Blood, Bullets and Blue Stratos

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

The sun was sinking behind the wide hills of Cumbria, casting the expansive landscape into deepening shadow. Sam was starting to feel hypnotized by the monotony of staring at the two cars in front — Michael Deery’s Cresta, and the Triumph Herald trailing it — and only realized he had nodded off when he noticed that the cars ahead had mysteriously disappeared, and a vast flotilla of black helium balloons were drifting across the gloomy, storm-laden sky.

Sam turned his head. Gene was no longer driving: she was, the little girl in black. Her face was completely hidden by a heavy black veil. Her little legs dangled above the pedals.

‘I want you to leave me alone now,’ Sam said to her, calmly, clearly.

The girl ignored him and continued to drive, even though she was barely able to see over the wheel.

‘You won’t make me regret my decision to come back here,’ Sam said. ‘You’re wasting your time tormenting me like this.’

The girl turned her black veil towards him, then nodded in the direction of the back seat of the car. Craning round, Sam saw that the Jensen was no longer the Jensen. The dream had transformed it into a hearse, with a coffin stowed in the back. A flowery wreath was propped up on the coffin, facing away from Sam so that he saw the letters of the deceased’s name in reverse.

A wave of nausea passed through him. His skin became cold and clammy.

‘No going back now,’ the little girl said, from beneath her veil. ‘Burnt your bridges, haven’t you?’

‘I’ve made my choice,’ Sam stammered, suddenly finding it a struggle to speak.

‘But was it the right choice, Sam? Was it? Was it really?’

Sam tried to answer her, but his head was spinning, his mouth bone dry, his tongue fat and swollen and lifeless.

‘Oh, Sam, what have you done? What have you done, Sam?’

His vision darkened as the strength flowed out of him. Sam felt as if he was sliding away into death. A coffin seemed to be materializing all around him, sealing him in, entombing him. He tried to cry out, but he could not make a sound. Feebly, he raised his hands and pressed against the inside of the coffin lid that now closed itself over him.

‘Sam, what have you done? What have you done, Sam?’

In the next moment, what had been the inside of his coffin lid was now just the dashboard of the Jensen, against which he found himself sleeping. He sat up sharply and looked about. It was nighttime. The Jensen was parked up on a rough, unlit track, away from the main road, engine silent, lights off. Gene’s door was open and Gene himself was visible as a dark shape standing immobile against the night sky, gazing across a stretch of bleak landscape towards distant lights.

Sam sat alone, shaking, sweating. He looked at his hands. They were trembling.

My funeral, he thought, numb with horror. I just glimpsed my funeral. It’s taking place right now.

Did this explain the dreams, the nightmares, the continual feeling that he was in the wrong place doing the wrong thing, that there was somewhere far more important that he had to be? Was he being called to his own funeral?

I jumped from that rooftop in 2006 because I wanted to live, not die!

He began patting and slapping the dashboard and seats of the Jensen, feeling the surfaces — the hard wooden dashboard, the soft leather seats, the gearstick, the wheel.

‘Real!’ he cried out to the unseen Test Card Girl. ‘Real! Real!’

He clamped a hand to his chest, felt his heart pounding away beneath his ribs.

‘Alive! Real and alive!’

He flung open the car door and clambered out, drawing in great lungfuls of cold night air.

‘Real, and alive, and my decision,’ he muttered. ‘Two thousand and six is dead. Nineteen seventy-three is alive. End of story.’

But, as he said this, he saw it — a black balloon, dancing on the wind against the raw, inky sky.

‘I don’t regret my decision!’ Sam hissed at it. ‘You won’t make me regret it!’

The balloon popped, silently. Sam strode up the grassy bank and joined Gene at the crest of the slope.

‘Guv?’

‘Didn’t want to wake you,’ Gene said quietly, not looking at him. ‘You’ve taken a battering of late. You’ve earned forty winks, I reckoned.’

‘I don’t want to sleep any more,’ said Sam.

