THE FIX: SAS hero turns Manchester hitman (A Rick Fuller Thriller Book 1)

by Robert White

  The highly polished black coffin was carried by six bearers all identically dressed; they, in turn were followed by mourners carrying large floral tributes, their fabulous colours framed against a backdrop of black. I scanned the crowd for faces. Two very obvious detectives held up the rear. There was no noticeable presence from Davies’s crew, which pleased me.

  The crowd circled the grave. A preacher spoke and five gospel singers sang hymns. The coffin was slowly lowered into the grave. The outburst of emotion could be clearly heard from my position.

  Then the bomb went off.

  At first I couldn’t see or hear anything. My eyes slowly started to focus and as God is my witness I wish I’d stayed blind. I’d seen soldiers with bad injuries. I’d been in battle, but this was different.

  The first thing I saw was the remains of a small boy. He’d have been five, maybe six years old, no older. He landed fifteen feet from me. He had been blown a full sixty meters from the graveside. His legs were gone and his body twitched as the life drained from him. I was frozen. Through the smoke I started to hear the screams of the injured and bereaved.

  I thought my head would explode. Why hadn’t I checked that wreath myself? Why did I stay in cover?

  There was more ghastly screaming and a distant siren. It was that wail that brought me back. The siren. Maybe it reminded me of Ireland, my family’s homeland. The place my grandfather was born and raised. He moved to Scotland to avoid the violence. I, in turn went back to help stop it for good. It was the country where I saw my first action and first killed another human being. The place where I first saw the slaughter a bomb can cause.

  Don’t ask me how, but I gathered my kit together and stowed it against a tree, leaving me dressed in jeans and a sweater. Then I ran to the carnage. God forgive me, I had morphine in my pack but dared not use it for fear of being compromised.

  The wreath must have contained plastic explosives together with a timer, or it had been set off by remote control. If it had been activated by a tremble switch it would have gone off when the BMX boys touched it. In all the chaos I had forgotten to check the road for any activity. If the bombers had been behind me in a vehicle, waiting for the moment, they would have seen me pack up. I pushed that horror to the back of my mind and concentrated on the one in front of me.

  The bomb had created a second gaping grave. The hole itself was empty, it was what surrounded it that tore at my heart. I counted six obvious dead. The injuries were so horrific that identification would be difficult. There were body parts strewn everywhere. Part of someone’s arm and shoulder dangled from a marble cross. Two gospel singers, who had been feet from the centre of the blast, were standing rock still, apparently untouched, at the graveside. Was someone looking out for them? I’d like to think so, but years of the kind of shit I’d witnessed told me different. It was luck, pure and simple, not fate, not God, just luck.

  I started to work on the casualties and tried to block out the screams from my head. I could hear a young boy pleading off to my left. A large piece of debris was lodged in his stomach. He would most probably die within minutes.

  I turned from him and worked on a kid who had lost a hand. I knew his agony would quickly turn to shock and he might die along with the poor guy behind me, but his chances were much better and I was only one man.

  I could hear the sirens getting closer but I couldn’t stand the screams of the gut-injured boy any longer. I ran back for my gear and my morphine.

  Fuck it, I thought, ID me, you bastards, come for me. I’m ready.

  It took me less than a minute to get my bag. I got to the kid. Big tears fell down his face, his eyes wide with fear and agony. I loaded the syringe and pushed it into the child’s arm.

  Before he felt the effect he arrested. I held him until he stopped breathing.

  When the first police officers arrived they were sick. Physically and wrenchingly sick. They were useless and the mourners who were fit enough bellowed at them to get their shit together.

  In all the distress I was the professional. For years I had seen and done things that most people wouldn’t dream of. It was my theatre and I had to get on with it. I decided that my cover would be that I was a doctor, that had been walking by and hopefully I would be able to steal away in all the trauma.

