What Dies Inside: An Inspector Carlyle Novella

by James Craig

  Making a firm date with Prince, she turned her attention back to the slightly less than edifying scene in front of her. Sitting on the toilet seat in the nearest of two large cubicles, Gerry Durkan, jeans around his ankles, took a swig from a can of Carling Black label and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. Placing the can on the cistern behind him, he then stuck a hand down the front of his grubby green Y-fronts and began vigorously scratching his balls. Lifting his gaze towards Murray, she could see that his eyes were glassy and unfocused.

  ‘Gerry,’ she sighed, ‘how much have you had to drink?’

  ‘Gerry,’ parroted a second, slurred, voice, ‘are we doing this, or what?’

  ‘Jesus!’ Pushing his underpants towards his knees, Durkan slid off the toilet. ‘You’re gonna put me off here, the both of ya. One thing at a time.’ He tried to grin at Murray but only managed to burp. ‘Gimme a minute and I’ll be right with you.’

  A minute? That should be about the long and short of it. Sticking a look of bored amusement on her face, Rose watched Durkan clawing at the backside of the woman crouching in front of him in the cubicle. The woman, a member of the London Spartacist League whose name Rose couldn’t quite recall, obligingly unzipped her jeans and began pushing them down. She was one of the McDermott Arm’s groupies, a brainless star-fucker in a place where the ‘stars’ either spouted dialectical materialism or threatened your kneecaps, or both. Kneeling on a thick pile of unsold copies of the Workers Hammer magazine, her eyes lowered to the floor, she studiously ignored Murray’s presence. Even from several feet away, Rose could smell the alcohol fumes coming from the woman’s mouth. Pressing herself more firmly against the basin, Rose wondered if the woman was going to throw up. The last thing she needed was to get covered in proletarian puke.

  Still pulling at the woman’s clothes, Durkan looked up at her. ‘Enjoying the view?’

  Saying nothing, Rose took a long drag on her cigarette.

  ‘You can join in if you want,’ he said, more in hope than expectation. ‘I’m up for a threesome.’

  You and every bloke on the entire sodding planet. ‘Thanks – but no thanks.’

  ‘Oh, sorry,’ Durkan whined. ‘I forgot you don’t do doggie-style.’

  Taking the cigarette between her fingers, she jabbed an angry hand towards him. ‘For fuck’s sake, Gerry, it’s not like we haven’t got things to do here.’

  ‘But I’m in the mood. It’s not going to take long.’

  I bet it’s not. ‘You’re supposed to be hiding.’

  ‘I am hiding,’ Durkan chuckled. ‘Hiding in plain sight.’

  ‘Hiding in plain sight and off your fucking face,’ she scolded, realising that she was sounding like his mum and hating herself for it, ‘with your bloody trousers down.’

  Adjusting his position slightly, he contemplated the pimply white globes in front of his face. ‘Life goes on.’

  ‘Fucking Special Branch could kick the door down at any moment and stick an MP5 in your face.’

  A shit-eating grin spread across Durkan’s face. ‘That just makes it all the more exciting.’ Spitting twice into his palm, he slipped his hand between his comrade’s buttocks and began moving it slowly up and down. ‘Doesn’t it, Becky?’

  Drool trickling down her chin, the girl let out a confused laugh.

  That was it, Rebecca Andrews. Another trust-fund revolutionary – not, it had to be said, unlike Murray herself. Rose quickly shook that description from her head in favour of another: Trotskyist slag. She took another drag on her cigarette. ‘Never mind you, how much has she had to drink?’ she asked.

  ‘No idea,’ Durkan shrugged.

  ‘Fuck off,’ Andrews grumbled. ‘Can’t you see we’re busy here? Why don’t you piss off and go and blow one of your WSL pals.’

  Intense irritation swept through Rose. ‘I left the Workers Socialist League months ago,’ she said sharply.

  Andrews’s eyes narrowed as she looked up from the floor. ‘Well, why don’t you go and suck off that Special Branch bastard of yours, bitch?’

  Fuck. She looked at Durkan. If anything, he seemed to be aroused by the exchange.

  ‘She can’t do that,’ he laughed. ‘I shot the fucker.’

  ‘Ha!’ Andrews cackled. ‘Good for you, Gerry. Good for you.’ She eyed Rose malevolently. ‘Looks like you’ll have to find some other copper to blow, won’t you, you fucking tart?’

  ‘Piss off.’ Rose sent a half-hearted kick in the direction of Andrews’s head, without coming close to making contact.

