by James Craig
‘Thanks.’
‘No problem.’ Discarding his genitals, Dom leant out of the bed to grab a newspaper lying on the floor.
Retrieving the joint, Sam picked a disposable lighter off the bedside table and fired it up. Taking a deep drag, she gave him an indulgent smile before blowing the smoke across the bed. ‘Want some?’
‘Nah,’ Dom shook his head. ‘I’ve had enough for one night,’ he yawned. ‘Anyway, I’m on duty in the morning.’
‘Mm,’ Sam grinned, taking another puff, ‘you really are a strange copper, aren’t you?’
‘Not really . . .’ Dom began flicking through the paper. ‘Socialist Worker,’ he snorted. ‘Time to bring down the corrupt capitalist system . . . General Strike now!’ Tossing the paper back on the floor, he flopped back on the bed. ‘You actually read this kind of stuff?’
Turning to face him, Sam put her hands on her hips and pouted. ‘This is a strike of the rank and file,’ she parroted through the haze. ‘The workers are taking action into their own hands – hit squads, scab watches, community support . . . food kitchens, the whole lot.’ The accent was pure Bedales, with a dash of St Trin-ian’s thrown in for good measure. The girl was a trust-fund revolutionary, no doubt: a little wannabe taking a walk on the wild side. Dom started to laugh, then thought better of it. ‘We need to mobilize mass support for their action.’
Dom held up a hand. ‘Okay, okay. But for all that, you obviously don’t mind sleeping with the enemy.’
Grinning, she crawled back onto the bed. ‘I don’t think of it as sleeping with the enemy,’ she purred, slipping a hand under the covers.
‘No?’ He felt himself stiffen slightly.
‘No,’ she smiled. ‘You’re a worker, aren’t you?’
‘I suppose so,’ he gasped.
‘There you go.’ Her grin grew wider as she ran a thumbnail slowly along his shaft. ‘I see this less as sleeping with the enemy and more as building a broad-based alliance . . . one man at a time.’
TWELVE
The door flew open with a bang. ‘Rise and shine you silly sod; it’s time to get up.’
‘I was awake.’ Rolling smartly off the bed, Carlyle got to his feet.
Stepping inside the cell, Charlie Ross handed the young constable a small metal mug, two-thirds filled with steaming black coffee.
‘Thanks.’
The sergeant inspected the mess that was his face and grunted. ‘What happened to the other guy?’
‘No idea,’ Carlyle replied, omitting to mention that he hadn’t managed to lay a finger on his attacker. He took a cautious sip of the coffee. It tasted disgusting but at least it was hot. Under the circumstances, that was more than good enough. ‘The bastard crept up behind me and smashed me in the face with a beer bottle.’
The look on Ross’s face may have been an expression of sympathy or of disgust; it was impossible to tell.
‘And then I got arrested!’ Carlyle whined. ‘Some stupid plod nicked me while I was bloody unconscious!’
‘Fucking idiot,’ the sergeant growled. ‘You’re lucky that Inspector Holt found out you were in here. Otherwise, you could have been up in front of the beak this morning before I’d even heard about it. That would have been your police career over before it had even started.’
‘Mm.’ Savouring his wretched coffee, Carlyle felt strangely ambivalent at the thought of a return to civilian life in double-quick time.
Frowning, Ross gazed at the dirty grey light struggling to make it through the cell window. ‘I don’t suppose you know where your partner in crime Mr Silver might be?’
Carlyle stared at his stockinged feet. ‘No.’
Ross gave him a hard stare. ‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes,’ Carlyle nodded, ‘dead sure.’
Charlie Ross took a half-step forward, like he was preparing to give the youngster a sharp clip round the ear. ‘Don’t fuck with me, laddie,’ he growled.
‘Honestly.’ Finding his Adidas Rod Lavers under the bed, Carlyle sat down, placed the coffee cup carefully on the floor and slipped them on. ‘He disappeared somewhere. I got ambushed by that wanker when I went looking for him.’
‘It looks like it was quite a mismatch,’ Ross chuckled.
‘He surprised me,’ Carlyle protested.
