Knife Edge

by Shaun Hutson

  'We wait,' he murmured.

  8.31 A.M.

  'They're going to kill you, Bob.'

  Robert Neville turned from the window and looked at his wife.

  Julie Neville brushed some strands of blonde hair from her face and shifted uncomfortably on the sofa, her eyes never leaving her husband.

  He pulled the. 459 Smith and Wesson automatic from his belt and worked the slide, chambering a round.

  Julie swallowed hard as she saw him advancing towards her and, for fleeting seconds, she thought he might strike her.

  Neville leaned close, his face only inches from hers.

  'They're going to kill me, are they?' he said quietly and, as he spoke, she could smell the whisky on his breath.

  She lowered her gaze slightly.

  Neville reached out with his free hand and gently stroked her cheek with his finger.

  God, how smooth her skin felt. Like a marble statue.

  'Do you want them to kill me?' he whispered.

  She shook her head almost imperceptibly.

  'Do you?' he said, more insistently.

  'No,' she snapped, glaring at him. Her expression gradually softened. 'I just want you to let us go,' she finally breathed. 'If not me, then at least let Lisa go, she didn't ask to be a part of all this.'

  'She's happy enough, I haven't harmed her, I'd never harm her,' Neville said. 'I'd rather die first. You and Lisa are all I've got.'

  'Then why are you holding us prisoner here?' Julie asked, attempting to mask the anger in her voice. But it was anger tinged with anxiety.

  And fear?

  'You were the one who wanted to leave,' Neville reminded her. 'You were the one who was going to take Lisa away from me.'

  'It was for her own good, Bob.'

  'Bollocks. I'm her father.'

  'Then why do you hurt her?'

  Neville gripped Julie's jaw in one firm hand, his forehead pressed almost against hers.

  'You tell me when I've ever hurt her,' he rasped. 'I've never laid a fucking finger on her.'

  Julie tried to pull free of his grip, away from the smell of whisky.

  'What about your drinking?' she snapped. 'Or are you too pissed now to remember it?'

  He stepped back.

  'Every time you were home on leave you spent all day and night drunk,' Julie continued. 'Since you left the army it's all you've done. How many bottles a day is it now, Bob?'

  'What the fuck do you expect?'

  She regarded him warily.

  'You talk as if I'm the only one,' he said angrily.

  'You're the only one I'm married to. I don't care how other soldiers cope with it. I don't care how many of them get pissed, fuck other women, get into fights. I only care about you.'

  'Is that why you were going to leave me?' he said softly. 'Leave me and take Lisa with you. Don't tell me you care about me, Julie. Not when you were going to take away the only thing in this miserable, useless fucking life that I ever cared about, that I ever loved.'

  He held her in that unrelenting gaze.

  'Do you still love me?'

  She swallowed hard. 'Yes.'

  'Liar,' Neville rasped, the knot of muscles at the side of his jaw pulsing angrily.

  'You've changed,' she told him. 'You're not-'

  'Not the man you married?' he hissed. 'Are you surprised I'm different? After what I've seen, is it any wonder? I've risked my fucking life for this country, for the army, for people who'd spit in my fucking face one day and laugh with me the next. And I was supposed to take it. And I did, because that was what I was ordered to do. That's what we were all ordered to do. We were in Northern Ireland to keep the peace. Jesus, that's a fucking laugh. What a great job we did. How many thousands have been killed out there since 1969? And what about here? How many have died in car bombs or pub bombings? How many men, women and children?'

  He sat on the sofa beside her. 'Do you know how many friends I lost out there? How many other men who were just doing their jobs? Ten, fifteen? I can't even fucking remember myself. Not all of them. But some things you never forget. Like holding a bloke's hand while you're waiting for him to die, waiting for the fucking medics to come and try and put his head back together because some fucking sniper's bullet has blown most of it apart.'

  Julie could see tears in his eyes.

