by Nick Oldham
Freddy yanked the nurse’s head even further back, causing her to gasp in terror. His face angled forebodingly at Henry, his lips in a snarl.
‘I’ll fucking kill her.’ His eyes were ablaze.
‘No, Freddy, no,’ Henry gasped, his hands patting down fresh air, a keep calm gesture. ‘What’s going on? What is this for? Talk to me.’
Freddy blinked as though some sort of normality had come to his brain cells. As if he was seriously considering Henry’s request.
Henry weighed up the gap. Maybe eight metres, diagonally to the left, across four rows of chairs screwed to the floor. He wondered if he could leap across these and if he did, if he could do it in time to stop Freddy hurting the girl. His answer: no.
‘Freddy, can we talk?’ he asked warily.
‘Who the fuck are you?’
‘I’m a police officer, Freddy. I won’t lie to you. I’m a cop.’
Freddy squinted as though he was thinking hard. Still he held the girl rigid in his grip, the knife blade resting across her throat. It would take only minimum pressure and a millisecond to slice her open, or to dig it in behind her windpipe, sever the jugular. He could do that before Henry even moved an inch.
‘What’s your name?’
‘Henry Christie.’
Freddy blinked. Henry was pretty sure there was no recognition there, no recall of the name or of having squeezed Henry’s windpipe. He guessed that Freddy would have squeezed too many windpipes over the years to recall each individual one.
Freddy levelled his gaze at Henry, his eyelids hooded, snake-like.
‘Henry Christie, you say?’
‘That’s right. We know each other.’
‘No we don’t.’
‘OK. . but what is this about, Freddy? Can we talk?’
‘I’ve been kidnapped,’ he said simply.
‘I know. . we need to talk about that. . but we can’t do that while you’re holding a nurse hostage, can we? She hasn’t done anything wrong.’
Freddy’s forehead creased in confusion. ‘A nurse? No, she’s not a nurse. . she’s one of the kidnappers.’
‘No she isn’t. She’s a real nurse and she’s here to help you.’
Freddy yanked her head back again, causing the girl to moan. He jammed the knife-point into the skin of her throat again. ‘Don’t you fuckin’ try anything, bitch,’ he said into the side of her face. He pressed the tip into her skin, but not deep enough or hard enough to draw blood. Yet. ‘Now then, we’re going to walk out of this place, you got me? Then we’re gonna find a car and I’m going to escape.’ He stood up and dragged her to her feet by her hair, as easily as lifting a doll. She was petite in stature, slim, hardly any weight to her. Next to Freddy she was a feather.
‘Freddy, Freddy,’ Henry cooed, still utilizing the patting-down gesture. ‘You’re not kidnapped any more. You’re in hospital. You’re free. This lady is a nurse who is helping you.’
‘And if you come anywhere near me,’ Freddy warned Henry, ‘I’ll just fucking stab her.’ He made a jabbing motion with the knife.
He dragged her sideways away from the chairs. She screamed, her body seemed to implode, losing all control, and she fainted. She slumped against Freddy, catching him off guard, but then he heaved her upright again and with a roar of rage, drew the knife right back.
Henry was certain now that he was going to plunge it into her. He had no delusions about the speed he could reach, knowing that by the time he got across the room, it would have connected, would have been rammed home, but there was no way he could just stand there and let it happen.
He launched himself. Like a middle-aged version of an Olympic hurdler, he vaulted over the lines of chairs and bellowed loudly, hoping to distract Freddy, to make him look away from the nurse just for a second or two and give Henry enough time to get there.
The nurse, unintentionally, played her part.
Almost instantly recovering from her faint, her eyes almost popping out of her head when she saw the knife being drawn back, her automatic reflex was to cower away and bring her arms up in a defensive gesture. In the same movement she accidentally elbowed Freddy under the chin.
By which time Henry was almost there.
