STANDPOINT a gripping thriller full of suspense

by DEREK THOMPSON

  Miranda looked on in amazement as she passed her the gun. “Why are you doing this?”

  Christine hyperventilated a little as she searched for the words. “Just go and don’t stop — I’ll say you overpowered me . . . get out while you still can.”

  And that was all Miranda needed. Adrenalin flooded her muscles and the survival instinct drove her past the pain, past the terror and through Christine. Afterwards she’d try to rationalise it as giving Christine an alibi, but right that second Christine had simply become another obstacle to be dealt with. She struck with a well-aimed heel of her hand, contacting under Christine’s chin with a satisfying thwack. Christine went down like the proverbial sack of shit, but Miranda didn’t wait around to watch the finale. She launched through the doors, straight across the grass, barrelling towards the arch at the far end of the garden. She flew like a Valkyrie, gun primed. Like Mum used to say, when they’d really misbehaved as kids: all bets were off now.

  Chapter 41

  06.30.

  “Yes, this is Sir Peter — do you know what time this is? What? No, you did the right thing calling me, Nicholas. I can be in Whitehall . . . let’s say eight o’clock. Take command up there under my authority and keep Yorgi under control — whatever it takes. Medicate him if you have to. Who was the senior officer? Christine Gerrard. Right, here’s what I want you to do. Widen the search and put a surveillance team on the girl’s parents’ home.”

  Sir Peter glanced over at his wife trying to get back to sleep. He turned his back to her, and whispered. “Monitor Bladen’s phone — I’m sure you don’t need me to tell you of the difficulties the organisation faces if she makes it home before we get the package back. Do we understand one another, Nicholas?” He placed the receiver down and sat up in bed.

  “What is it, Peter?” his wife fumbled for her bedside lamp.

  “It’s nothing, dear, just work. I need to go to Whitehall urgently.” He didn’t wait for an objection; too many years had passed for one to be raised. He picked up the telephone again. “Phillip, how soon can you have the car here? Forty-five minutes will be fine.”

  Chapter 42

  Thomas span the plastic token in the air, pleased that he’d stored the DSB in a locker at Victoria. Just in case someone came knocking on his door before he left for Yorkshire. Everything was in play now and all he could do was wait at the flat. Teresa had dropped off the radar altogether; Karl, Terry and Sam were en route to somewhere Karl had promised ‘would be close enough to the bunker to see Miranda’s smile.’

  He wandered, room to room, staring at the pictures as if they were an exhibition of someone else’s life. And hadn’t it been that, really? Leeds was a world away; the Miranda he knew — carefree laughter, sardonic wit and a lithe body with visiting rights — that was all gone now, surely? Somehow he’d overstayed at the theatre of life and seen the magician packing the tricks away; he’d never be so enthralled again, nor fooled so easily.

  In the kitchen there were more photographs: a couple of panoramic views of the moors, at dawn and dusk. He remembered spending a whole day on that. For reasons he still couldn’t fathom, it had to be dawn and dusk on the same day. The entire photography club had been there, all sandwiches and flasks, and a sneaky lager for him and Ajit that he’d found at the back of the Christmas cupboard. The photos were amateurish, but there had been potential in them; the composition of the shot, two trees together silhouetted against the orange glow; the way he’d waited and only taken two frames of each. Just two frames a piece in a crazy shit-or-bust challenge to his own abilities.

  Looking at the pictures now opened a narrow window to the past. He could just about glimpse what it was to be a teenager again, to be outdoors and not be afraid or isolated or . . .

  He coughed, as if to attract his own attention. Another photograph, lower down, cradled his reflection and he stared at the tears without reproach. Well, almost without reproach. “Finished?” he asked himself aloud.

  * * *

  Later that morning a text came in from a mobile he didn’t recognise. ‘Get new mobile, text us here with our names. Kosovo Girls.’ At last, something to do. He grabbed the bag and took the car; might as well give them some activity to track.