  It took forty minutes for all the serious casualties to be removed. My hands shook and I was covered in blood. A paramedic asked me if I was okay. I told him I was, that it wasn’t my blood. He gave me a thermal wrap and sat me in the back of his ambulance. Then he sat opposite me and burst into tears.

  Tanya’s mother, brothers Georgie and Michael, nephews Shelly, Bonny and William were all part of the dead. Bonny, at eighteen months old, was the youngest to die. In all, eleven people had lost their lives in an instant. Many more would be severely disabled for life. All would be affected, forever. Me included.

  A casualty with severe head injuries was wheeled into the ambulance with me. The medic was ashen-faced but coping.

  “Will you treat him en route, doctor, while I carry on here?”

  I nodded, tried my best to pull my shit together and started to work on the guy. The doors were closed and we were on our way.

  The guy was in big trouble. I had been given medic training in my Regiment days and I was as good as anyone in the back of an ambulance but this guy was seriously hurt.

  I shouted to the driver.

  “How long before we get him to a hospital?”

  The driver shouted back over the wailing horns.

  “Gonna be forty minutes, nearest bed for this type of injury is in Leeds. We’re going to Leeds General.”

  We arrived at the hospital in a flurry of activity. I counted nine ambulances with Greater Manchester liveries parked outside. Some of the casualty staff tried to treat me but I waved them away. After briefing the casualty doctor I sat on a chair at a nurses’ station and closed my eyes. I had been awake all night. I was knackered. I needed food, drink and sleep. I also needed some fresh clothes and a shower.

  I asked one of the nurses if I could use the hospital facilities to clean myself. After about an hour she showed me to a small bathroom and I was able to shower. I had spare clothes in my pack. I placed the old ones in a bag and took them to the incinerator. Then, with a little difficulty, I found the staff canteen and went to eat. It seemed that all the police effort was being concentrated on Manchester and therefore my cover story had not been tested. No one asked for ID and I offered none. Everyone was shell-shocked. It would take a while for the cops to get to Leeds. As soon as I’d had some food and a hot drink, I intended to do one. I needed to think and get my head down.

  I got myself some cottage pie and chips and was washing it down with a hot cup of tea when I got myself some company again.

  This time it was most welcome.

  Her name badge announced Sister Lauren North. She walked to my table and sat without invitation. She was beautiful.

  “You don’t mind, do you?” she chirped.

  “Not at all, hen.”

  She smiled at me briefly and tucked into her meal. There was a silence until she lowered her fork and asked,

  “Are you new here?”

  I swallowed more tea and used my cover.

  “I don’t work here, I’ve just brought a patient over from the incident in Manchester. The bomb, you know?”

  She seemed fascinated.

  “Oh my God, yes, terrible, isn’t it? They say it was gangsters.”

  “Do they?”

  “Well yes, they say that the people who were killed were Yardies,” she pushed a piece of tomato in her mouth and chewed vigorously, “and they’re gangsters aren’t they?”

  Her innocence amused me at a time I needed it most. I resisted a smile.

  “I suppose so.”

  She ate some more, but stopped abruptly. She leaned slightly closer, a move I found most pleasing, and lowered her voice.

  “We have a gangster on my ward right now,” she hissed.
>
  I played the game.

  “Really, is it Al Capone?”

  Lauren looked slightly cross when she realised I was teasing her but remained undaunted.

  “Well that’s what my friend Jane calls him.” She tapped her fork on her plate. ”But I know for certain he is. Not Al Capone I mean, but a gangster.”

  “And how do you know that then, Lauren.”

  Her eyes gleamed, she was enjoying her moment and I could smell her. She was a truly stunning creature. I just didn’t think she knew it.

  “Well, there was this guy in America who tried to kill himself with a gun. He put it in his mouth, pulled the trigger, but he didn’t die of it.”

  I looked puzzled.

  She shook her head.

  “What I mean is, this guy on my ward, well someone put a gun in his mouth and pulled the trigger, but he didn’t die either.”

  I still looked puzzled but didn’t care. She was a sight to behold.

