The Nail crept along the paved path, skirted the side of the house, and pressed an ear against the glazed panel in the back door.
Silence.
His pulse quickened. Not long now.
The door wouldn’t budge, but a child could pick the three-lever mortise lock. Wouldn’t cause him any trouble as long as they didn’t have a chain or security bar on the other side. He’d studied the front of the house long enough to know they didn’t have a burglar alarm.
Bloody morons.
You’d think a copper would know better. Twenty-three seconds it took him to get in. He counted the time off in his head. The door opened into a small kitchen. He reached into his pocket for the special pipe-smoker’s lighter and cupped his hand around the ignition nipple. With one light press of the starter button, a two-inch yellow flame with a deep blue core fired out of the blackened nozzle. The combination of the smell from the burning lighter fluid and the heat from the flame was intoxicating, and the accompanying hard-on was as familiar as it was welcome. He smiled when the flame showed him the gas hob on the cooker. The thing even had a gas-fired oven.
Mains gas. Fuckin’ ace. Could this get any sweeter?
This was going to be no challenge at all. He’d use the bag of tricks slung over his shoulder for insurance, but he was almost disappointed. He thought about setting the electronic timer on the central-heating boiler and opening up all the burners on the cooker. Instead, he followed Hammer's mantra: ‘plan everything, don’t take risks, no showboating’.
Hammer was a scary bugger, cut out a load of the Nail’s fun, but the soldier was right. The Nail would ‘KISS’ it: Keep It Simple, Stupid.
He estimated the volume of the room and worked out the time it would take the gas to fill the kitchen and combust. He did the calculations in his head. This was going to be a low-tech boom—but none the less effective.
A noise upstairs. A creaking floorboard, and then another followed by a third.
What the fuck?
The Nail froze. Held his breath, and pulled a switchblade from his jeans pocket. So what if one of them came downstairs? He’d have preferred a flame, but a knife would do the job well enough. Up close might be even better. With a flick, the stainless steel blade snapped open and flashed in the flame from the lighter. He scooted across the floor, hid in the space behind the internal door, and extinguished the flame.
He waited.
An upstairs door opened and closed with a soft click. A dribble of water passing through a drain followed by a flushing toilet allowed him to relax. The footsteps retraced their path through the upstairs, presumably to the bedroom.
He stood in the corner of the kitchen behind the closed inner door and waited. If one of the dykes needed the loo, perhaps the other would follow. Time passed slowly. He waited a full ten minutes to ensure the women upstairs went back to sleep.
It was frightening how noisy a house could be at night. The old place creaked, groaned, and sighed like an old man stretching out the kinks in his back. But the upstairs doors stayed silent and the footsteps didn’t return.
He sheathed the blade, shrugged off his backpack, and pulled out a glass bottle containing his favourite homemade combustive preparation. He opened the oven door and poured the colourless, odourless liquid into a crusty black roasting tray.
The Nail couldn’t contain a smile of pure glee as he set the oven regulator to ‘1’ but didn’t press the ignition button. He left the drop-down door slightly ajar.
Back up to the hob, he lit the smallest gas burner and set it to the lowest flame. And that was that.
The smell of his best mate, North Sea Gas, or more precisely, the smell of the odoriferous safety additive, ethyl mercaptan, seeped into the small room.
Christ, what a rush.
It would take around fifteen minutes for the gas to reach enough density to ignite. When it did, the smallest of flames would set off the concoction in the roasting tray and … kaboom!
Oh Jesus, what a sound. What a sight. What a smell.
He breathed.
That’s it, time to go.
He re-locked the back door behind him and jammed a match into the keyhole; he always carried backup matches in case the lighter failed. It paid to have a fallback position. He was careful like that. If the smell of gas woke the dykes, they wouldn’t be able to get out the back door. Climbing through windows would take time, as would making their way through the house to the front door.
Roy-the-Nail sauntered across the tiny front lawn, hopped over the wall, looked left, and then right before strolling along the pavement. A smile formed on his face so wide he knew it showed his immaculate front teeth.
Without a care in the world, the Nail didn’t look back.
