by Mike Ripley
I was banking partly on the fact that he would be operating below par. It was obvious from his clothes and the stubble on his face that he’d been up all night, and a fair chunk of the Colombian economy had gone up his nose since then.
I worked out that if I could get to the wood, I could cut across to the hop field and hide in there. With my luck, they would have harvested it yesterday. No, they don’t pick hops until the first week in September. How do I know this stuff? Why did I think of it then?
I’d reached the edge of the courtyard when a bullet smacked off the cobblestones about six inches from me.
I wasn’t going to get my two minutes.
I stopped dead and slowly turned around.
Cawthorne was sitting on the bonnet of the Porsche, pointing the gun at me. I’d managed about 40 yards.
‘You said two minutes,’ I shouted.
‘Just getting my eye in!’ he yelled back, quite friendly all of a sudden.
I took a pace towards him without really knowing what I was doing, and his reaction surprised me. He stood up and began to back away, fumbling in his jacket pocket. But this time, the right one. Then he stopped and worked the action of the gun. I saw a cartridge case eject and even heard it ting on the cobbles, then he was feeding another in and working the breech. Confident again, he levelled it at me.
‘Clock’s ticking.’
I ran to my left, towards the corner of the farm building, and dropped from his line of sight. That meant the wood was that bit further away for me, but it might delay him for a minute just checking to see if I’d tried to hide in the farmhouse. If he was rational, that is, and not in the process of rapidly leaving his skull.
I didn’t stop running, just veered left again and into the Paddock.
If I’d realised early that the long-barrelled gun was a single shot target pistol, I’d have had a go at him in the car or on the street back in Hackney, I told myself. Made him fire one and then got away or even disarmed him. Of course I would. I almost convinced myself. In a fair fight, he wouldn’t stand a chance. Well, not if he took about an ounce more coke and I could have first go from behind with half a brick.
If he didn’t have a gun – or if I had one ...
I damn near twisted my ankle veering right and heading away from the wood towards the pillbox.
I should have known as soon as I saw the iron door hanging open.
Cawthorne had probably spent the night there. He’d been covering his tracks but at some point had realised that he couldn’t fit the personal computer and the fax machine and stuff in an overnight bag, so he’d gone bananas and lashed out.
Everything that could have been smashed or just satisfyingly dented, had been. The Amstrad’s VDU had an empty bottle of vodka through it. The fax machine was upside down in a corner, its plastic cover shattered into slivers like broken glass. There were a couple of other bottles rolling around under an upturned chair, an empty Tequila bottle and a half-full Scotch. From the smell, most of the contents had gone on the floor rather than into Cawthorne. There was also a strong smell of the copying fluid the fax used.
The metal trunk I’d come for lay open. Whatever Cawthorne had had in his private armoury had gone now, probably to the bottom of the farm pond if he had any sense. Since the last police armistice for unregistered guns, the penalties for being nicked were seriously heavy.
It wasn’t quite empty. Rattling around on the bottom were some cardboard tubes that looked like sticks of dynamite but were probably thunderflashes and a couple of boxes of loose ammunition. Maybe he’d just forgotten them. I suspected that he’d come here in the night – the internal light was still on – and started to remove any traces of his Airborne operation. Then he’d thrown a wobbler, decided it was all Salome’s fault and gone looking for her. And found me.
I stuffed one of the thunderflash tubes into the back of my jeans. If all else failed, I could wave it at him, but there was nothing else there for me.
I crouched as I went through the door, and pushed it so that it almost closed behind me, then went down on all fours to sneak around the back.
‘I know where you’re hiding ...’
Then a bullet spanged off the concrete and convinced me that I’d better start being scared stiff.
I felt safer behind the pillbox, because it offered great armfuls of lovely, thick concrete to hug.
I levered myself up cautiously and peeped into one of the gun slits. Through the box itself and the slits in the opposite wall, I could see Cawthorne reloading his pistol and walking towards me. He was no more than 20 yards away.
