I moved the metal flap that covered the spy hole upwards and away from the glass. Dawn and Vinnie were just ten feet away from the door of the interview room. Vinnie’s face was streaked with blood, so it looked like Dawn must have put up a good fight. But now she was all curled up on the floor again - her legs moving just a fraction. Vinnie looked to have reached breaking point. He was standing to one side of her, pointing the gun at her head and shouting;
‘’I’LL FUCKIN' KILL YOU! YOU FUCKIN' WHORE!”
And then;
“YOU FUCKIN', FUCKIN' CUNT!”
I wished that I had had the foresight to have switched the damned music system on, when I had spotted it stashed in the cupboard. Anything to muffle the malice pouring forth. Even Simply Red’s ‘Stars’, purchased for the interview room from The Greyhound Rescue charity shop, would have been preferable to this. And now we had the man with the megaphone churning out;
“Please release any other members of the public. We would also like to speak with you. You can call '999' and our operators will immediately connect you to us, so that we can talk to you about your situation.”
I rubbed my forehead hard. Trying to think, think, think. If only I hadn’t let bossy britches Bev do her security drill thing with the building - locking up every escape route available to us.
I turned back, glaring at the exit door which would have – should have - taken us straight out and into the little park next to our building. I contemplated getting the two boys to help me to kick at the exit door, but I had spent plenty of time as a housing officer - watching policemen built like brick shithouses struggling to boot down doors that already had the mortise lock closed on them. And when we had undergone our renovations a few years back, I had made sure that they were all top-notch, tough stuff. This one wasn't going to budge.
I looked back through the spy hole. The bouncy castle was finally giving up the ghost, about to fold in on itself. Four tacky turrets a-wavering and a-teetering. Michael and Shaun had been standing five or six feet away from Vinnie and Dawn. But then, all of a sudden, Michael took a step towards Vinnie – hands up and trying to pacify him. Quick as a flash, the other man swung round with the gun and pointed it at him, screaming;
“I SAID! I SAID - DON’T FUCKIN' MOVE!”
I flinched, but Michael didn’t duck or look particularly anxious. And he didn’t step back, either. He simply carried on talking. Quietly. I could only catch the words, “take the edge,” “let me,” and “in time.” Shaun’s hands were turned palm upwards, hanging by his sides. I had never seen him take such a stance; such a gesture of appeasement before. I wasn’t sure that I liked it. It didn’t fit, somehow.
A small movement came from behind Michael and Shaun. One that both were unaware of. The skin on my scalp tingled as I saw Erin Mayo inching her arm along - ever so slowly - into the pocket of her suit. The glint of a mobile phone, as she slowly withdrew it.
“No, no – you stupid, stupid …” I muttered, my jaw clenched. West’s voice wobbled;
“Who? What’s happening?”
“Nothing. Don’t worry. Just stay there.”
Erin raised her arm little by little. The brainless, tabloid-story obsessed woman was such a stupid div that she was trying to film what was unfolding before her. Meanwhile, as Vinnie was about to respond to something that Michael was saying to him, Dawn suddenly came to life again. She jerked her leg outwards at Vinnie, trying to kick him off balance as he stood over her. To be sure, it was a pretty half-hearted effort on her part, but that made no difference to him. He brought the barrel of the gun down on her head - hard. My stomach rolled over. I covered my mouth and had to look away.
Now Michael was shouting;
“Vinnie! Reasonable force. This is NOT reasonable force. You can stop this now! Let me help you! You’ve got mitigating circumstances… mitigating circumstances - going on here!”
Michael’s words seemed discordant. Out of setting. But then I realised that he was trying to use military or perhaps even legal jargon, attempting every trick in the book - to stop Vinnie from smashing Dawn’s skull in. I looked back again. Vinnie had paused - narrowing his eyes at Michael - his drug-addled brain trying to decode the message. But as his attention moved away from Dawn, he must have caught the wavering movement of Erin’s arm from behind Michael and Shaun.
The gun swept upwards in an arc towards the reporter.
The slam of another gunshot echoed around the building.
Poppy-Rose began to sob again. I stared frantically through the spy hole, trying see if I could make out what was happening. Bodies seemed to have merged into one black tangle.
