Blood, Bullets and Blue Stratos

CHAPTER TWELVE

A naked light bulb burned from a trail of flex, bathing the hammers and screwdrivers, drills and bolt cutters, rusting tips of boathooks and old fish-gutting knives, in a sickly yellow glow. Young Carol, with her Heidi plaits and gentle, pretty face, stood over him, playing with the semi-automatic as if it were a toy. The Captain had leant his ArmaLite carefully against a wall, rolled up his sleeves, and was now leaning casually against a wooden workbench, fixing Sam with a long look. Pensively, he ran his finger and thumb repeatedly along the contours of his Jason King moustache.

‘Can you see now?’ he asked.

‘I can see,’ said Sam, forcing his streaming eyes to open.

‘I’m assuming that you know who I am.’

Sam said nothing, admitted nothing, gave nothing away.

‘How did you find out about our little hidey-hole, hmm?’

Sam tried to look as blank and noncommittal as possible.

‘Whatever information you have about us, it gave you confidence enough to break in and try to make off with our little hostage, Mary Deery,’ said the Captain. ‘And that makes me think you must be rather more in the know about the RHF than is good for you.’

Beside him, arrayed on the workbench, were pliers, chisels, a rusty, gap-toothed saw. Sam tried not to look at them, tried to forget the pain throbbing through his head and the feel of dry blood congealed on the side of his face. All that mattered was to keep them talking — talking about anything, even if it was just this insane revolution claptrap — in the hope that, out there, somewhere, Gene was arranging his rescue.

‘Will you say something?’ the Captain asked, his voice mild, his eyes hard. ‘Or do I have to make you say something?’

‘We have one of your boys in custody,’ said Sam. ‘Brett Cowper.’

‘I know that.’

‘He’s talking. He’s telling us everything. He’s cooperating fully.’

‘Not any more, I should imagine,’ said the Captain.

‘What do you mean?’

‘He’s not likely to last long in one of your Gestapo dungeons. Admittedly, he’s not black, so that might extend his life expectancy for a few days. But …’ He shrugged.

‘We’re not the Gestapo,’ said Sam. But in his mind he could see Gene laying into Cowper in the Lost and Found Room, and the red dots speckling the floor outside the holding cells, and Cowper’s dead face lying there, smiling, surrounded by a slowly spreading pool of his own blood.

Put all that out of your head, Sam, he thought. Don’t give these fanatical bastards a single sliver of credibility. They’re the bad guys, you’re the good guys, and don’t let these buggers mess with your head. Stay focused. Stay sharp. And buy yourself as much time as you can …

‘Cowper’s in a cell,’ said Sam. ‘He doesn’t want to go down for thirty years for his involvement with you lunatics, so he’s giving us all sorts of inside information. The game’s up with the Red Hand Faction. We know all about you. It’s only a matter of time before we round the lot of you up.’

‘Oh, dear!’ said the Captain. ‘Is that why they sent you here — all on your own — to sneak about in the dark? Is that why they’re bursting in now to rescue you and arrest all of us?’

‘He’s not very good at bluffing, is he?’ said Carol.

‘You can’t really blame him,’ smiled the Captain. ‘You gave him quite a thwack back there, Carol. It can’t be easy trying to think straight with the sort of whopper migraine he must be having right now.’

The Captain began fiddling idly with a lethal spike from a boathook, turning it back and forth between his fingers.

‘Brett Cowper’s not said anything to you, has he?’ he said quietly. ‘He’s dead. If you lot haven’t finished him, he’ll have finished himself.’

‘He’s alive and cooperating.’

Ignoring him, the Captain continued. ‘Nobody knows you’re here. You followed up some lead, didn’t you? On your own. You thought you’d win yourself some kudos with your Gestapo buddies. You thought you were James Bond. But I think in doing show he made a shilly mishtake, Mish Moneypenny.’

Carol laughed.

‘You’re right: I did come here alone,’ said Sam. ‘But very soon I’ll be reported missing.’

‘Most likely,’ said the Captain. ‘But I don’t think anyone will know where to look for you.’

‘It won’t take them long to work it out.’

‘I don’t believe you. I don’t think anyone’s going to come here, not until it’s too late.’ The Captain, still smiling, looked very deeply into Sam’s eyes. ‘No one’s going to help you. You’re in something of a jam, Mr CID.’

‘My name’s Sam.’

‘He’s trying to appeal to us as fellow human beings,’ said Carol, and the Captain nodded.

‘My name is Sam,’ he said again. ‘Sam Tyler.’

‘I don’t care what you’re called,’ said the Captain. ‘Your name isn’t destined for history. Mine, however …’

The Captain lifted his face, letting the creamy light from the naked bulb fall across it. He seemed to be dreaming his insane dreams, while Carol watched him adoringly. After a moment, he seemed to recall where he was and what he was doing. He put down the old boathook and turned his attention back to Sam.

