by Kate London
He ran the nail of his left thumb under his teeth. To strengthen himself, he reminded himself what had happened. How he’d got here and how none of this was his fault.
Killed his mate. Took his sister.
‘Fucking cunt.’
Steve’s voice behind him. ‘Ryan …’
He turned and waved the gun.
‘Not you. Shut the fuck.’
He stepped away from the window and tried to think it through. The most important thing was to get Tia back. The thought of her threatened to swallow him up. His mum and the number of times she’d asked him to be careful! He was so sorry about that. He wanted to get it back to where it had been. Tia winding him up and him kicking the bin. Looked like good times now.
He reminded himself that all he had to do was to keep this under control. He still had a plan.
Steve was going to tell Kingfisher what the fuck was going on. That it was Steve’s fault, not Ryan’s. He’d never snitched on no one so there was no reason to punish him or his sis. That cunt could do with Steve whatever he wanted, but he had to have Tia back.
He hadn’t decided about what he was going to tell Kingfisher about the gun. He bit his thumbnail again as he tried to work it out.
One scenario. Kingfisher comes up the stairs. Starts playing the big man. Ryan pulls out the gun.
Another scenario. Kingfisher comes up. He’s reasonable. Listens to what Ryan has to say. When he takes him to Tia, that’s when he pulls out the gun.
Bang bang.
Cause after Tia there’s still that other thing that needs to be dealt with. Spencer standing in the dark street looking frightened.
Ry, what’s happening to me?
Shaks was going to take care of it. He’d said. After they got the guns, sorting out Kingfisher would be nothing. And now! He looked at the thin man sitting in the chair. It was burning him up. He needed to think, to keep calm, but his hand was itching. The strong grip across his palm wanted to squeeze that trigger.
Bang, bang.
Fuck you.
Fuck you.
You’re fucking dead.
You fucking snitch.
He wasn’t sure how much of this he was saying out loud. None of it. None of it. Of course he wasn’t saying nothing. Nobody knew what went on in his head.
55
Waving the gun around.
Kieran looked up from Lizzie’s phone. The café owner’s eyes were on him constantly. She wasn’t fooled. She knew they were both cops. He spoke to Baillie on his mobile. ‘Did you see that update?’
‘Yes. Wait for the negotiator.’
‘I’ll stay on the line.’
‘Yes, stay on the line.’
A dark blue Volvo passed in front of the window, Sarah Collins in the passenger seat. Kieran checked the WhatsApp. No update from the flat.
Would he make it worse or better if he went in? Steve was the talker. He was just the heartless bastard who liked nicking people.
‘Boss, I’m going to talk to Lizzie for a moment.’
‘OK.’
He put the phone against his chest.
‘If I go in, then you have to stop King if he turns up.’
‘Yes.’
‘Next priority after that is to keep the public away.’
‘I know.’
‘Of course you do.’
Kieran reached into his bag and got out a police radio.
‘We’ll have back-up any minute. Go to Connor as soon as they arrive.’
‘I will.’
He laughed. ‘Christ. It’s like being married!’
Lizzie raised her eyebrows and smiled and said, ‘Is it?’
He took his wallet out of his jacket pocket and put a ten-pound note on the table.
Lizzie said, ‘Are you going in then?’
‘I’m just getting closer to the door. Might be the time to enquire about some acupuncture.’
The café bell pinged on its spring. Crossing the street, a single loud report like a car backfiring. Kieran broke into a run.
56
Sarah had risked a drive down Farrens Lane but not spotted the Audi. That made sense. King wasn’t such an amateur as to park exactly where Ryan had told him. But he’d be close. They cruised the side streets, turned into a 1980s housing estate. Red-brick houses. Neat parking spaces. A green with a tiny toddlers’ playground.
Then, at the far end of the road, facing them, parked on the right-hand side: a silver Audi. Mean-faced Charlie Douglass was in the driver’s seat, looking up into the tint of the windscreen. Just a drug dealer waiting on a customer. But his eyes lowered towards the approaching car and Sarah saw him recognise them as certainly as if the car they were in had been marked. Even as he swung the Audi backwards out of its space, she was pressing the emergency button on her radio.
