Gently Heartbroken

by Alan Hunter

‘Yet, in a moment of exasperation—’

  ‘He’s sitting in there now,’ Gently said, ‘weighing his chances.’

  Gabrielle sighed. ‘You are a great man,’ she said. ‘I will believe what you believe. Yet is there not some action we can take, my friend, to make your logic still more strong?’

  Gently hunched. ‘We have a stack of blunt instruments.’

  ‘And if I, by screaming, could make them open that door?’

  Gently thought about it, slowly he shook his head. ‘It wouldn’t fool me, wouldn’t fool McGash.’

  ‘But we could try it?’

  ‘I could only take one of them.’

  ‘I, my friend, could take the other.’

  Gently shook his head decidedly. ‘No. We too must go for a better option.’

  ‘Then . . . can we not escape?’

  ‘You stay here.’

  Cautiously he rose, picked his way to the outer door. He put his weight against it. It creaked faintly but gave scarcely at all. The hasp he knew was of heavy construction and there was no prospect of shaking out the peg. Hinges were concealed between door and jamb. The frame was rebated, making leverage difficult. Not that way. He proceeded to the walls. The planks of the cladding were damp and tight. He tested one with the pressure of his foot. No give. To get out of the wood shed one needed that axe . . .

  He looked for it, but there was no axe, and in any case no prospect of its silent employment. He explored the rest of the shed. He found nothing but rusty tins.

  ‘We cannot get out?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Will the police be very long, my friend?’

  ‘If the car kept going they will be here shortly. But nothing will happen until Sinclair arrives.’

  ‘Then, my love, let us employ the interval as though none of this were happening at all. I have been out of your arms now for five minutes, and I do not like the sensation.’

  He sat down again on the chumps, took her in his arms and kissed her. The kiss was interrupted by creaking sounds from behind the door, then a tinkling of glass. She sat up straight.

  ‘What are they doing?’

  ‘Probably removing a board from the window,’ Gently said. ‘McGash is setting the scene.’

  ‘Then I wish, my love, he would do it more quietly.’

  They listened. More glass tinkled; there were movements, words, then quiet again. At last she snuggled back in his arms, pulled his head down, completed the kiss.

  ‘Beloved, I remember many things.’

  ‘I remember many things too.’

  ‘When you knew what must happen, but I did not, on the phone you told me to remember that you loved me.’

  ‘I could not tell you more.’

  ‘Oh my love, it was too much. I remembered it and felt I could not live. To have had it and then not to have it was a desolation too great to bear. It was in my brain when I walked by the harbour. I could think of only one way to pluck it out.’

  ‘You have never not had it.’

  ‘But how could I believe that.’

  ‘Once we had loved it could never change.’

  ‘Then, my dear, I was an infidel in my love, my faith for a while was lost in madness. But still in my brain as I lost consciousness I heard your words like a summons.’

  ‘I was distraught. I sought you everywhere.’

  ‘My love, I was mad indeed. I had lost faith, I dared not meet you. Scorn in your eye would have killed me afresh.’

  ‘Yesterday I followed you from Invergarry. When you watched I was watching you.’

  ‘Then it is true. I felt nowhere alone. As though everywhere a hand was on my arm.’

  ‘Again today I knew where to look for you.’

  ‘Again today I knew you were following. My love, there can be no death for us. It is all but the beginning of new eternities.’

  ‘First, I mean to live out the old one.’

  ‘And shall that be in your land or mine?’

  ‘In both our lands. For us, the Channel will become a private highway.’

  She gave a deep sigh. ‘Ah, my love! Will you deny now that love has its miracles? Kiss me and hold me close. Though men may kill they cannot kill this.’

  He kissed her. From next door there was silence. Could they have been listening to this breathed conversation? Not the slightest sound was penetrating to their dark, wood-scented hush. But then, after moments, he heard the van doors slammed, the engine started, the van driven from the frontage. More preparations: the van had offered cover, might have let in marksmen to within yards of the house. Gabrielle’s head lifted.

  ‘They have not gone, my friend . . .?’

  ‘No,’ Gently said. ‘They haven’t gone.’

  ‘I would not mind being left here with you. The police could find us later, some day, never.’

  ‘Shortly the police will be here.’

  ‘Then I think it is too soon.’

