Cry of the Needle

by Radford, Roger

  ‘Believe me,’ the commander replied, ‘they’ll fucking cooperate. It’s the PM I’m worried about.’

  CHAPTER 21

  THE SIEGE – DAY FOUR

  True to his word, Commander Bob Simmons won the cooperation of the nation’s newspaper owners. The leader writers were baying for the Government to react positively. Every tabloid and broadsheet, from The Sun to The Times, carried the Wagner article in its entirety.

  It was a diatribe against ‘de-humanising medicated birth in modern hospitals’. It railed especially against epidurals.

  ‘The only way an epidemic of epidural block for normal birth has been able to happen is because the procedure has been given a very ‘hard sell’ to women by doctors. The only way that so many women agree to an epidural for normal labour is they are told it is ‘safe’.

  ‘Is epidural block safe? The single most important new trend in modern obstetrics is a universally agreed principle that all obstetric practice must be based on the best scientific evidence. What is the evidence on the safety of epidural block? Firstly, a procedure can hardly be called ‘safe’ when close to a quarter (23%) of women receiving epidural block have complications. The risks to the women are many and serious, starting with the possibility the woman will die because of the epidural. The maternal death rate for women having epidural block for normal labour pain is three times higher than for women with normal labour not having the block. For every 500 epidurals performed there will be one case of temporary paralysis and the paralysis will be permanent in one of every half million epidurals.’

  Wagner maintained that women were not told the scientific facts about all the risks to them and their babies when epidural block was used for normal labour pain.

  ‘The excuse used was the typical patronising approach of some doctors: “we don’t want to scare the ladies.” It is absolutely essential that any women offered epidural must be told all the scientific facts about the risks before she gives informed consent to the procedure.’

  ‘With all these risks of epidural block to woman and baby, why are doctors urging women to use it? Research shows that doctors prefer the woman to have an epidural because then she is quiet and compliant.

  Furthermore, it is the frequent use of epidural for normal labour that has created a new speciality, obstetric anaesthesiology, which is highly lucrative and flourishing – witness that obstetric anaesthesiology journals contain advertisements urging doctors to purchase private jet airplanes.

  ‘Doctors are human. Birthing women are human. To err is human. Women have the right to have any errors committed during their birthing be their own and not someone else’s.’

  There was an addendum from Kelly that said that one of the side effects not mentioned in the article was adhesive arachnoiditis, and that the issues discussed in the article applied to Britain as much as they did to America.

  ‘Well, we’ve done our part,’ said Hopkin, spreading out the morning’s national newspapers before him. What time is the PM’s statement due?’

  ‘Noon,’ Simmons replied. ‘I don’t know about you. But I feel like shit. I didn’t get much shut-eye last night, not after reading that article.’

  The Welshman winked. ‘Having a baby are we, then, Bob?’

  ‘My daughter.’

  ‘Sorry, boyo,’ Hopkin apologised.

  ‘Well, I for one am going to convince my Karen not to have an epidural. It’s not worth the aggro. Her mother didn’t have one and she never complained.’

  ‘Trouble is, boyo, the youngsters of today are not as tough as they used to be. They’ve been conditioned to regard pain as always being unnecessary. They’ve been conditioned to popping pills at the slightest ache. Kelly was right when he said that epidurals have become a fashion statement.’

  Simmons was just about to respond when one of his operatives reported that an email had been received from 10 Downing Street. ‘It’s embargoed for noon, sir,’ said the constable. The two senior officers turned towards the screen, their eyes scurrying over the main points of the statement.

  ‘Shit,’ Hopkin seethed. ‘Shit, shit, shit.’

  Magda von Esterhazy wearily moved from the settee to the wheelchair. The pain was so intense that the whimpering sounds that escaped from her lips frightened her carer.

  ‘Are you sure you want to do this, Magda?’ said the pretty West Indian girl. Christine Smith had become the Countess’s constant companion since the Irishman had left. She had always had her doubts from the first time she had seen the man who now called himself Kieran Kelly.

  ‘I must, Christine,’ the Countess replied. ‘Someone must save him from himself.’

