“Listen up, you useless sods!” he screamed, grinning as he got their desperate, undivided attention.
MARSHALL
“Fuck!” exclaimed Hargreaves through Marshall’s earpiece. Marshall looked up to Squad One’s position and then to the cafe door. The door had opened, but instead of the welcome clatter of surrendered weapons, a procession of desperate looking men poured into the street. They were in a packed group, the hostages held like shields. The prisoners were unrecognisable, battered and bleeding, some of them possibly dead. They had gun barrels pressed to their faces by very frightened men. Jesus Christ Almighty! thought Marshall, backpedalling rapidly to police lines.
Leading the group, he saw, was a small man with a pinched, pointed face. The vicious expression he wore did not improve his appearance. He held a young girl in a headlock, a shotgun hard against her temple. She was almost naked, barely conscious and covered in blood and bruises and had obviously suffered enormous abuse. Marshall felt the anger surge up from deep within. He also felt the policemen around him bristle. Many of them took out their guns, so Marshall waved his arms to steady them.
The move had caught everyone by surprise. For the first time in many years, Marshall did not know how to react. A single shot would spark a bloodbath. He studied their leader and knew he would not go peacefully. It was his eyes; they were almost inhuman. The eyes of a man who would do anything to escape.
He took in the situation as he considered his choices. The criminals had massed behind their leader and the whole group moved slowly toward him down the street. Marshall counted thirteen hostages. Two were dressed in similar rags to the main body, but they were held prisoner none the less. He could not see the big man from the earlier reports, which concerned him, but as most of them were shuffling along, terrified and cowering, he could be among them.
The mob advanced slowly, their stench borne on the breeze. It was a terrible odour and Marshall had to cover his nose with a handkerchief to stop himself from gagging as he backed slowly down the street to the cars. The silence was unbearable, every watcher held his breath. They were only twenty metres away now and their leader fixed Marshall with an icy stare. “Shift them roarers an’ get them troopers back!” he barked, his voice echoing around the street. He jabbed the shotgun barrel harder against the girl’s temple. Marshall winced as her head snapped back painfully, though her eyes were glazed over.
“Bastard!” muttered Marshall under his breath. He turned back to Howell, who huddled behind a car a few metres away. “You heard him. Clear a path.”
Howell looked at Marshall as though he was mad, but the senior man stared him down. Howell spoke into his radio and policemen began to move the cars.
Who the hell are they? thought Marshall. They were all, except perhaps the leader, scared shitless and did not look as though surrender had even been considered. It was crazy, but he had to stop them leaving the street. He would try to talk to the frightened men. The leader was a separate problem, but if the bulk could be persuaded to give up there was hope of a peaceful solution. But as he stood up to appeal to the men he heard a sound that filled him with dread. He turned to Howell, but he looked away guiltily. “Call it off, for Christ’s sake,” hissed Marshall. It was too late.
The police helicopter swept low over Cray Street and hovered above the men, sending them into a frenzy. The noise, even to Marshall, was incredible in the confined street. Any sense of order was forgotten as the men shrieked and bolted in horror. Police guns were now on display at both ends of the street, ready for use. They did not have to wait more than a few seconds. A gun discharged into the air from the centre of the melee and triggered the carnage.
Marshall was never sure where the second shot came from; whether it was from the far end of the street, or even his own men, but he was suddenly in the middle of a fire fight. A bullet whizzed past his ear and another shattered a police car headlight as he dived for cover, dragging out his own gun at the same time. Bullets rained into the men as their formation disintegrated. Captors and captives alike were cut to ribbons in the crossfire. Bodies danced, often hit by more than one bullet and crashed bloody to the road.
The butchery continued until hardly anyone was left standing in Cray Street. But incredibly, through the gun smoke wafting down the street, Marshall saw the leader of the mob still walking toward him. He held the girl close to him, his thin lips pursed in vicious determination. Marshall raised his gun, fury and resolve steadying his hands. This bastard would not escape.
MOGLEY
Ranting and raving, Joseph Mogley could not hear his own voice above the noise. He gripped the girl and his shotgun tightly, his left hand twisting the locks of her hair, the barrel of the gun now hard under her chin. How he had survived this far he did not know; bullets sang close to his ears and one had even plucked at his hair. Another almost took the head off the convict next to him, showering Mogley and his captive with blood and brains. Only the rapidly dwindling possibility of escape kept him moving.
As he edged closer to the gap between the roarers a man stood up, the man he had shouted at just before the slaughter began. Squinting through the smoke, his eyes streaming tears, Mogley saw the man was in his fifties and dressed in a smart suit. Rich and handsome, he thought briefly and bitterly. The man held a small pistol and his eyes narrowed to slits. They reminded Mogley of Redmond, causing him to swallow nervously. This man, like the big convict, would kill without hesitation.
Mogley decided to shoot the man down from behind the girl, but before he could swivel his gun, he was hit. The shot, fired from above and behind him, tore through the muscle of his left shoulder and ripped a bloody furrow down his arm to the elbow. Mogley screamed in pain, releasing the girl from his grip. His trigger finger jerked involuntarily as the girl fell to the road and the gun discharged, leaving a scorch mark across her forehead. The little convict stood swaying, his left arm dangling useless by his side. He knew he was a dead man, but he would take the whore with him. He placed the barrel to her head and squeezed the trigger.
