Kicking Off

by Jan Needle

  Rogers was seated on the bed, his trousers round his ankles, his head bent forward to untie his boots. As he looked up to demand some help, the first blow hit him almost on the top of his skull, instead of at the base where she had intended. She had put all her strength into it, though, and the hammer was square, sharp-edged, and very heavy. A fold of scalp tore back towards his neck, and the white bone, exposed, crushed in quite visibly. Sarah, heartened, raised the hammer quickly, before he could respond, and brought it down and sideways into the left temple, having read somewhere that temples were most vulnerable.

  He fell sideways, then slipped onto the deck, onto his bottom. She noticed that his penis, half-erect, was throbbing. That gave her strength to swing the hammer yet again, this time landing it between the first two strikes. There was a definite crunching, and it sank a good half-inch into his skull. When it came away, there was a plate of bone stuck onto it, with plastered hairs. Sarah’s strength was gone. She could hardly hold the hammer any more.

  Rogers looked at her. His eyes were like two bubbles filled with smoke. He seized her by the hips and pulled her down towards him. As her face passed close by his skull she saw into it, a broken egg with welling blood rolling curtain-like down the side. He seemed very strong, and the blood was pulsing, a strange bright black and red, with bits of pink stuff in it. He put his hands around her throat and began to strangle her. It was oddly undramatic, prosaic even. She was reminded of Jim Hawkins, in Treasure Island. Who was it strangling him? Israel Hands? She was interested to see that Rogers could still stand up, was moving past and over her, their bodies lubricated with his blood, his hands still clamped around her neck. Then the phone rang.

  There was a buzzing in her ears, which was displacing everything. Sarah’s interest quickened into panic, though. The mobile! It must be Michael! She tried to speak, to squawk, to scream. But Rogers, reaching for the phone, still had her neck enfolded in one big hand. His thumb was pressed into the front of it, closing her windpipe. Sarah’s eyes bulged. She would refuse to die until he’d answered it.

  It was Michael Masters, whose frantic need to hear her voice had finally aroused a spark of kindness in the Armagh Wolf. And Brian Rogers, when he heard Michael’s, laughed at him.

  ‘Fucking hell, Mikey,’ he said. ‘You would’ve been proud of her. I got you at last, mate, didn’t I? Fucking hell.’

  He dropped the handset and collapsed sideways along the alleyway. Sarah tried to move, to reach it, but it was too late.

  She heard his voice, though. He was calling Sarah. Sarah.

  TWENTY THREE

  Ten Downing Street. Double crosses

  The secret row over whether or not to save Michael’s life was swift but furious. The Prime Minister, using the unacknowledged schism between Turner and Sinclair as his rationale, called a Cabinet committee to oversee the question, and let them fight it out. It was a brilliant exercise, which meant that any decision that later proved disastrous could be blamed on anyone but him. The ransoming of hostages was dynamite. Especially if they were rich and famous prison escapees.

  As the senior, Sir Gerald outlined the problem, and his attitude. Michael Masters, he said, was first a human being, then a criminal. He had been caught up in events far beyond anything he had dabbled in, and was now entirely a victim, whose life was forfeit if the ransom were not paid. Further, he said, he had personally approached the wife, who had indicated she was willing and able to put up the money.

  To him, the moral line seemed clear – if secrecy could be maintained, the ransom should be paid. The first and fiercest voice against was SincIair’s. With hand on heart (he declared) he would love to see this person saved. But in the wider view, in the name of sanity, the government could not give in to blackmail. Sir Gerald Turner’s face grew red. He looked as if he could not believe his ears.

  ‘Blackmail?’ he said. ‘But this is not even public money! Donald, I’m surprised at you!’

  ‘Not public money this time, but how long would that last? Good God, it would set a precedent, the floodgates would open. By being kind in this one case, we’d be being cruel in general, utterly cruel. And unprincipled.’

  ‘Ah,’ murmured the PM. ‘Unprincipled. Now there’s a thought. Good one, Donald. Good one.’

  Turner was floundering. In his view the Prime Minister was practically a social fascist. It made any disagreement extremely dicey. He tried.

  ‘But surely…’ He looked round the oval table. Saw stony faces. ‘Good heavens, Mr Sinclair, your high moral tone is most impressive, certainly – but don’t you think a bullet in the head a bit excessive?’

