by Graham, Tom
‘Well I ain’t holding you back,’ Gene barked at him. ‘Where d’you want to start looking?’
Sam looked about him, desperate for some hint or clue as to which way to go. And then he caught the sound of boys’ voices echoing along the corridor. He sprinted off in search of the source, Gene lumbering and wheezing behind him.
At a broken window, Sam skidded to a halt and carefully peered into the yard outside. It was filled with boys, all shouting and jeering. They were massed around the tall punishment frame where Priest and Capps had been abused and beaten, and where Sam had broken ranks and stepped in to defy McClintock’s System. But, instead of inmates hanging from the crossbar, Sam saw two warders, upside down, dangling by their ankles, their battered, swollen faces streaming with blood.
The image of Annie’s father flashed into Sam’s mind.
‘Lynching the screws, are they?’ breathed Gene, stepping up close to Sam and glancing through the broken window. ‘What you going to do, Sam? Go out there and appeal to their better natures? And what about the widows and orphaned kiddies of them warders? What you going to say to them?’
But the warders weren’t dead, not yet at any rate. The boys were rampaging about them, armed with splintery chunks of furniture, lengths of metal, even pieces of broken guttering; they aimed blows at the warders, whacking them as if they were piŮatas, but the warders were still alive and conscious, glaring back at their attackers through the blood that flowed over their faces.
At that moment, something appeared above the perimeter wall of the borstal, rising up slowly. The boys turned and started screaming abuse at it. They furiously threw lumps of wood and shattered bricks and even spit-balls. But the object of their derision was undeterred; it just kept on rising.
‘What the hell is it?’ whispered Sam, struggling to see.
‘It ain’t a “what”,’ Gene replied. ‘It’s a “who”.’
And that particular ‘who’ was Ray Carling, riding high atop a slowly rising cherry picker, peering down into the punishment yard from over the barbed wire that topped the wall. He had discarded his jacket and rolled up his shirtsleeves, heedless of the cold wind that whipped in from across the moors and plastered the pale-blue nylon of his shirt hard enough against his body to clearly reveal the outline of his string vest beneath. His low-slung tie danced and fretted on the wind.
As disdainful of the cold as he was of the missiles being lobbed at him, Ray lifted the megaphone to his mouth. A metallic howl cut through the air, making even the boys in the yard wince.
‘Right you lot!’ he boomed, his voice distorted and dehumanized by the loudhailer. ‘This is the fuzz. You are all completely nicked!’
Gales of abuse, laughter, threats and farting noises blasted back at him.
But Ray was undeterred. ‘There’s five thousand armed officers out here, ready to come steaming in there and stamp your bollocks flat, every one of you!’
‘Five thousand?’ said Sam.
‘Artistic licence,’ muttered Gene. ‘Mind games.’
Ray went on. ‘Now then. You little shitters can either pack it in with this nonsense and open them front gates, in which case you can expect to get duffed up a bit but nuffing out of the ordinary – or, you can carry on playing silly buggers and wwaaaarh!’
The megaphone squawked deafeningly.
‘Jesus, that cut right through me!’ they heard Ray exclaim. Then he tried to regain his composure. ‘You know the deal, you bastards. Open them gates, or else.’
‘Or else what?’ one of the boys yelled back at him.
‘Or else we’ll starve you out, you saucy sod!’ Ray barked back at him. ‘We can sit out here till bloody Christmas. We got food, we got fags, we got access to telly. What have you got, eh? Once you’ve scoffed all your grub, you’ll be knackered! And don’t bother turning the taps on, we’ve had the water cut. And the lecky. So, all in all, you ain’t got nuffing!’
The boys in the yard were shouting and howling, pointing at the warders hanging from the punishment frame. Evidently, they felt that what they did have was worth more to them than ‘nuffing’.
‘You let them warders go, right now!’ Ray ordered. ‘You hear me? No hostages, that ain’t fair! This is between you lot in there and us lot out here! Let them men go or I’ll— Oi! What you bloody doing?’
Without warning, Ray had suddenly begun trundling majestically sideways. The driver of the cherry picker seemed to have made up his mind he needed to be somewhere else.
‘I ain’t finished up here! Oi!’
But for reasons of his own the driver just kept going.
