‘Quite right too.’
‘Shall I ring him, sir?’ said the Negotiator. ‘It’s time.’
A shaded candle lit the tramcar.
‘This is what it must have been like in olden times,’ said Sir Charles, ‘all flickering shadows.’
‘He’s quiet, sir,’ said the Eavesdropper.
‘Ring him.’
‘It’s ringing, sir.’
‘Pick up the phone, Doyle … sooner or later you are going to have to talk to us.’
‘He’s had five rings, sir,’ said the Negotiator, ‘shall I keep trying, sir?’
‘We stick to the plan.’
The Eavesdropper held up his hand for quiet. What had he heard? Sir Charles picked up a headphone.
‘You,’ said Doyle, ‘come here, hands in your pockets. We wouldn’t want you using your paws on myself, would we? Kneel … kneel, damn you … that’s right, on your knees, as if you’re in a church praying that the good Lord will forgive your English sins. They say he’s a forgiving God but I doubt he’ll ever forgive the English … they’ve sinned so much there’s no room left in Hell … damn them! Damn them! Pick up the phone, go on, your English friends want to talk, I’m going to give them something to talk about, pick up the phone … do it!’
‘I don’t know what to do.’
It was Jack.
‘This is what you do.’
The phone in the tramcar rang. The Negotiator picked it up.
‘Is there anybody there?’ said Doyle, ‘or are you still making your cup of tea, like last time? The English and their cups of tea. Your king is not my king. I’m not a terrorist, I’m a soldier. The rules of the Geneva Convention apply to me. You can’t put a noose round my neck. I’m a soldier fighting to free his country from an occupying force. When the Germans invade then you English will know what it’s like to be occupied. You will know how we Irish have suffered for centuries. Has the war started? Are you still there? Yes, you are, I can hear your breathing … worried, are you? Scared what I might do? I’ve explosives enough to blow this Monument into a thousand pieces. Am I still talking to, William? To King Billy?’
‘Yes.’
‘Jack, be a good little English schoolboy and tell King Billy how many guns I have.’
‘He has two guns.’
‘Tell him where they are pointing.’
‘At my head.’
‘Do you know about guns, William?’
‘A little.’
‘The modest English … would you be knowing, Billy, the difference between a Webley and a Luger?’
‘Yes. Would you like me to arrange for you a supply of food and drink?’
‘Like last time … use it as bait to get your hands on me and put a bullet in the back of my head.’
‘The boys will be thirsty.’
‘I’m thirsty and it’s doing my head in … what a choice, die of thirst or take a glass of water off the mighty English and let them put a noose round your neck. I’ll take the parched tongue before the broken neck.’
‘It doesn’t have to be like that. I give you my word that you will be allowed to access food and water without in any way being threatened.’
‘Are you listening, Billy? I hope you are. In the Wembley there is one bullet … which chamber? Tell Billy what I’m doing, Jack … tell him!’
‘He’s pressing the gun into the back of my head … you’re hurting me.’
‘If you hear a bang, Jack will be dead. If you hear nothing he will have been lucky.’
Sir Charles exchanged glances with the Negotiator.
‘What’s happening?’ said Mike.
‘I’ve cocked the Webley. Jack, tell Billy what I’ve done.’
‘He’s cocked the Webley.’
‘I can’t hear you … say it louder, louder.’
‘He’s cocked the Webley.’
‘My finger is on the trigger … tell them, Jack, tell them.’
‘His finger is on the trigger.’
‘Put the phone down, Jack.’
‘He’s rung off,’ said the Negotiator.
‘What the hell’s going on?’ said Mike. ‘What’s the bastard doing? Charles, you’d best sit down before you fall down. What’s he doing? He’s not killed the boys?’
‘It’s alright, sir,’ said the Eavesdropper, ‘he’s telling Jack to stand up. I think the lad is safe, at least for the moment.’
‘Did he pull the trigger?’ said Sir Charles.
