Edge

by Nick Oldham

  There was a corridor straight ahead of him, wards and cubicles branching off either side.

  Henry knew exactly where the two men were going.

  He ran to the second ward on the left and skidded into it just as a nurse screamed from the cubicle where Henry’s prisoner-to-be was lying waiting for his buttock to be sewn up.

  He sprinted as the nurse staggered out backwards, having been shoved roughly, crashing against a trolley which she caught as she lost her balance and flipped on to herself, spilling all the contents – bed pans, plasters, bandages and syringes.

  As Henry got to her, he heard the first cry of, ‘No!’ followed by the hollow thud of a baseball bat connecting with something, then a scream of pain.

  Another thud – wood on bone – and another shriek.

  Henry skidded into the cubicle and took it all in.

  The two masked men were raining down blows on the injured lad, who was curled up defensively on the bed, his hands covering his head and face, though this only helped partially; as Henry came in, he saw one of the bats crash down on to the side of the lad’s head with a sickening echoing clunk.

  With a roar, Henry pitched himself at the nearest attacker who saw him coming and swung his weapon wildly at Henry, who ducked, but tripped sideways against the cubicle wall.

  This time, however, Henry was determined not to go down.

  He hit the wall and, using the reverse energy from the collision, threw himself back up at the man who was already slicing his bat back down at Henry’s head like an executioner with a huge sword.

  Henry dinked sideways, deflected the blow with his left forearm, and although he felt the hard wood crack the apex of his elbow – which hurt – he fought through that and took advantage of the fact that, for just a moment, the attacker was wide open and vulnerable.

  For once in his life, he was going to pack a great punch.

  He knew his attackers were violent and ruthless and the only way to deal with them was to hit harder than them.

  So in that very tiny window of opportunity, Henry went for it.

  He threw himself off the cubicle wall, drew back his right arm, bunched his hand into a fist and, as he came back like a boxer off the ropes, he powered that fist through the air and slammed it as hard as he could right into the centre of the man’s face, on the point of the nose.

  For the first instant of impact it was like hitting a brick wall.

  Then – a euphoric moment for Henry – the man’s nose seemed to crumble like a cake and imploded. His head jerked back, then he sank to his knees, dropping the bat, his hands going to his face as blood gushed and filled the mask.

  It was only a fleeting, satisfying moment for Henry, tempered by the fact that his right hand and wrist now hurt terribly and what he wanted to do was hold them and rub them better, while standing over the man to gloat over his victory. But that was only a parallel thought to the reality of what was happening.

  The second bat-wielding individual had run from the opposite side of the bed to help his stricken mate and was coming at Henry, who scooped up the discarded bat and launched himself back at this man, swinging it around and aiming it at the side of his head.

  Clearly accustomed to assaulting with and being assaulted by long chunks of wood, the man bobbed skilfully sideways out of the arc and Henry swished fresh air, pivoting right around with the momentum and slamming the bat into the wall, leaving himself defenceless.

  Holding his stick double-handed, the man swung it around mid-height towards Henry’s already bruised rib cage. However, with the agility of a very overweight ballet dancer, Henry managed to complete a full three hundred and sixty degree turn and brought his bat into contact with the attacker’s left shoulder. Just a glancing blow, but enough to send him off sideways and into the unfortunate nurse who had just about managed to get back on to her feet.

  The man clung to her, then flung her away, by which time Henry had managed to step out of the cubicle, completely regain his equilibrium, take a proper double-handed hold of the baseball bat and drop into an aggressive combat stance, twirling the stick in his hands whilst putting a look of pure menace on his face.

  ‘Right, come on lads,’ he growled with much more ferocity and confidence than he actually felt. ‘Let’s get this done … payback time.’

  The one he had punched in the face had pulled himself upright on the bed, swaying unsteadily, disoriented by the blow, blood soaking the mask and running down his neck and upper chest.

  The other one faced Henry but his body language revealed his uncertainty as he looked back and forth from his mate to Henry.