  ‘Ladies, ladies!’ Durkan protested. ‘Calm down.’ He looked up at Rose more in hope than expectation. ‘Sure you don’t want to play?’

  Half-turning, Murray dropped the butt of her cigarette into the sink behind her. ‘Fuck off, you wanker.’

  ‘Suit yourself.’

  ‘Just imagine that I’m not here.’

  ‘But I like it when you watch.’ Durkan caught her eye as he resumed massaging himself and Rose quickly looked away. Your gun might have been bigger than Cahill’s, she thought ruefully, but your dick certainly isn’t.

  Durkan’s tongue flopped from his mouth as he finally mounted the comrade and began thrusting vigorously. The woman let out a gasp as her head banged against the side of the cubicle.

  Men, Rose thought sourly. At the bottom of it all, they are all just the same pigs.

  ‘Urgh!’ Durkan grunted as he entered the home straight. Gritting her teeth, the Luxemburgist slapper held on to the sides of the cubicle for dear life.

  That’s the thing about Trotskyists, Rose decided. They’ve got plenty of experience at taking it up the arse. The Stranglers’ ‘No More Heroes’ started playing in her head and she giggled at the thought of burying an ice-pick in Becky Andrews’s head.

  A few moments later, the door swung open and another woman appeared. Dressed in torn jeans and a Sex Pistols T-shirt, with too much make-up on her face and too much peroxide in her hair, she looked like a refugee from the Kings Road, circa 1977. With a half-empty pint of lager in her hand, the new arrival paused to take in the impressive tableau in front of her. Rose waved her angrily away. ‘Fuck off!’

  ‘But I need a piss,’ the woman protested, her flat Manchester accent sounding out of place in this fine Kilburn establishment. ‘I’m burstin’.’

  ‘Fuck off and use the gents,’ Rose growled, pushing herself off the basin and giving the door a good hard kick.

  ‘Ow!’ the woman complained, before finally retreating down the hallway, just as Durkan let out a cry more of relief than of ecstasy.

  ‘At last,’ Rose mumbled. ‘Mission accomplished.’

  Pulling up his keks, Durkan gave Rose a cheeky smile. ‘Any chance of a smoke?’

  ‘Jesus.’ Rose pulled the packet of John Player Specials from her parka and threw it at his head.

  ‘Ta.’ Catching the packet just in front of his nose, he pulled out a cigarette and stuck it between his lips. He offered one to Andrews, who had struggled to her feet and was buttoning her jeans. Shaking her head, she bent down again to retrieve her newspapers. Durkan turned his attention back to Murray and pointed at the end of his fag. ‘Got a light?’

  ‘But of course,’ said Rose snarkily, handing him her Colibri side-roll lighter.

  Durkan lit up and inhaled deeply. ‘Aaah!’

  ‘Want to buy a copy of Workers Hammer?’

  ‘What?’ Murray did a double-take as Becky Andrews offered her a copy of one of the tatty-looking papers she had just been kneeling on. On its front page, splashed across the grinning face of Cliff Harris, one of the leading lights of the Trotskyist movement, were Durkan’s discarded juices. Above Cliff’s abused visage, a series of straplines promised articles inside on the degenerated workers’ state, the French Turn and the ‘inevitable’ collapse of the Thatcher regime.

  ‘It’s only 15p.’ Andrews looked at her hopefully. ‘I’ve got to sell my quota.’

  ‘Oh, for Christ sake!’ reaching into her pocket, Murray
scraped together a handful of coins and thrust them at the hapless Spartacist. Ignoring the proffered copy of the newspaper, she glanced over at Durkan, who was still enjoying his post-coital cigarette. ‘C’mon Gerry, you’ve had your fun. Now let’s go and get a bloody drink.’

  14

  Sitting in the back of a Mercedes police van, in a side street a block from the McDermott Arms, Carlyle flicked through a copy of the previous day’s Evening Standard. The leader of the Greater London Council, Ken Livingstone, was promising to set up a ‘shadow’ council after Margaret Thatcher made good on her promise to abolish the GLC on the grounds that it was a nest of left-wing vipers. Dropping the paper onto the floor, the inspector kicked it under his seat and yawned. He had been stuck here with a dozen or so colleagues drawn from various police stations around the capital for more than an hour, and the atmosphere in the back of the vehicle was hot and humid.

