Town of Fire

by Rebecca Fernfield

  “Grab the ankles,” he barks.

  A trickle of urine puddles near his boot and wets his hand.

  “Lift.”

  The car screeches to a stop and doors slam open.

  “Hey!”

  “And over.”

  Ten legs are lifted in unison and five men are somersaulted over the bars. They jolt and buck in a macabre dance of death as the ropes tighten with their weight. Mad Dog had expected more noise, but they dangle soundless below the bridge, suspended in mid-air, bucking like maggots hooked on a fishing line.

  Two figures run towards him, their heavy footsteps creating a sharp echo as the noise rebounds on the massive concrete pillars that hold the suspension bridge.

  “Too late,” he shouts up to the man and woman leaning over the barrier. First the woman and then the man vault over and run down the side to the walkway. “You missed the party.”

  “What the hell have you done?”

  Mad Dog recognises this one as the ex-soldier they’ve nicknamed Thor. “Delivered justice.”

  Mad Dog expects an argument but the soldier remains silent and the woman peers over the edge of the railings.

  “You’re not going to try to stop it?”

  “Stop what?” the man asks and Mad Dog smiles.

  Chapter 16

  “It’s not a pretty sight, Sam. Perhaps the ladies should wait back here.”

  The heavy door leading through to the corridor of cells opens a fraction as Baz pulls at it. He waits for Sam’s reply. “How bad?”

  “Bad.”

  “You may want to wait here, Martha.” Sam fingers the length of iron he’d picked up from his office before venturing to the cells.

  “I’m not squeamish, Sam.”

  “It’s bad, Martha,” Baz reiterates above the shouts from the one cell that still holds prisoners. “Real bad.”

  “I’ve seen stuff—on the telly. I watch NCIS. Nothing will shock me. Come on, get on with it.”

  The door widens to allow them through.

  The first thing that hits Sam is the smell. The fug of male sweat and fear that had filled the corridor on his last visit has been replaced with a stench that wraps itself over his lips and crawls up his nose. He holds down the urge to gag.

  “Watch where you step. The floor’s a mess.”

  “It’s covered in blood!”

  The small tiles, worn over the decades, are covered with bloody boot prints and smears.

  “Stay back there, Martha.”

  “But-”

  “No. Just stop back there.”

  Stepping into the corridor, the door of the empty cell is wide open. Tell-tale black scuff marks litter the back of the door to waist level.

  “Looks like they tried kicking their way out.”

  “No chance with these doors—they’re four inches thick and the hinges are solid iron—none of this cheap imported Chinese crap.”

  Sam grunts as he scans the space. The walls, once institution green, have been over-painted with cream, the same paint that covers each wall throughout the building. In here though, unlike the clean surfaces of the other rooms, a new pattern has sprayed across the walls—the iconic red spatter of a murder scene.

  “Did they execute them here?”

  “Only this one.” Baz shines torchlight into the corner, illuminating a slumped figure, leaning at a skewed angle against the wall. Sam grimaces. The top of the body is squared off presenting a horizontal plane of broad shoulders.

  “Where’s the head?”

  Light shifts to the torso and dead eyes stare out into the hallway from the severed head.

  Martha lets out a small groan of disgust and undisguised fascination. “It’s staring at me,” she whispers. “Can’t you close its eyes?”

  “Not me,” Baz replies. “I’m not touching it.

  Noise rumbles behind the closed door of the other cell and Sam slides the peephole door across. The waft of body odour, faeces and urine stings his nose and the shouting rises to a cacophony as the six men still trapped there realise he’s looking in.

  “You let us out.”

  “Human rights! Is against human rights.”

  “Guantanamo! You are Guantanamo!”

  “Shut up, Khalil.”

  “English pig bastards.” A man pushes off from the wall and steps towards the door, his face distorted with hate.

  “Shut up, Khalil.” An arm darts out, pushing the man back and a shadow falls across the peephole. A pair of eyes meets Sam’s. “Sorry, we sorry. You let us out. This is not human. The man, he come back. He slaughter us like animals.” The man gestures to the body.

