It’s down to me… Charlie’s cavalry won’t arrive until it’s too late.
There was no other option. He plunged headlong into the fray, wondering if this would be the last thing he ever did.
***
Doc hauled in a deep breath through his broken nose and coughed blood through his mouth. It seemed to help. The world came into focus in stark colours, vivid.
Cough CPR?
As his vision began to grey-out again from the lack of oxygen, Doc decided to employ the potentially lethal technique. From his own medical training, he was acutely aware that this form of cardiac self-resuscitation was not recommended except in a few highly specific circumstances, and only then under strict medical supervision in a properly equipped hospital.
Coughing like this could easily kill him.
Cardiac arrest or being blown to hell…?
What choice did he have, in the state he was in? He would be dead in seconds anyway if he couldn’t stop that fuse burning.
With his heart fluttering and stuttering rather than beating and pumping, coughing hard would raise the pressure in his abdomen, forcing blood to his brain, just long enough for him to reach the bomb. Despite the almost unbearable white-heat searing his ribs, throat and lungs, he coughed again.
It worked.
His head cleared, though he still had tunnel vision. Although vaguely aware of the noise from Jack and Billy fighting near the back door, he had to act – just knew he was the only one who could stop the bomb from killing them all.
Could he remain conscious long enough to defuse it?
He had to try so pushed himself to his hands and knees, his head, stuffed full of cotton wool, the floor swaying beneath him like a yacht in a storm.
The weight of his body on his arms almost overcame him. It would be so easy to lie down and roll onto his back. To check whether his bones really were poking through the front of his shirt – as that’s what it felt like.
Another cough. The forced breath, bouncing his diaphragm, punching at his heart, sent an agonising blast rampaging through his ribcage, scalding every nerve cell in his tormented frame. Almost overcome, brain fading again, something inside him screamed.
Move!
He could do no more than drop his head to the tiles, beaten.
A dazzling flash to one side suddenly burnt through the darkness closing in on him.
The fuse, sparking along the floor between Smith’s feet, heading inexorably for the bottle under the table.
Cough.
Blood forced into his ravaged heart and round his arteries. The burst of oxygen hit his brain. His muscles. Doc willed himself to act. In no fit state to calculate how many seconds he had left to live, struggling to remain on all fours, he knew he had to reach the bottle before the spitting, fizzing flame. He concentrated on creeping across the swaying tiles. Dragging himself, first one hand, then a knee, then the other hand, then the other knee.
The flaming fuse was moving faster than the human tortoise.
Cough.
Another creeping, crawling pace. It was useless.
Lie down. Relax.
What about Judy? The baby?
They seemed so far away, and Doc was sinking, the floor coming up at him as his arms gave out.
Jack? Maybe he can stop the bomb…
But there’s no sign of him.
Cough!
He had ceased forcing his heart to pump, had almost lost consciousness, but again his mind cleared. The cough had brought forth a drawn out moaning sound too – but it wasn’t coming from his own mouth…
Mrs Leech!
Staring down at him, eyes petrified. He had forgotten about her. Could see her chair, shaking and bumping as she tried to release her bonds. Her son had taped one of the front legs to the table. She was stuck in here with Doc.
With the bomb.
The thought galvanized him. He coughed harder, tasted more blood in the back of his throat, but the surge of oxygen helped him focus. He looked up to see the burning fuse nearing the top of the bottle.
Death was mere moments away.
Doc reached out a feeble hand, his fingers almost touching the glass.
***
Billy spun round on hearing Jack’s feet scuffing the tiles, eyes glittering with malice. Jack had lost the advantage, but kept moving. Committed. At the very least, he would try to delay the boy’s departure, keep him here to experience the bloody bomb himself.
Then Billy took to the air, levitating in the way Jonesy had described, flying across the room at Jack. Airborne, one foot straight out, the other bent behind him, shoulders swivelling, driving his fist forward, a knuckle prominent. A lethal weapon designed to shatter the nasal bone in the kill-zone between Jack’s eyes – a death-blow if delivered accurately.