  ‘I don’t think he wants to be saved.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ said Magda, a knot of apprehension in the pit of her stomach.

  ‘I think Kelly wants to become a martyr. However much his cause is just, he knows that the odds are against him.’

  ‘No!’ the Countess blurted in a response that bordered on panic. ‘He wants to live. He’s got four beautiful children.’

  ‘How can he care about them?’ Christine Smith said darkly. Despite her tender years, she was nobody’s fool. ‘They must be going through hell now that he’s revealed his true identity. He’s very handsome, but I still don’t know what you see in him. He just used you, like he’s using everyone.’

  ‘It’s not true, Christine. Our lives have been shattered. I lost my health, and he lost his dear wife.’

  ‘You must have known you could never replace her, Magda.’

  ‘Of course I knew. But we both yearned for affection. I know that he loved me, even if it wasn’t the same love that he had for Teresa. I also know that he would never do anything to hurt me.’

  ‘He hurt you when he left you.’

  ‘He had no choice.’

  ‘Of course he had a choice.’ Christine Smith was nothing if not frank. ‘He could have given up his ridiculous plan of revenge and dedicated himself to helping you.’ Then, feeling that she had overstepped the mark, she added softly, ‘you know I really care about you, Magda. I couldn’t bear it if anything happened to you.’

  The Countess took her young companion’s slender hand in her own. ‘I promise I’ll be okay. We don’t even know whether the police will agree, anyway. Now, get a few things together and let’s go.’

  Kieran Kelly watched the noon TV news broadcast with a mixture of disbelief and all-consuming anger. The female newsreader’s voice was flat and emotionless, as if the issues affected only women in the reaches of Outer Mongolia.

  ‘… the statement said Her Majesty’s Government had complete confidence in the use of epidurals in childbirth and saw no reason to institute a general inquiry …’

  The Irishman switched off the television and reached for his phone. He dialled the negotiator’s number. Trying to remain cool, he took a deep breath. Threats delivered with emotion carried no weight. Only those delivered with deliberation and purpose would convince the recipients of his earnestness. ‘Did you hear that, Taffy?’ he asked through gritted teeth.

  ‘I heard.’

  ‘Well, you tell the Prime Minister that he bears direct responsibility for what’s going to happen next.’

  Hopkin’s mind raced. He was desperate to know what his adversary was planning. In training, a negotiator learns not only to listen to the facts, but also to tune in to the emotion behind the words and facts. Emotion labelling was used to respond not strictly to content, but to the emotions heard in the subject’s voice. ’I hear your frustration and anger, Mr Kelly,’ he said softly. He also knew that by paraphrasing what he had just been told demonstrated that he was listening intently, which in turn created empathy and didn’t put the subject on the defensive. ‘Are you telling me that you’re going to take some kind of action?’

  ‘You don’t need to be a brain surgeon to figure that out, Taff,’ said Kelly wryly.

  ‘May I make an observation?’

  ‘You may.’

  ‘Accordin
g to the media, the British public is rapidly being converted to your cause.’

  Kelly chuckled sinisterly. ‘Not rapidly enough to convince the Government, it seems.’

  ‘I agree, but then these things tend to have their own dynamics. They have a habit of progressing slowly until some sort of compromise is arrived at.’

  ‘After that statement, there can be no compromise with that Scots shit.’

  Hopkin needed to keep the man talking. ‘Try seeing it from his point of view,’ he cajoled. ‘He needs to be seen to be tough before he inevitably bows to public pressure. I’m sure you wouldn’t want to do anything that might lose you the advantage.’

  ‘I wish I could believe you, Taffy, but I’m a suspicious person by nature. All politicians are liars. He might end up promising a lot, but he’ll deliver little.’

  ‘So you’re going to do something to encourage him.’

  ‘Yes.’

  Hopkin decided to use silence this time. He would wait for Kelly to continue, hoping that he would give details of his proposed action.

  The Irishman played along with the pause, then, ‘you’ll know what I’ve done as soon as I do it. Let’s just say it’ll involve one of the hostages.’

