by D J Harrison
‘But you said…’
‘No, you said. You told Wasiewicz I was in the SAS, I never told you I was.’
‘But you didn’t deny it.’
‘And call you a liar in front of him?’
‘But if you aren’t SAS, what are you?’
‘Royal Scots, Quartermaster Sergeant.’
My image of Monty as some superhuman invincible action hero evaporates. I suddenly realise he’s a reasonably fit, active man with a kind manner, but nothing out of the ordinary and I’ve been putting him at risk and expecting him to keep me from harm at the same time.
‘So what would the Royal Scots do to rescue a woman from imminent danger of death?’
‘Call the police,’ Monty says. His face cracks into a grin as he continues, ‘Or maybe the SAS.’
We’re right by the end of the cul-de-sac here, we’d see anyone leaving. All we can do is wait, I suppose, and hope that Kat’s okay, that she can get out, find us or make another call.
‘I’ll go and get her. You stay here. If I’m not back in five minutes call the police, okay, Monty?’
‘Not okay,’ he says. ‘If she’s in trouble you’ll be no use at all. If she’s not you’ll be putting yourself in danger for nothing.’
‘But we have to do something,’ I say. The frustration of being so close is almost overwhelming.
‘Waiting is something,’ Monty says.
A youth in a grey Adidas top hovers by my window for a moment and eyes glare at me from the recesses of his hood. Then he swings away, weaving down the centre of the road like an exaggerated drunk. I pick up my phone, text a message to Alex – Found Kat in deadly danger, please help. Then I add the address and send it.
67
We sit and wait for half an hour. Nothing happens, there’s no sign of Kat. My phone buzzes, it’s Alex’s number on the display. I quickly turn my phone off. Monty looks at me, raises an eyebrow in almost comical surprise.
‘That’s not a good idea,’ he says. ‘Kat might be ringing you at any time, keep it on.’
‘I’ll put it back on in a minute,’ I say.
Monty’s puzzled face suddenly changes to alarm as something hits the side of the car with a loud bang. Another youth cycles past, grinning malevolently, and throws another brick which this time bounces off the roof.
‘Stay here,’ Monty says. ‘Keep the doors locked. Turn your phone back on, call the police.’
I watch him walk over to confront the half dozen miscreants who gather to inspect their handiwork. My poor car must be dented horribly, but it’s Monty I’m concerned about. They are only kids, but there’s a lot of them and some of them are definitely man-sized, and God knows what they carry by way of weaponry.
The boys show no sign of dispersing, facing up to the incoming adult with brazen indifference. I’m really scared for Monty now. Half an hour ago I’d have sat back in confidence, watched him work his magic. Then he was an SAS hero, invulnerable, imbued with super-powers. Now though, he’s only a man, a few scant years older than I am, no weapons, nothing special at all.
The first brick flies past Monty’s head and the thrower pedals away. Another cyclist arrives within throwing distance, raises his arm. As the projectile is released, Monty grabs the nearest youth with both hands, uses him as a shield. I watch as the brick hits the helpless boy on his chest; the soggy thud is palpable, even where I’m sitting. Amid loud yelling, Monty pushes the boy to the ground where he kneels, gasping for breath. Monty takes the stricken youth’s bike. Placing one foot on the rear wheel he pulls the frame and handlebars with his hands and throws the twisted mess on to the street.
There are six or seven of them now, all baying for blood, shouting threats. One of the bigger lads jumps forward, swings a blow at Monty’s head, misses and crashes to the ground assisted by an almost imperceptible push from Monty. Again he grabs a bike and mangles the wheels. The mob quietens, as if beginning to understand the rules of the game.
Monty says nothing, at least nothing I can hear from inside my car. Even so, it’s clear to everyone what’s playing out here. Throw bricks at the car, your bike gets wrecked – simple. Now they are drawing a collective breath, considering the consequences of escalation, wondering if they can teach this lone man a lesson or whether he will exact too high a price if they try.
The sound of sirens makes up their minds. As if they were one organism they run, ride or drag away their broken bikes. Monty stands alone for a moment then rejoins me in the Range Rover.