  ‘Keep your voice low.’

  She gave a tiny wriggle and resettled her head on his chest.

  Footsteps signalled the two men’s return. Followed what sounded like a debate. The Arab’s voice became shrill, indignant, contrasting with McGash’s hard, peremptory tones. McGash had the last word.

  ‘A disagreement,’ Gently whispered. ‘I think the Arab may favour a dash for it. He’s probably worked out the odds too and doesn’t favour arguing them with the police.’

  ‘Then perhaps . . .’

  ‘McGash won the argument. Cross your fingers he’s made it stick.’

  ‘You mean they would . . . shoot us?’

  ‘We’re on the list. Perhaps it’s time we arranged some sort of reception.’

  He moved to the inner door, listened. From the door projected a step. Working silently, he laid cylindrical chumps on their sides along the step and over the area below it.

  ‘Choose yourself a weapon.’

  They selected their chumps. He placed himself on the side that the door would open. All was hushed again behind it, no murmur of words, no movement. Had he read that argument aright? Perhaps it was McGash who now favoured running. And the silence . . . could it be the other door that suddenly would be flung open? He strained his ears in that direction: sound there must be when the peg was withdrawn. But sound there was none. And minutes ticked by. Time that now had to be on their side . . .

  At last a motion, a quick mutter, in the kitchen! He heard a step, the faint creak of a hinge. Someone in there had moved to a door, pushed it a little more open: like himself, stood listening. Listening, listening: in the enclosedness of the wood shed he could scarcely detect what to them must be plain: the murmur of engines. In fact what he first heard was a distant clumping of car doors.

  ‘George . . .?’

  ‘They’re here.’

  ‘Ah, thank heaven!’

  But soon now the fun would begin.

  ‘George, what are they doing?’

  ‘Nothing,’ Gently said. ‘And they’ll go on doing nothing as long as possible.’

  ‘It is this battle of nerves?’

  ‘They’ll have taken up positions. But they won’t make a move till Sinclair gets here. And he probably won’t make a move either. They are going to leave the ball with McGash.’

  ‘But . . . if there is a deadline?’

  ‘That’s McGash’s bluff. He’s got to handle it when it comes.’

  ‘George, it may not be I am so very brave.’

  ‘McGash is on a deadline too,’ Gently said. ‘Empton. And Empton is no bluff.’

  They had come back now from the door, were sitting again on the pile of chumps. After the little stir next door there had been few sounds for several minutes. Three cars had come down, Gently estimated, and were strung out at distances along the road. Men equipped with guns, personal radios would be on the knoll, in the trees, down by the loch. One would be with the cars, watching the frontage, manning the transceiver. He’d be the only man in sight. McGash would have to guess about the rest.

>   A chance to start something? What the men didn’t know was that the hostages weren’t on the end of a gun. A quick rush now using grenades . . . McGash wouldn’t have time to pull them out of the wood shed. But mentally Gently shook his head. Grenades or not, there would be a slaughter. What they’d be rushing was a bolted door and a slit with two M52s firing through it . . .

  ‘Hold me, my love.’

  He took her in his arms.

  ‘Suddenly I don’t want to die.’

  ‘It will never come to that.’

  ‘My love, I feel cold, as though already I was in a grave.’

  ‘Believe me,’ he said. ‘Believe me. McGash knows the game. He’s a trained professional. He’ll play out his hand but that’s all. And when it’s played out, he’ll surrender.’

  ‘I know only that he kills. And that terrible Arab.’

  ‘Neither of them wants to provoke a shoot-out.’

  ‘They will kill without thinking.’

  ‘They’ll have time to think. Think how to keep themselves alive.’

  ‘Hold me tighter,’ she sobbed.

  He glanced at his watch: coming up to half after five. She hadn’t a watch: he’d seen her bare wrist extended from the sleeve of the anorak.

  ‘Soon Sinclair will be here. He’s a wily bird.’

  ‘Tell me about Sinclair,’ Gabrielle said.

  ‘I met him up here when he was just an Inspector. But he had the shrewdness to make use of me.’

  ‘Tell me, tell me,’ she said.

  ‘I knew a local family. One of the sons had been a colleague of mine. They were concerned in a strange affair for which Sinclair was holding a young Canadian.’

  ‘Yes, yes,’ she said.