‘You sure? I’ll need you fighting fit, Sam. We’re not up here for a camping trip.’

‘I’ve slept enough, Guv. I’m wide awake now. I’m ready for anything.’

Gene turned, considered him with great seriousness, nodded once, then said, indicating with his finger, ‘Over there, Sam. Look.’

Sam followed Gene’s gaze to where two sets of stationary headlights were visible, several hundred yards away in the darkness.

‘They stopped by a phone box in the middle of nowhere,’ Gene said. ‘Michael Deery’s waiting in the box; his pals are still sitting in the Herald. My guess is that Deery’s receiving directions from the RHF.’

Sam could just see the little call box illuminated from within and Michael Deery standing inside it, waiting for the phone to ring.

A man in a box, thought Sam. Sealed in. Entombed.

‘I’ve made my choice!’ he growled under his breath. When Gene frowned at him he said, ‘Looks like we’re getting close, Guv. It’s going to be a race to the finish. Can we get to the RHF before they do?’

‘If we don’t, there won’t be nothing to nick but a pile of corpses,’ said Gene,

‘And even if we do reach Peter Verden first, what then? Whatever happens Guv, we’re outnumbered by everyone. The two of us against the RHF and the IRA?’

Gene snorted his contempt of such odds. He’d take on the world if that was what was required of him.

Yes, thought Sam, looking at proud, arrogant, thick-skulled, opinionated, bigoted, contradictory, high-principled Gene Hunt. He would take on the world. I’ve made the right choice being here. It’s not about logical reasons. It’s about something much more profound.

‘Looks like Deery’s had his call,’ said Gene.

The two cars could be seen pulling away from the phone box and heading off along the road. Gene tapped Sam’s shoulder, and together they scrambled back down the slope and climbed into the Jensen.

‘Feeling up to this, Sam?’ Gene asked. A straight question. No banter. No sarcasm.

‘I’m up to this, Guv,’ said Sam.

Gene nodded. ‘Right, then.’

The Jensen purred, and Gene touched the gas. In the next moment, they were cruising through the darkness, once more in pursuit.

The new drop-off point was a craggy stretch of cliffs overlooking the sea. The sky was starting to lighten when they arrived, and with a shock Sam realized he’d lost all track of time. The night was passing, and the first glimmerings of dawn were beginning to appear on the eastern horizon.

The Vauxhall Cresta was labouring up a steep, rough track towards an ominous brick building sitting squarely on the edge of the cliffs. The Triumph Herald had vanished somewhere into the night, switching off its lights and melting away into the bleak landscape. Gene took this as a sign that trouble was about to kick off.

‘The IRA boys have made themselves scarce,’ he said, sitting beside Sam in the motionless Jensen. ‘That means Deery’s about to make his drop-off. When he does, those Paddies’ll pounce, you mark my words.’

‘What are we going to do?’ asked Sam.

‘Difficult one to answer, that,’ said Gene. ‘But whatever we end up doing, we won’t be doing it here.’

And, with that, he flung open the door and swung himself out of the car. Sam jumped out too, and together they crept stealthily up the incline. The building at the top where Deery had pulled up was charmless and functional, seemingly abandoned for some time before the RHF had claimed it as their new arms dump. The wide, grey sea seethed and surged as a backdrop, sending in blasts of biting wind that cut through Sam cruelly. Above them, the sky was slowly growing brighter.

Michael Deery hauled a heavy box from the boot of his car and carried it towards the brick building. Suddenly, he stopped. Two men approached him, aiming rifles at him as they came.

Sam and Gene ducked down behind a patch of coarse brush, instinctively drawing their weapons.

The two RHF gunmen strode towards Deery and positioned themselves in front of him — one was lanky, the other stocky. The stocky gunman began pointing, giving orders, while Lanky kept his rifle trained in readiness.

‘Keep yourself out of sight,’ whispered Gene. ‘Them IRA boys’ll pop up any moment — they catch sight of us, we’ve had it.’