  Gazing out of the back window, the constable counted three other vans full of officers lined up by the far kerb. Everyone knew that they were TSG. The Territorial Support Group were the heavy mob, specialising in ‘public order containment’, otherwise known as riot control. The word among the officers was that they were here to raid a pub. Must be some bloody pub, Carlyle thought glumly. He wasn’t in the mood for a ruck but if the TSG were in attendance, trouble was most definitely on the cards.

  At the rear of the furthest van, he could see the officer in charge of the operation, a Commander from Victoria known to those who had worked with him simply as ‘that cunt Craven’. The Commander was in animated conversation with a man in civilian dress. Carlyle squinted. At this distance, he couldn’t be 100 per cent sure, but the civilian looked familiar. Leaning back against the side of the van, he closed his eyes and tried to remember where he’d seen him before. On the other side of the van, someone farted loudly. There was laughter, followed by howls of complaint as a complex array of noxious odours filled the confined space.

  ‘Jesus,’ someone groaned in a broad Yorkshire accent, ‘I’m not sticking in here.’ The back door was pushed open and half a dozen giggling officers spilled out onto the road. Opening his eyes, Carlyle followed them outside. Keeping to the back of the group, he took a couple of deep breaths of fresh air and returned his attention to the conversation that was still taking place further down the street. Commander Craven looked distinctly unhappy as the civilian jabbed an angry finger towards his chest. They were clearly arguing about something. The civilian seemed to be laying down the law. Having said his piece, he turned away from Craven and began walking down the street.

  ‘I remember you,’ Carlyle mumbled to himself as he watched the man disappear round the corner. ‘You’re that fucking spook from Orgreave.’ Thinking back to his time spent on picket-line duty at the mineworkers’ strike, he tried to recall the MI5 guy’s name. ‘Prentice, Patrick, no . . . Palmer.’ That was it. Martin Palmer: the junior spy on the frontline who was busy fighting the so-called ‘enemy within’, while Constable bloody Carlyle was taking a brick to the head.

  He shuddered at the memory of it. Never again.

  His reverie was broken by the crackle of a radio from inside the van. A moment later, Jamie Donaldson appeared on the kerb waving angrily at Carlyle and the other coppers lolling about on the road. ‘Get back in the fucking van,’ he ordered. ‘Things are about to kick off.’

  His heart was beating so fast that he thought it was going to burst out of his chest at any moment. Head down, Martin Palmer walked into a busy McDermott Arms suddenly feeling about as comfortable as the Pope at a meeting of the Glasgow Rangers Supporters Club. Avoiding eye-contact with any of the patrons, he walked up to the bar and cautiously put an arm on his contact’s shoulder.

  ‘Gerry.’

  Looking round, Durkan did a double-take. ‘What the fuck are you doing here?’ Lifting his gaze, he quickly scanned the room in order to confirm what he already knew: all eyes were upon them. The only person who hadn’t clocked the MI5 man’s arrival in the pub was Becky Andrews – the Spartacist foot soldier was still weaving drunkenly from table to table, trying to sell copies of her bloody newspaper. He shook his head sadly as he returned his gaze to the spook. ‘Have you got a fucking death-wish or something?’

  Standing next to Durkan, Rose Murray placed her pint of Guinness on the bar and reached for her bag. Palmer quickly put a hand on her arm.

  ‘If I see a pepper spray,’ he hissed, trying to sound as hard as possible, ‘I will shoot you right in the bloody face.’ Rose looked at Durkan, who gave her the slightest of nods, and let her hand return to her glass.

  Palmer took a deep breath. ‘Good.’ His heart was still jackhammering away inside his ribs, and he could feel the sweat building on his brow, but at least he hadn’t pissed himself. More to the point, no one had tried to glass him.

  So far.

  He turned back to Durkan. ‘Are you drunk?’

  ‘Not really,’ the IRA man replied, carefully readjusting his position against the bar. ‘Slightly lubricated, nothing more.’

  ‘So, what the hell are you doing here?’ Palmer asked.

  ‘I might as well ask the same of you,’ Durkan replied. ‘Indeed, I think I already did.’

  ‘You should have got out of here when you had the chance.’

  Durkan threw back his head and downed a double measure of Powers. ‘Don’t you worry about me,’ he said quietly. ‘I’m doing fine.’

  ‘You were doing fine,’ Palmer corrected him, ‘but now the situation has changed rather.’

  ‘Oh? How so?’ Durkan watched the barman silently refill his glass and lifted it to his lips, waiting for an answer.