  ‘The family was suspect, but they treated me as a friend. Sinclair more or less manoeuvred me into getting from them information they were withholding.’

  ‘Go on, keep telling me,’ she said.

  ‘In the end the affair was sorted out. The Canadian married old Mackenzie’s granddaughter, and Sinclair proved himself a very wise copper.’

  ‘A wise copper,’ she said.

  ‘An able policeman. He’ll know just how to handle McGash.’

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Yes, he’ll know how.’

  She burrowed her face deeper and deeper.

  Fresh mutterings, movements, a soft click: then more slamming of car doors. It had to be Sinclair. Driving like the wind, he had made it in time out from Dornoch. Another two cars: there could be twenty men deployed or deploying about the house. Twenty: doubtless with more on the way. Twenty fingers for twenty triggers.

  Suddenly from behind the door a shout:

  ‘Stay right where you are, copper!’

  Sinclair. He’d got from his car, had now come striding up to the gate.

  ‘McGash.’

  ‘You’re talking to him.’

  ‘So listen to me, McGash,’ Sinclair shouted. ‘My name is Superintendent Sinclair, and I’ve got you surrounded. You’ll put down your arms and walk out with your hands up.’

  ‘Don’t joke with me,’ McGash shouted back. ‘Did you get my message from the Frog, copper?’

  ‘You heard me tell you,’ Sinclair shouted. ‘You’re cornered, and I’m calling on you to surrender.’

  ‘And I’m telling you,’ McGash shouted. ‘There’s a girl here who’s alive now, but won’t be in twenty minutes. What’s your answer to that, copper?’

  ‘Put down your arms and walk out,’ Sinclair shouted. ‘That’s my message to you, McGash.’

  ‘Then her blood be on your conscience.’

  No more from Sinclair. He’d said his piece perfectly. Now he’d be casually striding back to his car, a slow, contemptuous, uniformed figure.

  ‘My love . . .’

  She was trembling violently, tears flooding from her eyes. He shook her.

  ‘Believe me. You heard Sinclair. That’s the way you’ve got to treat them.’

  ‘He means it!’

  ‘No. He’s playing his bluff. Behind it he’s as scared as you. You don’t show fear because you’ve no need to. You treat them like the scum they are.’

  ‘I am not brave—’

  ‘No braveness called for. Just let them play out their little game.’

  ‘George, they are killers!’

  ‘Their teeth have been drawn. For their lives they dare not fire on you.’

  She dabbed at the tears. ‘Tell me what to do.’

  ‘They’ll stand you outside with a gun on you. Don’t try to escape. Act as though you were bored, as though it were all some tiresome preliminary. It’s a silly game, convincing nobody. If there’s any gunplay, drop flat.’

  ‘Will there be?’

  ‘Not very likely. And it won’t be directed at you.’

  He found her a handkerchief. She wiped her face. Then she tucked the handkerchief in her anorak pocket. She wasn’t trembling now. She held him by the arms and looked up into his face.

  In my town we remember Jeanne d’Arc. I am a daughter of Rouen. Kiss me this last time. I shall not disgrace my man.’

  He bent to kiss her, and at that moment the bolts on the inner door were drawn. The door was flung wide. Behind their guns, McGash and the Arab stood, one supporting the other.

  ‘A fine sight,’ McGash said. ‘Out, you bitch! You’ve a job to do for me. And you, Geordie. You’ll see this. I wouldn’t want the lesson wasted.’

  ‘Then stand back, you lout,’ Gabrielle said. ‘Let me smell some fresh air.’

  She marched through the doorway. She shoved the Arab aside. Gently followed. Hajjar struck him with his gun.

  ‘So now, you pigs, what do you want?’

  ‘I’m telling you,’ McGash said. ‘Oh I’m telling you.’

  He had his gun hard in Gently’s back. Hajjar’s gun pointed at Gabrielle. Through the gap where the board had been removed one could see a single police car, fifty yards away. The outer door of the kitchen stood ajar. From the police car men were watching.

  ‘You’ve got ten minutes,’ McGash said. ‘Just that, and then I’m blowing you away, you slut. You’re going outside. You’re going to talk to these coppers. And if they don’t listen you’re dead.’

  ‘I may,’ Gabrielle said.

  ‘You’ll do it, you bitch, if you want to live.’

