by Jon Grahame
He stopped in the doorway that led into the public part of the front office. A woman was on the floor, a man on top of her. She was screaming and fighting as he tried to pin her arms above her head. A second man, standing by the double doors that led outside, caught sight of Reaper, and threw a knife at him. He stepped sideways to avoid it and heard Sandra shoot.
The man’s head exploded and sprayed blood on the glass doors. His body was flung backwards and slumped down against them. The man on the floor stared up at Reaper, eyes wide with surprise, raised his hands and began to get to his feet. Reaper shot him in the chest, flinging his body back across that of his companion.
Reaper glanced sideways and saw Sandra behind the desk, right arm straight, left arm slightly bent to help hold the gun steady. Her eyes were wide and the gun was not steady. It wavered. He stepped back and went to her. Gripped her shoulder. She was breathing heavily. Then Reaper spotted the boy, maybe four years old, crouched in an alcove beneath the desk, eyes unblinking, mouth open.
‘Sandra,’ he said. ‘The boy.’ He got her attention.
‘Put the gun away. Look after the boy.’
She did as she was told and crouched in front of the youngster, his distress outweighing her own, and reached her arms out to him. Reaper went back into the front office to the woman who was now sitting up, gasping, still fearful. Her scoop neckline top was torn to reveal large breasts.
‘You’re okay now,’ he said. He didn’t want to stare; he went to the door and looked out. ‘Were there any others?’
‘No. I don’t think so. I think they were the ones who took Mrs Jones. She lives at number five. I hid with Ollie. Is Ollie . . .?’
‘He’s safe.’
He held out a hand and she took it to pull herself to her feet. She was late thirties, blonde hair in a nondescript style. She was short and stocky and wore jeans that were tight around her hips. A pleasant, slightly chubby face with a turned-up nose. Her cleavage was her best feature, which was probably why she had worn the top – fine when times were normal, but dangerous now. She was recovering quickly.
‘I’m Jean. Jean Megson.’ She held out a hand and he shook it. ‘I saw a police car go past earlier so took a risk and drove here. After seeing them take Mrs Jones, I didn’t know what else to do. They must have been waiting because they followed, only I didn’t know until we got here. Then we just ran.’
After the relative quiet he’d shared with Sandra, Jean Megson, it seemed, could talk for England.
Reaper said, ‘I’m Reaper.’
On the other side of the counter, Sandra had picked up the boy who clung to her with both hands around her neck.
Jean seemed to notice her torn blouse and tried in vain to make it cover her exposed bra.
‘Oh! I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I have another in my bag.’
He glanced outside and saw two cars parked on the grass.
‘In the car?’ he said.
She nodded, then she noticed the bodies as if for the first time. She shuddered and turned away. He ushered her through the doorway, and turned to Sandra,
‘I’ll only be a minute. I have to get their bag.’
He went back into reception, pulled the bodies away sufficiently so that he could open one of the doors, and checked outside. It was clear. He ran to the first car, a three-year-old Ford, and saw two bags on the back seat. He opened the door, grabbed them and ran back into the station. Sandra was standing behind the counter, gun raised, in the ready stance. The boy was now in Jean’s arms. Reaper dropped the bags in the corridor.
‘Take them to the canteen. I’ll secure the building.’
Sandra raised an eyebrow as if about to argue. He leaned closer so only she could hear. ‘Best they have protection. It will make them feel better.’
She nodded, put away her gun and picked up the bags.
‘This way,’ she said, and Reaper nodded at Jean, indicating she should go with Sandra.
He returned to the front office, but could find no way of locking the glass doors. Instead, he lay the bodies across them as a deterrent and to make it difficult for anyone to push them open. He removed the jams from the two interior doors so that they locked.
If anyone tried to batter through them, they would hear. He went to the basement corridor that led from the cells to the courts that were located next door.
That door also had a keypad lock, but was propped open. He removed the prop and let the door close. A side door for maintenance was already locked, so his last call was at the rear. He secured the back door that gave access to the vehicles.
‘Yo!’ he shouted as he approached the canteen, in case Sandra was nervous. ‘It’s me.’
Sandra had brewed more tea, which Jean was sipping gratefully. She had changed her torn top for another with a similarly scooped neckline. The boy was eating a chocolate biscuit and drinking a can of pop. Sandra was once more in control of herself. Good. She was still playing the tough soldier role. Keep playing it, he thought.
Eventually it would work. Sandra went to the counter, poured a mug of tea, added whitener and handed it to him. Togetherness: she knew how he took his tea. They stood side by side in their matching outfits and looked at their first two survival candidates for starting over.
‘I thought you were police,’ Jean said, ‘but Sandra says you’re Special Forces.’
Reaper smiled and sensed a moment of discomfort for his partner.
‘That’s right,’ he said. ‘We’re special forces.’
As Jean relaxed, they learned a little more about her.
Her home had been in one of the tree-lined suburbs through which they had driven on their way to choose a motor home. A semi-detached house, a good job in Human Resources, a divorce eight years ago and – no, thank you very much – she had not been looking for another relationship since. Although, Reaper pondered, her choice of blouse might have suggested differently.
