by Nick Oldham
Suddenly the man got a surge of energy and power from deep within.
With an inhuman cry he managed to wrestle Henry’s hands from his throat and bend back Henry’s fingers, forcing him on to his knees as he attempted to break his fingers.
Meanwhile, Henry’s own strength had evaporated and he found himself being overpowered by a big, fit man. He stared into the man’s wild eyes, the eyes of the man who was going to murder him.
Simultaneous thoughts skittered through Henry’s mind as he sank to his knees: I haven’t called Kate this morning; why did I screw Angela Cranlow? I don’t want to die here.
Then he deliberately fell backwards, catching the attacker by surprise, upending him so that he would lose balance, let go of Henry’s fingers and fall on top of him. Suddenly they were face to face, rolling from side to side across the narrow hall, each trying desperately to be the one who got on top, get the advantage. They punched, kicked, scratched.
As they smacked against the skirting board, they were cheek to cheek. Henry opened his mouth, bared his teeth, then sank them into the man’s ear lobe and bit hard, worrying the ear like a dog on a rabbit, drawing blood which he tasted. The man howled in excruciating pain, spurring him on with a resurgence of effort.
The man’s face reared back and he spat a mouthful of blood into Henry’s eyes and for the next few moments Henry had to fight blind, until suddenly the man got in a punch, connecting with the side of Henry’s head, jarring his brain. He went limp and disorientated, let go of the man, who scrambled away from him and crawled down the hall.
Henry’s senses flooded back. He wiped his face and rolled on to his stomach, realizing that the man was trying to reach the knife. Henry grabbed the man’s left ankle and yanked him backwards and tried to crawl up him as though he was climbing a rope. The man kicked out and caught Henry in the face, just on the spot where he had previously head-butted him under the right eye. Something cracked, sending a nauseous feeling through him, but he held on, grimly determined that he would not lose this one. The man continually kicked back, but Henry wrapped his arms round his legs, preventing him from reaching the knife.
Henry saw that his radio, dropped when he was initially attacked, was in easy reach. The man pulled and kicked and fought, but Henry held on for death, wondering if he could keep him secure whilst getting the radio and screaming for help.
The man twisted so he was on his back, Henry holding on, his face now level with the man’s knees. The man managed to sit up and reached out, pounding Henry’s head with his fists. Henry tucked his face between the man’s shins, riding the blows, which hurt badly.
Then, with a great heave of strength, he broke one leg free of Henry’s grasp, flat-footed Henry on the shoulder and managed to yank his other leg away, then lunged for the knife.
Henry grabbed the radio and teetered unsteadily to his feet, backing breathlessly towards the front door, whilst at the other end of the hall, the Asian guy was in a leopard’s crouch, having retrieved the knife.
Both men panted heavily, eyeing each other warily.
‘You put up a good fight, infidel,’ the man said through the blood streaming down his nose. He wiped his face with his forearm. To Henry, he looked terrifying, waiting to pounce, blood soaking him. He spun the knife in his hand and Henry imagined it plunging into his neck.
Henry raised the radio to his lips. He had to get the call out. He had twelve feet in which to do it, in the time it would take for the man to reach him. Maybe a second and a half.
The man rose, pushing himself up as though he was a sprinter, except he held a knife, not a baton.
Henry was about to shriek something into the radio, along the lines of, ‘Fuckin’ help me!’
Two things did not happen.
The man did not reach Henry.
Henry did not manage to utter any words.
There was a massive, all encompassing ‘boom’ from somewhere behind the man and his right shoulder seemed to explode into bloody fragments. His arms shot up and he crashed down on to his knees, dropping the knife, then falling on to the floor, moaning and writhing in agony.
Henry’s mouth clamped shut and he lowered the PR.
A man in a ski mask and dark clothing stood at the now open kitchen door. A big man, his wide frame and height almost filling the gap. In his right hand he held a smoking pistol, which he lowered slowly. With his left hand, he pinched the top of his ski mask and slowly pulled it up off his head, revealing his features. Then he stepped forward and stood with his big feet straddling the knife man. There was a big grin on his face.
