Powerful stuff, whatever it was supposed to mean.
Samantha had been listening a while and was losing track. If she’d ever been on track to start with, that was. As far as she could tell, the wild-eyed man was laying blame for every ill on Equality. Apparently Equality was only a first step and Woman’s ultimate aim was the destruction of everything.
Like sincerely!
The prophet was one of four preachers in Darley Street that fine May afternoon. And he was winning the competition. Although the four were much of a muchness, he was the only one holding an audience for minutes on end.
If it’s not his voice, perhaps it’s that gigantic wooden cross he’s brought along as a prop?
Samantha wasn’t in anybody’s audience. She was queuing for the cash point and it was taking forever. A coachload of little old ladies must have arrived just before she had. Two had carefully got their money and five more were still at the front of the queue. Not that she minded waiting. The weather was lovely and age was a fact of life, wasn’t it? Even the miserable girl chuntering away behind her would one day wake up, wrinkled and doddery.
Samantha smiled to herself. This part of Bradford was always good for people-watching. Some had not one second to spare while others had all the time in the world to stand and listen or queue. As it was Saturday quite a few claret and amber football shirts were mixed in with the shoppers and idlers. The football shirts were mostly drifting uphill, towards Valley Parade, although plenty were stopping off at the burger stand, seductively sited on this unofficial Speakers’ Corner.
The smell of frying onions could have driven Samantha crazy if she let it. How easy it would be to forget she’d already eaten and munch a jumbo hotdog. But she had already eaten and there was a big night ahead. Pub discos always meant late finishes and silly amounts to drink. And, unlike some, she had to watch her figure.
Her smile became wry as she edged a few more inches towards the cash point. She was glad her (usually) adorable husband had carried on playing football beyond the scary age of thirty. He worked too hard and needed a distraction as much as the exercise. The social side was good too, for her as well as him. The only cloud on that horizon had been the emergence of a rival . . . and a sexy one at that.
Very, very sexy.
Her name was Penelope although everyone called her Penny. Penelope was going out with one of Geoff’s teammates but hadn’t let minor details like that get in her way. Oh no, Penelope had set her cap at Geoff, make no mistake. She never missed the chance to have a good flirt.
Flirt? She was practically stalking him.
Samantha had to chuckle. Okay, so she was exaggerating, but Penelope really was relentless. With kids to worry about, Mummy had long since given up watching the matches herself, turning up to collect Geoff later instead, after he’d had a few beers. This season it had been the same story every week. Before she walked into the crowded taproom she could have guaranteed Penny would be cozied up close, batting her lashes and hanging on Geoff’s every word, being pretty and desirable and obviously ready for anything . . . the little minx.
Needless to say, Penelope was drop-dead gorgeous. She had short, chestnut-coloured hair, beautiful deep blue eyes and a body most girls would die for. She also wasn’t such a little minx; she had incredibly long legs and the world’s cutest bum. And she was a whole four years younger. It would have been quite easy to despise her.
* * *
The queue for cash was down to the last little old lady. She had to be in her nineties but her fingers were fairly flying over the PIN pad. She didn’t look like she’d take long at all. Samantha shuffled forward until she was a polite distance from the screen. The rest of the queue shuffled after her, Miss Misery Guts still chuntering.
How can she be such a wet blanket on a day like this? Don’t say she’s got a relentless rival too!
Samantha smiled to herself. The most recent football disco had been at Easter. For a while before then, since the Big New Year Bash or possibly even the Bonfire Night Bonanza, Geoff and Penelope had been sneaking a slow dance or two, when the smooches started. Samantha had been turning a blind eye to this sneakiness, pretending she was above petty jealousy. She’d even declined her own invitations to dance, not wanting to seem to compete. The Easter Extravaganza had been different though. Everyone had been three parts sozzled and the smooching went on so long it would have been rude to opt out.
Not that she’d opted for Geoff. Without sparing him a glance she had got close and personal with several others, most memorably Mitch, this year’s captain, who she’d danced with for ages.