‘Met Police from Metro November Eleven. Suspect making off. South on Austen Drive. Silver Audi saloon. VRM Sierra Kilo One Four Whisky …’
The Audi was reversing at speed. A bang as it glanced off one of the parked cars. It barely stopped. Sarah looked down at her phone. There was a forked junction a hundred yards behind the car.
Lee was accelerating, operating his lights and siren.
Sarah transmitted. ‘Met Police from Metro November Eleven, request permission to pursue.’
A plume of black smoke ahead. The car had braked hard and was now swerving out of view up the adjoining road.
‘North-east on Milton Avenue …’
She put her left hand to the passenger strap as they accelerated past the cars parked on either side. They were at the junction and Lee was slamming the Volvo into reverse and spinning it into a turn, avoiding the parked cars by centimetres.
They had lost their quarry. But then, from ahead, another bang. Louder this time. Within seconds they were on the collision. Two cars – a red Mini and the Audi. Sarah’s brain made sense of what had happened in an instant; the Mini had pulled out of a side street and the Audi had hit it side on. Steam was emerging in a hissing plume as if the cars were oversized kettles. Douglass’s door was open. He was already a hundred metres away, running. Lee braked hard, exited the Volvo and started to chase. Stepping onto the pavement, Sarah transmitted.
‘Vehicle has collided with an emerging car. Suspect on foot. North-east down Milton Avenue. Possible injuries to driver of Mini. Risk of fire. Request urgent attendance London Fire Brigade.’
She could hear control asking their questions but she had no more details for them yet. There it was: the trance of assessment and action that every police officer learns.
The wing of the Mini had crumpled but the side pillar had held. Screams: a reassuring sign. In the driver’s seat, a fat woman whose lungs had definitely not been damaged by the impact. The woman was lucky; the Audi looked like it had been trying to get inside the Mini, but she was still alive. There was a smell of burning. Smoke was beginning to seep from the bonnet.
Sarah said, ‘You need to get out through the passenger door.’
The woman said, ‘This car is brand new.’
‘It’s going to catch fire.’
That did the trick. The woman was wriggling over and Sarah was at the passenger door, holding it open and reaching towards her. With her left hand she transmitted, ‘Request London Ambulance Service. Adult female, breathing, conscious, query fracture …’ She pulled her out onto the pavement and away from the car. The woman was cradling her arm. It flopped about like a puppet. A man wearing a vest and pyjama bottoms was emerging from one of the houses. Sarah said, ‘Take her inside. Don’t come out until the fire brigade say it’s safe. The car may catch fire.’
Glancing up the street, she saw that Lee, sprinting hard, had gained on Douglass. But it felt irrelevant. Smoke was billowing from the Mini and she tasted it in her mouth. She ran to the Audi, moving around it, feeling like an animal looking for its young. The car had the uncanniness of the doomed. The white leather interior was undamaged except for the airbag blown and bloody. The front was
staved in but the paint down its flanks still bore its upmarket sheen. Steam was hissing from the radiator as if the car was seething at its own destruction. Sarah pulled the keys from the ignition and moved towards the boot. The transom was staved in. The lid of the boot had folded in on itself.
She shouted – ‘Tia! Tia!’ – and coughed black sputum onto the road.
The car chirruped as she pressed the locking mechanism, but the door to the boot did not move as she tugged at it. She racked her asp and tried to lever it between the edge and the body of the car, forcing it with her right hand.
57
The shock of the gun’s recoil and the explosive noise had for a moment possessed the room. Ryan had been dazed by it. Then everything had come back to stillness. The smell of cordite and a sensation like some kind of internal suspension, like dust settling.
He didn’t really know what to do next.
Steve was holding his ear and Ryan realized he had released the trigger right by the side of his head. Deafened the fucker probably.
