The Hurting

by RJ Mitchell

  Thoroughgood’s mellifluous baritone broke their self-imposed silence. “Fuck me, it’s Felix Baker and two mates. Well, well. What do you suppose they are up to, 40 miles from Glasgow, in the middle of the Perthshire countryside?”

  The surprise, not just down to Thoroughgood’s shock discovery of his voice but the content of his comments, forced Hardie to strengthen his grip on the steering wheel to compensate for the tremor of shock which had almost caused him to swerve the CID car into the Audi.

  Hardie could not help himself leaning slightly farther forward in his driver’s seat to catch a glimpse of Baker, a prolific housebreaker whose speed on the prowl had earned him the nickname of Felix.

  Baker had terrorised the private housing schemes of Bishopbriggs, an affluent suburb in the north of Glasgow, through his use of the “Creeper” housebreaking MO that saw houses targeted in the dead of night when their occupants were deep in their slumbers. Then of course there was Felix’s penchant for violence that saw any waking householders invariably beaten with a frightening severity that had left one OAP on life support in the city’s Royal Infirmary.

  But that was long ago and Baker was known to have graduated to the theft of fine art items on a steal-to-order basis from the stately homes of Scotland’s old aristocracy.

  “Look faither, just keep going will you? Any money they will spot a CID motor and the last thing we need them to pick up on is that it’s being driven by two of their oldest polis pals,” barked Thoroughgood and the urgency in his gaffer’s voice injected the first faint feelings of positivity into Kenny Hardie’s damp dreich day.

  “All right Gus, but they aren’t on a day trip just for the sake of the scenery. How do you propose we play this one? Now we’ve gone past them we’re hardly in a position to give them a tug,” said Hardie.

  Thoroughgood turned his full attention on his partner. “Just get into the nearside lane and crawl along like you usually do and they can take that decision out of our hands.”

  But Baker and his two mates didn’t play ball and remained stubbornly 100 yards adrift of the Focus.

  Clocking the Audi almost constantly in his rear view, Hardie provided a breathless commentary on its incumbents. “Baker is driving all right but I don’t recognise the other boy in the front and I can’t get a read on the punter in the back. You reckon they’ll be tooled up?”

  “A bad boy like Felix is always going to be looking for that little bit extra insurance. If it’s not shooters then he is bound to have a blade or two in the motor. They aren’t sitting back there because they are nervous of motorway driving. They know it’s a CID motor. What they’ve got to be waiting for is to see if our arrival is mere coincidence or if we’re on to them. Either by chance or design, it makes no odds. So it’s up to us to keep them guessing.”

  Thoroughgood took a look in his passenger mirror and tried to sneak a glance at the front passenger in the Audi but the combination of spray and distance rendered his efforts pointless.

  “We're maybe a mile or so from the roundabout just up from Bridge of Allan. That will give them four options. Either they go straight through and keep heading for Glasgow and see if we do likewise, take a left into Bridge of Allan, go past the Glasgow turn off and take the Denny road, or double back for Perth.

  “Any of the last three means they have clocked exactly who we are and have something on board they don’t want us having a butchers at. If they head for Glasgow, well I still wouldn’t bet on them being clean, just that they haven’t recognised us and reckon we are local Central Scotland CID.”

  “Fair enough,” responded Hardie in agreement.

  “Right, I can see the roundabout signs ahead Kenny, slowly pull on the anchors and we’ll see if we can force the issue.”

  With 200 yards to go to the roundabout the Audi darted into the outside lane and proceeded to close the gap on the Focus. Baker and his cronies had no option, as Hardie had dropped down to second gear.

  As the Audi pulled parallel with their car, Baker and his two minions kept their eyes resolutely to the front; locked on the roundabout. Then the Audi signalled to pull in front of the Focus and continued to indicate left for Bridge of Allan.

  With Thoroughgood and Hardie now behind them, Baker and his gang headed down the road that would take them into the old Victorian spa town.

