Final Whistle

by J Jackson Bentley

  “This is going to take all night. We’ll take the lift.” He leaned me against the wall and turned to press the lift button. I guessed that I knew the layout of the stadium better than he did and hoped that given the advantage of surprise I might be able to get away.

  The corridor had no natural light and relied entirely on the bright white light emitted from the overhead fluorescent tubes. The light switches were on the wall opposite me. I groaned in mock agony and the Irishman stared at me, I grimaced bravely and waited until he looked away to monitor the progress of the lift. With a surge of adrenalin unique to those who are about to die, I launched myself at the light switches. The palm of my hand hit all three switches at once and we were plunged into inky black darkness. At the same moment I darted along the corridor at speed. I headed away from the boardroom and towards the fire exit. Obscenities spilled from the lips of my captor as he thrashed about in unfamiliar surroundings searching for the light switches. By the time he found them I was at the fire door and as the hallway fluorescents sputtered into life I fell through the door into the stairwell, slamming the door behind me.

  I had watched enough American detective dramas to know that criminals on the run always, and inexplicably, head for the roof. I had no desire to see the roof from above and so I grabbed the plastic coated handrail and slid down the stairs several steps at a time. At the half landing I changed direction and threw myself at the handrail again sliding into an ungainly heap on the first floor landing. I got to my feet in a hurry when I heard the fire door above me crash open and bang against the concrete wall. For a second it appeared that he was racing up the stairs and away from me. I held my breath, hoping that he would continue on that route but it wasn’t to be. He changed his mind and I heard him descending the stairs towards me. He came down slowly and carefully at first but then he gained confidence and moved more quickly. I opened the fire door, flicked off the staircase lights and closed the door as I passed through it. I heard a yelp as Watt missed his step in the dark and fell down the concrete stairs.

  “One - nil to me!” I thought. The lights on the first floor were switched off and the layout was relatively unfamiliar to me. I decided to stick to what I knew and head for the pressroom, so that I could hide while I regained my breath. I closed the door to the pressroom gently and moved quietly to the back of the room where so recently I had struck a deal with Tony McDonald of Sky.

  I hoped that Liam would give up or head off in the wrong direction, all the time knowing that it was unlikely. For the next few minutes I listened while doors opened and closed as the Irishman systematically searched each room.

  The room I had chosen to hide in had seemed pitch black at the time I entered, but as my eyes became accustomed to the darkness I could see quite clearly. Instinct made me crouch even lower behind the chairs. I saw Liam Watt walk into the room. He looked across the bank of chairs and spoke.

  “There you are, Alex. I’ve been looking for you.” I shuddered but made no sound. I even stopped breathing. He was bluffing. There was no way that he could see me in the dark shadows from where he was standing. He stood still for a moment and then closed the door behind him.

  “There’s no way out, Alex. Except past me.” It was a psychological game. He wanted me to make a break for it and disclose my position. I sat as still as I could. I realised then that he was playing for time while his own eyes grew accustomed to the dark. I had only seconds before I was discovered. My mind raced for a plan but all I could come up with was to cower further back and lower down. As I backed against the wall I felt something jab into my sore kidneys. I touched the offending objects. There were two electrical plugs in the socket outlets immediately behind me, neither of which were switched on. I looked up to see what they powered and an idea sprung to mind.

  ************

  Liam Watt was manouvreing his way slowly across the room, his gun at arms length, his eyes now accustomed to the dark. I closed my eyes tight shut and firmly clamped my left hand over them. With my right hand I threw the two power switches.

  “Jesus!” the Irishman yelled as the pressroom was flooded with 2000 watts of video lighting temporarily blinding him. I heard the gun fall onto a chair and counted to five before plunging us back into darkness again. I stood up and took my hand away from my eyes and opened them. I still had my night vision. I could see Watt staring around blindly and groping for his gun. He found it. I knew that I had to act quickly before he regained his composure. I saw a glint of moonlight sparkle on something standing on the table. I grabbed it and in one fluid movement I swung it as hard as I could at the Irishman’s temple. Sensing something was happening he turned around to face me and the heavy marble base of the ‘fair play’ trophy smashed into his face.

  He screamed with the agony of it and I felt bone and gristle crumble beneath my blow. Warm blood squirted over my hands and I dropped my weapon. The Irishman fell to the floor and didn’t move. I looked at the devastation that had been his face and shivered involuntarily. The corners of the marble had ripped his bottom lip and it flapped uselessly beneath bared teeth. His nose had largely disintegrated and his left eyeball had retracted into the socket. I was horrified by the gruesome sight that faced me but was relieved to find that he was still breathing, though every laboured breath gurgled through a little puddle of blood. I pushed him onto his side so that he wouldn’t drown in his own bodily fluids.

  The scene was so intense and my concentration so complete, that I didn’t even hear anyone behind me.

  ************

  I don’t know how long I was unconscious, but it must have been a while.

  I awoke to the sound of grunting from the Irishman as he was being patched up by Chris Smith. The look of disgust on the goalkeeper’s face told me that I had done a good job. Watt spotted me coming round and stepped over to deliver a well place kick into my groin. I rolled slightly and took the greater pain on my inner thigh.