It was an uneven match. The young athlete, with honed fighting skills, versus the middle-aged copper with a slight paunch and an intermittent nicotine habit. But Jack was quick, his own training and reflexes snapping into action, his head twisting, side on to the blow as his upper body leant back and away from both leg and fist.
The manoeuvre almost worked.
The bridge of Jack’s nose burst, sending a flash of neon blue through his skull and crimson tears to his eyes. The force behind Billy’s punch was incredible, even diminished as it was by the sideways deflection, and in that split-second Jack knew he would have died if the fist had hit him head on. He staggered back towards the doorway from the impact and blinding pain, but Billy was relentless, snarling, his lips stretched over bared fangs.
A feral animal fighting to the death.
The boy’s other arm became a blur aimed at Jack’s chin – a curling roundhouse powering Billy’s left hand, palm open to break his opponent’s jaw.
Adrenalin flooded Jack’s brain, flushing away the pain, slowing everything down for the few seconds they engaged in mortal combat.
Billy had fully committed to his follow-up move – the first blow having failed to do its job. The boy was intent on his victim, clearly frustrated by the miss but sensing an easy victory. His overwhelming superiority became a source of complacency.
Weakness.
He left himself open.
Brawler Jack, a teen street-fighter made good, didn’t do the expected. Didn’t use his right arm in a blocking manoeuvre to protect his wounded face, but instead arced his arm up and across his body in a looping backfist, aiming at Billy’s exposed right temple. With his fingers still bunched around his chunky, ancient mobile phone, thumb hooked over the base of it, the stubby aerial proud of the underside of his palm, he slammed the hardened Bakelite protrusion into the thinnest bone of Billy’s skull – one of the few the boy had been unable to strengthen.
The satisfying thud of his fist connecting never reached Jack’s brain. His head rocketed sideways, his jaw and neck vertebrae crunching with pain, flinging him into a black void of nothingness.
***
Cough!
With a final effort, every cell of his body screaming at him to give up and submit to the inevitable, Doc threw himself forward, both hands out to grab the flaming cord, to strangle it as it reached the bottle neck. He clapped his palms together as his chest hit the floor, sending another shockwave through his bruised lungs and battered aorta, blinding him in a roaring flash of white light.
Doc rolled on to his back, spluttering with pain. In that moment, he thought he had died – bomb or no bomb. The world was fading as he looked up at his hands, palms welded together, as if he was being forced to pray to the god he didn’t believe in, before being cast down to the fires of hell for his atheist arrogance.
He prized them apart, screaming, coughing and wheezing as the excruciating sensations pounded his brain. Both his palms were black and red, the flesh charred and blistered. The fuse was embedded in the ball of his right thumb, with less than a palm-width in length dangling free to the detonator he had somehow plucked from the bottle.
Sirens sounded in the distance and Doc want
ed to cheer as the bliss of pain-free unconsciousness folded round him. As his eyelids drooped closed he noticed movement at the edge of his limited vision.
Cough!
Is that Jack? Or Billy?
A shadow off to his right.
With his world fading then brightening, as if a mischievous child was playing with a dimmer switch inside his head, Doc recognised him. Jack, lying on his back, his jaw at a strange angle. Doc panicked, started pushing himself across the tiles, still almost overwhelmed by the fireworks exploding within him, burning every nerve in his wrecked body. Then he saw his friend’s chest moving up and down.
He’s alive! But where’s Billy?
With another cough to help him see better, he wriggled towards the other shadow on the kitchen floor. The boy, legs wide, sitting against the wall, a body-length from Jack, feet twitching. Defeated turquoise eyes stared at Doc, unblinking. There was no longer any malice or evil intent. The expression on Billy’s face was almost angelic.
Innocent again, at the sight of death’s approach.
What is that? Something glued to the side of his head?
Doc continued his sinuous movements, snake-like, as he slithered across the tiled floor until he was beside the boy. He felt the limp wrist, checked for a pulse.
My old phone?
It is!
He recognised the object, embedded in Billy’s temple, with dark, shiny blood and other matter oozing over it.