  'There was one lad,' he continued, his voice low. 'He was about twenty-two, Tony Lane. That's one name I can remember. Our unit was called to some ruck that was going on near the Divis flats. It was his first tour, he was nervous. We pulled in four guys we'd been told were PIRA. We searched them. Tony found a box of matches on one and he opened it to see if there was any ammunition inside. They'd do that, hide a couple of rounds in there. The matchbox had a charge inside it. No bigger than my thumbnail. But there were sewing needles in there too. When it went off, Tony caught most of them in his face. The needles went through both his eyes. He survived. The doctors said he was lucky.' Neville snorted. 'Blind, but lucky. I held his head in my lap while we waited for help and all the time he was crying. Trying to cry with needles stuck in his fucking eyes and there was so much blood you couldn't see the tears. He just kept saying that he didn't want to die and he kept calling for his mum. That's the curious thing, you know, when guys get shot, when they're dying, they don't call out for their wives or their girlfriends; they call for their mums. And do you know, while I knelt there talking to him, staring at him, the only thing I could think of? Thank Christ it was him and not me.'

  Neville got to his feet and began pacing the room, slowly.

  'He got a commendation, I think they gave him some kind of medal. I bet that really made up for losing his sight. A medal and some poxy fucking pension if he was lucky. And all the politicians crowed about how brave we all were and the army told us what a good job we were doing, but now it's all over no fucker wants to know. They don't want to know about us now. We did our job and that job's over. Now we should all get on with our lives. As simple as that. They don't realise we've got no lives any more. I hated being in Northern Ireland but at least I was doing what I'd been trained for. They train you, shape you, indoctrinate you and then, when it's over, they expect you to switch off. Like some kind of fucking machine.'

  He crossed to the window and peered out, noticing the policemen moving around outside.

  'Well, not this time,' Neville hissed. 'This is one machine they're not going to switch off.'

  8.58 A.M.

  'Is he insane?'

  Sean Doyle looked up and saw that the question was directed towards him.

  'Neville?' he mused, then shook his head.

  'How can you be sure?' Calloway asked. 'If he's crazy, he's unpredictable, there's no telling what he might do next.'

  'He's not crazy,' Doyle said, a note of assurance in his voice. He was sitting on the floor of the

  Portacabin, back propped against one wall, legs stretched out in front of him. On the floor next to him was a half-empty cup of tea and a sausage sandwich. The meagre provisions had been brought by a uniformed man five minutes earlier.

  Calloway was seated on the only chair in the Portacabin.

  DS Mason was perched somewhat awkwardly on the corner of the desk.

  'If Neville's crazy, then so is every other guy in the Parachute Regiment,' the counter terrorist said, taking a bite of his sandwich.

  'How many others have held their wife and kid at gunpoint lately?' Mason sneered.

  'You don't know how his mind works,' Doyle said.

  'And you do?'

  'I've seen what he's seen, been through what he's been through.'

  'You sound as if you feel sorry for him,' Calloway said.

  'I understand him, there's a difference. That doesn't mean I agree with him,' Doyle murmured.

  'I reckon he's a fucking nutter,' Mason interjected.

  'You read his files,' Doyle said, munching on the sandwich. 'There was nothing in there to suggest he was unstable, was there?'

  'I'm sur
e Fred West was a good laugh after a couple of pints,' the DI said, derisively. 'All I know, Doyle, is that we've got an armed man in that house over there, holding his wife and daughter hostage.'

  'Our job is to get them out safely,' Mason added.

  'The wife and kid are your concern. I'm only interested in Neville,' Doyle said, swallowing some tea.

  'You still haven't told us exactly what that interest is,' Calloway reminded him.

  'If I were you, Calloway, I'd be more concerned about the woman and child.'

  'So, what ideas have you got? How do we get them out without getting them both killed?' the DI wanted to know.

  Doyle shrugged.

  'Come on, hotshot, you're supposed to be the expert,' Mason chided.

