Kicking Off

by Jan Needle

  ‘Can you take over? You’ll only get one call at a time, I’ve told the switchboard.’

  As she sat, he added to Sinclair ‘I’ve also rung the MOD and told them to say nothing, absolutely nothing, if some crafty scribe tries them. All calls referred to us, on pain of death, I think they got the message. Actually’ – back to Judith – ‘I doubt if we’ll get many more for a while. The local stringers have been on and I’ve stone-walled them. I don’t think the dailies or TV’ll latch on yet. Unless the Army blows its mouth off.’

  He told Sinclair what they knew, which was very little. Operation Cicero had been triggered by the governor, who had then got off the line in something of a panic. The police had been alerted, and everyone had gone racing off to Bowscar. Nobody had scrambled the RAF, and on balance he thought that was a good thing. It would be almost dark by the time a helicopter got there, and it would just add to the general panic.

  ‘But is anybody out?’ demanded Sinclair. ‘Is it a riot, or is it a break-out? Doesn’t anybody know?’

  ‘Sir Gerald,’ said Christian Fortyne, pushing his spectacles slyly up his nose, ‘is convinced that no one will escape. The governor’s panicking, he assured me – just as you will panic. He’s very pleased indeed with the way the Army operation went. Like a well-oiled machine. He was disinclined to even bother you with the situation. It will be all over by the morning. Finished. As will your reputation, if and when the story leaks.’

  ‘Where is he?’ Donald asked.

  ‘He’s in his club, and he’s a little drunk, I have to tell you. Euphoria, I expect. A well-oiled machine.’

  Judith Parker waved a telephone.

  ‘It’s for you, Christian,’ she said. ‘Ministry of Defence.’ Fortyne listened for some minutes, nodding and making noises of agreement. ‘Thank you,’ he said at last. ‘That’s very clear. The minister is in the building, and we’ll return your call. Keep to hand if possible, please. Yes, thank you.’

  When he turned back to Sinclair, his face was impassive, the Eton sang-froid unassailable.

  ‘Donald,’ he said, ‘it’s serious. The Army are inside Bowscar. Parts of it are on fire, parts are being held by prisoners. There are some dead, and many hostages. I said you’d ring them back.’

  ‘I heard. What about escapes? Anybody?’

  ‘Dozens, maybe more. Nobody knows. The Army and police are organising roadblocks, and any minute now the phones will be going mad. I’ll rustle up some staff, and we’ll need a joint committee with the MOD. The Home Office is perhaps the best location, we’ve got the files and plans and things, but you’ll need to sort that out with the defence wallahs. Their minister’s on his way from Devon.’

  ‘And Sir Gerald?’

  ‘I’d say we were a little busy at the moment, wouldn’t you? When I called him half an hour ago I told you his response. He also mentioned how good his relations with the military are. They’re sure to tell him, aren’t they?’

  Sinclair let out a little hiss through his nostrils.

  ‘Dangerous game,’ he said. ‘He’ll be expecting updates if the situation gets worse.’

  Fortyne looked straight into his eyes.

  ‘I thought you wanted to screw him, Donald. I doubt you’ll ever get a better stab at it.’

  Judith’s phone was ringing. The green one, dedicated to the press.

  ‘What shall I tell them? What’s the tactic?’

  ‘The usual one,’ said Sinclair. He knew Fortyne was right. If things were as bad as they sounded, he would not get a second chance. He had to take it. To Fortyne he said: ‘We’ve got to cut the village off. We’ll need a cordon sanitaire of eight or ten miles. Get your staff while I talk to the MOD. Then I want the police chiefs for Staffs and all the bordering counties, plus fire chiefs and medicos. Jesus, Christian. Jumping Jesus.’

  ‘But someone saw it coming, didn’t they?’ said Fortyne. ‘And others didn’t.’

  Judith had put on her most mellifluous, least mocking, voice. She was talking to the reptiles.

  ‘Look honestly, she said, ‘If you want to drive all the way to deepest Staffordshire, you’re welcome to. I don’t believe the natives still practise cannibalism up there, although I wouldn’t put money on it. But we’ve heard nothing here that’s causing us alarm, nothing at all. No, I will not meet you for a drink.’ She put the phone down.