  “Gangsters poured boiling water on his legs to get him to talk, and then they put a gun in his mouth, thought they’d killed him and left him in the road. Someone found him and brought him here, no one knows who he is and…”

  I stood up and I could feel my heart race. My mind slapped me down instantly. The coincidence was just too bloody obvious; too cosy.

  “Where is he?” I snapped.

  “What?”

  “Where is this man? Can you take me to him?

  “Well, I, I mean, I suppose I could.” Lauren seemed perturbed by my reaction but I couldn’t help myself. I’d left my grey man impression back in the blood-soaked dirt in Moston.

  I stopped, raised my hands and took a deep breath, forcing a smile.

  “I’m sorry, Lauren, what I’m trying to say is, in a very bad tempered way, would I be able to see his wounds?”

  I fought my way back to regular breathing. “You see, I am writing a paper on unusual gunshot injuries.”

  She seemed to relax a little.

  “Erm, okay, I don’t see why not. They’ll have taken off his dressings now. I believe he’s pretty bad though. I haven’t been up yet.”

  I offered my hand together with a genuine grin and coaxed her to her feet. I let myself feel good for a few seconds.

  “I’ll be okay, trust me, I’m a doctor.”

  She stood, brushed down her uniform with clean hands, her nails clipped short and un-varnished. She gave me a look that told me I was slightly crazy.

  “I suppose I can take you then, but just for a few moments.”

  We walked briskly along disinfected corridors. Lauren’s sensible shoes clicked as I spoke.

  “I’m Des, by the way.”

  “Really,” she said.

  Lauren North's Story:

  The cheek of the guy! I mean, I’d sat across from him in all innocence and told him the best bit of gossip Leeds’ side of the Pennines and he just took the Michael out of me. The next minute, he changed personalities faster than Robbie Williams on jellies.

  I knew he was looking at me, as he kept one step behind me as we walked. On the plus side he was a handsome man, a bit mad maybe, even scary, but handsome. On the minus side, he was a doctor and I had made myself that solemn promise.

  No more doctors.

  As we strode down the corridor towards the lift, he was talking incessantly, asking questions about the patient’s prognosis. If he was writing a paper, he certainly took it seriously.

  He was a bit small for me, but well put together. Not in a muscular way but his veins were pure wire.

  A rough diamond too. Not exactly your doctor type. I could hardly contain my smile. If I’d fallen over a heroic figure that regularly volunteered for duty in some war-torn African state and was writing a book on his findings, Jane would be absolutely livid.

  We got in the lift.

  “Where in Scotland are you from?”

  He seemed impatient and distant for a second.

  “The Gorbals.”

  “I see, is it nice there?”

  “No.”

  “Oh.”

  “I’m sorry,” his face creased into a smile, “as you can imagine, I’ve had a traumatic day.”

  I suddenly realised how damn insensitive I’d been. I mean the guy had just been to a bomb blast. He could even be traumatised himself and I was accusing him of schizophrenia.

  “No, I’m sorry.” I placed the flat of my hand on my chest and took a deep breath, suddenly embarrassed.

  “I’m just amazed that you want to see more injuries today.”

  The lift stopped and he smiled again.

  “Thank you for your concern, Lauren, I’ll be fine, now, which way?”

  I walked Des to the cool, quiet ward. It was a seven-bed unit. One was empty, awaiting the arrival from surgery of a bomb blast victim.

  He stopped at the entrance to the ward. Something was troubling him. I thought it might have been the uniformed police officer sitting by the patient’s bed. I stepped forward and spoke to the young constable.

  “Constable, this is Dr…” I fished for a surname.

  “Cogan,” Des obliged, stepping close behind me.

  “Yes, Cogan,” I blurted. “He needs to examine the patient.”

  I nodded at our man who’d had his facial bandages removed. A smaller dressing covered the wound on his cheek.

  The policeman seemed to get the message, folded his newspaper and strolled toward the staffroom.