  ‘Don’t think you’re fooling anyone, McGash,’ Gently said. ‘You know, we know you’re shooting nobody.’

  McGash slammed him with the gun. ‘Keep your trap shut.’

  ‘Losing your nerve, McGash?’ Gently said.

  ‘Kick this bastard for me,’ McGash said.

  Hajjar aimed a kick at Gently’s groin.

  ‘Now one for her.’

  The Arab kicked Gabrielle.

  ‘Be told,’ McGash said. ‘Be told. This is real. She goes out there and ten minutes later her number’s up. You hear me, slut?’

  ‘I hear,’ Gabrielle said, ‘a loudmouth. A frightened pig.’

  ‘Out,’ McGash snarled. ‘Out. Just keep walking till I tell you to stop.

  Gabrielle looked at Gently. ‘Do I humour this ape?’

  ‘Oh, let him feel big,’ Gently said.

  ‘If you say so.’ She shrugged, went through the doorway and walked ahead.

  ‘Stop there!’

  Gabrielle stopped. The Arab had gone to the gap at the window. He trained his gun on Gabrielle’s back. One could hear his hoarse breathing.

  ‘Start talking, slut!’

  ‘But I have nothing to say.’

  ‘You’d better think of something,’ McGash said. ‘Eight minutes is what you’ve got now. Those coppers have got to play ball by then.’

  ‘I’ll see if I can think of something.’

  ‘Why bother to play it out?’ Gently said. ‘You’re not going to shoot her, because you can’t. The bluff was never on from the start.’

  ‘You tricky bastard,’ McGash said between his teeth. ‘You’ve been getting at her, haven’t you? Kidding her along it
’s a bloody act, that she’s going to walk out afterwards.’

  ‘So it isn’t an act?’ Gently said.

  ‘Not a bloody act,’ McGash said. ‘It goes on. Look at Dusty. I couldn’t stop him now if I wanted.’

  ‘You can stop him,’ Gently said.

  ‘Not short of blowing him away,’ McGash said. ‘This is Dusty’s treat. He’s psyched about women. He wets himself when he shoots them. So what about that?’

  ‘You’ll stop him,’ Gently said.

  ‘Watch me,’ McGash said. ‘Bloody watch me. You’ve made a mistake, copper. I can get by with you on a gun.’

  ‘He’ll be shooting you,’ Gently said, ‘if he shoots her.’

  ‘Now close your trap,’ McGash said. ‘And watch.’

  He bored with the gun. They stood back from the door, looking out at Gabrielle, the car, the men. The men had got out of the car. One was Sinclair. He came forward to the gate.

  ‘Hold it!’ McGash shouted. ‘She gets it else.’

  Sinclair halted at the gate.

  ‘You’d better give up now, McGash,’ he shouted. ‘We don’t want accidents with the girl.’

  McGash laughed savagely. ‘Who’s talking of accidents? Are you ready to give me my car and plane?’

  ‘I don’t have authority for that,’ Sinclair shouted.

  ‘Then bloody get authority,’ McGash shouted back. ‘Get on your blower. You’ve got five minutes. You see her alive, you’ll see her dead.’

  ‘Let’s talk about it,’ Sinclair shouted.

  ‘Five minutes,’ McGash shouted. ‘And no more chat.’

  ‘Let me come up to the house.’

  ‘If you do you stop a bullet.’

  Sinclair made a gesture of futility. But he went back to his car. The gun on Gently’s spine shifted slightly, jabbed firm.

  ‘Another tricky copper,’ McGash said. ‘But he’ll see. He’ll see.’

  ‘Suppose he does what you want,’ Gently asked. ‘What then?’

  ‘You’re bloody posthumous,’ McGash said. ‘Shut up.’

  Still Gabrielle was standing relaxed, indifferent, one leg crooked, one straight. She had hands clasped before her, apparently was staring at the hills. At the gap Hajjar crouched motionless, his eyes never leaving her back. His rough breathing came in starts; he held his gun with both hands.

  ‘Four minutes!’ McGash shouted.

  Near the door stood one of the wood chumps. Grey, stripped of bark, it had probably served as a stop. Four feet away. Gently shifted weight from foot to foot, edged closer. The gun followed. He moved again. The gun jabbed painfully.