A Real Job

by David Lowe

  Two shots rang out.

  Quinn’s body fell on Steve. Amazed he was still alive, he opened his eyes. Pushing the lifeless body off him two more shots quickly followed. Looking up, he saw McCrossan fall to the ground clutching his stomach, dropping his pistol on the lawn. Three bright orange flashes briefly lit up the unseasonably cold autumn darkness as more shots were fired towards O’Byrne who was running away towards the back of the garden. Vaulting over the garden wall, he disappeared out of view.

  ‘Stevey, are you alright?’ a familiar voice shouted. The Liverpool accent that at times grated on Steve’s nerves was now one of the most pleasing sounds he had ever heard. Shaking uncontrollably, continuous waves of relief were sweeping through his body. Gathering his senses he saw Detective Constable David Hurst standing over Quinn.

  ‘Fuck me, you cut that fine,’ Steve said struggling to get to his feet while looking at the lifeless Quinn who, only moments earlier was prepared to take the officer’s life, ‘a few seconds more and they would’ve killed me.’

  ‘I knew something was wrong when you didn’t answer the radio,’ David said. With both hands on his pistol’s grip, fearing he could still be a threat to their safety he was running to the back of the garden to search for O’Byrne.

  Not able to forget the words “we were told” and “our man was right”, David’s words didn’t register with Steve who shouted out angrily, ‘They knew I was here, they fucking knew.’

  Stood at the garden wall David Hurst momentarily stopped looking for O’Byrne. ‘They knew?’ he said looking at Steve in disbelief, ‘How the fuck did they know?’

  ‘One of them said they were told exactly where I was and that I was Special Branch. Someone from our side tipped the bastards off we’re here.’

  ‘Are you saying it was one of ours?’ David asked with a tone of incredulity as he continued to search the area at the rear of the garden.

  Steve didn’t answer. Standing in the middle of the garden he was too relieved to be alive. The fact it was still a dangerous situation as two of the four targets were unaccounted for eluded him. Emotions running wild, the thought he nearly died because one of their own was passing on intelligence to the Provisional IRA was becoming too much for his shattered nerves to contemplate.

  The thick clouds allowed only limited moonlight to filter through enhancing the darkness of the night making it harder for David to look for O’Byrne. Unable to find him, as the fourth member of this terrorist cell was still unaccounted for David ignored his gut reaction to tend to Steve, ‘Where’s McElvaney?’ he said looking back at the house.

  ‘I don’t know. He most probably ran out the front of the house after hearing the gunfire.’

  ‘You could be right. We’d better be careful he doesn’t come back. If he meets up with O’Byrne and comes back, they won’t be too happy I took out two of theirs,’ David said walking over to Steve. Guiding his close friend to the edge of the patio, using the light coming from the open kitchen door he looked at Steve and said, ‘Jesus! You’re face is a fucking mess and you’re bleeding like a stuck pig at the back of your head. Are you OK?’

  Steve placed his hand to the back of his head. Feeling the area around his blood matted hair, he touched the wound. Being tender he winced. Looking at the blood he smeared on his hand from the cut, Steve said, ‘They whacked me over the head a couple of times after they found me, then I got a good kicking.’ The adrenaline in his body began to ebb causing him to incrementally feel pain all over his body. Placing his hand on his ribcage Steve said, ‘I think they’re broke.’

  ‘Pat, did you kill the fucking peeler?’ a voice shouted from inside the kitchen.

  Raising his pistol, David turned in an instant to see a man inside the kitchen approaching the back door leading straight onto the rear patio. Six foot tall and in his early twenties with distinctive blonde hair, the officer instantly recognised Daniel McElvaney. On hearing the shots, the Irishman thought it was his comrades killing the police officer they had been tipped off was watching them. This fourth member of the terrorist cell had not gone out of the front of the house as Steve suspected. He was stood in the doorway, his right hand behind his back.