MARSHALL
Bill Marshall was ready. Down on one knee, he fired two shots so quickly they sounded like one. Both ploughed into the little man’s chest, lifting him off his feet, the shot gun blasting harmlessly into the wall of a building. He was still airborne when a shot from Hargreaves’ high velocity rifle took off the top of his head. The man jerked in the air like a broken puppet before his body crumpled to the road beside his female hostage.
That was the final shot. The smoke lifted to reveal a street full of bodies and two sets of stunned policemen staring at each other from opposite ends. Marshall walked into Cray Street, his ears still ringing from the noise. It was quiet now. Deathly quiet. The girl was lying on the road, staring up at the sky, and Marshall saw two other victims stirring further down the street. Both were hostages who had miraculously survived.
Police wandered aimlessly into the street, their faces registering shock and horror. It was hard to believe that a short time ago this was an ordinary city street. Now it was filled with bloodied bodies, some of them shredded by dozens of wounds.
Marshall picked up the girl and carried her to a stretcher brought by two ambulance officers. He then leant against a car and lit a cigarette. His hands were shaking.
Hargreaves joined him, furious. “I told those stupid wankers to wait for my signal! They’ve even killed the hostages!”
“Yeah,” said Marshall. Tell me about it, he thought. “Well, it’s all down to me, I suppose. I was in charge.” He felt terribly tired. “At least the bad guys didn’t get away.”
“Want to bet?” said Hargreaves.
“What do you mean?”
“The big guy who was spotted with this mob earlier isn’t here. I saw them all when they came out of the cafe. None were over six feet. And two of the hostages wore scruffy clothes. Where are their own clothes? No one else wore them.” Hargreaves shook his head. “Looks like some got away.”
Mitchell dropped hi
s cigarette on the road, crushing it under his heel. “I hope to Christ you’re wrong,” he said, “I don’t think I could handle another one of these.”
BROWN
Wayne Brown winced as the force of the blow made Captain William Cross – if that was his real name – fall from his chair. Brown had never seen his partner Marsh this angry. The burly Detective Sergeant was a bad bastard at the best of times, but the treatment he was giving Cross was becoming dangerous.
This was Cross’s third trip to the interrogation room and he was deteriorating fast. The main problem, Brown saw from his position by the door, was that Cross had clearly won the battle of wills. And that pissed Marsh off. No amount of bullying or threats had budged the Captain an inch, whereas Marsh’s sheer physical intimidation was usually enough to crumble the best criminal defence. But Cross was different. Marsh had just snapped and landed a backhander to the side of his head.
“Steady on, Col,” said Brown, tentatively. “He’s too sick for that sort of stuff.”
Marsh was standing over Cross, who lay still on the floor. The Detective looked angrily at Brown. “What’s wrong, Wayne? Not got the stomach for it any more? You didn’t talk like this when you sorted out Jackie Leonard.”
It was Brown’s turn to become angry. “That was different. We both knew what Leonard had done. This bloke is sick, and for all we know, innocent.”
Marsh snorted. “Oh, yeah!” But he was calming down. “Help me get him back up.”
They sat Cross back in his chair and Brown saw he was totally out of it. His head lolled against his chest and his breath came out in short, shallow gasps. Marsh had seen the Captain as the weak link of the group instead of the strongest.
There was a knock at the door and a constable poked his head around the corner. “Message for you, DS Marsh.”
Marsh left the interrogation room, leaving Brown alone with Cross. The Captain looked like death. His face was drawn and white, the skin beneath his eyes swollen and black. Jesus! thought Brown, any more of this and we’ll kill him. He decided to stand up to Marsh.
There was no need, however. The door opened and Marsh entered, shaking his head. “You’ll never fucking guess what’s happened.”
“What?”
He pointed at Cross. “A bunch of his pals have just been cornered near Oxford Street. Everyone’s been called out. Come on.” Marsh called outside to the constable. “Take him back to the cells, and watch out, the bastard’s probably faking.”
“And fetch him a doctor,” added Brown.
The two detectives climbed the stairs to the ground floor exit. Marsh turned to his partner. “You’re not going soft on me, are you Wayne?”
BLANEY
“Do you know,” said Christopher Blaney, “I surmised from the start that this was the future.”
“Is the future,” corrected Karen. “Actually, it’s the present.”
She swung the car – the word was obviously an abbreviation for carriage, deduced Blaney – into another marked lane. Then she arrested their momentum sharply with the foot brake pedal, propelling the Lieutenant into his seat belt, thus avoiding a collision with the vehicle in front.
Blaney was enjoying himself, clean and rested, as the car raced over the Sydney Harbour Bridge beneath the shadows of its enormous girders. Having overcome his initial fear of the vehicle, Blaney now found the feeling exhilarating. He had been surprised by Karen’s admission that she knew nothing about how the car worked, except for the fact it required increasingly large and expensive amounts of fuel to burn. He leaned back in his seat and studied everything she did and the road around them. Karen was concentrating as she navigated the car at high speed, weaving in and out of the traffic lanes while at the same time preventing other vehicles from doing the same. Her ability in doing this without hitting another car led Blaney to believe she was indeed an expert driver.
