by Phil Earle
But I couldn’t let that be an option. Had to get the gun out of his hand before he overpowered me.
So, with my stomach turning at the thought, I dug my knee on to his injured hand and twisted hard. He writhed in pain, the pistol slipping to the floor and into my fingers. Confident that the chopper’s beam was moving on, I scrambled away from him, threatening to throw the gun over the side of the building.
I was scared. Terrified. Of what he might do if he got hold of it or me again.
I can’t begin to tell you how it felt in my hand, except that it wasn’t powerful.
The energy it took to hold it above my head pushed me to the verge of throwing up. Jamm looked equally distressed.
‘Don’t!’ he shouted, eyes bulging. ‘Don’t. Think about it. Throw it off there and it’ll either go off or cave someone’s head in. How will that look with my fingerprints all over it? Yours too.’
I felt the gun shake, my brain telling me to let it fall to my side. But for some reason my arm wouldn’t listen, which fed Jammy further.
‘Come on, pass it over. You say you want to help me? Then give me the gun. I know what I’m doing. I deserve all this.’
‘Shut up, will you? I don’t need you telling me what to do.’ I meant it this time. This time he didn’t have all the answers. This time I did.
‘You don’t need me? Have you heard yourself? There’s not been a day when you haven’t needed me. Who taught you to tie your laces, or walked you to school cos Mum was at work? Who picked you up when you took a kicking? I leave you for three months and Hitch ends up a skeleton. Tell me again that you don’t need me.’
‘All right, I admit it, but right now, Jamm, you need me too.’
‘You reckon?’
‘I know it. You need me to get you off this roof. You need me to sort your head out. And if you mean what you say, you need me to give you the gun.’
‘So give me it. Do as you’re told for once.’
I turned the handle of the pistol towards him, but moved no closer. All of a sudden, despite the tiredness, and the confusion and the fear of what was going on, my head cleared and I knew what I had to do.
I had to sort it out before the police arrived, because no matter what I told myself, I knew that they’d find us before I could persuade Jamm down the stairs. And I couldn’t let that happen. They couldn’t find him.
‘Come on, then,’ I said, trying to make myself sound broken, like he’d worn me down. ‘Come and get it.’
I took a step forward and saw him do the same. I had no idea if this would work, whether I could do it without hurting him badly. But there wasn’t time to worry. It was all I had left and was well overdue. It was time to pay him back. To do what he and Mum didn’t think I was capable of.
So as he leaned forward to take the gun, I whipped my arm forward, the butt making contact just north of his right eye, a jagged gash tearing his forehead.
I heard a noise as he went down cold, but it didn’t come from him, it came from the stairwell behind me. It was faint, but I definitely heard it.
Voices. Police, had to be. They were coming.
There was still so much to do. I fell to the floor beside him, relief flooding over me as I heard him breathing. Without hesitation, I pulled at his hoodie, gingerly removing his bloodied arm before hoisting it over his head, avoiding his newest wound.
A second later, after removing and ripping my own jumper, which I wrapped like a bandage around his head and hand, I was wearing the hoodie myself, tying the drenched dressing from his wrist around my own.
I knew I had minutes, if that, before either he woke up, or the coppers reached me. So I pulled Jamm to a spot on the furthest edge of the roof, out of sight of the doorway. It was shadowy there, full of debris that people had dumped.
I didn’t want to do it but had no option, so I pulled everything I could find on top of him. A pram frame, traffic cones, decayed and stinking bin bags. It didn’t matter as long as it hid him and bought me time.
I raced back to the centre of the roof with one more thing to do.
Get rid of the gun.
Ditch it before anyone but the two of us saw it.
Carefully, I wiped any trace of prints from the grip and carried it, wrapped in Jamm’s hoodie, over to the vents.
Could I hide it inside one of them? No, they were all screwed tight, no time or tools to get the covers off and on.