He leapt on to the back of a chair and propelled himself into Freddy’s bulk, keeping his head tucked in, his shoulder connecting with the centre of Freddy’s guts. He powered into him and drove him back against a vending machine which rocked dangerously, the impact triggering its internal alarm, setting off an ear-piercing shriek that filled the waiting room. The force of the collision made Freddy release the nurse, though he took a handful of her hair with him, torn from the poor girl’s head. She screamed and spun away.
Henry continued to power into Freddy, his senses continually aware of the knife, trying to keep it in vision or at least be spatially aware of where it was, whilst trying to pin Freddy down somehow. The men bounced off the vending machine, then slammed against the wall like two wrestlers.
Suddenly, up close, Henry realized what a well-built man Freddy was. He’d been strong and stocky as a lad, but the years had filled him out with muscle and real strength.
Henry saw the knife rise in the periphery of his vision as the duo rolled across and over a row of seats. He went for the arm and caught it between his hands as it arced towards him. Henry then wrenched Freddy’s wrist and smacked the knife down onto the floor as they crashed onto the tiles.
But then Freddy’s left arm encircled Henry’s neck and drew him up tight as Henry writhed and corkscrewed, still holding the knife-bearing hand, feeling Freddy’s hot, rancid breath against his face. Then Freddy inserted two fingers into Henry’s eye socket.
Henry squirmed for room. It felt like those thick, sausage fingers were going to pop out his left eye and probe up into his brain, giving him a free lobotomy.
With strength Henry didn’t know he had, he spun round and found space for his right hand to shoot up between them, the heel of his hand connecting with Freddy’s lower jaw like a jackhammer. Henry heard the hollow click as Freddy’s teeth snapped shut and his head jerked back. Henry dropped into a sideways roll and came up onto his feet, his breath rasping, and in a parallel world of thought he wondered what had happened to Christmas Day. Pear shaped? Banana shaped? Shit shaped? Tits up!
Freddy didn’t give him time for much cogitation, but went for him straight away, diving for his legs. He moved faster than Henry, driven by inner demons.
Henry went over again and Freddy clambered over him, and for the second time in his life, Henry found himself being strangled by the same individual.
But this time it wasn’t the kid version, although that had been pretty bad. Now the bulk of years and experience and weight and sheer madness were thrown into the mix that was Freddy Cromer. A whole lifetime of mental instability and paranoia were focused on the thumb pads that started to press into Henry’s Adam’s apple, which constricted under the pressure. His vision blurred, seeing Freddy’s features start to become hazy, like looking into a fog.
Then the pressure was released as Freddy seemed to leap sideways off him.
Oxygen and blood, cut off in both directions, started to flow and Henry rolled away, clutching his neck, coughing and gasping.
He clambered up to his knees and saw Freddy was lying on his back, holding his head and groaning, and that Janine Cromer was standing over him like some female Colossus, having given Freddy a flying kick in the side of his head to dislodge him, similar to the one delivered by FB years before.
Henry got unsteadily to his feet to see Janine glaring scornfully at him.
‘I take it you haven’t been on a hostage negotiator’s course?’
‘I have — actually,’ he spluttered. ‘You’re supposed to build up a rapport. But there wasn’t a lot of time for that, was there?’ Henry had to raise his voice because the alarm in the vending machine was still sounding.
Freddy sat up, holding his head miserably between his hands and looking up at Janine l
ike a thrashed puppy.
Henry sneered and pulled his rigid handcuffs out from his waistband at the small of his back. He stepped behind Freddy, forced him face down onto the floor and, without any resistance, cuffed his wrists behind him, using the stacking method — the only way rigid cuffs could be used behind a suspect, one hand higher than the other.
Freddy lay there compliantly, his cheek pressed flat on to the floor, making a strange humming noise.
Henry breathed heavily, hands on hips, and regarded Janine, his chest rising and falling, his heart pounding a little too erratically for comfort and a dithery feeling enveloping him.
Janine’s scornful look turned into a grin. ‘You getting past it?’