‘I heard a click but, who knows where the gun was pointing or if it was loaded.’
‘I believe it was loaded and that he was pointing it at Jack’s head. It is my opinion, gentlemen, that Doyle is capable of cold blooded murder.’
‘For Christ’s sake will someone please tell me what’s going on?’ said Mike.
After the explanation Sir Charles said, ‘If you don’t mind, Mike, I rather think I will take up your offer of a dram. I think we all need a fortifier. Gentlemen, if you think it will help, help yourselves. My gamekeeper is a generous fellow when it comes to buying his round, and his hip flask, as you can see, is not the diminutive vessel one associates with that name.’
40
‘That’s the All Clear,’ said Sergeant Small.
‘What a bloody awful noise,’ said Mike.
‘Get used to it,’ said Sir Charles.
The street lights came back on. Once again the generator throbbed life into the portable lights shining on the Monument’s door.
‘Chron-ic-al! Chron-ic-al!’
‘Does he never stop?’ said Sir Charles.
‘The newspaper seller is one of our best informers, sir,’ said Sergeant Small. ‘He’s a wooden leg, lost his real one in the Great War.’
‘I wonder if a man with a wooden leg is able to shout louder than a man with two legs,’ said Harry, ‘you know, as a sort of compensation.’
‘Harry, I hope you never find out,’ said Sir Charles.
‘He’s a good chap, the very best type of Tyneside Cork,’ said Sergeant Small.
‘The siren is like a switch, don’t you think?’ said Harry. ‘The first time it sounds it switches the lights off, the second time it switches them back on.’
‘I wish we had a switch like that for Doyle,’ said Sir Charles.
‘Something that could switch him off forever,’ said Mike, ‘like a bullet. If we could persuade him to open the door, a marksman might get a shot in … the photographer did.’
‘If the marksman missed, what might he do to the boys?’ said Sir Charles. ‘We are dealing with a fellow who is prepared to die for the cause in which he believes. He is a fanatic. I’ve been told I am fanatical about growing melons. Jack teases my gardener by putting snails on my prize plants. How I would miss his teasing if anything happened to him. I did a deal with him, you know? I negotiated with him. He liked being humoured and I liked humouring him. I fear there will be no negotiating with Doyle.’
‘Sir,’ said Sergeant Small, ‘before Mr Harry arrived I was about to tell you … if we can get Doyle to talk and listen, we can, in a manner of speaking, blackmail him. Police colleagues in Northern Ireland have given me the name of Doyle’s wife, the name of the street and the number of the house in which she lives. We know a lot about Doyle. If he threatens to kill the boys, we threaten to kill his wife and child.’
‘He would know we were bluffing. He would never believe that HMG would sanction the murder of an innocent woman and her child.’
‘He would, sir, if we told him the Loyalists were involved … tit-for-tat killings are commonplace in Northern Ireland. We could tell him that the Loyalists are holding his wife and child prisoner. He has two hostages but, so do we, in a manner of speaking.’
‘We want to save the boys and I for one am not fussy about the means we use,’ said Mike.
&
nbsp; ‘I will bear what you have said in mind, Sergeant,’ said Sir Charles. ‘How long since his theatricalities with Jack?’
‘Two hours, sir.’
‘And in between times we’ve rang him every fifteen minutes?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘I suggest we wait at least an hour until we try again; unless, that is, he does something stupid. He will realise that we have changed our tactics. He will wonder why. Sooner or later he will have to talk.’
‘Or, he kills himself and takes the boys with him,’ said Mike.
‘Just as well he can’t see how helpless we all look, damn him.’
In the ensuing silence Mike put a hand on Sir Charles’s shoulder. ‘Charlie,’ he whispered,’ you look close to falling down. It’s time to delegate … go for a walk, get a breath of air; trust your team. Teams win battles, not individuals, you know that.’
41
‘I’ll come with you, Uncle Charles,’ said Harry ‘to keep an eye on you.’
‘Is that what your aunt told you to do?’