  ‘Thank God for British journalists,’ she said.

  *

  Fat Man and Paddy Collins.

  The fat man and Paddy Collins were watching Forbes’ house when Lister and his friends turned up. Today’s car was a Vauxhall Viva, and they were chilly. The bodyworks was mainly rust, and the wind was weeping through it and playing with their feet. About the only parts of it that worked well were the electronics, although the camera sometimes jammed. The seats, according to the fat man, were even harder on his piles than the Lada’s.

  ‘Jesus,’ said Collins, when the limo nosed down the street. ‘Some rich bastard’s lost his way. He must think this is Knightsbridge.’

  ‘Probably a fresh delivery of tarts for Forbes. He must be almost sick of fucking the skinny one by now. I’m sick of looking at her.’

  ‘Nah,’ said Collins. ‘One thing I’ve noticed about him. Nobody, no one, ever visits him by car. That’s training, that. Surveillance. I bet you never clocked it.’

  The fat man sucked his teeth. He cast his mind back to see if it could be true. He was admitting nothing.

  ‘They’re looking for somebody,’ Collins said. ‘They’re looking for a number. Maybe this will be a first, old son. See if that bleeding camera will point.’

  His companion leaned forward and pressed the button. The computer beeped and the aerial whirred and swivelled. The BMW was close to Forbes’ door by now, its bonnet level with the bumper of the rusting Porsche. It had almost stopped.

  ‘You can tell they’re rich,’ said Paddy. ‘They think he’s in because the light’s on. No coons where they come from, eh mate? No need to fool the burgling swine.’

  ‘They’ve brought one with them,’ the fat man said. ‘Classy, eh?’

  ‘Never!’

  ‘Use your eyes. One coon. That’s training, that is. Surveillance.’

  As the car edged into the kerb, Sidney Gibbin climbed out, followed by Delano. On the nearside Lister emerged, and Pruchak. The camera whirred and clicked. It was dark, but the fat man knew his gear. They’d come out a funny colour, especially the black man, but they’d come out. As they looked up the steps to the front door, he got a lovely group.

  Charles Lister bounded up the steps, and hammered on the door. He waited for perhaps twenty seconds, then stood back a pace. He lifted his left leg and smashed it into the panel. The other men moved up with him.

  ‘Fuck!’ said Paddy Collins. ‘Are they ours?’

  ‘Buggery they are. I checked everybody out today. We’re on our own.’

  ‘Check again.’

  The door to Forbes’ house was stout, and stouter since the last official burglary. By the time it splintered open, HQ had confirmed they were alone. What’s more, it was not desirable for others to sniff around inside, they might find things.

  Paddy and the fat man, reluctantly, left their draughty sanctuary. They did not glance at the BMW, so when they paused at the top of the steps and drew out pistols, Syvil Hollis, as much to warn the men inside as anything, shot Paddy Collins in the back. The fat man, turning fast for one so bulky, took a nine millimetre bullet in the side, then a .44 from Prochak in the rib-cage, which threw him clean into the street. The men leapt into the car and Syvil hit the gas.

  An hour later, Rosanna and Andrew saw the activity around their house from three hundred yards away, and stopped to watch. Police cars, ambulances, arc-lights. They had been in the Princess Louise planning their next move over Bowscar with Jackson and his American oppo John de Sallis, and they were merry. Now they sobered rapidly.

  ‘Jings,’ said Rosanna, uncertainly. ‘You sure know how to show a gir
l a good time, and no mistake. What is it?’

  ‘Am I psychic?’

  He turned her round in one smooth movement and headed back the way they’d come, keeping to the shadows.

  ‘Where are we going? There’s ambulances. Could it be an accident?’

  ‘We can’t risk finding out, can we? Look, why don’t we go tonight? To Bowscar. Instead of just ringing Pendlebury in the morning? We could try that pub again. See if they’ll give us our old room back.’

  Now they were moving away again, the threat seemed drastically diminished, the situation almost funny. Rosanna giggled.

  ‘You’re pissed,’ she said. ‘You’re running scared. We haven’t got a car.’

  ‘You’re pissed,’ he said. ‘I am the older, more mature party, saving you from impetuous behaviour. And we still haven’t got a car.’

