by Conrad Jones
“Don’t move a muscle.” Davis trained his weapon on the Moroccan as he walked slowly down the last flight of stairs. Jack Howarth and the other man were making a break for it down the main corridor towards the casualty department. The matron scrabbled around, dazed, and tried to stand up; she was between the police officer and his prey.
“Stay down!” Davis called to her but she was panicked and concussed. She rose briefly, and then stumbled backward and landed firmly on her backside, looking shocked and slightly embarrassed. The Moroccan used the distraction to bolt in the opposite direction to his affiliates. He was up and running before the armed officer could get a shot off safely. There were too many nurses and patients milling around, watching the action as it unfolded.
The Constable had to decide which of the fugitives was the more important to chase, and he turned and sprinted after Jack Howarth. The corridor was wide and painted white, and the floor was highly polished red vinyl, buffed to a sheen every day by an army of janitors. To the left it forked to Accident and Emergency, and to the right it opened out into a semicircle of shops and cafes before leading out into the car parks via two revolving doors. He saw Jack Howarth fleeing through one of them as he reached the foyer. There was no way to get a shot off. His lungs were screaming at him for air and there was sweat pouring down his face. He wanted to stop and give up the chase, but the thought of his superior officer taking his weapon from him and sending him permanently out on traffic duty spurred him on. He took off as fast as he could and tried to close the gap between him and his quarry.
Jack Howarth and his associate were fifty yards across the car park as he reached the revolving doors, heading towards the ambulance bays. The Constable entered the door and was about to exit the other side when the doors jammed suddenly. He slammed into the glass at speed, flattening his nose and splitting his lip. The armed officer was stunned for a moment, and he couldn’t understand why the doors had stopped revolving, until he saw the two hoodies that he’d encountered earlier at the vending machines. The male hoody had rammed a waiting room chair into the doors, and he stood protected by the thick glass, puffing his cheeks out and mimicking the fat police officer. They ran back into the hospital laughing hysterically at him. The doors were jammed solid and he couldn’t move them, no matter how hard he pushed them. He turned around and tried to push them in the opposite direction to see if he could dislodge the chair, but they wouldn’t budge. There were bystanders everywhere but people were too traumatised by the gunfire to come to his assistance. He banged on the glass to gain one man’s attention, and pointed to the metal chair. The man thought about it for a second, and then rushed off in the other direction.
“Come back and move the fucking chair!” Constable Davis yelled. The man broke into a jog, desperate not to be dragged into a life-threatening situation. Police officer or not, there were guns involved and he didn’t want anything to do with it.
Headlights lit up the foyer as they approached, and Davis looked to see where they were coming from. He thought that it could be an ambulance crew, in which case they would stop and help him. It was indeed an ambulance, but when he saw the Uzi being pointed out of the passenger window his heart sank. He saw the muzzle flash as the first nine-millimetre slug blasted out of the barrel, followed by twenty-two of the same, all of which were headed towards the front of the hospital. The muzzle flash meant that the bullet was already about to hit the target, and he dropped to the floor and curled up into a foetal position a split second before the plate glass windows disintegrated. Glass shards sprayed the foyer, slicing, cutting and stabbing anyone that was unlucky enough to be in their path. The bullets miraculously missed the fat police officer and the remaining onlookers, and they ripped through plate-glass panes, aluminium window frames and plasterboard walls before embedding themselves in the bricks that formed the exterior walls. Constable Davis looked up and watched the hijacked ambulance speeding away. He stood gingerly and wiped shattered glass from his hands and face; dozens of tiny cuts began to bleed as the glass shards were wiped away. Gripping the Glock tightly, he closed one eye and aimed at the vehicle. He breathed in and steadied his aim by gripping his wrist with his free hand. The weapon kicked in his hand as he aimed three shots at the rear wheels. The first shot sparked off the sub-frame and then punctured a rear tyre. The rubber split, exploded and became nothing but ragged strips as the vehicle careered onward. The second bullet missed, but the third shredded the second tyre. The vehicle lurched to the right and bounced up the kerb, buckling the front wheel and ripping the front bumper from the chassis. Sparks flew skyward in all directions and tyre remnants were cast askew. The ambulance mounted a grass verge and then smashed into a low brick wall in a shower of smoke and steam. The vehicle tilted violently before rolling completely onto its side, leaving a wake of sparking metal behind it in the darkness. When it finally crashed to a halt, there was nothing but silence all around it.
Constable Davis climbed through the ruined revolving doors and crunched across a thick carpet of shattered plate glass to reach the pavement outside the main entrance. Ambulance crews from the hospital ran towards the crash site.
“Armed police!” The Constable shouted. “Get back away from the vehicle.” Some of the crewmen looked uncomfortable with the order, as it was their natural reaction to help, especially when it could be their own comrades that were injured.
“They’re ambulance crew,” one of the men shouted. The Constable ignored him and approached the upturned vehicle with his gun raised.
“Stay back! They are armed fugitives,” he shouted without taking his eyes from the vehicle.
“That’s my ambulance.” Another voice shouted up from the back of the approaching ambulance men. “They must have stolen it.” Realising that the police officer was correct, they started to back away from the crash scene.
