There was only one way out of the classroom and that was through the door that led to the corridor. Phillippa looked at the windows. They led out to the playing fields at the rear of the school. ‘Everyone over to the windows, quickly!’ she said. The children looked at her, too shocked to move. She clapped her hands. ‘Come on, this is a fire drill. Let’s pretend that the corridor is filled with smoke and that we have to escape through the windows.’ She walked quickly over to the nearest window. It was the sash type with a catch. She took a chair from one of the boys and stood on it. She had to stand on tiptoe to reach the catch and it was stiff but she pushed hard and forced it to the side. She stepped down off the chair and pushed the lower pane up. ‘Right, come on!’ she said, pushing a table close to the window. ‘Onto the chair and then onto the table and through the window. Come on, quickly!’
She heard a metallic click in the corridor and her stomach lurched as she realised what it was. The shotgun had been reloaded.
‘Come on everybody, let’s do this as quickly as possible!’ shouted Phillippa, fighting to keep the fear out of her voice. The first pupil was on the table, looking nervously out of the window. It was Jacob Gray, a timid boy who had a tendency to blush when spoken to. ‘Jeremy, jump, go on.’
‘It’s too high, miss,’ he said, his voice trembling.
‘Just do it, Jacob, you’re holding everyone up.’ The door handle turned slowly. Phillippa turned to look at the door, her heart in her mouth. The door opened and she saw the twin barrels of a shotgun followed by a green Wellington boot.
‘Miss, I’m scared,’ said Jacob.
‘Just jump, now!’ shouted Phillippa.
Phillippa gasped as the middle-aged man stepped into the classroom and raised the shotgun. He was grey-haired and ruddy-cheeked, as if he spent a lot of time outdoors. It was his eyes that chilled Phillippa. They were blank, almost lifeless. There was no tension in the man, no anger, no emotion at all. He just stood in the doorway looking slowly around the room, his finger on the trigger.
Phillippa took a step towards the man. She was more terrified than she’d ever been in her whole life but she knew that she had to protect the children. She put up her hands the way she’d try to calm a spooked horse and tried to maintain eye contact. ‘You need to leave,’ she said as calmly as she could. ‘You need to go now. You’re frightening the children.’
The man didn’t look at her. He continued to scan the room, the twin barrels of his shotgun matching his gaze.
‘You have to go,’ said Phillippa, more forcibly this time, but still the man paid her no attention.
Jacob fell through the open window and yelped as he hit the ground outside. Phillippa took a quick look over her shoulder. Two girls were on the table and a third stood on the chair, looking anxiously at the man with the gun. Phillippa made a shooing motion with her hand then turned to look at the gunman.
He had raised his shotgun to his shoulder and Phillippa gasped as she saw his finger tighten on the trigger. He was aiming it at Paul Tomkinson, one of her favourite pupils, always eager to please and one of the first to put up his hand, no matter what the question being asked. She opened her mouth to scream but before the sound could leave her lips there was a deafening bang and the shotgun kicked in his hand. The children screamed and scattered like sheep to the back of the classroom. Phillippa realised that there was a child lying on the ground, what was left of his head touching the wall. Blood and gobs of brain were dripping down the wall.
Phillippa covered her mouth with trembling hands. The two girls on the table threw themselves through the window, screaming.
The man swung the shotgun in Phillippa’s direction and her stomach turned liquid. She felt her bladder open and a warm wetness spread around her groin but she was barely aware of it. Her legs began to shake uncontrollably and she mentally began to run through the Lord’s Prayer, Our Father, who art in Heaven, and then the shotgun swung away from her and roared again. A girl fell, her chest and face a bloody mess. Phillippa realised it was Brianna Foster, one of the quietest girls in the class, so passive that Phillippa had to constantly keep an eye on her to make sure that she wasn’t being bullied.
Brianna lay on the floor like a broken doll as blood pooled around her. The gunman turned back to look at Phillippa and for the first time they had eye contact. He broke the shotgun and ejected the two cartridges. They flew through the air and clattered onto the floor.