‘Not much of a game, Maclean,’ he was saying loudly. He must have got that name from the Exhilarator booking. I wasn’t going to correct him. I wasn’t going to say anything.
‘I bet myself you’d last at least a quarter of an hour in the woods. I didn’t think you’d trap yourself like this.’
It dawned on me that he thought I was inside. It was the only thing I had going for me.
I risked another look and almost died on my feet. Cawthorne was standing, feet apart, aiming right at me, like between the eyes. I ducked as he fired and cringed as the sound of a dozen trapped hornets buzzed what seemed like an inch from my head.
‘You’d better come out. It’ll be quicker in the long run,’ shouted Cawthorne, walking closer, reloading again.
There was another shot, and more hornets.
He was firing into the slits of the pillbox, and the ricochets were bouncing off the walls inside. I wondered what the odds were of a bullet going in one slit and coming out the slit on the other side where yours truly was.
I looked behind me. The fence and the hop field looked too far away. He would see me if I broke that way. The wood was even further, and a run there would put me on a diagonal line of fire for him. I’d have more chance in a shooting gallery. The only thing to do was keep the pillbox between us. He was moving to his right, coming round to the door. He couldn’t fire directly in there, because I’d almost closed it. He knew there weren’t any weapons inside, so eventually he must get bored with pumping bullets in and have a look. As he got closer, though, my view of him would get less and less.
I risked another look and saw him moving out of my view through one of the slits. He was quite close now. So close, I could hear the snap of the breech as he worked the action of the gun.
I edged my way anticlockwise, away from the door end, hugging the rough concrete until spots of blood appeared on the palms of my hands, checking the slits as I went.
There was no sign of him, which I took to mean he was in line with the door. I hoped it did. I was running out of concrete to hug. If I went much further, I’d be heading back round towards him. But there was nowhere else to go.
Except up.
I stood up between two slits and put my hands on the roof of the box. At that edge, it wasn’t much taller than I was, and I estimated I was opposite the entrance. I held my breath.
Cawthorne wasn’t saying anything. Maybe he was too busy talking to the voices in his head. Then I heard him sniff quite distinctly. Then silence. In the distance, I could hear church bells and the drone of a car engine.
And then what I’d been waiting for; the metallic creak of the door being opened.
I risked a look through the slit to my right and, sure enough, the box began to fill with light. That convinced me. I scrabbled and heaved myself up onto the roof and rolled and scrabbled across the concrete.
I didn’t know if he could hear me through the eight-inch thick roof. I never gave it a thought. Suddenly I was at the far edge and looking over.
The left shoulder of Cawthorne’s dinner jacket was just below me. The gun, his head and one foot at least were inside the box. That would have to do.
I put both hands on the top of the door frame, which he’d opened to an angle of 45 degrees, and pulled as hard
as I could.
The door hit him and propelled him inside. From the noise of crashing and breaking, right into what was left of the fax machine. There was a magnified boom as the gun went off, and a spang as the ricochet hit the door. I felt it vibrate as I scrabbled and snapped fingernails to get the bolt shut.
As it clicked home, I rolled on my back and looked at the sky and exhaled. Then I looked at my hands, scratched and pitted with bits of concrete, and wondered if I’d be able to play the violin now. It would be a miracle, as I couldn’t before.
There was no sound from below me in the box, but I could hear something else: an engine. A diesel engine.
I turned my head, and round the corner of the farmyard I saw Armstrong bouncing across the Paddock to the rescue.
Late as usual.
I was on my feet and waving both arms in the air when Cawthorne opened fire.
I didn’t see which slit the shot had come from, nor whether it hit Armstrong or not. I couldn’t tell even if Werewolf had noticed he was being shot at.
It had to be Werewolf. No-one else would have such a blind disregard for Armstrong’s suspension.
I scuttled to the edge of the box and saw the gun barrel emerge. I think I yelled in frustration and swung a kick, almost overbalancing and falling right under his gun.
