The Fire

by Robert White

  Lauren covered the door in case of unwelcome visitors and I pulled a roll of sticky-backed cellophane from our breaking bag. I spread it evenly over the window. Then, just as a boy racer flashed past the front of the property, elbowed the glass and hoped for the best.

  The sticky stuff did the job and all the broken pane had remained in place. I peeled the sheet back, removing about a third of the glass, and then pulled the remaining shards away by hand.

  I took a chance and stuck my head through.

  There, in the far corner, bathed in sweat and looking like he'd just sparred with one of the Klitschko brothers, was Des.

  He looked straight at me and smiled, revealing several missing teeth surrounded by severely lacerated lips.

  He was tied to a radiator and had obviously been trying to remove himself as both his wrists were bleeding.

  I was inside in seconds. Lauren followed in a somewhat ungainly fashion, her dress riding up to her waist.

  She looked at me with what looked like disgust, as she restored her modesty.

  Lauren North's Story:

  I'd gone through the window feet first and my dress decided to stay outside. As I dropped down to the basement floor, I felt a trickle of blood at the base of my spine due to the remaining glass in the frame.

  Both the boys looked like they'd had an eyeful, Des seemed to have perked up no end despite looking rough, and he nodded knowingly at me.

  I could hear voices from upstairs.

  Rick cut Des free with pliers from his bag of tricks and handed him his Glock 9.

  In a mixture of sign language and whispers Des enlightened us.

  Was McGinnis serious about the bomb? We were not in a position to give the fuckin' psychopath the benefit of the doubt.

  There was no time; I checked my weapon; Des pointed to the only door, and took the point.

  Des Cogan's Story:

  My mouth was fuckin' killing me but I had to put the pain to the back of my mind.

  Okay, so this was supposed to be a recce, just a few pictures, not the main event; but there we were; so we thought it best to just finish the job and worry about the disposal of the bodies later.

  If what the daft lad had said was true, and the Africans were the dealers, we could find them soon enough. The main event was to slot the three Irish and stop old Dougie turning Old Trafford the wrong shade of red.

  I took the lead, as I'd had a look at the stairwell. After all, the Somalian rap group had dragged me down it, and not thought to hood me, so I'd memorised the layout of the house.

  Knowledge is king, pal.

  Once up the basement stairs we stopped in the carpeted hallway and listened.

  Muffled voices were one floor up and to the front of the house.

  This was a fucker of a job. Anyone who has ever cleared a building will tell you, climbing a staircase is bad enough, but walking into a room, a room where you have no idea of numbers, or firepower, is just about as suicidal as it gets.

  We had to take the stairs as silently as possible and hope that our element of surprise held out.

  Then it was double taps and headshots, no mistakes, calm, cool and lethal.

  Draw an imaginary 'T' on the head of your target; hit them anywhere there, front or back and they will drop, not an easy task unless you are really close.

  If they are more than ten or twelve feet away, then it's a double tap to the chest or back.

  Someone once asked me, would I shoot a man in the back?

  Don't be fuckin' stupid.

  All the African boys were tooled up. Snoop Dogg, the big guy, had a gun that would blow your limbs off. That said, I was pretty sure the rappers had left and it would just be the three Irish.

  I asked my mum to say a Hail Mary, and used sign language to brief the team. I would take the left side of the room, Rick the centre, Lauren the right and we would enter in that order.

  As we silently reached the door, the voices stopped.

  I held up a hand displaying three fingers.

  Then two.

  One.

  Lauren North's Story:

  I was used to the noise of gunfire.

  If you had told me that a few months ago, I would have looked at you like you had two heads.

  We'd had no time to prepare and our weapons weren't silenced.

  I expected instant death; a cacophony of sound as the three of us opened fire on our targets, blood, skin, hair and bone projected onto the neatly painted walls of the room as we opened fire and prevented the massacre that was planned by McGinnis.

  Instead we found a room, and a television.

