Nick Oldham - Backlash

The fire tried to catch her as she leapt through it. She could feel incredible heat beneath the soles of her shoes and the flames shooting up her legs, underneath her skirt. It was only momentary. In a split second she was through the flames, emerging from them like a phoenix. Unscathed.

Which could not be said for Dave Seymour as he hit the shop door, bursting it open and tumbling through, twisting and writhing. He was ablaze.

Seymour could not see anything that made any sense to him. His vision was a blur, an out-of-focus lens disorientating him. Neither could he hear anything. The chants behind him turned into an all-encompassing, rushing and booming noise, surrounding him completely, like being deep underwater. He could feel the fire. Burning him, frying him — from his belly to the underside of his chin.

He knew he was screaming, knew he was being burned alive.

Roscoe reacted without a second’s thought or moment’s hesitation. A surge of grade-A adrenaline sluiced into her system. She dived for Seymour instinctively thinking: Get him down, get him on the floor, smother the flames.

She grabbed one of his arms, but in his own blind panic he wrenched it away from her, lost his balance and crashed into a wire magazine display. He stayed on his feet and staggered down the main aisle of the shop, fresh produce on one side, tinned goods and hardware on the other. Still screaming, writhing, twisting.

‘Dave!’ Roscoe bellowed — to no effect. She lunged for him again and leapt onto his back, riding him, trying to over-balance him and take him down, put him to the floor. ‘Get the fuck down!’ she hissed through clenched teeth.

At the end of the aisle, he crashed into the chilled food display. Seymour fell over, but backwards, onto Roscoe who suddenly found herself trapped under his bulk.

The fire blazed up him. He screamed again.

Rafiq appeared from behind the counter, moving quickly through the last of the flames from the petrol bombs. He was holding a fire extinguisher which he directed at Seymour. Within seconds Seymour had been put out. Rafiq then turned what was left in the extinguisher onto the petrol bomb flames.

Roscoe heaved Seymour to one side and got shakily to her knees, looking down at the huge detective who lay there, semi-comatose, with severe burns all the way up his front. Her mouth sagged open with shock. The adrenaline left her system as quickly as it had entered. She felt sick, weak and dithery, needing a sugar boost.

Her hand went for her radio to call in for assistance. Before she could speak, every window in the shop was smashed, bricks, half-bricks, rocks, stones, flying through, sending glass showering everywhere. She instinctively ducked down and tried to cover the vulnerable Seymour as the missiles landed all around like meteors crashing in from outer space.

The thrill had never gone for Henry Christie. Even approaching the twenty-five-year mark in his career had failed to diminish the excitement, the rush, the exhilaration of sitting in a cop car, all lights blazing, two-tones shrieking, driving with considered recklessness through traffic, shooting red lights, going the wrong direction up one-way streets, heading to some emergency or other. The emergency in this case being other cops needing assistance.

Henry had a slightly fixed, wonky grin slapped across his face as Dermot Byrne pushed the under-powered Vauxhall Astra at crazy breakneck speeds through the crowded streets of Blackpool. Henry’s right foot instinctively pushed down on an imaginary brake pedal. His left hand clutched the broken arm rest on the door, steadying himself as the car lurched round corners, apparently on two wheels, and skidded out of the turn, the back end twitching on the wet roads. But Byrne handled the car with great expertise and experience, taking it all the way to its limits where possible, holding back when necessary. All the while he concentrated totally on the function of driving. Henry, while tense, was never in fear.

Henry handled the communications side of things.

Normally the radio channel was not on ‘talk-through’. This meant that transmissions from patrols could only be heard by communications room and selected other receivers, such as the radio console in the inspectors’ office, and not by other patrols. This enabled communications to keep tight control over radio traffic, which sometimes had a tendency to deteriorate when patrols could chat to one another without discipline. There were occasions when it was appropriate to override this and put talk-through on. This, Henry deemed, was one of those times, because he wanted to hear directly from the officers in trouble and not have to wait for their messages to be relayed by communications staff, efficient though they were.

‘Tell patrols to maintain strict radio discipline,’ he said into his personal radio, ‘then put us on talk-through,’ he instructed communications.

‘Roger.’ Communications transmitted the command and flicked the button.

The first voice they heard belonged to Jane Roscoe. For some unaccountable reason, Henry’s heart tightened at the sound.

‘. . pinned down in Khan’s shop. Must be well over thirty of them outside. . very well organised. . petrol bombs and bricks still coming. We need the fire brigade and an ambulance — Dave Seymour’s been badly injured. Someone’s going to die if we don’t get out of here soon. .’

Henry turned to Byrne. ‘Can you make this thing go faster?’ he demanded.

Byrne — focused on the driving — nodded. ‘Yeah.’ And miraculously, from somewhere deep down, the car speeded up.

Henry cut into Roscoe’s radio transmission. ‘Inspector Christie to DI Roscoe — keep your head down. We’ll be with you very soon.’

‘Thanks,’ she breathed. Henry could feel the tension in her voice, and the relief, yet she still sounded very cool. Henry was impressed.

‘Communications?’ he said. ‘Did you get that about the fire brigade and ambulance?’

‘Onto them now.’

‘Inspector Christie — be careful when you approach-’ Her voice stopped abruptly. Henry heard a bang, some rustling and a heavy breath being expelled. Then a crash. ‘Another petrol bomb,’ Roscoe’s voice came back. ‘Yeah, Henry, watch yourself. This is a well-organised job, so do it right. I want to get out of here in one piece. Wouldn’t be surprised if ambushes have been laid — scanners’ll be in use too.’

‘Thanks for that,’ Henry acknowledged. She really was cool, telling him not to get into a position where he too would be trapped. ‘Inspector to Blackpool,’ Henry barked, getting well into the inspector mode now. He was aware that for the first time in months he was thinking clearly, buzzing and, perversely, enjoying himself. This was fun of the highest, gut-wrenching order.

‘Inspector — go ahead.’

‘If you haven’t already got a log running for this — get one. Also inform the superintendent on cover if she doesn’t already know, and deploy all patrols to an RV point on Preston New Road, junction Kentmere Drive. Ask them to meet me and PS Byrne there for further instructions, and tell them to be getting into their public-order gear just in case. No one is to drive onto Shoreside without my express permission — understood? If anyone is already there, tell them to withdraw to the RV point now! Pass the location of the RV point to the fire brigade and ambulance. Advise them not to go onto the estate without speaking to me first. Got all that?’ Henry knew he had been speaking quickly, speaking as the thoughts tumbled through his mind. ‘And also turn out the helicopter, please.’

‘Roger,’ the very in-control communications operator responded, taking charge of Henry’s requests in the sort of smooth, unhurried manner Henry could only dream of. ‘And by the way,’ the operator added, ‘treble-nines coming in thick and fast from Shoreside residents now.’