Nine Lives

by Tom Barber

  Chalky sensed his sergeant’s irritation and backtracked. He knew better than to provoke him. ‘Oh, I love the work, Sarge. I’m just saying it wouldn’t hurt to have a bit of excitement once in a while.’

  As he spoke, Porter turned to the right and pulled the vehicle into a gap on the kerb, applying the handbrake and turning off the engine. They were parked on a residential road, rows of semi-detached houses facing each other all the way down the street. They could see a few people walking down the pavements on either side, but the place was pretty quiet.

  ‘We’re here,’ Porter said. ‘Number 33, up ahead to the right.’

  All four men looked where he’d indicated and saw the front door in question. The curtains to the windows in the front room were all drawn, which was a mixed blessing. Whoever was inside wouldn’t see them coming, but equally they were entering an unsure environment, no idea who or what was within. Mac turned to his three officers, ready to go.

  ‘Check your weapons. Arch, you’re primary. Chalk, secondary.’

  Archer nodded, appreciating the responsibility. Primary meant he’d be the first man through the door. Each man checked his weapon and went to open the doors.

  ‘Oh, and Chalk?’ Mac added.

  The younger man froze, his hand on the door handle.

  ‘Be careful what you wish for.’

  Inside the house, the three men hadn't moved from the table, smoking their cigarettes and munching on cereal.

  But suddenly, there was a hard pounding on the door.

  Three stiff knocks.

  A voice shouted.

  ‘POLICE! OPEN UP!’

  For a split second, the three men sat there frozen, staring at each other, wide-eyed with fear and disbelief.

  How the hell did they find us? their faces said.

  Then they bolted into action.

  One of them grabbed the two bags of cocaine, throwing them under the couch in a frenzy. The other two each rushed to grab the weapons scattered around the room.

  They were trapped, with no way out.

  But they weren’t going down without a fight.

  Outside the front door, the four officers could hear the commotion inside the house.

  Without hesitation, Archer made a flash decision.

  Stepping back, he kicked the front door as hard as he could. It wouldn’t budge.

  He tried twice more quickly. Nothing.

  He put everything he had behind the fourth, and threw his body weight behind it.

  This time, it worked.

  The door splintered open.

  Pushing it all the way back, he moved into the house, followed by his three team-mates, shouting as he held his MP5 to his shoulder, tight in the aim.

  ‘Police! Nobody move!’

  Sweeping through the front hallway, he turned right, arriving in the doorway of the living room. The place was dark and dirty, like a seedy den. But in the shadows, he saw three men standing there.

  One of them was holding a pistol.

  This one wasn’t a toy. Immediately, Archer could tell it was real.

  But things got a hell of a lot worse. He saw a second man across the room holding another weapon.

  A pump action twelve-gauge shotgun. The guy had it in the shoulder.

  And it was aimed at Archer’s head.

  FOUR

  As a kid, Archer had always been bad at football. Or soccer, as his Dad used to call it. For the life of him, he could never kick the damn ball properly. Other boys his age had taken to the game with ease, able to seamlessly perform elaborate tricks and passes whilst Archer struggled to master the most basic of skills. But during one game at school, when he was about ten, he’d discovered that there was one thing he excelled at. Goal-keeping.

  He’d been stuck in the goal-mouth by a coach during a school practice, probably to keep him out of the way of the more talented kids. But then during the game, the other team suddenly couldn’t score. They’d thrown everything at him, but he stopped the ball every time. He’s got hands like buckets, his coach had enthused upon seeing the boy’s hidden talent. But even then as a kid, grateful as he was, Archer knew his gloves weren’t the key to his success between the posts.

  It was his reaction speed.

  On this occasion, that same rapidity was going to save his life. Before the gunman had time to pull the trigger, Archer was already diving behind the far wall for cover.

  ‘Shotgun!’ he screamed, to his three fellow officers.

  They heard this and threw themselves back in the hall.

  And the guy fired the weapon.

