by Nick Oldham
With this option gone his eyes searched quickly through the darkness for a weapon of some sort. The apes were fifteen feet away. He knew he had to make the running now. He had to take the initiative from them, otherwise he was beaten.
He flung himself to the left, snatched up a black plastic dustbin and heaved it down the alley at them. Its innards spilled everywhere as it went. They sidestepped it easily. Henry saw the knives glint in their hands. His mouth went very dry as fear swept though him like fire though a building. He wanted to beg for mercy, but knew these two wouldn’t show it. So he fought on.
This time, instead of a whole dustbin, he picked up a lid and held it like a shield in his left hand.
‘ Right you bastards, come on,’ he growled, sounding more confident than he really was.
He waved them forwards with the fingers of his right hand, like football supporters do when enticing the opposing fans to a fight. They came, as he knew they would. He made like he was going to step back but at the last possible moment he lurched at them. The nearest one to him copped the heavy metal lid right across the side of his head. It made a very satisfying clunk on connection. He went down like a jelly, a surprised scream frothing from his mouth.
Henry faced the next one smiling.
The gorilla looked worried now as Henry’s eyes fixed on his face. Henry was determined to give none of his own fear away.
The knife lunged at him, but the move was telegraphed and slow. Henry jumped sideways, twisted round and smashed the dustbin lid down on the exposed, extended arm. The knife fell harmlessly away. The man cowered, holding his arm, his back to the wall.
Henry reversed down the alley, fully aware that all the man had to do now was draw his weapon and slot him. Suddenly, there was a blinding flash at the back of his right ear. His legs went wobbly. He turned around, stunned — and whack! — another blow hit the side of his head. At this double whammy Henry’s legs gave up the ghost and crumpled beneath him.
Someone had sneaked up on him from the shadows.
He hit the ground, his fall slightly cushioned by a mattress of debris from the overturned bins, and passed out. Seconds later he woke up, face down in the mess.
As he tried to push himself up, somebody placed a foot on the back of his neck and pressed hard. He nearly blacked out again, then the foot came off, the pressure was released and blood flowed back into his brain.
The same foot hooked itself under his shoulder and rolled him over so he was face up, looking heavenwards. He blinked and tried to regain his senses.
He heard a man say, ‘Well, you’re a couple of wankers. Fuck knows what 1 pay you for… no, don’t say a fuckin’ word, I’m not interested. Wankers!’ he spat. ‘I’ll sort you out later.’
Several seconds passed before Henry’s eyes focused properly. When they did he saw three faces glaring down at him: the target, the man with the Ralph Lauren polo shirt and the black girl.
‘ Back with us then?’ asked the target.
‘ What the hell d’you think you’re doing?’ Henry demanded. He started to get up again. The target shoved the sole of his shoe into Henry’s chest and rammed him back down. The pain in his ribs gripped him in its razor-encrusted vice.
He decided to stay where he was, without complaint, get his breath completely back, compose himself, measure the situation and if at all possible, run away.
The man in the Ralph Lauren top, who Henry christened Ralphie, said, ‘He’s all yours,’ to the target.
The target squatted down on his haunches. ‘I want to know who you are and why you’re following me.’
‘ Me? I don’t know what you mean.’
The target looked up at one of the gorillas — the one Henry had clattered on the head. ‘Kick him once,’ he ordered.
‘ Pleasure.’
Despite bracing himself, tensing his muscles as best he could, it wasn’t much use: it still hurt.
‘ Now,’ said the target softly, after the kick had been well and truly delivered, ‘why are you following me?’
The stubborn side to Henry’s character refused to give in so easily.
‘ I’m not, honest.’
‘ See if he’s got any I.D.,’ the target said to one of the gorillas, who gleefully reached down and rifled through Henry’s pockets. His hand emerged with a leather wallet. He said, ‘He’s wearing a holster, but there’s no shooter in it.’
‘ See if you can find it,’ said Ralphie.