  ‘Armed police! Stand still. If you don’t do as I say you’ll be joining your mates lying here,’ David shouted training his pistol at the tall Irishman. He couldn’t tell, but assumed McElvaney was armed. An assumption enhanced at not being able to see the Irishman’s right hand. Annoyed at his sloppiness in accepting Steve’s word, the word of a man who was not thinking straight, David knew he should have looked for McElvaney before tending to Steve. With McElvaney’s gaze fixed on the detective’s Berretta pistol pointing at him, David shouted out, ‘Slowly, bring you right hand from behind your back.’

  Weighing up his options, McElvaney stayed rigid. Beyond David he saw two of his comrades lying on the floor. It dawned on him he couldn’t rush the officer or make any sudden movement without being shot. McElvaney’s inactivity seemed like an eternity. His patience wearing thin, David shouted, ‘Do as I fucking say or I’ll kill you as well.’

  ‘OK, OK, don’t shoot,’ McElvaney shouted back, trying to make sure the officer could not see his right hand fidgeting behind his back above the belt of his denim jeans.

  ‘Do as I say and I won’t?’ David shouted back.

  ‘I can see I’m fucking going nowhere. I’ll do as you say,’ McElvaney said hoping the officer would momentarily drop his guard.

  ‘Slowly, bring your right hand from behind your back with the palm facing me.’

  Able to hold the grip of the point thirty five revolver tucked into the back of his denims, McElvaney drew the weapon. Bringing it from behind his back, it glistened briefly in the kitchen light.

  Seeing he was armed David’s automatic instinct to open fire kicked in. As he had been watching the Irishman’s right hand, David’s aim had dropped slightly. Missing McElvaney’s arm by millimetres the Irishman dropped the revolver. Knowing the police were trained to give a double tap, he immediately threw his hands up in the air just as David was about to squeeze the trigger for a second time.

  In a fraction of a second David had raised his pistol and was aiming it squarely at McElvaney’s chest as he was about to take the second shot. Resisting the temptation to take the shot, David’s discipline and training was stronger than his instinct. ‘You fucking bastard! Keep your hands up and slowly take five paces towards me onto the patio,’ David said as part of him wanted McElvaney to make a sudden movement so he could kill him. Knowing the killing would not be murder because he would have acted in self-defence, he warned McElvaney, ‘One sudden movement from you, you twat and you’ll be definitely joining your two fucking mates.’

  Hearing the shot fired re-booted Steve’s police training. Pushing his pain to one side he ran over to David who was keeping his eyes firmly on McElvaney. Sensing Steve standing alongside him, moaning from one of the targets lying on the lawn got louder. ‘One of them’s still alive,’ David said to Steve, ‘Go and check and make sure they can’t get us. I’ll get this one down on the floor. Don’t worry, if he doesn’t do as I say, I’ll blow the bastard away.’

  While David dealt with McElvaney, Steve walked over to the two men on the lawn. Seeing his weapon that O’Byrne found on him and dropped in panic when he ran off, he picked it up. Seeing the safety catch was still on explained why O’Byrne couldn’t return fire when David opened up on Quinn. Switching the safety catch off, he looked at McCrossan who was rolling slightly on his side clutching his stomach. That, along with his moaning, told Steve he was alive. Noticing McCrossan’s pistol lying a few yards from him, to make sure he couldn’t reach for it Steve kicked it across the lawn away from the Irishman.

  Walking quickly over to Quinn, Steve knelt down by his body. Seeing the large exit wound from the front of the skull and a lifeless stare from Quinn’s eyes that were still op
en, Steve still placed his fingers on the Irishman’s neck. As he suspected, there was no pulse. Seeing his warrant card next to the body he picked it up. With the pain getting worse, Steve put his hand on his ribs as he stood up and started walking over to McCrossan. Looking over to make sure David was alright, seeing McElvaney laying face down on the patio, arms outstretched with David standing over him, he knew his friend was in control. McCrossan was still holding his stomach when he looked up at Steve who started kicking the Irishman’s ribcage shouting, ‘How do you like it, you Irish bastard?’

  Hearing the screams coming from McCrossan, without taking his eyes off McElvaney, David shouted over to Steve. ‘Leave him! Let’s get McElvaney sorted first.’