  ‘Are you telling me that you‘re going to harm one of them?’ Hopkin queried, his heart racing. Usually he would ask open-ended questions, but this was rapidly becoming an emergency situation.

  ‘You’ll know when it happens,’ Kelly replied noncommittally.

  ‘Unless–

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Unless Downing Street issues a retraction by noon.’

  ‘I’ll see what I can do,’ Hopkin said unconvincingly. For the first time he could feel his usual optimism fading. He could sense that the situation was slipping away from him.

  ‘Noon,’ Kelly repeated, and switched off his mobile.

  The Welshman’s heavy jowls appeared to sag a few more centimetres in the direction of his ample girth. He turned to his colleagues and spoke quietly, ‘We’re pissing in the wind, boyos.’

  ‘I’ve got some more bad news, Dai,’ said Simmons. ‘The powers that be are saying that if just one hostage is harmed, then we’re going in.’

  ‘That’s madness, Bob, you know that.’

  ‘Madness or not, that’s the decision.’

  Both men spent the next three hours waiting for a retraction from Number 10 that they knew would not come. Military vehicles were scurrying to and fro, and they were aware that the extra activity would not have been lost on the hostage takers.

  At precisely noon a single shot rang out from the cottage.

  ‘Faster, Christine,’ urged Magda von Esterhazy, ‘please, faster.’ Despite the fact that every bump and bend from her north London home sent paroxysms of pain through her back and lower limbs, news on the radio about the shooting acted like an anaesthetic.

  ‘We’re nearly there,’ said her young carer. ‘I just hope the police will let us through.’

  A minute later and the Toyota, which was specially adapted to carry a wheelchair, drew to a halt before a line of police cars.

  ‘Where d’yer think you’re going, Miss?’ said a burly sergeant.

  ‘Please, Sergeant,’ Christine Smith begged, ‘let us through. This is Countess Magda von Esterhazy. She is Kieran Kelly’s girlfriend.’

  ‘And I’m Count Dracula,’ replied the policeman sarcastically.

  ‘Let me speak to him, Christine,’ Magda gasped. She looked squarely into the copper’s cynical grey eyes and spoke as calmly as she could. ‘Sergeant, I am disabled and in crippling pain. I have made the effort to come here in order to try to prevent a tragedy. Kelly is my partner. I believe I can make him see reason.’

  ‘That bastard will never see reason,’ the policeman growled. ‘He’s just shot one of the bloody hostages.’

  Magda’s heart sank, but she knew she could not give up now.

  ‘Look, Sergeant, if this thing ends in more tragedy, I’ll tell the whole world that you prevented the one person who might have made a difference from reaching the scene. It wouldn’t look good on your CV.’

  The sergeant thought for a few seconds, then nodded. He relayed the information to central command and, within a minute, the Toyota was being guided through the phalange of armoured vehicles towards a black van that was parked closest to the cottage but behind a clump of trees. While Magda’s wheelchair was being lowered, Dai Hopkin and Bob Simmons were already locked in a heated exchange.

  The commander gasped with incredulity. ‘What do you mean, he hasn’t shot anyone?’

  ‘Samuel L. Jackson,’ Hopkin replied.

  ‘What the fuck are you talking about?’

  ‘Don’t you remember, he said he saw the film The Negotiator.’

  ‘So what?’

  ‘Well, in the film, Jackson is the hostage taker, and he makes the police believe he’s shot one of the hostages. It was all a bluff to make them think that he was serious.’

  ‘That’s crap, Dai, you can’t be sure.’

  For the first time Simmons believed his own negotiator was losing the plot. ‘We’re going in unless this Countess von Hazy, or whatever her name is, is the real McCoy.’

  ‘I don’t like putting another member of the public at risk,’ the Welshman said. ‘It goes against everything I’ve ever learnt, or ever taught for that matter. As a general rule, direct civilian participation in negotiations is entirely unsupportable, Bob, you know that.’

  ‘It’s the last throw of the dice, Dai. If she is who she says she is, then maybe she can get that mad Irishman to see some sense.’

  ‘We could ask her to speak to him by phone.’