  They held hands, happily. They’d been complaining in the pub that things were slowing down, that something had to happen.

  ‘Peter’s place?’ suggested Rosanna. ‘Then an early start to see our man? We could come back and check the house out in the morning.’

  He simulated shock.

  ‘What! Four in a bed? Mouse, that’s disgraceful!’

  ‘No!’ said Rosanna. ‘You don’t mean he’s sleeping with de Sallis! He’s not gay, is he?’

  ‘Hardly. He fancies you something rotten. I’ve slept with him, and I’m not gay.’

  ‘You’re not black, though. John de Sallis is.’

  ‘Oh, you’re a racist, too? A racist homophobic.’

  ‘I wouldn’t mind a fuck,’ said Rosanna. ‘With you. What does that make me?’

  ‘A very sensible wee wumman,’ said Forbes. ‘Let’s find a hotel.’

  ‘Done.’

  ‘Oh for God’s sake,’ said Andrew Forbes. ‘Don’t be so impatient!’

  *

  Cynthia’s Beam. Sarah.

  Since the last, brief text had come, Sarah Williams had been experiencing her very own literary cliché. The Agony and the Ecstasy, she thought time after time, and could not help being thrilled however much she thought it. He was coming, he would be here soon, and Sarah really could not bear the joy. The text, from his normal prison mobile, had been brief.

  Thing, I’m out Two/three hrs. Can’t wait.

  He’d called her Thing. Their secret. And although there had been nothing on the radio about a breakout, she knew that it was true. By the round brass clock on the after bulkhead he was running late, now, which made the agony outweigh the ecstasy. And then joy swooped back again. Thing. He could not wait. She loved him frantically.

  Outside, the night was cold and very black. The boat was moored round a bend a hundred yards from Bridge 47, which was on a tiny country road leading, roughly, from nowhere to nowhere. The tow-path was fringed with a thick, tall hedge, and the other side of the canal rose steeply from the water, with trees and underbrush. Sarah had been rather proud of her choice of spot. Apart from two anglers and a handful of passing boats, she’d seen nobody since she’d moored. Now, with the cheerful fire pumping out the heat, it was the perfect nest. The love nest.

  Sarah stood, impatient with her impatience, and went to stir the casserole on the stove. That had been another brainwave. Michael could turn up at midnight or the early hours and the food would be all right. If they were too keen on other things to eat, then that was all right, too. She was wearing a long, soft crimson skirt and an Indian cotton top, sheer and beautiful. She had on neither bra nor pants.

  Pausing only to take a mouthful of Rioja from the crystal glass on the work-top –there was champagne in the fridge for later – Sarah turned towards the forward cabin. She thought maybe that she should stop this nonsense, that she should change. When Michael got here he would be tired, hungry, and probably in a state. He would not be thinking of seduction scenes and candlelight. She was going to put some knickers on, and her jeans, and a shapeless, hairy jumper.

  With that thought the boat rolled slightly in the water, and Sarah had a tremendous surge of joy. Somebody had stepped onto the side deck by the hatchway, someone heavy. She darted aft and put her hand onto the door latch, then stopped herself, but only just. It was locked, of course, it had to be, and at the bed head, just beneath the pillow, was the four-pound mooring hammer. Should she get it?

  Very softly, she called out.

  ‘Hallo? Who’s there?’

  ‘Thing?’

  Sarah choked on happiness. She had a twinge of love that she felt from her scalp down through her fingernails and beyond. She slipped the catch and twisted the handle and opened the door. Brian Rogers crashed it back against its hinges as she gaped, and stepped inside, and struck her once across the face before she had time to scream. He locked the door and tore her red skirt off and straddled her legs open with his knees inside her thighs while he unbelted and unzipped. Then he seized two handfuls of her hair and pulled her face to his penis and drove it, urine-stinking, between her teeth. Sarah tried to bite, then vomited. He punched her face until it was bloody, then wiped the sick off both of them with a cover and threw it to the deck. Then he raped her anally, then made her suck, then forced it, limp, into her vagina with three stiff fingers and his thumb. After ten minutes he stood up, his trousers and stained underpants dropped around his knees, and drank the bottle of Rioja, which had been three-quarters full, from the neck. He leered at her.