  The salesman looked all of seventeen, but that didn’t stop him trying to sell mobile-phone insurance and a host of accessories that only served two purposes — to delay Thomas and to really piss him off. Once he’d escaped his clutches, he found a camping shop and bought a compass. Not quite a Silva, but a decent enough copy.

  Back at the flat he dug out the old maps — the ones that only saw daylight once a year at most, ready for the joyful family reunion. It was a deal he’d hatched with himself, many years ago — every time you spend a little time with the Bladen clan, I’ll let you out on the moors.

  The new mobile fired up with a little fanfare, which was the first thing he changed. He followed Karl’s instructions and programmed in the Kosovo Girls number; he was in Karl’s hands now.

  The landline call came soon after. “Thomas? John.” This was minimalism played to Olympic standards. “How’s it going? The boys are in Scotland for a few days, on a fishing trip . . .”

  He winced: way too clever.

  “. . . And did I tell you that Uncle Robert’s been unwell — last I heard. I might pop round there, just to see if he needs anything.”

  He gulped. Did John Wright have enough information to track Bob Peterson down? Well, Bob would have to fend for himself.

  “Anyway, have a good weekend and remember, Monday night is poker night. Everyone’s expected.”

  The call ended. Thomas put the phone down and unclenched his teeth — a stupid, unnecessary risk. That settled it; he’d ring Sir Peter Carroll now and then get his arse up to Yorkshire.

  “Hello Sir Peter, it’s Thomas. I’ve just received a call — I’ve been told to head up to Yorkshire tonight. I’ll pick up the DSB, then hand it over to you tomorrow. Hmm yes, I’ll drive up. And Sir Peter, I really appreciate what you’re doing for Miranda and me.” The line nearly choked him. “Now, let me give you a handover site for tomorrow morning — I’ll be there nine-thirty.” He rattled off the OS reference, matching the red circle on his old map.

  * * *

  By the time he got to Victoria to retrieve the DSB, everything he needed had been transferred to a large rucksack, including the vest. Uniforms were funny things; hill-walker or vigilante — it all depended on what you kept beside your Kendal’s mint cake.

  Back in the car he hung an old St Christopher over the rear-view mirror. He didn’t have the balls to string JC up there yet, but he was willing to take any help he could get.

  Three hours into the drive to Yorkshire, the mobile flashed so he pulled over. It was Karl, in his own inimitable style: ‘Dug in. drive safe, no speeding!’

  Mum and Dad had been thrilled to hear he was going to be in the area for a couple of days. Well, not thrilled; pleasantly suspicious was closer to the mark. Understandable though, considering he’d generally rather walk through nuclear waste than spend time with the Bladens. And he wasn’t very subtle about it.

  As much as he’d wanted to, he knew it would be wrong to drag Ajit into everything. Ajit would want to help through ‘official channels.’ But that was the kind of thinking that had dropped Thomas in the shit in the first place. Although, now that he came to think about it, a copper like Ajit could be useful under certain circumstances. Thomas weighed it all up as he exited the last services, before leaving the M1.

  Chapter 43

  Be it ever so claustrophobic, there’s no place like home. And, if Thomas were honest, Pickering was no place like home either. If it weren’t for the fact that he was bloody tired he’d have driven out, anywhere, rather than do the reunion bit now. But, as things stood, he was all done in. Not just the driving, tortuous as that had been, but the endless mental coin flipping; the absolute conviction that this would all be okay, followed by an all-consuming dread that it was all bey
ond his grasp, no matter what he did. It put a whole new sheen on: ‘Are we there yet?’

  The homestead curtains twitched as he was parking up; Mum had probably been waiting there for the last half hour, watching cars. He took a long breath and swung the rucksack over to the driver’s side, checking that the box of chocolates had survived the journey intact.

  His mother was at the door while he was still three feet away. He switched the rucksack to one hand, opened his other arm and engulfed her.

  “It’s good to see you, lad.”

  He used to scoff at the way she could produce tears — once he accused her, harshly, of manufacturing them to order. Today, he had to stay focused to stave off his own. His father smiled from the armchair and they did their usual strong father-and-son handshake act. Bladen senior waited until Thomas’s mother had skipped off to the kitchen to re-boil the kettle.