  The commander shook his head, ‘No, Dai, she insists that she can convince him only if she sees him face-to-face.’

  ‘She’ll have to convince me, Bob.’

  Just as Hopkin finished speaking, the two men were advised that their visitor was waiting outside. When the Welshman first laid eyes on the woman in the wheelchair, he thought Countess Magda von Esterhazy was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen.

  ‘I don’t fucking believe it,’ cursed Kieran Kelly, as he zoomed his monitor in on the electric wheelchair trundling up the path. Shaking with rage, he snatched up his mobile and dialled the negotiator. ‘What the fuck are you playing at, Hopkin,’ he screamed. ‘Get her out of here.’ It was the first time he had failed to control his emotions.

  ‘I understand how you must feel, Mr Kelly,’ the Welshman said, his voice quivering with trepidation, ‘but she insisted. She said you’d understand.’

  ‘Understand!’ Kelly yelled. ‘You’ll bear the consequences if she gets hurt, you Welsh bastard.’ With this, the Irishman hurled the mobile to the floor, shattering it beyond repair.

  Dai Hopkin felt as if he had been hit by a truck. It was all over as far as rapport was concerned. For the first time in his life, the big man felt the icy grip of failure in his vitals. Unless a sick woman in a wheelchair could make a difference, the standoff could only end in chaos and death.

  He, for one, had no confidence in anti-terrorist squads, however well trained. From Teheran to Waco, it had just been a succession of foul-ups. When the gun replaced the word, it was time to take to the hills.

  Kelly opened the front door of Rosedale, aware that he was making himself a target for police snipers, although he reckoned they wouldn’t shoot. They still didn’t know how many men he had in the place, and they couldn’t risk hitting Magda. He breathed in the fresh autumn air. In a way, it was a kind of freedom after being cooped up for so many days.

  ‘Go away, Magda,’ he said softly as she reached the front door. ‘Please.’ He could see the pain in her eyes and knew that the effort was causing her seven shades of hell.

  ‘I can’t, Kieran. I’d rather die than live without you. Even if they sent you to prison, I would wait.’

  ‘No one will ever put me in a prison,’ he said with a determination that frightened her.

  ‘You’re already in
a kind of prison, Liebling,’ she said softly.

  ‘Yes, but here I’m the warden.’

  ‘I didn’t mean a physical prison.’

  The Irishman stared at her in silence for a few seconds, once again captivated by her brittle beauty. A few spots of rain began to fall. ‘You’d better come in,’ he said, despite his inner misgivings. ‘Turn your wheelchair around and I’ll lift it over the step.’

  Magda pressed a button on the right-hand arm of the wheelchair and it revolved on the spot. It was only then, while facing away from the cottage, that the magnitude of the forces arrayed against him really hit home. She was more afraid for his safety than she had ever been.

  ‘Don’t worry about them,’ the Irishman said, reading her thoughts, ‘they’re just amateurs.’ It was false bravado, and they both knew it.

  Once inside the cottage, Magda found herself facing another arsenal of weapons. He was obviously prepared for a shootout. The whole thing was crazy.

  ‘As luck would have it,’ he said, changing the subject, ‘we’ve got a recliner here. He knew the armchair was about the only item of furniture that would offer her some relief. ‘Here, let me help you.’ He took her hands in his and leaned back, slowly levering her out of the wheelchair. He then clasped her closely to him.

  Magda winced as he held her tight. She had no trouble standing upright, or hobbling a few metres for that matter, but the closeness of his masculinity suffused her with a kind of sensual giddiness. They stood embraced in silence, his strong arms looped around her and his hands clasping her shoulder blades. Then his lips touched hers. It was merely a brush at first, but then it developed into a kiss that rekindled the deep yearning within her. She could feel his hand moving over her breasts in exaggerated circles. ‘Don’t!’ she cried suddenly.

  The Irishman stopped and was immediately overcome by a sense of deep shame. ‘I’m sorry, Magda,’ he said quietly.

  ‘For God’s sake, Kieran,’ she hissed, ‘you know I’m not wired. I’d never allow them to do that.’