Kicking Off

by Jan Needle

  ‘Angus. What’s happened to you? Have you seen Matthew Jerrold?’

  McGregor stumbled, and lowered himself onto the chair. He was very pale, his skin glistening with sweat, and he held a bloody handkerchief to his neck. In the other hand he had the small revolver.

  ‘Get up,’ he said. ‘You’re coming with me.’

  Hughes did not believe him. He could not imagine why.

  ‘Angus, you’re hurt. Have you been shot?’

  McGregor lifted the revolver from his side and aimed at Hughes. The aim was not steady.

  ‘Alan, I’m not joking. You’re coming too. Move fast. You know I’ll shoot you. You know I’m mad.’

  ‘But why?’ asked Hughes. He pulled the covers back. He was fully dressed, including shoes.

  ‘Because I want to talk to the Home Secretary. I want to have a word with him before I die. I want to ask him why he did it to my brother.’

  ‘For Christ’s sake, Angus! I just used to be a neighbour of the man! Years ago! How should I know if he lives there any more?’

  He lowered himself to the floor, however. McGregor’s face was full of pain, his eyes were bright. Hughes did not want to die.

  ‘It’s worth a try. Some bastard’s stabbed me in the neck. I’ll not be getting far, will I? I’ll not be drinking in the Sarry Heid this fucking Hogmanay. We’ll go and have a look. You never know.’

  Hughes did not want to stay, particularly. The stench of burning and the constant, undiminished noise would drive him insane soon. The whole thing was sickening, the reality so much worse than anything he’d foreseen.

  ‘Will we get out? Did it work?’

  ‘Oh, like a fucking charm,’ McGregor said, sarcastically. ‘Like clockwork, Alan. The screws unlocked the gates and everyone filed out, in good order. The charabancs were waiting, and the governor dished out sherbet dips. You should’ve been there.’ He gave a snort of laughter. ‘l don’t know for certain. I went to save the governor from Ivan Buckley, I’m as daft as you are. But I reckon so, it worked. There’s a constant flow of bastards heading for the gates.’

  There was, in fact, still chaos in the hall below them when they went onto the balcony. Several pitched battles were being fought, all, as far as Hughes could see, between gangs of inmates. On the higher levels, small groups were smashing cells, throwing bedding, tables, anything, into the nets. If the nets gave way, the fighting men below would probably be killed.

  McGregor was still bleeding, and he was unsteady on his feet. But the grip he took of Hughes’ arm was strong, and the revolver in his right hand jutted pugnaciously whenever anyone took an interest in them. Hughes, despite himself, was fascinated. The fabric of the place was scarred, defaced, as if men had tried to hurt the stone and brick. There were fires everywhere, torn water pipes were gushing, and electrical trunking had been smashed off the walls and ceilings. The damage must run into millions, if parts of Bowscar could be saved at all. That much, he did find satisfying.

  The main gates and yard reminded him of newsreel film from Europe in the aftermath of war. There was a refugee air to it, a sense of purposelessness mixed with purpose. Men were moving out through the open gates, not unexpectedly, but men were also moving in. Others were undecided, and just hung about, greeting acquaintances with a hollow jollity that was almost comical. Yet more had taken up the attitude of guards, were holding the officers’ discarded clubs in stances of aggression. They were the barons’ men, preventing the biggest debtors from escaping. Another small knot of D-hallers were beating blacks and Asians back into the jail, with John Peel cries of satisfaction. And there were the gates themselves, and towers, and the smoke. Berlin, after the surrender.

  McGregor, because of his condition and his gun, got some peculiar looks, but no one challenged them. Hughes, to his utter disbelief, quite suddenly found himself outside the gates in a darkening and rather chilly evening, smelling fresh, clean air. He marvelled at the lengthening shadows, the sunshine blazing redly on the west-facing windows of not-too-distant houses, the newly-greening trees, the fields, the clouds, the sky. He was filled with a tremendous excitement, a childlike sense of wonder. Whatever happened next, this moment had made it worth it.

  Peculiarly, the world outside Bowscar was still behaving almost normally. The villagers themselves, although not very close, knew that something had gone wrong, but did not know quite what. It was ten minutes or so since the first alarms had been heard, and children had been called in just in case, and curtains, oddly, drawn. Many people had realised it was more serious than most alerts, and become alarmed. A single call to the police had become a trickle, and soon the flood would jam the switchboard. Some people, seeing smoke, had rung the fire brigade, and some, sensing a profit, the newspapers. But so far, there had been no sirens, no fire engines, no Army trucks, no police.

