The Fire

by Robert White

  I took his advice and moved away from Larry to recover my personal space.

  "Cat got your tongue, Fuller?" quizzed Larry.

  I sat back against the cold plaster wall of my cell, folded my arms, and looked Larry in the face. I figured I'd knock him out of his stride.

  "Do you make a habit of impersonating people, like say a boyfriend, or lover, in order to get information, Lawrence?"

  He didn't falter. In fact he looked all smug and pleased with himself

  "I didn't have you down as the jealous type, Fuller. My understanding was Lauren was free and single...great ass, by the way."

  I wanted to kick him around the cell till my legs hurt, but I knew I couldn't. I stood quickly and Lawrence flinched defensively. I managed a smile.

  "Larry, I'm not here to discuss women's asses, and I'm not answering any of your questions, so why not just go get me my coffee, eh? I'm thirsty...oh, and take that plate away on your way out."

  I got the impression that the chief inspector was easily riled when it came to me. Whether that was because he had been chasing my shadow for so long or it had something to do with Lauren, I didn't know.

  Nonetheless Larry's temper was up instantly. He curled his lip and balled his fists; he was a big guy, who looked after himself. Under other circumstances, I would have been on my guard, but I was confident that just as I was able to contain myself, he wouldn't show a lack of professionalism and attack me either.

  Knowing I was in the shit was one thing, but I didn't like Larry. I didn't like what he'd done to Lauren, and I didn't have to behave like a timid convict.

  The smile left my face. "I'm still waiting for my coffee, Larry."

  I could see he was desperate to punch me, but I was right, he was a pro. The smugness had deserted him. He pursed his lips, stood and smoothed down his jacket.

  "My time will come, Fuller," he said.

  Larry pulled the cell door open and turned. "Sooner than you think."

  Lauren North's Story:

  I had been bouncing around in the boot of the car for around twenty minutes. At first, when the lid was closed, I'd panicked as I found it hard to breathe. The tape over my mouth seemed to instantly block my nose and I felt I would suffocate. My heart rate doubled and I could feel the blood race through my veins. I had to force myself to be calm and regulate each breath.

  The gaffer tape Dougie had used to bind my hands to my ankles had cut off my circulation. The pain was truly awful as I worked on my ties and my skin tore against the sharp edges of the tape. My hands and fingers were completely numb, but I ripped and stretched the tape until the pain was unbearable. A single inch of movement might be the difference between freedom and death. My wrists were bleeding; but I couldn't stop. I wouldn't stop.

  As I worked myself to exhaustion in the confines of that cold dark space, my mind played tricks.

  Rick was dead.

  He had been killed by Maxi in that God-awful cage. He had no escape. I convinced myself he was gone; never coming back, and my heart broke.

  Pain, fear, hurt...I was not in a good place.

  I felt the car slow and figured we were approaching the port entrance. Seconds later we came to a halt and I did my best to listen to the conversation taking place in the car.

  From what I could gather, Kristy was off to buy the tickets.

  I tried to get as close to the back of the boot as possible. My plan was simple enough. When we stopped so the officials could check our documents, I would make as much noise at I could, slam my feet, head, anything I could, against the panels of the car and pray that someone would hear me.

  Of course, as we were travelling to the north, there would be no passport or immigration check and the chance of any cop being close enough to the car to hear me struggling was very slim indeed; but it was all I had. Rick was gone, and it was Kristy, Dougie and Ewan's fault.

  I was not going to give up until all three were dead in the ground.

  Not now.

  Not ever.

  I heard Kristy get back in the car and the three start discussing the prospect of food. Then the rear door slammed and the boot popped open. I could see streetlights high above me, and then, surprisingly, the silhouette of Ewan Findley.

  He lumbered his way to the centre of my vision, blocking out most of the ambient light.

  Slowly, my eyes adjusted and I could see his face. He was ugly. Even without the shocking job on his hair lip, he'd been behind the door when the looks were given out.

  He didn't speak, his face was devoid of any emotion.