‘Did you call the police about those lads?’ Monty asks.
‘No, but I think they’re coming to look for me and Kat. I did send a message about her.’
‘Oh,’ Monty says. ‘I don’t fancy explaining to the police why I’ve been attacking children and damaging their bikes.’
‘Now it’s my turn,’ I say, stepping out of the car. ‘Your turn to wait in the car.’ I silence his protests by slamming the door and setting off running. By the time I’m a few strides down the road towards the house the sirens are much closer. I can feel the cars behind me as I hammer on the front door.
‘Police,’ I shout, ‘armed police, come out with your hands raised.’ A tall uniformed policeman appears at my shoulder. ‘In there,’ I say, ‘they’ve got her inside, they’re threatening to kill her.’
I bang on the door again and a constable holds me back by my shoulders. Three more rush up to the door. One swings a metal battering ram which springs the lock. As the door crashes open they rush inside. As I’m led back to behind a marked police car, two black vans arrive. Black-clad men leap out and run into the house.
‘Are you Jenny Parker?’ a voice in my ear asks.
I turn round to answer. ‘Yes.’
‘Good, I’ll let them know you’re safe.’ This new arrival looks senior in both years and rank. His shoulders are adorned by silver pips and his uniform is neat and crisp, not the utilitarian casual sported by the others.
‘I’m Bill Savage. I’m glad you’re okay. What about your friend, where is she?’
‘Kat rang me, she said they were going to kill her, I came right away.’
‘Okay. If she’s in there we’ll find her. Please wait here with me.’
68
It’s taking a long time, too long. The house is a three-bedroom semi. So many policemen have gone in by now I’m surprised they aren’t bursting out of the windows through lack of space.
My phone’s back on but staying quiet. There are two missed calls from Alex and one voice mail, but I know what he wants and I’m not ready to tell him I’m safe. If Bill Savage wants to tell him that’s fine by me.
Everyone’s radio begins to squawk at once. A voice is raised in alarm, and then there’s a loud bang, a gunshot; sickening, unmistakable. Then two more in rapid succession and then silence, not even the crackle of radio messages. It’s as if everyone is frozen, waiting to assimilate the meaning and import of those sounds. Nausea invades my stomach, I feel as if I’m on a rollercoaster that’s lurched to a halt at its lowest point.
The hiatus is brief, collapsing into frantic activity. Two policemen half carry, half march me back down the street, away from the house. Over my shoulder I get a glimpse of men tumbling out of the front door, then my view is completely blocked.
‘I need to stay, I can identify the woman who called,’ I say. My protests are ignored, they’ve been ordered to get me out of harm’s way and nothing I say is going to make a difference.
There’s a road block at the end of the close now. Half a dozen uniformed men are standing between the cars. Monty sits implacably in the driver’s seat of the Range Rover parked away from the action. Two ambulances wail their way towards us, park outside the cordon. The street we’re on is becoming increasingly congested as more participants arrive to add numbers, help control the non-existent crowd.
A couple of civilian vehicles are trying to weave their way through. One’s an old lady in a red Corsa, and following her is a battered blue Toyota cramm
ed with people. From my lofty perch I can see the heads of two men on the passenger side and behind them several more sets of legs. One pair is protruding from the bottom of a skirt, all the rest are denim-clad. I get a rush of excitement and crane my neck to see the backs of three heads in the rear window as the car moves away from us.
‘There’s a girl in that car,’ I say. ‘I think it’s Kat.’ Monty starts the engine.
‘Do you want to follow?’ he asks. I nod. ‘Write down the registration in case we lose them,’ he says. As if on cue, the blue Toyota pulls past the Corsa in a most ungentlemanly manoeuvre that makes the old lady hit the kerb and ride up onto the footpath to avoid a collision. Monty completes her discomfort, narrowly avoiding taking her front wing off and hopefully causing only minor cosmetic damage instead. We follow, heading away from Manchester, darting through the thin traffic in an attempt to keep up with the speedy Toyota.