Normally when he did things without thinking, he walked away quickly. But he couldn’t walk away now, so he was left with a feeling something like embarrassment. He needed to take some further action to make sense of what he had done, to show it wasn’t just stupid. But the only thing he could think of that would kind of explain it would be to kill Steve.
He pointed the gun.
‘I’ll do it.’
He hoped Steve was taking him seriously, because he needed him not to say anything else that would provoke him. He had this pain in his head and a feeling of panic, and he didn’t really trust himself. It was all a dream passing by in long milliseconds. Steve was talking and he couldn’t hear a word he was saying. But he did hear the narrow creak on the stairs. Every bit of chaos focused into that one sound and he knew completely that someone was sneaking up on him.
‘I can hear you.’
Why did he say such stupid things! It sounded silly, like hide-and-seek.
Coming ready or not.
For fuck’s sake.
‘My name’s Kieran.’
He could tell from the voice: it wasn’t Kingfisher or one of his mates. It was a cop. He could cry with the stupidity of it all.
‘Come a step further and I’ll kill him.’
If he fired a second time he’d have to kill him. Anything else would be fucking ridiculous.
‘SHUT THE FUCKING DOOR.’
‘All right. I’m shutting the door. Can you hear it? It’s shut. It’s just me. I’m not armed.’
Ryan looked at Steve. ‘Who is it?’
‘He’s a police officer. He’s got a key. That’s how he got in.’
He heard the voice again from the stairway. ‘I’m coming up.’
‘I get to decide!’ Ryan pointed the gun at Steve. ‘Stand there.’ He shouted back down the stairs. ‘I’m pointing the gun at him. Stay where you are.’
He waited. The man on the stairs called out to him.
‘We know about Tia, Ryan. We’re looking for her. She’s going to be all right.’
More promises. Everyone was always fucking promising.
‘Where is she?’
‘Look, I’m not a negotiator. I can’t do all that fancy stuff. Let me come up so I can talk to you. I need to see Steve’s OK. I’ll tell you about Tia. None of this is as bad as you think.’
Ryan thought that maybe a whimpering sound had escaped him. He didn’t say yes but he didn’t say no either. A strain of hesitation unnerved him, and in that moment a tall man appeared in the frame of the doorway: the man from the street, the guy who’d walked over to Shakiel. Ryan clenched the handle of the gun.
The guy said, ‘We’ve nearly found her. We’ve identified the car, everything. We’ll have her safe and sound. Any minute.’
There was pain in Ryan’s head, like a splitting headache. He couldn’t work out anything at all. He said, ‘I need to see her.’
The man said, ‘We’re doing our best.’
‘I’m not letting him go till I’ve seen her.’
‘That’s OK. We’ll find her. We’re definitely going to find her.’
Ryan pointed the gun.
‘They all on the way, your lot? They’re going to shoot me?’
‘Nobody’s going to shoot you, Ryan. Nobody’s getting killed today.’
‘Who knows I’m here?’
‘No one. How would anyone know you were here?’
As soon as the words were out of his mouth, Kieran regretted them. He had an immediate sense of the power of a lie to transform whatever deep dark sadness lay inside Ryan into a deadly vengeance.
Ryan said, ‘How did you know I was here?’
The answer came easily, smoothly. ‘I didn’t. I’d arranged to meet Steve. I let myself in.’
A look of distrust passed across Ryan’s face. ‘You got a police radio?’
Kieran had to stop his eyes flicking to the camera. He hoped that whoever was running the incident was paying attention.
‘Sure.’
‘How come you didn’t tell them on the radio then?’
‘You let the shot off when I was already on the stairs. I didn’t dare transmit.’
A look that was both wary and hopeful flitted across Ryan’s face.
‘Put it on then. I want to hear if they’re talking about us.’
Smoke filled the air and Tia was lying in the dark boot of the car. She was on her side with her face turned down. Her skirt was up round her thighs. Her ankles and wrists bound with tape. It was an underwater moment. The air was full not only with smoke but also with the sound of sirens and the uplift of twinkling blue lights. Sarah was supplanted, pulled back from the car with a firm hand. She reached for her radio.