‘I’ll be back, you bastards!’ Ray bellowed at the boys as he rolled away. ‘I’ll be back!’
He descended to a hail of abuse and missiles, and vanished below the wall.
‘Well, that was impressive,’ muttered a distinctly unimpressed Gene Hunt. ‘Ray’s handling this wrong. He’s turning it into a siege, and I hate bloody sieges. It ain’t the Middle Ages. He’s going to get sucked in. This whole thing’ll start dragging, with negotiations and demands and quid pro flamin’ quo this way and that until we’re rattling round this flamin’ borstal with walking sticks and incontinence knickers. He needs to kick doors down, storm the gaff, and crack a few skulls.’
‘Maybe that’s what he wants to avoid,’ said Sam. ‘Maybe even Ray’s squeamish about ordering riot police to attack children.’
‘They ain’t children – not any more!’ Gene retorted, and he indicated the two screws dangling upside down and dripping blood, surrounded by jeering, knife-wielding boys. ‘Right, Tyler, I’m taking charge. First thing we do is open the gates to this place and let the heavy mob in. And, before you start bleating on like old Mother Riley, the sooner we get this place under control the sooner we can find Annie.’
Sam glanced back out of the window. The boys were rampaging about in the yard like savages, jabbing at the warders, flicking cigarette lighters under their flushed faces, waving kitchen knives at them. Were McClintock and Fellowes faring any better? And what about Annie herself? Terrible images flashed into his mind of what might have become of her. He screwed up his eyes and shook his head, forcing himself to think clearly.
‘No time for dicky-fits,’ Gene barked at him, grabbing him by the collar and dragging him roughly along.
‘You’re right, Guv. This is no time for dicky-fits!’
‘Good boy. Now, let’s get them front doors open!’
They found the main corridor that led to the front entrance. The doors had been wedged shut with a heap of smashed chairs, broken bed frames, and shattered office furniture. Two boys in regulation denim dungarees – a barrel-chested, mean-eyed bastard and a smaller, more weaselly companion – were piling more debris onto the mound. They reacted with shock when they say Sam and Gene striding up the corridor towards them.
The barrel-chested boy grabbed a chunk of wood and rushed forward. Gene caught him square in the face with a ferocious blow, splitting the lad’s nose and upper lip and sending him slithering half-conscious to the floor.
At once the smaller boy was on his knees, grovelling.
‘None of it was my idea!’ the lad howled. ‘I didn’t do anything! It was all the others!’
‘Shut your gob and start shifting this lot!’ Gene ordered, wrenching away handfuls of rubble. ‘I want these doors open in one minute flat or you, sonny, are going to find yourself intimately acquainted with this!’
He thrust his fist in front of the boy’s wide and terrified eyes. It was more than enough: the lad leapt up and frantically started hauling wreckage away from the doors.
Outside, there were voices, and the sound of movement.
‘Get yourselves ready!’ Gene bellowed. ‘We’re getting these doors open!’
‘Is that you, Guv?’ It was Chris, calling through from the other side.
‘No, it’s Raquel Welch in search of some rumpy. Of course it’s me, you berk!’
Between them, Sam and Gene and the l
ad in dungarees cleared away the wreckage. When he could reach them, Gene grabbed the handles and dramatically flung the doors open, revealing Chris and Ray standing there, backed up by a host of coppers carrying riot shields and truncheons. While all the excitement had inspired Ray to pare down to his shirt and tie, Chris had chosen to bundle himself up beneath an enormous, grey parka. So cold was he that he had zipped up the snorkel hood. He peered out from a fur-lined tunnel.
‘Stone me, it’s Madam Cholet,’ growled Gene. And then, looking past Chris at the massed riot police behind him, he added, ‘And he’s brought the dancing girls. There’s plenty of work here for you, ladies, take my word.’ With the toe of his loafer, he contemptuously nudged the prone body of the barrel-chested boy lying beside him. ‘This one’s busted, but there’s more inside. Enough for everyone.’
Chris pushed forward, moving clumsily in his bulky parka, and spoke from the depths of his snorkel hood: ‘Oh, Guv, it’s great to see you! I was worried sick about you in there!’
‘I’m touched,’ grunted Gene. ‘But tone it down, Chris, you’ll start rumours.’