Had Jack used it to fell an expert martial artist with a single devastating blow to his head? To one of the most susceptible points on the human body? Was it mere luck, or reflexes learnt from years of police training?
It was unimportant, he concluded, as Billy’s ankles stopped twitching. Doc released his forearm, relieved to hear the sirens as the emergency vehicles arrived, wondering if the front door was still open from when he’d followed the young killer inside. It was – several armed officers jogged into view as their warning shouts echoed through the house.
Charlie, still in her red dress and heels, trotting behind them, went straight to Jack, calling to him, as another officer knelt by Doc and asked, ‘Is this the Leech boy? Is he dead?’
‘No… pulse.’ Cough. ‘De-fib…’ Doc patted his chest with his wrist, trying not to accentuate the pain from his charred palms or busted ribs.
‘You’d better lie down, sir. Try to relax. There’s an ambulance out front. I’ll get the paramedics.’
***
Epilogue: Afterglow
‘Jack. Come on in and meet Jack!’ Doc waved his friend into the private maternity suite at the BUPA Hospital in Reading, his face shining with pleasure. Then he saw Jack’s partner behind him, hesitating, though she carried a giant bouquet of flowers. ‘And you, Charlie. Don’t be shy. Come on in.’
Doc went to the bed and sat on the edge of the mattress beside Judy, his heart swollen with pride. He put his arm around his wife’s shoulders and beamed a smile at Jack Junior – the tiny bundle of humanity lying snug in a blanket in his mother’s arms.
‘Really?’ Jack had hold of Charlie’s hand and almost dragged her to the side of the bed opposite Doc. ‘You named the little tyke after me?’
Doc glanced up in time to see his pal redden with embarrassment and pleasure at the compliment.
Charlie hugged her man, pecked his cheek, placed the flowers on Judy’s bedcovers and said to her, ‘He’s such an arse. He really does think you don’t like him.’
Judy, tired but radiant, and as beautiful as always in Doc’s eyes, smiled up at them both and shrugged. ‘It’s not that I don’t like you, you fool. I just don’t like you dragging my husband off on dangerous escapades. Especially now, with his dodgy heart.’
‘I’m fine! Almost as good as new.’ Doc was miffed at her tone, but she grasped his hand and squeezed, then melted him with a smile. He turned his attention back to Jack. ‘I think what she’s trying to say, is that naming our boy after you is our way of saying thanks, old friend.’
‘Thanks for what?’
‘For saving my life, before. More than once. And always being there for me.’
‘Pah. If that bloody bomb had gone off, I’d have been a goner too. You saved my life, mate. And those other times, I was just doing me job. Wouldn’t bother, otherwise’ They all laughed at that, and Jack leaned over Judy for a closer look at his namesake. ‘Ugly little blighter… All squashed up like that. And his eyes. He’s looking at me like that kid in them Omen films… Should’ve called him Damien. Haha!’
Judy and Charlie slapped his arms, one bicep each, both at the same time, but Doc just chuckled. Jack was obviously thrilled at having the youngster named after him.
‘Go on you two.’ Judy pushed Doc off the edge of the bed. ‘Clear off and have that drink. You can leave Charlie with us both for an hour or so.’
‘I’m definitely up for wetting the baby’s head, Doc.’ Jack planted a soft kiss on Charlie’s lips and added, his voice mock serious, ‘And don’t you go getting any ideas. I’m knocking on a bit now and another sprog is not high on my list of retirement objectives. Sally’s enough of a handful for me. Come on, Doc. There’s a couple of cold pints of lager with our names on ’em in the pub across the road.’
Doc donned his overcoat and followed Jack from the room. As they strolled down the corridor he asked, ‘So, you’re thinking of leaving the Yard, then?’
‘Yup.’
‘Seriously?’
‘Uh-huh… These days, the Met’s got too many paper-pushing jobsworths like Soundbite. She’s still doing my nut in, even though she’s not my boss any more.’
‘I couldn’t believe she tried to get you dismissed. After all, we stopped that Leech boy without any help from her.’