  ‘You put that down,’ Henry said. ‘I’m a police officer and you are both under arrest.’

  ‘No fucking way,’ the still-armed one said.

  ‘OK, let’s go for it then,’ Henry offered. Inside he was now feeling a surge of anger which was drowning out his trepidation. He had rattled these two bucks and now he had to press home the advantage. ‘I’ll bet I’ve got at least thirty years on you, but I’m still gonna put you down.’

  He brandished the stick threateningly.

  Suddenly the one with the bat charged him.

  Henry stepped back, twisted and weaved out of the man’s way, cracking him on the shoulder blades as he stumbled past.

  The other one turned and ran.

  ‘Shit,’ Henry said.

  The one with the bat had managed to stay upright and he came back at Henry with a scream, the bat swishing wildly. Henry brought his up and the bats connected like Star Wars light sabres, cracking resoundingly, shaft to shaft, sending shock waves up Henry’s arms, which jarred both shoulders.

  Then the man heaved Henry out of the way, pushing him against the bed in the cubicle, and raced away after his partner in crime.

  Henry went after them.

  Armed with the bat he charged down the ward and followed them through the double doors, across the width of the outer corridor, through the next doors and into the waiting area which was now packed with amazed people.

  Henry halted, the bat slung diagonally across his chest, catching his breath, having lost sight of them.

  A waiting patient – a man holding a blood-soaked handkerchief over one of his hands – pointed to Henry’s right.

  A quick nod of thanks, then Henry ran to the main exit.

  He emerged into the ambulance-only parking area just in time to see the men scramble into a Range Rover which set off towards the car park exit.

  Henry raced after it, pulling on his energy reserves, not altogether certain of what he hoped to achieve. His red mist visor had come down and he charged after the vehicle – which he recognized as being the same one he’d come face to face with on the farm track earlier.

  Quickly scanning the layout of the car park, Henry saw that to get to the exit, the vehicle would have to turn sharp left. This spurred Henry on and he worked out that if he did a diagonal sprint it might be possible to get close enough to the vehicle at least to get the registered number, which he had failed to do last time.

  As he ran past his own parked car, he had a sudden change of tactics.

  He swerved sideways, pulled out his remote lock for the Audi, pointed, clicked, slid into the car, fired it up and put it in gear, then went after the Range Rover which had turned right out of the car park, heading towards the main road, the A671.

  When Henry reached the junction with that road, he had lost sight of it. Turning right would have taken him to Rochdale, left back towards Whitworth.

  He chose left, back in the direction he had come from, and floored the accelerator, pleasurably feeling the power surge of his well-tuned motor.

  There was little traffic on the road, even though it was Friday evening.

  Within a couple of minutes he was almost back at the boundary with Lancashire where the main road did a ninety degree turn into the county. This was the point where Henry caught up with the Range Rover because it had been held back by more slowly moving traffic.
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br />   Henry saw a face pressed up to the back window and knew he had been spotted.

  The Range Rover swerved dangerously across the road, crossing double white lines in order to pass a car and also causing a car coming in the opposite direction to brake and veer up on to the pavement. The Range Rover then deliberately crashed sideways into the car it was overtaking, forcing it off the road and not stopping.

  Henry was torn by the old cop conscience thing, wondering if he should stop and check whether anyone had been hurt. Quick sideways glances either way seemed to confirm that the occupants of both cars were OK, so he continued to pursue.

  As the Range Rover reached the sharp bend, the brake lights suddenly went on and the car lurched left, almost seeming to overbalance on its springy suspension, then turned off the main road and plunged on to the steep side road that dropped into the Healey Dell Nature Reserve, a place that itself held some horrific memories for Henry: years before, he had been held in a warehouse there and savagely assaulted. That was something now tightly compartmentalized in his brain and he didn’t even give it a passing thought as he slammed on and followed the Range Rover down the hill.