There had been no children, something for which she was now thankful. She was not the maternal type, she assured them. Her father was dead and her mother lived in Cumbria but hadn’t answered her phone for days, that is, when they were still working. She accepted the likelihood that her mother was dead.
She had taken Ollie Collins, the four-year-old, into her care when his mother became ill.
‘His father was away on business,’ she explained in a low voice, while Ollie sat on the floor and played with a car he had taken from the bag Jean had packed for him. ‘He’s away a lot. Germany, Switzerland – anywhere in Europe. Anyway, he didn’t come back and Geraldine got the flu and . . . that was it, basically.
By then, we all knew what would happen, and it did.
She died ever so quickly.
‘I took Ollie to my house. We went to the shops when they were still open, when people were still behaving normally – or trying to. Mr Jenkins at Village Stores just let us take what we wanted. He could see the writing on the wall. We all could. ‘Stock up,’ he said. His wife was ill and he had started coughing and I think he knew. He just let us take what we wanted.
Never asked for a penny, although I left money on the counter. Next time I went, the shop was open but he wasn’t there. The only people I saw was an old chap and a teenage girl. Not together, separate, stacking stuff in trolleys. The girl had strong lagers, alcopops and cigarettes. She put a bottle of whisky in the old chap’s trolley and said, go on, treat yourself. It might never happen.’
Jean laughed . . . but the laughter turned swiftly to tears.
‘“It might never happen.” But it did. Didn’t it?’
Sandra put an arm around her. The 18-year-old comforting the older woman. Part of the role. The art of the role.
‘When I stopped seeing people in the street, I felt frightened. One car came down the street, cruising. . . very slow . . . men inside, looking at the houses – and I hid. It came back later and stopped. Three men – two of them were the men downstairs – started breaking in the houses opposite. I didn’t know what th
ey were looking for but they found Mrs Jones at number 15. A nice young woman. Her husband’s an architect for the council.’ Jean smiled an apology. ‘ Was an architect for the council. They took her away in the car. She didn’t want to go but what could she do?
What could I do? We just hid. We prayed.’
As Jean was close to tears again at the thought of what might have become of her neighbour, Sandra changed the subject: telling Jean about the safe haven they had in mind, where a group could start a new community, and that they had a motor home outside for the journey. The thought that a fresh beginning might be possible diverted Jean and cheered her up.
The way Sandra told it, everything was already in place for a new Eden. Reaper didn’t disillusion anyone.
Not yet.
He suggested that Jean might like to prepare a meal while he and Sandra checked the motor home. Jean was eager to be of assistance and to take charge of the still-functioning kitchen. Reaper took Sandra to the armoury and handed her a carbine.
‘I think you should learn how to use one of these, as well,’ he said, and he could tell she was pleased at his confidence in her. And yet it was not just confidence that motivated him. It was necessity. She had already proven to be a girl with gumption and, besides, he had no one else. He showed her the basics: how to load the magazine, how to hold the weapon. She was a quick learner. ‘It may feel a bit heavy at first but you’ll soon get used to the weight.’
‘What are we going to do with all this?’ she said, gesturing at the small arsenal that surrounded them.
‘Take it with us. Also, I want to collect all the Asps.’
She looked quizzical.
‘The batons. They can be deadly at close quarters.
It will mean breaking into the lockers.’
‘What do we do first?’
‘The lockers.’
He led the way to the locker rooms. The locks were not particularly strong and he used the blade of his British Army knife to force the first, feeling just a little like a grave robber. Sandra followed his example.
Personal possessions were on the top shelf. A photograph of a young couple was stuck in a crack in the metal: a good-looking young couple who leaned in close for the camera, their heads and hands touching.
‘Take the equipment belts,’ he said, gruffly.
The Asps were attached to the belts in leather holders, along with handcuffs, a CS Spray can, a torch, an unused pouch and a key holder for the cuffs. He stopped looking at the top shelves and photographs and instead took the belts and they dropped them in a pile on a table. They had 32 when he called time.
‘Jean will be getting worried,’ he said. ‘You go back upstairs and I’ll find something to carry these in.’
He found boxes of files in an office, dumped the files on the floor, filled two boxes with the belts and carried them to the back door. Also in the locker room was a metal battering ram, known as an Enforcer. He took that as well. Carrying the whole load took him two journeys. By the time he was done, it was early evening and the sun was low but still bright, the sky tinged with red. An artist’s sky. What did red sky at night mean? Sailor’s delight? Smooth waters for tomorrow’s adventure?
Reaper suddenly felt hungry. There was still much to do but he needed to eat, needed to be back with Sandra and Jean and the boy Ollie. These were now his people.
The smell greeted him at the canteen door.
‘I made a stew, baked some bread,’ said Jean.
‘It smells great!’
The food was from tins but she had made it taste delicious – that, or he was hungrier than he had realised.
Later, they moved to a chief inspector’s office that had a TV with a built-in DVD player. Sandra brought a handful of films from the van and Ollie chose Ice Age 3. Jean and the boy settled down on easy chairs to watch the movie while Reaper and Sandra went back to the armoury. They found more boxes and two holdalls, from which they tipped footballs and cricket gear and loaded up their arsenal and ammunition.