I spun around, looking for any place I could stash it, but there was nowhere. I heard more shouts from the stairwell, louder, closer, so close I thought again about throwing the pistol over the edge of the tower.
But then I saw it. A bird’s nest, wedged on top of a water pipe and caked in years of fossilized droppings. It was perfect. Rank enough to stop people touching it but deep enough to hide something inside. The gun slid in perfectly, holster-like, every bit of it hidden.
There was no way I’d look for a gun there; I hoped no one else would make the leap either. Not until I told one of the lads to get rid of it. But that could come later. Once I’d done what was necessary.
I didn’t feel nervous as I paced towards the stairwell, not even when the voices below grew louder.
Instead I thought of Jamm, what he’d seen, what he thought he’d done.
I still had no idea how we could help him or chase the demons away. All I knew was that for now he was safest where he was. He’d find no answers curled up in a cell.
So, with a final deep breath, I stepped off the roof and on to the stairs, making as little noise as I could. I needed to get down as many steps as possible, to keep them away from the roof, Jammy and the gun.
I managed four flights before torchlight found me, voices demanding I stand still, raise my hands, face the wall.
And for once I did as I was told.
I was used to hearing orders. Usually they came from Jamm. And usually I ignored them. But not this time. This was what had to happen. I’d stepped up. It was what brothers did.
Sonny
The stairwell wall was cold against my cheek, especially after fifteen minutes rammed up against it. It wasn’t like I had a plan any more. All I’d ever had was knocking Jamm out and taking the blame. Hardly sophisticated. From this point on I was busking it.
I’d hoped they’d pat me down and whisk me away, one more scumbag to lock up while they took control on the ground.
So when they held me on the stairs and dispatched two officers to the roof, my heart started banging again.
Every second was agony. I’d no idea how long Jamm would be out for, or whether I’d dumped nearly enough stuff on him to keep him out of sight.
And as for the gun? Well, if they found that, we were in another league of trouble.
‘Are you on your own?’ they asked.
I nodded, didn’t trust my mouth not to give the game away.
Did that mean the chopper had only spotted one of us? I hoped so.
I imagined them up there, tearing the roof apart, checking the vents, bins, anything with a lid big enough to hide inside. The thought of them finding him wrecked me, had me grasping wildly at ways to pull them from their search.
‘I don’t feel well,’ I stuttered lamely.
No response. An arm still held me firmly against the wall.
‘Did you hear me? I said I don’t feel well!’ I tried to resist, make enough of a fuss that they’d need all of them to carry me to the ground floor.
It was naive. I know that now. The search didn’t end. Instead I was bounced down the stairs by two of the biggest coppers I’d ever seen, cursing them as we went, reinforcing their opinion of what a waster I was.
As we walked outside, though, I could see it wasn’t only me acting up. There were plenty of others making life difficult. The statue was only smoking now, but a handful of other fires burned instead. Waste bins had been set alight and in the far corner I could see an emergency crew tackling another blazing car. Sirens, shouts and alarms filled my ears, adding to the terror of what h
ad happened and what was yet to come. They’d make an example of someone for all this and I knew I’d be at the front of the queue, as long as they didn’t find Jammy.
They marched me across the square towards a line of riot vans, one of them rocking on its wheels, probably full of angsty Cudas. Knowing my luck I’d be thrown in with them. Still, it’d mean I wouldn’t have to face a judge: no point if there was nothing left of me to sentence.
We were only metres from the van when the next complication appeared in my path: Mum and Cam.
Their faces were packed with worry, Mum throwing herself at the copper holding me. ‘That’s my son!’ she yelled.
‘My commiserations,’ he answered, doing little for any of our moods.
‘Well, where are you taking him?’
He looked at her, disbelieving. ‘On holiday, clearly. We heard the Caribbean’s lovely this time of year.’
‘You can’t do this,’ she screamed, grappling at the cuffs strangling my hands. ‘Not without good reason.’