  Then something troubled me.

  I couldn’t place my distress at first, and then it came to me. It was Dr Fagan’s hands. When he had taken my hand in the canteen, they were like oak. Not like doctor’s hands at all. I knew, I’d been married to one.

  “You okay?” I asked.

  He just stared at the bed containing the mystery gangster. He didn’t approach, just looked.

  I took his hand again, I don’t know why. I felt the strength in it and he squeezed mine in his. I suddenly realised that I’d been in this very same position many times before. Des was behaving like a relative.

  “Do you know him?”

  He gave no reaction.

  “Doctor?”

  He seemed to snap out of his dream-world but his voice was flat.

  “Is it okay to inspect his wounds now, Sister?”

  I looked around for any sign of the consultant or the duty matron. I began to feel very uncomfortable.

  “I suppose so.”

  It was the first time I had seen the patient without his dressings myself as they were removed whilst Jane and I were off duty. His facial features were severely distorted. His left cheek looked like it housed a Jaffa orange.

  Des moved slowly to him but rather than start his examination, sat on a chair at the side of the man’s bed. He placed his hands to his face and rubbed his cheeks. He seemed speechless.

  “You do know him, don’t you?” I whispered.

  He just nodded.

  “I think you’d better go.” I said.

  Des looked at me. His ice blue eyes bore into me. They didn’t plead, they demanded my attention. His voice was low and even.

  “We need to talk, you and me. There’s nothing to be scared of. He isn’t a gangster and neither am I. Do you believe me, Lauren?”

  I smiled nervously, not knowing what else to do. I thought about calling security, but there was something about Des Fagan that made me trust him.

  He stood.

  “What time do you get off work?”

  “Eleven o’clock, why?”

  His face changed again and he smiled. “Let me tell you a tall story over a wee drink.”

  I heard myself say yes.

  Des Cogan's Story:

  I was in total shock. I couldn’t believe Rick was alive. The jammy bastard had done it again. Once more he had cheated the Reaper. I had to say I was over the fucking moon. Everything seemed peachy. It was the closest thing to a religious experience I had ever known. My mother would have had me down the chapel every night for a month. I alm
ost skipped down the corridors, a big smile on my face. Then, without warning, a picture of the young boy, blown into my path by the cemetery bomb, tore into my mind. I stood still, my head swimming. I thought I might faint and sat heavily on a bench seat, my eyes squeezed tight together in an attempt to obliterate the horror.

  I waited and waited until he released me. My balance was restored, my Karma.

  I had a friend once. He was a Polish Airman, from Krakow. He was a very dour guy, never prone to outbursts of emotion good or bad.

  One day we had all been celebrating something or other and Jack was sitting quietly in a corner with his orange juice. I sat down beside him and asked him why he wasn’t joining in the fun. It was then he explained Karma to me. He used the analogy of a pendulum, with joy at one extreme and pain at the other. He tried to keep his Karma steady with the most moderate of swings in any direction. Swing too far toward joy and gravity would ensure that an equally painful event was around the corner.

  Jack was centred, literally.

  My pendulum had just had a field day and Jack’s theory had proved all too correct. I regained my feet and started to get my head together. The job had taken a turn for the better but it was still a live operation. I knew what Rick would want me to do and I intended to do it.

  I had no idea if I could trust Lauren, but I had no choice. She seemed a pretty sorted person but whether she would bottle it later in the day and tell her boss or the police, only time would tell.

  I took a black cab from outside the hospital to the nearest Travelodge, having arranged to meet Lauren at eleven-thirty at a bar in the city centre. I sorted a hire car with the receptionist. It was delivered whilst I slept. Despite being totally exhausted, I didn’t sleep well.

  After two hours of tossing and turning I took the hire car and drove back to my last hotel in Didsbury, Manchester. I nervously picked up all my kit and drove back to Leeds, which would have to be my base for a while. Rick was my first priority. Fuck Davies and Stern. I needed my mate back in action.