Gone Underground

by Phil Brett

  Finally, the window went down and a Brummie voice yelled at me, demanding to know what I wanted.

  ‘A burger and chips,’ I replied arsely.

  He made a sudden movement.

  I brought the gun up and pointed it at his head. ‘Don’t!’ I shouted.

  His face went even whiter, and he started to jabber for mercy. I was more intimidating than I thought I was. ‘What’s in your hand?’ I demanded.

  ‘It’s the emergency back-up key. Look,’ he showed me something which resembled a kid's crayon.

  ‘Okay, but what I really want is to know why you’ve decided to stop in the middle of the road. Having a kip?’

  ‘The engine’s died. That’s why I was getting this. It has enough juice to go a quarter of kilometre.’

  ‘Well, give it the kiss of life and get it out of the way!’

  ‘Look, mate, I’m sorry, but it’s empty. I didn’t have time to charge it up. You couldn’t zap us a few could you?’

  He must be joking. We were trailing a cold-hearted killer in weather resembling Alaska and he wanted us to set up a charge lead!

  ‘No chance! Use the back-up and pull over!’

  ‘I’m trying to but—’

  ‘Do it!’ I yelled, swallowing, and almost choking on, half an iceberg.

  ‘I’m trying!’ he snarled back.

  With the technical brilliance of a repair manual, I shouted, ‘Try harder!’

  My hand was in danger of freezing to the gun handle, and considering that it wasn't particularly helping, I slid it back inside my coat. I turned and returned to an atomically irate Cole. I told her what was wrong with the van. It didn’t soothe her temper much.

  Bale’s voice announced that he made the turn and was trying to find her again.

  ‘Don’t lose her!’ she irritably replied.

  Putting it in reverse, she ignored the sensors warning of a vehicle close by and edged backwards, but we only managed a matter of centimetres before hitting the front bumpers of the lorry. She then moved forward again a few centimetres. Then back.

  It was as we were patiently manoeuvring out of our imprisonment that Bale’s voice screamed into the car. It was inarticulate, frightened and primeval. The sound of machine gun fire followed.

  ‘Glen!’ she shouted. ‘What’s happening?’

  The sound of glass shattering, metal being pierced and terror uttered, was the reply.

  ‘Glen – what’s up? Ash, what the fuck is happening?’

  ‘Vic—’ Similar sounds crashed into our ears before the line went dead.

  ‘Shit!’ she snarled.

  Then, with the sensors going berserk, she rammed the car into reverse and lurched back at speed. We jolted forward as we hit the lorry. Then, with her foot down, we went forward, ploughing into the van. I had visions of the bloke from Britain’s second city being launched into space. She was now repeating the same manoeuvre as before, but this time with a great deal of speed. Metal was buckling as she turned the car into scrap metal.

  But it worked. We were free.

  With her foot down, she went past the van and sped forward. With every other vehicle travelling at a speed comparable to a long distance runner, she soon caught up to the rest of the traffic. She wasn’t paying much attention to the weather conditions. The sound of Bale screaming and what was obviously a hail of machine gun fire over-rode such concerns.

  ‘Damn, I wish I had my car. I could have used the flashing light!’

  True, but she'd also be grieving. This vehicle didn't have long to live, but then it was merely from the car pool, and thus, expendable.

  I had an idea. Commanding the carcom, I yelled, ‘Open NWC #4 and URSP #5FM channels. Calling all supporters of the NWC. This is Pete Kalder and Victoria Cole, on special sequestration to Jackie Payne and the NWC, investigating the murder of Olivia Harrison and Youssef Ali. There is a shooting in the vicinity of the north of St James; all militia need to attend. Comrades Asher Joseph and Glen Bale are under attack from a renegade, Emily Messager, formerly posing as an AF member but in reality, MI5. Seek assistance immediately!’

  I looked at Cole, who was weaving the car in and out of the traffic. ‘She’s known all the time.’

  ‘Yeah. She’s probably hacked into our phones. I should have realised.’

  ‘Where are you?’ I shouted at Bale.

  I received no answer but the cacophony of the ambush.