Just thinking about Mitch gave Samantha a shiver. She’d let him kiss her lots of times and hadn’t complained when she’d felt his very hard hard-on, only separated from her trembling tummy by two thin sets of clothing. She’d even been tempted when he suggested they slipped outside. She’d declined, of course, because she wouldn’t really cheat any more than Geoff would, but it was good to know a young stud like Mitch found her attractive.
Good? Make that stimulating. She’d been one hundred per cent faithful from the day she’d met Geoffrey Rodgers. At Easter, however, if she’d been the teeniest bit less grown-up, or ever so slightly drunker . . .
‘That man doesn’t know what he’s saying.’ The last little old lady nodded towards the prophet of doom. She finished tucking money into her purse and turned to Samantha, her eyes bright and sharp. ‘My best friend made a mistake when she was seventeen,’ she went on, ignoring Misery’s dramatic sigh. ‘She trusted a boy and he put her in the family way. Because she wasn’t married they put her in an asylum and took away her baby. Drove her stark staring mad, it did. She died on her twenty-first birthday. And he complains about Equality.’
‘That’s awful,’ said Samantha. ‘I’m so sorry.’
‘Don’t be sorry. Just do your bit to make sure we never go back to the Dark Ages. I used to idolize Emily Davison and Emmeline Pankhurst. If they were here today they’d smack that silly man’s face. I’m going now, before I do it myself.’
Samantha put her card in the cash machine and entered her PIN. She had intended to draw enough for the babysitter and the odd round of drinks. In the spirit of egalitarianism she took out a hundred pounds and headed off up the hill. She was going to buy that ridiculously daring top after all. Okay, she might not have the sylphlike curves of young Penelope, but she wasn’t bad for a mother of three. And, while Penelope was relatively modest in the chest department, her own wasn’t far short of magnificent. If tonight came down to a chest contest, there was only going to be one winner.
Well, two actually, and both of them hers.
Her foot was physically on the Kirkgate Centre steps when she heard someone shouting about the T&A. He looked like a Big Issue seller who’d fallen on hard times and was almost impossible to understand, possibly because he didn’t have any teeth. But she could translate “receivership” and “West Yorkshire” and felt obliged to investigate. Geoff took a keen interest in local business affairs; articles about receiverships were compulsive reading for him. He’d almost certainly already know about this one but, with it being the weekend, there was just a chance he didn’t.
Samantha had a fifty pence coin in her jacket pocket. Turning away from the shopping centre, never suspecting this was the worst snap decision she would ever make, she fished it out and weaved through the throng.
Higher up Darley Street, before it became pedestrianised, there was a small commotion but nobody paid particular attention. More shouting only added to the general hustle and bustle.
‘Keep the change,’ Samantha said. The T&A seller didn’t look as if he’d intended to give change anyway. He grunted something without looking at her.
The full headline took up plenty of front page; it read:
RECEIVER APPOINTED
AT LOW MOOR FIRM
SIXTY JOBS AT RISK
Samantha didn’t recognize the firm’s name but it sounded important. And the appointment had be
en made late yesterday, so Geoff probably had missed it. Pleased with herself, she set off to get that top.
Suddenly chaos! The first man came careering at her out of nowhere. She barely had chance to register him before she realized he was being chased. He was also running downhill so fast that he was out of control. Still holding the newspaper, she thrust out her hands to fend him away.
Then everything went into slow motion. She saw the line of red roses appear across the first man’s chest before she heard something too soft and plasticky to possibly be gunshots.
A film, she thought instantly. They must be making a film.
And the special effects were astounding. They’d even managed to drill three neat little holes through her Telegraph & Argus. How on earth did they do that?
She was still wondering as she fell to the ground.
* * *
Dinger and his mates weren’t wearing replica shirts or any other giveaways. They were smart-casual and didn’t stand out as they headed for the City match . . . via another boozer or two, naturally. Today’s game was low category but, like all those Welshmen, they lived in Hope. Even now, at a meaningless end-of-seasoner, there was always a chance of catching some opposition fans on their way to the ground.