‘You’re a policeman, apparently,’ Ross observed loftily. ‘The idea is that you’re always too alert to let people sneak up on you. Even when you’re off duty. Especially when you’re off duty.’
‘What about the bloke that hit me?’ Carlyle asked, relieved that at least the sergeant didn’t seem that bothered about the fact that Dom and he had been AWOL at the time. ‘Did he get nicked too?’
‘Nope.’ Ross shook his head. ‘He was clearly far too clever to get caught . . . unlike you.’
‘Ha!’
‘You’d better hope that you don’t bump into him again.’ Ross turned towards the door. ‘Finish your coffee. We need to get out of here. It might surprise you to know that I’ve got better things to do than babysit you all day.’
‘Yes, sergeant,’ Carlyle said meekly. Getting back to his feet, he watched as the fat duty sergeant from the night before slipped past the open door. A few moments later came the familiar sound of a key in a lock. He turned to face Ross. ‘Thanks for coming to bail me out, sergeant. I really appreciate it.’
‘Okay,’ Ross replied, seeming almost embarrassed by the expression of gratitude. ‘C’mon. Let’s go and see if we can find your mate.’
‘Okay.’ Stepping towards the door, Carlyle was stopped in his tracks by a piercing shriek.
What the—
Almost immediately, his thoughts were drowned out by the sound of an alarm going off.
The duty sergeant scampered back towards the front desk, bouncing along the wall as if his hair was on fire. ‘Call a bloody ambulance,’ he shouted to no one in particular, ‘quick!’
Pushing Carlyle out of the way, Ross slipped through the door and headed towards the noise of the alarm bell. Following him into the corridor, Carlyle saw the sergeant stop by an open cell, three doors down.
‘Fuck!’
Reluctantly, Carlyle went to take a look.
Ross stepped aside, to afford him a better view. ‘That’s the kid that killed Beatrice Slater.’
The kid that was accused of killing her, Carlyle thought. He looked at Ian Williamson’s feet dangling maybe an inch or so above the pool of urine that had spread across the floor.
Breathe.
Squeamish at the best of times, the young constable focused on retaining the contents of his stomach. Clamping his jaw shut, he slowly inhaled – one, two, three – and exhaled – one, two, three. The last thing he wanted to do was puke in front of the hard-as-nails superior.
The alarm suddenly shut off. There was the sound of shouting from down the corridor but no one came towards them. Once his guts were under control, Carlyle turned to face the sergeant. ‘Can you really kill yourself like that?’
‘Och aye, son.’ Ross gestured at the body hanging limply from the bars on the window by a length of torn bed sheet. ‘It takes a while, mind.’
‘Mm.’
‘Yes, indeed. It takes something like thirty seconds to a minute before you lose consciousness, five minutes ’til you’re brain dead, twenty before the heart stops beating.’
Despite the morning chill, Carlyle felt a bead of sweat trickle down his spine. He gestured back down the corridor. ‘Shouldn’t they have been checking on him?’
Charlie Ross shot him a sharp look that said, What kind of a stupid fucking question is that? ‘In the old days,’ he mused, ‘when we had the death penalty, they would let them drop, so that it was a case of breaking their neck. Strangulation is not really a nice way to go.’
‘No.’
‘But then again,’ Ross chuckled, ‘what is?’
They were shaken from their thoughts by the sound of an ambulance in the distance. ‘Shouldn’t we get him down?’ Carlyle asked as the siren
came closer.
‘Fuck, no,’ said Ross, pushing him away from the door. ‘What we should do is get the fuck out of here, right now.’
How long would it be until it was her lying there on the slab? Five years? Ten? Now that she was getting older, Millicent Olyphant hated hospitals even more than ever the morgue especially. The cold made her shiver. The smell made her want to gag. It took all her willpower to remain in the room.
‘Okay, let’s get on with it.’ Gritting her teeth, the lawyer watched as the balding young man in the white coat pulled back the sheet. Looking up, the morgue technician gave her an enquiring look.
‘That’s him,’ she said quietly. ‘That’s Ian Williamson.’
Standing by her side, Inspector Rob Holt looked at his shoes. They needed a good polish. He would attend to that as soon as he got out of here. He tried – and failed – to invoke the smell of polish in his nostrils.