  ‘Where are you?’ I repeated. ‘Glen, we need to know where you are. Mate, we’re coming but tell us where you are!’

  ‘Chopin Street,’ he groaned.

  ‘Glen,’ Cole replied, ‘tell me exactly what has—’

  Suddenly, the line went dead. Her dashboard indicated that both communications, to both Joseph and Bale, had been terminated.

  Even if we hadn’t known where the street was, it would have been easy to find. Smoke was billowing up and people and cars were sliding and screaming out of it. Gunfire echoed off the surrounding grand buildings. She swung the car over and across the road, but instead of heading down the street, she mounted the pavement just before it, out of sight and, more importantly, out of gun range.

  ‘Get out and keep you head down!’ she ordered, seamlessly unbuckling and opening the door, whilst pulling out her gun in one movement. I attempted to do likewise but, in reality, was far less elegant.

  The scene which confronted us was straight out of a disaster movie. I could see two cars on fire and broken glass everywhere. People, huddled in groups, were taking shelter. At least two bodies lay face down in pools of blood. By one of the cars, I could see Bale crawling away in a strange hunched manner. A closer look revealed it to be a young school boy being shielded by him.

  Cole had found a position behind an opened car door and was firing in the direction of where the machine gun fire was coming from. Across the street, lying down on his belly but clearly alive, was Asher Joseph. He appeared to be firing under the cars and shouting at Bale.

  I held onto my gun. It felt evil and heavy and not to be trusted, but my brain was shouting at me. Bale and the kid were out in the open and bullets were bouncing all around them. Being a skinny bloke, any bullet which hit him would go through to the boy, whatever heroics he was attempting. Joseph and Cole were trying to give him covering fire, but it might not be enough. The nightmare of the past needed confronting. And I was pissed off – REALLY pissed off – at people pointing guns at me. And especially when they were firing them.

  Just do it, Kalder.

  Do it.

  I crouched down by the bonnet of an upmarket sports car and pressed the trigger. For a few seconds, the machine gun fire abated as Messager took cover.

  Cole flashed me an approving look. ‘Keep firing, Pete!’ She ran and threw herself behind another car, which now resembled a cheese grater. She was now close to Bale. ‘Glen – run!’

  As he did, the three of us kept firing, but Messager didn’t appear to be that worried – the machine gun opened up again. Bale had almost reached Cole when he yelled in anguish and fell. Lurching down, she pulled him towards her. I stood and willed out more bullets.

  My will power wasn’t as strong as it might be. It was answered with everything exploding around me. I dived down. Messager had turned her attention towards me. Cole bobbed up and took over. I could now see Bale, hiding behind a family estate car. He had been hit in the back of the leg and blood was pouring out. The boy had now turned from being the saved to the saver and was crouching down, taking his jacket off to wrap around the wound.

  For a brief moment, there was lull from the opposing artillery. We kept firing.

  Then, a Lui Ping XLV roared out from behind a plumber’s van and sped away from us. Messager was escaping.

  Standing, I looked around. It looked like five helicopter gun-ships had strafed the area. There wasn’t a pane of glass intact or a sheet of metal without holes. A third car had now gone up in flames, showing just how the old school petrol types could burn. As if to emphasise the
point, another one blew up, showering us with dirty shards of vehicle.

  Slowly, people were slowly getting up, crying and nursing wounds. The two bodies I had first seen didn’t. They just lay there, still. Snow was settling over them, creating shrouds. I walked over to Bale, who was clearly in agony. In addition to the gunshot, he had burns on his arms and side of the face. Asher Joseph had joined him and, judging from the blood on his arm, had also been hit.

  Jackie Payne had told us not to make a drama. What the hell was she going to make of this?

  39. Datura stramonium

  ‘Why?’ I said, looking around at the carnage. ‘Why would she do this?’

  Cole glanced at her phone. ‘Maybe for this.’ Holding it so I could see, she showed me the news headlines which were rapidly appearing on her screen. Jackie Payne addressing the Oslo international environmental conference wasn’t top. Nor were our heroics at the fracking centre. Instead was the headline:

  CIVIL WAR FEARED BETWEEN THE SOCIALISTS AND ANARCHISTS. GUNFIGHT IN CENTRAL LONDON.

