by Chris Simms
'Shut up!' Jon shouted back. 'Listen, Jammer, we can talk about all this later. At this moment in time, it's more important you don't get shot.'
Jammer smiled. 'I said in my letter that death doesn't scare me. You know, when I met my relatives in Nairobi, I realised they were from a different world. Thing is, I don't belong here either. Children's homes and white parents. All my life I wondered about where I was from, who I was. My eyes, my nose, my hair. My anger. Where did it come from? On Sundays in the children's home I would hide when other kids' parents came to visit. I was so jealous. And when I found out the truth, it made me even angrier. Kerrigan raped my mother, but it was people like Sutton who really created me. You know what my grandmother's work detail in Kamiti was? Burying dead bodies, even though she was pregnant. They brought them to Kamiti by the truckload from surrounding camps. She gave birth to my mother, then bled to death in the bunk house. The guards' first question when they unlocked the doors each morning was always, “How many have died?”'
The sound of the helicopter had been growing steadily louder and suddenly the courtyard was lit by a brilliant white light. Jon counted fourteen armed officers forming a cordon across the top of the courtyard. 'Jammer, let's just stand up slowly and walk out of here.'
The other man raised his voice to be heard. 'The West always uses the same excuse when it invades a country of dark-skinned people. As it occupies their land and steals their resources you say you're there in a civilising role. Helping the people to shake off cruel rulers, bringing freedom and democracy. Benevolent, kind. But then some of the people you came to save start to resent your presence. They fight back with bombs, ambushes, booby traps. They strike quickly and melt into the crowds. And when your soldiers look to see who attacked them, there are only people in strange clothes looking back. Kukes, gooks, ragheads. So the soldiers vent their anger on them. And what has your civilising army become now? It can't be savage or barbaric. No, because they invaded to eradicate such things. But the evidence is there. Villages ransacked, homes burnt, old men, women and children murdered. The ones who invaded my country ended up massacring the people in their thousands.'
'White settlers died too.'
Jammer thrust a claw into Jon's face. From beyond those curved spikes officers tightened their grips. 'How many white settlers died? Do you know?'
Jon shook his head. 'Hundreds?'
'Thirty-two. More were killed in traffic accidents in Nairobi during the war. How many white members of the security forces died? Sixty-three. Freedom fighters? Eleven thousand, five hundred and sixty-three.' He paused. 'You think the KLFA were terrorists, not freedom fighters? I can see you do. The president of Kenya announced this year that the body of Field Marshal Dedan Kimathi, leader of the KLFA, will be exhumed and given a state funeral. And the number of Kikuyu people who died through internment, starvation and disease? No one knows, because the normally meticulous colonial government didn't keep count.'
Jon lowered his head as he thought of Alice's obsession.
'Kenyans have estimated over one hundred thousand Kikuyu died during the emergency. Some think double that. Once the Pipeline was closed down whole villages remained empty, the inhabitants simply never reappeared. Always the same story. The French in Algiers, the Belgians in the Congo, the Americans in Vietnam. Whites killing in the name of civilisation.' He inclined his head slightly to the side. 'How many of the soldiers pointing rifles at me are black?'
Jon didn't look. 'They're not soldiers, Jammer, they're police officers.'
'They represent the same thing. How many are black?'
Jon glanced beyond Jammer's shoulders. 'I don't know, they're wearing balaclavas.'
'We both know the answer.' He looked down at the claws.
'This thing that I've become. It was invented by the Government's press office in London. I became it to show that any heart of darkness in Kenya was created by the British. If anything threatens your way of life, you hunt it down and destroy it without mercy. Look at the hysteria I've created and think about how you've responded. The cats and dogs that have died, the number of officers sent to deal with me. Now it's time to end this.'
Jon saw the claws were trembling. He looked into Jammer's eyes. Fear shone there. 'Don't do this.'
'It can't end any other way. Just keep low.'
Jon leaned to the side and shouted. 'Don't shoot. Do not open fire!'
