by Phil Brett
Joining him, although guiltily standing to his right so as to keep him as a wind shield, I heard him say, ‘What the hell?’
I expected Victoria to ask him to repeat it, but she didn’t. Instead, joining me on my right, and thus skilfully using the pair of us as screens, she asked him what was wrong.
Ignoring her, he shouted at two workmen, laden with large canvas bags of tools, who were about twenty metres away from us. ‘Friends, you can’t go in there! I sent a memo some time ago. No one can enter the booster room unless you're on the rota!’
It had sounded a rather tame – indeed, mundane – complaint, but it appeared to upset the pair. They turned around and even at this distance, you could see alarm in their faces. Maybe rotas were a big thing here.
In one rapid movement, both men started to pull something out of their bags. At almost the exact same time that my eyes registered what looked like small toy machine guns, my brain questioned why turbine workers would be carrying such toys, and Victoria lunged at me, shouting to get down.
Rolling behind the giant Shinto God’s large trailing leg, I was dragged behind its triangular waves. By the time I had landed on my stomach, machine gun fire was ripping into the concrete. I pressed myself against one of the waves and prayed that it was quality workmanship. Chips of concrete flew off in all directions, as bullets roared into the statue.
Looking across to Victoria, I could see that she was simultaneously calling someone on her phone and getting her gun out. Her back was against the sculpture’s leg, so she was unable to see what was happening.
‘You okay?’ she shouted.
‘Yeah, fine. Fuck!’ I flinched as I felt thuds of the ammunition hitting the geometric tide. ‘Connor’s not, though. He looks pretty bad. I think he’s dead!’ I yelled back.
I could, by crouching down between sections of the waves, see what was happening. I passed on what little I could see onto her. Both of them have machine guns but . . .’ I carefully changed my angle. ‘Yeah, but only one’s firing at us, the other is—’
My astute observations were interrupted with the noise increasing.
Raising my voice, I shouted, ‘The other is firing at the guards at the entrance. He's hit two already. They're on the floor. Dunno if they're dead or hurt. The others have found cover and are now firing back.’
‘Okay, Pete. You’ve got to be my eyes,’ she screamed. ‘I want you to tell me the second the one firing at us looks as if he’s going to turn his fire on the guards. He’s unlikely to turn his attention away from us for too long, but the guards are the greater threat. So, the split second he looks as if he’s turning, tell me!’
‘Understood!’ I yelled. ‘He looks pretty keen on us at the moment!’
More lumps of Fujin's legs were being chiselled away by the rounds hitting them. I wasn’t sure how long they’d hold out for. How solid was your average piece of public art? Did the design brief include bullet-proofing? It must only be a matter of time before it gave way. Especially as the gun appeared to have limitless ammo.
Then, the man seemed to move, his weight shifting. Clearly, his head was turning to look at the guards.
‘Now!’ I yelled.
She moved to one side. Now, he – and, worryingly, her – were in clear view, and she fired. One shot, and she was back behind the leg. But it was enough.
‘Yes!’ I screamed, in a voice usually only used when Arsenal scored. This time, though, what had been hit wasn't the back of a net, but the shoulder of a terrorist. He crashed to the floor, dropping his gun.
His accomplice switched his attention to us for a second or two. Despite clinging onto the belief that the design of the waves meant that whilst I could see him, I was protected from the gunfire, I didn’t want to rely on the sculptor’s composition for protection, so I leant back. When I finally returned to see what the situation was, I was astonished to see both of our assailants were very much alive and firing. The one she’d hit was back where he’d been and was once more rearranging the features of the sculpture. I told Victoria.
‘Body armour,’ she cursed. ‘Heads it is, then.’
By now, I could see more of the wind farm’s guards running low towards them. Our machine gun mates were in dire danger of being out-flanked.
‘Good!’ she said, on hearing the news. ‘They’re going to have to switch positions soon. Tell me as soon as you see him move so much as a hair. You did well last time.’