Henry was speechless, but the guy with the gun wasn’t.
In an American accent, he drawled, ‘Well, Henry, the cavalry’s come to bail you out again, I reckon. What you say to that, pal? Nothin’? Cat got it?’
Then Henry found the power of speech and said simply, ‘Thanks, pal … what the hell’re you doing here?’
Fourteen
He put his hand on the doorknob and slowly turned it. He was trembling, hurting, and he didn’t want to do this, but he knew he had to. It was his responsibility. He glanced at the people behind him in the hallway, then at the walls splattered with blood, the floors also, and pushed the front room door open.
His mouth closed tightly as his eyes took in what was beyond, then his lips popped open when the enormity of it hit him. ‘Oh God,’ he groaned.
They had died horrendous deaths, their bodies splayed out on the floor of the empty room, their throats severed from ear to ear, their heads almost hacked off.
The room from hell.
Henry stood immobile, unable to move, as he computed how it had happened.
They had knocked on the front door, been invited in — just as he had — and in the hall, they had been savagely attacked.
They’d probably gone for Graeme first, the big guy. Someone had taken him from behind and sliced his throat open, hence the blood spurts on the wall from the thick arteries in his neck. Then Angela had been overpowered, suffering the same fate, and their bodies had been dragged into the front room where it looked like the attack had continued frenziedly, and they had been butchered, almost beheaded.
Henry shuddered. His nostrils flared.
He had seen many awful things in his life. Most had no effect on him. But this horror was something he was having big problems with already. It was one of the most barbaric scenes he had ever witnessed, like something from the Dark Ages.
Their faces were twisted in his direction, both clearly identifiable. Graeme Walling had one eye closed, the other half open; Angela Cranlow’s were both wide open, staring accusingly at him, her tongue lolling in the blood which had gushed from her mouth.
Henry was short of breath. His heart started to pound fast. Suddenly it was hard to inhale.
A hand clamped down on his shoulder and the big American looked over his shoulder.
‘Hell,’ he said. ‘C’mon, Henry, close the door … step back, let the CSI guys have this.’
The hand steered Henry away from the room, through the kitchen and into the backyard, where he was forced to sit down on the edge of a metal dustbin.
‘Deep breath, pal.’
Henry complied, his hands on his knees, his arms locked at the elbows.
‘Let’s have a look at you.’ The American settled on his muscular haunches and held Henry’s face, tilting it to the light. ‘That’s a hell of a shiner,’ he said, inspecting Henry’s right cheek.
‘Think my cheekbone’s bust.’
‘Let’s look at the hand.’
Henry held out his right hand, slashed by the knife. He’d wrapped kitchen towel round it but the bleeding had continued, soaking the paper. The American slowly unravelled the paper, making Henry wince. His hand dithered. ‘Needs stitching, I reckon.’
‘You still haven’t said what you’re doing here,’ Henry said dreamily.
‘And I haven’t got time to explain just yet. We need to do some pretty fast manoeuvring here first
.’
Henry shook his head and forced himself to return to the world. He looked directly into the American’s eyes. ‘What the hell’s going on?’
‘Critical threat,’ he said.
His name was Karl Donaldson.
A bemused Henry Christie, still on the edge of a dustbin in the backyard of a terraced house in the predominantly Asian area of Blackburn, watched the activity in a haze. His face hurt and was swelling by the second and the rest of the injuries and knocks he had taken whilst fighting for his life were starting to have some effect. He compared it to being dragged under a truck.
Suddenly the backdoor of the house opened and the two firearms officers stumbled out, Bill almost dragging Carly, who immediately spewed her guts up over the back wall, retching with a disgusting sound. Bill shot Henry a look of horror. Henry nodded, still not quite with it, but realizing they had just seen the crime scene.
Karl Donaldson came out behind the two officers and pulled Bill to one side. He spoke urgently in his ear. ‘Get her home, get her out of the way and get her to keep quiet, OK, pal?’