  ‘Hear hear.’

  It was a lone voice, muffled and anonymous. But Turner took what small encouragement he could.

  ‘Many people, surely, might think Masters has suffered a fair amount already,’ he continued. ‘Six years in Bowscar must have been a pretty monstrous shock, without being caught up in a bloody insurrection and taken prisoner by a gang of savages. Your view seems to me to lack humanity. I never expected to hear you, of all men, bay for blood.’

  Sinclair remained as cool as ice, although he did flash a glance at the Prime Minister. Then he fixed the Home Secretary with an eye filled with contempt.

  ‘If I may say so,’ he said, ‘that attitude is typical. You paint this man as a minor criminal, a fiddler caught out with his hand stuck in the till. How do you know, Sir Gerald? How do you know he wasn’t a major instigator in the break-out? How do you know he wasn’t armed? How do you know he didn’t murder, maim, before he himself was captured by some more efficient thugs? Is my memory playing tricks, or did you not tell me that he’d been issuing threats from Bowscar? From the jail, on an illicit telephone? Was that not you, Sir Gerald?’

  The Prime Minister listened to the blandishments, which from Sinclair’s side were passionate. Hadn’t the campaign against crimes like violent kidnap been a personal one, a jewel in the PM’s crown, almost a crusade? Could the victims and the victims’ mothers, the public soul-searching, the promises – could they all just be set aside, forgotten? People would understand the personal grief involved in sacrificing Masters, would deeply sympathise with it. But would they understand a decision to do a ‘deal’ to save him?

  ‘From the armies of the good,’ said Sinclair, ringingly, ‘the expectation must be integrity, not shabby backroom deals, however bitter is the price. When people hear of this – when voters hear of this – integrity will die. No deal must happen, no money must be paid, not Masters’ money, not this government’s. All deals are disallowed, all secret moves are blocked. It is morality, basic morality. And if it is illiberal, so be it. Integrity must be as hard as diamonds. We owe it to our country.’

  Sir Gerald Turner was a beaten man, with a round of applause for Sinclair, led by the Prime Minister, to prove it. Bravely, he made one repeated point: no one would ever know about the ransom. They could save a life in secret. In the name of humanity, he pleaded, common humanity, that point must be considered. Nobody outside the Cabinet knew that Masters had been held to ransom. Nobody but the Cabinet and his wife. He could still be saved.

  Next morning, though, that chance was trashed. The news was splashed in every paper in the land. Michael Masters was a prisoner, and a gigantic ransom had been demanded, thought to be four million.

  Although he had a wife and children who were possibly innocent, it was noted by the tabloids and the Telegraph that the boys went to Eton, and the family fortune was astronomical. It was not mentioned that the government had blocked them from paying privately, so the assumption was they’d been too mean to offer it themselves.

  Which left Whitehall to pick up the tab as usual, said the editorials – that is, the British public, our long-suffering readers, you. Hopefully, the men in power would show some backbone for once, stand up to this exercise in common blackmail. And not before good time.

  There had been fourteen people at the meeting, and one of them had betrayed the vow of secrecy. The chan
ces of a deal were finished.

  *

  The flat. Judith and Donald

  Next evening, with the news out on every medium including FB and Twitter, Christian Fortyne teamed up with Sinclair and his mistress to write a press release, which afterwards they cleared personally with the Premier. It spoke of the Government’s collective pain at the terrible decision they had had to make, but the absolute necessity of standing firm against demands for ransoms. To save one life would have been to condemn the innocent majority to an ever-increasing spiral of blackmail and violence, et cetera, et cetera.

  They prayed to God – yes, they brought him in on this one – that the kidnappers would show compassion, a shred of common decency. If Sinclair died, the blame would fall on them alone. The Government had done their level best. No further comment would be made.

  Sinclair and Judith Parker went to their small French restaurant and had a meal. They drank a little too much wine, but didn’t bother with a taxi. Donald was on the up and up. Very soon, he would be in Turner’s job. To both of them, that now seemed quite inevitable. It was a very erotic feeling, and also made drink-driving laws irrelevant.

  As they parked Sinclair’s car in the private garage near the flat, Judith sniffed the air.