I thought now wasn’t the time to complain about being patronised, so I simply hollered back, ‘Okay!’
Then, both them shifted and looked away from us.
‘Now!’
Again, Victoria lurched to one side and fired. This time was different, though. His mouth opened in agony and blood projectiled out. Half his jaw was missing by the time he fell. He wasn’t going to get up this time.
The other one instinctively turned his firepower on us. Victoria only just got to safety in time, but as he let off his latest round, he was hit by a volley from the guards. He joined his mate.
After a short burst of gunfire from the guards, there was silence. We waited a little longer before carefully emerging from behind the god of the winds. It was obvious that the two terrorists were gone from this world. Victoria’s priority was reassuring the rather hyped-up guards that we were friends. I knelt by Connor and did what was clearly not required and checked his pulse. He was dead. The huge red splatters on his jacket and trousers were evidence of that.
I turned around and saw that Fujin had also been given a hard time. Most of his toes had been shot off and his right hand lay shattered on the floor. Holes covered him. I gave a silent prayer of thanks, not just to him but to all Shinto Gods for protecting us.
We had stayed for about an hour after the shooting. Victoria had spoken to the guards and arranged what should happen and who should be contacted. We’d also had a look at the two pretend workmen and discovered that, as well the machine guns, they were carrying explosives. Zuzanna, who had emerged after the shooting had stopped, had told us that they were carrying what looked like enough to blow the booster room, which would have cut the power from the turbines. Clearly shocked, she had crouched by Connor Nash and wept. Colleagues joined her to mourn him, hug each other and attempt to recover from what clearly was not a usual day at the office.
Meanwhile, we looked at the two dead saboteurs. Close up, the body armour, not to mention the body muscles, and indeed the automatic weapons and explosives, made them very unusual for maintenance men. They looked far more like professional soldiers. But the fancy dress didn’t stop there. They also had a number of British Nazi insignia under their overalls and two far-right pamphlets in their bags. Neither of us, though, were buying the fact that they were from the Nazi Party. Quite obviously, it was just camouflage in case they were caught in order to detract from their real masters – the former rulers of the British state. I mean, who takes propaganda and armbands on an undercover terrorist mission?
We didn’t hang around. As soon as we had done what little we could, we left. In the car, neither of us spoke. Victoria manually drove along the coastal road until, after a couple of minutes, she suddenly braked and stopped the car.
‘I need a fag,’ she said briskly, and jumped out the car.
I joined her outside.
Facing towards the sea, facing the wind, which although it had lost some of its harshness, was still strong, we gazed out in silence. The weather didn’t seem to matter to either of us at that precise moment. We stood, looking out, leaning back against the front of the car. She quickly lit her cigarette and stared. Beside her, I wondered at the power of my medication, which was still keeping me in a fairly calm and focussed state. Maybe I could offer to be in any promotional campaign – ‘Drugs so good that your heartbeat won’t increase, even after machine gun fire’.
But then, maybe not.
‘You okay?’ I asked.
She took a drag, ‘Yeah, I guess so. Did you hear what Zuzanna Bosco said about C
onnor Nash? He’d just become a father two weeks ago. A baby boy. Tragic. Bloody tragic.’
I didn’t say anything. There wasn’t much that I could say, and in any case, I felt that it was her who needed to talk. The sessions with Dr Brakus were obviously having some effect on me then.
‘Christ, Pete, I didn’t think it would be like this. Why are they fighting so hard? Do they really think they will win by such blind acts of terror? Who’s that going to convince? His widow? Family? Colleagues? Christ, what a mess. I just couldn’t save him. I couldn’t move quickly enough. Perhaps if I had, I could have got him behind the statue, but I didn’t have time. He was too far away. It was all too quick . . .’
She took another drag.
Lamely, I tried to reassure her. ‘It happened in a matter of seconds. By instinct, you took cover and saved the nearest person to you, and that happened to be me . . .’ For a second, I considered making a joke but decided against it, and just said, ‘Thanks.’
