Briscoe’s eyes were puffed where Pete had struck him, but he appeared not to notice. “Don’t matter what happens, Brennan, you won’t be around to see it.”
And Pete knew it was the truth. The blade was inches from his neck. One cut and he would weaken so much that he would be an easy kill for Briscoe.
Blood poured more freely down his forearm. His strength began to fail. He thought of Sceptre.
*****
Briscoe felt his strength giving way, too. There was no escape. The police would come soon and arrest him. He was going to prison, but he would take Brennan, Rand and the Wicked Witches with him. He would get only one life sentence and with luck he’d be free in ten years. Free to enjoy the rich pickings that the VDL would afford.
He applied more pressure. Another few millimetres and Pete Brennan was done.
Something struck him in the back. He turned his head. Nothing there, no one there. He returned to the struggle. Brennan had taken the momentary distraction to force the knife back a few centimetres. No matter.
There was another blow to the middle of his back. Again he turned his head. The dead policeman’s radio lay on the ground nearby. Briscoe turned his head further. His eyes opened in horror. Wayne Niles, his face ashen mouth slobbering, blood still oozing from the gash in his neck, stood up. His movements were unnatural. He simply came upright. No bending of the knees, no hands to support him. As if he were a puppet, suspended from strings.
The knife forgotten, his opponent dismissed, Briscoe turned to face Niles. He rushed the gangling body, sank the knife deep into the heart. Not enough blood. This guy was dead already. The clammy hands came about his throat. Briscoe let the knife go, grasped the wrists, tried to wrench them free. Too strong. He couldn’t break the grip. He struggled to pull in a breath. His airway was closing.
“Vali.”
“No.” Briscoe’s voice was a whimper.
It couldn’t be. Vali was dead. Vali was Nordqvist and Nordqvist was dead.
“Vali.”
His vision began to tunnel in. Systems were closing down. With his last strength he punched and punched at the lifeless Niles.
“VALI!”
*****
When Vali first picked up the body of Constable Niles, Fishwick approved with a chuckle. “That should scare the hell out of him, mate.”
But now it was going too far. Vali was hell bent on taking his revenge on Briscoe, and using the deceased Niles to do it. Standing alongside Fishwick, the spirit of Niles looked on with approval.
Fishwick rushed in and tried to drag Vali off. “Help me,” he said to Niles.
“Why should I?” demanded the constable. “Briscoe just killed me. Let your mate kill him.”
“But …” Fishwick gave up the unequal argument and concentrated instead, on Vali. “Don’t kill him. He’s the only one who knows where she is. Don’t kill him.”
In the real world, Briscoe’s eyes were glazing and his breath came in great whoops.
“VALI!”
“Please,” Fishwick begged. “Let him live. They’ll make him pay for what he did to you. Let him live, let him tell where she is.”
“VALI!”
“I know how you feel,” cried Fishwick. “I was murdered too. Only then they called it war. Let him live. Please, I beg you. Don’t let him go to his grave without revealing what he knows.”
“Vali.”
The voice was softer, calmer.
Vali released the dead policeman. Briscoe collapsed onto Pete, Niles collapsed onto Briscoe.
“Now,” said Fishwick gesturing at the grotesque form of Loki in the arena, “let’s get him.”
With Niles tagging along they hurtled towards the stage.
*****
Beneath the stage, unable to hear anything but the noise of the Wicked Witches singing and dancing, and the pounding of musical instruments directly above her, Sceptre wept tears of self-pity.
The timer now read four minutes and twenty seconds, and nothing, she knew, would save her. Even if a miracle happened and someone cut her free, it would not help. Her limbs were numb after being bound for so long, and she would not be able to get away. She was staring death in the face.
So close to the explosive it would not hurt. A flash of light, a ball of flame, and instant of pain and it would be over. For her. But what about the thousands of others in the stadium? An explosion, wiping out the stage, killing the Wicked Witches and their musicians, hurling debris in all directions, would create panic. How many others would die in the rush to get out? How many children would the terror-stricken crowd crush? How many men and women would perish, squashed underfoot or flattened against the concrete walls?
