by Nick Oldham
His arms pumped like pistons.
When he was about ten feet away from Kaminski he pitched himself into a low dive so his left shoulder would connect just above the villain’s left hip whilst aiming to grab the shotgun at the moment of impact and keep his own head down and safe behind him, tucked into the small of Kaminski’s back, and take him down.
Yet at that very last moment, Kaminski must have registered the blur and bulk of Henry flying at him from the corner of his eye and that he was coming through the air at him. He half-twisted, the shotgun swinging around at hip level.
And then Henry’s mind’s eye picture of what should have happened in the ideal world got smashed to pieces.
As Kaminski turned, the two men were now almost directly facing each other.
Henry in mid-air, Kaminski three-quarters turned, his finger on the trigger.
Henry’s left shoulder connected at lower gut level. He was flying hard and anyone else would have been winded and possibly quite badly hurt, but Kaminski’s steroid-assisted physical regime had moulded his stomach muscles into ridges of rock.
He didn’t even overturn him.
Kaminski merely staggered backwards a few steps on his tree-trunk-thick legs, but fortunately the shotgun did jolt skywards as Henry, his whole body jarring, slammed onto his knees. A flash of memory recalled how hard it had been to overpower Kaminski after he had chased him from Sally Lee’s house on that morning which now seemed a million years ago. With that thought was the realization that he had only been successful then probably because he had stamina and Kaminski, despite his physical prowess, had easily run out of breath. He was built for brute strength, the ‘here and now’, not the long haul.
This troubled Henry.
In a fight in which Kaminski didn’t start off exhausted and was probably on stimulants, he had to be the favourite. He had immense muscle power, and whilst Henry wasn’t short of muscle and strength, his fitness was of a different type. He had more stamina and was rangy.
There would be no beating up the cock of the town that morning.
And because of the circumstances, for Henry this would be a fight for survival.
Kaminski wobbled back but kept his balance. And Henry, having failed to connect properly and keep a grip, hit the concrete with a thud, trying to get the gun at the same time. Kaminski kept the weapon out his reach, then twisted back, bringing the gun round as he did with the intention, Henry assumed, of blasting him at point-blank range.
Henry saw the gun arcing round and, thus motivated, scrambled like a runner starting a race on a muddy track and flung himself at Kaminski’s thick legs, keeping his head low and wrapping his arms around his shins like a lasso, tightening the hold and heaving backwards.
This time the big man lost his balance and toppled like he’d walked backwards into a coffee table and in so doing, the gun jumped skywards again and his finger jerked the trigger back, firing it with the sound of a metal tray being whacked on a table top.
He fell over, but as he did he tried to crash the barrel of the gun across the back of Henry’s head, catching it, but only with a glancing blow. It hurt, sending a shockwave through Henry’s skull, but he held on tightly, keeping his head tucked in and shouting, ‘Call the police,’ uselessly because his voice was muffled as his face was crushed into Kaminski’s tracksuit bottoms.
Kaminski writhed, desperate to free himself from Henry. He felt incredibly strong. Henry could feel the outline of his huge iron-hard calf muscles, and could not prevent Kaminski successfully extracting himself from his clutches.
There was another blow from the gun which Kaminski was now using like a baseball bat, hitting Henry’s back – but still he held on tight.
But with one huge surge of strength, he broke free and kicked Henry violently away, then he was up on his feet. But he didn’t run. He came at Henry with a snarl and kicked him hard in the side, twice, and tried to stamp on his head.
He was still holding the shotgun in his left hand as he did this, and his right hand delved into his parka pocket, fumbling for something. A shotgun cartridge.
Henry rolled away, his hands covering his head. Kaminski silently and remorselessly pursued him, kicking, whilst at the same time he flicked open the breech of the shotgun, ejecting the spent cartridge and slotting the new one in place, then slamming the gun shut.
As Henry reeled whilst being assaulted, he had a rushed, unfocused vision of other people in the shopping centre who were witnessing the incident. As usual in Rawtenstall, there were not many folk about.