  Instead he cocked his head to one side as if inspecting something new to him, something he had never seen before, just as he had when he'd been fondling the poor terrified girl in the cage. For some reason, he scared me more than the other two put together. He made my flesh crawl.

  Findley pulled something from his pocket. I couldn't make out what it was. He leaned forward. I started to struggle, my wrists screamed out in pain. Blind panic set in.

  I felt a needle pierce my skin and the cold liquid inside the syringe enter my bloodstream.

  I instantly knew what he'd done to me and that I would never be the same.

  Once heroin enters the brain, it is converted to morphine and attaches itself to pleasure receptors. I felt an instant sensation of pure bliss. My skin flushed warm and sticky despite the cold night. My mouth was instantly dry. I remember I licked my lips to no avail. My limbs were heavy. My feet itched so much I was desperate to scratch them. As my heart function began to slow and my breathing became shallow, I looked through a kaleidoscope at my life. Darkness fell around me and I began to dream the most beautiful dream.

  Rick Fuller's Story:

  What with the noise of the cell block, the constant shouts and complaints from the prisoners, the jangle of keys and the fact that my mind was working overtime, forty winks was impossible.

  I was tired and tetchy. From being a small child, lack of sleep did nothing to improve my mood or temper. I was not at my best.

  Without the opportunity to sleep, every minute was elongated. I was bored shitless and I paced my cell, working over every last detail of how and why we were in this position; how Lauren had been captured, how we had been tricked into the job.

  Finally a different cop opened the door, looked at me like he'd just found me shagging his mother, and motioned for me to move my backside.

  I wasn't having any of it. "Afternoon, son," I said.

  Obviously I was not flavour of the month with Greater Manchester's finest. "Prick," he countered.

  He fancied himself, this lad, and I was just in the mood.

  I stayed put in the centre on my cell, hands by my sides, muscles twitching with adrenalin. There'd been enough pussyfooting around with these fuckers.

  "Step in and get me if you like, son," I said flatly. "Be careful though, floor's slippery, had to have a piss see, and room service is slow today."

  The bozo looked down at the floor, which was dry as a bone; his mistake. It gave me just enough time to show him the error of his ways. I lunged forward, grabbed him by his hair and pulled him to me.

  The guy's upper bodyweight pulled him off balance. I stepped to my right, turned, kicked him up the arse and watched as he fell against the wall of the cell with a slap. Before he could turn, I was out into the corridor.

  With the door firmly shut behind me, the cop was trapped in my cell. He was leaning on the internal attention buzzer in an instant and shouting a mixture of abuse and commands at me. Of course, I ignored him, as did the other cops, thinking it was yet another gobby toe-rag banging on about his lack of rights.

  I strode to the custody desk alone and unescorted, wearing nothing but a paper suit and a big false grin.

  Standing there, waiting for me, was an open-mouthed Detective Chief Inspector Lawrence Simpson.

  "You took your time, Larry," I said. "Where's my brief?"

  "Where's Constable Fenwick?" he countered.

  "Indisposed," I said,
widening my falsie to the full-on beam.

  Constable Fenwick was now screaming at the top of his voice. This caused the other inmates to join in the party and commence banging on the doors of their cells and shouting abuse at their captors.

  Larry's face was a picture. He turned to the custody sergeant. "Go and let your constable out, will you?"

  The sergeant hopped about like he was on coals. He couldn't have been more indecisive if he'd tried, his choice being leaving Larry with yours truly, the mass murdering hit-man, or releasing the big daft lad in the cell.

  The detective gave him a look that could have shrivelled a plum.

  "I'll be fine here," he barked, and the sergeant trotted off in the direction of the cell block.

  I gave Larry another beaming smile. "My brief? I asked about my brief, sonny."

  Larry turned on his heels.

  "This way... he's waiting for you in the interview suite...and don't call me sonny."

  Minutes later we arrived at a small sparse room. A typical cop interview space, square desk bolted to the floor, four plastic chairs arranged around it, a tape recorder, video camera, a two way mirror, the obvious accessories. Martin Simpkins QC was busy with a pile of papers. He looked up as we entered, nodded to the chief inspector and gestured for me to sit next to him.