‘We could go round and round in circles all night,’ he said. ‘But I’ve got a war on my hands and really can’t spare the time. So, we’ll get on with the business at hand. Sam Tyler, or whatever your real name is, I’m going to use you. I’m going to use you as a courier. I’m going to entrust you with a message to take to your fascist paymasters.’

‘You’re going to let me go?’ said Sam.

‘Yes,’ the Captain said, running his hands over the array of tools on the bench. ‘In a manner of speaking.’

He picked up a long, sharp-tipped screwdriver. Carol grinned, her cheeks flushing with excitement. Sam secretly tested the strength of the handcuffs, the sturdiness of the chair he was manacled to, but found both cuffs and chair were solid.

‘My name is Peter Verden,’ the Captain said. ‘Remember it. Tell it to your pig-dog bosses when you get back. Better still, I’ll write it down for you. On you. So you won’t forget.’

And he made carving motions in the air with the screwdriver.

‘I’ll write “Peter Verden”, across your … back, do you think? Your stomach? What about across your forehead? And then I’ll write the name of this delightful creature standing beside you — the last woman you’ll ever see, alas, because I’m going to have to send you out of here without any eyes, I’m afraid. I’ll write “Carol Waye” on your … backside? Oh, no, that’s unbecoming for a lady. Maybe I’ll write “Carol” on your left forearm and “Waye” on your right.’

‘I don’t mind if you write it on his cock,’ Carol suggested, the vulgar language sitting oddly with her cut-glass accent.

‘But will there be enough space?’ Verden mused.

‘What’s the point of all this, Verden?’ Sam asked, glaring up at him. ‘I thought you were a revolutionary, not a sadist.’

‘I want your owners to see our names. Names that will rewrite history — or at least sow the seeds that will ultimately bring down the corrupt police state that you collect blood money to uphold, Mr CID. And, with your fascist regime swept aside, the new age of freedom can begin.’

‘I’ve heard all this before,’ said Sam.

‘Heard but not listened,’ said Peter Verden. ‘Had you listened, you wouldn’t be sitting here right now. You’d be on our side. The winning side. Fighting with us.’

He looked down at the screwdriver, changed his mind about it, picked up a large power drill instead.

‘You’re no idiot, Verden,’ Sam said, wondering where the hell Gene was and why he was taking so bloody long about it. ‘You know you can’t bring down the state just by setting off a few bombs and cutting up coppers like me. If it was that easy, the IRA would have beaten you to it long ago.’

‘The IRA!’ laughed Verden. ‘All they care about is their rotten little patch of bogland over the Irish Sea. Small fry. Papist lunatics, as bad as you fascist police thugs.’

‘We’re not fascists and you know it. We uphold the law.’

‘Does the black community agree with you on that? And what about the Asians? And the homosexuals? And anyone too poor and lowly to enjoy the protection of the goitred aristocrats who carve this country up between themselves like it was a side of roast beef?’

‘I …’ stammered Sam. ‘I don’t know the word “goitred”. And I won’t deny that there’s prejudice and corruption in the force. God knows, where I come from three-quarters of my department would be doing time themselves the way they carry on. But all that’s changing. Coppers like me are changing it — from the inside.’

‘Oh, well, in that case, everything’s fine, we can all go home,’ grinned Verden, and fired up the drill. It howled. Carol licked her lips in anticipation. Sam’s mouth went dry. The drill fell silent, and Verden said, ‘Coppers like you won’t change anything. But the glorious Red Hand Faction will.’

‘By blowing up banks like you did tonight? You’re kidding yourself.’

‘We’ve got explosives. We’ve got guns. We’ve got men — and women.’ He flashed a smile at Carol. ‘And we’ve got conviction. And we’re not going to stop. Our little car bomb this evening was to show we’re not bluffing. It was to show the likes of you that, when we say we can strike, we’re serious. Tomorrow, we’ll hit a courthouse perhaps. The day after that, a police station. Or a petrol station. Or what about one those big, shiny, expensive public schools that groom all those fee-paying baby fascists to inherit the regime? How does hitting a public school sound to you, Carol? Any suggestions which one we should take a crack at?’

‘Chichester Academy for Young Ladies,’ said Carol.

‘Aah, a personal grudge, I think,’ smiled Verden, winking to Sam. ‘The truth is, there’s no telling where we’ll pop up next. But we’ll pop up somewhere. And then, while you’re scooping up the bodies, we’ll pop up somewhere else. And we’ll keep on popping up — in hospitals and underground trains, at airports and in shopping centres — until the ordinary people of this filthy, capitalist, abomination of a country start to realize that you and your corporate masters can’t save them, and they rise up and rip you to pieces.’