Jammer stood and from the line of armed officers a voice barked, 'Drop those weapons, now!'
Jon saw Jammer's eyes were shut as he raised his hands high above his head.
The rifles erupted, multiple flashes still visible even as Jammer's body was thrown against the wall. It connected with a wet thud before sliding down on top of Jon.
Epilogue
Summerby's office was pleasantly cool as Jon sat down. In the seat next to him was McCloughlin, who had moved his chair to the corner of the desk. Just to make sure we all know you're not on my side, thought Jon. Summerby was asking for his calls to be put on hold. 'So Jon,' he said, replacing the phone. 'There's a rumour going round that you're thinking of contacting the Manchester Police Authority.'
Jon nodded and Summerby's eyes instantly connected with McCloughlin's. When his senior officer spoke again his voice was devoid of any warmth. 'What are you thinking of saying?'
'I think you know. It was in my report that went into the log book.'
'DI Spicer, the Independent Police Complaints Commission has conducted a full investigation. It has found that all procedures were correctly followed.'
'That's bollocks, and you know it. For a start, the entire Armed Response Unit was briefed at the scene on what to say before the Assistant Chief Constable arrived. That's not accord- ing to protocol following a firearms incident.'
Summerby sighed. 'As I said, the IPCC is satisfied there is no case to answer. The Director of Public Prosecutions has signed it off.'
'It's a stitch-up. My report clearly stated that I'd instructed the
Armed Response Unit to hold their fire.'
'Your words obviously weren't heard by the officer in command.'
'DS Saville clearly heard them.'
McCloughlin uncrossed his legs. 'Maybe he wasn't standing so close to the helicopter. I gather it was a bit noisy.'
Jon glanced at him, saw the mocking look in his eye. One day, pal, one day I'll fucking have you. He looked back at
Summerby. 'James Field stood up and raised his arms.'
'To strike you with those claws,' Summerby replied.
'How do you know it wasn't to surrender? They just opened fire on him.'
McCloughlin leaned forward and pointed a finger at Jon. 'To protect you, sonny. They were there saving your ungrateful life. I think you need to consider just whose side you're on here. If you contact the MPA over this, count your career as over.'
Jon looked to Summerby for his reaction. His senior officer crossed his arms. 'I think you need to consider your priorities extremely carefully.'
Fuck you all, Jon thought, standing up and walking from the room without another word. Half way down the stairs, his phone went. 'Carmel, what's happening with that story?'
'I'm sorry, Jon, they're not going to print it.'
'What do you mean? You're just leaving it with the young offender turns psycho story?'
'I've been to see my editor. I took the project Field sent me. He said the claims can't be substantiated. It's too inflammatory.'
'What about the colonial government's records? They must back it up.'
'I've looked into that. Everything, and I mean everything, was destroyed before they handed power over. No one even knows how many detention camps were built.'
'The relatives in Kenya then. There are survivors who witnessed everything, it's how James Field got all his information.'
'They could be after compensation. There are several groups still trying to sue the British government.'
'So you're burying the story.'
'It's not bei
ng buried, Jon, it's just too sensitive. I don't know. The decision came from the top, the big cheese himself.'
As footsteps started coming down the stairs behind him, a phrase Alice had started to use came to mind. 'It's censorship through silence. You call yourself a journalist?'
Carmel sighed. 'I did once. Jon, what do you think newspapers are? Who do you think owns them? Institutional shareholders, that's who. We have them to consider. Nothing could be achieved by running a story that attacks Britain so forcefully. Sales could go down, advertisers might desert us. The shareholders will call for heads.'
'And I thought it was about reporting the truth.'
'So did I when I started out in this job. Listen, you know when I mentioned who my source was on this story?'
The footsteps were almost behind him now. 'Yeah. You said I needed to look closer to home.'
'That's right. Just watch your back, Jon. At work.'
'Someone here was tipping you off ?'
'That's all I can say, Jon, there's another call waiting. I've got to go.'