The man groped in his haversack with his right hand, slotted in two fresh cartridges and snapped the weapon closed, all the time keeping his eyes fixed on Phillippa. He brought the shotgun up so that it was pointing at her chest and the breath caught in her throat. She was sure that she was going to die there in the classroom, in front of her pupils. Time seemed to freeze and all she could think of was that she would never see her husband again. Her dear darling Clive. She’d kissed him on the cheek when he’d left the house that morning and she’d said that she loved him and it gave her a small feeling of satisfaction that if they were her last words to him then at least he would know that he was loved. For the first time she saw something approaching emotion in his eyes. Not anger, not hatred, not contempt, but something approaching regret. She saw him swallow and then he turned around and walked out of the classroom.
3
The first Armed Response Vehicle pulled up in front of the school with a squeal of brakes. A Firearms Officer piled out of the BMW while the driver unlocked the gun cabinet and pulled out two G36 carbines. Both men were wearing black uniforms and bulletproof vests and had Glock pistols holstered on their hips.
There were more than a hundred pupils gathered in front of the railings. ‘What the bloody hell are they gawping at?’ asked Sergeant Mickey Rawlings, though the question was rhetorical. There were a dozen adults among the crowd, presumably the teachers. Rawlings walked over and raised his hand. ‘Who’s in charge?’ he shouted.
A middle-aged man in a tweed jacket with black leather patches on the elbows walked over. ‘The head is off today and her deputy is …’ He grimaced and pointed to a body in the playground, about fifty feet away.
‘What happened here?’ asked Rawlings.
‘There’s a man in the school with a shotgun. He shot Mr Etchells and he’s walking through the school shooting children.’
‘Wait here,’ said the sergeant, then he raised both hands above his head. ‘Would you all please move down the road!’ he shouted. ‘I need you to all move well away from the school, now!’ No one moved and the sergeant wished that he could what they did in the movies and fire his gun into the air, but he knew that would be the quickest way off the force. He took a deep breath and shouted at the top of his voice. ‘Everybody move down the road now!’ he yelled. ‘There’s a man in there with a gun and you’re all at risk.’
A second ARV arrived and squealed to a halt. The teachers started herding the children down the road. The sergeant turned to the teacher next to him. ‘You’re sure it was a shotgun?’
The teacher nodded. An armed policeman ran over from the newly arrived ARV. He was Ricky Gray, a relative newcomer to the unit but an excellent shot and unflappable under pressure. He nodded at Rawlings.
‘Any idea how many shots have been fired?’ Rawlings asked the teacher.
‘Five. Six maybe.’
‘Was it a double-barrelled shotgun or a pump action?’ asked Rawlings.
The teacher frowned. ‘I’m not sure.’
‘Did it have two barrels? Or did it just have one?’
The teacher nodded. ‘Two.’
The two ARV drivers hurried over to Rawlings. The driver of Rawlings’ car was holding two carbines and he handed one to Rawlings. His name was Vic Rhodes and he’d worked with Rawlings for more than five years.
Four was the minimum for an emergency entry but Rawlings would have been happier with six. As if a fairy godmother was granting him wishes, a third ARV came roaring down the road.
‘And what does he look like?’ Rawlings ask
ed the teacher.
‘Like a farmer. Waterproof coat and green Wellington boots.’
‘How old?’
‘Forty. Fifty maybe. I didn’t hang around to get a good look.’
Rawlings patted Rhodes on the shoulder. ‘Call in a sit-rep, Vic,’ he said, then jogged over to the car. Sergeant Tom Chisholm climbed out of the front passenger seat and nodded at Rawlings. Though he was the same rank as Rawlings he had more experience and he naturally assumed the role of Op Com – operational commander.
‘There’s another car on the way,’ said Chisholm. He nodded at the school building. ‘Heard anything?’