“Anything we can do to help?” One of the paramedics asked from a safe distance.
“Telephone the emergency services and hospital security, and tell them that I need help,” he replied. The sound of broken glass shifting drew his attention back to the ambulance. “Move away, now!”
The armed officer jogged to the side of the ambulance and then approached the open rear doors cautiously. He peered quickly inside and a volley of bullets told him that the occupants were still functional and armed.
“Throw your weapons out, and step out of the vehicle, do it now!”
There was no reply from the fugitives. Davis tiptoed around the ambulance until he was level with the driver’s cab. The windscreen was destroyed and he could hear the occupants scrabbling around inside. He took a deep breath and jumped into the field of vision. One of the Moroccans was waiting for him, and he blasted a volley of bullets at the armed officer. Constable Davis fired two well-aimed shots at the assailant; one smashed his sternum into pieces before ripping a lethal rent in the heart muscle. The second tore his lower jaw from his face, exposing his upper teeth and gums in a macabre grimace. Four bullets from the Moroccan’s Uzi slammed into the police officer; two shattered his hip and pelvis before ripping a large piece of muscle from his buttocks. The other two were embedded in his stab vest, unable to penetrate his body, but the velocity of the impacts caused dreadful internal injuries.
Constable Davis lay on the car park bleeding profusely. The Moroccan was dead, but he could only watch helplessly as Jack Howarth picked his way out of the wreckage. He took the Moroccan’s shoes and picked up the Uzi before walking over to the dying police officer. His hand was strapped heavily with hospital gauze dressing. Blood was soaking through the bandages and dripping onto the tarmac.
“I have to go, Constable,” Jack said as he stood over him. “I want you to know that I’m going to visit your children, just as a thank-you for your kindness.” He grinned an evil smile.
“You don’t know where my kids live, you fucking pervert.” The Constable was fading fast, but he still had a little bit of fight left in him.
“You’re right,
Constable, I don’t, but you’re dying and I’m going to follow them home from your funeral.” He smiled and ran off into the darkness. Constable Davis began to shake, maybe because of the blood loss and his body going into shock, but more likely because he believed that the child taker would make good on his threat. Darkness descended on him, and he worried no more.
Chapter Twenty-seven
Warrington Police Station
Alfie sat on a stinking rubberised mattress contemplating his impending incarceration when the first explosion rocked the ancient building. Showers of dust and plaster dropped from high above his head through cracks in the ceiling. At first, he thought it might have been a car crash or perhaps a gas explosion in a nearby house but moments later the second explosion confirmed that it was something more sinister. The explosions were followed by a deafening silence, and then pandemonium broke out. He could hear several voices shouting. One of them in particular sounded as if he was in charge of the situation, barking orders and shouting for situation reports. The prisoners in neighbouring cells soon joined the voices of the police officers on duty, and the shouting became a cacophony of panicked voices. He leaned against the cold metal of the cell door and tried to make sense of what was going on. He heard someone shouting about a fire, and respirators, and he was almost certain that he heard the word evacuate several times. There was a distinctive odour of gasoline in the air and it was becoming more pungent as the minutes ticked by. Alfie was calm at first, but when the first tendrils of acrid smoke began to creep under the door then he too began to bang on the door and shout for his life. He could hear the viewing hatches in the cell doors being opened and closed further down the cellblock and he continued banging on his own door until his hatch was opened. As the metal hatch clanged open a police officer wearing a respirator appeared in his line of vision, and he was speaking to each inmate in turn. The vaulted ceiling in the cellblock corridor was thick with black smoke, and minute by minute, the smoke was becoming thicker.
“Take off your shirt and put it down the toilet, flush the chain to soak it, and then place it across the bottom of the door to stop the smoke coming in.” The hatch slammed closed with a clunking sound.
“Are you fucking kidding me?” Alfie screamed. “Let me out of here you bastard!”
Alfie turned from the thick metal door and began to remove his jacket. Smoke was pouring under the door and drifting up to the ceiling where it was beginning to form a toxic cloud. He ripped the buttons from his shirt and wrestled it off before holding it in the stainless steel toilet bowl. The thought of shoving his two hundred pound Armani shirt into that stinking orifice sickened him, despite the fact that it might prolong his life. He pressed the flush and held the garment there until it was saturated. The smoke was thicker still as he laid his shirt across the opening at the bottom of the heavy cell door. The advancing pungent smoke was abated momentarily, but it soon found its way through the smallest niches between the shirt and the floor. Stopping it completely was impossible. Seconds felt like minutes, and minutes felt like hours as Alfie tried desperately to stop the lethal fumes from filling his cell. He sat on the cold stone floor and pushed his back against the metal. The turmoil beyond his cell was audible, and he could hear cell doors being opened and slammed closed. Voices approached the cellblock. Suddenly the cell door was unlocked. Alfie had to stand up for it to be opened and a uniformed officer entered wearing a respirator appeared in the doorway.
“Hands out, Lesner.” The officer showed him a pair of handcuffs.
“Are you serious?”
