Kicking Off

by Jan Needle

  ‘I heard that,’ said the voice. ‘We’re go. Don’t worry, sir, we’ll be twenty minutes.’

  ‘Twenty minutes?’

  ‘I’m sorry, sir? We move by road, of course. But—’ Pendlebury cut him off. He began to punch the numbers for the RAF. They could hear fighting in the corridor.

  ‘Serple. Clear the admin staff. Down the fire escape. Arthur, is it safe? Or should we—?’ He abandoned the phone call, knowing it was ridiculous. The air base was sixty miles away. They couldn’t even land a helicopter near the prison. What could they do? Bomb the place?

  ‘Lock them in,’ said Probert. His colour was alarming now, pasty with purple blotches. ‘Lock us all in. It’s our only defence. Are there any weapons? We can’t go down the fire escape, we’d be walking into it. Are there any guns?’

  ‘No. Serple, go with the admin staff. Lock the doors and hide. Arthur. Rix. Secure this office if you can, please.’

  He began to dial the local police, cursing himself for the time he’d wasted. The phone rang out for ages, second after second. In the outer office he could hear Probert and Rix shifting furniture, barricading the door. And all the time the noise outside grew louder, wilder, overlaid by the shrill insistence of the bell.

  A young woman’s voice. She sounded bored.

  ‘Inspector Whelan, please. This is Pendlebury, at the prison. The governor. It’s an emergency.’

  ‘I’m sorry, the inspector’s not here today. Sergeant Thompson is in charge.’

  ‘Put me through to him, then.’

  ‘Well, I’ll try, but I think he’s at supper. Can you hang on for a minute?’

  ‘No!’ said Pendlebury. His voice was high, shocked.

  But it was too late, she’d put him onto hold, the musak had begun. Agreed procedure! He would have a heart attack! His instinct was to slam the phone down, to dial another number. And mercifully, the phone clicked into life again. The girl, as happy as a lark now.

  ‘Not much luck, eh, sir, we can’t find Sergeant Thompson, we think he’s left the building. Is it serious?’

  ‘It’s very serious! Put me onto the constable in charge, please. Anybody.’

  ‘I’m a constable,’ she replied, almost haughty now. ‘I’m not a switchboard girl, you know. What seems to be the trouble?’

  In the outer office there was a thunderous crash. Then more, shorter, sharper bangs. They were kicking at the door, charging it, trying to knock it down.

  ‘We have an agreed procedure,’ said Pendlebury, hopelessly. ‘There’s a riot going on. Please inform headquarters, and any cars you have available. Tell them they need arms.’

  ‘Arms?’ The girl’s voice rose a pitch. ‘What, you mean guns?’

  Pendlebury snapped.

  ‘I mean guns!’ he shouted. ‘Get onto HQ immediately! There’s a full-scale riot going on here, girl! Look out of your window and you’ll probably see smoke! This is an emergency! People might escape! They might be on the streets! Do it now!’

  ‘Oh my God,’ she said.

  Pendlebury heard a splintering that could only mean the outer door was down. He dropped the receiver and stood. At that moment he heard a pistol shot from the yard, followed shortly by another. For a fraction of an instant he thought it must be the police, or the Army. Then he knew the truth. It was too late.

  *

  Bowscar. The open prison

  For Brian Rogers and the other ringleaders, the speed at which the chaos spread was at first more a hindrance than a help. To keep control of the plan, to ensure there’d be enough armed men who knew what they were doing at the gates, they had swiftly to make contact with their teams. Rogers had arranged to rendezvous with Mike Shaw outside the D-hall sluice, but D-hall was the scene of one of the first and biggest battles between officers and inmates. Lister and Rogers, who met up on the blood-splashed tiles below where Kaye had died, were loath to get too close, in case they got involved.

  ‘Shall we go without him?’ asked Rogers. ‘We could grab a screw apiece when we get to the gate. Do we need Mike Shaw?’

  Lister thought they did. Taking hostages was messy, and could be time consuming. He’d chosen to be lead gun so that whatever happened he could be outside quickly, not bargaining with men’s lives.

  ‘Let’s go over there,’ he said. ‘Stick on the edges. Shaw’s a hard guy. He’ll get clear.’

  As they moved through the milling crowd, they spotted Billy Ford against a wall. He was laughing, and waved at them with a ten-inch carving knife.