It put him off, though. I was sure that shot went wild. Then I was going wild, leaping and yelling a warning to Werewolf that I knew he wouldn’t hear over the engine noise.
He slewed Armstrong to a halt about 30 yards away, killed the engine and got out.
‘Get down!’ I yelled.
‘What the fuck is ...?’ he shouted back. Then Cawthorne shot him.
I saw Werewolf clutch his right leg and go down, but after that I think all I saw was red mist.
‘I’m up here, you bastard!’ I yelled down.
‘Don’t worry, you’ll get yours, shitface. You’re dead. Dead!’
The gun barrel reappeared, pointing upwards this time, and he fired, but the angle was far too steep and the bullet zipped away harmlessly. I wondered how much ammo he had left, or how much coke.
Then I remembered the thunderflash stuffed in the back of my jeans, except it wasn’t a thunderflash, it was a smoke stick. Well, that’s what it said it was, and just above where it said ‘Made in Korea’ was printed ‘Twist top and pull.’
I did just that, and pungent orange smoke began to pour out. I knelt down and, holding my breath, leaned over the edge of the box and stuffed the thing through the nearest slit.
Cawthorne shouted ‘You fucker’ and burst out coughing. He fired once more, wildly, anywhere. Then I was off the roof and running towards Armstrong.
Werewolf had rolled right underneath and had propped himself up against the front wheel arch so he had the engine between himself and the pillbox. I scrambled round the bonnet and threw myself down beside him.
‘This is definitely not in the fucking rules, man,’ he said.
‘How bad is it?’ I asked, not really wanting to look.
He held his leg with both hands, just above the knee.
‘Flesh wound,’ he said.
‘You’re supposed to say “It’s nothing, just a flesh wound,” like they do in the movies.’
‘It hurts like buggery, but they don’t say that either. It went straight through. I heard it go into the door.’
He saw my expression change.
‘Oh, that’s nice. Best mate turns up and gets shot and you don’t turn a hair. The pigging cab gets scratched and ...’
‘Oh, shut up, you great nance. Let’s get out of here.’
‘What was it you threw in there?’
‘A smoke flare.’
‘I’ve got something better in my bag, if you can get it.’
He rolled over so he could look under the chassis.
‘We’re gonna need it,’ he said.
I got down and looked too. Cawthorne had thrown the smoke stick out of the box, but not more than a few feet. It was still spewing out orange clouds, which drifted to and fro around the pillbox.
The gun appeared at the end of Cawthorne’s arm and he fired. I ducked instinctively, but the shot was aimed higher than ground level, and the result was a tinkling crack.
‘He just shot your wing mirror,’ said Werewolf. ‘He’s going to take it out on Armstrong if he can’t get us.’
‘Maclean!’ shouted Cawthorne, then he coughed again. ‘It’s time we did a deal.’
I looked at Werewolf and he looked at me. We must have taken too long about it, as Cawthorne fired again, and the tinkle this time said he’d hit a headlight.
‘Okay, okay. What did you have in mind?’
I peeked under Armstrong. The orange smoke was wafting away from the pillbox if anything. I could see the gun quite clearly. Which meant he could see us.
‘If you try and drive that thing,’ he bawled, ‘I’ll shoot your eyes out. You know I can.’
Werewolf shuffled closer and whispered, ‘Keep talking, but get my bag out.’ He motioned to the passenger door and I squirmed over him and grabbed the handle.
‘So we wait here until somebody comes, Cawthorne. You got time, haven’t you?’
I had the door open. There was a large Aer Lingus flight bag on the floor where a passenger seat would go in a normal car.
‘Has your friend?’ Cawthorne replied. ‘This place is closed up. Nobody will come here and nobody will say anything about the noise or the smoke. They’re used to it round here. Can your friend wait it out? Just how bad is he hurt? I know I hit him.’
I had the bag out and the door closed now.
‘What did you have in mind?’
I slid the bag towards Werewolf and he unzipped it. Some socks, a paperback and a couple of packets of Sweet Afton spilled out.