Shaun was lying on the floor.
Oh, God. God, no.
He was holding his palms upwards again, towards Vinnie. Don’t fire. Blood on his hands. Blood seeping from his chest, making a dark stain against his oh-so-crisply-ironed-by-Jess-shirt. I couldn’t see Erin now, because she was lying behind Shaun. But I could hear her;
“I’ve been shot! I’ve been shot!”
“Serves you fuckin' right, you stupid, fuckin' journalist bitch!’ Vinnie raged.
He was holding the gun flat, shaking it towards her, Gangsta-style. And then there was a crack and then a crunch as he stamped twice on her phone, with his crap footwear.
“STAY STILL ALL OF YOU! OR YOU’RE ALL FUCKIN' DEAD!”
Dawn had already stopped moving, without the formal instructions.
Then the megaphone guy;
“If you do not release all further members of the public, we will have no choice other than to force entry to the building.”
Michael was half-crouching on the floor, beside Shaun. Staring hard at Vinnie, taking his time - as a voice piped up, from behind me;
“Can I see?”
It was Mason. He had finished the remnants of his lollipop, but was keeping the little white stick at the crook of his mouth. Pushing Poppy-Rose into his brother’s arms, he had moved over next to me and was now trying to look over my shoulder and through the spyhole.
“No, you bloody well can’t! Get back in the corner!”
It came out harsher than I had intended it to. Because I couldn’t afford to be distracted. I couldn't tear my eyes away from Shaun. And for some reason I seemed to be holding my breath.
Shaun was trying to sit up. His face was grey. His shirt was already an ugly shade of cherry red. My fingers walked their way up towards the deadlock on the door. Gripping it.
The first attempts at flirtation suddenly galloped across my mind; those double entendres occurring between us during that terrifically dull First Aid course in Manchester. And now – here and now - every cell in my body was yearning to recall whatever the hell it was we had both learned back then. I pinched the deadlock, fingers trembling with the urge to fling it back, to peg it over to the arrogant tosser. To screech at him to lie down flat, to slow his heart rate down, to stave off the blood loss. To get his legs propped up in the air - and all of that.
But Michael was there. Michael could help Shaun. Surely?
Michael, however, was still talking to Vinnie.
And Vinnie was unresponsive. Staring at the mess that he had made of Dawn. Perversely fascinated.
Poppy-Rose had finished her lollipop. She was back to her previous state, sobbing for her mother and wiping the little white stick into her hair. Mason and West were quiet again. They seemed to have given up on trying to comfort their sister, so I turned away from the door and crawled on my knees over to her;
“Shush, baby,” I said, taking her in my arms. She snuggled into my chest, perhaps relieved to receive some adult comfort. As her thin arm fastened around my neck, something fell out of the pocket of her tracksuit top, clinking onto the floor.
“What’s this?”
I picked it up, looking at the boys. But I knew damned well what it was. A starfish-shaped keyring which Lydia had given to me; “You can have this. I don’t want it. Because I’ve only ever seen dead starfish in real life. They make me
feel sad.” Yes, a key fob that contained a very familiar set of jangly things.
I was met with silence. So, I repeated the question.
“Er… some keys?” West answered, all innocence. His brother punched him in the arm. Hard.
“You’re a bleedin’ klepto! Whatsamatter with you?”
“Shut it, yer dick.”
Mason smacked his little brother around the head now and growled;
“You’ve got to pack it in, West! Nickin’ everythin’! You can’t thieve from this place! Rebecca and that lot are helpin’ Mum out!’
The incongruity of his mother lying in a pool of blood in the very building that was supposed to be helping her out was not lost on me.
But West bit back;
“I didn’t nick ‘em ‘cause I wanted ‘owt from ‘ere! That woman with the red, frizzy hair were pissin’ me off when she was going round lockin’ all of the rooms. She said she’d break me legs if I ran into her again on the scooter. So, I just nicked ‘em out of Frizz ‘Ed’s coat pocket to get ‘er in trouble with Rebecca! See?” He looked at me and I just stared back at him, all incredulous. He carried on, trying to defend his actions;
“An’ anyway. What’s there to nick in this place? Some lollipops an' a shit music system? You can only play those CD things on it – Like, well-last century! It’s bobbins, it is."
