Jack's Back

by Mark Romain

  They ran the length of the concourse, zigzagging through a scattering of bored looking commuters who were patiently awaiting boarding calls for their trains.

  “Winston, stop!” Jack shouted in vain.

  There was no sign of him when they reached the barrier a few seconds later. “Okay, we’ll have to spread out inside,” Jack said, breathing heavily. It went against the grain, but they had no choice now. “You two check out the Circle line platforms, I’ll try the Central Line, but don’t approach him on your own if you see him. I don’t want any dead heroes on my hands.” He’d almost made the mistake of saying, ‘any more dead heroes.’

  Once they cleared the turnstiles, Dillon headed straight for the Circle line’s eastbound platform, thinking that this was the most likely route the drug dealer would have taken. When he drew a blank, he swore in frustration and doubled back to find Tyler.

  Bull made his way over the bridge that to the Circle’s westbound platform and the exit into Old Broad Street. He felt isolated and vulnerable without a weapon of his own, and while he desperately wanted to find Winston, a part of him was hoping that he wouldn’t.

  Jack paused when he reached the top of the escalators that led down to the Central Line and cocked his head, trying to analyse the muffled sounds drifting up from below. Was the faint commotion he could hear a fight, or simply some boisterous late-night revellers enjoying themselves? He was still trying to decide when Dillon appeared beside him, breathing hard. “No sign of him back there,” he said.

  Just then, the unmistakable explosion of a gunshot erupted from below, sparking a series of screams from late night commuters caught up in the gunfire.

  “Bloody hell!” Dillon spluttered, ducking instinctively. The two detectives exchanged tense looks, and then, as one, they moved towards the down escalator. Almost immediately, another shot rang out, stopping them in their tracks.

  Jack was horrified. “Who the hell is he shooting at now?” he asked.

  Dillon shrugged. “Perhaps someone asked to see his ticket,” he suggested as the first fleeing commuters appeared below. It was horrible to watch: a bottleneck at the base of the escalators caused an ugly stampede, during which the fittest and fastest thoughtlessly clambered over the slowest and weakest in their haste to reach safety. When the crowd had finally passed, they rushed forward to rescue an elderly man who lay sprawled at the top of the up escalator. He’d been trampled in the rush. Dragging him clear, they hoisted him over the barrier and unceremoniously shoved him towards the shelter of a solid wall.

  A middle-aged black man, wearing a blue London Transport blazer, emerged from an office marked ‘PRIVATE’. He surveyed the crouching detectives with disdain. Clifford Henry had worked at Liverpool Street station for twenty-three years, during which time he’d witnessed just about every type of tomfoolery imaginable; much of it committed by normally respectable city gents in expensively tailored suits. He was yet to meet an office worker who could drink two pints of lager without regressing to a state on the evolutionary scale that the average juvenile delinquent would be ashamed of.

  Henry was more than a little deaf. He wore cumbersome hearing aids, which he thought were next to useless. The batteries never lasted very long, and he always forgot to carry spares. They had packed up earlier in the shift, which is why he hadn’t heard the shots or the fleeing customer’s screams. “Oi, you two. What d’ya think you’re doing?” he demanded. “If you don’t stop fooling around, I’ll call the police.”

  Tyler flashed his warrant card angrily at the man, motioning him back. Henry ignored the dismissal. He strutted over to the two detectives and inspected Jack’s warrant card carefully.

  “What’s this?”

  “It’s my warrant card,” Jack hissed.

  “I’m going to call the police…” Clifford began.

  “We are the police,” Jack snapped. “Now go back in your office. There’s a man with a gun down there.”

  Henry frowned, wondering if he had heard correctly. “Don’t be so ridiculous,” he said, dismissively. The whole thing sounded utterly preposterous; this was London, not New York. But then, as he thought about it, doubt set in. The man who had just spoken didn’t smell of booze, and he had an aura of authority, not to mention a badge.

  Steering him by his arm, Tyler pointed Henry back in the direction he’d come from. “Get back in your office and get all the Central Line trains stopped at once. Whatever happens, make sure none of them stop at this station until I tell you otherwise,” Jack instructed. “Do you understand?”

  Henry nodded uncertainly. It was most irregular, but the policeman had said something about a gun. Henry decided to play it safe and do as he’d been told. Just in case. He hurried back to his office, fretting over the delays this would cause to his precious timetable. The station supervisor would blame him for this, no doubt. They always blamed someone. Why couldn’t this have happened on someone else’s shift?

  ◆◆◆

  Bull arrived just as Henry was leaving. “I heard the shots,” he whispered. “Where is he?”

  “Down there.” Tyler pointed downwards.

  Dillon half stood and risked a glimpse down the escalator.

  “Can you see anything?” Jack asked.

  A shake of the head answered his question.

  “What do we do now, Jack?” Dillon asked, like they were spoilt for choice.

  “We can either wait for the cavalry to arrive, and hope they turn up in time to make a difference, or we go in ourselves.”

  “We should definitely wait for backup,” Steve Bull advised.