‘I need to get out of here,’ shouted Cawthorne.
‘He does,’ I told Werewolf. ‘He has a ferry to catch.’
‘So what?’ I shouted.
Werewolf reached into the bag until he found what he was after. It was a clear glass bottle with a plastic stopper and a hand-printed label proclaiming ‘Kerry Mist.’ He handed it to me and went back to holding his leg. His green cords were well soaked by now and his face pale.
‘So you let me out of here and you go your way, I go mine. Simple as that,’ came Cawthorne’s offer.
‘Poteen,’ whispered Werewolf. ‘Hundred and twenty proof if it’s a day.’
‘It’s a bit early, even for me,’ I whispered.
Werewolf sort of snarled. ‘Tell him to throw the gun out and give us that pack of Kleenex.’
‘Lose the gun,’ I yelled, handing Werewolf a pack of paper tissues from his bag. ‘Then we’ll work something out.’
He fired again and something metallic bounced on to Armstrong’s bonnet. The radio aerial.
Werewolf took a handful of tissues and scrunched them into a wad. He pulled the plastic stopper from the bottle with his teeth and splashed the clear liquid over the tissues, then crammed them into the neck of the bottle.
‘A de Valera cocktail,’ he said. ‘Light the blue touch paper and run like stink.’
He reached into his jacket and fumbled out a disposable plastic lighter.
‘Get up close and bung it through a slit, then hit the ground.’ He winced again at the pain in his leg. ‘Don’t forget to light it.’
‘All right, Cawthorne,’ I screamed. ‘That’s enough. I’m coming out.’
‘Just what are you doing here anyway?’ I asked Werewolf, taking the bottle from him and pushing it down my T-shirt, cold against my chest.
‘I was coming down Stuart Street as you drove off. I told you I was getting the early flight. I was out of Thief row by half past eight and I got a lift almost to the door.’ He tried to smile. ‘A young lady I met on the plan
e. You damn near ran me down in that cherry red Porsche. I knew whose it was straight away, and I guessed this was where you’d end up. Thought you might need help. He’s not going to let it go, you know. It’s him or us.’
Or Salome. If not now, then later.
‘I know. How did you get Armstrong going?’
‘The spare key you keep on that magnetic pad behind the nearside back wheel.’
‘How long have you known about that?’
‘Since the week you soldered it on. Why?’ He looked genuinely puzzled.
‘Oh, nothing.’
I stood up and moved to the rear of Armstrong.
‘Don’t shoot, Cawthorne!’ I bawled. ‘I’m coming to open the door.’
Werewolf tugged at my trouser leg. He was offering me the lighter.
As I took it he said: ‘Massive retaliation. That’s the plan. Okay?’
‘Yeah,’ I said.
Rule of Life No 59: Get your retaliation in first.
Chapter Fifteen
I set off at a cracking pace. Once out from behind Armstrong, there was no way I was hanging around. I couldn’t run, because I had the bottle of poteen balanced against my stomach like a bizarre pregnancy, but hopefully invisible from the front under the T-shirt. I was also convinced I was going to drop the lighter, which was slippery with sweat in my hand.
I headed straight for the pillbox door, knowing the closer I got, the worse became Cawthorne’s angle of fire. Over the last few feet, I could see his dinner-jacketed arm and the gun hanging out of the concrete slit like a broken wing. It was a surrealist painter’s dream, but my nightmare.
The gun weaved figure eights in the air.
‘Just unbolt the door ... That’s all ... We can do a deal ...’
Cawthorne’s voice was almost unrecognisable. He was flying now, but I wasn’t trusting to it affecting his aim. And I wasn’t trusting him at all.
I virtually jumped the last yard to the door and put my back to it. There were gun slits to my left and right at eye level, but because of the angles in the walls of the box, I was pretty sure I was in a blind spot. I took the bottle out of my shirt and put it on the concrete square at my feet, but I held on to the lighter.