‘Yeah, well.’ Jack stroked his chin and massaged the muscles of his jaw with his finger and thumb. ‘After I came out of hospital and she presented me with all that disciplinary stuff, I told her to shove it, so she added gross insubordination to the list of my misdemeanours.’
‘Mmm.’ Doc had heard all this before, but let Jack vent as they crossed the road to the pub to join the lunchtime crowd of drinkers in the snug interior.
‘I’m just glad the Commissioner saw through it all. She’s a decent old bird, told Soundbite to drop the nonsense.’
‘Did Soundbite convince the CPS to prosecute Smith in the end?’
‘Yeah, though he’s been recalled to Broadmoor for reassessment, and to see if he’s fit to stand trial. I think we may have to testify for him.’ Jack shook his head in amazement, ordered their drinks from the barman and then turned back to Doc with their beers. ‘Never thought I’d feel sorry for a fucking paedophile, but with so much evidence against him…’ He gave a hollow laugh. ‘That Leech boy did a right number on him. Of course, bloody Soundbite was desperate for a collar for the murders.’ He lifted his glass and said, ‘Here’s to Dickie and Felix. May they rest in peace.’
Doc took a gulp of beer in memory of his dead friend and Sally’s fiancé, thinking about Jack’s old boss and her many TV appearances since they had rescued the tutor. Soundbite had milked it for all it was worth, crowing about how ‘her team’ had been instrumental in the arrest of a lone-wolf bomber, a deranged killer who also manufactured and supplied drugs, a ‘vile creature’ who had molested an underage boy in his charge, corrupting the lad. According to the ambitious Chief Superintendent, the full extent of the man’s crimes only came to light when the abused boy tried to kill his tutor – a brilliant and manipulative mastermind – together with his mother. Smith had turned young Billy against the woman during an abusive relationship lasting two years, convincing his ‘naive young victim’ she was evil, that they should murder her and fly to Thailand to start a new life together on the boy’s sixteenth birthday. Instead, the ‘damaged child’ had arranged to use the paedophile’s own IED to escape his abuser’s dastardly clutches while killing his mother in the same explosion. Only the rapid action of the police had foiled the plot, but Billy had ‘sadly di
ed’ during an attempt to apprehend him. The policeman responsible for killing the teenager, one of two people badly injured during Smith’s arrest, had been suspended from active duty at the time… An internal inquiry into all aspects of the investigation had taken several weeks to conclude. Eventually, the Detective Inspector, recently demoted for assaulting a fellow officer, was cleared of ‘any further wrongdoing’.
The tabloids had fun with that lot for months.
Jack and Doc had tried to convince Soundbite of their version of events, pointing out the discarded bindings in the cellar with Smith’s DNA on the adhesive, but she said it was inconclusive – probably from a bondage game the pervert had coerced the boy into playing. Even Billy’s final texts – sent to and from the same location to create an alibi – got short shrift thanks to her blatant cognitive dissonance. She brushed off their appeals to reason with a dismissive, ‘GCHQ said the phones could have been twenty to thirty metres apart at the time those messages were sent. That’s hardly unusual. Some families text each other from different rooms in the same house. Proves nothing.’
Before throwing them out of her office, Soundbite had given her verdict. ‘Even if you are right about Smith being some sort of victim, and I seriously doubt it, the man’s a danger to society. Broadmoor’s where he belongs.’
Doc’s sense of justice had been offended by that. ‘Maybe I’ll make some calls, see if I can do anything for him. So, how’s the new boss?’
‘Pretty decent. Though I’m still a lowly DI.’ He chuckled. ‘Commissioner told me not to push my luck when I asked her to reinstate my promotion. Probably won’t ever get bumped up the ranks again, mate. Not that I care… I’m seriously thinking of moving out to this neck of the woods to rent a place with Charlie. Transferring out of the Met, too. Or maybe retiring and going private. Hooking up with her was the best decision I’ve made in years.’
Gaslighting: A British Crime Thriller (Doc Powers & D.I. Carver Investigate Book 3) Page 36