And so, beneath her fear of instant extinction, the compassion she felt for the crowd produced even more tears.
She made a vow. When she got to the Other Side, when she joined Fishwick, she would help those souls crossing over to find their peace and guide them through The Light. She would remain on the Spirit Plane, perhaps allow Fishwick his peace, and take his place, perhaps channel through Kevin, and continue the work she had begun on this side, bringing comfort to the bereaved.
Fishwick’s voice came into her head. “Do not give in, Milady. Mr Keeley has delayed the other bomb under the roof, and the professionals have arrived. If someone can get to you, we will rescue.”
She wanted to thank him but the gag across her mouth prevented her speaking. Fishwick had hope and in those few words he had encouraged her not to give in. As the clock clicked down to 3:59, she struggled again against her bonds.
How would anyone get to her? Fishwick could only communicate with her. Vali had some rapport with Kevin, but Fishwick had already reported that he could not see Vali. How would anyone know that she was here? If they had found the bomb under the roof, they would assume that the remaining explosive had been set in similar positions. It would never occur to them that Briscoe and his evil friends were about to murder the Wicked Witches.
She had to break free.
She heaved on the ropes, tugging at them trying to get a little bit of slack, but it was useless. Briscoe, the professional hoodlum, had tied them well.
Fishwick, she reminded herself, could snap them in a second, but Fishwick could not get to her for this monstrosity that surrounded her.
Loki was close to her face, his leering grin filling her field of vision, his hot breath suffocating her. He wanted her. When she passed over, he would take her. He had wanted to possess her that night in the dining hall, but Fishwick and Vali had fought him off. Now he would have her, unless Fishwick could find Vali and intervene. Or perhaps she could infuse her own spirit with the necessary strength.
Somewhere beneath the fear, logic circuits clicked into place. What had she read in Trent’s book.
Taking a deep breath of the fetid air around her, she invoked the curse.
“Let the power of Vali give my spirit the strength to avenge this injustice.”
A deep, booming laugh surrounded her. The incantation was no more than an incoherent mumbling, yet Loki had understood it. Understood and laughed at it.
Her fury rose. And then suddenly, the monstrosity was gone. Disappeared.
“The cavalry’s here, Madam. I’ll have you out in a jiffy.”
*****
The three spirits, the virulent red of Vali, the fiery orange of Wayne Niles, the cooler, more perceptive, yet still determined amber of Fishwick, hurtled in from different angles, and smashed into the monstrous spirit of Loki.
Needing all his energy to defend himself, the manifestation disappeared and he turned to the fight.
Vali rushed in again, Niles joined him. Loki batted the weaker Niles to one side, but Vali smashed straight into the evil one. Fishwick, meantime, yanked at the ropes which bound his mistress.
Loki saw what the butler was about and thrust out another extension, bowling Fishwick backwards out of the stage, out of the arena. Furious, Fishwick, flew back in, saw that Vali and Niles were still
occupying the mischief maker, and tugged on Madam’s bindings again.
He tugged at her gag and removed it.
“Fishwick,” she screamed, “there isn’t time.”
Snapping the last of her bonds, Fishwick checked the clock and read 3:05. “Hmm. It is getting a bit tight, isn’t it? I wonder if I can advance it the way Mr Keeley did the other.”
Fishwick moved to the timer and looked it over. Loki spotted him and with a roar flung himself at Fishwick. Once again, Sceptre’s butler was bowled out from beneath the stage, but this time, the distraction was sufficient for Vali to get a firm grip on his opponent.
“Vali!” he cried.
“Loki,” cried his opponent.
They rolled off across the Spirit Plane towards The Light.
“What happens there?” asked Niles.
“No one knows, mate, but if Vali goes through and Loki comes back, we’re deep in the you-know-what.”