“If you want to get out of here, then you put these on. It’s your choice,” the officer coughed. The smoke outside of the cells was thick and black, and far worse than it had been inside. Alfie allowed himself to be handcuffed and then the officer guided him through the blinding smoke.
“Keep your eyes closed and your head down.” The officer’s instructions were muffled through the respirator, but Alfie’s eyes were already streaming. The fumes stung his eyeballs, and tears blurred his vision as he stumbled through the custody suite.
“Where are we going?” Alfie tried to communicate, which was a huge mistake. He swallowed a lungful of acrid burning smoke and a coughing fit made him collapse to his knees in agony.
“Keep moving,” another voice shouted from close by. A second pair of hands grabbed Alfie under the arms and he felt himself being lifted to his feet. He was carried forward through the choking fumes, and his feet were hardly touching the ground. His lungs were full of burning smoke and he thought he was going to suffocate as he breathed out and sucked in another lungful of poisonous gases.
All of a sudden, fresh air hit his face and he breathed in as hard as he could. His oxygen-starved brain registered that he was outside of the main building. Alfie blinked his eyes and tried to clear his vision, but they were stinging badly and he had to close them again. He could hear men coughing and spluttering all around, and one man was vomiting repeatedly. The police officers were barking orders to each other as the burning police station was evacuated. One voice close by seemed to be more prominent than the rest.
“Get them into the bus, come on, move them!” The voice ordered. The order heralded a flurry of activity around him. He could hear men walking past him, and he could hear prisoners swearing and cursing. There seemed to be people everywhere that he couldn’t see. He tried to clear his vision once more and this time he could keep his eyes open. His surroundings were bleary but he could make out shapes and shadows. There appeared to be uniformed officers guiding people towards a white prison van, which they affectionately called a bus. Strong hands grabbed his arms and pulled him up to his feet.
“Move it, Lesner,” an officer shouted through his respirator. Alfie could hear the wail of fire tenders approaching. He got to his feet and immediately collapsed again. Chest-wrenching coughs rattled his body, and although he tried to respond, he could not. Alfie knew that more people died in fires from smoke inhalation than burns, but he didn’t really understand how disabling acrid fumes were until now. He could barely move.
“I said move it, Lesner!” The muffled voice ordered him again. This time, there were two sets of hands lifting him to his feet. He could feel tarmac beneath him, and realised that his shoes had come off when he’d been dragged out of the building. It confused him at first, but he realised that it was because they’d taken his laces from him when he’d been processed. The shoes had cost him four hundred pounds from a Versace boutique in Manchester, and losing them irked him. He scrapped his shins painfully on the steps at the rear of the prison bus, and his feet pedalled in thin air, trying to gain a footing. There was a narrow passage through the centre of the bus, with tiny cells fitted on either side. The cells were only big enough for a man to sit on a seat just three inches wide. They were encased in thick clear Perspex that was perforated with air holes at head height so that the prisoners could breathe. Alfie was still struggling to gain his breath, and being pushed into the claustrophobic cell was a torment that he couldn’t bear, but he didn’t have the strength to fight. The door was slammed closed and within fifteen minutes the bus contained every prisoner that had been in the custody unit. Alfie regained his composure and slowed his breathing down as the rear doors were closed and the diesel engine started. He felt the bus moving forwards across the compound. There was a tiny window level with his eyes which was supposed to alleviate the feeling of claustrophobia, and he could see the compound gates being unlocked to allow the prison bus out, and to give the fire engines access to the rear of the burning police station. A firefighter was directing the prison bus towards the gates while a second was waving the tenders towards the burning building.
It hadn’t been a good night, upon reflection. Alfie leaned his head against the Perspex and tried to draw in as much cold fresh air as he could through the holes. It was like being inside a giant pet carrier. He looked around the bus and soaked up the scene. There were sixteen men in total, all shapes and sizes, and a mixtur
e of ages and ethnic origins. The one thing that they all had in common was a look of complete exhaustion on their blackened faces. Most of them were gazing into the night, and the others were snoozing. Alfie looked out of the window and saw that they were heading out of Warrington town centre, and from the direction that they were taking it seemed that they were taking the expressway towards Risley.
“Hey, mate,” a gruff voice called him from across the aisle. Alfie looked towards the man and vaguely recognised his face.
“Alright?” Alfie said. His throat was sore from coughing, and his voice sounded three octaves lower than it had before.
“What you in for?” The man asked. His accent told Alfie that he was from Liverpool.
“Drugs, you?” Alfie lied.
“I thought I knew your face. You sell blow to the doormen at the State Ballroom, right?” The man laughed.
“I think you’ve got me mixed up with someone else,” Alfie joked. “You never know who’s listening, and the company in here isn’t great is it?” He nodded to the other inmates.
“Yes, I know what you mean,” He laughed. “What do you think happened back at the station?”
“Fuck knows, sounded like a bomb to me,” Alfie guessed.
“I’m not sure, but I’d rather be having a kip in my cell than crammed into this box.” The man shook his head.
“Can’t say I miss my cell to be honest,” Alfie sneered. His nostrils were full of fumes but he could still smell urine; it seemed to linger on him.