Impatient for him to say something, Millicent cleared her throat. ‘Are we done, inspector?’
‘Yes, indeed,’ Holt nodded. ‘Thank you for that. Ian’s parents are on their way, but at least you’ve saved them the ordeal of having to make a formal identification of the body.’
Oh, it’s ‘Ian’ now, is it? she thought, anger blooming in her chest. You’re on first-name terms, now that you’ve killed the poor lad? Balling her hands into two small fists, Millicent dug her fingernails deep into her palms as she fought an almost overwhelming urge to jump up and scratch the inspector’s eyes out. ‘Fuck you,’ she hissed. Without waiting for a reply, she turned on her heels and fled, in search of some fresh air and some sanity.
Careful to avoid standing in the slowly evaporating pool of piss in the corner of the phone box, Martin Palmer looked out through the broken glass. Assuming that the clock next to the station entrance was correct, his train to London should be arriving in just under ten minutes.
‘So that’s it then?’ said the voice on the other end of the phone.
‘Yes, sir.’ Palmer grabbed a ten-pence piece from the pile of coins he had placed on the shelf by the phone and fed it into the slot. ‘With the Williamson boy dead, the case is now officially closed.’
‘Good, good.’ There was a pause while his superior thought of something else to say. ‘I suppose that’s what we wanted. If nothing else, it’s one less thing to worry about.’
‘Yes.’
‘And he did it, you think?’
‘What? Kill the Slater woman?’ Palmer made a face. ‘The police seem to think so. Otherwise, they wouldn’t really have finished their investigation, would they?’
‘Quite, quite.’
Martin tried not to sigh as he endured another of the pained pauses that his boss specialized in.
‘It’s just that it’s not quite what we had in mind when we sent you up there.’
Palmer thought about that for a moment. ‘No.’
‘But, I suppose,’ he repeated, ‘under the circumstances . . .’
‘Yes, under the circumstances . . .’ How much longer could they keep going round in circles? ‘Anyway, I’m just about to get on my train.’
‘Second class?’
‘Pardon?’
‘I hope you’re going second class,’ his boss explained. ‘There’s a big clampdown on expenses at the moment. We’ve got to save money, you know. I don’t think I could sign off first class.’
‘Don’t worry,’ Martin said soothingly, ‘I haven’t bought my ticket yet. I’ll make sure I get the right one.’
The good news seemed to perk up his boss considerably. ‘Fine, fine,’ he trilled. ‘Jolly good. So we’ll see you back at Gower Street tomorrow morning.’
‘Ye—’ But before Martin could get the word out there was a click and the line went dead.
No ‘thank you’, then? Palmer thought sourly. No, ‘well done’? Returning the handset to the cradle, he scooped up his remaining change and dropped it into his jacket pocket, next to the pair of soiled cotton panties that he had kept as a memento of his trip. The thought of them nestling there sent an embarrassed tingle through his groin, making him smile. ‘Martin Palmer,’ he mumbled to himself in a cold American accent, ‘licensed to kill . . .’
Duran Duran’s ‘Hungry Like the Wolf’ began playing in his head as he picked up his holdall, pushed open the phone box door and stepped back out on to the narrow pavement. Stepping into the gutter to give way to an old woman carrying a bag of groceries, he glanced again at the clock. His train should be here in five minutes. That should be just enough time to grab a ham roll, a Kit Kat and a cup of tea from the station café before heading for home.
It had remained overcast all day, but warm and humid with it. Police Constable John Carlyle yawned as he watched a shabby-looking black and white cat saunter across no-man’s land, a small rodent clamped between its jaws, apparently uninterested in the massed ranks of men on either side.
‘Incoming!’
Looking up, Carlyle watched as a half-brick sailed through the air towards them. A few moments later, it exploded at the feet of a surprised constable further down the line. With a yelp of surprise, the officer jumped a foot into the air and fell backwards onto his arse, to the general amusement of his colleagues nearby.