  “Human rights. We have human rights.”

  “Sorry, please, but what happened to our brothers?”

  “Kill the English.”

  The man at the peephole twists and smashes his fist into Khalil’s jaw and he slumps to the floor. “Sorry, please. We will not cause trouble. Please, you tell us what happened to our friends.”

  Sam locks eyes with the man. “What friends?” He slides the peephole closed.

  The pushchair rumbles along the pathway as Monica strides towards the Police Station. Tears streak her face. She wipes them with a sleeve as she reaches the crowd of shouting men and women gathered outside. The noise wakes the boy and he whimpers.

  “It’s alright, baby,” she soothes. She puts on the brake and crouches beside him. At four years old he’s too big to be wheeled about but she had been in a hurry and there was no way he could have kept up. The crowd of men and women is thick. If she pushes forward Heath could get hurt. She unclips the safety harness, hugs him to her hip, then wheels the pushchair forward again. “Just hold on, Heath. Hold tight to Mummy.”

  A man jumps onto the low wall and holds onto the railings as she pushes her way through the people blocking her path to the gate. He shouts across the crowd. “Sam has brought terror into our town.” Councillor Colin Haydock. Monica groans. His arrogance had mushroomed since he’d been elected—it had been bad enough when he taught history at the local comprehensive.

  “He helped keep them out.” A woman’s voice retaliates. “He helped capture them.” Sheila Baines!

  A thick arm knocks against her as a man cups a hand round his mouth. “Hang the bastards!”

  Heath grips her tight, pulling at her hair. She wheels the pushchair forward, using it as a shield, knocking against boots and shoes. “Excuse me! Excuse me!”

  People step out of the way and she inches closer to the gates. A tear slides down her face as Heath buries his head beneath her hair.

  Sidney had raged about Sam all last night furious that he hadn’t been allowed to finish the terrorist in the wheelbarrow off. But Sam had been right. There would be consequences if the authorities found out once everything was back to normal, but discovering that Sam had put meat aside for the terrorists when there were bairns going hungry had tipped Sidney over the edge. Nothing she’d said could dissuade him. They’d argued. He was going to help protect his family the best way he knew—by making sure the men imprisoned at the Police Station were no longer a threat. He didn’t care, he said, if they locked him up, no terrorist was going to harm his wife and child. She’d smiled then – his wife! - and loved him just a little more, but when he turned to leave with the men following Jack ‘Mad Dog’ Docherty, fear had hit her like a thump to the belly.

  “Excuse me!”

  The crowd parts, letting her through to the gate. It’s locked. Tears spill onto her cheeks.

  She’d followed Sidney out of the park then made her way home on trembling legs but the anxiety had become too much and now there was only one person she could confide in, only one person who would make her feel alright, and that was her mum.

  Peering through the slatted blind, Martha stares at the crowd. “They’re baying like a pack of animals,” she says with disgust. “That Colin’s got some bloody nerve.”

  “I’ll make some tea, shall I?” Baz asks.

  Sam slumps in the
chair. The day had started off badly and was only getting worse. He laughs. That is an understatement—the day had been catastrophic. “Baying for my blood?”

  “Haydock’s stirring them up.”

  “Monica!” Martha knocks on the window. “It’s Monica and Heath. Unlock the door, Sam.” She grabs the keys from the table without waiting for his response and disappears to the front door.

  “Her daughter?”

  Sam grunts the affirmative.

  “You should go out and talk to them, Sam.”

  “Martha’s bringing them in.”

  “No! Haydock and that lot out there. Put their minds at rest.”

  “That there’s only six of the murdering bastards left, and Mad Dog could come back at any time and take the others?”

  “Well-”

  Sam stares at Baz. Is that what everyone wanted—to take the terrorists out and execute them? “If he comes back, we’re not letting him in.”