  "Give me a moment with my client, chief inspector. I promise I'll be brief."

  Larry took on the look of a man who had opened the fridge and sniffed the week-old milk.

  "Five minutes," he snapped.

  Simpkins ignored the cop's irritability; he'd seen it all before, hundreds of times. The second Larry was out of the room he rubbed the small of his back and moaned.

  "Appalling seating arrangements, Richard, why on earth law enforcement demand such awful chairs is beyond me."

  "The sleeping arrangements are no better," I countered.

  Martin pushed his fake glasses up his considerable nose.

  "I pray I shall never encounter such a dreadful place, Richard...now, let's see if we can prevent you another visit."

  He turned a page.

  "I have spoken with J.J... He seems a very interesting individual, that one. Nonetheless he is far from stupid and sees the value in our arrangement. He will be interviewed directly after your questioning is concluded. He is fully briefed and will toe the line exactly as we wish.

  As for you, Richard, try not rise to any baiting by these loutish Mancunians that pass for detectives, it's a game, you know it, and they know it.

  So...The party line is as follows...You and J.J. had been to the Apollo Theatre for an evening out. You had been to see the Stray Cats, a rockabilly band, I believe."

  "I hate rockabilly," I countered.

  The lawyer looked over the top of his glasses, his thin lips almost disappearing with a forced smile.

  "As I have gone to the not inconsiderable trouble to obtain ticket stubs from the venue, and ensure that no CCTV footage would be available in the area you were allegedly seated...for today, my boy, you will bloody well love rockabilly!"

  I shrugged. Let's face it, I couldn't argue with his attention to detail. He was on a roll; I listened and took it all in.

  "So, after you left the theatre, you went to that dreadful kebab shop whilst J.J. opted for a Chinese takeaway. You'd split up, you were attacked and the next thing you know you are inside Maxi's club, yadda, yadda, yadda."

  "And why were we taken?"

  Martin gave an elongated sigh of frustration.

  "Because you once worked for the Richards family on Moss Side remember?

  As you well know, what is left of them after the Moston Cemetery bombing, are sworn enemies of Maxi Toure. This was a simple case of you being on the wrong turf at the wrong time...got it?"

  "Got it."

  "Thank God," he said. "Now let's get our man back in here and we can get on with it. I have a very important dinner tomorrow in Knightsbridge and intend to be there."

  Larry was beckoned back into the interview room. He was accompanied by my mate Flat Nose, the one from the back of Lauren's flat; he glared at me constantly. If he thought that staring at me was going to make me break down and spill the beans he was dreaming.

  The usual introductions were made and everyone spoke for the benefit of the tape recorder.

  The time was 1717hrs. I had been in custody for fourteen hours and Lauren had been in the hands of a psychotic rapist and his pals for almost two hours longer. I was in no mood for games and as the questions flowed, I fell deeper and deeper into the darkest recesses of my troubled mind.

  Larry's voice seemed distant, as if in an adjacent room. I remained totally silent. There would be no wire stripper treatment, no cattle prods, just questions. The only thing that could hurt me was time. The passage of each minute was agony. As those minutes became hours, my only thought was of Lauren, and I ached with frustration.

  I could feel my temper rise. Martin was watching me like a hawk, fearful of what I may do, what I may spoil. I felt my body shake as question after question dripped out of Larry's increasingly irritating mouth. My nails were cutting into the palms of my hands. I was on the edge. I knew it, they knew it. It was just what they wanted, but I had no way of stopping myself.

  Then, someone or something up there rescued me. Miraculously, the interview room door opened and a uniformed constable whispered something into Larry's ear.

  Mercifully, the tape was stopped and the interview terminated. Larry and Flat Nose stepped outside and I could hear raised voices, an argument. I thought for a moment that I recognised one of the voices.

  Minutes later, my suspicions were founded. The door of the room opened for a second time and in stepped Des Cogan flanked by none other than our pet spook, our man at The Firm; the guy who had set up the Belfast job, Damian Cartwright.