It must be obvious to anyone paying attention that we’re following them. Maybe that’s the reason they’re travelling so quickly. Monty gets a Peugeot between us and the target. This particular car is being driven by a boy racer and he’s even trying to overtake the Toyota. My phone lights up, it’s Alex. I answer this time.
‘Jenny, thank God, are you safe?’
‘Yes, the police came, thanks. I thought they’d tell you what’s going on.’
‘No, nothing, I was worried.’ I hear children’s voices. Alex says, ‘I’ll come and read you a story in a minute,’ then, ‘sorry about that, did you find Kat?’
‘No, but there were shots fired at the address she gave me, that’s when the police made me leave. We’re following a car that might have her in it, I’m not sure.’
‘We, who’s we, are you still with the police?’
‘No, I’m with Monty, he’s driving. I broke my arm. Are your children there?’
‘Yes. They’re staying with me for the school holidays.’
‘Oh.’ I get an uneasy feeling from Alex’s answer, it’s as if there’s something he wants to avoid.
‘And their mother, is she staying for the holidays as well?’
The Peugeot turns off, squealing its tyres, leaving us almost on the back bumper of the Toyota. I can see the middle head on the back seat. It has short dark hair, it could easily be Kat.
‘As a matter of fact, yes. I still have to work you know, they need their mother here to look after them.’
I feel the anxiety in Alex’s voice. He’s saying too much, trying to justify himself to me, being evasive. ‘That’s nice for you, the whole family back together.’ As I say the words a sharp pang of longing and regret slices me in half. The inevitability of it all doesn’t soften the blow. I should be glad, happy for him, but I’m not. The truth is I don’t care a toss for his kids and even less for his posh wife. I only want Alex to love me, I need him to love me enough to give up everything, all of them, just to be with me. He doesn’t. I know in my heart he doesn’t; it’s no surprise at all he’s back with his family.
Anyone with half a brain could have accurately predicted this turn of events. Man leaves wife and children, gets job up north, meets susceptible female with deep longings, satisfies her beyond her wildest dreams both sexually and intellectually and then returns home. If I’m really honest I knew it would turn out this way from the moment I met Alex in the Sawyer’s Arms. This knowledge, suppressed so well for so long, does nothing at all to dull the intense pain and despair, my sense of loss, my desolation.
Then my mood lifts slightly. I have to face it that I’m actually making things more difficult for myself in my forlorn attempts to ingratiate myself with his establishment in the hope that he’s allowed to be with me again. My whole life needs a drastic re-think. Now it can get one.
As we approach the Etihad Stadium and are pointlessly stopped by red lights that appear to turn on at our approach, I suddenly realise what’s going on.
‘Pull into the right hand lane,’ I say.
‘They’ll be getting a good look at us if I do,’ Alex says.
‘Do it, I need to get a better look at them.’
We pull alongside. I stare down at the driver, and he looks idly at me, no alarm or recognition on his face. I turn away hurriedly, pretend to be looking anywhere else except at the face of the scrawny youth who admitted us to Wasiewicz’s house of horror.
‘Turn right,’ I tell Monty. He does. We drive onto Ashton New Road and pull into the gigantic Asda, currently in an abandoned state due to Sunday trading restrictions.
‘I know where they’re going,’ I say.
Alex voice echoes tinnily from the phone. ‘Are you okay?’ he’s asking.
‘Do one more thing for me, Alex.’
‘What’s that?’
‘Put your kids to bed and forget about me. I’ll look after myself from here on in.’
69
Tim sounds surprised when he answers the phone, either that or a bit drunk.
‘How’s Toby?’ I ask.
‘Tucked up in bed, asleep finally. You’ve got a gall you have, ringing up at this time of night as if nothing’s happened.’
‘But he’s okay? He’s asleep? I just want to make sure he’s managed to get to sleep after all the excitement.’
‘Excitement? Is that what you call it?’
‘Has he told you what happened, then?’
‘Not much. He was very upset, said some man had hurt you. What the hell was going on?’
‘Don’t question him, Tim, leave him alone, please. There’s some unpleasantness went on, I need him to forget it as soon as possible.’