  ‘There’s a funny smell in here, darling, it’s getting worse. You haven’t got a body in the boot, have you?’

  ‘I certainly hope not!’ laughed Sinclair.

  But he opened it, and the smell was foul. He found the bunch of roses and the mussels he had bought for Mary. They were rotten.

  ‘And who were they for?’ asked Judith, although she knew quite well. Moules Bonne Femme, she thought. How bloody quaint.

  ‘You,’ he said.

  *

  On the road. Forbes and Rosanna

  When Andrew called Jackson on his mobile, he was in the Dog and Partridge, and Sky News was on. He moved away for audibility, but kept his eye fixed on the screen. The news was big. The news was terrifying. When Andrew laughed, he got an earful. By tomorrow, Jackson said, their pictures and descriptions would probably have been issued. In theory, they could be lifted any time.

  ‘Is this gen, or are you winding me up?’ asked Forbes. In the interim, he and Rosanna had absorbed what they’d heard about the ransom demand and the official knockback, but they’d got their spirits back, they felt invincible, they were on song. He’d rung, in fact, to suggest a meeting to talk tactics and drink beer.

  ‘It’s more than gen,’ said Jackson. ‘It’s from the horse’s mouth. I’m getting pure info from a contact in Special Branch since we helped with Charlie’s friends. I won’t ask where you are, but what’s the strength at your end. How’s Rosanna?’

  Forbes told him everything, grinning in the darkness, unable to break his mood. Of finding McGregor and another Bowscar con called Alan Hughes, of Sir Gerald Turner’s daughter and the secret Sinclair flat, of her caravan near Llanbedrog, of the Michael Masters scam. His elation grew.

  ‘We’ve got enough to hang the twat,’ he said. ‘We’ll even be able to spring a confrontation on him, if we’re lucky. CaroIe Rochester thinks he won’t have moved, he’s too big-headed and too idle, he thinks he’s fireproof. Otherwise, we’ll get him at the House!’

  ‘Christ,’ said Jackson. ‘You don’t half sound confident, old son. Hasn’t it occurred to you just what you mean to Sinclair? Apart from Carole Rochester, you and Rosanna are the only threat. You’re the only ones with anything at all on him.’

  ‘He doesn’t know that, though. He doesn’t know we’ve talked to her. We’re just two nuts who disappeared the night the Scar blew up. Anyway—’

  Jackson interrupted: ‘And the night two spooks got shot to death outside your house. And who’ve been baiting him for weeks about the Animal. Anyway what?’

  ‘There’s Masters, too. He’s the biggest threat, for Christ’s sake. We’re just chickenfeed. He could bring Sinclair down.’

  ‘If he’s still alive,’ said Jackson, sombrely. ‘This time they mean it, Andrew, they’re not going to pay. Sinclair put his name on it, but it was a Cabinet decision. Death warrant.’

  Forbes was shocked. He looked at Rosanna, studying a map by the courtesy light. They were in a lay-by. She glanced up, as if by instinct, and smiled at him.

  Jackson said: ‘So who’s the biggest threat now, do you think? Who’s just chickenfeed? And I told you – Sinclair put his name on it.’

  Forbes sighed.

  ‘All right,’ he said, ‘you win. Playtime over. But I’m going to see him, Peter, nothing’s going to stop me. And I’m going to keep a smile stuck on my face, OK? Got any good ideas? We need somewhere to hole up in town. Not your place, obviously. They know you.’

  Jackson mentioned an address in Clapham. It was a mutual friend of theirs, who was in Australia. It was a groundfloor flat, and the door key was under the rotten bottom of the gatepost. The phone was not connected, it was safe.

  ‘That’s good,’ said Andrew. ‘Sinclair’s gaff’s in Stockwell, not far away. We were thinking of maybe tapping up Rosanna’s Clapham contacts, but it didn’t seem a very good idea, they wouldn’t understand. Any more instructions, Uncle?’

  ‘Get into London quick, and ditch the car. Get to Clapham and don’t be seen. Apart from that, you’re on your own. Stay on your own. Stay away from me. How’s the Mouse on growing beards?’

  ‘She’s got one already, thanks, and I’m in love with it. And her.’ He stopped. There was a heaviness around his heart. ‘Oh by the way, that’s official now, old cock. All sexual fantasies obtainable only on licence from now on. You’re excluded. Sorry.’