‘That was close,’ Dom observed. ‘You don’t want one of those bouncing off your bonce.’ He gestured towards the massed pickets, lined up twenty yards or so away across the same depressing scrap of waste ground that they had been fighting over day after day. ‘There’s a lot of the buggers here today.’ He shook his head. ‘You’d think they’d have got bored with all this bollocks by now, but no, these stupid bastards keep on coming back. I didn’t think the scabs were going to get in this morning.’
‘Where were you last night?’ Carlyle asked grumpily. ‘I thought you were coming back to the pub.’
‘Sorry,’ Dom grinned sheepishly, ‘I got a bit . . . waylaid.’
‘And I got a bloody beer bottle in the face.’
‘Nasty.’ A sympathetic look drifted across Dom’s face. ‘Sorry, mate.’
‘And then I got bloody arrested!’ Carlyle gestured off to his left where their sergeant was pacing backwards and forwards, doing his Napoleon act in front of a bunch of suitably unimpressed constables. ‘Sodding Charlie Ross had to bail me out.’
‘That was good of him.’
‘I suppose,’ Carlyle admitted grudgingly.
‘Look at it this way,’ Dom grinned, ‘at least you got to see what we do from the other side. Think of it as a learning experience, a training exercise. Now you have first-hand experience of what it’s like to be on the receiving end of some police hospitality.’
‘Like that makes me feel better.’
‘Come on, lighten up. At least you weren’t found dead in your cell.’
‘That’s—’
A rumble of discontent went through the nearby ranks, followed by a cry of ‘WATCH OUT!’
Carlyle looked up to see another half-brick hurtling through the air, this one coming directly towards his head. Taking a step backwards, he closed his eyes, ducked and half-turned away.
Then there was a sickening crack.
The rest was darkness.
THE ENEMY WITHIN PLAYLIST
ABC – S.O.S
Aswad – Not Satisfied
Aztec Camera – Oblivious
Bananarama – Cruel Summer
The Beat – Stand down Margaret
Big Country – In a Big Country
Billy Bragg – A New England
Black Uhuru – Happiness
Blondie – One Way or Another
Boomtown Rats – Rat Trap
The Buzzcocks – Orgasm Addict
The Clash – Should I Stay or Should I Go
Elvis Costello – Pills and Soap
The Damned – Love Song
The Dead Kennedys – Viva Las Vegas
Depeche Mode – Everything Counts
Duran Duran – Hungry Like the Wolf
Ian Dury –
Reasons to be Cheerful
Echo & The Bunnymen – A Promise
Gang of Four – I Love a Man in a Uniform
Marvin Gaye – Sexual Healing
Eddie and the Hot Rods – Do Anything You Wanna Do
Eddy Grant – Electric Avenue
Heaven 17 – (We Don’t Need This) Fascist Groove Thang
Human League – The Sound of the Crowd
The Jam – Going Underground
Japan – Gentlemen Take Polaroids
Joy Division – She’s Lost Control
Madness – One Better Day
Bob Marley – Exodus
New Order – Ultraviolence
Orange Juice – Rip It Up
PiL – This is Not a Love Song
The Police – Every Breath You Take
The Pretenders – Back on the Chain Gang
Pink Floyd – Another Brick in the Wall
The Redskins – Unionize
The Ruts – Babylon’s Burning
Sham 69 – Hurry Up Harry
Simple Minds – Promise You a Miracle
The Skids – Into the Valley
Specials – Ghost Town
Bruce Springsteen – Growin’ Up
Squeeze – Cool for Cats
Steel Pulse – Klu Klux Klan
Stiff Little Fingers – Suspect Device
The Stranglers – Something Better Change
Donna Summer – She Works Hard for the Money
Teardrop Explodes – Reward
Television – Friction
Tom Robinson Band – Power in the Darkness
U2 – Gloria
Ultravox – All Stood Still
The Undertones – My Perfect Cousin
XTC – Making Plans for Nigel
James Craig Q&A
Where does the “The Enemy Within” fit into the Carlyle series?
The novella ties in to a series of novels featuring Inspector John Carlyle, an Inspector working out of the police station at Charing Cross.
The first novel, “London Calling”, was published in 2011. Early on in that book, there is a flashback to Carlyle’s experiences as a young officer in the middle of the mineworkers’ strike, which was a major industrial dispute in Britain in the 1980s.