  Dillon shook his head. “If a train comes in before the gun nuts get here, then we’ve lost him for good.”

  “Agreed,” Tyler said.

  “If we go down, how would you play it?”

  “Take a platform each, and hope that one of us can sneak around and come up on him from behind while the other one distracts him.”

  “That’s it?”

  “Can you think of anything better?”

  Dillon shook his head.

  “I guess that’s it then.”

  “I guess it is,” Dillon said, unhappily.

  “Don’t do it,” Steve Bull warned. “You’ll get yourselves killed.”

  “If we’re going to do this, it’s got to be right now,” Jack said, ignoring Bull.

  Shaking his head as if to say, I must be mad, Dillon said, “Okay, let’s get on with it.”

  As they moved forward, Dillon held out a hand, stopping Jack. “Look, I’ll walk down the stairs like a normal passenger. You crouch down and ride the descending escalator. That way, if he’s looking, he’ll only see one person coming down. If he challenges me when I reach the bottom, there’s still a chance you can take him out.”

  Jack stiffened. “If we’re going to do that, I should be the one to draw his attention.”

  Dillon shrugged stoically. “I’m a newly promoted DI, I’m more expendable.”

  “That’s bollocks, Dill.”

  “Take it or leave it, Jack.”

  Tyler could see there was no point in arguing. “All right, but be careful,” he said as he made his way to the far escalator.

  “You’re not really going to do this, are you?” Bull asked, looking imploringly from one to the other.

  “Yes, we are, so get back to the barriers and don’t let anyone through. The last thing we need now is for some drunken twat to get themselves shot. And call for backup.” Without waiting for a response, Tyler crouched down and stepped onto the descending escalator.

  “Be careful,” Bull said as he vanished from view.

  Taking a long, deep breath, Dillon set off down the flight of steps between the two escalators.

  Bull watched until Dillon’s head disappeared, and then looked around wildly, seeking a phone. It was time to dial all the nines and get some help.

  ◆◆◆

  Dillon’s descent into the bowels of Liverpool Street was buffeted by a surprisingly strong wind,
which he guessed was being generated by trains pushing air through the tunnels ahead of them. The walls on either side of the escalators were peppered with posters in cheap tacky frames, most of which were advertising West End shows. Nestled between The Lion King and Mamma Mia, a shot of a woman’s legs, long, slim and undeniably exquisite drew his attention. The legs were promoting a well-known brand of tights, and despite the urgency of the situation, Dillon found himself wondering if the model’s face was half as pretty.

  He strained his ears for signs of movement below, but the only noises that reached him came from the constant clanking of escalator machinery and the occasional roar of an approaching train. There was no sign of Jack as he glanced across to the down escalator, but he knew his friend was there, waiting for the signal to move.

  Dillon stepped over a discarded copy of the Sun as he reached the bottom stair and padded towards the eastbound platform. He was almost certain the shots had come from that direction, although he knew sounds were easily distorted down here. He paused as he reached the platform entrance, signalling Tyler to go the other way, onto the westbound platform.

  Dillon caught a momentary glimpse of Jack, a blur moving across the outer edge of his vision as he darted onto the westbound platform. Hopefully, he would be able to circle around behind Winston without being seen. That was the plan; all they had to do now was make it work.

  Dillon cautiously poked his head around the corner, ready to whip it straight back at the slightest sign of trouble.

  Nothing; the platform appeared empty. He took a deep breath, counted to five and stepped onto the platform, exposed and vulnerable. A wave of relief swept over him when he didn’t immediately find himself staring down the barrel of a gun. He was just beginning to think that he might have picked the wrong platform when he heard the unmistakable sound of someone coughing just ahead.

  He took a step forward and then stopped.

  What was that?

  Vibration travelled up through his feet, and a familiar noise, growing in volume like a banshee’s wailing, emanated from the tunnel’s mouth as a train approached. “Oh shit!” Dillon grimaced as the white, red and blue streak erupted out of the tunnel. He watched, aghast, as the long line of carriages sped by, knowing that Winston was as good as free if he managed to board a train. And then he realised that the train wasn’t losing speed; it was going straight through without stopping.

  As the train’s noise and wind faded into insignificance, he heard the coughing again, but it was weaker this time. Whoever had made the noise had to be very close. It seemed to have come from a small recess just ahead. As Dillon moved slowly forward the limbic system in the lower half of his brain was already sending out signals to prepare his body for fight or flight. Taking a deep breath, Dillon geared himself up to pounce.

  CHAPTER 14

  Jack had managed to sneak onto the westbound platform without being seen. So far, so good, he told himself as he massaged cramped sinews. The fact that Dillon had sent him this way indicated that the big man thought the killer was on the eastbound platform. As he stood there, waiting for his circulation to return to normal, Jack was suddenly engulfed by a sense of impending doom. He couldn’t shake the strangely cloying feeling, which seemed to hover above him like a personalised storm cloud.

  Well, it was too late to back out now.