Two old women, scarves on their heads, old-fashioned wicker shopping baskets in their hands, stood rooted to the spot, mouths agape.
A man turned and ran away.
Another man cowered. Henry heard a scream.
But that was all he saw as he rolled away and came to a stop on his back, looking up at the cloudy sky, feeling a spit of rain on his face. The beating was over. Kaminski towered into his vision, blocking out the sky, standing over him with his legs apart. The shotgun, reloaded, was pointed at Henry’s upper chest. There was a wild, breathless expression on the man’s face as he slowly aimed the gun at Henry’s heart and looked down the shortened barrel at him.
The young cop braced himself and held his breath.
Kaminski smiled grimly. ‘I knew I would kill you,’ he said, his face squashed and contorted underneath the stocking mask.
Henry saw the finger on the trigger, the single barrel and the rough hacksaw marks across the muzzle.
Then the sound of the shot, then a second one.
Suddenly Kaminski’s right shoulder jolted forward, then his left shoulder exploded in a splatter of blood. Henry saw a look of total surprise on Kaminski’s face as he slumped down onto his knees and dropped forwards across Henry like a log, smashing his face into the concrete, the shotgun skittering out of his grip across the ground. Henry scrambled from underneath him and snatched up the gun as he came up onto one knee, holding the weapon out, away from himself like he’d caught an angry cobra.
He watched as the two firearms officers in the combat position, their weapons – four-inch-barrelled Smith & Wesson Model 10 revolvers – pointed at Kaminski, came towards him.
One said to Henry, without taking his eyes off Kaminski, ‘You OK?’
He nodded.
With their guns unwaveringly aimed at him, the officers circled the prostrate Kaminski, who was writhing and screaming deafeningly in pain from the bullet wounds, one in either shoulder, blood pumping from each entry, drenching the parka to a dirty shade of black.
Henry stood up shakily and watched, breathing deep, trying to bring himself back down from where he was and wondering where the hell the firearms officers had suddenly appeared from.
Moments later the shopping precinct seemed to be filled with cops under the control of a uniformed inspector. The shotgun was prised from Henry’s grip by that officer who said, ‘I think I’ll have that, son.’
Henry stepped back, observing it all in a haze of slow motion and unreality.
He was brought back to thumping reality by the appearance of FB standing in front of him, a look of accusation on his face.
The DI snorted, ‘You ever heard of a police radio? A call for assistance? Anything like that?’
‘No,’ Henry retorted.
FB shook his head. ‘Bloody good job these two firearms officers were in the building society, isn’t it? Otherwise, you’d be a dead ’un.’
‘That’s where they came from,’ Henry said. He’d been wondering.
‘Yeah. At my behest, they’d been checking up to see if everything was all OK.’
‘I didn’t know that, did I?’
FB continued to shake his head. In the distance was the sound of ambulance sirens. Police cars pulled up on Bank Street, blue lights flashing.
‘Are you all right?’ FB asked. It was his first – and only – but genuine show of concern.
‘I’m great,’ Henry said dully, feeling his skull.
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A crowd had gathered and were being eased backwards by the police. Henry shouldered his way through the onlookers and glanced up to see Kate running towards him.
Henry handed his written statement over to the DI.
‘My version of events,’ he said.
It was six o’clock. At last the police station was reasonably quiet, but FB’s normally pristine desktop was awash with paperwork and the man himself looked stressed and harassed. He snatched Henry’s statement and dropped it wearily into a tray.
‘How’s it all going?’ Henry asked.
‘Ugh, manic, a nightmare,’ FB moaned.
‘Any more progress?’
‘Well’ he said placing down his fountain pen, ‘Kaminski’s in hospital not in any real danger, the Police Complaints Authority are curious as to why a firearms officer shot a man twice in the back … the chief constable’s crawling all over this like a … dunno, just crawling …’
‘I was thinking more about admissions and the like.’