‘Five shots. Maybe six. There’s one casualty in the playground.’ Rawlings pointed at the body of the deputy headmaster.
A shot rang out from the school and the policemen flinched. ‘Make that seven,’ said the officer who was accompanying Chisholm, twenty-two-year-old Neil Sampson.
‘Okay, we’re going straight in,’ said Chisholm. ‘There are kids at risk, I’m not waiting for a senior officer.’
A police van was heading towards them. Sampson handed Chisholm his G36. ‘Let’s get in there,’ said Chisholm. ‘If there’s a bloody inspector on that bus we’ll be out here all day.’
The six men ran towards the school entrance, cradling their carbines.
4
As the armed policemen raced across the playground to the main school building, McBride was walking down the corridor towards the school’s gymnasium. In the classroom behind him was another dead girl, shot at point blank range while the rest of the pupils screamed in terror. The double doors leading to the gym were panelled with glass and McBride could see a balding teacher in a dark blue tracksuit peering at him, his hands shading his eyes.
McBride raised his shotgun and the teacher turned and ran away from the doors. McBride stopped, took a long, deep breath, exhaled slowly, and pushed the doors open. Several of the children screamed but most of them just stared at him open-mouthed. The teacher pushed his way through the children to a fire exit. He pushed the metal bar that opened the door and shouted for the pupils to get out.
McBride swept his shotgun from side to side, then settled on a dark-haired boy with girlish features who was standing with his hands over his eyes, peering through his splayed fingers. McBride stepped forward with his left leg, raised the butt to his shoulder, braced himself for the recoil and pulled the trigger. The boy’s white T-shirt burst into a vivid crimson and he fell backwards, his hands still over his face.
5
Sergeant Chisholm flinched at the gunshot. He turned to look at Rawlings, who was to his left. Chisholm grimaced and pointed straight ahead. They were moving down the corridor, checking the classrooms one by one and making sure that they were clear. They had found two dead girls in a room on the right of the corridor, and another dead girl in a room to the left. They were just about to move into the next room on the left and through the open door they could already see a dead boy sprawled on the floor.
Normal procedure would be to continue checking the rooms as they moved down the corridor, but there was only one gunman and the shot had come from immediately ahead of where they were. The gymnasium. Chisholm pointed straight ahead and Rawlings was already moving. They ran quickly, followed by their four colleagues, guns at the ready.
Their footfalls echoed off the tiled walls as they ran at full pelt but they were still twenty metres from the gymnasium doors when they heard the second shot.
6
The teacher was screaming at the children to get out, standing with his back to McBride with his arms outstretched to the side as if he could shield them with his body. The second boy that McBride had shot in the gym lay twitching on the floor under a basketball hoop. The boy was missing most of his head and the chest was a bloody mess but the legs continued to beat a tattoo on the wooden floor and his right hand was trembling.
‘Out, come on, get a move on!’ shouted the teacher. The pupils didn’t need any urging – they were all terrified, and pushed and shoved as they forced their way through the fire exit.
McBride calmly ejected the two spent cartridges and slotted in two fresh ones. His eyes were stinging from the cordite and his ears were ringing.
He walked over to a wall and slowly sat down. He used his left foot to prise the Wellington boot off his right.
He looked over at the fire exit. Most of the children were gone. The teacher was still standing with his arms outstretched, urging on the stragglers.
The doors to the gymnasium burst open and two men with black carbines appeared, crouching low and swinging their weapons around. One moved to the left and the other to the right, then two more stepped through the doors. All four were dressed in black, with Kevlar body armour and black ceramic helmets.
‘Put down the gun or we will shoot!’ shouted Chisholm. All four officers had their weapons aimed at McBride. Two more armed officers appeared and all six men fanned out across the gym, their guns trained on McBride’s chest.
‘It’s all right, boys, there’s no need for that,’ said McBride.
‘Put the gun down!’ yelled the sergeant at the top of his voice. His finger tightened on the trigger of his carbine.