  ◆◆◆

  Dillon recoiled as he came face to face with the occupant of the urine-scented recess. “Oh God!” he breathed, unaware that he had even spoken. Slumped on the floor in front of him lay a young British Transport policeman. A bright red circle was slowly spreading from the area immediately above his chest. The poor man was barely conscious and his pale face had contorted into a painful rictus. Dillon saw that he had somehow managed to prop himself up against the wall.

  The officer, his breathing ragged, stared at Dillon through glazed eyes. “Get…back, not safe…get…help…” he rasped, the effort clearly sapping his remaining strength.

  Dillon knelt down beside him and squeezed the younger man’s hand reassuringly. “Help’s on the way,” he said, hoping it was. “Just hang in there a little longer.”

  There was an entry wound just below the shoulder, so hopefully the boy was going to be okay – unless, of course, the bullet had hit an artery and he was hemorrhaging internally, or it was a light caliber round that had hit a bone and bounced about inside his body. Dillon had attended post mortems on shooting victims where the entry wound was high up, as it was in this case, but the exit wound was down by the hip. The bullet had ricocheted downwards after striking bone, causing catastrophic damage as it did so. He prayed that wouldn’t be the case here. He noticed there was a first aid kit attached to the BTP officer’s utility belt. Hopefully, it contained bandages that Dillon could use to apply pressure to the wound in order to try and stop the bleeding.

  Footsteps startled him.

  “Don’t move pig, or you’ll get what he got,” Winston announced as he emerged from the shadows, pointing the stubby revolver at Dillon’s chest. Dillon stood up slowly, gazing into the man’s eyes as he turned to face him. They were cold, cruel and full of hatred.

  Winston motioned Dillon away from the injured man, gesturing with the gun, towards the track. “Move to the edge, pig. Nice an’ slow, you know what I mean.” He cocked the gun, to show that he meant business.

  As he moved away from the wall, Dillon noticed a door ajar behind Winston. The gunman had obviously been watching him from inside there, waiting for Dillon to find the injured cop.

  Dillon’s appearance had complicated matters for Winston. He knew it wouldn’t be long before the police arrived in strength, but if he could avoid capture until a train came in, he could still get away. He was sure the next one would stop.

  He decided he’d pop this one too, just for the hell of it. After all, it wasn’t as if he had anything to lose – the penalty for offing three pigs was no more severe than it was for offing one.

  Dillon raised both hands in the air, being careful to move with exaggerated slowness. He didn’t want his actions to provoke Winston unnecessarily, or to give him an excuse. He wondered where the hell Jack was. “Look, I’m unarmed and I won’t do anything silly. I don’t want to die. Just let me take this lad out of here and get him some help. It’ll be better for you in the long run too, Claude.” He spoke slowly, disarmingly, while walking slowly, ever so slowly, towards Winston. He needed to be a lot nearer if – no, when – the right moment presented itself.

  “Don’t use my fucking name, pig! I don’t know you; you’re not my friend,” Winston spewed the words out in a fit of uncontrolled rage. He began waving the gun around dangerously, oblivious to the fact that it was cocked and would discharge under the slightest pressure.

  Every fibre in Dillon’s body cried out for him to dive down onto the floor, to take cover before it was too late, before this raving lunatic shot him dead, but he somehow forced himself to remain standing. He half expected a bullet to tear into him at any moment, and a part of him wondered if he would feel the impact before he heard the noise.

  Suddenly there was movement behind Winston.

  Jack!

  Forcing himself to breathe deeply, Dillon took another step towards Winston. “You’re brave enough with that gun, scumbag, but just how tough are you without it? Why don’t we find out?” he taunted, staring the other man straight in the eye.

  “Fuck you copper,” Winston snarled. He had intended to usher the cop through the door before shooting him, but no one talked to him like that.

  He pointed the gun at Dillon and fired.

  ◆◆◆

  After leaving work, The Disciple went straight to his lair. He had spent the day being nice to people he despised, and now he was feeling tired and crotchety. The drudgery of wearing his other persona for so many hours had drained him, and he desperately craved the solace of his own company.

  He hadn’t returned home since Sunday evening, and he grimaced at the thought of spending ye
t another uncomfortable night on the lumpy camp bed in the corner. Not that he would be getting any shut-eye for a while; there was still far too much to do before he could allow himself the luxury of sleep. For starters, he needed to case the house in Hanbury Street again, to confirm it was still accessible. There was no reason to think it wouldn’t be; he had already checked it out several times, but one didn’t achieve greatness by being sloppy.

  He knew his plans for tomorrow night were incredibly ambitious, and the weaker part of him, the remnants of his old persona, was afraid he was biting off more than he could chew by going for the double whammy. Well, tough. He had made his mind up and he had no intention of changing it.

  He had already disposed of the plastic sheeting that had been used to line the van when he took his first victim. It had been burned, along with all the clothing he had worn. The vehicle’s insides had been scrubbed with bleach and vigorously swept. New plastic sheeting needed to be laid before tomorrow, and he would attend to that as soon as he changed into a paper suit.