Tom Graham: Blood, Bullets and Blue Stratos

Tyres screamed. Grey, urban streets flashed past. Gene floored the gas as Sam floored an imaginary brake pedal.

‘Right, pay attention,’ Gene ordered, flinging the wheel recklessly back and forth as he weaved through the traffic. ‘We got a warning phoned through a little under an hour ago saying there was a pack of high explosives rigged up and ready to go pop in the local council records office.’

‘Was an IRA codeword given?’ asked Sam.

‘No, but we’re not taking any chances,’ said Gene. ‘There’s been a lot of angry Paddies on the move recently. We’ve been waiting for something like this to happen, so we’re assuming it’s the real thing.’

‘That makes sense,’ said Sam. ‘But what about Bomb Disposal?’

Gene shrugged.

‘And what does that shrug mean, Guv? We need Bomb Disposal down here. They should be dealing with this.’

‘We’re still waiting for them bone-idle bastards to get ’emselves out of bed,’ growled Gene, flagrantly roaring through a red light.

‘So what are we going to do?’

‘Well, until they deign to show up and start snipping wires, this is our shout.’

‘Guv, we’re not qualified to start messing about with explosives.’

‘And neither are they. You ever met any of them Bomb Disposal ’erberts? Half of ’em can’t even read.’

‘We need to cordon off the records office and keep the area secure until Bomb Disposal and Special Branch show up,’ said Sam. ‘It’s a terrorist incident. That’s their jurisdiction.’

‘Their “jurisdiction”? Nicking villains, Sammy-boy, that’s my jurisdiction, no matter what shape, size, colour or flavour they come in. Bombs and bastards and big blokes with shooters, it’s all the same to me. And I don’t plan sitting around on my pert and perfectly formed arse waiting for Special Branch to saunter over, not when things are kicking off right under my nose. So if you don’t mind, Tyler’ — the Cortina tilted noisily onto two wheels as Gene belted round a tight corner and Sam gripped the dashboard — ‘just remember which one of us two is the boss. You diddlin’?’

‘Guv, you can’t muck about, not where Special Branch are concer-’

Gene threw the Cortina ferociously around another tight bend, cutting Sam off in mid-sentence.

‘You didn’t answer my question, Tyler. I said are you diddlin’?’

Sam backed down. ‘I’m diddlin’, Guv.’

‘Lovely lad.’

The Cortina howled on, bouncing and veering at breakneck pace, until the drab, grey shape of the council records office appeared up ahead, standing out against the hard Manchester sky. Police cars were skewed across the road. Uniformed coppers were busy stringing up blue police cordons and trying to shepherd the already growing crowd of curious gawpers.

Gene gunned the engine, powering forward recklessly and sending people scattering out of the way like frightened rabbits. When he hit the brakes and brought the car to a lurching stop, Sam found that he had been holding his breath.

Gene shot him a glance. ‘Woken up now, have we?’

‘It still feels like a nightmare to me, ’ said Sam, as he clambered out of the car.

Striding with Gene through the uniformed officers and rubbernecking sightseers, Sam spotted DS Ray Carling and DC Chris Skelton. Ray had wrenched his tie loose and flung open the top two buttons of his blue, wing-collared shirt to reveal a masculine flash of blond chest hair. He was in his element, barking orders at the uniformed coppers and snapping at the public to get their ruddy arses back, back, back ! Beside him was the youthful Chris, his dark hair flopping anxiously across his left eye, his knitted tank-top already darkening with sweat as he rushed about assisting Ray. He looked overwhelmed and fretful, as if he was expecting the crowd to suddenly rise up and lynch him at any moment, or for the council offices to suddenly go nuclear and blow them all to kingdom come.

For a moment, Sam recalled how Chris and Ray had appeared to him in his nightmare. Their taunts echoed momentarily through his mind:

You’re not in 1973. You’re in hell.

And then he saw Chris struggling to stop a kid on a Chopper bike from getting under the police cordon, and Ray shovelling stick after stick of Juicy Fruit into his mouth as he strutted about aggressively jabbing his finger and bellowing orders, and all at once the menace they had possessed in the dream evaporated like morning dew.

Forget those damned dreams, Sam told himself. It’s just Chris and Ray, your old team. And you, Sam, you’re a copper, you’ve got a job to do.

Gene cruised forward, shoulders pushed back, belly sucked in. He back-handed the kid on the Chopper out of the way, ducked under the police tape, and surveyed the records office.

‘Speak to me, Ray. What’s the score? Anyone inside that place?’

‘The building’s evacuated, Guv,’ said Ray. ‘Leastways, it’s meant to be. Chris reckons he saw somebody up at one of the windows.’

‘I can’t swear to it,’ said Chris. ‘I thought I saw a bloke up there moving about, dead calm like.’

‘Could be one of the morning cleaners,’ said Sam.

‘Maybe,’ said Chris, frowning and looking confused. ‘Or it might just have been a reflection … You know, a seagull or summat like that.’

‘A seagull?’ snapped Ray. ‘You never said you thought it was a seagull.’

‘I didn’t think it was a seagull, not at the time.’

‘You said it were definitely a bloke, Chris.’

‘Yeah, I did. It were definitely a bloke — or a seagull.’

‘Can’t you tell the difference?’

‘Normally. But the more I try to remember, the less certain I am.’

‘Well, did it have a mop and bucket or a beak and bloody wings?’

‘I don’t know now, Ray. It’s doing my head in. I wish I hadn’t said anything.’

Sam peered hard at the rows of windows, and then, quite suddenly, he glimpsed something move.

‘You were quite right, Chris,’ he said, pointing. ‘There’s a fella up there. Second floor, three windows in from the edge of the building.’

Everybody looked. A man was moving about in a second-floor window, making no attempt to hide himself.

Chris’s expression went from one of screwed-up confusion to self-satisfaction in an instant. ‘See? See? I were right. I said it were a bloke, Guv. I said so. Dead observant, me — eagle-eyed, you know.’

‘Eagles, seagulls,’ muttered Gene. ‘Cancel Bomb Disposal and get Johnny Morris down here, pronto.’

Up on the second floor, a window opened and the figure leant out. It was a man, dressed in black overalls, his face completely hidden beneath a black balaclava. In the eyeholes of the balaclava glinted little circles of light — he was wearing a pair of wire-framed John Lennon glasses.

At the sight of him, Sam felt a cold shiver run up his spine. That was no cleaner, and it was certainly no early-morning council worker going through the files. It was a terrorist.

‘What the hell’s he still doing in the building?’ Sam said.

‘Planting a bomb?’ suggested Chris.

‘Well obviously , Chris — but the IRA prefer blowing up other people rather than themselves.’

‘The dopey Paddy must’ve ballsed it up,’ growled Ray.

‘Maybe he’s new,’ said Chris. ‘Hasn’t quite got the hang of it.’

‘And maybe you lot should shut up and take cover,’ Gene suddenly intoned. ‘ Get your heads down! ’

The man in the balaclava had suddenly thrust the long muzzle of an assault rifle out of the open window and was peering through the sight directly at them. Sam threw himself to the left; Ray and Chris threw themselves to the right. Gene stood motionless, unblinking, as bullets whined down and smacked into the pavement about his feet. Rounds slammed into the police patrol cars parked across the road; the titchy, mint-coloured police Austin 1300s rocked and shuddered as wing mirrors shattered and tyres blew out.