Henry eyed the people standing over him, ending up on the girl’s face. If he’d expected any vestige of sympathy or concern from her regarding his plight, he was mistaken. Her mouth wasn’t quite so lovely when it was folded into a snarl of contempt. She looked like she could have happily spat on him.
The target pulled everything out of the wallet. Three five-pound notes went sailing down the alley, one or two receipts went with them. His Barclaycard was tossed to one side after being twisted beyond use. A driving licence was extracted along with his warrant card. The target read them in the available light before showing them to Ralphie. One of the gorillas arrived back bearing Henry’s gun between thumb and forefinger.
‘ Found this in all that shite,’ he said.
‘ Give it to me,’ snapped the target, clicking his fingers.
He handed the gun over. The target looked at it, smiled, leaned over Henry and forced the muzzle into the soft flesh underneath his chin.
‘ So you’re a cop, eh?’
‘ Yeah.’
‘ Do you think that makes a difference to me? Do you think that’ll stop me from pulling this trigger? Eh?’ He was becoming more and more angry and wound up as he spoke. ‘Do you think that’ll stop me from splattering your brains into the chop suey?’
‘ Don’t know,’ said Henry, his eyes wide, nostrils flaring. He could smell the target’s aftershave. It was overpowering. ‘Probably not,’ he conceded.
The target pushed the gun harder into the flesh. Henry heard the hammer being cocked. Oh God, I’m going to die in an alley full of shit, he thought.
‘ Now why the fuck are you following me?’
‘ Part of an operation… we suspect you of being a drug dealer.’
‘ Is that all?’ He sounded disappointed.
‘ Yes.’
‘ Why the gun? Why the fuckin’ gun?’ he was screaming at Henry.
‘ I carry all the time… part of my job… Crime Squad,’ Henry bleated. There didn’t seem much point in beating about the bush now. It was no great earth-shattering secret.
The target rocked back on his haunches. Henry heard the man’s knees crack. He looked up at Ralphie who was lounging by the wall with the girl.
‘ Shall I pop him?’
‘ Your problem, not mine,’ said Ralphie unhelpfully.
Why couldn’t you say no, Henry thought.
‘ I think I will.’
The target looked back down at Henry and opened his mouth to speak.
Before any words could come, however, there was the sound of a gun shot, and the target’s head disintegrated. His mouth, still opened wide, vomited blood and brain out onto Henry’s chest.
The girl screamed. Ralphie shouted some sort of warning. There were running feet, confusion.
For a few moments the target stayed where he was in a squatting position before keeling forwards across Henry’s thighs and lower abdomen, twitching like mad in his death throes. Henry saw that the back of his head was missing.
The man who’d fired the shot stood at the open end of the alley. Even in the poor light Henry knew he’d seen him before; just a short time ago in the pub.
He held a gun in his right hand.
‘ Get him! Get him!’ Ralphie screamed in panic at his men. He dived for cover behind a wheelie-bin, dragging the girl down with him. Henry, trapped under the weight of the dead man, could not move. The two gorillas reacted with predictable slowness. As they fumbled for their weapons, the figure at the end of the alley took his time, aimed slowly, and picked off ea
ch of the bodyguards with a shot to the chest. They were out of the game even before their weapons were in their hands.
Henry lay there terrified.
The man started walking down the alley to where Ralphie and the girl were hiding.
She was crying.
Ralphie was immobile. He exchanged a glance with Henry, whose expression said nothing.
‘ Stand up,’ the man ordered Ralphie. He ignored Henry and the girl.
‘ No, please, don’t, don’t, what’s this all about? Please, I haven’t done anything.’
The target finished squirming. Henry eased himself to one side underneath the weight and his right hand slowly snaked out towards his revolver which was still in the target’s outstretched right hand.
‘ I said stand up.’
Ralphie, quivering, got slowly to his feet.
‘ Face the wall,’ the man said. He spoke with an American accent. The gun was six inches further than Henry could reach without drawing attention to himself.
‘ Nooo!’ screamed the black girl. She was already on her knees, her hands covering her face, rocking back and forth like a baby in a cot.
