Riot

by Heather Atkinson

  “There hasn’t been a riot here since nineteen ninety,” said Jez. “And we happen to be here when the next one starts. Fucking typical. Dwyer will try and find a way to blame it on us.”

  A blood-curdling scream echoed down the corridor as a skinny man was dragged away by three hulking brutes. They hauled him into a cell further down the landing, his screams momentarily intensifying before abruptly going silent.

  “The last riot started as a protest against the shitty conditions,” said Jez. “This time they just want to indulge in mindless violence.”

  “Fortunately we’re experienced in that,” replied Mikey as they stepped into the fray.

  The noise was incredible. The riot had spread through all four floors, the shouts and screams from below carrying all the way to the top, deafening them. Mikey was tempted to return to his cell and shut the door, if only to escape the horrific noise but that would lumber him with a reputation as a pussy.

  “Which moron started a fire when we’re all locked in?” exclaimed Jez. “I’ll track him down, shove a lighter up his arse and roast the bastard to death from the inside out.”

  Two men charged at them but they easily took them down, stepping over their unconscious forms.

  “We need to get to a lower floor,” said Mikey. “If the fire gets out of control we’ll be trapped up here.” He glanced in one cell, from which smoke was billowing. Fortunately whoever started it had the sense to put it in a metal bin, so hopefully it would remain contained but there were men who might not have the brains or the inclination to be so careful.

  “We can’t. We’re locked in on this floor.”

  “Someone must have got hold of a key,” said Mikey, indicating the prisoners charging up from the lower floor.

  He blocked the arm of a man who attempted to whack him with a long metal object. Mikey twisted his arm up his back, kicked him in the knee and headbutted him. The man fell and Mikey snatched his weapon from him.

  “A fucking wrench?” he exclaimed, holding it up. “Where did he get that from?”

  “It’s amazing what prisoners can get hold of,” replied Jez, casually punching a man who ran at him screaming while holding aloft a piece of piping. The man’s screams were silenced and he staggered backwards into another prisoner who rounded on him, picked him up bodily and hurled him over the edge of the landing. No one was concerned as there was netting there to catch him.

  Jez picked up the piece of piping and smiled. “Thanks mate.”

  “Heads up,” said Mikey, drawing back the wrench, gripping it with both hands as more men charged at them out of the smoke.

  CHAPTER 33

  Jules and Ryan were back at The Manor, making a list of everyone they thought was a part of The Coalition.

  “It’s either the Chief Super or the ACC,” said Jules. “The Deputy Chief Constable’s been off sick for ages, he’d be no use and the Chief Constable’s lording it up abroad. It could be the ACC as - even though he’s in our pocket - he’s refusing all my attempts to contact him but the guy’s a complete tit and a bit of a wuss too. I don’t think he’d dare get involved in anything like this, he’d be too afraid of it affecting his pension.”

  “What do we know about the Chief Superintendent?”

  “Not much really. A diligent, plodding officer. Known for being firm but fair. Well liked. We’ve never had any contact with him, we didn’t need to with an ACC in our pocket. I’ll get onto my little spy in Dwyer’s department, see what she can tell me about him.”

  “The final member has to be Bruce Spencer. It makes sense. He’ll want revenge for what Battler and Bruiser did to his legs. And Alex and I killed his father.”

  “Makes sense bruv. We need to target him next. What is it?” she said when Carter charged in.

  “There’s a riot at Strangeways.”

  “You’re joking, right?”

  “Wish I was Boss,” he said grimly. “It’s been confined. To K wing.”

  Ryan pinched the bridge of his nose. “Please don’t let Mikey or Jez be anything to do with it.”

  “They wouldn’t be so stupid,” said Jules.

  Ryan didn’t reply as he thought about what Jez had done to Amber. Instead he switched on the television and turned to the news. The screen showed the exterior of the red-brick K wing, a pall of smoke hanging over it. The grim reporter was already mentioning several murders, the capture of two prison officers and several small fires.

  “I need to get over there,” said Jules, pulling on her jacket.