Bill turned to Henry for guidance.
‘Do as he says, Bill.’ Bill’s facial response did not look positive. ‘Trust me,’ Henry assured him.
Bill gave him another look, one of incomprehension and fear.
‘You heard, Bill — trust him,’ Donaldson said. ‘Get her home, and if you want to go home too, then that’s fine.’
Henry nodded. ‘Do it.’
‘You’re the boss,’ he said, sounding aggrieved.
Carly vomited again, narrowly missing Henry’s feet with the remainder of her breakfast. She was completely out of it, overwhelmed by shock. Bill led her out of the yard and down the alley. She did not resist.
‘They’re good people,’ Donaldson said.
Henry regarded his old friend, but then his attention was redirected when he heard the warning beep-beep of a vehicle reversing up the back alley. It was an ambulance.
‘For me?’ Henry asked, squinting through his one good eye.
‘No, for the guy I shot.’
‘I assumed he was dead.’
‘He’s not well, but he’s conscious and we need to have speaks with him urgently.’
Two paramedics in green overalls dropped out of the ambulance and armed with their kits and a fold-away stretcher, they dashed into the house. It wasn’t long before they reappeared with a body on the stretcher, completely covered as though it was a corpse. They rushed past Henry and Donaldson and slid the stretcher into the ambulance. One jumped in with it, the other clambered back behind the wheel.
‘Should I get in?’ Henry asked.
‘Nah — you come with me … you’re in this up to your neck and I think we can use you.’
Henry sat dumbly in the passenger seat of his Rover 75 whilst Karl Donaldson drove through the crowded streets of Blackburn. Henry’s face was scrunched up in an expression of unhappiness, the posture of his body matching it.
‘Where are we going?’
‘You’ll see.’
Henry had known Karl Donaldson for about ten years. They had first encountered each other when Donaldson, then an FBI field agent, had been investigating US-related mob activity in the north-west of England. That initial link-up had resulted in their paths crossing several times more over the next few years, both professionally and personally, and they became good friends. Donaldson even married an ex-Lancashire policewoman and settled just outside London, enabling him to commute into the city where he’d landed a job as an FBI legal attache based in the American embassy. His role entailed a lot of liaison work with police forces across Europe.
Over the years, Henry had glimpsed a different side of Donaldson. He came across as a big, handsome, friendly guy who could charm his way into a mother superior’s panties if he so wished, but underneath that veneer Henry had seen a band of ruthlessness a mile wide.
His appearance today, whilst welcome under the circumstances, was also a shock and Henry was somewhat mystified … but hoped for some answers soon.
Donaldson handled Henry’s car easily. He had driven his own Jeep on British roads for over ten years and was comfortable with traffic. He had ordered Henry to get into the passenger seat, continually reassuring him about the crime scene and that it would be looked after and that it would all be taken care of, and after taking his keys, had settled behind the wheel and set off with a squeal of rubber. He headed swiftly back down Whalley Range out of town, anxiously checking the rear-view mirror until, at last, a smile crossed his face and he relaxed.
Curious, Henry glanced down at his door mirror and, with some shock, saw that the ambulance that had set off a couple of minutes before them was behind, no lights flashing.
Henry uttered, perplexed, ‘Is that the same ambulance?’
‘You’ll see … now just relax, H, I’ll explain soon.’
‘Am I being abducted?’
Donaldson laughed. ‘So I could have my wicked way with you? Don’t kid yourself.’
As Henry adjusted his position to get more comfortable, he grunted in pain. He put a finger in his mouth and touched a tooth, which waggled loosely. Then he groaned again for good measure.
Donaldson accelerated through an amber light, straight across from Whalley Range into Plane Street, then Plane Tree Road and sharp right on to Robinson Street.
‘How the hell d’you know your way around Blackburn?’
‘Sat nav.’
‘And why is that ambulance still behind us? Why hasn’t it gone to the hospital?’