  Outside we heard a car door slam.

  "Go!" shouted Rick.

  We sprinted to the front door and into the small walled garden outside.

  The moment we exited we knew we were in the shit.

  They were waiting for us and were ready. Dougie was in the kneel, using the engine block of his Renault for cover. He sprayed the doorway with nine mil from his SLP; emptying a nine round clip in as many seconds. Bullets slammed into the doorframe of the old terrace, and pinged off the surrounding brickwork.

  Kristy and fat boy were crouched down behind the car and they joined in the fun, splattering the house with thankfully wayward gunfire.

  Professional, they were not. They worked on the principle that if you fired enough bullets, some would find their target.

  I threw myself to my right and hit a plastic dustbin before the floor. I tore the skin from both elbows, pushed my own weapon in the direction of the Renault and fired. I could hear both boys doing the same and felt slightly better.

  Our aim was better than the Irish and their old blue car was taking a real battering.

  The sound of gunfire was not lost on the good people of Whalley Range. Mothers threw themselves on kids, old dears stood shocked; it was fucking Christmas chaos.

  Dougie fired another full clip in our direction; the shots were wild, and didn't come close, but were enough to keep our heads down, and the rest of the street diving for cover.

  There was a moment's silence; we heard a squeal of tyres and I risked a glimpse at the target.

  They were away.

  Rick stood and ran toward the car. He jumped behind the wheel of my RS6; I screamed at Des to open a rear door and we both piled into the back as the car roared into life.

  Rick floored the accelerator; we tore off along Manley Road, did a hard right into Withington and the car settled into what it did best.

  We were five cars behind the Renault.

  Des shouted over the screaming engine noise. "How much ammo you got?"

  "A clip and two," I shouted.

  "Same," said Rick. "Des has my Glock."

  "I've eight," muttered the Scot, touching his damaged mouth.

  Rick swerved out into oncoming traffic.

  "He's on his way to Old Trafford. How big was the device?"

  Des leaned forward and spoke into Rick's ear. "No' big, maybe a pound of PE; it looked very basic; like the boys made back in the day. That said, we don't want another Moston now, do we?"

  My mind flashed back to that awful day. Our hospital had only taken a fraction of the casualties. Des had arrived with one of them.

  I felt suddenly sick.

  Rick leaned on the horn and accelerated again. I shrank down into my seat and belted up. The car lurched left into Stretford Road. We were still over a hundred metres away from the target vehicle and for the first time we heard sirens in the distance.

  The Irish turned right into White City Way, but by the time we negotiated the traffic and made the junction we had lost them.

  Rick was remarkably calm. "He's heading for the stadium; next left is Sir Matt Busby Way. They'll dump the car anytime now and try to lose us. Be ready to go."

  As we turned the corner, queuing cars and crowds of people filled every available space, the Irish had nowhere to go. The street was full of supporters, all dressed in United colours; they sang, laughed and joked, comrades
together, ready to enjoy the festive football, the most English of traditions.

  We had to stop the atrocity unfolding in front of us.

  We had to find McGinnis Findley and McDonald, and kill them before they planted that bomb.

  Jumping from the Audi, we simply abandoned it to blaring angry horns behind. I scanned the cars and crowd and started to feel a real panic inside me; we would never find them amongst all these people.

  Then, as if God was looking down on me, I saw Dougie. He was standing in a small front garden not fifty metres from us.

  He had jet black hair, combed over his left eye. He looked straight at me and actually fucking smiled. He held the bomb in his right hand, arm's length. I looked on, slack-jawed as he casually dropped the package behind his head, winked and ran.

  Des Cogan's Story:

  Dougie's Renault was hidden from our view by a mobile burger van, maybe a hundred metres forward of our position.

  He had left the other two in the back of the car, and legged toward it, head down. I lifted my Glock out of pure instinct but, in the crowd, there was no clear shot.