As she hung up he turned around. McCloughlin was about to step on to the landing, a mobile phone pressed to his ear. Suddenly it all clicked. Next thing he knew McCloughlin was lying on his back, blinking at the ceiling, blood running from his nose. Jon looked down at his fist. Oh fuck. McCloughlin's phone was on the third step. He picked it up and heard a voice saying, 'Hello? Is that you, DCI McCloughlin?' Carmel's voice. He dropped the phone on to McCloughlin's chest and carried on down the stairs.
Back on his drive, he locked the car and walked up to the front door, briefcase in his hand. He paused there, wondering if Ellie or his mum were inside visiting. Even though a few weeks had passed, they still hadn't fully forgiven his actions that night. Deserting his wife when she was so in need of his support. He didn't like to think about it himself. Fortunately Alice was able to accept how his mind worked. How he just could not let go of a case. She didn't like it, but she realised he could no more change his methods than he could the colour of his eyes. You're one lucky bastard, he thought, turning the key and pushing the door open. Punch's squashed snout appeared from the front room. His dog gave a snort of delight and bounded down the corridor. Jon went down to one knee and curled his free arm round the animal's neck, turning his face away as a wet tongue lapped at his ear.
'That's horrible.'
Jon stood up and looked at Alice. She was standing in the doorway to the front room, her eyes bright and clear, though whether from the anti-depressants or genuine emotion, he still couldn't be sure. Holly was cradled in her right arm, her little legs kicking with excitement. Jon walked towards them and took his daughter. Dragging his eyes from Holly, he kissed his wife. 'You're looking good.'
Alice nodded. 'I feel it. It seems so much easier now Holly is sleeping through.'
Jon's eyes went back to his daughter, who gazed up at him with a crooked smile. 'Yeah, sleep. It's the key to everything.' He didn't mention the dream that now haunted him. Curved teeth and sharp claws slashing at his face. How it always tore him from sleep at three in the morning. 'I just decked McCloughlin.' Alice stared at him, lips slightly apart. 'Oh Jon! Please tell me that you're joking.'
He looked at the back of his hand, examining the angry red knuckles. 'Wish I was.'
Alice's voice dropped to a whisper. 'Well, that's it then. You'll be fired.'
Jon glanced up, a grin on his face. 'No I won't. It was in the stairwell at Longsight. There were no witnesses. McCloughlin was the one leaking stuff to the Manchester Evening Chronicle – and I know exactly which reporter he was tipping off.'
Alice's expression lightened slightly. 'So he won't take action against you?'
'Not if he wants me to keep quiet about what he was up to.'
'Did he actually tell you he won't?'
'No need. A weasel like McCloughlin? He'll have worked out the angles before I'd reached the bottom of the stairs. He won't say a word. Trust me.'
A smile of relief appeared on her face. 'Still, you shouldn't go round punching your senior officers.'
Jon paused, pretending to consider her comment. 'Yeah, you're right. I won't make a habit of it. So, what have you been up to?'
'There's some interesting stuff that came out today. The Lancet has published a survey on how many Iraqis have died since the invasion began. One hundred thousand, minimum.'
Jon stepped into the front room and looked at the computer with its piles of paper surrounding it. 'You really enjoy this, don't you? Writing to MPs, sending letters to newspapers.'
Alice sat down on the swivel chair. 'It needs to be done. We can't let the people at the top get away with it. Funny, but I hated politics before. This disastrous war has opened my eyes to so much.'
Jon studied his wife as she picked up her latest print-outs and squared them off. He could see how she was in her element. Always feisty, she'd never been able to sit in silence if she thought somebody was a liar. Now she had something to get her teeth into and the therapeutic value was obvious. He looked down, always amazed at how Holly could fall asleep with such speed. Placing her gently on the mat, he watched as Punch wriggled closer to take up his customary position guarding her.
'Well, I've got something else if you're interested.'
He opened his briefcase and took out his copy of Jammer's project.