Romeo Foxtrot receiving Metro November Eleven.
Kieran fumbled with his radio, turned the volume down, tried to slow everything. ‘Sorry, got to find the channel.’
‘Like hell …’
‘Look, see, I’m Met-wide. Need to find the channel. You can see!’ He held out the radio, showing the options changing. ‘There. Romeo Foxtrot One – that’s the working channel for this borough.’
‘Why’s there no volume?’
‘Damn, sorry I never travel with it turned up. Don’t want people to clock me.’
‘Well turn it up now then!’
Kieran twisted the dial, hoping his face wasn’t the rictus of anxiety he felt it to be.
A female transmitting.
Romeo Foxtrot One receiving Romeo Foxtrot Two One.
Go ahead.
Yeah, I’ve got one detained for the criminal damage. Is there space in custody?’
He had to stop himself yielding to a grin of relief. Somehow they’d got the whole radio channel for the borough working as if there wasn’t a massive operation underway to release Steve. It was a miracle!
Ryan seemed not to have noticed Kieran’s anxiety. He said, ‘Leave it on. I want to be able to hear it.’
Sarah held the radio in her hand and breathed deeply. It had been a near miss. The usual transmissions of borough were rolling on, transformed by the subterfuge into a marvellous soundscape. She could just picture Ryan in the room above the shop listening to them.
Kieran stood the radio on the mantelpiece and prayed that some numpty didn’t refer to all the activity that must be unfolding in Romeo Foxtrot. People always got the channels wrong. He imagined the riot act had been read, but still, it was hard to reach every officer working on the borough or every specialist unit that might cross it. Surely it was just a matter of time before someone broke radio silence.
He had an urge to confess, to tell Ryan what he feared – that he was the guy who got it wrong. If he was Shakiel or Steve, he’d know how to play him. But he didn’t deal with this kind of thing. He was never on the people side of anything.
Everything around Sarah seemed huge: vast red fire engines, massive people, coils of hose snaking across the tarmac like boa constrictors. Unearthly fluorescent s
tripes moving through the smoke. Voices like earth. And the paramedics taking control in their green. So practical with this frail life coffined in the boot of a car, so systematic, reaching down, checking respiration and pulse. There was foam and smoke and the girl stirred and moaned as they lifted her. Sarah felt it – these intimations of life – as if her chest was full of light and air. The girl was nothing to her but everything too. Her responsibility, after all. She saw her plump brown thighs, her braids, her trailing hand with her nails sparkling with chipped silver glitter.
And then the firefighters were gathering up their equipment and some officer in plain clothes was griping at them not to stomp all over his crime scene and Tia was in the ambulance and Sarah was feeling both relief and panic, as if she were a father locked out of the delivery room, waiting to hear the news.
Someone inside the ambulance had pushed the door half open and she glimpsed the girl sitting, an oxygen mask on her face. The image gripped her: it was the very banal essence of disaster averted. The paramedic said something to Tia and she laughed. You could see what she would be like when she was well again: all the attitude.
Kieran didn’t feel afraid and he didn’t know why because Ryan was giving him every reason to be. Jumpy and anxious, he kept looking out of the window and waving the gun around haphazardly. But Kieran had started to experience an unearthly calm. He imagined the operation that was developing out of sight, rolling out like turf. They’d obviously got the radio under control. A steady stream of routine calls was chattering through. And the covert cameras were a good thing. They’d know exactly what was happening. The firearms officers would be getting into position. The only issue was access. The door. The narrow steps. Plenty of time for a gun to be fired by an impulsive teenager.
Ryan was looking out of the window again and Kieran astonished himself by feeling a sudden unexpected anxiety on his behalf. Ryan was just a kid with no plan. He didn’t want him to be taken out. He wanted him to step away from the window. He wanted him to surrender. He said, ‘Look, Ryan. I know this feels really bad. I know it does. But all you’ve got now is possession of a firearm.’
‘What does that mean?’