Tom Graham: Blood, Bullets and Blue Stratos

‘Don’t pretend you ain’t getting a woody listening to that, boss,’ Ray said to him, jabbing his elbow against Sam’s ribs.

‘I can see why he ain’t going to let anything stop him tear-arsing off round the Lake District — not when he’s gonna do it in that ,’ murmured Chris, drinking in every detail of the Jensen. ‘And you get to go with him, boss. Lucky, lucky bastard!’

Gene thrust his head out and yelled, ‘Move yourself, Tyler! Time is of the proverbial!’

Sam was about to rush over and get in the motor when he noticed Annie looking at him. He paused, ducked close to her, and said, ‘This time, I really will be careful.’

‘You’d better,’ she said, fixing him with her eyes.

If he hadn’t been so aware of Gene and Ray and Chris all looking at him, he would have kissed her. But he didn’t want that kiss ruined, sniggered at, dredged up later as the source for beery jokes in the Railway Arms.

‘See you later,’ said Sam, winking as he clambered into the leather upholstery next to Gene. The powerful engine was vibrating into his body through the seat. ‘So, um, guv — I take it we’re going to share the driving?’

‘Like bollocks we are,’ said Gene, and the Jensen sprang away like a panther with a rocket up its jacksie.

They powered through the streets of Manchester, heading north. Red lights were run. One-way streets were ruthlessly violated. Sam noticed the way Gene caressed the wood-rimmed steering wheel as it slid, power-assisted, beneath his black-gloved hands.

‘It’s winning your heart, this motor,’ he said. ‘You won’t want to go back.’

‘It’s just a fling,’ Gene growled. ‘Don’t tell the Cortina.’

They swept out of the city and hurtled through the suburbs, making for open country. The police radio babbled and gabbled continually, picking up huge amounts of anxious cross-talk between police units. The city they were leaving behind was in turmoil, with streets sealed off, hospitals on full alert, every copper who could be mustered deployed and working flat out. A county courthouse had been wrecked by a 200-pound. car bomb; there were five dead bodies at the scene and scores of wounded being ferried away from the carnage. The IRA bomb in the shopping centre still hadn’t been located, and, despite rumours flying about that it was a hoax, nobody was taking any chances. The sniper in Calbeck Street was now racing around the city, playing on the confusion caused by the bomb, giving everyone the slip — there just wasn’t the manpower available to hem him in. There were reports coming in of explosives found in public parks, outside schools, in the back seats of buses; reports of masked men with guns were being claimed from one side of Manchester to the other. The police radios were full of panic, rumour and counter-rumour.

‘It’s Verden,’ said Sam. ‘This is what he promised. He said he’d bring us all to our knees. This is what the RHF is all about.’

‘We’ll have their balls for breakfast, Sam, just you wait. And, as for that bird that’s with him, I’ll have her tits on toast for elevenses.’

‘How the hell are we going to find them, Guv?’

‘Easy. They’ll be stuck on the front of her body, sitting side by side.’

‘No, Guv, I mean the RHF. The Capella could be anywhere — and that’s assuming they’re even on board. We’re working blind, Guv.’

‘Speak for yourself,’ Gene said. ‘While you’ve been fiddling with the radio, I’ve had my eyes on the road. And I’ve spotted just what I was looking for.’

Sam frowned. He looked ahead, out at the wide motorway along which they were cruising. A number of vehicles were on the road ahead of them.

‘Three cars ahead,’ said Gene. ‘See anything familiar?’

Sam leaned forward, squinting. He could see the back of the car Gene was referring to — a totally ordinary Vauxhall Cresta, beetling along.

‘Hang about,’ Sam gasped suddenly. ‘The Cresta! That’s Michael Deery’s car!’

‘And that’s Mickey Deery himself at the wheel. Guess where he’s going, Sam. Go on. Have a stab.’

‘You think he knows where Verden is?’

‘Who else is Verden going to get his explosives from, Sammy-boy? They’ve still got the kid. They’re not going to give her up now, not in the middle of their big campaign. If we pulled Deery over right now, we’d find an Aladdin’s Cave of IRA goodies in the boot of that Cresta. He’s heading north to make another delivery. But this time, instead of taking the missus, he’s brought a few mates along.’

Sam looked, but he could see no one else in the Cresta with Deery.

‘Uh-uh,’ said Gene, shaking his head. ‘Have a gander at the Triumph Herald that’s been sticking to him like glue for miles.’

The Herald was cruising along directly behind Deery’s car and, now that Sam looked, he saw that it was crammed with four very large men, all black-haired and thickset.

‘Did you ever see so many Paddies packed into a motor, Sam?

‘Is that them, Guv? Is that the IRA unit the Deerys have been supplying?’

‘Well, I don’t think they’re the local bowls club. Not unless bowls has got a lot rougher in recent years.’

So they had been right. Either the Deerys or their IRA masters had had enough of being blackmailed by the RHF. Michael Deery was going to make a delivery of guns and explosives to the Red Hand’s new HQ somewhere to the north, but this time it was going to be an ambush. The men in the Triumph Herald would be waiting, armed to the teeth, ready to eradicate Peter Verden and his entire outfit in a blaze of IRA bullets and rid the Provos of these upstart parasites.

‘Guv,’ said Sam.

‘If you’re about to start accusing me of not knowing how to tail a suspect, Samuel, then I’ll remind you that Deery won’t be on the lookout for this particular motor. We’re anonymous, so you can untwist your knickers and enjoy the ride.’

‘It wasn’t that, Guv. It’s just … Well, we’re getting ourselves into a very dangerous situation.’

‘That’s what we do. Hadn’t you noticed?’

‘Shouldn’t we have backup, guv? This is going to get very rough.’

‘Backup is otherwise engaged, Sam. Manchester’s on fire. We’re the only ones they can spare.’

‘But Guv … I’m not sure that … Well, I don’t feel right about …’

‘Stop spoiling the moment!’ Gene snapped, shutting Sam up. And Sam knew at once that Gene and the Jensen were enjoying each other’s company too much to allow Sam to ruin it.

The sun was sinking behind the wide hills of Cumbria, casting the expansive landscape into deepening shadow. Sam was starting to feel hypnotized by the monotony of staring at the two cars in front — Michael Deery’s Cresta, and the Triumph Herald trailing it — and only realized he had nodded off when he noticed that the cars ahead had mysteriously disappeared, and a vast flotilla of black helium balloons were drifting across the gloomy, storm-laden sky.

Sam turned his head. Gene was no longer driving: she was, the little girl in black. Her face was completely hidden by a heavy black veil. Her little legs dangled above the pedals.

‘I want you to leave me alone now,’ Sam said to her, calmly, clearly.

The girl ignored him and continued to drive, even though she was barely able to see over the wheel.

‘You won’t make me regret my decision to come back here,’ Sam said. ‘You’re wasting your time tormenting me like this.’

The girl turned her black veil towards him, then nodded in the direction of the back seat of the car. Craning round, Sam saw that the Jensen was no longer the Jensen. The dream had transformed it into a hearse, with a coffin stowed in the back. A flowery wreath was propped up on the coffin, facing away from Sam so that he saw the letters of the deceased’s name in reverse.