'What is it?' Alice asked, hands already out.
'Read it. Let's just say it's not something that's likely to be reported in any of our newspapers. But you might find a few interesting comparisons with what's going on today.'
Alice was already bowed over the photocopied sheets as Jon turned to his dog. 'Hey Punch, fancy coming for a run?'
Author's Note
It would be nice to say the descriptions of Britain's colonial rule in Kenya were a figment of my imagination, but sadly they're not. For full details of that very hushed-up episode in our history, I used Caroline Elkins' excellent book, Britain's Gulag: the Brutal End of Empire in Kenya.
For shorter, but very good summaries, go to:
http://www.troopsoutmovement.com/oliversarmychap6.htm
http://rfrost.people.si.umich.edu/courses/ArchivesSem/papers/RobbieBolton.pdf
As for the invasion of Iraq, the history books have yet to be written.
The mystery of Britain's alien big cats remains unsolved. The bulk of this book was written in 2006 – during which time several more sightings were reported. There are many useful websites out there, especially that of the Scottish Big Cat Trust.
Acknowledgements
Once again, huge thanks to my editor, Jane Wood, who, after hearing a very jumbled plot description back in Harrogate, 2005, simply narrowed her eyes and said, 'I like that.'
The following (in no order of preference) were also essential in getting this book done:
Emma, Jane and the crew – for your enthusiasm and support
Nessy – for being such a swot. What's your rank now?
The Suppens – for the tour of your sheep farm on Werneth
Low
Nicola – for the insight into crime reporting in Manchester
James – for taking me behind the scenes at Chester Zoo's jaguar enclosure
Senior – for being an old git.
Hells Fire - Chapter 1
Jon Spicer reached up, turned on the interior light and examined the top third of his face in the rear view mirror. He sighed. It looked like a fine red gauze had settled over each eyeball.
He turned the light off, soothed by the dark, glad to be back in its comforting folds. A minicab ghosted past his parked car, its driver scanning the deserted streets for one last fare, but the clubs had kicked out over half an hour ago. Jon glanced to his left. Even Canal Street was devoid of life. As the cab neared the set of traffic lights in front they switched to amber, then red. The vehicle’s brake lights glowed briefly in response, but there was nothing waiting to emerge from Sackville Street and the rear lights died as he scooted through anyway.
&nbs
p; ‘Naughty, naughty,’ Jon muttered, leaning to the side and looking up the front steps of the renovated warehouse. Come on Rick, the bloody church will be a pile of ash at this rate.
He tapped his forefinger impatiently on the knob of the gear stick. His presence here in the middle of the night was part of a pre- arranged plan of action. Three local churches had been torched in as many weeks and evidence of satanic rituals had been discovered in the smoking remains of each one. The Christian community was outraged and media interest had reached national levels.
Following a meeting of senior officers of the Greater Manchester Police, it had been decided that if another church was attacked the Major Incident Team would take over the investigation. Jon was on call when this latest fire had been reported forty minutes earlier. He glanced at the building again. Where was Rick? He considered tooting his horn, but then remembered how much it annoyed him when taxis resorted to that tactic outside his house.
Leaning his head back, his eyes drifted to the rear view mirror where they caught on the reflection of the child’s seat behind him. Holly. He thought of her at home, asleep in her cot. Christ, was she really nine months old already? He smiled to himself, picturing her high-speed crawl round their house, determined to open every cupboard, explore every corner. He almost laughed aloud, thinking of her frustration with the stair gate, which denied her access to the top half of her miniature universe. How simple his daughter’s life was. How free of concern and complication. If only he could keep it that way forever, save her from the shit which one day would inevitably find her. The thought of someone or something making her cry caused a clenching in his chest. At times, he concluded, that was the real consequence of parenthood. A continual low-level hum of anxiety – increased by every unguarded plug socket, every swinging door, every flight of open steps. God, what will I be like when she can walk? Go to the playground on her own? He shook his head. Too much even to contemplate.