  "Come on, Richard," he said in his best old Etonian accent. "We're leaving."

  I looked at Martin. The brief shrugged his shoulders. "I take it you know this gentleman," he said with a hint of derision in his voice.

  "I do," I said.

  Martin's voice became the epitome of unimpressed camp. "How very unfortunate for you, Richard."

  He forced a smile and acknowledged Cartwright. "Damian...now this is a surprise...the man from the Ministry, so to speak. How fucking delightful. I take it you are here to look after your ...erm...assets. That's what you call these boys and girls you employ, isn't it?"

  Cartwright ignored the QC and slid a manicured hand into his Savile Row blazer. His voice remained flat, calm.

  "I think we should go now, Richard. Time, as they say..."

  Simpkins was in first. He eyed the spy as a snake would a rat.

  "I need to conclude some business with my client, before he goes anywhere. It's called client-attorney privilege...even MI6 have heard of that, haven't they, Cartwright?"

  The spook started to answer. "They have but..."

  "But nothing, Damian...two minutes...I want fucking two minutes."

  Des looked as surprised as I was, but he and our pet spook stepped from the room and closed the door.

  Martin spun in his seat. I had never seen him so animated. He grabbed my hand in his and I had to force myself not to pull it away. Some of his posh barrister voice had fallen away and the poor East End Jewish kid poked out as he spat his words like a round from a machine gun.

  "Richard...listen to me...and I mean fucking listen. You don't need to do this. I will have you out of here by midnight...I promise you...you and J.J. I'm not fucking about here, I know my stuff, they won't be able to hold you."

  He held my hand tighter than I thought it possible for a man of his stature.

  "If you go with him now, yes, you are out...but you will owe them again...they have you... once again...you know what I'm saying to you, Richard? You know what they are...what they do...come on, what next...another Irish politician?"

  I raised my eyebrows at that one.

  Martin released my hand and sat back in his seat
. He removed his glasses and undid his tie.

  "I have friends, Richard, friends in the highest places that...how shall I say...are of the same...persuasion I am. And these 'friends' like to talk to people they trust, people like me. Look...just give me three hours and you and J.J. will be free...three hours...I promise."

  He leaned forward.

  "And, Richard...do as I ask and you will be free in more ways than one...they won't own you anymore."

  I stood up, shook Martin's hand and made for the door.

  "I don't have three hours."

  We stood on the pavement outside the police station as sodium yellow streetlights picked out the first wisps of snow in the air.

  It had taken the cops two hours to finally let us go. They'd tried every trick in the book to prevent our release, but it was to no avail; I had gained an hour...maybe. Someone with power, real power, deep within the corridors of Canary Wharf, had pulled strings so long and so tight, that they had reached the Chief Constable himself.

  Larry had been furious. He'd fought his seniors tooth and nail to keep us in custody; tried everything he could think of, even the threat of his own resignation, but none of it was to any avail.

  We were out.

  Cartwright alongside us and stamped his feet against the night chill.

  My temper was rising just from the sight of him.

  I leaned in. "The boy Clarke, the Eton/Harrow rower; the guy with not quite enough plum in his mouth to hide the Irish in him. What divides the two of you? Who's the bad guy today?"

  The elderly spy shook his head.

  "Richard, don't place me in the same sentence as that man. There's a great deal that separates us. I wouldn't be here..."

  "Really? You wouldn't be here if what? Wouldn't be here if you weren't in the shit, you mean. Don't try and tell me you are here to save our sorry backsides."

  I did my best to keep my voice down, but my blood boiled.

  "You'll have to forgive me for my lack of trust, pal. We've been stitched up by your lot again, eh? You may have missed it while you were discussing how well your fucking shares were doing over a game of bridge at your club, but I have one of my team missing! Yeah...Lauren's been snatched by three fuckin' nutters; three fuckin' PIRA drug-addled fuck ups, who were able to reel us in like fish and identify her as the Belfast shooter. Any idea how they managed that one? Got a smug fucking reply to that, Cartwright? How did he know, eh? Clarke blags me into visiting him in London and blackmails us into this job to kill the three Irish."