Nick Oldham - Critical Threat

The dog took a few more steps in their direction, moving more like a leopard than a canine.

Henry swallowed. Bill slowly withdrew his Glock, his hand shaking, desperate not to make a sudden move.

‘Think it’ll let us go back the way we came?’

‘Only minus our balls,’ Bill said.

His dithering hand came out with the gun.

Henry laid a hand on his forearm. ‘Back up slowly to the door,’ he said. ‘It might be open. One step at a time.’

As they stepped back one, the dog stepped forwards one. It was like some ritualistic dance of death. They dog knew it had them, had all the time in the world. Henry could see its eyes as it looked from one, then to the other human, deciding which to savage first.

Henry caught his heel and nearly tumbled over on to his arse, but steadied himself, knowing that a quick movement could precipitate a charge.

Bill had slowly raised the Glock, easing his left hand under his right to support the weapon, aiming at the dog’s head, somewhere at a point where a cross drawn between the eyes and ears met — centre skull.

About ten feet separated them from the animal. If it leapt towards them now, it would be on them in a flash.

Each man stepped carefully back, tension coursing through them.

‘It’s fuckin’ playing with us,’ Henry said, his terror growing. Why couldn’t a back yard be guarded by some knife-wielding maniac, or someone with a machine gun? Both would have been preferable to this.

The dog growled again, a primeval sound expertly designed to turn would-be prey into immoveable lumps. It worked.

Then Henry heard something from behind, inside the Class Act. The sliding of a bolt. Yes, he almost jumped for joy; the WPC had obviously managed to get inside. She had made her way through to the back of the premises to let them in.

There was further noise from inside. Keys being turned. More bolts sliding.

Bill removed his left hand, the supporting hand, from underneath the gun and it went to his PR transmitter button and mike affixed to the outside of his jacket on his left shoulder.

‘Get the door open, Carly,’ he said urgently, without preamble. ‘Get it open now.’

‘Why?’

‘Because we’re about to be attacked by a pit bull.’

There was more noise behind the door, something being dragged away, a scraping. ‘It’s stuck,’ she said. ‘This bolt is stuck.’

Henry could sense the dog was about to launch itself. It quivered, collecting itself, bracing itself and then it happened and it was hurtling towards Henry.

He saw it rise up into the air, ears pinned back, teeth bared, like a beast from hell. He found himself rooted to the spot, unable to move a muscle. The height it reached was incredible and it could easily have latched its jaws on to Henry’s face, but at the last moment, when Henry believed he could smell its deathly breath, his survival instinct cut in and made him move. He twisted desperately away, raised his forearm in self-defence and at the same time, Bill lashed out and kicked the animal in the stomach with his steel toe-capped boots, sending it sprawling across the yard.

But this was no lapdog, which would go away cowering and whining.

As it landed on the concrete, it immediately regained its feet and launched itself back at the cops, its claws scratching the floor for leverage.

In that moment, the WPC wrenched back the sticking bolt and yanked open the door.

Bill scrambled in, leaving Henry still outside to face the oncoming savagery of the dog, which had now got ten degrees madder.

Henry’s instinct for self-preservation took over. A slight slip of the pit bull as it clawed its way to him gave him an instant to do something. Stacked up next to him in a precarious pile were a dozen plastic beer crates. He grabbed them and toppled them into the gap between himself and the pooch, pushing them over the dog as they fell. In terms of hurting the dog, they were ineffective, but they impeded its charge and gave Henry that extra moment to turn and throw himself through the open door, which was slammed shut behind him by the WPC.

Henry dropped his hands to his knees, gasping for air, almost retching. Bill had adopted much the same position. They traded glances, blowing out their cheeks, a connection between them having just avoided a mauling. Outside, the dog howled in frustration and clawed at the door like a monster from a horror movie.

Henry stood up.

Bill holstered the Glock. ‘That was fuckin’ close.’

Everything on Henry was shaking. He took several deep breaths.

Eventually both got their breath back, and their manhood.

‘Thanks,’ Henry said to the female officer. ‘Carly, isn’t it?’

‘Yeah — no probs,’ she said — but the expression on her face told a different story.

‘How did you manage to get in?’

‘Member of staff turning up for work,’ she said, unsteadily.

‘Hey — it’s all right,’ Henry said, picking up on her voice. ‘We’re OK.’

‘I’m not bothered about you,’ she said. ‘Back there.’ She pointed down the corridor into the building. ‘Blood everywhere.’

‘Bodies?’ Henry asked.

She shook her head. ‘I haven’t seen anyone, but it’s a blood bath.’

‘Let’s go see.’

Carly led them through to the main body of the Class Act by way of a storeroom, through another door and they emerged into the main bar room, coming in behind the bar itself, which was long and wide. The lights had been turned on and Henry could see the place was an unkempt dive. It reeked of stale beer and cigarette smoke, which was only to be expected, perhaps; but it was also a dirty mess with hundreds of uncollected glasses on the bar top and tables, all the ashtrays full to overflowing. There was a small dance floor to one side, next to which was a raised circular stage from which a pole rose to the ceiling. Henry could visualize the customer base immediately: the best of Blackburn.

A thin blonde woman sat at one of the tables, smoking, looking at them nervously.

‘That the staff member?’ Henry asked.

‘Yeah, she’s the pole dancer. I told her to stay put.’

‘Where’s the blood?’

Carly showed the way across the bar, weaving through tables over sticky carpets, crunching with broken glass and savoury snacks, through another door leading to the tiled entrance foyer behind the front doors. Henry could hear the traffic passing on Mincing Lane. Carly held out an arm to stop them going any further. ‘Here,’ she said. Bill peered over her shoulder. Henry was by her side, maybe half a step behind her, her raised arm preventing him from going any further. His jaw literally dropped. Blood was everywhere inside the foyer. All over the floor, up the walls, runny and congealing. ‘I came in, slithered a bit, saw what I’d been standing in and after I’d dumped the dancer in the bar, I ran through to the back door. I know my way round the place,’ she explained. ‘Been to a few jobs here in my time.’

There were two more doors off the foyer. One, closed, had the word ‘Private’ stamped on it and another, slightly ajar, had a sign with the word ‘Snug’ on it.

‘That’s the posh bar in there, I take it?’ Henry said.

‘And kitchen,’ Carly said, missing Henry’s stab at irony.

Henry took a few seconds to look at the blood. Something major had taken place here and he would have bet his underwear it was connected to the phone call from Jackie Kippax.

‘Looks like someone’s been dragged through there,’ Bill said, pointing to the ‘snug’ bar. There was a smeared trail of blood leading towards the door.

‘Yeah,’ Henry agreed. ‘Let’s take a look and do your best to keep your feet out of the blood if at all possible.’