Retired Staff-Sergeant Norbert Gerald Winterton, Royal Electrical and Mechanical Engineers, ‘Nobby’ to his family and friends, stirred from his comfortable but worn armchair. He rubbed heavy lids with the heels of his hands and struggled to his feet. Scruffy, his aging black-and-white border collie, raised his head, and stared at him through pleading, cloudy eyes. His tail beat fast against the threadbare carpet.
“Yes, okay boy. We’re going walkies.”
The dog leapt to attention, and on command, scampered to collect his lead from the hall table. Paws scrabbled and scratched on the faded vinyl flooring. He returned with the leather strap clamped in eager jaws.
“That’s my good boy.”
Nobby rubbed the sensitive spot behind Scruffy’s ears and the dog’s eggbeater tail swished with delight. He barked once, and once only. That was all Nobby allowed him. Scruffy’s pink tongue tickled the inside of Nobby’s wrist.
“We can’t go far tonight, lad. Hip’s playing up and I’m afraid it’s a little late. Your Daddy’s a thoughtless man isn’t he? Yes he is. Leaving it ‘til now to take you out. And look at you, boy. You’re getting as tubby as I am. We both need the exercise, eh?”
Scruffy panted as Nobby straightened from attaching the leather strap and groaned. He clutched at his hip and waited for the spasm to recede. It got worse every day. He’d been waiting sixteen months for an operation. Last time he checked, he was no further up the queue than when his consultant first put him on the cutting list.
“Still,” he told the dog, “mustn’t grumble. There’s always someone worse off than you are.”
Nobby looked at his front room and shook his head. He hadn’t decorated the place since Maire died back in ‘ninety-one.
Strewth, she’s been gone twenty years? Poor Maire. God love her.
He should have stripped the wallpaper and painted the place years ago. Now he could barely walk to the park to let Scruffy do his business. Decorating was out of the question. He had no family left alive to help either. Pete died in Iran, and little Andy gave up the fight as a baby. Chemo didn’t work well back in the 60s. Nothing did.
Nobby sighed and patted Scruffy’s flank. The dog stared up at him with the patience of a St Bernard in the summer, but the tail maintained its frantic rhythm.
Nobby sighed again and tugged on his best friend’s lead. “Come on, boy. Let’s go. But remember, slowly, slowly. I can’t walk fast anymore. Now, to heel, lad. To heel.”
Scruffy circled around behind, and followed close to Nobby’s right foot.
“Good boy,” Nobby said, and limped towards the front door. He grabbed his light summer jacket and walking stick, and pushed through to the path, but not before locking the door firmly behind him. He couldn’t be too careful these days. There had been a time when leaving the doors unlocked would be safe, but not today. Burglaries and muggings in the area worsened every year. He’d even heard about a local street-gang. Christ, the place was like a battleground some weekends.
Times change.
Outside, the road was dark.
Intermittent streetlights offered patchy light, but Nobby tramped familiar streets with his companion half-a-pace behind. Straight on past the off-licence, he avoided the pothole near the pillar-box and tu
rned left at the railings on School Lane. Twenty-five metres later, he turned right into Hobb’s Lane—and crashed into a slim young man who barrelled towards him.
Their shoulders collided and the youngster pushed him away with a straight-armed slap to the chest. Nobby’s hip clicked and a stabbing pain shot through the back of his leg. He grunted and tottered backwards. His breath caught in his throat and his lungs struggled to take in enough air.
“Fuckin’ ‘ell, Granddad,” the ignorant delinquent yelled. “Open your eyes, you useless old bastard.”
The young man stepped back and raised a fist. Nobby flinched at the expected blow and raised an arm in defence. Scruffy, the brave little lad, darted forward and planted his forepaws out front and wide, standing at hound attention. He exposed his fangs and let out a series of increasingly angry, howling barks interspersed with deep-throated growls. Nobby struggled to hold him back. The kid might have a knife. Scruffy stood brave and tall, and refused to quieten.
The thug danced back a pace or two and ducked his head. The baseball cap hid his face.