In one smooth motion McBride swung the shotgun around and propped the stock on the floor. He lifted his right foot and slipped his big toe onto the trigger.
7
Sergeant Chisholm realised what the man was about to do. He lowered his carbine and began to move forward but he had only taken two steps when the shotgun exploded and the man’s head disappeared in a shower of blood and brains that splattered across the climbing bars. The sound was deafening in the combined space and the sergeant’s ears were ringing.
Neil Sampson groaned and then threw up, bending double as his chest heaved and vomit splattered over the polished wooden floor.
Sergeant Rawlings went over to the body, picked up the shotgun and broke it open, ejecting the cartridges and placing it back on the ground. ‘Weapon is clear.’
‘Let control know what’s happened,’ said Chisholm. ‘Tell them to send SOCO in.’
Sampson dropped down onto his knees and threw up again. The sergeant went over to three officers who were standing around one of the boys that had been shot. Ricky Gray was crying silently as he stared down at the body. The sergeant put a hand on his shoulder. ‘Back outside, Ricky,’ he said. ‘There’s nothing more for us to do here.’
‘Why would anyone kill a kid?’
‘Who knows?’ said Chisholm. ‘Come on, outside.’ Rawlings walked over to the second boy but even from a distance it was obvious that he was stone cold dead.
The officer shook away the sergeant’s hand. He was still holding his carbine, his finger inside the trigger guard.
‘Stand down, Ricky. Come on.’
‘Fucking bastard!’ The officer turned on his heel and walked across the gym to the dead man. It looked as if he was about to shoot the corpse but instead he drew back his right leg and began to violently kick the body, cursing and swearing with every blow.
Chisholm hurried over and grabbed Ricky’s arm. He pulled him away from the body. ‘Get a fucking grip, will you. That body’s got to be post mortemed and there’ll be hell to pay if it’s black and blue.’
‘He shot kids. Who the fuck walks around a school shooting kids?’
‘Pull yourself together, Ricky. If the top brass see you like this you’ll be off the squad.’
Ricky nodded and took a deep breath to steady himself. ‘Okay.’
The sergeant released his grip on the officer’s arm and jerked a thumb at the door. ‘Get back to the vehicle and take a chill pill. The day you start making it personal is the day when you go back on the beat. Got it?’
‘Got it, sir.’ He headed out of the door, passing two uniformed officers. One was a superintendent. Chisholm looked down at the body of the shooter and had to fight the urge to kick it. Ricky had been wrong to lose his temper but what he’d said was bang on. What sort of nutt
er would walk around a school shooting kids?
The superintendent walked up to Chisholm and nodded curtly. ‘Are you and your men okay?’ he asked.
Chisholm appreciated the concern and nodded. ‘All good. No shots fired.’
The superintendent smiled tightly. ‘Thank heaven for small mercies,’ he said. ‘The way the press is just now they’d be trying to make it out that we shot the kids.’ He grimaced. ‘This is a mess.’ He gestured at the shooter’s body. Blood was still pooling around it. ‘Any idea who he is?’
Chisholm shook his head. ‘Looks like a farmer.’
‘Did he say anything before he topped himself?’
‘Something about it being all right and there was no need for it.’
The superintendent frowned. ‘Need for what?’
‘I think he meant there was no need for us to shoot him because he was going to do it himself.’
The superintendent sighed. ‘Why didn’t he do that in the first place? Why kill the kids? I’d understand it if he was looking for suicide by cop, but if he was planning to kill himself anyway he could have done us all a favour and thrown himself under a train.’
Chisholm scratched his neck. ‘CID been informed?’
‘Yes, but taking their own sweet time, as usual.’ The superintendent looked at his watch. ‘SOCO are on their way, too.’ He looked around the gym, flinching at the bodies of the two children. ‘My kids are about their age,’ he said. ‘Why would anyone do that?’
Nightshade: The Fourth Jack Nightingale Supernatural Thriller Page 2