peered out uncertainly at the rectangle of foam and springs. Even if it was just a first-floor flat, it was still a long way down. Jackie grabbed him by the arm and shoved him towards the open window. ‘Come on: you have to go first. I’ll lower your wife, you catch her, OK?’ She was having to shout now, the roar of the fire drowning out everything but the incessant squealing of the smoke detector. He hesitated and she cast another glance over the lip of the window to the crumpled remains of a mattress fifteen feet below. ‘There’s nothing to worry about,’ she lied, ‘you’ll be fine!’

‘Don’t bloody patronize me...’ Gingerly he inched out of the window, lowering himself as far as possible before plummeting the last eight feet onto the mattress, landing in a tangle of limbs and foul language. The old woman was a lot more nervous, and a lot heavier, but Jackie still managed to force her out the window, even if she did come close to crushing her husband when she crashed down on top of him.

Something burst inside the building, making the bedroom door rattle. From outside came the faint wail of sirens. Jackie took a deep breath and jumped.