“Keep that fuckin’ mutt of yours under control or I’ll ‘ave it put down.”
“Up yours,” Nobby said, hiding his fear with bravado. It wasn’t his fault if the ignorant cretin was in too much of a hurry to look where he was going.
The young bugger stepped into the road and took a wide berth to avoid the hysterical dog. He shouted, “Cock-sucker,” and hurried away without a backward glance. A few seconds later, he disappeared down a street the other side of the school buildings.
“Good boy, Scruffy.”
Nobby ignored his hammering heart and the stabbing pain delivered by his worn-out hip, and bent at the waist to pat his best friend’s head. “You’re a big brave boy. Probably saved me from a thumping. Twenty years ago, I’d have taken that young sod apart, but that was then. That’s a good boy. You can be quiet now, lad.”
Scruffy soon calmed enough to lick Nobby’s hand. He wagged his tail again and silence returned to the deserted street. With a grunt, Nobby straightened. He dug a fist into his buttock and tried to massage the pain away.
Bloody hip.
Nobby continued their interrupted walk. “What a nasty little weasel, eh boy? It’s the parents I blame. No respect for his elders.”
Scruffy padded closer to heel. His tongue lolled to the side and his breathing subsided. Nobby tried hard to calm down, but he panted worse than his heroic little dog.
“C’mon, Nobby,” he said. “You faced worse than that in the Falklands.”
Nobby took another five paces and …
Whoompf!
The end-of-terrace house on his right disappeared in an explosion of noise and light. The roar sent Nobby back to June 14th 1982, the horror of war, and the battle of Mount Tumbledown, Falkland Islands.
Screams, the insistent boom-crack-boom of cannon and light-artillery, flying shrapnel, choking black smoke, noise, and more screams. Tracer bullets flew through the air in fiery white-orange parabolas. His best mate, Graeme Wilkinson, died that night, torn apart by a grenade. The well-remembered images flashed through Nobby’s mind. He staggered, but kept his feet.
Where’s my rifle?
“Wilko? Where are you, mate?” he screamed.
The smell of gas snapped Nobby back to the present.
A second bright yellow flash followed by a blast of superheated air punched him to his left. Something hard and angular struck his right arm, between wrist and elbow, shattering the bones and sending an electric shock of agony through his forearm. A blow to the back of the head, and another to his knee threw him to the pavement.
A fraction of a second after Nobby met the ground, another shockwave hit, bringing with it rubble, dust, and shards of flying glass.
Debris and building material peppered his back. Reflexively, his left arm flew up to protect his head from shrapnel. The broken arm wouldn’t move.
Scruffy yelped once and fell silent.
Oh no, Scruffy?
Car alarms, activated by the blast-wave, burst into a cacophonous, tuneless chorus, but the ringing in Nobby’s ears drowned most of it out.
Acrid black smoke stung his eyes and singed his nose hairs. He sneezed, violent and shuddering. The edges of his broken bone grated together and sent a new wave of pain through to his brain. He groaned and rolled onto his side to seek relief. Strangely enough, his hip didn’t hurt; new agonies overpowered the long-term ache.
“Scruffy? Where are you boy?”
He could hardly hear himself above the roar of the bright orange flames, the car alarms, and the ringing in his ears. Great tongues of mustard-yellow fire consumed the front of the gutted house. Nobby pushed with his good arm and struggled to a seated position. He wished he hadn’t.
A wave of nausea brought with it the remains of his evening meal as he caught sight of his beloved Scruffy.
“Oh Jesus, no.”
His poor broken dog lay three feet away in a tangled, crumpled heap. A triangle of glass grew out of his ribcage. A growing pool of blood bloomed on the pavement under the hideous gaping wound.
“Scruff?”
At the sound of Nobby’s voice, the old dog flicked his tail and tried to raise his head.
Scruffy whimpered.
Blinded by smoke and tears, Nobby dragged himself by his working arm and leg to the side of his dog and rubbed his friend’s nuzzle.
Scruffy licked his hand once.
“Scruff, Scruffy, boy, stay with me. Please.”