  'Look, porky,' Doyle sneered, seeing the colour spreading through the DS's cheeks. 'This is a fucking siege, in case you hadn't noticed. There's a pissed-off para shut up in his house with two hostages, surrounded by plods and, as far as we know, armed to the fucking teeth. You make the wrong move and you're going to have a bloodbath on your hands. He'll kill the woman and kid first, then he'll either top himself or he'll start on you boys. My guess is he'll start putting it about if you try to storm the place, so I hope you've got a good supply of body bags. Neville's not playing fucking games and, until we find out exactly what he wants, there isn't a thing any of us can do but wait.'

  'For how long?' Mason snapped. 'He could be holed up in there for days.'

  'Give it another couple of hours then shut off all electricity and gas. We might as well make it as uncomfortable for him as possible,' Doyle offered.

  'And the wife and kid?' Calloway said. 'It'll be uncomfortable for them too.'

  'They're being held prisoner by a geezer with one or more guns, can life get that much worse?' Doyle mused. 'If someone had a gun to your head would you really notice if the fucking heating was on or off?'

  'What else?' Mason asked.

  'You need to know where they are inside the house,' Doyle said, getting to his feet. 'You've got plans, haven't you?'

  The DI nodded and indicated the plans on the table.

  Doyle glanced at them.

  Three rooms downstairs. A sitting room to the front. A dining room and a kitchen. The front door opened into a reasonably large hall. The stairs were directly ahead. Beneath them was what appeared to be a toilet.

  The upper level consisted of three bedrooms, two facing the front, and a bathroom.

  'If you rush the place he's got two very good vantage points to pick you off from,' Doyle said pointing at the front bedrooms.

  'The houses on either side have been evacuated,' Calloway interjected. 'The others five up and down on either side of number ten are empty, the occupants have already left for work. The place is isolated.'

  'Is the rear covered?' Doyle asked.

  'We've got men in both of the gardens on either side,' said the DI. 'Neville couldn't get out that way even if he wanted to.'

  Doyle didn't answer. 'What's that?' he asked, tapping the plan.

  The two policemen peered intently at the sketched area.

  'It's an attic,' Calloway said. 'So what?'

  'Somewhere else to hide,' Doyle said.

  'So, what do we do?' the DI asked.

  Doyle looked at number ten London Road, gazing at the curtained windows.

  'Try and get some men closer,' he said quietly.

  'But you said he might open fire on them if they rushed it,' Mason reminded the counter terrorist.

  Doyle smiled thinly.

  'I'm not talking about going in the front door,' he said. 'There's another way.'

  9.06 A.M.

  Robert Neville raised the automatic as he saw the policeman moving slowly towards the house.

  Squinting, Neville steadied himself, lining up the sights until the pistol was aimed at the uniformed man.

  His finger tightened a fraction on the trigger.

  It would be so easy.

  One shot, maybe two.

  Start it off now.

  They must have armed men out there, Neville mused. They must know he was armed. What they didn't know was that, in addition to the. 459, he also had a. 357 Sterling revolver and a Steyr MPi 69 submachine gun.

  They were in for one hell of a fucking surprise when things finally kicked off.

  The MPi could fire over 550 rounds of 9mm ammunition a minute.

  Come in, boys. Join the fucking party.

  The policeman he'd drawn a bead on was standing beside a car talking to a colleague.

  Neville reckoned he could take them both out with ease.

  Just a little more pressure on the trigger…

  'Why don't you just kill us and get it over with, Bob,' said Julie, sitting watching him.

  'I don't want to kill you, I never have,' Neville said, softly, the pistol still trained on the policeman.

  'Why did you come back?'

  He finally turned away from the window and faced her.

  'It would have been easier for you if I'd just disappeared, wouldn't it? Better still if I'd been killed out there.'

  'I never wanted that. I never wanted you dead, I just wanted you to realise that it was over between us. I tried, Bob. I tried harder than a lot of wives would have. I stuck by you when you left the army.'

  'Out of duty?' he chided.