  It was a tight, twisting descent, dropping under the quietly spectacular viaduct that once carried the rail line from Bacup to Rochdale, then into a steep wooded glade and eventually flattening out on the valley floor of the River Spodden, which was called Dell Road.

  Here were the remnants of old industrial heritage, with former mills on either side of the road in various states of repair.

  The Range Rover bounced recklessly down the incline, Henry not far behind.

  But it was on the valley floor, where the deserted road widened, that Henry realized that his pursuit of this vehicle might be a touch foolhardy and end badly. For him.

  A hundred metres ahead, the Range Rover’s brake lights came on again and the vehicle slewed to a stop slantways across Henry’s path.

  He too slammed on and stopped, his windscreen wipers swishing away the heavy rain.

  Nothing happened.

  Henry wondered if this was what the term ‘Mexican stand-off’ meant.

  The wipers cleared the screen.

  Henry sat still, gripped his steering wheel.

  He licked his lips nervously.

  A bad feeling skittered through his innards. He was pretty much alone here on a road rarely used by any other traffic except for visitors to the nature reserve. At this time of day it was deserted.

  His left hand rested on the T-shaped gear stick of the automatic box.

  He could see the shapes of three people in the Range Rover.

  He exhaled, feeling and hearing his heart beating.

  His engine ticked over, almost in sync with his heart.

  They were waiting. He was waiting.

  Then the doors opened and all three occupants emerged in the rain, formed a line and began to walk decisively towards him.

  They had baseball bats in their hands.

  Henry’s fingers curled around the gear lever.

  It was hard to see properly through the windscreen.

  They walked towards him.

  He peered through the rain and saw that two of them definitely had bats in their hands, but the third one, the man in the centre … what he carried looked somehow different. Shorter, stubbier.

  A sawn-off shotgun.

  Ten yards away they halted in a line.

  Henry slid the Audi into reverse, his right foot still on the brake.

  Then they came at him, jogging in a line, the baseball bats raised, the man in the middle aiming what Henry was now certain was a shotgun. It was the signal he needed to retreat.

  Henry J-turned the Audi, feeling it smash into something hard and low at the rear.

  The two men flanking the shooter ran at him, bats raised.

  Henry rammed the gear lever back into drive but fumbled momentarily in his rush and the bat holders were on him, raining down blow after blow on the front wing and soft top, both screaming hysterically at him.

  He couldn’t see their faces behind their surgical masks.

  Then there was a shout from the shotgun holder and the two men split away.

  Henry looked and saw the shotgun was raised and pointed at him.

  He floored the accelerator, pulled the wheel down and sped away from the scene; his last view of the men in his rear-view mirror was of all three dancing a victory jig in the torrential rain.

  SEVEN

  Easing himself out of his car on dithery legs, Henry took a few moments to check the damage to a vehicle which, not many minutes before, had been his pristine pride and joy.

  Even in the pouring rain he could see the dents on the front wing, and the expression on his face was one of disgust and anger verging upon rage. He had to control his breathing now as these feelings grew inside him at the sight of his lovely car and the realization that he had put himself in extreme danger, something he was getting far too old for. But on top of that, he had also run away. Although he knew this had been the sensible option, it did not sit easily with him. He might joke about running away from things, but it wasn’t something he did lightly. As a cop, he didn’t really have that choice.

  If it hadn’t occurred to him before, it did now. He was clearly dealing with a group of very dangerous people who had no compunction in causing serious injury or death to those who crossed their path, either deliberately or accidentally. He wanted to know who they were.

  He stood by his car, shoulders slouched, drenched, outside the A&E unit at Rochdale Infirmary.

  Glancing up, he saw the headlights of another vehicle enter the car park and move towards him.

  It was the police Land Rover from Rawtenstall and at the wheel was the portly figure of Lancashire Constabulary’s chief constable, Robert Fanshaw-Bayley, or FB.

  The Land Rover pulled up alongside him and FB opened the driver’s window a crack, not wishing to get himself wet, and through the gap he shouted, ‘You look like a drowned rat.’