‘I can’t see them,’ breathed Sam, peering about at the bleak countryside.

‘They’re out there.’

‘Maybe they won’t do anything. Maybe they’ll hang back.’

Gene shook his head. ‘It’s a trap. They haven’t come all the way up here for the view, Tyler. This is all about putting their foot down. They’ve been pushed about quite long enough by Verden and his travelling band of Lefty dick-wits. It’s payback time.’

At that very moment, shots rang out. Michael Deery jumped aside as Lanky took a succession of bullets to the chest that sent him jerking backwards; he dropped his rifle, turned on his heel as if he were executing a ballet move, then toppled forward, straight and stiff-backed.

Sam ducked lower behind the screen of the bush, peering hard at what was happening on the top of the hill. He could see the stocky man swinging his rifle about wildly, looking for a target but not finding one. He fired blindly all around him, and then started to run. Gunfire crackled in every direction — the IRA team had spread out and surrounded the brick building, and now they were rushing in from all sides. Stocky took a hit to the leg that blew his kneecap away; his leg bent backwards, the bones breaking so loudly that Sam and Gene heard the crack from where they were hiding.

‘That’ll sting,’ muttered Gene.

Stocky went down, firing hopelessly into the air as he went. At once, Michael Deery rushed over to him, drawing a pistol. He kicked away Stocky’s rifle, grabbed him by the neck and leant over him, shaking him, shouting, thrusting the barrel of the pistol into his face. Something enraged him, and he leapt up and stamped hard on Stocky’s shattered leg.

‘That,’ whispered Gene,’ is called “interrogating in a hurry”.’

Deery stamped again, and the stocky man’s scream of pain echoed out across the lonely landscape. It was taken up and mocked by the shrieking gulls. Stocky feebly raised his hand and Deery bent low to listen to what he had to say. A few moments later, Deery straightened, looked out to sea, then turned back. Without hesitation, he pressed the muzzle against Stocky’s chest and blew his heart out.

Sam felt a sudden twinge in his own heart, as if he were experiencing an echo of Stocky’s death. He gritted his teeth and forced the pain away, just as he forced away the sudden image of the black-clad Test Card Girl that drifted into his mind.

The IRA members, converging from all sides, were now meeting up on the crest of the hill. Without speaking a word, they rushed straight at the ugly brick building, smashed the door down and rushed inside. A muffled shot was heard, and a few moments later a body was dragged out and thrown across the other two.

‘Thorough, methodical, coordinated,’ said Gene, nodding to himself like a connoisseur of violence. Perhaps he was imagining what use he could put such a team to if they were on his side instead of the enemy’s.

‘I guess we can’t do anything,’ said Sam. ‘We can’t go charging up there to nick them — we’ll end up as just two more bodies on the pile. We should get back to the car and follow them where they go next. C’mon, Guv.’

Crouching low, moving with the utmost care, Sam led the way back down the slope to the Jensen. As he went, he began to wonder just what the two of them could achieve here, trailing after Deery and his team and watching them execute the RHF in a series of bloody firefights. If this was policing, then it was a form of the job Sam had never experienced. But what else could they do? He hadn’t thrown away a life in 2006 just to do the same here. That IRA team would have no reservations about adding a couple of British coppers to the day’s body count — if anything, they’d relish the opportunity.

‘We need a better plan, Guv,’ said Sam, reaching the car. ‘But I’m damned if I can think of anything. Guv? Guv!’

It was only then that Sam realized Gene had not followed him back to the car. Instead, the guv was walking slowly up the hill, heading for the brick building at its summit, making no effort to disguise his approach. He had removed his body holster and was holding it aloft, the Magnum stowed inside it, swinging it above his head as he walked, like a man surrendering to a superior force.

‘Jesus, Gene!’ Sam hissed.

The men at the top of the hill saw Gene approaching. Moving as one, they raised their rifles, military fashion, nestling the stocks against their shoulders and peering through the gun sights at him, ready to blow him to pieces.