  ‘That’s what you get,’ he said. ‘For borrowing my mobile phone. Tell Michael.’

  TWENTY

  Queen Anne’s Gate. Sinclair, Fortyne, Turner.

  By eight o’clock next morning it was clear to Donald Sinclair that the disaster he had predicted, and which Sir Gerald Turner had pooh-poohed, had indeed occurred. It was also clear that the Home Secretary, faced with mounting reports of a human slagheap spreading across the Midlands, of rape, burglary and murder, had gone to pieces. Where Sinclair had been cool-headed in response, Turner had dithered, where Sinclair had been ruthless, he had been woolly. And Sinclair had struck.

  Sir Gerald, in fact, had not returned to the Home Office until nearly 2 am, and he had not been sober. At first he seemed unable to grasp quite what was going on, the large number of people in the suite of rooms, the fact of MOD personnel manning telephones. When he had been told of road-blocks, of ports and airports alerted, of troop movements onto no fewer than seven other jails, he had tended to the apoplectic.

  ‘That can’t be right,’ he spluttered. ‘I’ve been with two generals. The last we heard—’

  Sinclair said crisply: ‘Things moved very fast. We tried to contact you, but the commanders on the ground and the police chiefs were insistent that decisions must be made. We know of five people killed already, two shot, the others stabbed or strangled. There’ve been rapes. There might be two hundred men free.’

  ‘Good God. If this gets out... What about the prison? What about the village?’

  ‘Isolated. All phones cut, all roads blocked. The Army have completed their preliminary reconnaissance at the prison, and are waiting for the order. Now you’re here, of course, that lies in your hands.’

  Sir Gerald was becoming increasingly confused.

  ‘What order? How do you mean?’

  Fortyne and Sinclair exchanged a glance.

  ‘To go in,’ said Sinclair. ‘It will be very bloody, but I don’t think there’s much alternative, do you? There are hostages, and some of them will die. A lot of the men are armed, as well. But at least it’s night. No one will see.’

  Turner was quite genuinely horrified.

  ‘Hostages! You’d risk their lives like that? How many hostages?’

  Fortyne said: ‘Quantity unknown, exactly. We think between twenty five and forty. More than two hundred officers have been identified, and we’re afraid that several were murdered. We have a hundred and twenty-three in hospital, and the governor’s being held, we think. An officer called Rix escaped, and he was with Pendlebury shortly after the thing blew up. Incidentally, he says the Animal’s
probably out.’

  ‘Apparently he saved the governor’s life,’ put in Sinclair. ‘Rather ironic if Pendlebury loses it being rescued. I suppose it’s not entirely without symmetry.’

  Sir Gerald Turner went brick red.

  ‘I find your sense of humour filthy! This is not the time for jokes! I countermand the order. It will not be given. We can’t possibly risk so many innocent lives until we’ve had a proper assessment of the situation.’

  Sinclair remained unruffled.

  ‘It’s an emergency. There could be far more casualties if we don’t go in till morning. Potentially it’s the biggest emergency this country’s faced for years.’

  ‘Then let’s treat it as such! Let a State of Emergency be declared, if it’s necessary. But that, laddie, is not a matter for you, it’s a matter for the Cabinet, who I’ll be convening before breakfast. Until they’ve met, there’ll be no more bloodletting, do you hear? Good God, Sinclair, I thought you were a liberal!’

  Not in this, thought Sinclair, as Sir Gerald turned away, in this I’m a survivor. If we can’t end this soon, if we can’t stop the bald truth coming out, we’re finished. And I’m bloody sure I’m closer to the PM’s pulse on this than you are – bloody sure.

  With this in mind, and despite the Home Secretary’s ruling that the Prime Minister must not be woken up, Sinclair later had a private conference with Fortyne and Judith Parker. The upshot was that Fortyne rang the PM’s press supremo, Velma Goodman, at 5 am, and gave her a detailed briefing. He mentioned Sir Gerald’s early dismissal of all Sinclair’s warnings, and said he had refused to end the siege but was insistent that a State of Emergency must be called – a tantamount admission that the government had lost control.