  'I didn't enjoy watching you drink yourself into a stupor every day,' she told him. 'I should have left when you disappeared. Why did you go back to Ireland? You'd been out of the army for six months but you went back. Why?'

  'There were some things I had to do,' he told her.

  'Did you miss it that much, Bob?'

  He rounded on her angrily.

  'Yes,' he snarled, taking a step towards her. 'Everything I was, I left behind when the troubles ended. That's why I went back. There was nothing for me here, there still isn't.'

  'What about me and Lisa?'

  'You were going to leave me,' he roared, his face contorted, eyes bulging.

  For the first time that morning, Julie felt genuine fear.

  She could feel the colour draining from her face.

  'I'm not going to give in,' he rasped. 'It's all I knew, all I wanted. It's what I was trained for. I can't spend the rest of my life like this. I'm too young to die but I'm frightened of living. I don't know how to live without it, without the fighting. I could carry on from day to day, wait for cancer or a stroke or some other fucking thing, but I won't. All I want is to die like a man.'

  'Why do you have to die at all?'

  'Because there's nothing else for me and, when I go, I'm taking as many with me as I can.' He sat down wearily on the end of the sofa.

  'Including me and Lisa?' Julie asked quietly.

  He didn't answer, merely sat there staring at the floor, the. 459 still gripped in one fist.

  'Life's overrated,' he said, smiling bitterly. 'But people take it for granted. They take men like me for granted. The public is as bad as the media and the politicians. When there's a war on everybody wants to slap you on the back, buy you fucking drinks, tell you how brave you are, and do you know why? Because the cunts are pleased it's not them. And then, when everything's over, they don't want to know you. You're not front-page news any more, you're no good to politicians because they can't use you to vote-catch. And you're no good to the public because they find new heroes. And they expect you to go away quietly and not bother them again because once all the fighting's over, they don't want to be reminded of it. There were fucking victory parades after the Falklands, after the Gulf. How many fucking victory parades have there been for the soldiers who were in Ulster? Who gives a fuck? Who's ever given a fuck?'

  His voice was rising steadily in volume. 'I'll make them care. I'll make them remember,' he shouted.

  'Dad.'

  He turned as he heard the word, pushing the. 459 into his belt.

  Lisa Neville was standing in the living-room doorway.

  She looked at her father, then across
to the sofa where her mother sat.

  There was bewilderment in her eyes.

  'I heard shouting,' she said quietly.

  'It's all right, sweetheart,' said Neville. 'You go back upstairs to your room.'

  'Mum, can I have an apple?' Lisa said, twisting some strands of hair around her finger.

  Julie nodded, tried to smile.

  'You get it, darling.'

  Lisa scooped a Golden Delicious from the bowl on the coffee table and scurried back upstairs. They both heard her footfalls then the banging of her bedroom door.

  Neville looked at Julie but neither spoke.

  He wandered back to the front window and looked out once more.

  It wouldn't be long now, he thought.

  He glanced up towards the ceiling and smiled.

  9.24 A.M.

  Doyle didn't know the names of the two men with him.

  He didn't care.

  They were both uniformed and in their late twenties. One fresh-faced and slightly built, the other broader across the shoulders. The bulletproof waistcoats which they both wore added to the bulk.

  Doyle had seen both of the policemen inspecting him as Calloway had briefed them and then he'd heard names mentioned.

  Scott and Wilde? Something like that.

  Who cared?

  They both carried Sterling 81 rifles.

  Doyle held a two-way radio in his hand, the volume turned down as low as possible.

  The three men were less than fifty yards from number ten London Road, ducked low as they sprinted towards number six, passing other policemen, some of whom were crouched down behind the many parked cars which clogged the street.

  Doyle saw more guns.

  The counter terrorist slowed his pace when he reached the short path leading towards the front door of number six. There was a high fence to one side of the house which would shield their approach. It also hid the garden from view should anyone be looking from a rear window of number ten.

  Doyle knew that Neville would have ensured he could see in all directions. He would have picked his vantage points carefully.

  That's what Doyle himself would have done.