Ralphie faced the wall, his nose pressed up to the brickwork.
The man walked across to the girl and gave one violent blow to the back of her head with his revolver butt; she fell silent. He went to Ralphie then and said, ‘You know what this is for, don’t you?’
‘ No.’
‘ Double-crossing Corelli. No one does that, Mr Brown.’
‘ Look… Jesus Christ!’
‘ Too late for Him.’
He pulled the trigger four times, putting the bullets into the back of Ralphie’s head. Ralphie jerked into the wall with the impact and slithered to the ground. The man didn’t bother to check if he was dead: he knew. Even whilst Ralphie was slithering he was walking away down the alley.
Shocked for an instant by what he’d witnessed — an execution — and still unable to believe it, Henry heaved the target’s body off himself, prised the gun out of his dead fingers and pointed at the man’s retreating back.
‘ Stop!’ he shouted. He aimed the gun, but his hand was shaking. The man barely glanced round before turning left at the top of the alley and disappearing.
Henry, who’d shouted his command from a seated position, rose quickly to his feet. He looked at the bloody scene which surrounded him. It was like a street in the capital of Rwanda, littered with bodies. The girl moaned.
Henry knew he had a decision to make. He made it quickly. He went after the man.
Running was very painful. His ribs jarred each time a foot crashed to the pavement. He kept his left arm pressed tightly across his chest in a V-shape to support himself.
As he ran he checked that his gun was loaded, releasing the cylinder with the thumb of his right hand and flicking it back into place when he saw the chambers were full. On his belt at the small of his back was a leather ring which held a spare speed loader primed with six more. 38s. The gorilla had missed it when searching him, as he’d missed the PR.
He veered out of the alley and ran in the direction of the promenade. About a quarter of a mile ahead of him the Tower loomed, bristling with lights.
He soon hit the Golden Mile. And people. Hundreds of people. He couldn’t see the killer.
‘ Get out of the fuckin’ way,’ he screamed, repeating it as he ran.
The crowd opened for him like the Red Sea as people scattered. Not surprising as it must have frightened the life out of everyone to see Henry careering towards them in his present condition.
Blood was still pouring from the reopened cut on the side of his face, as well as from his nose and mouth. His face was battered black and blue by the assault and his hair was in total disarray, matted with an unpleasant mixture of blood and cold, rotting food. There was a large area of blood and gore right aross his chest where the target had emptied the contents of the back of his head. With Henry’s left arm wedged where it was, it must’ve looked like he’d sustained a massive injury of some sort.
His clothing was torn and filthy. And he was waving a gun about.
And he was screaming like a madman.
He was only vaguely aware of the shouts, the music blaring out of the amusement arcades, the cars nose to tail, moving with desperate slowness one-way up the promenade.
Suddenly the man was there. Dead ahead. Unaware that Henry was behind him.
‘ Fuckin’ stop now,’ Henry yelled.
The man either didn’t hear or took no notice.
Henry bellowed again. Still no response.
Quickly he pointed his gun out across the promenade to the Irish Sea and fired a high shot, using the recoil to re-aim at the man. ‘Stop now,’ Henry said.
The man stopped. But in a blur he turned. There was a gun in his hand. A child ran across the gap, pursued by his mother — in the instant that the man fired. She took the bullet intended for Henry and pirouetted into the road on top of her child.
Henry weaved to retain his view. The man ran into the line of traffic and sprinted between the cars crawling up the promenade.
‘ Shit-fuck!’ uttered Henry, aware now, if he wasn’t before, he was in pursuit of a one-man killing machine.
Hinksman had been pleased to the point of smugness by the way things had gone. The information had proved correct, the hit had gone well, he had earned the last part of his money. Now all he had to do was get lost in the crowd, make his way to Manchester, then leave this godforsaken country. He was already thinking about the Great Barrier Reef.
He hadn’t bothered to find out who the goons were beating up. He’d simply eliminated everyone who appeared to be a potential threat — good, sound practice — then taken out Brown, finished the job. Four into the back of the head — a classic professional hit.