  “It’s grand to see you, Thomas. Is everything all right?”

  “Not exactly,” he replied, then suggested they talk later, in private.

  “Are you, er, stopping long?” His father stared at the rucksack, which Thomas had pressed tightly to his leg.

  He pulled out the chocolates and placed them on the floor.

  “Helen, come look at what Thomas has brought us.”

  Blimey, who is this impostor and what’s happened to my real dad?

  Pat put in an appearance later, with the kids. Gordon even managed to travel four streets to pop his head round the door when he came to take them home. It was like Thomas had slipped into a parallel world, where no one was using the next person in line for emotional target practice.

  Karl was there at the back of his mind, but all he could do was wait for an update. So basically, he was Johnny No-mates for the night. He’d fed the family a vague story about being in the area for work — another half-truth that Karl would have been proud of.

  His mother said she was going round to keep Pat company, while Gordon nipped out for a few jars. It sounded staged, but Thomas didn’t care. He sat, statue-like until the door closed behind her.

  “So,” James carefully shut the hall door behind him, “what’s to do, Thomas?”

  He’d played it out so many different ways in his head, but however he began there was no easy opening. He unclipped the top of the rucksack and looked inside. “Why don’t you sit down, Dad; this is complicated.”

  “Look, if there’s summat troublin’ you lad, just spit it out.”

  Easy words. He made two false starts, opening his mouth without speaking.

  “Come on, Thomas, why are you really here? I don’t buy all that rot about being here for work.”

  He nodded and pulled the drawstring closed. “It’s Miranda, Dad. She’s being held by someone — because of me.”

  “Is it drugs?”

  Thomas erupted. “Of course it’s not bloody drugs — what do you take me for?” Right, bollocks, he’d let him have it all, chapter and verse. First, the photograph at the Harwich, then Petrov’s car, and then Yorgi. It was all loosening up inside his brain and oozing out like molten wax. He didn’t know if his father was really listening — it almost didn’t matter because now he was talking he didn’t want to stop. Karl, Bob Peterson, Sir Peter Carroll, Christine — he knew they’d just be names to his dad, and quickly forgotten. But he wanted to get it all out now and lay it bare before him.

  It took nearly half an hour to get to the present day, how Karl and the boys were already out on the moors, risking life and limb to help him bring Miranda home. And how he was really in Yorkshire to make the exchange.

  His father had said very little. He seemed to wait until Thomas had run out of commentary. “And you’ve not thought of going t’ police?”

  Thomas raised his hands, clawing at the air in sheer frustration. “What did the police ever do for you, Dad?”

  “Aye, I know; I’m only saying, like. But . . .”

  Thomas reached into his rucksack — it was time.

  “But won’t it be dangerous?”

  Thomas smiled; his dad was a master of understatement. He pulled out the bulletproof vest and passed it across.

  “Blimey, there’s nowt to it; doesn’t look as if it’d stop a cough!”

  They both laughed; it cut through the tension like a cleaver.

  “And that’s why,” Thomas lowered his voice even though there was no one else in the house, “I wanted to talk to you in private, because I need your help.”

  His father leaned in and the flickering fire reflected in his eyes. “I’ll do anything I can.”

  Hold that thought. “I need the gun,” the words plummeted to the floor.

  “Now, look . . . Thomas; I can see how you’re fixed . . .”

  He stood up and his father looked ever so small. “Don’t fuck me around — is the gun here or not?” He could hear the desperation in his own voice and he felt ashamed. He hated feeling like that, hated being there, asking for help from the one person who’d never been any help to him, ever.

  His father hadn’t spoken for maybe a minute.

  “Look,” he reached into the rucksack again and drew out the .38 automatic. “These people don’t mess around. I need the gun you kept in the shed.”

  His dad looked up at him one last time, and sighed. “Wait here.”

  Thomas called after him, making sure they understood each other, once and for all. “Make sure it’s loaded.”