  There was a deafening explosion. White plaster and dust burst from the wall behind where Archer had been standing as it took the full brunt of the shell. On the floor, his ears ringing, the young policeman looked up and saw one of the other two suspects fleeing frantically up the stairs, ahead of him. Scrambling to his feet, Archer pursued the other man, chasing him down. The wall shielded him from the guy with the shotgun, so he was momentarily safe.

  By the front door, the other officers had fallen back into the hallway, taking cover from the force of the blast. Chalky was the man immediately behind Archer, next in line. Seeing his friend run after the other suspect, Chalky took the initiative and moved into the living room, his MP5 up, as the man with the shotgun racked the pump. The weapon gave a loud double-crunch, as another shell was slotted into the firing chamber.

  Amongst all the commotion, a chair had been knocked towards the entrance of the room. As Chalky moved forward, the sight of his MP5 aimed on the guy’s chest, he tripped on a chair-leg in the dim light and fell, momentarily losing his grip on his weapon. He clattered onto the floor, landing just in front of the guy. From the ground, he looked up.

  And the wrong end of the shotgun met his gaze, an inch from his face. It was so close, he found himself staring inside the barrel.

  Behind it, he could see the man’s face, eyes wide, hopped up from cocaine.

  Chalky froze

  And the guy pulled the trigger.

  Click.

  Nothing.

  The gun misfired.

  A split-second later, the man holding the shotgun was thrown back, two rounds from Mac’s MP5 slamming into his chest. His finger twitched on the trigger as he fell and the shotgun erupted once more, white plaster exploding from the ceiling as it took the round. He was dead before his back hit the floor. The other man, seeing his friend’s demise, threw his Beretta to the floor violently in panic, holding his hands high above him and screaming in some foreign language. Mac moved forward to arrest him, never taking the front-sight of his weapon off the guy’s chest. If he tried something cute, he’d be dead in an instant.

  Across the room, Chalky leaned back against the wall, his eyes wide with shock. Porter dropped to one knee beside him, grabbing his shoulders, looking into his eyes. Chalky stared back at him, confused. Porter’s voice was muffled. He was up close, holding him by the shoulders, looking into his eyes. He was shouting, asking him something, but Chalky couldn’t hear what he was saying. He stared back at him, his chest heaving as he sucked and gasped for breath, watching as Porter’s mouth moved as if they were in a silent film.

  On the upper floor, Archer was just finishing hand-cuffing the third man’s hands behind his back. The guy was shouting and swearing, but the young officer ignored him, keeping his knee on the guy’s back, pinning him to the ground. He was using a set of plasti-cuffs from his tac vest. Zipping them tight, he rose, lifting his MP5 back to his shoulder. Behind him, the suspect writhed and jerked around as he tried to move, yelling his head off. It was hopeless. Archer had cuffed his ankles too, trussing the guy up like a Christmas turkey. He wasn’t going anywhere.

  Looking around him, Archer saw that there were only two doors on the second floor. But both of them were shut. He crept forward to the first, just as a shout came from downstairs.

  ‘Clear!’

  Arriving outside the first door, Archer took a deep breath. Closed doors were a ni
ghtmare to breach. Someone could be standing just the other side with a shotgun aimed at the wood, waiting for the moment they heard movement in the corridor or when they sensed someone touch the handle. There could even be a group of them in there for all he knew, each one pointing a gun at the door.

  Taking a deep breath, he kicked it open and ducked swiftly inside.

  The stock of the MP5 was firm in his shoulder, his finger on the trigger. Everywhere his eyes moved, the sight on the weapon followed.

  It was a spare bedroom.

  And thankfully, it was empty. No one was inside.

  The room contained just a solitary bed, no sheets or duvet.

  But there were a number of things resting on the mattress. Archer looked closer, and felt his breath catch.

  Four large transparent bags had been dumped on the bed.

  Each one was about the size of a black rubbish bag, and each one had different things packed inside.

  He looked closer.

  He saw ball bearings and marbles.

  Nails.

  White powder.

  And some kind of clear liquid that looked like bleach.

  Beside the bags, three backpacks lay on the bed, along with a spool of wire.

  Archer’s mouth went dry. Two words came into his mind.

  Suicide bomb.