The two spirits struggled as they neared The Light, first one then the other assuming the ascendancy. Fishwick recalled his own brush with The Light a few days previously and he hoped that Vali had sufficient strength to prevent Loki throwing him through. While they were distracted, he returned to Sceptre, tugged one last time at her bonds and they snapped.
In the real world Sceptre busied herself untying her feet. On the Spirit Plane, Fishwick took Niles towards The Light and the titanic struggle going on there.
“Vali, Vali, Vali,” wailed the spirit of Nordqvist.
Fishwick nodded to Niles. The newly deceased constable needed no explanation. They floated off in different directions, came in at oblique angles and together they rammed the tussling pair. Fishwick rebounded in one direction, Niles in another and the pair in the middle, accelerated by the double momentum, were cannoned into The Light.
“Loki,” came a roar.
“Vali,” came a triumphant response.
Then all was quiet.
*****
Pete struggled to throw off the inert bodies of both Briscoe and Niles. He raised himself to a sitting position with his back to the wall.
Running feet sounded in his ear. He looked to this right. Andrea and half a dozen uniformed officers were coming along the tunnel, followed by bomb squad officers and their robot.
“You’re a lucky man, Brennan,” muttered Briscoe. “If it hadn’t been for this bum, you’d have been dead.”
His description of Niles as ‘bum’ sent a lance of fury through Pete. He launched himself at Briscoe, but two uniformed men held him back and Andrea put herself between them.
“We’ve got him, Pete.”
“Where is she, Briscoe?”
Briscoe laughed. “You’ll find out in about two minutes. Too bad, Brennan, you lose after all.”
Again Pete made for him, again the police held him back.
“He knows,” Pete protested.
“Pete,” Andrea insisted, “we’ve got the bomb squad all over this stadium. They’ll find her.”
“Yes. In frigging bits when that bomb goes off.”
“Look!” It was the voice of one of the police officers.
He was pointing out into the arena. Sceptre was crawling out from beneath the stage.
“Jesus,” Pete breathed. “It’s under the stage.” He checked his watch then spotted a pair of wire cutters hanging from the belt of a bomb squad man. He snatched them free. “Which wire do I cut?”
“Hey …”
“We’ve under two minutes left. Quickly; which wire?”
“We cut the red one on the other device, but that’s no guarantee...”
“Right.” Pete turned to run.
“You don’t have time,” Andrea shouted.
“Watch me.” Pete hared off into the stadium.
*****
Coming out from under the stage, Sceptre’s first inclination was to run for it, but she could not leave those girls and their musicians to their fate. Instead, she ran to the front and stared up at them, waving her arms frantically to get their attention.
Without missing a word of the song she was singing, Haz Lane looked down at her and frowned.
“Get off the stage,” yelled Sceptre. “There’s a bomb under here. Get off.”
The girls carried on singing and dancing. Sceptre faced the keyboard player. “There’s a bomb under the stage. Get them off.”
He grinned at her. “Only if you get them off first, darling.”
Gripped by furious determination, Sceptre clambered onto the stage, approached Haz, who landed out at her. Sceptre blocked the arm, yanked the microphone headpiece from Haz’ crown, and tossed it away. From the corner of her eye she spotted Pete (only Pete would be crazy enough to run towards a bomb with so little time left) racing across the field with a long metal tube in his hand.
The music ground to a halt. “Ladies and gentlemen,” said Nag, “we apologise for this interruption.”
Haz rounded on Sceptre and two of the musicians took her by the arm.
Sceptre called on three hundred years of aristocratic arrogance. “Listen to me very carefully. There is a bomb under the stage it will detonate in one minute. You cannot announce it to the audience, but for your own safety, get off the stage and run for the tunnel.” She nodded past Haz to Pete. “He’s going to try to disarm it.”
“If we walk off,” said Nag, “we’ll telegraph the problem to everyone.”
“That will start a panic,” said Haz.