  The traffic through the village was hardly affected yet. It was never heavy, but some motorists who knew the jail slowed down when they saw the men outside the main gate, down the access road, until toots from behind hurried them along. Most people guessed there was a fire in the Scar, which would account for the bells and smoke, and assumed some of the inmates, under heavy supervision, had been led out for their safety. Having deduced this, some drivers, for their safety, wanted to speed on. Some dawdled, though, despite the tooting. And some stopped.

  The car that halted nearest McGregor and Hughes was a Fiat Uno. The driver was a youth of nineteen or so, and his companion was a pretty blonde of seventeen. They could see one of the men was bleeding, but it didn’t occur to them they were in any danger.

  When they were close, McGregor pushed Hughes into a stumbling run, while holding on to him for support. Hughes saw the faces through the windscreen change, the girl’s mouth opening to scream as McGregor flopped forward onto the car and wrenched the passenger door open.

  Hughes did not move. He did not know what would happen next. And jumped in horror as the muzzle flashed. The girl’s face, hit just below the cheekbone, tore redly in front of his eyes, a ball of blood springing brightly from her right temple as he seemed to hear the bang.

  Then McGregor seized her by the hair and jerked her towards him, simultaneously firing over her. Both these reports reached Hughes’ ears like one, and there was a lot of blood, and the muzzle – how, he did not know – was pointed at him.

  McGregor moved fast and crabwise round the bonnet, and pulled the other door open. He dragged the driver out backwards, making a circular movement with his pistol, some sort of order. Hughes passed the bonnet, stepped over the bleeding youth, and fell into the driving seat. The engine was still running.

  ‘Drive,’ said McGregor. Mysteriously, he was in the passenger seat, wiping blood from the inside of the windscreen with his sleeve, pointing the revolver at Hughes’ head. He made a small sound of disgust.

  ‘Yeach. Messy wee bitch. Curiosity killed the fucking cat.’

  For the first time in seven years, Alan Hughes engaged a gear, switched on his winking indicator, checked over his shoulder and in his mirror, and pulled away. Even on auto-pilot, he hadn’t lost the knack.

  *

  Inside and out. Michael Masters.

  The car that Masters went away in was not a Fiat Uno, it was a powerful black Mercedes, with darkened glass. He was as disoriented as Hughes had been though, and he was also under guard. The driver was not much more than twenty, and was chunky, with short blond hair. Riding shotgun – literally – was an older man, and he was bald. Across the back seat from Michael sat the dark-faced Irishman, Conor Brady. Not a terrorist, no one would ever dare insult him like that. He was apolitical, just a good old-fashioned master criminal. Masters was an earner. Masters had been lifted for his cash.

  Ever since Charles Lister had warned him of his need to have a gun, Masters had thought about the danger he was in. Even to an idiot, his millions would make him a better than usual hostage if they did break out, and at best he could be a passport to freedom and riches. Although he didn’t dis
count Lister himself, his most likely candidate had always been Brian Rogers, and he’d set out from the cell determined to shoot him if he had to. A ransom would be bad enough. A rape would be immeasurably worse.

  Masters was a big man, blond and quite conspicuous, so he quickly developed a technique of pushing smaller men aside quite brutally, and of ducking into cells to hide. One officer confronted him inside the entrance to a sluice, and Masters seized his arm, took him off balance, and hurled him backwards into the white-tiled wall. To prisoners who seemed inclined to threaten him, he showed the pistol and assumed a Die Hard look. His progress was rapid.

  There were perhaps a hundred prisoners in the yard when he broke into daylight, and more were pouring out from every exit. The inner electronic gate was already open, and men were hauling at the great old wooden doors. He spotted Lister on the fringes of the mass, and searched for a glimpse of Rogers. As they all swept out on to the public road he felt him before he saw him. Or rather, he felt the barrel of the Smith and Wesson jammed just below his ribs. He smelled the big man’s breath and heard his voice. It was rich with triumph.

  ‘Oh, there you are, my little bum chum,’ he said. ‘I wondered where you’d slithered to. Give us the pop-gun, eh?’