  She pressed play, and the past five minutes of our lives were heading the news. We were famous. Just marvellous.

  Sirens could be heard in the background. Getting closer. People were returning to the street to give help to the injured, which, at a rough guess, I would put at just over a score. ‘How did the news channels get that so quickly? The emergency services haven’t even got here yet. Was it us?’

  ‘No, it was her. Call it her Plan B. We stopped Plan A, but she’s improvised. You got to hand it to her. She’s ruthless, but she’s impressive. After all, we are members of the United Revolutionary Socialist Party, Glen being a senior member, and she is a senior member of the Anarchist Federation. And we did just have a gunfight.’

  ‘So, she got what they wanted: a distraction from the conference. And she’s vanished.’

  Joseph moved forward, holding himself tightly and wincing with pain. ‘No, she hasn't. Online, someone is saying that she’s been spotted by Belgrave Square Gardens.’

  Cole turned to a whimpering Bale. ‘Glen, you’ll be okay. Ambulances are on their way. But you need to act.’

  What – the opening soliloquy from Richard III? He looked up at her with what could only be described as doleful eyes. Clearly, he was in a great deal of pain and here was Cole wanting him to do things. What was she going to suggest? Even the kid, who must have been no more than ten, looked appalled.

  ‘Get online: mobilise everyone you can. Then, counter this news report. Your injury will give it gravitas.’

  The cup of human kindness wasn’t too full with Victoria Cole here right now.

  For a split second, a microcell of humanity was found and she noticed the boy. ‘Is your mum or dad around?’

  He looked confused. Evidently, he was now entering shock mode and had forgotten that he was just a child. He shouldn’t worry. Cole had forgotten that she was human.

  ‘Er, she was in the shop, buying a drink for me. I was thirsty.’ He vaguely pointed in front of us. Then he shouted, ‘That’s her! Mum! Mum!’

  A tall woman could now be seen running towards us, yelling something incomprehensible, her face a screwed up amalgam of fear, worry and relief. The sight and sound of her ruptured a dam, and the boy sobbed.

  Feeling that she had given enough support to all the poor sods who had been caught up in the chaos which we had played a part in, Cole barked, ‘Come on!’ and ran towards her car.

  I dutifully followed, trying to keep my balance. ‘What about—?’

  She read my mind. ‘The ambulances will be here any second. They’ll know far more what to do than a workplace half-day first aid course. We can do more good by stopping this from happening again!’

  It was logical, if brutal.

  With a smashed front and back and buckled sides, the car looked like a concertina; one which had been smashed against a brick wall several times by a seriously pissed off street musician, who was now giving up busking to contemplate a life standing dead still and painted gold – with the concertina being dumped straight in the bin.

  Jumping in, she turned it to manual. It didn't sound too good. Creaks and screeches were accompanied by the moans from assorted warning notices. Competing with each other, they sounded like we had a class of infants trapped under the bonnet, all complaining about the state of the car: ‘Miss, power is down 20% and is dissipating in three places’; ‘Miss, the main head lights don’t work’; ‘Miss, neither does the right hand rear light’; ‘Miss, the visibility monitors on the right-hand side are not operating.’

  She turned them all off. Yeah, we knew. The car was a wreck. And don't call her Miss.

  Luckily, there were a few low-visibility aids and snow clearing apps working because although the snow was only half as heavy as before, it was still coming down with some force. That made for a lovely winter scene, but being as our job wasn’t composing poems or painting urban landscapes, it was a hassle. Reversing quickly, she turned into the street, which only minutes ago had been the scene of violence and threaded her way through its victims, the shot-up cars, the injured and the terrified who were groping into consciousness and attempting to make sense of what had just happened. Even with the civil war being such recent history, and the right continuing their reign of terror, this was still shocking. We got to the end of the road.

  She spoke to the carcom: ‘Scan all NWC and URSP channels for reports of a cream hybrid Lui Ping XLV sports car in the vicinity of Green Park. Registration 34 O23 IL. Match to map and pin location.’