Nag looked to the musicians. They were wary but no one argued. Turning back to Sceptre, Nag said, “We play on.”
“You’ll be killed.”
“Why are you hanging around?” asked Haz. “You believe Brennan will disarm it?”
Sceptre looked downcast. “I don’t know.”
“We play on.” She looked to the musicians, gave them the nod and the keyboard player counted everyone in again.
Shaking her head, Sceptre jumped off the stage, ran to the side and ducked under. She found Pete close to the bomb, the cable cutters at the ready.
“What the hell are you doing here?” he demanded. “If this thing goes up, we’re all dead.”
“I’m not having two trumped up little tarts with big busts and bums stealing a march on me in the courage stakes,” she said. “Do you know what you’re doing?”
Pete shrugged. “If the bomb squad man got it wrong, we’re not going to know much about it.”
Sceptre checked the timer, now reading 41 seconds. “Pete.”
Again he paused before firing. “What?”
She reached up and kissed him.
“What was that for?”
“Thank you. Fishwick told me everything that’s happened,” she said. “You fought with Briscoe for me, didn’t you?”
“Yes, but if it wasn’t for Niles I might have lost.”
“Oh but that wasn’t Niles, it was …” Sceptre trailed off, her eye on the timer again. “Er, Pete. It’s down to ten seconds.”
Pete reached over, clasped the cutters around the red wire, paused a moment, then shut his eyes and snipped the cable.
*****
In the tunnel, Andrea watched the Wicked Witches with one eye on her watch. As the seconds ticked away she found herself recalling the nights she had spent with Pete Brennan, and prayed that there would be more such nights to come.
She looked around at the other officers in the tunnel. The bomb squad leader was also watching the clock and as the seconds ticked to zero, he and his men hit the deck. Andrea braved it out. The time passed, nothing happened. On stage, Haz and Nag Lane continued to belt out their songs.
“We need to get the lights down after this number,” said the bomb squad leader. “I can get my people under there in the dark and make it properly safe.”
Andrea laughed. Thoughts of her and Pete had left her mind. Thoughts of Pete and Sceptre alone under the stage now filled it. “I’d give it half an hour if I were you.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
Sent to the A & E depar
tment, Pete needed a couple of stitches in his arm, a strip of medicated adhesive over his abdomen, and other treatment for cuts and bruises. Suffering mild trauma, Sceptre went with Pete to the hospital. Both went home later that same night.
When they arrived, they found an irritated Kevin waiting for them. “Not only did I miss out on most of the show, but when you two disappeared back under the stage to disarm that bomb, you were gone an awful long time. What were you doing under there?”
Sceptre gave him a sly grin. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”
Her answer only infuriated Kevin all the more, and caused him to interrogate Pete while Sceptre took a shower.
In fact, they had done nothing under the stage other than talk. Sceptre was grateful to Pete, but not to the degree of making love so close to a bomb in the middle of a stadium holding 100,000 people.
“It would be the fastest way onto You Tube,” she had said, and curiously enough, Pete agreed.
“I’m bleeding everywhere,” he had said, holding up his arm and lifting up his shirt. “I don’t think I’d have the energy. Besides, let’s not spoil a beautiful friendship, eh?”
Somewhere between numbers, the stadium was plunged into darkness and bomb squad officers crawled under the stage dismantled the device and packed the various elements away, ready for disposal after the show.
When Keynes came to see them on Saturday morning, to take formal statements, she was full of news.
“Briscoe told us everything,” she said. “Alec Minton was arrested in Amsterdam. He had an onward connection booked for Moscow. Funny thing, though, Briscoe insists that the drug smuggling was down to Haz Lane.”
“That’s not what he told me, Andrea,” said Sceptre.
“We’ve already spoken to Haz and she’s denied all knowledge of it. She admits she’s used cocaine in the past but reckons she’s clean.” Andrea had looked expectantly at Pete, but he simply shrugged.
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