  He put the vest and pistol away, and stared into the flames, close enough for the heat to sting his eyes. At least, that’s what he told himself.

  His father took a good five minutes. Thomas was in no rush though, as long as he got what he came for. A second weapon could make all the difference.

  “Here,” his father put a rolled up cloth on the table with a soft thud.

  Thomas picked it up, trying the weight for size. When he looked up, his father’s face was frozen. “Did I do summat to make you like this?”

  “No, Dad,” he spoke through his hands, just like he used to as a boy when he’d been caught out at something. “You’ve always told me about the Miners’ Strike, about the struggle against Thatcher and the government. It’s my turn now, Dad; I’m the one fighting and these bastards,” he felt the tears falling but he didn’t care anymore; “these bastards have got Miranda and she . . .” Fuck, he couldn’t even say the words. He choked on a breath and looked up. His father was wiping his face with a hankie.

  “Now, I need you to do summat else for me, tomorrow — have you got some notepaper and an envelope?”

  His father watched as he wrote out a letter to Ajit, detailing where he was going and when and what was going on. If it all went to shit — and he pretty much expected that, one way or another — at least the police could clear up the aftermath.

  “I’ll tell thee something, Thomas, and I’ve never told a living soul. That little gun there has only been fired twice. I took it down to the allotments one time and fair scared myself to death with a single bullet. And of course the other time . . .”

  Thomas sniffed and stared at him blankly.

  “Bloody ’ell son, don’t you remember?”

  He shook his head, as if he could deny the truth.

  “It was you, yer daft bugger. I caught you in the house messing around with it and, well, we’d had words the day before. You only went and pointed the bloody thing at me and it was loaded. You couldn’t have known that of course.”

  Thomas felt the heat roasting his cheeks. He had known; he was sure of it.

  “Aye, bloody thing went off and shot a plate from the wall. It were like something out of Spanish City Amusements at Whitley Bay! Anyhow, you were so scared, you peed yourself and to tell the truth I think I might’a done as well!” His father folded the hankie and dabbed his forehead. “Look, I hope you know what you’re doing.”

  A cog rotated in his brain; there was something else to take care of tonight. “I’m going out for a couple of hours.” He picked up the Makarov pistol in case his father c
hanged his mind and added it to the rucksack. It felt good to have it, as if he were reclaiming it from the nightmare.

  “Are you out seeing Ajit, to drop off your letter, then?”

  “No,” Thomas raised a stop hand, “he doesn’t know I’m here — he mustn’t get the note until tomorrow morning. Tell Mam I’ll not be back late.”

  He drove to York, for no other reason than that it was a good distance from Pickering. Far enough away for a DSB pick up, if there’d actually been one.

  He wandered among the crowds — there were always crowds in York, no matter what time of year. Always a group of twats in Viking helmets and club sweatshirts, who thought they were able to hold their drink.

  Despite his own prejudices, he opted for a busy pub — something with sport splashed across a widescreen TV. He squeezed through the throng and made straight for the gents, emerging a few minutes later with the vest on, under his sweatshirt, for practice. He settled for a pint of shandy and found an abandoned table at the far end of the pub. Nearby was an old man with a Border Collie at his feet. They were like two refugees from the twentieth century — the old man clinging to his pint of bitter and Thomas pawing over a hiking map of Fylingdales Moor.

  A woman arrived with a buggy and commenced her double experiment, trying to poison her kid with cigarette smoke and mobile phone radiation. “Come on, Crystal, say hello to Daddy.”

  Thomas watched and swapped raised eyebrows with the old feller. The poor little mite in the buggy didn’t stand a chance. Daddy was probably on the other side of the pub somewhere, stuck in the crowd. Or in a young offenders’ centre.

  He sighed into his shandy and puzzled over the map, a map so old that the bunker tourist attraction wasn’t even printed and had been added in by felt-tip pen. One road, in and out. He looked at the surrounding terrain and access roads; it would entail at least a two-mile walk, maybe more; something else to factor into his non-existent plan. He put his glass down on RAF Fylingdales.