‘How about possession of a handgun, madam, or discharging said weapon in a public place?’
Mum let go of me, eyes squinting in disbelief as she asked me if it was true.
‘Course it’s not. They haven’t found any gun, have they? And they won’t either. It’s not true, Mum. I haven’t fired anything.’
The officer tried to take control and march me on, but not before Cam asked a question of her own.
‘Did you find him, Sonny? Did you find him?’
I had no idea what to say, not in the time I had or without giving Jamm away. My head scrambled for a cryptic answer as I was pushed into the back of a van, but I came up with nothing but a gabbled: ‘It’ll be OK. I sorted it.’
I had no idea if the truth in that statement would hold for even the next minute, but right then it was all I had. I hoped it was enough: that she could fill Mum in about Jammy without her going off the deep end.
To my relief the van was empty, and although I could see both Cam and Mum shouting at me through the tinted windows, I couldn’t hear what they were saying. Nor could they see the kicks I aimed at the walls, frustration eating me from the inside out.
What was I going to do? How long till the police gave up the search and accepted I was the only one up there?
I had to hope their patience was short, knew full well that Jammy would give himself up if he could. There was no way he’d hide out and wait for them to leave. He wanted to be punished. That’s what this was all about.
My head raced, struggling to know where to start, never mind find the answers.
I’d done the right thing, hadn’t I? What Jamm had done for me all his life. So why wasn’t it sorted?
I replayed what he’d told me, questioned everything I’d said back, whether I’d missed a way to tease him off the roof before he got happy with the gunfire.
My head reeled as sweat pooled on my face, but it was no use. I knew nothing, even by the time the van pulled up outside the police station.
The journey had been slow. It had taken half an hour to crawl off the estate, a hundred fists banging and kicking the van as we left. I tuned the noise out, kept my eyes on the top of Pickard House. It was pointless, no way would I see Jamm from so far away, but it gave me something to focus on, stopped me worrying about what lay ahead.
They marched me into the station with some urgency, bypassing a crowd of rioters who were still trying to wrestle their way free. I didn’t put up a fight. I had none left in me. Instead I answered their questions and let them take prints, not bothering to wipe the ink off when they offered me a tissue. Instead I kept my head down and my mouth shut, one eye on the stream of new arrivals.
Jamm’s face didn’t appear while I was there, and once they’d thrown me into a cell I pressed my face against the peephole, scanning for a glimpse of him.
Minutes passed slowly, torturously edging towards an hour, then two. My calves ached but I refused to sit. If Jamm saw sense and had sneaked away to find the lads, then we had a chance. I could soak up whatever they threw at me as long as it kept him safe and free. There was no way he’d survive this, not when his head was already so tattered.
I thought again about what he’d told me, about the bomb inside the ball and the endless firefights. I wondered how he’d managed to carry it all for so long.
I had no idea how to make his guilt disappear, but we’d find a way between us. We’d beg the army for help, sell everything we had if it gave us the cash for a doctor. There was no way I was coming this far to still end up failing him. It wasn’t an option.
The cells filled up around me, complaints bouncing off the walls, demands for phone calls and solicitors. One idiot even asked what time breakfast arrived, though I imagined he already knew the answer. Few of those banged up were strangers to this place.
Within hours the floor was chocker, each door closed, complete with a name scribbled in chalk. None of them read ‘James McGann’.
I started timing the gaps between new inmates arriving, feeling hopeful as the intervals got longer. I should’ve been delighted when half an hour lapsed, but that landmark passed me by. Sleep had grabbed hold of me and only let go when I heard a key scratching at the door. I stumbled backwards as it opened, stifling a groan as Jamm was shoved towards me.
They’d found him. Or he’d found them. The details didn’t matter. He was here: my plan was lying on the floor in bits.
‘We thought you’d fancy some company,’ the copper said. ‘Not that you’ll get much chat from this one. If you find out his name, give me a yell.’