‘Definitely.’ With a surge of rage, Henry turned and kicked the vending machine, and suddenly the alarm stopped, leaving an echoing, ringing sound in the room. ‘Thank God for that,’ he said. He made his way to the nurse who was still cowering in a corner, squatting down almost in a foetal shape with her head between her knees and both hands clasped over her head. ‘It’s OK,’ he said gently, lowering himself alongside her and placing a hand between her shoulder blades. Her whole body trembled underneath his touch. ‘It’s OK, it’s over.’
She looked at him through her fingers.
‘It’s OK,’ he said again, not sure whether she believed him. He was about to say more, reassuring, banal words, when he heard something not too far away that he recognized instantly.
Two dull thuds — thck-thck.
Gunshots.
The door to the waiting room clattered open, and a worried-looking porter crashed through and gasped, ‘Men with guns. In the corridor. Shooting each other.’
Henry cursed.
Another shot was fired.
There was a slight pause, followed by the sound of bullets being discharged by an automatic weapon, a short burst. Then a scream.
A nurse, another porter and the Asian doctor ran into the waiting room, closely followed by another porter clutching his shoulder as blood blossomed under his hand. He fell to his knees, his face white and horrified with disbelief, staring at the blood. He swooned. His eyeballs spun and he fainted, crashing face first into the hard floor and splitting his forehead open.
Henry watched all this unfold in a matter of seconds.
Then he heard another shot being fired. He dashed to the door, peering out through the porthole, flattening the side of his face to the glass in an attempt to see down the corridor outside. It was impossible, because the door was set into the wall. restricting his view.
‘Two guys walking towards us,’ one of the porters explained over Henry’s shoulder. ‘Then there’s two more guys behind them. One shouts, the first guys spin round, then all hell shits itself. Bullets everywhere.’
Henry nodded and glanced at Janine, then at Freddy — who was still humming tunelessly to himself. He caught Janine’s eye, and could tell that she too knew this was no coincidence. But also, from the look on her face, he could see she was bewildered by the turn of events.
‘Where are they now?’ he asked the porter.
‘They all legged it in the direction of A amp;E. . which is where Derek needs to be. . one of the bastards shot him.’ He pointed at his wounded colleague.
Henry scooped up his PR from the floor and cautiously eased a gap in the swing door, one centimetre at a time, edging himself out without completely exposing himself to the possibility of taking a bullet. He might have been wearing a stab vest, but it didn’t stop slugs.
The corridor was empty. The two trolleys used by the porters to block it off were still there, abandoned.
He called up Blackburn comms and succinctly brought them into the picture, adding, ‘Where’s that ARV unit?’
‘Should be with you. .’
‘Echo Romeo Seven interrupting,’ Henry heard the call sign of the Armed Response Vehicle patrol butt into the conversation. ‘I’m on the corridor walking towards the X-ray department.’
Henry recognized the gruff tones of PC Bill Robbins, a firearms trainer and a man he knew well.
‘Bill,’ Henry cut back in, ‘Henry Christie here. . just take care. . there’s been some sort of shooting incident along that corridor, offenders still on the loose.’
‘No problems.’
Henry took a chance to peer down the corridor — still empty. So he stepped out, sniffing the whiff of cordite in the air, seeing a line of four bullet holes in an arc on the wall, made by the automatic weapon he’d heard. And splashes of blood on the wall and floor from the porter’s shoulder wound.
Bill Robbins trotted around a distant corner. Full firearms kit on, a Heckler and Koch machine pistol slung diagonally across his chest, ready for use, his Glock holstered at his hip, Taser, a CS canister, rigid cuffs, extendable baton, PR — the business. Henry felt some relief, but also a bit of concern: firearms officers were supposed to work in pairs.
Bill came up to Henry.
‘You alone?’
‘Partner’s got the shits. He stayed on for as long as he could, finally had to go sick. Bad turkey. So what’s happening?’
Henry glanced back through the porthole. Freddy was still face down. The wounded porter was being tended by the doctor and the nurse.
Henry explained quickly, and Bill said he hadn’t seen anyone on his way up. Henry said, ‘Let’s get this porter and the nurse who was held hostage to A amp;E. I also want to get Freddy out of here and transported to Blackburn cells, then we’ll go and have a mooch around for these armed chappies.’