  Through the rain, Henry eyed his ultimate boss malevolently and said, ‘Thanks for that.’

  FB closed the window and manoeuvred into a parking spot and when he had put the vehicle in a position that suited him – parked jauntily across two bays – he still did not get out, but beckoned Henry over.

  Blinking rainwater off his eyelids, Henry reluctantly walked over and climbed into the passenger side.

  The heater was on full blast but not working well. The wipers ploughed diligently through the rain.

  ‘So what’s happening here, Henry? I thought you’d turned out to a mad man with a gun.’

  ‘That was just the start of a great day.’

  ‘And what’s happened since?’

  ‘Oh, let me see … not a lot, really,’ he said sullenly. ‘Been almost mown down, been battered by thugs with baseball bats, saved the bacon of two quite ungrateful sods, prevented a serious assault here and, icing on the cake, had my car trashed. Not bad to say I should be half-cut now in front of a roaring fire.’

  Pretending to be impressed, FB said, ‘Wow.’

  ‘And, boss,’ he said pointedly, ‘if we had any staff on, none of this would have happened to me.’ He folded his arms with their drenched sleeves and turned his head very slowly towards his chief constable, a man he had known for thirty-odd years and whose career had intertwined or, more accurately, repeatedly car crashed with his own for that length of time. Their personal relationship was the only reason Henry could generally speak his mind to FB without too much fear of rank-related reprisals.

  FB pouted and shrugged. ‘Good job I’m here, then – to rescue your arse.’

  Let me just consider that, Henry thought. A fat bloke in a ten-year-old Land Rover – I don’t think so, he wanted to scream. But he held back. His familiarity with FB could only be pushed so far.

  But he did say, ‘Yeah, saved my bacon again.’

  FB smiled, taking it as a compliment.

  ‘So how come you’re here?’ Henry ask
ed, running a hand through his soaking hair. ‘On the edge of the civilized world as we know it?’

  ‘I’m on call; same situation as you in some ways. Not enough Indians, as it were, so occasionally I have to cover. I usually try to wriggle out of it … I’m not really operational, as you know, but there was no one else. The Dep’s at a do, and the three ACCs are doing something, not sure what. Because you got involved in that domestic, I just gravitated over to Rossendale – our old stamping ground, eh?’

  Henry looked blandly at him. A long way back, Henry had been a PC in uniform in the valley when FB had been the detective inspector, ruling the roost with an iron fist. That had been the inauspicious birth of their relationship.

  ‘You could say that.’

  ‘I just happened to be in Rossendale Police Station when Burnley comms phoned in a tizzy, needing to get someone out to you to help convey a prisoner. Well, Rawtenstall and Bacup are kicking off despite the weather, no one’s available and the cheeky fucking patrol sergeant looked at me, the fucker. This heap—’ FB indicated the Land Rover with a sweep of his hands – ‘was the only vehicle left. I almost had to climb through cobwebs to get into it and here I am, having left my Jag in the back yard. It’s like driving a tank. I don’t think anyone’s used it for a year.’

  ‘You really are a trooper,’ Henry said.

  FB gave him a sharp look, good enough to act as a warning. ‘What’s the plan?’

  ‘Take the lad in there back to a cell, have a chat, circulate the Range Rover with the three rednecks on board, then come back and kick a door in.’

  ‘Fair dos,’ FB said. ‘Might just tag along for all that.’

  ‘Amazingly he hasn’t been hurt any further,’ the nurse informed Henry. This was the lady who had been thrown violently out of the way by the two attackers.

  ‘What about you?’ Henry asked, concerned. He had seen her crash into a trolley and tip it over. ‘You hurt?’

  ‘I’m fine,’ she assured him. ‘Just another Friday night in A&E.’

  ‘I’ll get them,’ he told her, meaning the men who had assaulted her. She nodded, but her expression did not seem to hold out much hope of that. They were standing at the end of the treatment cubicle where the injured young man lay. ‘What about his backside?’