  Hardie was first to articulate his thoughts. “He’s clocked us all right Gus, might be time to get on the mobile to Central Scotland plod?”

  The Focus followed the Audi at a distance and there could be little doubt that Baker and his confederates had realised the Focus was a police vehicle, judging by the furtive and repeated glances into their rear view mirror.

  About 600 yards from the entry into the main street the road became a mini dual carriageway just as it crested the bridge over the river Allan. It was then that Baker decided it was time to test the resolve of his pursuers.

  As the mini roundabout that preceded the dual carriageway loomed, the Audi suddenly shot across the traffic island diagonally, narrowly missing a bottle green people carrier, heading straight into the oncoming northerly traffic.

  “Fuckin’ idiot, what the hell does he think he’s doing?” roared Hardie, flattening the accelerator of the Focus but remaining in the correct lane. But Baker’s change of lane wasn’t the only surprise the criminal and his mates had in store for the detectives.

  With the speedo showing Hardie was hitting 60mph, the Focus had almost pulled level with the Audi on the opposite carriageway; it was then that the rear passenger window rolled down and a sawn-off shotgun appeared.

  Thoroughgood had been keeping constant surveillance on the Audi and spotted the shooter first. “Hit the anchors! Sawn-off stickin’ out rear window.”

  Automatically Hardie did as he was told but a hail of lead unloaded into the bonnet of the Focus. The Audi was back in front and this time it crossed the next mini roundabout and sped back onto the south carriageway.

  “Jesus H Christ!” just about summed up Hardie’s thoughts on the matter but Thoroughgood said:

  “We’ve got three hundred yards to the village and there’s a pedestrian crossing just outside the Allan Water Cafe that's always teamin’ with kids, grannies, Mum and Dad, the whole bleedin’ lot. If he goes in there at 60mph it will be carnage. Say your prayers faither.”

  But Baker had other ideas and with the village main street and the café looming he tried an ambitious and almost 90 degree turn down a side road running parallel with the banks of the river they had just crossed.

  “Fuckin’ maniac, he’s never gonnae make that!” exclaimed Hardie, and he was right. It was like watching a slow motion replay as time seemed to stretch its perimeters. No sooner had the Audi begun its attempt at an abrupt left turn than the back of the vehicle started writhing violently as the movement asked of it defied the laws of physics.

  With tyres screeching the vehicle started to tip and the two wheels on the passenger side began to lose their grip on the road before daylight clearly showed under the vehicle as it began its flight into oblivion.

  The Audi managed one complete rollover before it smashed into the side of the concrete wall encircling a small remembrance memorial and a bench looking down on the riverside road.

  That bench was occupied by two white haired women defying the elements and licking two ice creams with some vigour. Their cones were soon dropped as the elderly ladies’ shocked faces took in the approaching horror of the low flying vehicle which was heading their way and on course to smash into the wall in front of them.

  Hardie managed to bring the Focus to a stop at the junction of the riverside road and the mini roundabout with some effort and as he watched the Audi intently for signs of life he could already see the driver making his way round the far side of the crumpled car and breaking into a run down the side road.

  Thoroughgood spoke. “You got a baton with you faither?”

  Hardie shook his head. “Nope, but there is a Maglite torch in the back so
mewhere. Why you askin’?”

  “You’re gonna call out Central plod and I’m gonna take the Maglite and see if I can catch my friend Felix. It looks from the lack of movement like the other two are fecked. It’s up to you if you want to sit tight or have a look but I’d put the missus and weans first, faither.”

  With that Thoroughgood turned round in his seat and fished down into the webbing attached to the back of Hardie’s seat. His fingers soon located the metallic surface of the Maglite: “Hey presto!”

  Hardie opened his mouth and got as far as “C’mon Gus…” But his mate was already out of the passenger door, his back a receding image as he ran down the side road after Baker. It was then that Hardie connected the look he had seen in Thoroughgood’s eyes when he had located the Maglite with the one he had encountered the first time he had seen his friend earlier that day. Two words escaped his mouth when the realisation dawned.