  Baz is silent. Sam stands up and strides to the window and watches as Martha instructs Baz to open the gate. His authority, his control over the situation was slipping—perhaps it was even gone—perhaps he never had it in the first place. The men he’d assigned to guard the terrorists had just turned a blind eye when Mad Dog arrived. No one had admitted that, they’d pleaded they’d been overwhelmed by his gang. They must think Sam was born yesterday to believe that bullshit! They were ex-army, trained in combat. Each man had seen action. No, they were just unwilling to stop him—perhaps agreed with Mad Dog. The knives in Sam’s belly stab at his innards. When normality returned – and it would – they’d all be up in court.

  Martha reappears, her arms around the shoulders of a tear-stained woman with matching bleached-blonde hair hugging a young child to her hips. Sam recognises them from photographs displayed on the mantle above the fireplace in Martha’s flat at the pub.

  “Sam.” Martha’s face beams with pride as she holds a protective arm across her daughter’s shoulder and strokes at the boy’s hair. “This is Monica and Heath.”

  Shitter Fairweather’s kid. He could see the resemblance. “Hi.” Damn! Think of something! He’d been nervous about finally meeting Martha’s daughter and grandchild, but he hadn’t expected it to be in these circumstances; caught off guard and up to his balls in crisis. Now his brain just wouldn’t function. Martha’s face crumples. Hell!

  “Please.” He jumps out of the chair. “Take a seat,” he offers. The woman looks to her mother, unsure.

  “Sit down, love.” Martha smiles at Sam and ushers her daughter to the chair. The child clings to its mother, his head buried against her neck. Poor little sod must be terrified.

  Hazzer stands transfixed.

  Stop staring! “Martha’s daughter and grandchild,” Sam says as Hazzer continues to stare.

  “Monica and Heath,” Martha explains.

  Sam nudges Hazzer. “I know,” he replies startled. “Shi-. Fairweather’s bairn.”

  “That’s right,” Martha’s voice carries a defensive edge.

  “Cup of tea?” Sam offers filling the awkward gap.

  Monica looks relieved. “You’ve got hot water?”

  Martha’s smile has returned. “We borrowed one of Trev’s camping stoves.”

  “Does the lad want a biscuit?” Baz offers the packet to Heath. The boy peeps out from under his mother’s hair and takes a biscuit from the packet. “There you go.” Baz side-steps closer to Sam. “Do you think they should be here, Sam?” He turns his head away from the women. “ I mean, the kid … it’s not really the place …”

  “Well …”

  “I’ve come to see my mum.” Monica’s voice cracks and her eyes moisten with tears.

  Martha’s arm returns around her daughter’s shoulder. “It’s alright. You’re with me now. Nanny’s here for Heath.” she croons then lowers her voice and turns to face her daughter, her back turned to Sam. “What’s up, love? Is it that …” Martha glances at Sam and asks just above a whisper. “Is it Sidney?”

  “Yes, but not that way. We’ve been good—things have been good.”

  “Then what is it?”

  Her voice wavers and tears spill over her lashes. “He’s gone to join Mad Dog. I told him not to, but he wouldn’t listen.”

  “Joined Mad Dog?”

  Sam groans.

  Thud!

  “What the hell was that?”

  A window shatters. Martha screams. Heath begins to cry.

  “Get away from the windows,” Sam commands.

  The window broken, the noise of chanting fills the room. “Get them out! Get them out!”

  “I don’t think they’re very happy about the prisoners,” Baz says.

  Sam groans. “That’s an understatement.”

  Monica turns to her mother. “I heard Haydock kicking off about Sam.”

  “Someone needs to teach that man a lesson.”

  “Sheila was out there giving him what for.”

  “He always was a self-interested little twat. He couldn’t organise a piss-up in a brewery.”

  “Well, twat or not, he’s stirring up trouble.”

  Deflated, Sam slumps back in the chair. “Let him take over.”

  “What?” Martha’s shout startles Heath and he buries his head against his mother’s neck. “Sorry!” Martha strokes his head. “No. You can’t do that, Sam.”

  “Why not, Martha? Perhaps it’s me that can’t organise a piss-up in a brewery. Look what’s happened under my watch—the park set on fire with thousands of people in it and then half the prisoners taken out and slaughtered. I’ve had enough. I really think I’ve had enough.”