  “Hold still for goodness’ sake. We’ll take care of him in a minute,” Smith said impatiently. When he had finished the Irishman looked like some creature from a fifties B movie. How he was able to stand I will never know.

  This time I had been securely trussed. The movement of cool air across my face confirmed my worst fears. I had been carried to the roof of the new stand. I was lying on wooden boards on a scaffolding tower, staring through the incomplete roof at the night sky. Liam Watt was climbing onto the profiled metal decking that formed the roof covering. Once he had a firm foothold he leaned over and instructed Chris Smith to lift me up.

  “Don’t do it, Chris. This is murder. You’re out of your league,” I pleaded. But it was to no avail. He looked every bit as scared as I felt. I resisted but it was a futile gesture. In a few short minutes I was lying on the corrugated steel roof, a hundred and fifty feet in the air with a strong breeze ruffling my hair.

  The disfigured bomber started to loosen my bonds and in doing so placed his bloodied face close to mine.

  “I would do for you if it wasn’t for this having to look like a suicide,” he hissed through the side of his torn mouth. “Believe me I would make you suffer in ways you couldn’t even dream about.” I shivered and he took satisfaction from my terror. “I’m going to give you the chance to go like a man,” he said, appreciating no doubt that the more natural my death looked the better. “I’ll give you time for a quick prayer and then you jump.” He hesitated whilst cutting my legs free. “If you don’t, then I’ll be here to push you.” I decided there and then to jump. I wanted to decide when I went, I wanted no more psychological games, just a swift end.

  At his prompting I limped towards the edge of the roof. I stood by the enormous gutter and looked down at the pitch below. It was a long way down.

  “OK. Stop there for a minute,” the Irishman said. I acted on his orders and wondered how far down I would be before I lost consciousness. I prayed that I would be out cold before I hit the ground. I decided not to jump but to just walk until there was nothing left
to walk on. I would simply step into oblivion.

  “Please God, don’t let me scream and give them the satisfaction of hearing me die,” I muttered under my breath.

  “Smithy! Get yourself up here, I thought you wanted to see this bastard die.” Chris Smith didn’t answer, he’d obviously gone as far as he was prepared to go. The Irish madman wasn’t about to let him off the hook. “Smithy, get yourself up here now or I’ll throw you off as well!”

  “I’m afraid Mr Smith won’t be coming, Liam.” I recognised the voice and turned to see a figure standing in the shadows. Liam saw him too, and levelled his gun.

  “Well, well. If it isn’t the squaddy from Belfast. Don’t tell me you’ve followed me all over Europe to avenge your Operator whore.” He was talking to Lance. “Sorry Squaddy, but I’m busy. Do call again though.” Two shots rang out from the Irishman’s gun and the shadow that was Lance was thrown back against the scaffold rig.

  “No!” I screamed as I ran at the red haired assassin. He lifted his gun again and fired directly at me.

  I felt the bullet hit me but my momentum carried me on until I crashed into my attacker. The collision took the wind out of us both and we each lost our footing. I held onto him grimly as we slid inexorably towards the edge of the roof.

  “I’m taking you with me,” I said into the ruined face as we slid over the edge of the roof decking.

  ************

  Liam Watt was on top of me as we rolled over the edge. Despite everything that had been said neither one of us wanted to die and in the last gasp efforts of dying men we reached out for some handhold. I was half in and half out of the wide metal gutter and the Irishman had one hand on me and one on the gutter bracket. The formed metal gutter began to creak and deform under the weight of our two bodies. In my estimation we had a few seconds to live.

  “It's too late for all this, Liam. Let me go. Go to your God without me on your conscience,” I begged.

  “Not a chance,” he replied as the guttering pulled away from the brackets that held it in place. At that moment he let go of the roof edging and used both hands to take firm hold of my legs. The sudden movement was too much for the thin metal guttering and it gave way. I threw my hands onto the corrugated roofing but it was no good. There was nothing to hold on to. I felt peculiarly calm as I watched as my hands slide down the roof decking. We were falling.

  Without warning two strong hands grabbed my wrists and pulled my upper body onto the roof again. I looked up and saw Lance’s face looking down at me.

  “I thought I told you to be careful,” he said grimacing under the weight of two bodies. Lance heaved and I moved a few centimetres closer to safety. Lance let go of my left hand and took hold of my leather belt. He hung on tightly.

  “Let go, Liam. I can’t save you both,” he said reasonably.

  “No way, Squaddy. I’ve got a job to do.” Liam hung onto my legs.

  “Have it your way.” Lance snarled, and holding tightly onto my belt with one hand he used the other to produce his gun. He pointed the barrel at the terrorist’s head and whispered,

  “This is for Sadie,” but before he could fire, Liam let go of my legs and dropped into the darkness below.

  I thought I heard him laughing as he fell.