FB sat back now and steeped his chubby fingers. ‘Constantine has admitted shooting Jo …’ A surge of blessed relief coursed through Henry at this, and he suddenly went weak, though did not show this to FB, other than to bunch his right hand into a fist and punch low. ‘He’s also admitted firing at you in your car when you were chasing the gang, but insists they were warning shots, not intended to injure. He’s also admitted head-butting and kneeing you in the balls in Manchester … He’s a pussy cat, actually. Can’t stop blabbing.’
‘Brilliant … What about John Longridge?’
‘Nothing from him yet, but he was found in possession of a mask, dark clothing, a shotgun, a street map of Rawtenstall,’ FB shrugged. ‘So he’s nailed to the wall … He does seem to have a bit of a downer on me for some unaccountable reason.’ He smiled knowingly. ‘He was also in possession of several passports, one for him, and one each for the Kaminskis – all forged, incidentally. Looks like they were all going to skip the country after the robbery, as Bowman said. Anyway,’ FB stretched, ‘he’s goosed and we’ve got two other gang members locked up elsewhere. They were definitely going to hit the building society, so good result all round.’ He checked his watch. ‘Vladimir is being operated on as we speak and I’m certain we can prove he killed Sally.’
‘Mm …’ Henry had been going to ask a question about Jack Bowman, but suddenly he didn’t care about him one way or another, and instead he could not stop himself from saying, ‘Sally didn’t have to die, you know? We could have prevented it.’
FB stifled a yawn. Henry couldn’t say if it was genuine or out of boredom. ‘So you say, but I think you’re wrong. She would have backed out of court proceedings against Vlad sooner or later and they would’ve got back together … they just would. And he would have killed her eventually … Sometimes you can’t help people like her, Henry.’
FB shrugged, a gesture that Henry found incredibly uncaring. If his head hadn’t hurt so much he would have dragged FB across his paper-strewn desk and smashed his face to a pulp. Instead, he simply said, ‘But at least you can try.’
With that he spun on his heels and left.
Henry knocked for the fourth time before he heard movement behind the door.
‘Who is it?’ the shrill old voice called.
Henry bent to the letterbox. ‘Mrs Fudge, it’s me, PC Christie … I came to your break-in a couple of days back, remember?’
Silence. Then he heard the door being unlocked. The door opened on the security chain and the old lady’s face appeared at the crack.
‘Where’s your uniform?’ she demanded.
‘I’m off duty … I just called round … got something for you.’
The one eye he could see squinted slightly as it looked at him, then the door closed and the chain slid back and the door opened again.
‘What?’ she asked.
‘Could I come in?’
‘I’m havin’ me tea.’
‘Won’t take long, honest.’
‘All right, then.’ She turned slowly and went back down the hallway and into the front room and lowered herself into an armchair. Henry followed her.
‘How are you doing?’ he asked.
‘I’m all right …’
‘Good. Erm … got you this,’ he said. ‘I managed to recover the picture frame you had stolen.’ He held up a slim, wrapped parcel, A4 size. ‘Unfortunately the photograph in it had been ripped up.’
‘Oh no,’ she said sadly.
‘But I managed to find all the pieces and I took it to a photography shop in town and asked the man there if he could do anything with it, you know, try and restore it? Anyway – this is the result.’
He handed her the package which she took gingerly, a very puzzled expression on her face.
‘Go on, open it,’ he encouraged her.
Her bony old fingers slowly tore off the brown wrapping paper, revealing the contents, the silver frame and the reconstituted photograph in it – the wedding photograph. The woman’s eyes looked at the picture and started to moisten.
‘I know it’s not as good as it was,’ Henry began to say apologetically.
‘No … no, it’s not … it’s better, this is wonderful,’ she said. ‘I don’t know what to say … My God … I never thought I would see this again, ever. How, how much do I owe you?’
‘Not a penny,’ Henry said.
‘Thank you, officer, this means everything to me.’ She looked him in the eye and Henry could see that the words came right from her heart.
Henry Christie was not renowned for his sartorial elegance. He was more a jeans and T-shirt kind of guy. Having to wear a uniform every day for work made him tie-and-smartness averse when off duty.