  Rick was barrelling toward the garden where McGinnis had dropped the package.

  Lauren was standing by the Audi motionless, tears streaming down her face.

  "Oh my God! We need to...."

  Rick sprinted on. I heard him scream, "Security services! Clear the area! Clear the area now!"

  The crowd panicked and ran against him. Two uniformed police officers unbelievably ran alongside Rick, pushing bodies away, aiding his route. They didn't know why. It was either a primal instinct or a reaction to years of training. Either way, all they saw was a man running; a man running to save lives.

  A hundred fought against them, desperate to be out of harm's way.

  Yet three ran to the danger.

  Rick stumbled, something unseen under his feet. He fell to the floor and I lost him.

  I left Lauren standing by the car and made a dash for the area where he'd dropped. I'd taken six, maybe seven strides, when I saw him stand and continue his run.

  The two uniformed cops stood where Rick had fallen, suddenly confused, seemingly questioning the reality of the situation.

  I bawled at them to get the area cleared and they kicked back into gear. One got on his radio and demanded assistance whilst the second screamed at the crowd to make toward the ground.

  I saw Rick jump the wall where McGinnis had dropped the device. He was twenty yards in front of me.

  As I ran the last few steps, I felt in my back pocket for my knife, took a deep breath and joined him.

  All around us, people were shouting and screamed in panic. Sirens wailed, helicopter rotors thudded above. I didn't hear any of it.

  Rick was crouched on the floor and cradled the device in his hands as a new father would a baby.

  I opened my knife and began to cut away the layers of gaffer tape.

  "Kiddies' alarm clock for the timer," Rick said flatly.

  I took a split second to glower at him. "No shit?

  "You have twenty-seven seconds," he added,

  The face of the plastic clock was visible, but the wiring, battery and detonator were covered in a mixture of nails and tape. It was going to take longer than that to cut my way in.

  Rick moved backward, tucked himself as far down against the wall as he could, and pulled the device against his body.

  In eleven ticks, the second hand on the clock was going to connect to a ball of solder crudely added to the face, and bingo.

  "Smash the clock," said Rick.

  Now, we both knew that this was a very dangerous move. We had no idea what was behind the face of the clock. If the wires the bomb maker had used were bare, the bomb would detonate anyway.

  He looked me in the eye.

  "Get close into me when you do it."

  I huddled into him, just as we had many years earlier when we fought the effects of the cold on the battlefield.

  At least if it went off, our bodies and the wall, would take the brunt.

  I hit the glass face with my knife, and closed my eyes.

  Lauren North's Story:

  I had been on duty when the Moston Cemetery bomb had exploded. Several of the seriously wounded had been ferried to Leeds for specialist care. All the nurses were talking about it and we watched the news footage during our breaks. We were shocked and stunned. We tut-tutted and said how terrible it was.

  We had no idea.

  I stood rooted to the spot as first Rick, then Des, disappeared behind the low garden wall where the bomb had been left.

  An age went by in my head. I wanted to pray.

  The two cops that had been the first to help Rick had cleared a small area, but it wouldn't be enough.

  Then I saw them.

  They stood, like a pair of Phoenixes, rising from the ashes. My heart dropped back into my chest from my throat and I watched Des wipe his brow with the back of his hand. Relief was etched on his face. Then Rick tossed the device to Des and they started to jog towards me.

  I felt a massive smile start to grow inside me.

  It was just about to find my face when Rick reached the car. He nodded at my feet.

  "Nice shoes," he said. "Shame about the dress."

  I wanted to punch and kiss him at the same time.

  I silently mimicked his comment as I dropped into the back seat. Des noticed, gave me a wink and smiled.

  "I like the dress, hun."

  Rick remained silent and moody.

  He pushed the car through the melee and then tucked the Audi behind a speeding ambulance. We followed it for a few blocks, then, did some doubling back before making it safely to Rick's lock-up just off the Oxford Road.