  Mike Shaw, without a qualm, walked up to the little jutting pistol and closed his good hand over it. Masters could feel the heat from the muzzle of the .38 through his shirt, and dismissed a snap desire to pull the trigger. Stay calm, he thought, stay calm. At least you’re still alive.

  ‘Silly cunt,’ mocked Rogers, affectionately, when Masters was safely covered with his own .25. He flipped the Smith and Wesson open. ‘Empty, weren’t it?’

  He pulled a handful of cartridges from his pocket, and as he winked at Masters, a high-velocity hunting bullet hit his partner in the eye. Shaw’s brains sprayed out behind him like dynamic candy floss.

  ‘Thanks for telling me,’ said Conor Brady. He stooped like lightning to snatch up the fallen gun, which clicked metallically against the tiny weapon hidden in his hand. ‘It was a good man made this wee piece for me, but it’s only single shot. Don’t bother loading any more there, Brian. I’d hate to have to kill you too. And look – the lads are here at last!’

  The events had been so quick and startling that Masters had not realised they concerned him too. But when the Wolf had finished mocking Rogers, two short men in overcoats materialised, one with a .357 Magnum, the other with an Uzi submachine gun. Although his brain was almost numb, he had a terrifying sense of loss as they pushed him into the big Mercedes and sped away from Bowscar.

  Sarah Williams knew it was the day he came to join her. He had sent a final text. Cynthia’s Beam lay less than two miles from the prison. Cynthia’s Beam, and Sarah. She was waiting for him.

  *

  Outside the Scar. Charles Lister.

  The man Charles Lister targeted, before he walked on two hundred yards to meet up with his friends, was Billy Ford, another one of Brian Rogers’ oafish sidekicks. It was something he had thought over often, something Ford had said. It was a piece of information he thought might come in useful.

  The last time Lister had seen him, Ford had been chasing screws with Tony Snaith. Rather than follow the hunt into the building, Lister had positioned himself near the gates and waited. He had briefly spotted Michael Masters looking like a nervous amateur with the tiny automatic, then seen Rogers and Mike Shaw take him from behind. That was a matter of some slight regret, because he liked the rich Englishman, but Billy Ford’s red head emerged then from a door a hundred yards away, and Lister went for him.

  Ford had a broken billyclub in his left hand and a bloody knife in his right. He had lost his companion somewhere, and seemed in two minds whether to go for the gates with the rest of the growing crowd, or to look for some more mayhem. His eyes lit up with drunken recognition when he saw Charles Lister.

  ‘What a good do, eh!’ he cried. ‘What a brilliant fucking do! We’ve killed three of the cunts, no danger. Here – we even electrocuted one of them! We chucked him on a wire and held him there with sticks. Fucking stink!’

  Lister levelled his long-barrelled Ruger at Billy’s stomach.

  ‘That farm,’ he said. ‘World’s End or someplace. Where’s it at, exactly?’

  ‘Go easy, mate!’ said Ford. ‘You’re on my side!’

  ‘I’m in a hurry, Bill. Don’t fuck me off, will you?’

  Ford laughed. He seemed to find it funny.

  ‘No skin off my nose, Charlie. It’s called Pratt’s Farm, OK? World’s End. There’s a little village a few miles north of Portsmouth, off the old London Road, called Denmead. Pick up the signs for World’s End there, and Pratt’s Farm’s in a wood, near a pub called the Chairmen, or something like that. Something to do with chairs, you can’t miss it. Just past it there’s a lane to Pratt’s. It’s marked. It leads into this wood, it’s brilliant. A fucking foxhole.’

  ‘Pratt’s Farm, World’s End, Denmead, Portsmouth to London Road,’ repeated Lister, to nods. Then he shot him.

  ‘Sorry, Billy. I just don’t want no one else to know, OK? See you, feller.’

  He shot him a second time, in the head, for luck.

  ‘Hallelujah,’ he muttered. ‘I ought to get a bounty from the government.’

  Lister’s team had also got a high-performance car, an automatic BMW, which was warmed and purring, ready to move off. They all smiled hugely as he walked towards them, even Al Pruchak, who was not given to exercising his face that much. Syvil leapt out of the back seat, and gave him a hug and a light kiss on the mouth.

  ‘Jesus, Chuck,’ she said. ‘Is it good to see you, babe.’