‘Yes, I’m obeying orders, don’t you know.’
They walked towards the perimeter of the cordon.
‘In confidence, Harry, my anger at what this man Doyle is doing to Jack and dear George is making it hard for me to think straight. What we need is a plan that will give us a better than fifty-fifty chance of getting them out alive. How can you trust a man who plays Russian roulette with the life of a child? You can’t, you just can’t.’
‘How will it end, Uncle?’
‘I don’t know, real life is not fiction. In a book one can find out if the hero lives or dies by peeking at the last page.’
‘I suppose that not knowing what is going to happen next is what makes real life exciting.’
‘Under the present circumstances I’d be happy to know exactly what is going to happen next and do without the excitement.’
‘If it comes to war who will win?’
‘We will.’
‘On our own?’
‘Good heavens, no.’
‘With the help of the Americans?’
‘Yes. How are my American guests?’
‘All they talk about is Hitler and Poland, oh and Mario.’
‘Interesting, don’t you think, how, in the midst of an international crisis, when bombs might soon be raining down on their heads, people still find time to gossip. Is Mario still absent without leave?’
‘Yes. I overheard Weinberger calling him a philanderer. O’Neil said it was because Mario was more Italian than American and what could you expect from someone who was an ice cream seller. It turns out that O’Neil has a chip on his shoulder about ice cream sellers. Weinberger reminded him of it. O’Neil’s father was cuckolded by one. Every time the father was away on business the ice cream seller’s cart stayed all night outside the O’Neil family’s home. After the divorce O’Neil was sent to a Catholic boarding school. His hatred of ice cream sellers is Freudian, Uncle. He blames them for the break-up of the family home.’
‘Let’s get something to eat. I know just the place. Apropos of what we have been talking about you will find it interesting. By the by, in my absence what have the Hitler Youth been doing?’
‘CB’s keeping an eye on them. He’s hounding them as if war’s already been declared.’
‘Any more died?’
‘No.’
‘Pity, don’t you think?’
‘Yes.’
‘You see, Harry, even the prospect of war is making us brutal … making us want young men dead … terrible, terrible. God knows what we’ll be like when the real thing starts.’ They passed through the cordon. ‘That’s better, back to what a street should be like. A bit of noise and bustle cheers a chap up, don’t you think?’
A uniformed member of the policeman protection service followed them. This had been Sergeant Small’s idea. ‘To protect you from journalists, sir,’ he’d said.
They followed an agreed route. If Doyle made a move a runner would be despatched to find them. If, God forbid, they heard gunshots, well, they’d run back without the need to be told.
‘It reminds me of that painting by Breughel,’ said Sir Charles. ‘In the painting I’m thinking of, Icarus is shown falling out of a clear blue sky, yet, life goes on as normal … I mean, a chap with a pair of wings strapped to his back, falling out of the sky, is not normal … yet, this ploughman in the painting goes on ploughing.’
From across the road a familiar voice shouted, ‘Sir Charles! Sir Charles!’
Crozier came over to join Sir Charles and Harry at the speed of a brisk walk.
‘Oh, hello … Crozier,’ said Sir Charles, ‘I didn’t see you, rather too deep in thought, I fear.’
‘A lot on your mind, shipmate. I’ve heard rumours. The gunmen responsible for blowing up the Assembly Rooms are trapped inside Grey’s Monument and they have hostages.’
‘Chinese whispers. It’s only one member of the IRA.’
‘We know who he is,’ said Harry.
‘You have a name?’
‘We have.’
‘But you can’t tell me. Hush, hush, is it? The Secret Service’s very own Hippocratic Oath.’
‘His name is Doyle,’ said Sir Charles.
‘I’ve never heard of the fellow.’
‘Is there any reason why you should?’
‘Of course not.’
Two crease lines running from Crozier’s nostrils to the corners of his mouth twitched. He was lying.
‘I was thinking, perhaps, you knew Doyle in one of your previous lives?’