The dog stilled. The blood-pool on the pavement stopped growing. In Nobby’s devastated mind, Scruffy and Wilko lay side-by-side on the concrete paving slabs.
He hugged his dog as he hugged Graeme Wilkinson all those years ago, and he wept.
A quarter mile away, the boom made Roy-the-Nail come in an exploding orgasm of pure, trembling joy. He stopped, leaned against a nearby fence, and turned to soak in the glory of his work. The sky laughed with a gorgeous orange glow. No sunset or sunrise had ever been as beautiful.
The Nail thought about the geriatric and the vicious fucking hound. Would the old bastard be able to recognise him later? On the other hand, they had been headed in the right direction and the timing was pretty good.
With luck, the old fucker and his mutt would have joined the dykes. He grinned, gave a little fist pump, did a two-footed Ali shuffle, and began his search for an old car to steal. London beckoned as did a date with a nice young girl—a very nice, very young girl indeed.
24
Late Friday evening - Jenkins goes to hospital
Time since Flynn’s death: ten hours
Jenkins squirmed in his seat. The half-hour spent in the hospital waiting area, coupled with the delay at the airport had sent his blood pressure into the stratosphere. He popped another pill although the last one had done little to help. The bug he placed behind a flowerpot on the reception desk told him nothing. Nobody near the counter said word one about the girl. He wondered how long he’d be able to keep still before exploding with frustration when the earwig clicked and Hammer’s voice crackled in his ear.
“The girl’s … ward … oom 151.”
Jenkins whispered into the wrist microphone. “You’re breaking up. Say again.”
“…moved to the window. That better?”
“Perfect. What did you say?”
“I’ve found the girl. Private ward on the fifteenth floor. Take a lift to the fourteenth and climb up from there. I’ll meet you on the landing.”
Jenkins hesitated for a moment. “Right. I’m on my way.”
“Can you climb stairs? If not, I’ll do this alone.”
Jenkins bit back his immediate response. For fuck’s sake, who did he think he was?
“Yes, I can climb stairs,” Jenkins hissed through clenched teeth. “Don’t do anything ‘til I get there. I want tae see the look on her face when we take her.”
Jenkins struggled to his feet and located the bank of four lifts at the far end of the ground fl
oor. He chose a route that took him past the reception desk to retrieve his bug. For once, he didn’t try to minimise his shambling gait. If there was one place his limp wouldn’t raise any interest, it was a hospital.
He exited the metal box at floor fourteen and followed a sign pointing to the staircase.
He lifted his wrist to his lips and whispered. “Where are you?”
“Room 151. Top of the stairs. First door on the left.”
“What? I told you to wait for me. Damn it.”
“It’s sorted. Get up here.”
What did he mean by ‘sorted’? That was the trouble with having to hire others to do his dirty work. If his fucking back weren’t so damned useless, he’d have done the heavy lifting without help. Degenerative spondylitis, a rare spinal condition, and he had to have it.
God’s fucking whacked out sense of humour.
Jenkins climbed the stairs slowly, leading with his right leg, the left dragged behind like a reluctant schoolchild on its way to the headmaster’s office. By the time he made the fifteenth floor landing, he was in a bath of sweat and a mood as black as the floor tiles.
The exit door pulled open on silent, well-oiled hinges. On the private ward, Jenkins expected little else.
He poked his head into the spotless carpeted corridor stretching out to his right. Colourful landscape prints adorned the walls. Dark-wood shelves carrying cut flowers lined the spaces between the room doors. The scent of flowers and the serenity reminded him of a funeral parlour.
How fitting.
He edged through the door. Voices from the far end of the corridor sent him diving back into the stairwell, breathing hard. He pressed his ear to the wooden panel and waited for a count of twenty before cracking open the door, no more than a centimetre, to listen. The sounds died.
Jenkins ventured into the hall again, half expecting to see a couple of uniformed coppers on duty outside Hollie’s room—or their dead bodies on the floor. He saw nothing but the empty hallway.
Jenkins followed Hammer’s terse instructions and paused outside the door. What was he going to find behind it, a battlefield? An abattoir?
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