However, that evening he had been instructed, if not ordered, to make an effort to make himself presentable. This directive had come from Kate and just showed exactly how much she was pretty much taking over his life both emotionally and practically and he seemed unable to resist this march of the inevitable. Thing was, much to his chagrin, he was coming to love it.
Henry had once tried to read a Lawrence Durrell novel called Justine. He’d convinced himself to read it after having read My Family and Other Animals by Gerald Durrell, Lawrence’s younger brother, thinking it would be much the same sort of thing. It wasn’t anything of the sort and he had found it quite hard going, especially for someone like him who feasted mainly on fast action thrillers. He persevered and got through it, disappointed by the lack of creatures, but one small section of it really resonated with him. Near the beginning, the main character described how his life had been before meeting a woman who became his lover.
The character said that although he wasn’t unhappy as such, bachelorhood had sickened him because of his domestic inadequacy, his hopelessness over clothes, food and money and the cockroach-haunted rooms in which he lived.
When Henry read that bit, he exclaimed, ‘That’s me!’
Although by no means unhappy, nor poor or ill-fed, he was starting to find his single-man existence a little tedious and vacuous, though he maybe hadn’t realized it until he met Kate and his relationship with her had altered his outlook on life.
It wasn’t an overnight Hallelujah, a blinding-flash insight, more a gradual simmer of a soup to which ingredients kept being added whilst others were fished out and disposed of.
Quitting the life wasn’t easy, but even at the ripe old age of twenty-three, he wasn’t far from becoming an old swinger about town, though not in the wife-swapping sense, more in the Frank Sinatra way. Some of the people who he joined the cops with were now married, were taking their sergeant’s exams, buying houses, having kids even and sex once a week. What did seal his resolve to change his ways was, yes, that gradual build-up of his feelings for Kate, his occasional musings about what it might be like to settle down with her, but the final thing that did it took place in the moments after he had tackled Vladimir Kaminski in Rawtenstall town centre.
He had faced death, and th
at was certain. The image of the muzzle of Kaminski’s shotgun would remain with him for many a night to come.
If Vladimir had managed to pull the trigger, Henry knew he would have died there and then. His heart would have been blown out and death would have been very quick indeed.
But Kaminski had been taken down by a firearms officer, who Henry had thanked for saving his life by doing something and making a tough decision that would lead to a few difficult months ahead for the guy in terms of the scrutiny he would have to endure – and Henry had lived, when he could easily have been dead.
Then he had seen Kate running towards him. She had forced her way through the gawping onlookers and rushed to him – and he experienced something amazing.
His mouth went dry. His heart hammered. His guts flipped, not just because of what had taken place. It was the realization that when it came to dying, when it happened, when he was teetering on the precipice, he wanted it to be in Kate’s arms.
The moment stunned him.
He had refused hospital treatment even after one of the ambulance men recommended that he should go, just to be on the safe side. Sure, his head hurt, but he’d whacked it harder on his car boot and survived, and was sure he would this time, too. He promised that if he felt sick or dizzy he would get to casualty.
Kaminski had been stretchered into the back of the ambulance and two uniformed officers climbed in with him and the ambulance had sped off, leaving nothing to look at but bloodstains on the ground and a few cops sealing off the scene, so people drifted away quite quickly. Despite FB insisting that Henry should get to the station ‘this instant’ and write his witness statement, Henry shook his throbbing head and said, ‘A bit later.’
The expression on his face made FB back off.
Henry and Kate then walked arm in arm to the insurance brokers where she took him into the staff room at the back of the shop and made a mug of tea for each of them which they drank sat at the table and Henry poured out his heart for the first time in his life …
The result being that he was now dressed in khaki chinos, brown brogues and a red-check short-sleeve shirt, pulling up outside Kate’s house in Helmshore and climbing out with two bouquets of flowers in his arms. Kate, who had been waiting nervously at the front window, hurried out to meet him, giving him the once-over with a critical eye.
