Bridging the Gulf
Malcolm Hollingdrake
One Man’s Fight for Justice
©2019 Malcolm Hollingdrake
Malcolm Hollingdrake has asserted his rights in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.
Published by Malcolm Hollingdrake.
First published in eBook format in 2012
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this eBook on-screen. No part of the text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage or retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express permission of the Publisher.
All names, characters, places, organisations, businesses and events are either a product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely co-incidental.
Also by
Malcolm Hollingdrake
Shadows from the Past Short Stories for Short Journeys
The Harrogate Crime Series
Only the Dead
Hell’s Gate
Flesh Evidence
Game Point
Dying Art
Crossed Out
The Third Breath
Treble Clef
For my wife Debbie.
For your love, help and support.
x
Prologue
1998
His mind was blank, he was without clear thought and had been for longer than he would have wished. It was as though his thought processes had been paralysed. At first, they had joked about the periods of blackness, his ‘dark side’, as they had referred to it. It had steadily grown until the light and the dark merged and they laughed little at that stage: Concern and fear had forced themselves inevitably into their lives bringing with them uncertainty; as the creeping inability grew, their laughter faded.
It had been worse for their son who had never really understood his father's moods, the complete swings from happiness to anger. They were too hidden and he was too young, but swings they definitely were, swings that brought anger, violence, frustration and pity within one short moment of life. The family was crumbling before their eyes and there was nothing to be done. How quickly the avenues of hope dried up and the tears grew.
Vicky had threatened to leave twice but failed to act; her love for this man was stronger than she had imagined. They had so much to live for, their son and the baby she carried.
***
The wind tugged gently at his clothes and he was impervious to the drizzle. He was alone, wrapped in an anger and blackness that had enveloped his being. He knew not from where he had come from. He scrambled onto the parapet of the bridge looking down into the void and the green, dark waters of the ship canal that glittered like a snail's track along a wet stone. His eyes followed its length. In the distance, amongst twinkling lights was his house; it was no longer his home.
The dawn was on the horizon and the sky hung heavily. Behind him his car's hazard lights flashed their warning but the passing motorists failed to notice the sad, lonely figure of humanity high up on the bridge, their myopic vision concentrating on the strip of tarmac ahead through the spray.
The low aircraft, strobes flashing brightly against the low cloud, flew above clawing its way to land. It would be the last thing on which he focused. To him it was an aggressor, here to inflict pain, bring death. For seconds he was back in the Gulf War, the rain, the cold, the noise flooded his confusion; he was terrified and alone. He tried to keep the moving lights in view as his stomach-wrenching fall began. No scream came to his lips as he plummeted through the darkness. He remembered nothing after hitting the water. At last he had found peace.
***
The body was found much later in the day and only then did the true horror of the incident come to light. The police had received no response from the house of the deceased and only after questioning neighbours and hearing their concerns did they break through the back door. It did not matter how long you had served in the force you never got used to the uglier side of policing, and the sight that greeted the officers was neither pretty nor understandable.
Even though there were no external marks of violence to the body, the child was dead, alone on the bed surrounded by his toys, his wide, unblinking eyes staring through the polythene bag at the swinging mobile. In the next room lay his mother, she had suffered a terrible beating; she would neither walk nor see again. It would have been far kinder for her life to have been taken that night, with her children and her husband.
***
The press coverage of the tragedy was graphic with varying degrees of sensitivity. The television news also gained its pound of flesh as it ran and re-ran pictures of the house and the motorway bridge. It was the name that struck Roy Hanna first and made him stop and think. He had known this man well in the past. They had fought together and they had sought help for their symptoms after the fighting had ceased. He knew what he had faced. His battle was over but Roy's was only just beginning.
Chapter One
1999
The bridge spanned not only the Douglas Valley with its meagre river, trickling brown through the lush reeds that tried to choke it, but the canal and railway as well. Above him streamed the constant flow of traffic heading north and south, pounding the bridge relentlessly day and night, three hundred and sixty-five days a year. Even as dusk approached it was clear that night came early to the valley and with it a reduction in man-made sounds.
The canal towpath, always a popular recreational highway, gave easy pedestrian access to the bridge. Over the years, many foolhardy youths had challenged themselves to the task of balancing along the beams that traversed the pillars, to emblazon the bridge's flanks with aerosol initials. It was clear too that one slip, one startled pigeon, could cause a loss of balance and a predictable conclusion after falling twenty-two metres.
The bridge's span was approximately two hundred metres supported by sixteen concrete cylindrical legs. Strong. By contrast, the Semtex B was like a ball of grey plasticine: no smell, no weight and at this stage without menace. Within the bag were ten pieces of identical size and weight, a small palmtop computer and a set of night glasses, as well as detonators, pliers, tape, grease, a strong tube of construction grip adhesive and wire. Roy Hanna followed the canal towpath whistling quietly to himself, to focus the mind. His suit had been left in the car and he wore lightweight canvas climbing boots, jeans and a thin, breathable jacket. On his head was a peaked baseball cap.