  “Not a chance,” said Ryan. “Declan will anticipate that and will be waiting for you. And what will you do when you get there? Do you think they’re going to let you dress up in tactical gear and go inside? No. You’ll risk exposing yourself to being shot in the head for nothing. Mikey and Jez wouldn’t want you anywhere near.”

  “He’s right Boss,” said Carter.

  “I know he is,” she barked. “But I feel so fucking useless.”

  “They’ll be fine,” replied Ryan with more conviction than he felt. Mikey and Jez would be prime targets in that riot. If they were killed everyone could deny all knowledge thanks to the chaos inside. There would be no better opportunity to take them out without risk of the family getting revenge on the perpetrator. This had to be one of the most precarious situations they had ever been in.

  Rachel left Michelle’s office alone on the pretext of returning home when in truth she was heading to the salon. Jenna Garrick was a regular customer, attending two or three times a week for various treatments. Rachel had noticed her name in the appointment book for that afternoon, something Michelle didn’t know.

  Rachel parked across the street from the salon and waited. Half an hour later Jenna emerged, her long nails blood red and freshly manicured. She was a beautiful woman, tall, willowy and delicate-looking with porcelain skin. She was wrapped in a long black coat, black high heels and plum-coloured skirt.

  As she headed to her silver Audi parked at the kerb, Rachel hopped out of her car and approached her.

  “Jenna,” she said with her friendliest smile.

  The woman looked round and gasped.

  “I take it you know who I am?”

  “Rachel Law.”

  “I wondered if we could have a friendly chat? We could have a brew across the road,” said Rachel, gesturing to a cute tearoom.

  “N…no thank you. I’ve got a lot to do.”

  From her enquiries Rachel knew this wasn’t true. Jenna didn’t work or have any hobbies. In fact the only thing she seemed to do was come to the salon for treatments. “I appreciate that but it won’t take long. The kids don’t finish school for another hour.”

  “I’m sorry, I can’t,” she said opening the car door and throwing her handbag inside.

  “Please, it’s not about Freddie. It’s about your husband.”

  The terror that filled Jenna’s eyes failed to surprise Rachel. Her skin turned even paler, making her blond hair look ashen. She decided to take a chance. “He hurts you, doesn’t he?”

  Tears filled Jenna’s eyes and for a moment Rachel thought she was going to confide in her. Instead she jumped into the car, slammed the door shut and set off with a screech of tyres.

  “Shit,” sighed Rachel. Hopefully Michelle would have more luck with her, although she doubted it.

  Mikey slammed the end of the wrench into the hand of one of John South’s ex-hanger’s-on, the man’s scream echoing upwards through the wing. He and Jez had managed to get down to the threes, where the smoke wasn’t as stifling but a disorientating haze hung over the landing. He whipped the man across the face with the flat side of the weapon, blood spraying from his mouth. He fell against the wall before sliding to the floor.

  Jez was using his piece of lead pipe to pulverise the testicles of his assailant, the man squealing like a little girl. Mikey guessed that was how he was going to always sound in the future, if he survived this riot.

  Satisfied his opponent was down, Jez got to his feet
, sweat dripping off him. Mikey was similarly soaked through, the heat intense.

  Four shadows loomed at them through the swirl of smoke. They raised their weapons to continue the fight but it was only Brendan, his two equally large friends and Chris, who was limping.

  “Thank Christ,” breathed Jez, lowering the pipe. “You all okay?”

  “Fine,” said Brendan. “Except Chris here stubbed his toe on a cell door.”

  “I didn’t,” retorted Chris. “I got that from booting Stone Johnson in the balls.”

  “No you didn’t,” he grinned. “I saw you go down screaming.”

  “We’re trying to get to the ground floor,” said Mikey. “In case these fires get worse.”

  “That’s our plan too,” said Brendan. His eyes widened. “Down.”

  Mikey ducked and a chair went sailing over his head. Four men charged at them and Brendan and his friends ran to meet them, clashing with an almighty bang.

  “I think they’ve got that covered,” said Chris. “I’ll watch over you two.”