  ‘Sat being down actually helps us,’ Cole said. ‘She will have no idea where we are until it’s too late. She’ll be relying on visuals, but we have the eyes of class.’

  Very stirring, I thought, but I wasn’t quite sure that speeches were going to be of much use. ‘We’re never going to catch her. She’s too far ahead, and we’d never get past the traffic.’

  ‘I’ve thought about that.’ She then stabbed her foot down, and with the engine making extremely unhealthy noises, shot ahead.

  Getting to the end of the road, she made the wheels screech as she turned a sharp left and then right again. Ahead was the T junction that crossed by the road which skirted Green Park, running parallel to the historic Queen’s Walk. It was rammed with traffic.

  Okay, so Victoria Cole had taken a few advanced driving courses in her previous life as a police officer – give her a big round of applause.

  ‘As I said, we’re never going to catch her,’ I repeated.

  She grinned. ‘Aren’t we?’

  I had expected us to edge out, turn right and join the queue, but with the grin lingering on her lips, she accelerated – forwards. Horns blared, as drivers witnessed a heap of buckled metal ignore road markings – indeed, road sense – and drive straight towards the opposite pavement.

  ‘Hold on!’ she commanded, as we crossed the road and hit the pavement, and then onto the snow covered grass. ‘We’re taking a shortcut.’

  ‘You’re going to drive across the park?’ I stupidly asked.

  Surprised snow-ballers dived for cover behind the trees, as she went off-road. Now sounding like a hysterical pantomime dame, I asked her, ‘Are you really suggesting that we do this?’

  ‘Watch!’

  With impeccable timing, our back wheels spun. Cole didn’t look concerned, but just controlled the skid. She was enjoying this. Showing off. Reports were coming in, locating Emily Messager on the map directing across from where we were. Assuming we didn’t kill anyone or overturn, we might just catch her. The snow hadn’t settled and turned to ice, and still wasn’t deep enough to create drifts, so we had a chance.

  Passing one snow boarder and half burying him, we felt a number of hits from snow balls from fellow boarders slapping against the side of the car. I didn’t they think that they were playing.

  We were now in the middle of the park and, thankfully, it appeared to be clear of people. The snow was still coming down but was roughly thirty per cent of the pre
vious level. Not that all was hunky dory, because the car was now sounding like a robotic nervous breakdown. Inside, it was like being mid-way through a colour wash in a second-hand washing machine. So I was travelling in a washing machine with mental health issues. Fab.

  The reports meant that we had located her, and assuming that we didn’t hit a park bench or public sculpture, we’d reach her in couple of minutes.

  ‘She’s monitoring this as much as we are, so why is she still in the car? It is easily spotted. Why not ditch it?’

  We went over a bump; I prayed that it wasn’t a snow boarder.

  Cole turned the wheel and changed gear. ‘Good question. She must be hoping that she can get to wherever she’s going before we can stop her. Bale would have warned them not to do anything foolish, but she would know full well that she’s taking a risk.’

  I looked at the map. ‘There’s dozens of embassies there. Including several who lost their previous addresses in the revolution and have shacked up with other countries. She gets into one of them and she’s lost. The NWC has decreed that, to avoid unnecessary conflict with foreign nations, we are to accord them their previous protected status.’ I smiled. ‘With the United States now bunked up with several others in an embassy of a country the size of Atlantic City. How the mighty fall.’

  ‘Yes.’ She thought for a second. ‘But there’s too many for us to cover all of them.’

  I instructed the carcom to go to transmit. Then, with my best assertive voice, I spoke: ‘All supporters of the National Workers Council please stand outside all embassies in the area—’ My mind went blank trying to remember which places had been renamed and which hadn’t, so I went for the old ones, ‘—to the north of Green Park, east of Hyde, south of Upper Grosvenor St and west of Berkeley Square. This is an urgent appeal. Sisters and brothers should cover all exits and entrances and prevent any movement in or out of the embassies. This is a priority, with the full backing of the NWC, who have authorised in defence of the republic. Jackie Payne is personally requesting that people should leave work, their homes and cars. Comrades, please do so now! Transmit off.’