She didn’t reply, but out of the blue said, ‘I know you probably think that when I was I a cop, I'd shoot half a dozen a day but . . .’ She drifted off and sucked on her cigarette.
Referencing past jibes of mine just showed how hard she was feeling. I didn’t add to them. True, I didn’t give her a cuddle either. Instead, I suggested something better: ‘We’ve got a few hours before the CIMC starts, and I can’t see that we can do anything else till then. I think we need a drink, and I know just the place.’
13. Malva
Soul Shack looked pretty much as it had months ago, when I had last been there. The theme bar, with décor and sounds from the 1960s and 1970s, had been a popular haunt for me and Caroline. Both of us had been keen students of the era. Well, to be more accurate, Caroline thought I was fixated and she was just interested. Our daughter Lisa had simply thought us sad, even with the regular periods when the look and music came back in fashion. As she put it, there was retro-chic and then there was old fashioned. Because of the memories it held for me, I had shunned it for a couple of years, but the ghosts of my past now didn't scare me. Instead, they were comforting.
The large black and white picture of the 1968 Paris uprising, with well-dressed students hurling rocks and Existential quotes, was still in pride of place, dominating the central area of the bar. The surrounding walls were covered with images as varied as pop acts, footballers, picket lines, marches, actors and politicians. In the middle of the floor were two 1967 Lambretta scooters.
Fred Wesley and the JBs’ classic tune “Doing it to Death” was playing on the music system. The place was pretty empty, with a small group of half a dozen or so in the far corner by several pictures of Arthur Ashe winning Wimbledon.
Behind the bar stood a Guyanian man in his late thirties, dressed in a tightly cut blue eight-button Mandarin jacket, buttoned to the top. Turning to face us and showing us his immaculate cheekbones, clear eyes and shaved head, he broke into a large, broad smile. With deceptive speed, he came out from behind the bar and hugged me. This was Maurice, owner of The Soul Shack and the coolest man, other than me, in the country.
‘Pete, great to see you. I can’t believe you’re here!’
Seeing who was just behind me, he nodded, adding, ‘And good to see you too, Victoria.’
Whilst he had known me for yonks, he had probably only met Victoria a couple of times, but as any good bar owner should know, remembering the names of your clientele makes good business sense. Even in days like these.
Still holding me, he added his sympathy for what had happened to the pair of us. ‘I can’t believe the bad luck you’ve had, Pete. First the tragic passing of Caroline and Lisa and then that shit last year, getting banged up.’
Inwardly, I corrected him – I hadn’t been "banged up", I was undergoing treatment.
‘So you’re out!’ he grinned in triumph.
Inwardly, I pondered what I’d say to that.
Disentangling myself from his admittedly finely attired clutches, I said, ‘Yes, I’m out. Good to see you too.’
He turned his attention to Cole. ‘And you nearly got yourself killed. Man, you two are dangerous to know!’ He chuckled.
If only he knew. He was referring to a few months back, not our recent piece of excitement.
‘Let me get you a drink. On the house.’ With a few large strides, he returned to his domain behind the bar. ‘Sorry, but we haven’t got the stock you might like.’
Looking along the bar, with their retro pumps, I could see notices saying the very modern message that due to the international blockade, Soul Shack was out of stock of that drink. And that drink. And that drink. The only beers available appeared to be two types of ales and a lager brewed in Britain.
Seeing me look at them, he added that it was pretty much the same story for wines and spirits. ‘I have got this bottle of Brit Pinot Noir though.’ He leant below the counter, and then, after a little bit of uncool scrambling about, re-emerged with a bottle and two glasses. Putting them on a round tray featuring Adam West and Burt Ward from the 1960s Batman and Robin TV series, he apologised. ‘Sorry, no snacks today. We’re all out of peanuts, crisps and what-have-you.’