Especially in the pubs they were going in.
The shooting took them by surprise. They were used to daily violence but normally the heavy stuff happened in less public places. Like everyone else, their instinct was to hit the deck and keep their heads down. Suddenly the everyday street sounds had given way to screams and cries of outrage.
‘He’s hit that woman!’ Zed was as outraged as anyone. ‘The fucking bastard!’
The gunman had turned away from his two victims and was strutting back uphill. He obviously didn’t give a toss about the innocent bystander and even less about witnesses.
‘Let’s get the fucker,’ Speed yelled.
Zed and Speed took off without further ado. Dinger scrambled to his feet and ran after them. He was up for this. With any luck they could catch the bastard, stamp his head in and still make it to The Cartwright for more beer before kick-off.
Something, probably Zed’s crazy roaring, made the gunman look over his shoulder. He didn’t seem so cocky when he saw three fired-up headcases on his arse. Dropping the strut he bolted left into Godwin Street. The three mates hared on behind, twenty-odd yards between him and them.
‘Get the fucker,’ Speed yelled again.
‘War, war, war!’ Zed bellowed.
There was the usual line of vehicles queuing to get into the multi-storey. The gunman ran to the front of the queue and darted into the entrance. By the time Dinger got there, very few seconds later, he was at the top of the entrance ramp, waving the weapon at his pursuers.
‘Fuck off,’ the gunman shouted. ‘Don’t you know who I am?’
‘I know you’re fucking dead,’ Speed shouted back.
This brought a burst of fire that missed Speed but got the windscreen of the first car waiting at the barrier.
‘Shit!’ cried the man behind the steering wheel, clutching his belly.
‘He’s out of ammo,’ Dinger said. ‘I heard it clicking.’
‘I’m gonna make him eat that fucking shooter,’ Zed snarled. ‘He just made it personal.’
They rounded the barrier and sprinted after the gunman. Firing at them had increased his lead but it was easy to follow the sound of running footsteps as he worked his way, level by level, to the rooftop parking area.
‘Watch the ramp,’ Dinger barked at Zed. ‘Speed, you watch the lifts. Let’s corner the bastard.’
‘War,’ Zed bellowed. ‘War! War! War!’
* * *
What a showing up. I must have fainted. Thank Goodness Becky isn’t here. She’d be so embarrassed.
Samantha was lying on her back on the pavement, a circle of gaping faces above her. Sirens were blaring in the distance. Surely not for me, she hoped. Apart from the sirens it was eerily quiet, as if something major had occurred. It was almost a relief to hear the prophet of doom carrying on regardless.
‘This time the whore-queen has produced more than a swarm of demons! This time she’s whored with Samael and produced a beast all of her own!’
Samantha tried to get up but nothing happened. She couldn’t move anything.
‘Easy now,’ a gentle voice said.
At least her eyes still worked. She rolled them to her right and saw a kindly-looking girl in her early twenties.
‘I want to get up.’ Samantha was surprised she sounded so feeble. She didn’t feel feeble, she felt quite normal; unable to move just about every last muscle, but otherwise normal.
‘Please don’t try,’ the kindly girl said. ‘You’ve been badly hurt. We don’t want it to get any worse, do we?’
‘Hurt? How can I have been hurt?’
‘You’ve been shot. But don’t worry, I’m a nurse. I’m taking care of you.’
‘It was a film, wasn’t it?’ Samantha suddenly noticed the girl was covered with blood. She was pressing a folded jacket against her newest patient, trying to plug holes. Samantha tried to say something else but her mouth filled with hot, coppery liquid.
My children! Oh dear God, my children!
Suddenly it was impossible to cough or swallow. The nurse helped Samantha turn her head a little and the hot stuff trickled out over her chin. More blood, she realized. Lots more blood. She must be leaking pints and pints of it.
And all the colour was fading out of the world.
‘Is that . . . is it mine?’ Her voice was weaker than ever now. She already sounded like a ghost.