Ray stepped forward and, with a certain solemnity, held out the Magnum for Gene to take.
‘She got us out of there,’ Ray said. ‘She did us proud. But her place is with you, Guv.’
Gene nodded gravely, like a knight regaining his sword, and took hold of the Magnum, curling his fingers almost sensuously around the handgrip and trigger.
The boy in dungarees was trying to sneak off, but Sam stepped in front of him.
‘Not so fast, lad,’ he said. ‘I’m looking for someone. A woman. She was here when everything kicked off. Did you see her?’
The boy nodded. ‘Aye, I saw her. Dishy lass, brown hair, tasty.’
‘What happened to her? Eh? Don’t just stand there gawping at me, tell me what happened to her!’
‘She were with that lad, the weirdo one,’ the boy said.
Gene rolled his eyes. ‘Well that narrows it down.’
‘Are you talking about Donner?’ Sam demanded, looming over the boy.
‘Donner, aye, the nutter.’
‘Annie was with Donner? What was happening?’
The boy shrugged. ‘Donner had a knife or summat. I only caught a glimpse.’
‘Where is she?’ Sam yelled, grabbing the boy by the straps of his denim dungarees. ‘Where is she?’
‘Dunno!’ the boy cried back.
‘Was she hurt? Did anyone touch her? What happened to her? Tell me where she is!’
‘Swear to you, sir, I dunno, I just don’t know!’
Sam thrust the boy away and turned towards Gene. ‘Right, that’s it, Guv. If Annie’s a hostage, we need to keep things as cool as possible round here.’
‘No, Tyler, we don’t need to “keep things cool” – we need to storm the place and get her back.’
‘It’s too dangerous, Guv! The emotional temperature in here’s high enough already. Let’s start calming things down rather than whacking up the pressure.’
‘What are you on about, you noncey twiglet?’
‘Guv, if I hadn’t stepped in that time when Priest was getting a beating, we’d still be locked in that bloody pitch-black cell! I showed him respect, and he returned it. The same will go for all these other lads.’
‘So what you going to do, Sam? Stroll out there and offer ’em a fag? Tyler, look at ’em. Barbarians, the lot of ’em!’ He renewed his grip on the Magnum. ‘There’s only one thing they respect, and it ain’t good manners.’
‘Put the gun away, Guv, that’s not going to help.’
‘Oh, you think not, eh? It didn’t do Ray and Chris no harm when they had it – they got straight out of here, no problemos.’
Ray nodded his agreement.
‘If Donner’s holding Annie hostage, I can talk to him!’ Sam said instead. ‘I talked to him before, I won a tiny ounce of his trust, I can do it again – but not to the backdrop of the riot police and guns going off.’
‘We don’t have time to prick about, Tyler!’ Gene snarled. ‘One of our officers is in here somewhere, unaccounted for. If I have to plug a few borstal brats to get her out of here in one piece, it won’t put me off me pie ’n’ mash.’ And then he bellowed, ‘Saddle up, boys! Wagons roll!’
Fearlessly, Gene strode ahead, flanked by Ray in his shirtsleeves and Chris in his snorkel parka, the massed forces of the riot squad bundling along behind. Unable to stop this juggernaut of men and weapons, Sam hurried along with it, his mind in a whirl, his imagination tormenting him with images of Annie suffering at the hands of the psychopathic Donner.
Hunt led his army straight into the punishment yard where the two screws were dangling from the crossbeam. At once, the boys stopped, and every head turned. Every pair of eyes focused on him, on Chris and Ray, on the sudden phalanx of armed police officers drawing up around them – and on the huge gun the Guv’nor had pointed straight at them.
‘Oh ’eck,’ muttered Chris, and like a frightened animal he seemed to retreat further into his snorkel hood.
But the Guv was in his element. He planted himself squarely in front of the boys and glared at them, taking his time, letting them mull over just what that Magnum would do to their soft tissues if he unleashed its awesome power. He cocked the hammer.
‘Okay, boys. Who wants candy?’
The yard fell totally silent. Nobody moved. The boys were motionless. Even the warders, hanging by their ankles, watched and waited.