Fantastic. He'd been casing the joint. But I held my hand to my lips, shushing them. I would deal with Klepto-Kid later, but right now I needed to…
There was a sudden slam – a crash - against the door. All four of us jumped in unison, instinctively moving backwards and as far as we could, back into the corner of the room again. Vinnie must have heard the children’s voices - reminding him of their presence.
“YOU LET ME AT MY FUCKIN' KIDS, YER BITCH! OR I’LL SHOOT EVERY SINGLE FUCKIN’ BASTARD IN THIS HALL!”
But it seemed that the Gods of Fortune - or of pilfering little kids with anti-social behavioural tendencies - were at last on my side and the four of us no longer needed to be held as hostages to Vinnie’s warped logic. I scampered the couple of yards to the external exit, flipped the key around in the lock and rammed the door open with my shoulder. The chilly November air was a very welcome slap in the face as the children scrambled out into sharp, early afternoon sunlight. A large group of firemen and police officers were standing about one hundred yards away from us on the narrow road that led up to the side of the hill, behind a bright yellow plastic barrier that had been erected and which ran along the perimeter of the park. From the other side of the building I heard megaphone-man again; the same message as previously.
“Run!” I told the boys.
They followed my orders, Mason jiggling his sister along on his hip.
I didn’t go with them myself and I didn’t wait around to see what the reaction of the police might be. Perhaps I should have done. But they would no doubt want to stall me, to ask me questions. And I didn’t have the time for any of that.
An invisible cord was pulling me back.
I sprinted away from the protection outside and back into my workplace, dashing into the interview room. And after making sure that Vinnie had stopped slamming himself against the door, I moved up against the spy hole. And then I shouted;
“Vinnie! The kids are outside now - being looked after. So, it’s up to you now! If you stop all of this… the courts will let you have a chance of seeing them again.”
I was bluffing of course. I was pretty sure that no judge or jury in the land would be stupid enough to let Vinnie get within a mile of his children for a good few years after this little incident. But from what I had seen of the guy previously, and from his performance today, Vinnie had already proven himself to have a spectacularly low IQ and he wouldn’t realise this - although, to be fair, the drugs and drink might be to blame for some of his depleted intelligence and the more murderous tendencies.
No response. It was as though he hadn’t heard me at all.
He was now back at the side of Dawn again, standing over her. But I noticed that his posture had changed – his shoulders were slightly slumped. He turned round to look at Michael, who was still semi-squatting, one hand on the parquet to give him balance. In terms of Shaun – I could only see his legs, because Michael was blocking most of my view of him. But I could hear the occasional whimper coming from Erin Mayo.
“That’s right, Vinnie,” Michael said, looking up at him and nodding. “The courts would look pretty favourably on you, if you just let everyone go now. Why not call it a day?”
Vinnie stuck his bottom lip out as he moved the gun from one palm to another and fiddled with it, like a small boy with a vaguely interesting new toy. Then he cocked his head to one side and threw his head back, bursting out with;
“Bullshit!” the voice echoing around the hall. “Look at the state of her!”
He gestured to Dawn, whose face, arms, shoulders – her entire torso – was steeped in blood. “Yeah – right. I mean - the pigs’ll take one look at her and go for me. Big time.” He slapped the gun from one hand to another as he moved his eyes to the ceiling, contemplating his fate. I almost wanted to laugh – his posture, his facial expressions were so melodramatic. Macbeth of Medlock.
“And there’s no way – no fuckin' way - that I’m going back to Ashworth. Never!”
Ashworth.
At first, I thought that he was referring to some army battalion – some military corps that I had never heard of. But then the penny dropped. Ashworth. A high-security psychiatric hospital, located over in Merseyside, used as an alternative to prison for men who have committed a crime but who also happen to be extremely mentally disturbed. In our previous conversations, Dawn had alluded to the fact that Vinnie had clocked himself up a criminal record ‘for a thing or two.’ But she had never mentioned Ashworth to me. She had told me once that he had spent a lot of time ‘over near Liverpool’. But perhaps she didn’t even know herself, that Vinnie had been at the damned place.