  He rushed back to the corridor in a hurry, calling for back-up. ‘Mac!’

  He heard a movement and shout of acknowledgement from downstairs. Wasting no time, Archer moved to the second closed door across the level. Same routine again. Enter and pray there was no one the other side. Taking another breath, he raised his MP5 and kicked the soft wooden frame, as hard as he could. It flew open.

  He looked inside.

  And almost vomited.

  The room was covered with blood.

  It was as if someone had got buckets of the stuff and thrown it all over the walls like an art project. A dead body was hanging limp, hand-cuffed to the shower rail, like an animal in an abattoir. The guy was naked. Pieces of him lay all over the tiled floor, the white walls red and spattered with his blood and whatever else.

  Archer covered his mouth as Mac appeared alongside him from the stairs. The older man’s eyes widened and he paused, standing beside Archer. Mac had seen some pretty awful things in his time, but this was up there with the very worst. Beside him, the younger man coughed.

  ‘What the hell did we just find here, Mac?’ Archer asked through his fingers.

  Mac stared at the dead body, hanging like a slaughtered pig from the rail.

  ‘I don’t know, lad,’ he said quietly. ‘I don’t know.’

  *

  Back-up arrived quickly. Within thirty minutes, the inside of the house was jammed tight like there was a party inside, except all the revellers were detectives from the CID and forensics. The two surviving suspects had already been escorted to police cars outside and taken back to the ARU’s headquarters for questioning. Inside the living room, Archer finished up a conversation with a detective who’d asked him to talk his way through their entry. Shaking hands, the ARU officer turned and moved to the front door. He needed some air.

  Outside on the street, it was just as busy. There were numerous police vehicles and white vans parked in the road, many of them jack-knifed across it. It didn’t matter. Yellow police tape had been pulled up behind them, wrapped around lamp-posts, blocking off the street and holding back the gathering crowd of curious civilians. To his left, Archer could see that some news-vans had arrived, they’d got here quickly. Looking up, he saw a helicopter was also circling overhead. He didn’t know if it was theirs or police.

  Amongst the mass of vehicles and people gathered in the street, Archer saw Mac talking with a blonde woman in white overalls from forensics. The sergeant noticed Archer watching them, and summoned the younger man over with his hand.

  ‘This is Sam Archer, one of my men,’ Mac told the lady, as his officer joined them. ‘He was the one who found the bags and the dead body.’

  The woman ripped off her latex gloves one by one, and offered her hand.

  ‘Kim Collins. Forensics.’

  Archer shook it.

  ‘If you don’t mind me asking, what the hell did we find here?’ he asked them both.

  Mac was holding a piece of paper in his hand. The photographs of the nine suspects. Lifting it so Collins and Archer could see, he pointed to three of the mug-shots one-by-one. ‘All three of these boys were on the list. Numbers 2, 3 and 7. See.’

  Archer looked closer. Number Seven was the guy they arrested downstairs, Two the man that Mac had killed. Number Three was the one that Archer had cuffed on the upper floor. The same guy whose photo he’d found himself staring at in the briefing room earlier. He looks so familiar, Archer thought. Where the hell have I seen him before? Keeping his questions to himself for now, he turned to Mac. ‘Did we take someone else’s assignment?’

  Mac shook his head. ‘I spoke with Cobb. This place wasn’t on the list to be raided.’

  ‘Talk about luck,’ added Collins, wiping her brow with the back of her un-gloved hand. Archer looked over at her, her white uniform. And the horrific memory of the bathroom covered in blood flooded back into his mind.

  ‘Do we know anything about the body on the rail?’ he asked.

  She nodded. ‘My team’s in there right now, trying to figure it out. He’s in a real mess though. But I examined the bathroom myself earlier, and found something.’

  ‘What?’ asked Mac.

  ‘Aside from the victim’s, there’s only one other set of fingerprints in the blood. Whoever did it didn’t wear gloves. He either didn’t expect to get caught, or he just didn’t care if he does.’

  She paused.

  ‘Someone really went to work on him. They pulled out his fingernails, gouged out his eyes. Cut off his genitalia. Flayed his skin. God knows what he did to deserve it.’