  Tilting his head, Palmer gestured towards the door. ‘There are fifty TPG outside, just itching to come inside and beat the living shit out of everyone.’

  Durkan’s eyes narrowed as he took a modest nip of his whiskey.

  ‘They gave me five minutes to try and talk you into coming quietly.’

  ‘Ha!’

  ‘Otherwise, you might not get out of here at all.’

  Rose started to say something but Durkan held up a hand, cutting her off.

  ‘They’re taking bets,’ Palmer explained, ‘on whether you’ll be shot resisting arrest.’

  ‘And what are the odds?’ Durkan grinned.

  ‘Evens, last I heard; six-to-four that there’s a fatal shooting.’

  Momentarily lost in thought, Durkan stuck out his lower lip. Then he downed the last of his drink. ‘Not great odds.’

  ‘No.’

  Rummaging around in the pocket of his jeans, the IRA man pulled out a crumpled banknote and slapped it down on the bar. ‘Put a fiver on for me, will you? I bet I’ll walk away unscathed.’

  ‘The book’s closed, Gerry.’ Palmer gestured towards the door. ‘Shall we go?’

  Leaning forward, Durkan gestured towards Palmer’s sweat-stained shirt. ‘Are you wearing a wire?’ he whispered into the spook’s ear.

  ‘Hardly,’ Palmer snorted. ‘They tried to make me, but I refused. I don’t want those bastards hearing what we’re saying any more than you do.’

  ‘Good.’ Durkan nodded, resuming his pose against the bar. ‘Maybe you’re not that stupid after all.’

  Pointedly glancing at his watch, Palmer let the barb slide.

  Placing his glass on the bar, Durkan recovered the fiver and handed it to the barman.

  ‘Keep the change.’

  ‘Thanks, Gerry.’

  ‘No trouble.’ Slowly, Durkan turned his attention back to Palmer. ‘If you think I’m going out with you,’ he laughed, ‘you’re crazy.’ Leaning forward, he planted a gentle kiss on Rose’s forehead. ‘See you later, sweetheart. Sorry for leaving you in a mess like this.’ Without waiting for a reply, he grabbed Palmer by the arm and began marching him towards the back of the room. ‘Come with me. Your five minutes are almost up.’

  Blocking the entrance to the gentlemen’s bogs, Palmer waited patiently while Gerry Durkan stepped up to the nearest o
f the two urinals and took a long piss. Unperturbed that the pissoirs were blocked with a collection of paper towels, fag ends, chewing gum and God knows what, Durkan watched his urine trickle over the edge of the porcelain and form a pool on the greasy floor.

  Expecting the door to be kicked in at any moment, Palmer looked nervously behind him. ‘Gerry—’

  ‘OK,’ said Durkan, half-looking over his shoulder as he gave himself a shake. ‘Here’s the plan. I’m going to walk out the back of here and through the building next door.’ Zipping himself up, he told Palmer, ‘When the stormtroopers arrive, you’re gonna say that I thumped you and did a runner.’

  ‘But you haven’t hit me,’ Palmer frowned.

  ‘I have now.’ Spinning round, Durkan took two steps towards the spy, slamming a fist into his gut.

  ‘Oopfff!’ Palmer doubled up in pain, grabbing his stomach as his eyes filled with tears. Adjusting his stance, Durkan elbowed him in the face and expertly raked a boot down the back of his calf.

  ‘You are one fucking soft bastard,’ Durkan grunted as he watched Palmer slip to the floor. Taking a step backwards, he gave him a final swift kick in the ribs.

  ‘Urgh.’

  ‘C’mon, get up.’ Durkan grabbed Palmer’s collar and hauled him to his feet. ‘We don’t have time for this. Remember your lines. You don’t know where I went.’

  Wiping his nose, Palmer felt a faint flicker of defiance stirring in his breast. ‘Why should I let you go?’ he choked out.

  ‘Because I know that you raped and killed Hilda Blair.’ Pulling a photograph from the back pocket of his jeans, Durkan shoved it in front of Palmer’s face. ‘If things were different, I’d bloody kill you for it.’

  Pushing back his head, Palmer focused on the image of himself standing outside number 179 Nelson Avenue. How the hell did you get that? He tried to organise the jumble of thoughts flying through his brain into something that offered the vaguest approximation of a plan. ‘I visited the house. So what? I, like the rest of the world, was looking for you at the time.’ He pushed the picture away with a dismissive hand. ‘That proves nothing.’