Blood, Bullets and Blue Stratos

CHAPTER TEN

Through the tiny, barred window, Sam could see her — a young girl, unwashed and dishevelled, sitting wretchedly beneath a naked light bulb. She had a bare mattress for a bed, beside which stood an empty cup and bowl. The girl hugged her knees and stared blankly ahead.

Sam’s first instinct was to tap on the window — but then he hesitated. What if the girl panicked, started screaming? Who could say what state she was in, being held by these lunatics, locked up all alone in a filthy shed, away from her parents? Her nerves would be in tatters. She might do anything.

He had to be cautious. Cautious and quick.

He looked around. There seemed to be no activity in the compound. Lights were still burning in the cabin windows, but there was no sign of movement.

Without wasting a moment, Sam darted round the front of the shed and examined the lock that secured the door. It was a heavy, internal mechanism, impossible for him to either pick or force. In a good light and given plenty of time, he might have had a chance of cracking it, but under these conditions, in almost total darkness and with armed maniacs poised to appear at any moment, he wasn’t even going to risk it.

Feeling through his pockets, he found a scrap of paper and a pen. He scribbled, ‘My name is Sam — I’m here to get you out — trust me,’ on the paper and fed it under the door, then crept back to the window to observe.

The girl had seen the note appear, but she was making no move to pick it up. She just sat there, staring dumbly at it.

Take it, Sam urged her silently. Go on — take it!

Was she in a state of shock? Had she been drugged? Why wasn’t she doing anything?

A voice momentarily drifted across the compound, and Sam squeezed himself into the shadows behind the shed. Several armed men trooped across the courtyard, all of them carrying heavy assault rifles. They were dressed in a motley array of military fatigues, homemade paramilitary attire adorned with ammo belts and even the odd hand grenade. There was an amateurishness about their get-up that sharply contrasted with the very serious firepower they were toting. They were like a militant students’ union — uniforms from Oxfam, armaments from the IRA.

Sam watched the knot of men stride across the yard and move out of sight. After a few moments, when they did not reappear, he edged back to the window. Peering in, he saw that the girl was now standing under the bare light bulb, staring at the note in her hands. For what felt like minutes she did nothing but look at it, motionless, blank-faced. And then, quite suddenly, she turned and looked directly at Sam. Sam smiled, the friendliest, least panic-inducing smile he could manage. He had a horrible feeling he might actually be leering.

But the girl didn’t scream. She didn’t react at all. She just stood there, looking at him with dark, sullen eyes.

Sam indicated for her to come closer and open the latch on the inside of the window. Stiffly, the girl shuffled over and obeyed. With effort, she forced the rusted window open. The hinges creaked; it was like the sound of a siren echoing across the courtyard. Sam gritted his teeth and flinched, expecting shouts and gunfire at any second.

‘Hi,’ he whispered through the metal grille. ‘I’m Sam. What’s your name?’

The girl stared, blinked once, then at last said in an Irish accent, ‘Mary.’

‘That’s a lovely name,’ said Sam. It wasn’t the most inspired response, but there wasn’t time for anything more subtle. He needed to win the girl’s trust, free her from this locked shed, then somehow get the two of them out of this sealed compound without raising the alarm. It was impossible. And yet he had no choice but to try.

‘Mary, listen to me — I’m a policeman. I’m going to get you out of here, get you back to your mum and dad. You’re going to have to trust me, okay?’

The girl shook her head.

‘What’s the matter?’ asked Sam.

‘I don’t trust you,’ said Mary.

‘Why not?’

‘Your voice.’

‘What’s wrong with my voice?’

‘You talk like them.’

‘Like who, Mary?’

‘Like them. The English. They’re bad people, the English are.’

‘Not all English people are bad.’

‘Bad enough,’ said Mary, earnestly. ‘Mum and dad say so. You kill people.’

‘No,’ said Sam. ‘Some of us try to save people. That’s why I’m here. To save you.’

Mary’s face remained impassive.

‘I know what your mum and dad must have told you,’ Sam whispered. ‘There are English people who do bad things, just like there are Irish people who do bad things.’

‘Yes,’ said Mary. ‘Protestants.’

‘And Catholics, Mary. There are bad people everywhere, on all sides — like the bad people who’ve locked you in here. But there are good people, too. Like you. And me. And that’s why I’m going to get you out of here and get you back home where you belong.’

Sam’s heart was pounding in his chest and he could feel the sweat running down his back under his clothes. There was only so long his luck could last. Daylight was coming; the RHF would be on the move, carrying out their operations, and at some point somebody would head out here to check on the hostage. The clock was ticking.

‘Mary, you have to listen to me,’ said Sam, his voice low and urgent. ‘Your parents sent me. Your mum and dad. Didn’t you hear their voices earlier?’

‘Yes,’ said Mary. ‘I heard Mummy shouting.’