  ‘He’s fucking drunk,’ said Rogers. ‘He’s fucking mad, that bloke.’

  ‘Where’s Tony?’ shouted Billy Ford. ‘We’ll never get out of this place if people don’t keep their appointments!’

  They were distracted by a rush of men behind them. It was a gang of about thirty black prisoners chasing Archie Watkins, a Wolverhampton EDL enthusiast who regularly conspired with a small coterie of like-minded prison officers to torment and humiliate young West Indians. As they reached a corridor, a counter-attack of Archie’s men rushed out, and the struggle burst bloodily across the whole tiled area. Out of the ruck, miraculously, Tony Snaith appeared.

  ‘Come on, Billy!’ he shouted. ‘Work to be done, you drunken twat!’

  Both of them were in a terrific humour, as if they were going on a pub crawl with transport home laid on. They pushed their way through the melée, waving.

  ‘Mad,’ said Brian Rogers. ‘I hope they remember the idea’s to get out. Fucking mad.’

  ‘There’s Shaw,’ said Lister, tersely. He did not understand the English attitude at all. Some of them treated it like a game. He wanted out.

  Shaw was bleeding heavily from a cut above one eye, and he held up a hand with two badly broken fingers. He, too, was grinning.

  ‘I got Chris Abbey,’ he said. ‘I tore his fucking ear off. Magic.’

  ‘Come on,’ said Lister. ‘Let’s go.’

  McGregor was waiting for them on the edge of the hall, and he gestured down a smoke-filled corridor. His eyes were streaming.

  ‘That one’s clear,’ he said. ‘If you can take the fumes. It’s going brilliant. The screws don’t know what’s hit them.’

  ‘Have you seen Pat and Tom?’

  ‘Aye. Tom got hit. I saw him go down with some screws on top, but I didn’t hang about. Pat fucked off like a blue-arse fly. He’s a good man, he’ll be there.’

  ‘What about some hostages?’

  ‘Tell me where they are,’ said McGregor. ‘You show me a screw, I’ll take the bastard. They’re busy, Brian, wouldn’t you just know it! There’ll be plenty near the admin.’

  The corridor they were moving down was thick with acrid smoke, but empty of life. They moved fast and carefully, watchful for attack, and when they reached the end of the passage, they stopped. An iron gate hung open, with a blue shirt, for some unfathomable reason, jammed between two upright bars. In two steps, they would be out of the prison-proper, the cell halls, and close to the laundry, the reception hall, the admin. And the gates.

  As they hesitated, three prison officers turned a corner twenty feet from them, at a run. They were in riot gear, with helmets, clubs and shields. They were almost past the motionless prisoners before they saw them, and when it registered they were shocked beyond reason. As they stumbled to a halt Lister stepped in front of them, the long Ruger pointing at the nearest stomach. Rogers, beaming with delight, presented his .38 more like a Western gunslinger than a marksman, at eye height and arm’s length, the barrel inches from an officer’s face. McGregor merely showed his small revolver, in an unassuming, casual gesture that spoke volumes. Shaw, smiling through his blood, waved a thin, honed blade.

  ‘If you drop them,’ said Lister, ‘you won’t get hurt. If you don’t, we’ll kill you.’

  Everyone knew Charles Lister. One of the officers had seen him kill Mickie White and Kaye. They dropped the clubs.

  Rogers said: ‘We don’t need three. It’s one too many. Shall I shoot one?’
/>   ‘Animal,’ said Angus McGregor.

  He put the .32 in his pocket, and bent to pick up a club. Before he could swing it, Lister jammed his stiffened fingers into the neck of the nearest officer, who dropped without opening his mouth. One of the others did, to gasp. The third was deadly silent.

  ‘You Limeys are so goddam crude,’ Charles Lister said.

  ‘Right,’ said McGregor. ‘I’ll go round that way, now Pat Parkinson’s on his own. Fuck knows if Billy Ford and Tony’ll make it, but we’ll have to hope they do. Where’s Masters?’

  ‘Fucking skulking,’ muttered Brian Rogers. ‘Bastard.’

  As he and Shaw drove the hostages forward flanked by Lister, McGregor moved off to act as fireman and cover. He moved rapidly to his right, checking doors and windows, wondering at the emptiness of the area. Judging from the din behind him in the jail, most of the officers were still trying for containment. He was very calm, with no anxiety at all. He was enjoying it.