  “Death wish.”

  Turning into the side road Thoroughgood scanned the area immediately in front of him and found it empty. He jogged over to the railings that ran along the top of the wall at the edge of the road which dropped down to the river banks, and looked along to his right.

  There, scurrying along the sandbank towards some pine trees, he saw the back of a male clad in dark clothing. Thoroughgood was off again, this time making towards the steps that led up to the roadway from the river bank.

  Descending them two at a time, he reached the bottom almost breathless and then began to jog along the sandy surface of the banks of the Allan. The figure had gone. Reaching the pines Thoroughgood cautiously stopped just short of entering their cover. If Baker had been watching his advance along the bank then he would surely have recognised Thoroughgood.

  The voice in his head urged caution, but it was competing with another voice now; one borne of desolation with no concern for the consequences of his actions. Then he shouted.

  “Felix Baker!”

  Silence.

  “Fuck it,” said Thoroughgood and walked into the shade of the trees just yards from the river, fully aware but caring not that death may be stalking him on the banks of the Allan.

  Twenty yards in and the copper’s instinct seemed to be taking over automatically once again. Thoroughgood knew he was being watched. He decided to force the issue. Turning his back on the trees he moved towards the river and stood gazing into the green depths as it flowed past him, aware that if Baker was close he would be unlikely to resist the urge to wreak vengeance on his unprotected back.

  “So what,” he thought.

  There was little or no wind down on the bank, sheltered as it was by the pines and so far below road level, so that when a slight rustling registered in his ears the feeling that he had company was confirmed. Then the muffled noise of a footfall was revealed by the slight shingling of the sand Thoroughgood had noticed ten feet from the water.

  Slowly the DS turned round to face his stalker and five feet away stood Felix Baker. Thoroughgood’s face remained blank. Baker grinned with dripping malevolence.

  “Well, well. If it isn’t Gus Thoroughgood. Everyone’s favourite heartbroken copper.”

  Thoroughgood did not respond, but his eyes took in the object dangling from Baker’s right hand and couldn’t believe the information they were relaying to his brain. For the criminal appeared to be carrying an umbrella.

  “I think all the time you’re spending in our country houses has gone to your head, Felix. But I guess when he’s out for a stroll every gent should take an umbrella with him.”

  Baker lifted the umbrella and appeared to examine its every fold of fabric as Thoroughgood assessed the particulars of his appearance and the threat Baker’s physique posed him. Baker was balding now and looking a bit soft round the middle: the DS concluded that business must be good.

  As if reading his mind Baker patted his stomach. “Aye ye’d fancy yer chances of catching me now Thoroughgood wouldn’t you.” He looked back at the umbrella he was holding out parallel to his body and clicked a small button half way up the handle. Simultaneously a shard of glinting metal flew out the end.

  “But I never travel without an insurance policy Thoroughgood, and here it is, a true gentleman’s friend. An 1872 antique swordstick sporting a blade of lethal Parisian steel which will gut you like the floundering fuckwit you are.

  “I should have stuck you when I had the chance on top of that row of shops back in ’93 but then I knew you’d never catch me. Now things have gone full circle and instead of running, this time I’m going to skewer you like an under-cooked kebab.”

  For good effect Baker slashed the six inch blade down. There was a cruel hiss as it cut through the air. He brought its tip out level in front of him, pointing it directly at Thoroughgood, and took a step forward.

  The DS smiled. “So when exactly did you find you had balls Felix?”

  The blade slashed on the diagonal, heading straight at the DS’s left shoulder, but he met the strike full on with all the solidity of the Maglite and sparks shot out as metal rasped on metal.

  Thoroughgood quickly moved to put space between himself and Baker’s right hand. “Remember my Maglite, do you Felix? I seem to remember the last time it gave you one helluva headache.”

  But the wild look in Baker’s eyes betrayed his lethal intent as this time he lunged forward, aiming straight for Thoroughgood’s midriff. The detective only just managed to parry the blow and as he did so he felt his back foot give on the shifting sands.