Earlier, Blaney had stayed in the shower for more than half an hour. Karen had to order him out when she returned. The stream of steaming water, the soft soap and the liquid hair lotion completed his revival after the meal Karen prepared for him. And the toothpaste left him with a wonderfully fresh taste in his mouth. The shower also gave him time to plan his next move. He’d learned over the years to tackle problems straight on. Head to the source and use whatever resources were to hand. In this case the problems were quite simple. Cross and the men were locked up, though he knew where they were. Or rather Karen did. The Marlin was gone, and so was no longer a problem. He’d sent Tommy out to locate the Fortune, if the ship had been able to follow them here. That search was out of his hands for the moment. His priority must be to free Cross, Kite and the men and get them to the Fortune. If there was a way back to their own world, it must be to return the way they came. The only resource he had to aid him was Karen and he had a strong feeling of confidence in her abilities.
After he draped a towel around his body, Karen entered the bathroom and insisted he rub some perfumed soap under his armpits, a request with which he reluctantly complied. He was glad the men could not smell him and hoped it would wear off before he was reunited with them.
The clothes Karen bought for him helped complete his feeling of well being. The very light white cotton shirt without buttons was ideal for the warm climate, as were the short under trousers. She also gave him a pair of blue trousers which felt coarse to the fingers, yet when he put them on they were marvellously comfortable. The outfit was finished off by a pair of white ankle stockings and soft, white laced shoes which moulded themselves to his feet. The only problem was the absence of buttons on the trousers, but Karen, after a little mutual embarrassment, demonstrated the ingenious zip operation. She was amused as he played with the wonderful invention for a few moments. He felt like a king and Karen’s smile added to his good humour.
“At first I thought,” said Blaney as the car descended the southern half of the bridge, “that we had come only seventy or eighty years at most.” He wanted to hear her voice again.
“Really,” she said, absently.
He felt a little disappointed, but it would take far more to dent his mood. Karen could not comprehend what had happened. Understandable, certainly. But Blaney knew it had happened and also knew what he must do.
The revelation that the Marlin had travelled more than two hundred years through time stunned Blaney. It was as though he’d been in a long coma, his mother, his friends all dead long ago, and woken in a new world. The people looked familiar, so did some of the buildings. But everything seemed bigger and shiny, new and bright, clean and tidy. Every road was paved and there was no mud or horseshit underfoot. He saw no beggars or drunks. Old people he saw from the car had teeth and everywhere he looked held an aura of wealth. It was too good to be true.
And Karen. Was she a typical woman here? She appeared independent, not at all demure, and very sure of herself. He was sure she was a spinster. There were no rings on her fingers and if she had a man there was no way she would be allowed to run around dressed as she was. She behaved like a man, yet still retained her femininity. To Blaney at least. However, it was still disconcerting to be led by a woman.
There was much to learn in this place. Blaney was like a child here. He would have to learn everything. The picture box, cars, the talking instrument whereby people could converse over vast distances. It was all so incomprehensible. There was even a contraption that sent music and messages through the air! Bizarre! The radio, Karen called it. There was one in the car, but after listening for a moment, Karen switched it off. “They don’t know anything new,” she told him, “they’re just crapping on.”
But while excited, he also felt fear and missed his own world.
Blaney saw that Karen was glancing across at him.
“Chris,” she said, hesitantly, “when we get to the police station leave the talking to me, OK?” She had tried to talk him out of his plan at the house. She thought there would be no way they would be allowed to see Cross and the others. “And promise you w
on’t do anything stupid.”
“I promise.” Blaney had no intention of doing anything stupid. Every move would be calculated.
Blaney knew the only chance of escape was to link with the Fortune. Doing so without Cross and the others was unthinkable. Releasing them – somehow - was only the first step, and if he had to use Karen he would not hesitate, unless she was placed in danger. He would ensure no harm came to her. He could not bear the thought of that.
“Do we have to travel much further?” he asked.
“Not really, but it could take a little while in this traffic.”
Karen drove through a small arch at the southern end of the bridge and a loud high-pitched sound filled the car, causing him to start. Karen didn’t bother to explain and he didn’t ask. It was yet another mystery.
The wide highway gave way to narrow, confined streets among the tall buildings. They were so tall hardly any sunlight filtered through. It was dark and frightening after the pleasant approach to the bridge. The people on the street did not smile.
His attention was taken by Karen, who, as she weaved through the confined streets, let loose a barrage of oaths that both embarrassed and amazed Blaney. Her behaviour was hardly very ladylike, yet he was not about to say so and become the object of her venom. She berated drivers and pedestrians alike, informing some of their stupidity, questioning the sexual normalcy of others, and relating her conviction that the parents of one hapless pedestrian were not married at the time of his birth. Her angry expression and flushed cheeks made her look to Blaney like an angel. With the vocabulary of a demon. It was a wonderful, yet unsettling display.
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