  Steve stopped kicking McCrossan. Walking over to assist David he said, ‘I was only checking to see if the fucker’s still alive.’ Standing over McElvaney, Steve put his pistol away in his shoulder holster. Crouching down to search him, the pain in his ribs was getting worse causing Steve to grimace.

  Sensing Steve might treat him the same way he had McCrossan, McElvaney said, ‘I told you, I’ll do as you say.’

  Pausing for a moment, Steve looked at David and said, ‘I don’t remember giving him permission to speak.’ Looking at the IRA man lying on the patio by the open back door, he could taste blood coming from cuts inside his mouth. Reminding him how close he was to not seeing his wife and child, the officer’s blood chilled once more.

  ‘Steve! Leave it mate,’ David said sensing his friend was about to lose his temper again, ‘Cuff him and I’ll call for an ambulance for the one that’s still alive.’

  Updating the control room of the situation David Hurst kept his gun trained on McElvaney while Steve felt around the back of his trouser belt. Not being in the pouch, he realised one of the targets had also taken his handcuffs. Taking hold of McElvaney’s hands Steve overlapped them and placed them on small of the Irishman’s back. Putting his weight on them, he leant into McElvaney’s back and said to David, ‘The fuckers have taken my cuffs as well, hand me yours.’ With the pistol in his right hand, David Hurst kept it aimed at McElvaney while with his left hand David Hurst took the radio away from his ear and placed it in his coat pocket then reached out to the back of his denim jeans. Undoing the pouch, he released his handcuffs and held them out. His sight permanently fixed on McElvaney, Steve reached out. Feeling for the handcuffs, he took them off David. As he began to put them on the Irishman’s wrists he said, ‘Don’t move or you’ll know about it.’ Once the handcuffs were around the wrists, Steve tightened the handcuff ratchets so tight they dug into McElvaney’s flesh, puncturing his skin. As blood started to trickle from his wrists, McElvaney turned his head and looked at the officer. ‘I told you not to fucking move,’ Steve shouted, punching the IRA man hard in the face. Turning to David he said, ‘You saw him resisting arrest didn’t you?’

  ‘Too right I did. They never learn do they?’

  Helped to his feet by Steve, with blood streaming from his nose, McElvaney glared at the two officers. As David put his pistol back into his shoulder holster, the Irishman said, ‘You English bastards.’

  Pointing to David, Steve said, ‘Get it fucking right, he’s half Irish.’

  Leaning into David’s face, McElvaney said, ‘If you can kill an Irishman, you’ve no Irish blood in you. You’re a dead man and that’s no threat.’ Then emphasising each word, he chillingly whispered into David’s ear, ‘that’s a fucking promise.’

  Chapter Two

  Warwick Lane, London,

  17.10 hours, Wednesday,

  27th June, present day

  Peter Hurst entered the Trafalgar Arms pub in Warwick Lane, close to the Old Bailey courts in London. On seeing his twin brother, David Hurst got out of his seat and walking over to him said, ‘Peter over here, I’m glad you could make it.’ His trial adjourned for the day and carrying his bag containing his barrister’s wig and gown, Peter Hurst decided not to go straight back to his chambers. With the case David’s counter-terrorism team were involved in having come to an end, he sent his twin a text message telling him to join him in the pub. Inseparable as children, with David living and working in the north-west of England and Peter living in London, as adults they rarely got the opportunity to see each other. Unable to hide the joy at seeing his brother, smiling broadly, David said, ‘Let’s get a drink first, then I’ll introduce you to the team.’

  Now a detective sergeant in Greater Manchester Police’s Special Branch Counter-Terrorism Unit, David’s detective inspector, George Byrne, MI5’s northern region senior intelligence officer, Craig MacDonald and MI5 police liaison officer, Debbie Heron had already joined David and his team in the Georgian built pub. Celebrating the conviction of two Al Qaeda terrorists they arrested during an operation several months earlier, the group were sitting on the bench seats in the rear of the room the original frosted glass said was the “Lounge”.