‘Not that I recollect. Sir Charles, you are beginning to sound like an interrogator.’
‘I apologise. I am rather worn down … a little too much on edge. How is Lord Nelson?’
‘Your wounded colleague is still confused. Blows to the head … their consequences are unpredictable. He keeps telling me he’s a secret agent. I keep telling him I’m Alexander the Great who, as a matter of fact, I knew quite well. He had haemorrhoids, Sir Charles, just like you, not many people know that. As a medical man, Sir Charles, I feel it’s my duty to tell you …you look awful. Do you need pills to keep you going?’
‘A cup of tea and a sit down is all I need to put me right.’
‘If Uncle Charles looks poorly it’s because he’s worried. Doyle is holding George and Jack hostage inside Grey’s Monument.’
‘Your grandson and the Jewish boy … I’m sorry. If there’s anything I can do … I have pills in my bag. I was on my way home when I heard about the siege.’
‘And you thought you might be able to help?’ said Sir Charles.
‘I confess to curiosity. I was among the crowd being kept at bay by the police when I spotted you.’
‘But you do not confess to knowing Doyle either in this life or in a previous existence?’
‘I have told you, Sir Charles, the name means nothing to me. If you will excuse me, I have a train to catch.’
‘Port or starboard?’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘I am indulging your whim for all things nautical … which side of the road for the Central Station?’
‘I’ll stick to the port side.’
Sir Charles and Harry watched him disappear into the night.
‘He’s on the starboard side,’ said Harry.
‘I know.’
‘But he’s ex-Royal Navy.’
‘The place I have in mind for a bite to eat is down here … what the?’
Harry’s quick reaction stopped Sir Charles tripping over the lead.
‘Sorry, sir,’ said the newspaper seller. ‘Damn you, Moses, come here, you are going to get me into trouble you are. Not everyone is as fond of ferrets as what I am.’
Moses! The sight of the beast made Sir Charles smile.
The ferret was free, ditto, George and Jack were free. The silliness of the syllogism irritated him.
‘No need to apologise,’ Sir Charles told the newspaper seller, ‘Moses and I are old friends; aren’t we, Moses?’
‘I can see he’s fond of you, sir.’
In all the hurly-burly the wee beasty had been forgotten.
‘How’d you come by him?’
Here we go, thought the newspaper seller. The bloke doing the asking was an officer, high ranking as well, those pips on his shoulder weren’t bird shite. He knew the type.
Preparatory to telling his story he did his best to show the respect his class took as their right. He stood to attention; not easy though when you only have one leg and are balancing on a crutch.
Sir Charles listened without once interrupting. This impressed the newspaper seller. Maybe the cove wasn’t as bad as most of his type.
‘So,’ said Sir Charles, ‘the “fat wife” who fell on your stump, was she alright?’
‘Never thought of that, sir.’
‘Quite; look here, my good fellow, my nephew and I are going for a brew at Garibaldi’s Gelato Emporium. “Gee-Gees”, you know it?’
Every Geordie knew ‘Gee-Gees’. London had Harrods, Newcastle had ‘Gee-Gees’.
Bully for you, thought the newspaper seller, it’s alright for some, but changed his tune when Sir Charles added, ‘I want you to join us and bring the ferret.’
‘Me, sir?’
‘That’s what I said and the ferret. I’m fond of Moses. I can see that he likes you. Come along, we’ve not got all day.’
42
‘Here we are,’ said Sir Charles. ‘Where’s my “minder”?’
‘Here I am, sir, the regulation four paces behind the job.’
‘Job?’
‘It’s what we in Police Protection call whatever it is we have been called upon to look after, sir.’
‘I’m a “job”, am I?’
‘Yes, sir … more than that to your loved ones, I hopes, but that’s what you are to me.’
‘The “Job” will send you out a cup of tea and a sandwich.’
‘Very kind, sir, milk and two sugars, heaped spoons.’
‘If Sergeant Small should send a runner for me, you know where I am.’
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