‘That’s right. She was shouting. And your daddy was here too. But those bad Englishmen sent them away. So your parents sent me in here to get you. That’s how I knew you were here.’

The girl frowned, trying to imagine her parents trusting an Englishman.

‘Did they really send you?’ she asked.

Sam nodded urgently, thinking, Trust me. Just trust me. For God’s sake just trust me!

Mary’s expression softened. Through her fear and loneliness and confusion, the image of her mum and dad sending somebody to save her came as a sudden beacon of hope.

‘Your mum and dad sent me, Mary — and you trust them, don’t you?’

Mary nodded.

‘So — will you trust me?’ Sam asked.

At last, Mary nodded again.

‘That’s good,’ whispered Sam. ‘Now, listen to me very carefully. We’re in a real hurry. I don’t think I can open the door to this shed, but I reckon I can get the grille off this window. If I do that, will you be able to climb out?’

‘I think so.’

‘Good girl. Now what I need you to do is stay as quiet as a mouse. There’s a workshop just over there with tools in it. I’m going to get those tools and use them to get this grille off. The very second I manage it, you jump straight out through this window and come with me. Understand?’

‘Of course I understand,’ Mary said. And then, ‘Please hurry, Sam. I want to go home.’

‘I know you do.’ Sam smiled, trying to calm her. ‘So do I.’

He dropped down into the shadows. Silently, he slipped back across to the workshop. The door was secure and wouldn’t budge, but the filthy panes of glass in the window were loose in the frame. If he could crack one, the whole pane could be slipped out, and he could reach inside for the pliers and hammers hanging from the rack.

But how to break the glass without alerting the whole compound?

Sam felt in his pocket and produced the door key to his flat. Carefully, he prised it between the glass and the frame, and then, very slowly, he began to lever it outwards. The pane creaked and groaned as the stress on it increased. All Sam needed was a hairline crack to appear and then he could, in almost total silence, snap the glass, remove the pane, and reach inside.

Crack!

The window pane shattered, exploding inwards in a sudden cascade. Sam’s heart leapt into his mouth. His blood froze in his veins.

Don’t just stand there, you idiot! he told himself. Act! Fast!

Blindly, he grabbed the first tools he could get his hands on — a claw hammer and a broad-bladed chisel — and sprinted back to Mary’s shed.

But, before he reached it, he heard noises. Doors flew open. There were shouts. Torch beams flashed into life and raked wildly about the compound.

Sam tried to empty his mind of everything except the job at hand. Get the grille off the window. Get the girl out. Get both of them the hell out of this place, before the bullets started flying.

Don’t think, just act. Like jumping off the high board — don’t think — just act!

He raced to the little shed and skidded wildly to a halt.

‘Mary! Get back!’

The girl ducked away as he swung the claw hammer with all his strength. It smashed into the metal grille, loosening the screws that held it in place.

There was a blinding glare as the security lights blazed on, dazzlingly bright. Sam heard the sound of rifles being cocked, of ammo being smacked into place, of booted feet rushing across the yard.

He aimed a second blow at the grille — and a third, then a fourth. Wood splintered, heavy metal screws went flying and the grille crashed down onto the shed floor.

‘Mary! Quick! Jump! Jump!’

Mary raced forward, sprang at the window, and, as she did, the shadows of running men flickered across the illuminated wall of the hut. Sam reached wildly for the girl as she appeared in the window, then felt a sickening impact to his spine, right between the shoulder blades, that pitched him forward as if he’d been struck by an express train. He struck the hard wall of the shed and bounced off, slithering to the ground in a half-dazed confusion of tangled limbs.

I’ve been shot, through the spine … That’s it, I’m finished, it’s over.

He rolled groggily onto his side and looked down at himself. Lit up brightly by the search beams, he could see his crumpled body sprawled on the ground, but there were no traces of blood on him. If it had been a bullet that had torn into him, half his spine should be hanging out.

It was then that he saw the pair of army boots — rather small and expensive-looking army boots — planted beside him. He looked up, and saw the girl with the blonde plaits standing over him, the semi-automatic in her hand, ready to club him again with the butt of the hand-grip the moment he tried to move.

Pistol-whipped, Sam thought. So that was it. Good God, it hurts even more than I’d imagined.

The claw hammer must have gone flying from his hand when he was struck, but Sam became aware that he still had the broad-bladed chisel in his jacket pocket. He grasped it, thrust upwards wildly, and at once felt a boot slamming into his wrist, kicking the chisel out of his hand. The next thing he knew, the blonde girl was leaning close to him, her plaits brushing his face. She seemed almost about to kiss him. Sam tried to grab her throat, but the girl stopped him by ramming the cold metal of the semi-automatic’s muzzle roughly between his teeth and against the roof of his mouth.

‘You’ve had your warning,’ the girl said in clipped, convent-school tones. ‘Try anything funny, and this time I’ll blow your brains out.’