  ‘You think it was one of the guys we arrested?’ Archer asked. ‘It had to be.’

  ‘I’ll guess we’ll find out,’ replied Mac. ‘I want the whole squad back at the Unit pronto. Our priorities just changed.’

  Collins tilted her head as something by the house caught her attention. A member of her team was calling her. ‘Excuse me gentlemen,’ she said. The two men nodded and she departed, pulling another set of gloves from her pocket as she returned to the house. Watching her go, Archer turned to Mac. He went to speak, but he saw that the older man’s eyes had narrowed, looking past him at something. Archer twisted round to see what it was.

  ‘Oh Jesus,’ he muttered.

  Sixty yards away, a member of the team was sat slumped on the back of a police van, his eyes wide and unfocused, staring ahead with shock.

  Chalky.

  There was a constant buzz of movement around him from other police officers and forensics, but he remained motionless, looking at the ground, lost in thought. Archer sighed. The near-escape with the shotgun was written all over his friend’s face.

  ‘One way to cure a hangover,’ Mac said quietly, watching him.

  ‘So the gun just misfired? Did the guy reload?’ Archer asked. He hadn’t seen the incident, but Porter had filled him in on what happened.

  Mac nodded.

  ‘He racked a round. Shell in the chamber. You heard the other blasts, kid. That gun was working just fine.’

  He looked closer at Chalky.

  ‘Tell you what, he’s got nine lives, that boy. Someone upstairs must love him. I thought he was done.’

  Behind them, Porter stuck his head out of a wound-down window, from inside their police car. He held a mobile phone in his hand. ‘Sarge?’ he called. Mac looked over. ‘It’s Director Cobb. He wants to speak to you.’

  Mac nodded. He turned to Archer.

  ‘We need to get Chalk out of here, Arch. There are cameras everywhere. I don’t want that look on his face reappearing on the midday news. Put him in the car and we’ll go back to the Unit.’

  Archer nodded. Mac left him
standing alone, approaching Porter and taking the phone from his hand to talk to Cobb. Taking a deep breath, Archer walked over towards his stricken friend.

  Chalky didn’t seem to register his approach, still staring at the ground. Arriving in front of him, Archer stood still.

  ‘Looks like you owe me a tenner,’ he said, trying to lighten the mood.

  Silence. Chalky didn’t respond, or react.

  ‘Mac told me what happened. How are you feeling?’

  ‘How do you think I feel?’ he said, quietly.

  ‘You need to straighten up, Chalk. There're a load of cameras over there. The whole country will be watching this. We don’t want you ending up on the six o’clock bulletin.’

  For the first time, Chalky looked up at him.

  Archer hid his surprise. His friend looked as if he’d aged ten years in ten minutes. He looked physically and emotionally drained, all from a cocktail of shock, adrenaline and a bad hangover. ‘It was an inch from my face, Arch,’ he said. ‘I could see inside the barrel. I shouldn’t be here. I should be painted all over the wall in the house.’

  ‘Well, you’re not. You’re still alive,’ Archer said. Stepping forward, he put his palm under his friend’s armpit, helping him up. ‘C’mon mate, we’re going back to the Unit. We’ll get the kettle on and get you a brew.’

  It was weak at best, but Archer didn’t know what else to say. It seemed to work however, as Chalky nodded faintly, walking side-by-side with his friend to the black Ford, away from any news-cameras searching for a scoop and the house that should have been his grave.

  However, the two men were unaware that it was too late. Someone was already photographing them.

  From a vantage point across the street, a camera shutter clicked as a woman snapped a series of photographs, focusing tight on the two officers walking to the car. The shot was up close, the woman aiming the lens to make sure she caught their weapons, their features and most importantly, the badge on the right shoulder of their navy-blue uniform. Satisfied, she lowered the camera. She was a breath-taking sight, golden skin with long brown hair and a pair of emerald green eyes that completed her Middle Eastern beauty. Dressed in a dark work-suit with a white shirt, she looked as if she’d just stepped out of a conference or a business meeting, smart and official yet effortlessly beautiful.