  There was a brief pause. Then Jackson said: ‘I’m very happy for you both. Live to enjoy it.’

  He rang off before Andrew could reply.

  *

  Cellar in Gorton. Masters, Brady

  There was a smell in the cellar they took Masters too, as well, although not as bad as rotting mussels. Conor Brady was not apologetic, Conor Brady did not piss about.

  ‘Don’t worry, Michael, you’ll not have to stand it long, will you? No cash, no deal, no life. Are you religious? I guess you’re not. I hate to hang about while people pray.’

  It must be his sense of humour, Masters thought. The man did not seem to be a brute, but actions said he was. As soon as Barbara, sobbing, had told him that she could not provide the money, because the Government would not allow it, Brady had cut the connexion, and told Masters to prepare. He asked him if he’d like a final meal, a Big Mac or something luscious, and he’d laughed.

  ‘Ah never mind in any case,’ the Armagh Wolf had added. ‘Your little tart’s dead, so what’s the differ? I’d have warned you if I’d known in time, old son. Love’s always trouble. Like the man said, love fucking hurts.’

  The speed of it all had been staggering, and Masters was truly numb. His screams to Sarah had been the last feeling sounds he’d made, and now he was indifferent. So this cunt was going to kill him, so fucking what? He’d gone down to the smelly cellar like a lamb. A lamb at gunpoint.

  ‘It’s the stiffs,’ said Brady. He indicated two body bags laid out in a corner. ‘You’d’ve thought the smell of machine oil would’ve masked it, wouldn’t you?’

  Tweedledum (or Tweedledee) seemed disaffected. The two men, out of their overcoats, had followed down the cellar steps.

  ‘Fucking crap body bags,’ said the older one. ‘You should’ve gone to Costco. They’re meant to keep them sweet for months. These stiffs are fucking ’anging. Shite.’

  ‘Can’t get the staff,’ the Wolf apologised to Masters. ‘Nothing but moan, that’s all I ever hear. Peter Smith, he never moaned. The man that made the gun.’ He indicated the lathe and other tools. ‘He was the best. He had to go, though, just like you. I can’t afford to piss about.’

  It was beginning to sink in on Masters that he really was about to die. This lunatic and his mad henchmen were really going to kill him in cold blood. The body bags were real. The lumpy shapes in
side were real. Oh sweet Jesus. Sarah. Oh Sarah. My poor love.

  ‘I could get the money afterwards,’ he said. ‘There’s still a deal to do. I’m loaded, Conor. You could have the fucking lot.’

  ‘Aw come on, boss!’ It was the younger sidekick. He had produced a big handgun from somewhere, and it had a silencer. ‘I’ve got me laptop in me bag. We’re going to put it up on YouTube. It’ll go viral, it’s a fucking cert!’

  ‘I’m serious,’ said Michael Masters. ‘Everything you want. All of it.’

  ‘Ah give over,’ laughed the Armagh Wolf. He laughed a lot these days, Masters had noticed that. It made the blood run cold. ‘You’d never get the fucking cash, they won’t even let your lawful wedded wife pay out. And you’ll get on YouTube, did you not hear the man? Let that be enough for you, don’t be so fucking greedy.’

  He didn’t argue any more. He didn’t choose to care. He knelt among the debris and the swarf, and let the good smell of oil blot out the stink of decomposing flesh. Tweedledum and Tweedledee rigged up some lights, switched on a laptop, got the camera right.

  ‘Ah well,’ said Masters. ‘It was worth a try.’

  ‘And so it was,’ said Brady. ‘Look on the bright side, Michael. The trick is – never say die!’

  The sidekicks’ laughter was louder than the silenced pistol shot. Silenced by the engineering skills of Peter Smith, there present in a body bag. He would have been quite proud.

  TWENTY FOUR

  Llanbedrog. Carole, Angus, Hughes.

  The Animal, Angus John McGregor, died quite unexpectedly, after he had made a powerful rally for a while. He had asked for a bowl of soup, and when Hughes brought it to him, he found him dead. Carole came in from the kitchen, and they looked at him. He had looked like a corpse for days, but in death he was different. The lines around his mouth had gone.