The light from the lock-keeper's cottage was the only visible electric light under the bridge. It stood next to the locks as if turning its back on its reason for life. The main windows looked over the woods, river and the motorway bridge. Its occupants were going to have a grandstand seat! Once over the locks, a narrow path led through a pasture towards the railway line that ran down the valley. Crossing, Roy stopped to watch the silhouetted flight of a heron returning to its nesting site. The great, majestic bird flew gracefully above him, its legs thrusting rearward in an attempt to streamline its form. Roy continued following the path leading up the banking and onto the underside beams of the bridge. The beams ran onto the large, concrete lintel, semi submerged into the banking, making it ridiculously easy to climb along them. Three metres high and finished at their base like an inverted "T", the beams gave ample foot space and the enclosed back not only afforded security but obscurity. Ab
out two metres above the outside girder ran steel drainage pipes, perfectly positioned for handholds; the task was now so easy. He soon followed the path of the graffiti artists, walking on the girders, right gloved hand sliding along the pipe above, his whistling echoing alongside the sharp, metallic rattle of vehicles. He always worked alone, always had. It felt better that way.
His eyes soon settled to the dark and he could see before him his pathway along the girder. Spaced every three metres was a cross piece securing ten parallel beams, every alternate one was cross braced. Roy rested at these. Securing his bag to his chest, he began to move, cautiously at first until he felt a rhythm develop. The evening breeze was stronger here and the need for caution stopped the whistling.
Once above the second row of supporting columns he rested, feeling a sense of security brought about by the proximity of the surrounding cold steel and the wide concrete lintel just below. The rattle of cars gave him company as he reached right-handed into the bag.
Six months earlier, two hundred miles away the same hand and the same bag had been in a similar position; the same care and eye for detail had the mark of a craftsman, a man who took pride in the job, a man who now looked only forward to forget the past.
Beneath the span the light had almost disappeared and even though Roy's eyes were accustomed to the gloom, he found it difficult to continue. He began whistling again, lightly, as from the side pocket of his bag he brought out the night glasses. With care he removed his cap and placed the glasses over his eyes. Immediately the underside of the bridge took on a green, ethereal charm. Corners previously obscured from sight became clear. The graffiti artists certainly had wit but not an anatomical eye! Looking down into the valley below brought surprises. A couple leaned on the concrete support in an embrace, hands eagerly searching within clothing. Roy watched; feeling voyeuristic brought a smile to his face and a stiffness between his legs. The couple moved to the bank and it was clear there was going to be only one ending as they locked together. Roy watched and waited. Passion was soon spent, their faint giggling meeting his ears. They moved away slowly across the railway to the locks before walking wrapped in each other's arms, unaware their passion had been witnessed.
Roy went back to work. The Semtex was carefully laid, concealed in grease that was liberally smeared on the supporting bearing, as he had been taught, to cause the maximum disruption to the structural integrity of the bridge. Securing his grip he moved again, further out over the void, carefully placing feet and hands until he reached the centre span. At this point Roy was twenty-two metres above the ground: river to his left, canal to his right. He placed the Semtex as before with care, the thin black wire being tucked into the joints and greased as he moved along the lintel. The detonators were placed, waiting. The height and the breeze, firmer at this point as it channelled under the bridge, gave him a strange feeling in his groin that warned of danger. He secured his last Semtex, the delay connectors placed to give sequential blasting of twenty-five milliseconds; this would enhance the shatter force. In thirty minutes he would be back on the towpath heading home. Once all the wires were in place the palmtop, scrubbed of serial numbers and marks, was glued in position. The alarm had been set in keeping with the plan. Carefully the wire to the explosives was connected to the computer, the TPU, the timer and power unit. It could not now be removed. Roy glanced round making a final check before returning.
***
The bed was warm and snug, occupied by a solitary female, tucked up with a whisper snore. The red glow from the bedside clock seemed to fill the room. Roy had said he would be late; the meeting in Liverpool would go on until all the details had been ironed out.
Joan had known Roy for a year now and it was their mutual love of the outdoors that had brought them together; it would be three months before they shared his bed. Initially she would leave at 2am to return home, the smell of him still in her hair; her parents still expected her home. Their concern for her was stronger now than at any other time. They wanted her to succeed within her profession and failed to understand her. They both believed that she was staying out far too late when she had to rise at seven to prepare for her day in the classroom. Now, thankfully that was behind her. She still felt, however, that she knew too little about him but she loved him and time would release all the information she needed.