A few moments later, the porter had been gently laid out on a trolley and with Henry propelling Freddy — who was now in a completely different world to anyone else, allowing himself to be manhandled without complaint — and Bill Robbins leading the way, they reached A amp;E with no further incident.
By this time the section van had arrived and Freddy was shoved into it. With specific instructions from Henry, who handed the van driver Freddy’s knife, Freddy was removed from the scene. One less thing to worry about.
He returned to A amp;E reception, where Janine was waiting. The porter was being attended to and the nurse-hostage was being soothed and treated by her colleagues.
‘Any comment?’ Henry asked Janine. She shook her head. Not convinced, Henry said, ‘But you know what’s going on, don’t you?’
‘Not as such.’
Henry screwed his face up at her. ‘Not as such? That’s a yes, then?’ He was about to launch himself verbally into her when his PR came to life, the comms room at Blackburn calling him urgently. ‘Go ’head,’ he said.
‘Report of shots being fired near ward C10 at the hospital. That’s on level three.’
‘Roger — attending with Romeo Seven.’ Bill Robbins had heard the transmission and was ready to go. Henry looked at Janine, jerked a forefinger at her. ‘You don’t go anywhere. We need to have words.’ Then he set off behind Bill, bringing his PR up to his mouth, shouting instructions to comms: basically, send everyone they could to A amp;E, which would be the RV point for this incident, and ensure the patrol inspector got a grip of things.
Henry and Bill jog-trotted away from A amp;E, up two flights of stairs that took them onto level 3, on which gunfire had most recently been reported. The corridors, in the main, were deserted. Official visiting times to the wards were over and virtually all hospital activity was now taking place on the wards themselves.
Henry was curious as to why Bill Robbins was out and about operationally — his job, after all, was in firearms training. But Henry did know there was a requirement for training staff to perform operational duties from time to time to keep their hands in. Up until recently, as Henry also knew, Bill’s authorization to carry firearms had been revoked following a shooting incident over two years before, but now it had been reinstated following a long drawn-out inquiry and — sadly — an inquest at which a verdict of death by misadventure had been recorded and Bill had been exonerated.
But there was no time for discussion.
They came out onto level 3, turned right towards the wards.
The radio chatter was unceasing and all very excitable, so Henry cut across it and told the comms operator to stamp his authority on it as he and Bill approached the scene warily.
They stopped at the entrance to a long, wide corridor, partitioned by several sets of fire safety doors, off which were the wards. Looking along its length, Henry saw it was deserted.
They shouldered through the doors, walking side by side. On the left was the entrance to ward C14. They stopped, glanced into it. No sign of untoward activity. Next along, this time on the right, was the Spiritual Care centre. The door to this was locked.
Next on the left was C10.
Henry moved to his left, up to the wall, fighting the urge to push Bill ahead of him and use him as a human shield.
Bill, his round face serious, had the H amp;K in a firing position and the two men crept the last metres to the ward entrance, hearing nothing.
They exchanged looks.
Then a terrifying scream emanated from the ward.
There was a gunshot. Henry ducked instinctively as a slug slammed into the corridor wall opposite the ward entrance.
There was the thudding of running feet.
Another shot. Then a man tore out of the ward, running hard and fast, too hard and fast to stop, and slammed into the wall ahead of him, where the bullet had entered the plasterwork only seconds before. He crashed into it with his right shoulder, pushed himself off and ran in the opposite direction to Henry, not even having noticed the two officers, who watched him in amazement. The man was clearly running for his life — on the wall, he had left a thick smear of blood from a wound somewhere around his right shoulder.
He was pursued by another man who followed almost exactly the same route, moving so quickly he too hit the wall, bounced off and went for his quarry.
Difference was, this guy wasn’t injured.
And he was carrying a handgun.
Fifteen metres ahead of him, the first man stopped and turned, and for the first time Henry saw that he also had a gun. This was in his left hand, and the weapon wavered.