  As they walked to the bar Peter said, ‘You all seem happy. I assume it was a positive result?’

  ‘One got three life sentences to run concurrently with a recommendation to serve a minimum of thirty years, the other got fifteen years, so I’d definitely call that a good result.’

  ‘Seeing how there were no other trials from the Manchester area running at the Old Bailey, were you part of that terrorist case that’s been in the news the last couple of weeks?’

  ‘Yes,’ David said after ordering the drinks.

  ‘How come your squad got involved with terrorists? Was there a drugs link?’

  ‘Something like that. We only had a minor role in the case,’ David said dismissively, hoping Peter would change the subject. Only telling his family he was a detective in a CID department he never told them he investigated terrorist crimes.

  ‘Still, that’s some result and just as well seeing how it was such a high profile case. There are hordes of news reporters camped out on the Old Bailey’s steps getting ready for the six o’clock bulletins,’ Peter said looking behind him. ‘I can see Steve Adams and George Byrne, but the one I’m looking forward to meeting is Debbie. I’m keen to meet the woman that’s turned my big brother’s head. Where is she?’

  ‘I’m right here,’ a female voice said next to him. Peter turned to see a woman in her early thirties, dressed in a dark suit, with well groomed dark shoulder length hair. Used to making accurate first impressions of the many clients he met, while admiring her soft facial features betraying a comfortable upbringing, there was something about her he could not put his finger on. Clearly a confident person, there was something in her eyes exuding the similar unnerving look his brother had. Holding out her hand she said, ‘You must be Peter. It’s nice to finally meet you.’

  ‘You too Debbie,’ Peter said. Shaking hands with her, he continued looking her up and down. Having only images of Debbie based on her voice from brief telephone conversations when he rang David’s flat in Ancoats, Manchester, he wondered how a privately educated ambassador’s daughter could end up with his brother raised in one of the poorest areas of Liverpool.

  Seeing him eye her up and down, Debbie said, ‘Well, am I what you imagined me to be?’

  Embarrassed at being caught staring at her, he said, ‘Oh no.’ Gathering his composure, he added, ‘I was thinking how you look too much of a lady to be with that brother of mine.’

  ‘I heard that,’ David said passing him a pint of bitter. ‘Here you are love,’ he said passing Debbie a glass of red wine. As Peter went to take a sip, his brother patted him forcefully on his back saying, ‘Get that down your neck.’

  Causing Peter to spill his beer, he began wiping his tie and turned to Debbie. ‘It’s certainly not his manners that you see in him.’

  Compared to David, she noticed Peter’s Liverpool accent had softened to a point of non-existence. That was not the only difference. Being non-identical twins, apart from having fair hair to Peter’s dark hair, D
avid was a good five inches taller and Debbie reckoned he was around twenty pounds heavier than Peter. ‘He can be well mannered when he wants to be. He’s just showing off in front of that lot over there,’ Debbie said looking over towards the rest of David’s team, who were getting louder the more they drank.

  ‘How come he’s not unveiled you to the family yet?’ Peter asked, surreptitiously taking in every one of Debbie’s features knowing his mother and sister would want to know every minor detail.

  ‘Every time we plan to go over to Liverpool or come down here to meet you something’s cropped up at work, so it’s been really difficult to arrange anything. A job’s coming up where I’m assisting David’s team, so hopefully I’ll finally get to meet your parents. You work with Craig MacDonald’s brother, Alistair don’t you?’ Debbie asked changing the subject.

  ‘Yes. We share the same office at chambers, but not for much longer. I got some good news this morning, but I think I should tell our David first. Would you excuse me for a moment?’

  ‘Of course,’ Debbie said turning to David who was talking to one of his team, ‘David, Peter’s got something to tell you.’

  ‘Don’t tell me you’re pregnant,’ David said laughing, ‘Seriously, it’s good news I hope?’

  ‘I received a letter from the Lord Chancellor’s office this morning. I’m now Peter Hurst QC.’

  Hugging Peter with spontaneous delight, David said, ‘That’s great news. Have you told Mum and Dad yet?’