  Baker stepped forward and raised the swordstick above the DS as Thoroughgood inadvertently stumbled to his knees.

  “It’s time I put you out of your misery. Goodbye Thoroughgood!” said Baker as the blade glinted above Thoroughgood’s head, began to hiss its death song and descended through the air.

  4

  HARDIE HAD only waited long enough to see Thoroughgood disappear from sight before a combination of curiosity and customary anger saw him climb out of the Focus and head over to the smashed up Audi.

  Hurt he may have been at Thoroughgood’s remarks when the DS had suggested he sit tight and wait for the cavalry, but Hardie had not lost all caution. Stopping twenty feet from the upturned Audi he squatted down to satisfy himself that there was no threat from the two occupants trapped within. There was not.

  In the back seat the rear passenger’s eyes gazed out in a death stare with blood dripping from the side of his mouth. Moving up to the back window – or the space where it had been, Hardie observed that the unnatural angle at which his head was lolling suggested the ned riding shotgun for Felix Baker had indeed suffered a broken neck.

  “Aye, good enough for you mate,” he muttered, just as his gaze located the sawn-off poking out from underneath the criminal’s body. However, the groans coming from the front passenger seat suggested criminal number two was not as dearly departed as his mate.

  Hardie moved forward to look in the front passenger window which was snapped in half, and mounted the crumpled door.

  “Early 30’s, nice Mars Bar down the side of the face, semi conscious and saved by his seat belt,” mused Hardie to himself, before letting out an involuntary “Bugger.”

  Hardie’s disgust brought an opening of the villain’s eyes quickly followed by a call for help.

  “For fuck’s sake get me oot o’ here copper!”

  Hardie took a swift look round to make sure he was not under surveillance, then replied.

  “Like fuck, shithouse,” smashing his right hand off the criminal’s jaw and letting out a self-congratulatory sigh as a state of unconsciousness was rejoined. He reached into the backseat, took hold of the sawn-off, stuffed it down his raincoat and headed for the river bank. The voice in his head said ‘Hope you’re not too late mate.’

  As Thoroughgood faced up to the gravity of his situation he recalled a saying that time slows down when you enter your final moments; that memories from childhood and other surreal experiences replay themselves in your mind’s eye as death approaches. />
  The cruel glint of the swordstick hovered and began its descent on his cranium and Thoroughgood closed his eyes and saw Celine again. His arms entwined her, the life not yet gone from her body, the warmth of their final goodbye, the first time he had met her on the Riverboat Casino all legs and self assurance and smouldering like a forest fire.

  At last his torment was over and he would be with her again, and this time no one could keep them apart, for all eternity. He heard the strumming of the acoustic guitar and the words resonated in his head.

  “Hush now don’t you cry, wipe away the tear drop from your eyes . . .” There she was waiting in bed for him and he dived into the twin pools of chocolate silk that were her eyes. Almost as a reflex action to his impending oblivion two words escaped his mouth.

  “My love.”

  Baker had waited for this moment for so long the saliva escaped from his mouth and dripped down the side of his heavily jowled face. But the savage delight that had absorbed his features was transformed to a look of surprise by Thoroughgood’s supplication and apparent gratitude for the death rite he was about to perform.

  All of which added so much more appreciation to the moment. Baker delayed an instant to savour the look on the DS’s face so he could picture it in his mind’s eye until his last day and make sure he could let the Glasgow criminal underworld know how Gus Thoroughgood had died a whimpering wreck.

  But Baker’s delay was indeed fateful, and not for Thoroughgood. As he brought the blade down, the silence engulfing the scene of impending mortality was pierced by a shout of one word.

  “No!”

  Hardie levelled the shotgun at twelve yards and prayed to God, the Queen, and upon the souls of his eleven heroes in light blue that he would not miss. Then he pulled the trigger. As he did so the single syllable negative seemed to ricochet around his head forever. But his aim was true and Baker, perforated like a teabag, slumped on top of the kneeling Thoroughgood, all evil intent vanquished.