  CHAPTER 24

  Loyalty and fear only go so far, and so as soon as shots were fired the security guard called the police. By the time Lance had me safely secured on the scaffolding tower, sirens were blazing in the distance and getting ever closer. Shock and loss of blood made me feel light headed. I looked down at my blood soaked shirt and detected a neat hole just below the shoulder. Lance pressed a pad against the wound and secured it tightly with my belt.

  “You’ll be fine,” he said kindly. There was a peaceful look on his face. It was only then that I noticed his chest. There were two tears in the nylon shroud that covered his Kevlar vest.

  “Bullet proof vest?” I asked.

  “Never leave home without it,” he replied. I laughed but it hurt and so I decided not to do it again. My eye caught sight of something moving and I looked across to see Chris Smith. He had been trussed hand and foot like a chicken and was lying at the far end of the tower. His eyes and mouth were covered with black insulating tape. To complete his discomfort his bladder had evacuated and his jogging trousers were stained with urine. I dread to think what Lance had done to him.

  “How did you know where to find me?” I asked.

  “I didn’t.” Lance replied honestly. “I’ve been following Watt’s girlfriend all afternoon. Just when it looked like another wasted day she dipped into a city centre multi storey car park and came out seconds later. I surmised that she had picked up her boyfriend and so I followed their hire car. After about an hour of standard anti-surveillance manoeuvres they came here, to the stadium. I watched as Liam got out of the car and waved goodbye to his girlfriend. After scouting around for a minute or two I spotted your car parked behind the main gate and decided to investigate.”

  “How did you get past the security guard?” I wanted to know.

  “That was the easy part. I showed him my season ticket.” I looked at him quizzically and he waved his gun in reply.

  “Oh. I see.” Lance helped me to my feet. I was limping and holding my shoulder.

  “Its a rough game, football,” he observed. “I’m glad I joined the Army.”

  ************

  It had been a few months since I had stepped into a courtroom but this time the venue was the Crown Court. I had given my evidence days ago but I felt compelled to attend each day until the verdict was returned.

  Bill Fisher hadn’t made it to court, his heart had given up while he was on remand and the prison doctors had been unable to revive him. I can’t say that I was sorry. To have had him on trial would only have dragged United’s good name through the mud again and the press coverage had only just died down from the night he was arrested.

  The jury returned to their seats wearing blank expressions that revealed nothing. The people in the gallery and on the floor of the old courtroom were silent as the piece of paper containing the verdict was passed from the jury foreman to the clerk. The judge had a quick look at the verdict and handed it to the clerk who turned to face the gathered audience.

  “Guilty on all counts,” announced the clerk as he read out the Jury’s verdict to the court. Pressmen leapt from their hard wooden benches and rushed to the telephones. The four defendants were ashen faced as the judge condemned their abhorrent behaviour and gave each of them concurrent life sentences. I watched as Holden and Betts hobbled away to do their time. Len Bailey had to be helped from the dock by an officer of the court. The severity of the sentence had badly shaken his frail frame. The old sports reporter had aged ten years in the last six months. Last to leave the dock was Chris Smith who smiled defiantly for the benefit of his weeping girlfriend, but they both knew they would never see one another again.

  Mark Lister-Ward was bedecked in full dress uniform when he sought me out in the gallery. I stood to shake his hand.

  “Well that’s the last of them.” He was reminding me that ‘Operation Ballgame’ had been mothballed. The operation achieved far more than anyone had expected. It had been a great success. The newly appointed Metropolitan Police Assistant Chief Constable was on his way out of the courtroom and out of my life when I stopped him in his tracks with a question.

  “Tell me,” I said, “how did you manage to keep Lance out of all this?”

  “Who is Lance?” he responded. Then, with a wink and his best public relations smile, he turned and left the courtroom.

  I was still deep in thought when a court usher, robed in black, addressed me.

  “Mr Carter?”

  “That’s me.” I replied.

  “Oh, good. Your wife and daughter are waiting for you outside.” I stood up and without a twinge from my left leg, I walked out into the draughty corridor. As soon as I appeared I was set upon by Sara and Tanya. I hugged them both.<
br />
  “We heard the result,” they chimed in unison.

  “Yes. Its all over now,” I confirmed. “Now let’s get moving. I have a training session first thing in the morning.” Once we were outside I hailed a taxi and we all ran across the road to secure it.

  The Carter family were on their way home.

  J Jackson Bentley writes both fiction and non-fiction books and has been a published author for over sixteen years. He now works as a Legal Consultant in the UK, the USA, the Middle East and the Far East. His spare time is spent writing at home in the UK and in Florida. Married with four grown children he is currently writing a new thriller set during the London riots of 2011 and he is compiling a book of short stories for 2012.

  Find out more, or, follow J Jackson Bentley at:

  www.jjacksonbentley.com

  www.facebook.com/jjacksonbentley

  http://jjacksonbentley.blogspot.com

  http://twitter.com/jjacksonbentley

  You can also contact the author by email at:

  jjacksonbentley@london.com

  Publisher’s note: JJ Bentley no longer writes under the pseudonyms Tom Spencer and Jack Daniels to avoid potential confusion with other authors & characters.