  ‘One thing wrong,’ said Lister, before getting in. ‘Sidney, for fuck’s sake get out of that driver’s seat. This is England, are you crazy?’

  Sidney Gibbin was bemused. He was wearing a cream silk shirt and a tartan golfing cap.

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘This car cost eighty thousand bucks, and you’re a nigger, right? How many times they stopped you so far?’

  ‘You’re putting me on, man!’

  ‘We didn’t see no cops,’ said Pete Delano. ‘Are you kidding, Chuck?’

  ‘Unless you’ve got a chauffeur suit for him, the hell I am. Sidney. Out.’

  When they were moving, with Gibbin in the back and Syvil Hollis driving, Lister pulled another little stunt. The plan, Pruchak told him, was to head for Manchester, then fly back Stateside via Frankfurt. They had tickets, passports, luggage, everything.

  ‘No,’ said Lister. ‘We head for London.’

  ‘London! But London’ll be crawling! By tonight London’ll be Africa, the jungle. Heathrow Airport—’

  ‘Fuck Heathrow. I have a little business first. Something to attend to. So what the hell about Heathrow, anyway? Will Manchester be different? Birmingham? You’re fooling yourselves. We attend to something first, then hide up for a day or two. Talk to some friends. Cook something up.’

  Pruchak and Delano were inclined to argue, almost to sulk. The documents were brilliant, the plan perfection. They could be flying out of England in less than four hours’ time. The chances of being picked up so soon were zilch.

  Lister was conciliatory.

  ‘OK, OK,’ he said. ‘You guys may be right, okay? But I got something I must do. Business. Look, for fuck sake! Have I ever let you down? Ever? Ain’t I here? I just walked out of fucking jail to please you guys! Hey, you should see the scars around my asshole! These English hoods are wild!’

  They all laughed, and the argument was over. They talked comfortably of the small ship on its way to Florida. Of one hundred and sixty million bucks.

  Twelve miles from the prison, heading for the M6 and London, they were passed by a police car at high speed, going the way they’d come.

  ‘Holy shit,’ said Sidney. ‘They sure in for some fun.’

  ‘Damn good thing you weren’t driving,’ smiled Chuck Lister.

  *

  London. Sinclair and J
udith Parker.

  It was 7.57 pm precisely when Donald Sinclair heard that something had happened at Bowscar Prison. Although it was so early, he and Judith were in a small French restaurant that they liked, and they had finished their first course. Sinclair was going home to Mary, and he did not intend to be late. Judith did not know it, but he was hoping to patch up the domestic rift to some extent. In the boot of his car was an expensive bunch of roses, and a quart of mussels which he would cook for her.

  The mobile in his inside pocket vibrated just as the waiter was serving Sinclair’s lamb cutlets. He checked the LED and cursed. Fortyne. He pushed his chair back. Too noisy in the restaurant to hear.

  ‘Sorry about this. I won’t be a minute, it’s only Christian.’

  The reason that they liked the place was its anonymity. It was just off Cambridge Circus, and it was anything but high-class. The food was fine, the house wine adequate, and it was dark and full of bustle – just the sort of spot a rising politician could take his mistress. That was good.

  The call, though, was disastrous. Even beyond the ruck, Fortyne’s voice was almost drowned out by the restaurant clatter.

  ‘Is this really necessary?’ Sinclair shouted, after failing twice to catch what he was being told. ‘I’m in the middle of a meal!’

  ‘Bowscar!’ Fortyne shouted back. ‘It’s up to you, but—’ But the rest was lost. Then he heard, ‘...seems quite sanguine, but I’m not so sure. In fact he’s delirious. The Army operation—’

  His voice was gone again, but Sinclair had heard enough.

  ‘I’m on my way!’ he yelled. To the waiter he snapped, ‘My bill, please. Quickly.’ He went back to the table with both coats and told Judith the news.

  When they arrived at Queen Anne’s Gate, Fortyne was already fielding phone calls from the press – so far non-urgent, seeking information. They’d had reports from local residents that there was trouble at the Scar, so was it true? Was it worthwhile going up there? Was there anything to it? No, Fortyne had told them stoutly, it was an exercise, a fire drill. Prisoners on the streets? Ridiculous! People had heard the bell, presumably, and must have panicked. No, he didn’t know why the local police weren’t answering, maybe they were all out working. He signalled Judith Parker to his chair.