The clock showed 11pm, the vertical blinds blew gently in the breeze ringing occasionally on the Venetian glass bowl on the window ledge. She moved in her sleep uneasily.
***
The car, a grey Subaru Impreza Turbo was left in the car park of the canal side pub accompanied by many others. Last orders was a term only loosely applied here, many cars would remain until quite late. As Roy approached the road which was carried over the canal by a small humpbacked bridge, he was startled by a runner who darted from beneath it.
"Evening," spluttered the small, sweating middle-aged man as he skirted Roy.
"Evening," replied Roy as he stood watching the figure pounding along the towpath in the direction of the motorway lights. "Bloody crackers!"
The car locks sprang open with the depression of the remote. He opened the boot, removed his bag from his shoulder placing it carefully to the side before covering it with his jacket. He took a small stainless steel Thermos and poured a steaming coffee before settling into the driver's seat. The digital clock on the dashboard showed 11.30. He removed his soft climbing boots and slipped his feet into his shoes.
The engine fired and the grey Subaru moved towards the road. A right turn took him away from the nearer motorway junction but by habit and a sense of keeping the faith he wanted to drive over his latest bridge; the knowledge that beneath him was enough explosive to destroy the bridge and those on it, made him grin. The road from the canal twisted and built up but the houses soon thinned. As his foot responded to the conditions, the car began to move quickly. His preparation was good. His foot lifted from the throttle before the school sign and moments later the Gatso speed camera slept on. A left turn swiftly brought the M6 into view, the line of white centre lights running north/south signalled its fast approach.
Once on the slip road the four-wheel drive reached 70mph effortlessly and soon a chuckle came as the valley passed below. Within twenty-minutes he would leave the M6 for the M62, one of the fiercest roads he had known in the wintertime but this summer night it was but a friend and three of its bridges were his. He cruised at 90mph cresting the Pennine moors at just past midnight, their darkness rich velvet. Soon to his left would be Halifax glittering below in the valley and he was almost there.
West Street was home, a row of terraced houses like many others in Bradford; true, honest stone houses that would stand for another hundred years. The house was past its best but as he said, "Home was home".
The car alarm armed itself as Roy moved to the house. He opened the door with difficulty and went in, his arms full of suit, bag and boots. The hallway led to the stairs. Two doors were to his left, the first to the lounge, the second to the dining room and kitchen. He took the second. He hung up the jacket and bag after removing the night sights; they were locked in the cellar. He rinsed out the flask before retracing his steps and moved swiftly upstairs. The bedroom door was ajar and he heard the ring of the blind on the bowl. He showered before sliding into bed.
The quilt was kicked to one side exposing Joan's breasts and flat stomach. His mind drifted to the couple under the bridge and their frantic coupling. His penis again began to react in concert with his hand that moved up Joan's belly to the firm breast. He took the nipple between finger and thumb and squeezed and rolled. It responded and Joan turned inwards towards him.
***
From the radio, ‘The Prayer for the Day’, broke the silence of the morning. Both stirred but it was Roy who moved first. "Thought you were asleep when I got in!"
"Seduced whilst sleeping. You men are despicable," she murmured sleepily with a broad grin. "How about doing it again in slow motion?"
S
he kicked off the quilt and spread her legs invitingly.
"You've a class to teach ... and me, I've one hundred and one things to sort out from yesterday's meeting."
"Did everything go well?" enquired Joan as she curled under the quilt.
"We're getting there. There's another meeting planned for Thursday just to nail everything down. I'm in the office today".
The conversation was broken by the sound of the shower and Roy's infuriating whistle.
Slipping on her dressing gown she went downstairs and filled the kettle. The sun seldom hit the back garden but it still looked colourful with its hanging baskets and pots. Before her arrival it had been a desolate yard, colourless as a winter sky.
Roy moved behind her wrapping his arms around her waist. "Nearly as pretty as you". He kissed the nape of her neck. "Kettle on?"
Joan moved from his grasp and took the full kettle she was still holding and plugged it in, touching her forelock obediently. Their eyes smiled.
"What time were you in?"
"Not too late. The motorway was a piece of cake, a pleasure really. Sorry if I disturbed you." His grin said it all. "You get sorted, toast will be ready in ten". She went to shower.
Joan had packed her school bag the previous night and Roy carried it to the small Vauxhall Corsa parked on the street. She opened the boot and he placed it with care.
"Home usual time?" asked Roy as he opened the driver's door with his right hand, his left, unnaturally stiff, touched his forelock as she had done earlier. She took his hand and kissed its cold surface before reaching on her toes to kiss his lips.
"Hope so. Shall we eat out?"
"I'll be home for six, we'll decide then."
Roy closed the door. The car started and moved away, pausing at the street entrance before disappearing from view. Roy stayed motionless for a moment before returning to the house.
Bridging the Gulf (Aka Engulfed) Page 1