  Mikey and Jez regarded the small skinny man with raised eyebrows.

  “At least this landing’s clearing out,” said Jez. Brendan, his friends and the men they were grappling with had taken the fight to the stairs, their grunts and cries echoing upwards. The pall of smoke still hung heavy but they sensed they were the only one’s left on this landing.

  “Wait,” said Chris. “I see someone.”

  The three of them squinted at the shadow as it grew larger and closer. A spine-chilling chuckle rolled towards them, muffled slightly by the smoke.

  “Oh God that’s the creepiest thing I’ve ever heard,” exclaimed Chris.

  A pair of luminescent blue eyes pierced the gloom.

  “Pretty boys,” the deep voice growled.

  “Oh shit,” said Chris. “It’s him, The Make-Up Killer.”

  “Who?” said Mikey, who had been with Dwyer when Carl had made his debut.

  “He’s a serial killer.”

  “Well why not?” he sighed. “Bring it on. What’s next? A Jihad? Or maybe a tsunami?”

  “Pretty boys,” repeated Carl, steadily approaching them. His entire upper half was soaked with blood, his arms caked in it up to the elbows.

  “We can take down this clown,” said Jez, raising the pipe. “There’s three of us.”

  “But he’s ex-special forces,” said Chris, frantically back-tracking as the killer continued to approach, unsettling gaze locked on them. “He’d snap us like twigs. I saw him break both Meaty Malcolm’s arms and he’s had all sorts of training.”

  “Looks like we don’t have a choice,” said Mikey as Carl broke into a run.

  “Where’s Riley when you need him?” said Jez.

  Mikey attempted to hit Carl in the face with the wrench but found it snatched from his hands and the next thing he knew he was sailing through the air, landing painfully on the floor. The wind was driven from his body and for a moment all he could do was lie there and watch Chris being thrown like he was made of paper, landing in a crumpled heap halfway down the landing. Jez was more successful, he actually managed to hit the killer’s arm with the pipe but, rather than scream like any normal person, Carl just tutted and waggled his index finger back and forth.

  “Naughty pretty boy. You need to be spanked.”

  “You sound like my sister,” he retorted.

  Despite the situation, Mikey chuckled.

  Jez was knocked sideways by an incredible blow to the side of his face. Carl followed this up with two more punches, completed by a fist to the gut that folded Jez in half. He fell to the floor, the pipe rolling from his hand. Carl straddled him and wrapped his hands around his throat.

  “Naughty pretty boy,” he rasped, eyes bulging from his head with glee.

  Jez pounded his arms with his fists as he started to squeeze but Carl appeared not to feel a thing.

  Mikey was tempted to let Carl throttle him. It was no less than he deserved after what he’d done. But he was his wife’s brother after all, she would be so hurt if he was murdered by a drooling serial killer. Memories of happy times they’d shared ran through his head so quickly it could only have lasted a second but it was enough to convince Mikey to get to his feet. Plus, watching Carl in action had shown him how he fought.

  After scooping up the wrench he ran at Carl, raising the weapon. Sensing the movement, Carl raised one arm, ready to ward off the blow but Mikey spun on his heel and brought it down in the middle of his back instead.

  Carl roared with pain, his hands slipping from Jez’s neck. He jumped to his feet, releasing another roar before lashing out at Mikey. Anticipating the right hook, he leapt back. It was Carl’s turn to look startled, he wasn’t used to missing.

  Although Mikey never fought at formal matches anymore he still boxed regularly at the gym, consequently his skills were still finely honed. Usually Mikey’s right hook was enough to fell the biggest of titans. Carl was rocked on his feet but he managed to shake off the punch and come back at him, catching him just under the chin, snapping his head back. Seeing stars, Mikey kept on moving, ducking twice to avoid Carl’s flying fists.

  Jez managed to drag himself up to a sitting position, a horrible pain in his aching neck. After all the life-threatening situations he’d been through that had been the one where he’d felt closest to death. Not even the explosion at Mikey and Jules’s wedding reception had felt so dangerous but then again he’d been hit on the head and had a severe concussion, so his memory of that incident was very hazy.