Sam lay there, staring upward at his sweet-faced assailant. He heard Mary cry out momentarily, and then fall silent at the command of a male voice. Armed men were rushing about in the overlit courtyard. One of them was roughly shoving Mary back through the window and replacing the metal grille; others were hurrying about the compound, hunting for more intruders.

That’s it, thought Sam. I blew it. It’s over.

‘Who are you? Who else is with you?’ asked the girl with plaits. She removed the gun from his mouth just enough to let him speak. ‘Come on, speak up. Or would you like me to smash your teeth with this?’

‘I’m alone.’

‘I don’t believe you.’

‘You won’t find anyone else. It’s just me. I’m unarmed. I only came here for the girl.’

‘I still don’t believe you.’

‘Believe what you want. It’s the truth.’

The girl pressed the pistol hard against Sam’s nose.

‘Don’t be clever with me or I’ll be forced to kill you.’

‘I’m not being clever,’ Sam said calmly. ‘I’m just being straight with you.’

‘Straight!’ the girl laughed. ‘And what does that mean, coming from a fascist?’

‘What makes you think I’m fascist?’

‘Who else would feel threatened by us enough to break in here and snoop about? But enough of all this chitchat. I want you to stay perfectly still and silent until ordered, otherwise you’ll regret it.’

She got to her feet, keeping the gun pointed right at him, as a man strolled casually up to join her. He was dressed in combat fatigues, with an IRA ‘Widowmaker’ slung over his shoulder. But what stood out most was the suave — almost too suave — moustache; Sam would have called it a ‘Hulk Hogan’, but back here in the seventies it would perhaps be better understood as a ‘Jason King’ — showy, self-conscious, the ’tash for a playboy.

‘Made a catch, Carol?’ the man with the moustache asked breezily, and Sam recognized his voice at once. It was the same man he and Gene had overheard talking to Michael and Cait. His tone was the same here — educated, middle-class, superior, and very English.

‘He says he’s alone,’ said Carol.

‘Does he, indeed?’

‘And he’s English. I don’t think he’s IRA, Captain.’

‘English, eh?’ mused the Captain, and he unslung the ArmaLite and aimed it at Sam’s stomach. ‘So what’s the story, hmm? MI5’s finest, are we?’

‘CID,’ said Sam, struggling to raise his still-spinning head from the ground. ‘Kill me, and you’ll never see the light of day again.’

‘Oh, I’m not one for the sunshine anyway,’ said the Captain. He pulled back the firing bolt on the rifle. ‘Get up.’ Sam began to get to his feet, but the Captain suddenly yelled at him, ‘Slowly, slowly, for God’s sake! You’re making me jumpy, Mr CID.’

As Sam very slowly straightened, he could see that the Captain was smiling, enjoying himself. Carol kept glancing across at him, admiringly, all the while keeping her semi-automatic trained on Sam.

An armed man ran up and said, ‘No sign of anyone else, Captain. The compound’s secure.’

‘Any vehicles lurking outside?’

‘No, Captain.’

No vehicles? thought Sam. Not even the Cortina? Has Gene gone already? What’s he most likely to do? Get clear, call for backup, and wait for it to arrive. But how long will it take for help to get here?

He looked at the rifle and the semi-automatic, both pointed straight at him.

How long have I got?

The Captain muttered something to the other man, who nodded and hurried off. Then he turned his attention back to Sam.

‘Well, Carol,’ he said. ‘It looks like we’ve got ourselves a prisoner. We’ve already got a hostage, but a prisoner’s even better. Hostages need to be kept more or less in one piece, but we can have fun with a prisoner. Shall we do that, Carol? Shall we have fun with our prisoner?’

‘When I’m reported missing,’ said Sam, ‘they’ll storm this place. Special Branch. Armed Response Units. SAS. The works. It’s not in your interests to let anything happen to me, or the girl.’

‘That’s the sort of thing I’d say,’ put in Carol, ‘if I was in his predicament.’

‘Which thankfully you’re not,’ said the Captain. He raised the rifle to his shoulder, military fashion, as if about to fire.

Sam forced himself not flinch, not to run, not to cry out. Keeping control of his voice he said, through gritted teeth, ‘Think about it. Killing me is only going to make things worse for you all.’

The Captain motioned briskly with the barrel of the rifle — a gesture that said, Get moving, that way. With his hands above his head, Sam obeyed. Slowly, he turned in the direction the Captain indicated. Ahead of him, he saw the workshop, a menacing array of sharp-edged tools still visible in the broken window.

‘We’ll be more comfortable in there, Mr CID.’ The man smiled, squinting at Sam through the rifle gun sight. ‘Then we can talk at leisure. With no need to rush. Taking our time.’

‘If anything happens to me, you do realize that-’

But he had already said too much. Carol brought the butt of her semi-automatic crashing down once again, this time on the base of Sam’s skull. He was unconscious before he even hit the ground.