Now, as he twisted away into the traffic, he bitterly regretted not shooting the man on the ground. He hadn’t seemed a potential threat, just some half-dead loser. How was he to know the bastard was a cop?
Hinksman rolled spectacularly across the bonnet of a car like a stuntman, much to the surprise of its occupants, and started to put some distance between himself and the cop.
He glanced round. Yes, he was coming.
Hinksman upped his pace, running north along the promenade, between the cars and coaches, zig-zagging, keeping low, constantly checking over his shoulder.
Stubbornly the cop remained there.
To Hinksman’s left were tram-tracks which were laid adjacent and parallel to the road, used by the quaint trams which ran from Blackpool to Fleetwood in the north; on the other side of them was the wide pavement area for pedestrians only, then the railings of the sea wall, then the sea itself. Two hundred metres ahead was the North Pier, jutting out into the night. To his right was the Tower.
Hinksman’s mind raced. He quickly calculated how many bullets he had left in the magazine. He’d fired seven in the alley and one at the cop — the one which had hit the woman. That left him with four. The cop had fired one of his own; Hinksman had registered the fact that the cop’s gun was a six-shot revolver of some sort, so he was one up. If the cop was any good, one bullet could be a major advantage if it came to a confrontation. And Hinksman didn’t like anyone having any advantage over him.
He released the magazine and stuffed it into his waistband, replacing it with one from his back jeans pocket.
Twelve to five. Good odds.
He swivelled from the hip and fired two in the general direction of the cop, knowing he’d miss but be close enough to scare him.
Then he was running again.
At the junction of Talbot Square, the Illuminations traffic had ground to a complete halt at the traffic lights. Hinksman looked behind. The cop was still there, but some distance away, more wary in his pursuit since the warning shots.
Hinksman had reached the point where he had to decide whether or not to carry on northwards or turn inland into town. The latter was a manoeuvre he wasn’t completely
happy about as it would give the cop a better target.
Then he had the answer.
In the stationary, nose-to-tail traffic sat a blonde woman in a red, open-top BMW, hood down, gazing at the Illuminations, unaware of Hinksman’s approach.
He came alongside her, stopped by the driver’s door, opened it, and before she could even scream, he grabbed her by the hair and threw her out onto the road where she landed on her backside in a bewildered heap.
‘ Thanks darlin’,’ he said and slid into the driver’s seat, slamming the door, taking possession of the car. He was pleased to find it was an automatic gearbox. Selecting Reverse he put his foot down and rammed into the car behind, a Metro driven by an elderly man.
Hinksman laughed, gave him a wave with the hand holding the gun, and pushed the stick into Drive.
Now, with room to pull out of the line, he virtually stood on the accelerator pedal and yanked the steering wheel to the left.
His plan was to drive across the tram-tracks, onto the pedestrianised area and head up north where he would abandon the car and go to ground.
A perfect plan. Except for one major flaw.
The car accelerated very quickly — it had a fuel-injected 2.5-litre engine. Unfortunately, within moments Hinksman was travelling so fast that there was no earthly chance of avoiding a collision with a south-bound tram which seemed to appear from nowhere, bearing down on him at the stately speed of 10 mph.
He saw it, but could do nothing about it. It was just there. Ten tons of trundling tram. Unmissable.
The front of the car hit the front of the tram head on, and there could only be one winner. The bonnet crumpled with the impact and the tram ploughed the car a further 50 metres down the tracks before the whole mangled mess ground to a screeching, spark-flying halt.
Although Hinksman braced himself against the steering wheel, he couldn’t stop himself head-butting the windscreen. He sat there in the wreckage, dazed for a moment, amazingly still clutching his gun.
Then instinct took over.
He extricated himself from between the seat and the dashboard, feeling severe pain in his left leg. He slid over the side of the car and dropped to the ground on his hands and knees. He picked himself up and ran — ran like a drunk, staggering from side to side, feet hardly able to keep him upright. Not knowing where he was going, just aware that he needed to get away, despite the pain.