Sam rushed out into the yard. He didn’t know what the hell he was going to say, but he’d think of something. He’d get Gene to put that damned gun away, he’d start talking to the boys, he’d persuade them to let the warders go and realize the hopelessness of getting drawn into a siege. He’d reach out to them, treat them like human beings, appeal to that spark of decency he knew still burned somewhere deep in the heart of every one of them. And Donner – watching, perhaps, from some high window somewhere – would see that Sam was a policeman he could trust, that he didn’t need Annie or anyone else as a hostage, that if he cooperated and behaved it would all be in his own best interests.
Or will I fail, just like I failed to save Annie’s father – just like I failed to kill Clive Gould when I had the chance?
But Sam didn’t get a chance to say or do anything, as out of nowhere there came a scream. A female scream. Everybody – Chris and Ray, Sam and Gene, the riot squad and even the borstal boys in the yard – instinctively looked about them, glancing from one barred window to another.
‘Over there!’ suggested Gene, pointing.
‘No, no, over there!’ cried Sam, pointing in the opposite direction.
‘I thought it came from up there somewhere,’ put in Chris, indicating vaguely towards the sky.
The matter was decided for them. From a smashed window on the first floor Annie cried out again, ‘Donner, please, stop, think what you’re doing!’
Sam’s blood froze in his veins. Without hesitation, he raced forward, making for a wrecked door that hung limply on the remains of its hinges.
His sudden movement galvanized the borstal boys. A high, childish, unbroken voice called out, ‘Come on boys, let’s get ’em!’ and there was a disorganized rush of bodies and clubs as the lads pressed forward, jeering and shrieking. Instantly, the riot squad responded, clashing their truncheons against their shields as they surged forward. Sam found himself caught slap-bang in the middle.
A chunk of wood caught him square in the ribs and sent him sprawling hard against a wall. He struggled up, managing to deflect one blow with his arm, but taking another straight in the stomach, doubling him up. He fell to the ground, covering his head with both hands as he took hits to his flanks and his spine. Bolts of pain shot through his body, but all he could think of was Annie and whatever the hell that lunatic Donner might be doing to her.
A powerful explosion resounded across the yard. It was the roar of a cannon. It was the blast of an atom bomb. It was the very crack of doom.
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br /> Quite suddenly, like a tap being turned off, the blows ceased. So did the whooping. Sam peered up from under the shelter of his hands and saw the boys all surging away in panic. Then, amid the confusion of rushing legs and bodies, he caught sight of a pair of off-white leather loafers planted firmly a few yards away, then a pair of eggshell-blue slacks and the hem of a camel-hair coat, a pale green shirt with a chevron-patterned kipper tie loosely knotted, manly stubble over an even more manly chin, and, at the end of an outstretched arm, a hand gloved in black leather, grasping the handgrip and trigger of a duly glittering Magnum. But the barrel of that monstrous weapon was pointed upwards, into the sky.
That single, deafening warning shot was enough. The boys were madly scrambling away, their resolve broken, their nerves in tatters. In a split second, they had gone from young men on the rampage to frightened children fleeing in terror. The riot squad swarmed after them, truncheons flailing.
He’s broken the siege, thought Sam, but he’s also broke what little trust I’d established with Donner. How the hell will that boy react? He could do anything. Anything!
Gene strode over and hauled Sam to his feet. ‘See that? You may knock ’em, Tyler, but my methods ain’t half boss.’
But Sam was already sprinting away in search of Annie.
‘A thank-you don’t cost nothing, Samuel,’ Gene called out, and then he loped off after Sam, spinning the Magnum showily on his finger, just like a real cowboy.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO: WATCH ON A CHAIN
‘This way! This way!’
Sam bounded ahead, Gene lumbering along after him with his camel-hair coat billowing.
‘You sure, Tyler? This ain’t the time for a magical mystery tour.’
‘Save your breath and keep up!’
‘Hey, what’s that?’ panted Gene, peering ahead as they ran.
Sam looked. Something appeared to be lying in a pool of spilt liquid at the far end of the corridor.
No, no! Sam’s suddenly numbed mind could think of no other word. No – no no no!
As they drew closer, they saw that it was Fellowes, the borstal governor. He was lying face up in a lake of his own blood, his throat torn wide open. Guiltily, Sam felt an overpowering sense of relief.