‘Trust me, I’m an FBI agent.’
Henry waggled his tooth again. It sent a shock of exquisite pain through his face.
Donaldson dropped down on to Philips Road and turned left into an area that was mainly industrial estates within easy reach of the M65. They were not far from Blackburn police station and Henry assumed this was their destination.
Assumed wrong.
There were lights at the junction of Philips Road and Whitebirk Drive — a dual carriageway, also known as the arterial road which curved around the north-west perimeter of Blackburn, hence the name. To reach the police station, Donaldson should have turned right. Instead, he drove straight across the lights on to Whitebirk industrial estate, a sprawling conglomeration of business units of all shapes and sizes, which seemed to expand continually into the hillside beyond. Henry had always known it to be there. It was probably one of Blackburn’s oldest industrial estates, post-cotton.
Henry could still see the ambulance in the wing mirror, following them.
Donaldson muttered something. Henry turned to him to ask, ‘What?’ but realized the American was talking into a tiny radio mike. To Henry, he said, ‘Nearly there, pal.’
‘Nearly where?’
‘There,’ he said mysteriously. ‘Actually, I could get into deep shit for bringing you here and letting you see where “there” is. But because I trust you, I’m willing to take a chance …’
‘Eh?’ Obviously Henry’s brain had been addled from the beating he’d just taken, compounded by the horrendous bloodbath. He thought he might have damaged something up there, because this was making no sense to him.
Donaldson drove to the far reaches of the industrial estate, which got grottier and grottier the further they went. He steered down a cul-de-sac and then turned in through some high steel gates, topped with barbed wire, and drove through an open shutter door into a cavernous industrial unit which was surrounded by a ten-foot-high steel mesh fence. The ambulance tailgated them in and the shutter door started to close as soon as the vehicles stopped moving.
The unit was similar to thousands of others: breeze-block built up to about ten feet, then the remainder constructed of corrugated steel walls and roof. There were no windows and illumination was provided by banks of strip-lighting hanging from the roof.
The floor was made of poured concrete and on it were parked many vehicles. Henry recognized Donaldson’s Jeep and amongst the others was
a Royal Mail van, a United Utilities transit van and a Tesco home delivery box van; there were also several non-descript cars of a variety of makes and a liveried Lancashire Constabulary traffic car.
And the ambulance.
Donaldson eased his big frame out of Henry’s car and leaned on the roof, looking across at his bemused friend, who had also got out and was staring around the unit with a little-boy-lost expression.
‘Welcome to Homeland Security, Blackburn Branch,’ Donaldson said, with a wide sweep of his arms.
Henry nodded, still unable to take it in, but slowly beginning to slot things together.
He watched the paramedics pull the stretchered casualty out of the ambulance and carry him across to a door in one corner of the unit. With a bit of contortion, they managed to manoeuvre through without tipping him off.
‘That’s Bob and Bob,’ Donaldson explained for Henry’s benefit. ‘American Special Forces, both highly trained medics.’
‘Of course they are,’ Henry said, as if seeing two Delta Force soldiers dressed up as Lancashire Ambulance Service paramedics, carrying a man who had been shot on a stretcher between them, across the floor of an industrial unit on the edge of Blackburn, was the most normal thing in the world.
Henry’s legs went weak.
Donaldson saw him sag. He rushed round to him, held him up under the armpit and led him across the unit. ‘There won’t be too much time for explanation,’ he said. ‘I’ll just get you cleaned up, get some painkillers down you and then we’ll try to keep the American Secretary of State alive … how does that sound?’
‘Just doody,’ Henry said, using an expression bandied about by his youngest daughter Leanne, which seemed entirely appropriate for the situation.
Fifteen
Donaldson steered Henry diagonally across the floor of the unit, through the doors the paramedics/soldiers had gone with the injured man. This led into a narrow corridor off which were a number of half-glass doors on the left. Henry presumed that there were offices behind them. There was a wooden staircase at the far end, leading up to the first floor.