The nurse glanced at the gore on her hands and clothes. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘But it’ll be all right. We’ll replace it when we get you to hospital. It won’t be long now. Try to put up with the pain just a little longer.’
‘I don’t have any pain. That’s not good, is it?’
‘Don’t worry, darling. Please . . . please don’t worry.’ The nurse stayed professional but wasn’t much more than a child herself. Her smile faltered and there was a hint of desperation as she raised her voice and asked if there was a doctor at hand.
There wasn’t. The circle of faces stood firm over them, awesomely silent. The sirens blared closer. Somewhere, not far away, a baby was crying. Back down the hill the prophet ranted on.
‘Samael’s bastard has seven heads and scales of steel! He breathes fire and preaches love, yet no man recognizes him for what he is!’
Dear God, if You are taking me now, please watch over Sandy, Becky and Jamie. Please give Geoff the strength to carry on. He loves the children as much as I do. All he needs is guidance. He’ll always do the right thing, just so long as You tell him what to do.
There was still no pain. And that feeling . . . it wasn’t a normal feeling after all. It was a nothing. Her circuits were disconnecting and shutting down.
‘Stay with me!’ The nurse was shaking her arm. ‘Whatever you do, don’t go to sleep. You really must stay awake. The paramedics will be here any second. Fight to stay with me. Fight it. Please, darling, fight it.’
Samantha’s lungs were next on the shutdown list. Perhaps they were full of blood, drowning her. Drowning was supposed to be like slipping off to sleep, wasn’t it? And she’d never felt so sleepy before, not ever. Her eyelids had lead weights attached to them.
‘Fight it! Please darling, fight it!’
Samantha simply couldn’t. All her fight had gone. She made one final effort, concentrating as fiercely as she could on the children and Geoff, but it was no good. Even her brain was shutting down now.
Tears were streaking the nurse’s face. Her professional smile had become an anguished grimace.
‘This film . . .’ Samantha murmured. ‘I can’t . . .’
‘Stay awake, darling . . . darling? Talk to me, please . . .’
* * *
They hadn’t needed to trap the gunman because he managed that all by himself. He must have thought there w
as another way into the shopping centre. Or maybe he was just stupid. Whatever, as soon as he hit sunshine at the top of the final ramp he headed for the most remote corner and took shelter behind a Mondeo.
Dinger stopped about thirty paces away and waved up Zed and Speed. There was no need to guard exits now; all they had to worry about was that gun.
‘What are we waiting for?’ said Speed. ‘Let’s be having him.’
‘He’s reloaded,’ said Dinger. ‘And I left my flak jacket at home.’
‘What are we going to do, then? Starve him out?’
‘Hold on, I’m thinking.’
Dinger frowned. Like the rest of the multi-storey, the open air level was rammed with cars, but they were useless as cover. Stupid or not, the bastard could see under them and through their windows. This was going to take brain, not brawn.
Not that everyone appreciated that.
‘For fuck’s sake,’ the gunman suddenly yelled. ‘What’s this got to do with you? Why don’t you piss off and leave me alone?’
‘Because I wanna kick your head in,’ Speed replied before charging.
Dinger was too late to stop him. He could only watch as the gunman popped up like an evil jack-in-the-box, firing four times at his would-be attacker, bringing him down. Then something silver was flashing through the air. Zed had ripped a wing mirror off a nearby Vectra and pegged it at the murderous twat. His aim was good but not deadly. Worst luck. The wing mirror gave the gunman a glancing blow, sending him scrambling back out of sight without stunning him.
‘Wait, just wait a minute.’ Dinger pulled Zed behind a row of vehicles. Speed was lying out in the open, holding his leg and cursing bitterly. He could only have been hit once; Dinger had heard the other three bullets ricocheting away. And there was only one pool of blood; a medium-sized one that didn’t look life-threatening . . . yet.
‘Break off more wing mirrors,’ he ordered. ‘The bastard’s switched to single shot. He must be running low. I want you to cover me while I get Speed.’
‘Fucking ace!’ Zed started ripping.
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