  When the three men with their hostages reached the open doorway to the yard, they realised that some attempts had already been made to storm the gate. Without a game plan or firepower it had been a waste of time, and bloody with it. The yard was littered with debris, and several windows of the gatehouse had been broken. There were four bodies visible – or at least, four immobile men – all of them inmates. They guessed that any injured officers had been moved. Now there were about fifteen others, all with clubs and some in full gear, ranged across the gate. In the gatehouse one or two were visible, and one was on the phone.

  ‘Shit,’ spat Rogers. ‘The phones! Whose job was it to do the phones?’

  ‘Ivan Buckley and his mob,’ said Shaw. ‘So what? Ain’t you ever heard of mobiles?’

  ‘Fuck phones, anyway,’ said Lister. ‘We need outta here. Or do we wait for Ford and Snaith and Parkinson?’ As if in answer to his own question, he stepped through the doorway to the yard, into full view of the prison officers. He held the Ruger above his right shoulder, as if in salutation.

  ‘We’re going out,’ he shouted. ‘We’ve got two of your men here. Tell them inside to open up the gates.’

  The screws did not reply.

  ‘No shit,’ called Lister. ‘You better believe me. We’re going to shoot one soon.’

  He gestured with his left hand, and Rogers jabbed his gun into the kidney area of his man, who jumped forward. Shaw did the same with his. The two hostages stood in the doorway, with Lister between them and their fellows.

  ‘Take your helmets off,’ Lister ordered. ‘Let your buddies see you sweat.’

  Inside the block, as he passed the main stairway to the governor’s suite, Angus McGregor heard the roaring mob at Pendlebury’s door. He tried to ignore it, to hurry past. It was more important to get out, to find Parkinson, or Ford and Tony Snaith, to check the safety of the flank. Then he pictured Pendlebury, stooped and grey, and listened to the baying once again. Lister and Brian Rogers, he thought. Those two could handle anything. He had to go and help the man who had helped him.

  Before climbing the stairway, though, he checked all the passageways back into the main jail. There was movement halfway along one. He called out to the men, difficult to see in the rolling smoke, and they stopped. They did not look like screws.

  ‘Who’s that? It’s McGregor here, I’ve got a gun. Who are you?’

  Two of the men moved forward. They stopped twenty feet from him, underneath a recessed wall lamp. They both held knives.

  ‘Satisfied?’

  McGregor did not know Conor Brady, the Armagh Wolf, but the flat Ulster was a fair indicator. There were six or seven men, and they looked like brothers, thin, pale-skinned, black-haired. If killing screws was needed, he thought, these were the boys.

  ‘The Yank’s got hostages,’ he said. ‘He’s down that passage there. It’s looking good.’

  Without waiting for a reply, he bounded up the scrubbed stone stairs, two at a time. A yellow-painted doorway at the top led to an ante-room with polished floor, which gave onto the green-carpeted corridor to Pendlebury’s offices.

  At the farther end there was a mass of men, perhaps fifteen or more, trying to smash their way through the oaken door. Other office doors were open, and he could hear glass smashing, furniture being wrecked. A prisoner emerged as he approached one, carrying a colour printer. He had a concentrated, intent look, as if he had looted the Crown Jewels. He gazed at McGregor sightlessly, then rushed towards the stairway.

  McGregor, approaching fast, could see the door begin to give. He shouted, but his voice just added to the row. The weight of men was enormous, and would have knocked a wall down if they’d co-ordinated it. Then the door splintered from top to bottom. In the confusion of arms, legs and bodies, parts of it fell inwards, against a barricade of filing cabinets. He had an impression of two prison officers escaping through an inner doorway, and also thought he heard two shots outside. Several men had fallen in the doorway, and McGregor, moving furiously fast, ran up and over them.

  When he arrived, screeching like a dervish, the governor had already been knocked backwards from his desk onto the floor, with three men punching and tearing at his face. Arthur Probert was lying in the doorway, apparently dead, his face a dull blue-black. Les Rix had grabbed a table lamp and was in a corner, swinging it ferociously at anyone who approached.

  Angus McGregor, the Animal of old, took a flying kick at the head of one of Pendlebury’s attackers that dislocated his jaw and left him screaming. Another one he seized by the hair and jerked sideways off the governor, then he crashed his foot into the face of the third. As others came at him, their eyes as mad as his, he drew the small revolver.