‘You’ll kill the very people your revolution is supposed to save.’

‘Omelettes and eggs,’ said the Captain dismissively. ‘We’re playing the long game. Between now and the glorious day, there’s a lot of tough decisions to be made. But we’re prepared for that. And, once the common man — and woman — understands what we’re doing, they’ll be right alongside us, every one of them.’

‘It’ll never happen,’ said Sam.

‘Not in my lifetime or yours,’ said Verden. ‘But our names will go down in history as the ones who started the ball rolling. We will inspire new generations with our example, and they will take up the torch when we’re dead and gone, until, one day, in a thousand years …’

Verden trailed off, lost in his imagination. Carol gazed at him, drinking in every word of her hero’s madness. Sam glanced wildly about, looking for inspiration. There must be some way he could get out of these cuffs. He fought down the rising panic that threatened to overwhelm him. He began struggling.

Verden fired up the power drill again.

‘Time to turn you into a walking manifesto for the Red Hand Faction,’ he said, coming closer.

Sam fought against the cuffs, but they held firm.

‘This is pointless!’ he cried. ‘Think, Verden! You’ve got the law against you, you’ll have the army against you, Interpol against you — damn it all, you’ve even managed to piss off the IRA!’

‘So?’

‘For God’s sake, Verden, what kind of idiots actively piss off the IRA?’

Verden thought for a moment, then said, very mildly, ‘The British?’

It was hopeless. Peter Verden and his Red Hand Faction were living in a nightmare Alice in Wonderland world where logic had broken down, and all that existed was political fanaticism, car bombs and dreams of a glorious death in a hail of police bullets.

‘I’m going to drill out your front teeth,’ said Verden. ‘Top ones first, then the bottom ones. Just to get us all nicely warmed up.’

‘If you want a hostage, take me!’ Sam yelled at him. ‘Let the little girl go! I’ll sit in that shed instead of her, if that’s what you want.’

‘I’ve told you what I want,’ Verden said calmly. ‘I want you to carry my message back to your owners.’

‘Verden, listen to me!’

Carol jabbed the pistol against his head to shut him up, but Sam ignored it.

‘Verden, for God’s sake!’

The electric drill screamed.

Carol watched intently.

Verden nodded to himself, said, ‘Teeth first. Then eyes.’

From outside, there came a hard, concussive noise — the sound of splintering wood, the clang of a chain being hurled powerfully across the compound. There were shouts, the sudden clatter of automatic fire, the crazy whine of an over-revved engine, the mad blast of full-beam headlights flooding the workshop.

Peter Verden and Carol Waye both looked up, wide-eyed, open-mouthed, as the silver letters of the word ‘Ford’ came ploughing into the side of the workshop, destroying the wall in a cascade of shattered timbers and tumbling tools. Sam flung himself over, fell hard against the floor, still manacled to the chair, as the air directly above him exploded with gunfire.

I know those bullets, he thought. It’s the Magnum.

A leather-clad hand grabbed him and hoiked him up. There was a powerful crash as the chair he was chained to was smashed with a single kick, freeing him. Then Sam felt himself being thrown roughly against the reeking leather of the Cortina’s back seat.

Bullets screamed in from all sides and the Magnum offered resounding replies, rending the air with a succession of deafening roars. Moments later, the Cortina was hurtling about insanely, tyres screaming, the suspension howling, rifle rounds smacking into the bodywork, boot and rear bumper as it tore back out of the compound through the shattered doors and shrieked away into the brightening dawn.

Face down on the back seat, Sam heard the rattle of gunfire rapidly receding. With an effort, he managed to lift his head. Craning his neck, he could make out the bulk of Gene Hunt at the wheel, the Magnum smoking and sliding on the dashboard as the Cortina flew along the narrow service roads of the industrial complex, making for the city. Sam tried to speak, but Gene sensed he was about to say something and got in there first.

‘Next time you decide to fall off a bloody fence, Sam, choose a better side to land on. Am I coming through loud and clear?’

‘Loud and clear, Guv,’ said Sam, his strength ebbing away, his mind drifting. ‘Oh, and Guv?’

‘What?’

‘Cheers for that.’

‘And cheers for wrecking my motor, you ponce. Now zip your hole and dream of bunny rabbits while Uncle Genie concentrates on his driving.’

Sam zipped his hole as he was told, and he did indeed dream, but not of bunny rabbits. He dreamt of a girl in black dress watching him sadly from across a wide room, a black balloon tugging free from her little hand, floating through the open window, and drifting away across a bleak landscape still untouched by the light of the rising sun.