  Inside was everything we needed to get our shit together.

  I found the first aid box and gave Des a morphine patch to help his pain. Then I cleaned the dog bite to his leg and gave him a tetanus jab. His calf looked sore and tender. The damage to his leg was one thing, his mouth was another. I had a quick look. As a nurse and not a dentist, it looked a real mess. He would need stitches to his tongue and gums.

  I ran an eye over the Scott and felt a pang of humility; something approaching love. The love of the closest friend you could ever have.

  If I'd had my teeth pulled out without anaesthetic, been bitten by an Alsatian and suffered a near death experience. I think I would have been lying down in a darkened room for a week.

  Des looked a little pale, but otherwise, he was himself.

  "I'm no' so pretty today, eh, hen?"

  I dabbed at his tongue with a swab of antiseptic.

  "You're a handsome boy, Desmond. Pity you're such a pain in the arse."

  Rick banged about in the kitchen.

  "Talking of pain in the asses," he said.

  I smiled at him and we locked eyes.

  Des held my wrist and stopped me in my work.

  "He cares for you, you know, hen?"

  My eyes shot to Rick. He made tea and stamped around like a petulant child. This, of course, was his wont when a job went wrong.

  "You really think so?" I said, trying to hide the pleading from my voice.

  The Scot nodded and dropped back into soldier mode.

  "Aye, he does... so come on, finish this, we need to get on."

  The lock-up was a strange space. It held vehicles, tools, weapons, ammunition, medical equipment and thousands in cash, but it also acted as a bunker for the team. It had a functional kitchen with a freezer full of food, a bathroom and some pull down cots to sleep on.

  Rick was sitting at a large wooden table that bizarrely sat next to the red Porsche 911 we'd used as collateral with the Greek to get weapons sent to Puerto Banus. As the car was back, Rick must have struck a different deal with Spiros Makris.

  He'd brewed three mugs and was staring at his laptop; Des and I joined him at the table.

  "How many shots of Dougie and his crew did you get, Des?"

  "Just the set of him arriving at
the plot in the Renault."

  Rick tapped a few keys.

  "What are these other files then?"

  Des stood and walked around to the screen.

  "That will be the Somalian guys, the ones who jumped me."

  "I didn't get all these when I was in the café."

  Rick opened the picture files and we all studied the screen. The shots showed three African men dressed in hooded tops and tracksuit bottoms, strolling across Manley Road, toward the plot.

  The next were close-up head shots.

  Rick stopped at the biggest of the three men and enlarged the image.

  "Is this the guy that grabbed you?"

  "Aye, he's the one who had the fancy IWI Jericho."

  Rick rubbed his chin.

  "So he's the dealer we're looking for?"

  "I didn't say that, but Dougie did mention the PE was a sample for the Somalians. So I'm thinkin' they are bang in the frame as the coke suppliers... Why, d'ya know him?"

  Rick sat back in his chair and tapped his chin in thought.

  "Yes I do, I met him once when I was working for Joel Davies; he's a big hitter. He was a heroin dealer back then, obviously he's a Somalian, but he uses the name Maxi; just his street name of course."

  Des took a closer look. "Heroin you say, pal?"

  "Yeah, big time; with Joel Davies and the Richards family gone, he'll be the main man in Manchester now, real nasty piece of work, the word was he'd added people trafficking to his portfolio, forced labour, prostitution, a proper little apprentice he is."

  Des stood. "And now explosives, eh?"

  Rick sipped his tea; his brow furrowed. "More of a worry is exactly why he wants to make Manchester go bang."

  The Scot wandered over to my RS6 and lifted the device Dougie had dropped in the garden from the back seat. He sat and spread the component parts on the table.

  "This may look real Blue Peter stuff; I mean, it's like going back to the bad old days in Belfast, the early seventies, a lump of PE, a few nails, some tape, a detonator, a battery and the clock....but...this isn't Semtex, it's C4."