  ‘Get back! Get back! Get back!’

  They stopped. Even in the outer office the noise diminished.

  ‘Sir,’ said McGregor. ‘Get to another room. I’ll get these bastards out of here.’

  ‘Angus—’

  ‘Shut your fucking mouth and move,’ McGregor snarled. ‘You’ll get me killed, I’m in a hurry! Move!’

  He began to herd the prisoners out, back into the ante-room, the corridor. The governor, half-helped by Rix, half-helping him, moved towards the conference suite. They paused by Probert’s body until McGregor waved his gun at them.

  ‘He’s dead for Christ’s sake. Move.’

  Within five seconds, the governor and Rix had gone.

  Everybody heard the locking of the door.

  ‘You prats!’ McGregor shouted at the sullen men. ‘You fucking morons. Why waste your time on him? There’s bastards galore downstairs! There’s gates to open! Just fucking go!’

  As he shouted, he moved his head a fraction backwards, and it saved his life. The downward blow missed his carotid artery by the tiniest possible margin, but still plunged deep into his neck, behind his breast-bone and into his thorax. McGregor staggered, and fell to one knee, and turned, and pulled the trigger. He did not know the knife-man, it was just some prat who didn’t like to be crossed in anything. The bullet entered just above his Adam’s apple and lodged in his brain. McGregor, falling, fired one more shot, that broke a light fitting in the ceiling. Lying on the floor, he pulled the home-made knife from the hole in his neck, and watched the others run down the passageway and disappear.

  Out in the yard, the shots from inside the admin block broke down the last resistance of the officers on the gate. They had watched the shooting of their colleague in the yard in a kind of paralysis, which had frozen, gelled, as time ran on. It had been a matter of timing. Lister hadn’t waited long enough after the first warning to let the implications sink in fully. When the men were helmetless, and white with terror, he had announced a count of only five, then placed the gun against the stomach, and pulled the trigger.

  Worse, the man had not died instantly. He was heavily built, and God knows what damage the bullet wrought on his insides. But when he collapsed, he was not still. He writhed, groaning loudly, and his left leg twitched and beat upon the ground. Two of the watching
officers, far from giving in, moved forward a pace or two, clubs raised, until Rogers levelled the .38 at them, smiling. Two more threw up, and continued to do so when Lister fired another bullet into the writhing man, which silenced him.

  ‘So clear a passage there, you guys!’ he shouted. ‘There’s more where this one came from!’

  He dragged the second hostage away from Rogers by his arm. The man’s skin had become translucent, his eyes stretched wide with near-hysteria.

  ‘This time I’ll count to ten. So if you want to save him, go get the fucking gate unlocked. Let’s move it!’

  For several seconds more, the officers held their ground. Brian Rogers, still smiling, approached to within feet of them. He raised his gun and levelled it at a face.

  ‘Open it,’ he said cheerfully. ‘Can’t you hear the fucker counting?’

  ‘Five,’ said Lister. ‘Six.’

  It was then that McGregor’s shots were heard from the governor’s suite. The hostage let out a cry, and dropped to his knees, and urinated uncontrollably. Then he began to sob. Charles Lister, leaving go his arm, kicked him violently.

  ‘Seven! Eight!’

  The officer facing Rogers’ pistol screamed to the gatehouse: ‘Open it! Open it!’

  And Rogers turned and fired a bullet at the door. The .38 jumped and smoked, and Rogers gave a whoop of pure joy, his ears still ringing from the bang.

  Seconds later the officers were running from the yard, being harried by Billy Ford and Tony Snaith at one end while Rogers crashed shot after shot towards their backs. He was not aiming, except to please himself, but he caught one man below the shoulder and crippled him for life.

  More were injured as they met the prisoners McGregor had flushed from the admin block, and more as they were hunted like rats within the smoking corridors. Lister’s hostage, who had fainted in a pool of urine, was touched no more.

  Electronically, and then with keys, the Bowscar gates were unlocked. And opened.

  NINETEEN

  The Brain Cell. Alan Hughes. The Animal

  Alan Hughes, for reasons far more complicated than mere self-preservation, had taken to his bunk long before Angus McGregor returned to the cell. At first the Scot, whose eyes had been misting periodically since he was stabbed, thought that he had gone. But Hughes uncovered his head when he heard movement, and stared at McGregor from underneath the blankets.