  “Sam, if it wasn’t for you this town would have been overrun with terrorists and people murdered in their sleep. What happened today wasn’t your fault. Everything was going well until that group got lairy.”

  “Yes, and what were they getting lairy about, Martha?”

  “Well-”

  “I’ll tell you what: because of the prisoners here; because I’ve brought them here; because I thought it was the right thing to do.”

  “It was.”

  “Bill told me it was a mistake.”

  “You tried to do the right thing.”

  “Perhaps I should have finished them off on the bridge.”

  “There’s laws about stuff like that. You were just doing what’s right.”

  Sam slumps further into the soft leather of the manager’s chair.

  The front door slams and in the next seconds Bill strides into the office followed by Jessie. Suddenly ashamed of the despair that had overcome him, Sam strides to greet them.

  “Did you get there in time?”

  “In time to see them swing.”

  “Oh.”

  “You didn’t try to stop him?”

  “It was too late and I’m not in the mood to defend terrorists’ human rights.”

  “Too bloody right.” Jessie appears at his shoulder.

  “Looks like you’ve got more pressing problems.” Bill gestures to the broken window. “Colin Haydock’s doing a number on you and the crowd is baying for blood.”

  “Perhaps we should … execute the prisoners?”

  Sam groans.

  “We should at least go out and talk to Haydock. Calm the crowd.”

  “How do you suggest we do that.”

  “Reassure them that everything is under control.”

  “Hah! Jesus, Bill. We’ve got armed groups running amok inside the town executing prisoners left, right and centre. It’s hardly under control.”

  “Sam.” Bill takes a step closer. “If you don’t reassure that crowd and get Haydock on side, then there will be riots here tonight and this Police Station will be the first place they try to break into.”

  Sam nods. “I shouldn’t have brought them back into the town.”

  “True, but it was a tough call—I know that. They’re here now so this is the situation we have to deal with.”

  “And Mad Dog?”

&nbs
p; “That’s also a situation we have to deal with.”

  As Bill goes over their best course of action, the sun is lowering in the sky, casting shadows on the buildings and the shuttered shop windows. The ache of exhaustion waves over Sam.

  “… and we should impose a curfew.” Bill takes hold of Sam’s arm. “Let’s talk to Haydock and get these noisy buggers to go home.

  Chapter 17

  Jay watches Basim as he pushes his thumbnail into his noise, scrapes at the inside then transfers the mess under his nails into his mouth. His eyes dart to the wall opposite as Basim catches him watching. The man says nothing, but scowls and scratches at his beard.

  Jay leans back against the wall and closes his eyes. The smell of shit and piss fills his nostrils with each breath and the stench of unwashed and sweating bodies clings to his throat in the hot cell. How the hell had he ended up here? What the hell was he doing? At this moment he is sure that he must have lost his mind. Khaled, he was certain, was insane.

  “Karim!”

  Hassan’s gurgling scream as the chainsaw had begun to cut through his throat would live in his mind forever. His innards twist at the memory, and his sphincter contracts. A tear wells in his eye. The only person in the world he wanted right now was his dad.

  “Karim!”

  ‘You haven’t joined a religion,’ his father had shouted when he’d picked him up from the gates of HMP Olney on that cold February morning. ‘You’ve joined another criminal gang.” His dad had been right. He’d just traded one vicious gang of thugs for another, but in Olney you were either with them or against them, and they ruled the place so he had joined them. He hadn’t signed up for this shit though. After his release he’d promised to go on the straight and narrow, be a good boy for his Mum – a pain rips at his heart as her face rises in his memory - but they, the ‘brotherhood’, had different ideas. He’d converted or ‘reverted’ as they put it, and that meant he was one of them. If he wasn’t one of them, then he was as good as dead—for real. So, he’d gone along to their meetings, gone along with their ideas, digging himself deeper and deeper into their shit, until he was so deep it was up to his balls and he couldn’t see a way out.