  He coughed and gasped, cringing at the fire that shot through his neck. There was a huge clatter and he saw Mikey struggling with the psycho. It amazed him that he was still on his feet, going strong. There weren’t many people Jez couldn’t take down but his fighting skills had been honed on the street. Mikey had been professionally trained. But then again, so had Meaty Malcolm and it hadn’t done him much good.

  Inwardly Jez cheered when Mikey delivered three rapid punches to Carl’s ribs, the crack audible as one broke. But it didn’t slow him down. Jez stuck out his leg and Carl tripped, stumbling backwards. Mikey took advantage of this and drove his fist into the side of his head so hard he went flying through the air. Carl hit the landing hard, boots clanging off the metal where he lay, unconscious.

  Jez and Mikey cautiously approached him but he didn’t move.

  “Maybe you killed him?” said Jez.

  “I don’t think it’s going to be that easy.”

  Carl released a groan. When his eyes flickered open it was like looking at another man. Mikey picked up the wrench and raised it above his head.

  “No please, don’t,” cried Carl, raising his hands.

  Mikey hesitated. “What?”

  “Please don’t hurt me. I’m sorry, I can’t control it.”

  “Control what?”

  “The bad Carl. He takes over and I can’t stop him. He likes hurting people but I don’t. I’m so so sorry.”

  Mikey lowered the wrench and Carl started to cry.

  “What the actual fuck?” said Jez.

  “He shouldn’t be in here,” said Mikey. “He should be in bloody Broadmoor.”

  The yelling of voices filled the air, accompanied by the thunder of feet stomping along the gantry towards them.

  “Christ,” said Mikey. “It’s some of John South’s crew.”

  “Oy you fucker’s,” yelled one of them, pointing at them with a shiv, the end of which was coated in blood. “We know you topped John and we’re going to fuck you up big style.”

  Mikey looked back down at Carl, who was still crying on the floor. “Pretty boys,” he whispered in his ear, indicating the group of men.

  Carl’s crying abruptly stopped and his eyes rolled over, reminding him of a shark, all the pain and fear gone, replaced with that disturbing wildness. He shot to his feet, the pain his cracked ribs must be causing him failing to slow him down as he charged at the group of men.

  “Quick,” Mikey told
Jez. “Let’s get out of here.”

  They ran down the landing away from the furious fight erupting between Carl and his pretty boys.

  “Chris,” said Jez when he nearly tripped over him.

  “Bloody hell,” said Mikey. “Carl threw him halfway down the landing.”

  Jez tapped his face. “Chris, get up.”

  “Leave me alone. I’m not a pretty boy, I’m ugly.”

  “It’s us you donut. Get the fuck up.”

  They hauled him to his feet.

  “I think he broke my wrist,” said Chris, cradling his left arm.

  “Thank God it’s not your ankle. Now run.”

  Together the three of them sped down the landing, hearts lifting at the sight of the stairs. They tore down them to the twos on the ground floor, the gate on this floor similarly hanging open.

  They came to a halt.

  The scene that greeted them was a battle zone.

  It seemed the other prisoners had had the same idea about getting to the lower levels because most of K wing were penned in here on the narrow ten metre wide landing, battling for their lives.

  “At least there’s only one small fire down here,” Jez yelled over the din.

  “That’s something I suppose,” yelled back Mikey.

  They watched one prisoner from their landing - who they knew was called Michael in for killing his wife - receive a shank straight into the abdomen, Michael screaming and writhing on the end of it. The shank was retracted and rammed into his left eye. His screaming stopped and he dropped to the floor. The man who’d killed him, his bloodlust still up, stabbed another prisoner in the back who was battling with someone else. All the men’s eyes were frenzied, the coppery stench of blood hanging heavy in the air and they were showing no sign of stopping any time soon.

  “Fuck me,” said Chris. “We were safer upstairs with the fire and the serial killer.”

  “He has a point,” Jez told Mikey. “We have so many enemies down here and none of these men will stop until everyone is dead.”