He locked the door and left, no idea who he’d thrown together or the lifeline it gave us.
Silently I led Jamm to the bunk and sat him down. He was a mess. The gash to his head had been dressed, but he was caked in crusted blood. His clothes were torn and stinking, his hands a collage of bandage, blood and paint. I cringed and rubbed at them but the paint was way too stubborn.
It wasn’t good: they might not know his name yet, but the paint would lead the police straight to the graffiti in the town, if they were smart enough to make the leap. I didn’t even want to think about how many traces were on the stolen car’s steering wheel.
I had to get through to him, find out what they already knew, how we could build a story tight enough to see him march out of here by morning.
‘What happened, Jamm?’ I whispered. ‘Where did they find you?’
He didn’t answer, barely managed to blink. I crouched in front of him, my hands warming his. ‘Jamm. Come on, mate. I need you to talk to me. I can help you, you know that, don’t you?’
Nothing.
‘I know you’re mad about what I did up there and I’m sorry, but I can put all of this straight. I just need to know what happened after I left you on the roof.’
Silence.
‘Come on, Jamm!’ Irritation simmered inside me. I couldn’t believe this. We’d been gifted another chance but he was refusing to take it. He must have heard me, was staring straight back as I spoke, but for some reason he wouldn’t give me even the vaguest sign.
‘You say you can’t do this any more, be the one who carries everything around? Well, you don’t have to. I listened, you see, to what you told me up there. I can do it for you, mate. I want to. It’s time, isn’t it? Time I tied your laces for a change!’ I hoped a joke might help, but it didn’t scratch the surface. His face didn’t move or twitch, the rise and fall of his chest so controlled that you had to listen hard to even hear him breathe.
I paced in front of him, feeling myself descend into the kind of anger that always got me into trouble, but I couldn’t help it.
‘Don’t you understand what’s going on here? They’ve taken your prints. They’re running them through the computer right now. How long do you think it’s going to take them to piece it all together, Jamm? How long till they match them up to the car you wrapped round the statue? And what if they find the gun? Come on, tell me. How long?’
H
is face didn’t change, but I felt my heart break as silent tears fell down his cheeks. It wasn’t my words getting to him. I knew that. My only guess was that he was back in Afghanistan again, watching Tommo die in front of him, guilt swelling every time it happened.
It was pointless even trying to get through. His body might have been in front of me, but tonight had broken him. I closed my eyes and exhaled hard before crouching in front of him again, pulling his head into my chest.
We didn’t move or speak for minutes, not even when the door opened again, our friendly officer returning with surprise in his voice.
‘You’re never going to believe what we’ve found out.’ He laughed, though I knew he wasn’t amused. ‘You two share the same surname. Would you believe it?’
I ignored him, whispering into Jamm’s ear, ‘It’ll be OK.’
‘Not only that,’ the copper continued. ‘Turns out your address is the same too. Unbelievable, eh?’ I heard him get closer, his voice change.
‘Now I don’t know what’s going on here, but I don’t like being taken for a mug. So up you get, Sonny, your brother’s coming with me.’
I didn’t turn round or move my hands from where they rested. ‘I meant what I said,’ I whispered again. ‘It’ll all get sorted. All of this. Whatever happens, me, Mum, the lads, we know what you are. Remember that.’
Our friend was getting riled now, his boots louder on the floor. ‘I said, on your feet.’
I held my ground.
‘This is your last chance, Sonny. Move yourself before I do it for you.’
I squeezed our Jammy harder and held on tight.
The copper could say it as many times as he wanted. Call every officer left in the building. I wasn’t doing this for him or anyone else.
I was doing this for my brother.
Sonny
We stood in a line, all six of us, on the far side of the car park.
It seemed like the best place to wait: we didn’t want to smother him as soon as he appeared. If I was nervous, then how was he feeling?
Six months was a long time, and although we’d all visited, I had no idea how he’d react when he was on the outside and confronted by the whole mob.