But Michael was onto this, straight away.
“Now, Vinnie. Hang on a minute, fella. If you’ve already served time at Ashworth, then that puts a different perspective on things. That is, if you let everyone go right now… I’m serious. You’ve got a good chance of getting off - with PTSD.”
“Yer what?” Vinnie jerked his head back and grimaced. No comprendi, Monsieur.
“You must have heard of it... Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. You know?”
I caught the spark that suddenly gleamed in Vinnie’s eyes. It was accompanied by another pout. But he dropped the gun back down by his side;
“Whaddya mean… exactly?”
Michael moved slowly, from the crouching position, to a standing one and for once, Vinnie didn’t tell him to get back onto the floor.
“Look – I was there too… Remember?”
“What? At Ashworth?” said Vinnie, his eyebrows knotted. He stroked the barrel of the gun with a finger.
“No,” Michael shook his head. “I mean – in active combat. Afghan. All over. Northern Ireland too, long before that. I do remember you telling me that you’d been in The Rifles out in Bosnia. So, I realise what happened to your mates, of course I do. I know what you saw – went through – over there. You were just a boy soldier, Vinnie. And I’ve seen plenty of that kind of thing myself. So, I totally understand how the pressure can make you… feel like you’re… going to crack up.’
Vinnie nodded. His answer came quietly, as if he were even surprising himself, with the reply.
“Some serious shit — ”
“Exactly,” said Michael. “Look. So, believe me. I get this. I get this more than ninety-nine per cent of the population ever could. And now that you’ve realised that I’m a different kind of minister to the kind of chap that you originally took me to be…”
Vinnie interrupted Michael’s words with a strange barking noise. He sounded like a sea lion; it was hysterical laughter and it took him a few moments to stop. Then he wiped his eyes a
nd pinched the bridge of his nose, shaking his head and looking over to where Shaun was lying.
“Hey – Big Dick. I still can’t believe all of that. Can you? I mean… can you believe that I thought he was a vicar? Man of the cloth!”
And then I heard Shaun’s voice responding. My pulse went into overdrive. His tones were watery, were weak - but he was playing along;
“Nah, mate - easy mistake to make. I actually thought he was a nun...”
Shaun had made a joke. Albeit a shit one. But he was still managing to talk.
Vinnie laughed. Michael was chuckling now too. But it wasn’t a real Michael-laugh, it was more forced, more mechanical. He carried on with;
“And, don’t forget, Vinnie, that I’m a cabinet minister. I’ve got the ear of the Prime Minister himself. We happen to be good… good pals. And he’ll believe me. I can tell him about the PTSD; how it drove you to feeling utterly helpless. How… how you didn’t know how else to cope with the situation.”
No reply from Vinnie again. His head was down as he stared at the gun.
“So, let me help you get out of this mess... I’m probably one of the few people who can. I know what you've been up against. I can lend a hand. I promise you. Vinnie.”
Suddenly Vinnie’s whole demeanour altered. The change in his posture was so marked that even Michael seemed taken aback; I noticed a slight flinch of his eyes, perhaps steeling himself for another moment of Vinnie-instigated aggression. But rather than attacking anyone, Vinnie now raised both hands out to his side and began to grin, flashing gold-flecked teeth.
“Okay – you got me, Mr not-a-vicar-what-soever! You can pardon me sins and all of that. Let’s throw the towel in … Enough’s enough.”
He looked over to where Shaun was again and asked him;
“What’s he like? Eh? This ministerial guy!”
“My hero,” came Shaun’s faint tones. Sarky sod.
“Yeah. Let’s pro-ceed then,” said Vinnie. He was trying to adopt a refined accent, mimicking Michael’s; “Therefore, I shall accept your int-teres-ting offer. Sounds maahvhallous.”
So, Vinnie put the gun back into the side of his waistband. The final gesture of surrender. I licked my lips. They were bone dry. I wondered how the hell Michael had managed to…
Cuckoo in the Chocolate Page 31