They packed it all into a rear storage area of the motor home, along with the boxes of belts and Asps. He took two Asps and torch holders from the belts and they fitted them on the holster belts they wore.
Reaper showed Sandra the beauty of the Asp. How to flick it open so that it extended to 22 inches of steel. ‘Aim for the arms, hands, knees. You’ll break bones. If you land a hit on the head, you’ll cause serious damage.’ He put the tip on the concrete floor, pushed down and retracted it.
They sorted out the supplies of food and water they had obtained that afternoon, putting it in cupboards and the refrigerator of the van.
‘Tonight, we’ll sleep in here,’ he said. ‘Jean and Ollie can have the bedroom.’
‘How long will it take to get there, tomorrow?’
Sandra asked, and he grinned.
‘We’ve not even started and you’re already asking if we’re there yet.’
She poked him in the ribs. ‘How long?’
‘A few hours. Straight up the M1 then onto the York road.’
‘Is that allowing for traffic jams?’
He smiled, but he had already considered them. Not slow moving traffic but possible barriers across the road.
That was why he had decided not to take the route through country lanes and villages to the motorway.
The roads were too small for emergency manoeuvres in this van. They would stick to major roads. He was already regretting choosing the motor home because it was such a target. A workaday Transit would have been better, but then there wouldn’t have been anywhere to put Jean and Ollie. He had to accept that every step into the future was a risk. What was one more?
The interior of the van was snug and provided a false sense of security with all the blinds in place. The bogeyman was locked out, so they must be safe. Jean and Ollie were pleased to have the bedroom and, despite the woman professing she had no mothering instinct, she was doing a pretty good job with the little boy.
They closed the door and Reaper nodded towards the bunk above the driving cabin.
‘That’s yours,’ he said. ‘I’ll take the bench.’
‘It looks very narrow.’
‘It pulls out.’ He pulled it out. ‘I’ll be fine on that.
But first, I’ll do a tour.
‘I’ll come with you.’
He was about to argue that someone should stay to protect the van but he thought it was fairly secure.
The gate and walls were high and had razor wire along the top and, so far, no one had come visiting. That would change when someone out there realised there might be guns in here. Hopefully, by then, they would be gone.
They put on the protective vests and picked up the carbines.
‘Jean!’ he called, softly, leaning close to the door.
‘Yes?’
‘We’re going to check the perimeter. We won’t be long. We may fire a couple of test shots, so don’t be worried when you hear them. We’ll be back soon.’
‘Okay.’
They left the motor home and checked the gates, looking through them into the street, still lit by the overhead lamps. Nothing moved. The other access points were all secure. They made the tour in silence and Reaper led her up a final staircase and onto the flat roof of the building. At its edge, they stared out over the city, still bright with neon, shop windows and street-lights. It was strange; overall it was so very, very quiet, and yet this served only to make individual sounds so much more clear and distinct: drunken voices and a strand of music hung among distant buildings.
Smoke from another fire rose lazily in the distant gloom.
Lights still shone with false hope on the hillsides beyond.
‘Time to try the carbine,’ he said. ‘It’s accurate up to 200 metres. We’ll try something nearer.’ They walked across the roof to the back of the building and looked over the side, down into a landscaped area of grass, flowerbeds and a few trees that was meant to make the frontage of the 1960s concrete magistrates court
look more attractive. It had failed a long time ago.
‘That tree,’ he said. It was about 50 metres away.
Sandra raised the gun to her shoulder.
‘In close combat you could fire from the hip or from the shoulder without the sights. Aim and point. But normally, you’ll use the laser sight. Hold the weapon into your shoulder.’ She did so. ‘Now try to make sure that the red dot fits the cross hair of the sight. Is it properly sighted?’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘They fit.’
‘Good.’ He thought they would. The carbine sights would have been aligned and ready to use. If any of the guns needed re-aligning, it was an easy enough job adjusting the mounting screws with an Allen key. ‘Now.
Hold it tight into the shoulder.’ He adjusted her stance.
‘Lower your weapon until the sight moves over the tree. If you were resting the gun on a ledge or a wall, you could hold the target in your sights, no problem.
But you’re taking a shot from a standing position. The gun will waver. Lower the sights onto the target. As it moves onto the tree, squeeze the trigger.’
She moved the red dot of the laser beam over the tree a couple of times for practice, then fired at the third pass. The bullet clipped the bark. ‘Good shot,’ he said. ‘Try a couple more.’
Sandra missed with her next shot, but hit the target squarely with the third.
He put his hand on her shoulder and she raised the weapon and slipped on the safety.
‘How did it feel?’
‘Comfortable,’ she said. ‘But then, I’m only aiming at a tree.’
It was a valid point. A handgun you pointed and fired, often in a taut situation like that they’d already experienced in the supermarket or the front office of the Police HQ. A carbine or rifle you had time to aim; time to look down the barrel at your target, at the human being you were about to kill. It took a different kind of nerve, of courage, of commitment.