‘What sort of unpleasantness?’
‘We were burgled while Toby and I were at home, nasty men.’
‘Why didn’t you say when you dropped him off?’
‘For exactly the reason I’m trying to explain. Don’t you get it? It’s something we’re better off not talking about, so he can just forget it. Do you see?’ At least Toby’s safe, that’s a relief.
I’m a fool for running around trying to find Kat, my priority should be Toby and making sure there’s no repeat of what went on today, ever. I look across at Monty, sitting patiently in an Asda car park long after closing time, listening to me have another in a long line of awkward phone calls with my ex-husband. Ever since he admitted that he’s not an SAS man, I sense something vulnerable in him that makes me anxious for his wellbeing. I’m suddenly struck by the realisation that Monty has become really important to me.
‘Well?’ Monty asks.
‘Let’s go home.’
‘What about Stefan, shouldn’t we at least pay him a visit first? Why the sudden change of mind about Kat?’
‘What do we do, Monty, force them off the road? Fight at least four men, all of them probably armed?’
‘No, but we could have followed. At least we’d know where it is.’
‘I already know, we’ve been there together, Wasiewicz’s place. I recognised the lad who let us in. Kat’s with them and I don’t think she’s in any danger.’
‘So it was some sort of set-up after all?’ Monty queried.
‘I’m glad we called the police, Monty. You were right all along. I have a feeling that’s all they wanted from us. Get the police to descend on some rival gang, take them out of the picture maybe.’ Weariness is beginning to overwhelm me, my back is hurting badly and my stomach is very sore. I realise I’ve not eaten anything since the lunchtime salad. I need food desperately and my bed even more. ‘Take me home, Monty, it’s been a long day.’
Before we reach home, Charles Smith finally calls me back.
‘I’ve got the car details you asked for,’ he says.
‘What about the men?’
‘I’ve got someone checking for their descriptions, but nothing so far. It might be a long job I’m afraid.’
I write down the name and address of the Jaguar’s owner. Potts is his name, and he lives in Accrington, not far along the motorway from where I took the cash. Apart from confirming the location
, I can’t see the information being of any more use. I’m sure the car would have been stolen and dumped after they raided my house.
70
‘We’re on the news.’ Monty is calling me through the bedroom door. I only want to be allowed to sleep, I can’t understand what he’s saying.
‘Go away,’ I moan, ‘leave me alone.’
‘You need to see this, Jenny.’ I hear Monty’s footsteps recede downstairs. I’m awake enough now to be curious, but not enough to move my aching body. My back feels worse this morning from where the man hit me; I can hardly bear to sit up, it’s so painful.
Downstairs Monty has the TV on pause. I flop untidily on the sofa, conscious that my dressing gown is too short and too thin for me to be comfortably modest and I draw my knees firmly together as I pull it down to cover them. If I’m displaying more than I should, Monty shows no signs of noticing.
The TV blares into life. An earnest dark-haired lady is talking solemnly at me. A big red caption across the bottom of the screen reads, Senior policeman killed in grenade attack. I still can’t fathom what Monty is so excited about.
A picture of a policeman flashes up. He looks vaguely familiar and then his name appears on the screen. Assistant Chief Constable Bill Savage. I tune in to what the lady is saying. ‘Attending an incident in the Ardwick area, two other officers were injured in the explosion but their injuries are not thought to be life-threatening. Police are asking for…’
‘That’s the house,’ I say.
‘I know.’ Monty looks gravely at me. I fervently wish I’d taken the time to put some clothes on.
‘That policeman, he spoke to me, he knew who I was.’
‘Tragic,’ Monty says. ‘They’re saying that the lad who threw the grenade escaped on a bike.’
‘One of those yobs who attacked us.’
‘Looks that way.’
Here it comes again, that hollow feeling that reminds me how good I am at putting everyone at risk. ‘It’s my fault,’ I whisper.
Monty looks at me, concern on his face. ‘Don’t be daft,’ he says. ‘You called the police, that’s all.’