Thanking him, I wondered if the choice of tray was deliberate and, if so, which of us was Robin. Wanting to purge any idea that I was the Boy Wonder, I led us to my favourite spot below the photograph of Charlie George scoring the winner for Arsenal in the 1971 FA Cup Final against Liverpool. With dismay, I did see one change which Maurice had made, because now, hung by Charlie, was a photo of Martin Chivers scoring the winner in the 1972 UEFA final for Spurs. Impartiality was probably good business sense but still . . .
Pouring us a glass each, I looked at Victoria. She had taken off her jacket and was showing that she had slid down to the skinny end of the slim spectrum. Whilst never being what anyone could call overweight, she did now look too slight, less petite, more pinched. Judging from the fact that the collar of her white shirt was hanging rather loosely around her neck, she had lost weight recently and, in all probability, had done so fairly rapidly. The result to getting shot was the obvious reason. An effective way to lose weight which, for some reason, didn’t often feature in articles on dieting.
She'd eventually put it back on. I had. Despite the crap prison food and only slightly better Anchorage fare, I had refound the grams which, during the grief and subsequent breakdown, had been lost. After losing my wife and daughter, I had lost any desire to eat and so I had shed weight rapidly. Now, me being me, I had had to go one better and had tried lose more by slicing strips of skin off my arms – using a very expensive and very sharp knife to cut their tattooed names off my arms. But that was a different story.
We sat looking at each other. I was listening to the new track which had started to play. I guessed from the horn section that it was still Fred Wesley but couldn’t place the song. Cole wasn’t, I thought, too interested in ancient funk. For a second, she sat looking at her glass, then, grabbing it, she downed it in one. I doubt if she had noticed its bouquet. Pouring another, she once more drank it like it was water on a hot day. A result of shock, no doubt. Mind you, this was rare stuff, so should take it easy. Even if she wasn't going to savour the summer fruit flavour, then at least she could let it touch the sides of her throat. There was also the slight matter that she was driving us to the CIMC meeting and we had to be there for 7.30pm. I didn’t really want us turning up pissed.
Breaking the silence, I said the first thing that came into my head, which wasn't usually a sound strategy. Here, it proved to be similarly unwise: ‘At least your car was untouched. I checked it when we got here. Not a scratch.’
She looked at me with an expression which mixed disbelief, disgust and possibly amusement at my crassness. She had a point, or was it three? It was the lamest thing I could have said. Not warranting a reply, she didn’t give one.
Instead, she sighed. ‘It wasn't until the Hyde Park May Day Massacre that I killed my first person.’
I knew what she was
talking about. On May Day, almost exactly a year before we had taken power, there had been an armed attack on the annual workers’ march. One hundred and fifty-three marchers had been killed. I hadn't been there because, just then, I was slap bang in the middle of a nervous breakdown. Evidently, she had been, though. I presumed, really hoped, that she had joined us by then.
‘I was nearby when sharpshooters opened up from The Lap of Luxury Hotel, splaying a feeder march on Park Lane with gunfire. The NWC had included some comrade officers with those stewarding the demo. By chance, a group of us were nearby. Myself, a half dozen worker stewards and three army comrades happened to be outside it. Me and the khaki comrades left the worker stewards to return fire, whilst we entered the hotel.’
That was a relief. She had been on our side.
As if in a trance, she continued. ‘We fought our way in. I remember clearly, there was a lad at the reception, but his crew cut gave it away that he was no five-star employee. He reached under the desk, and as he was pulling out his gun, I shot him. Once. Between the eyes. The soldiers congratulated me on a great shot. But it was the first time I had killed someone.’
Staring into the distance, she relived the moment. Personally, I thought it was all grand. From what I remembered, the attack had been stopped by the swift action of those defending the demonstration. Which, it now transpired, included comrade Cole here. So, good; murdering scum killed. What was the problem? This was pass-the-beers-around time. Or, in this case, some rare wine.
‘It didn't stop there. They had been intending to escape via the underground exits. Being a modern hotel, it had plenty of underground rooms and they'd planned to use them to escape. We stopped them. Being so quick, we had the element of surprise. Afterwards, we found out that a total of eight had been in there. We stopped six of them. Five dead.’
