Nick Oldham - Backlash

Henry caught the hand and pinned it down.

She wriggled, twisted and bucked underneath him. Henry took his time. His weight moved over her, straddling her chest, never letting go or losing concentration, a smile of triumph on his face, which was probably lost to her in the darkness.

Then his colleagues burst round the corner onto the scene. The chase was over.

Though manhandled by three burly cops and in handcuffs, this did not prevent the woman from fighting and struggling all the way back to the personnel carrier. The gestures were futile but she obviously believed they had to be made. Allegations were already being screamed about police brutality and violation of human rights.

Once inside the carrier the struggle against the oppressive regime continued. Eventually, his patience running low, Henry ordered his men to lay her out on the floor and sit on her. He flicked on the interior lights illuminating the inside of the vehicle brightly.

He reached for the top of her ski mask and with a flourish — ‘Da-daah!’ — something he later regretted because it was unprofessional, he yanked the mask off and revealed her face to the world.

The fight went out of her as though the mask somehow gave her courage. Now exposed, she was weak and vulnerable. She glared defiantly at Henry. A wild cat cornered.

Rings were in her nostrils, eyebrows, lips; studs were in her ears. Her hair was bright red with a green diagonal flash across it. The expression on her face reminded Henry of one of Mel Gibson’s Lethal Weapon looks. Mad and bad.

Before Henry could utter a word, all the personal radios blared out in unison. ‘Inspector Christie receiving?’

Henry turned away and said, ‘Go ahead.’ There was a certain amount of trepidation in his voice, having recognised the less than sweet tones of the person calling him.

‘ACC Fanshaw-Bayley here,’ came the clipped, no-nonsense tone. ‘Come in and see me immediately, Inspector.’

No ‘please’, no politeness. Just arrogance of rank. Henry hated him.

‘Roger,’ he responded pleasantly, wondering what the bastard wanted.

On the way back to the station Henry found himself chewing his thumbnail, biting little pieces off and spitting them off the tip of his tongue. When he realised he was doing this he ceased immediately and sat upright rather sheepishly. He knew exactly why he was doing it: it was the thought of coming face to face with Robert Fanshaw-Bayley, ACC (Operations), referred to widely as FB by most people. He was a small, bull-like man who had spent his entire career with Lancashire Constabulary which was quite exceptional in modern times when officers of that rank usually flitted about like butterflies from force to force. No other force would bloody well have him, Henry thought. Who would wish to take on someone who combined the management styles of Hitler and Genghis Khan with a hint of Stalin?

The relationship between Henry and FB went back a long way. It had never been a smooth association because of the ruthless way in which FB had often used Henry’s skills in situations which had almost cost Henry his life. Henry had always come up trumps for FB in terms of results but with hardly ever a word of gratitude from the higher-ranking officer.

Yeah. . Henry had always done the business and this was how he had been repaid: booted off CID, dumped into uniform. Instinctively Henry glanced down at the public-order gear he was wearing and took stock of how he was feeling physically. In his steel toe-capped boots his feet were swollen and the boots were now tight and chafing. Somewhere down beneath his right big toe a lovely blister had blossomed. His legs were jittery and weak and he was experiencing a great deal of pain from the two physical confrontations he’d had that evening. Muscles not used in many a month had been brought speedily out of semi-retirement to do things alien to them. A dullish throb pounded remorselessly in his head over the bridge of his nose. In all, he felt like shit.

So thanks a bunch, FB. Thanks a bundle for transferring me from the refined, laid-back, super-cool calm of the role of detective inspector and putting me head first into this Godforsaken mother of a job. Two fights, one riot, arson, an officer critically injured, another slashed open with a Stanley knife. Henry was more used to picking up the pieces, not being there when things were being smashed.

Instead of biting his nails, he ground his teeth, ensuring his headache went up a few more notches on the Richter scale.

The transfer to uniform duties had come out of the blue.

Henry had been off sick for the best part of two months, stressed up to the eyeballs, trying to sort his head out and get his life into some sort of order after almost a year of false starts. He’d been to see his tame GP in the middle of the previous week. With reservations, Henry had said he was feeling better, needed to get back to work, needed something to occupy his time. Yes, I am thinking straight, he’d answered the doctor’s question. Sleep was OK-ish. Still can’t shake off the nightmare, but it was getting less frequent. I don’t snap at everybody all the time now, I’m even coming to terms with being divorced, he’d told him. (That, Henry admitted, had been a very difficult thing to say out loud: ‘My ex-wife.’ It was the first time he had ever actually voiced the phrase. It had felt very uncomfortable coming off his tongue. My ex-wife! Christ!) Blood pressure’s down. Had a few counselling sessions. Haven’t drunk a drop for. . well, three days. Yep, I’m as right as rain.

The doctor had looked at Henry in disbelief. Eventually he had sighed and relented. ‘I’ll sign you back to start next Monday.’

Oh my God, Henry had thought desperately on leaving the health centre, clutching the doctor’s note. What have I done?

With a great deal of trepidation he had phoned his detective chief inspector to announce his imminent return to work. He should have suspected something was not quite right when he became aware of the hesitation in his supervisor’s voice. He had not seemed comfortable talking to Henry, had been evasive, extremely vague and non-committal when it came to answering questions, and it had only been when he had told Henry that Fanshaw-Bayley wanted to see him that the alarm bells had clanged in Henry’s brain.

FB? Why the hell would Fanshaw-Bayley want to talk to him?

‘Dunno.’ The chief inspector had responded sheepishly to the question.

‘OK — see you Monday then,’ Henry had said cheerfully.

‘Yeah.’ The relief at having the conversation over had been apparent even in that short, single syllable.

Henry had hung up thoughtfully. Something just not right.

After a few deep breaths he had phoned headquarters and asked to be put through to FB. He had not expected to be connected, because people at that level are secretary-protected, so it was no surprise when Lucy, FB’s newish secretary, had come on the line. What was of greater astonishment was that she had immediately put him through to FB who spoke in a particularly fawning, falsely caring tone.

‘Henry? How are you? It’s so good of you to call. You must be feeling better — coming back Monday. That’s fantastic. Really sorry I haven’t had any chance to speak to you while you were off. . busy, y’know. Anyway, I do need to have a word with you. I’d love to pop over and have a chat, but I’m tied up all day in meetings with just one window. How about three p.m. for fifteen minutes? Can you make it? Splendid. Look forward to seeing you.’ Clunk. Conversation concluded.

Henry had been left holding a dead phone which had given off bad vibes.

He had made it to headquarters with ten minutes to spare, driving Fiona’s car in through the gates and parking in one of the visitors’ bays outside the front doors of the building. He looked across the rugby pitch and even now, the grass was still charred where the helicopter had exploded.