Nick Oldham - Backlash

The prisoner had struck without warning, although the custody sergeant had been wary of the guy from the moment he had been presented to him by the arresting officer, PC Rod Phillips.

He had started off placid and compliant, happy to stand where he had been told, a stupid lop-sided grin on his chops, while the PC outlined the circumstances of the lock-up, which was for an assault: whacking a beer glass over somebody’s head and then gouging the broken end into the guy’s face. The heavily blood-stained prisoner intimated he understood the reason for his arrest, and offered his name — Kit Nevison — address and date of birth quite willingly. He seemed to be acting rationally, did not smell too strongly of booze, and kept that inane smile on his face. The custody sergeant did notice he had glassy eyes with dilated pupils and he wondered if the prisoner was on speed. When asked, Nevison emptied his pockets and dropped the contents onto the desk.

As the sergeant listed the property on the custody record, a female duty solicitor was shown into the office. The sergeant glanced past Nevison and smiled at her. ‘Come to see Grant?’ he asked, referring to another prisoner. The solicitor nodded. ‘Be right with you — soon as this chap’s been booked in.’ The solicitor moved to the back wall of the room and leaned patiently against it.

Nevison turned slightly so he could watch her unobtrusively.

‘Just stand back a bit and extend your arms out to the side, Kit,’ PC Phillips instructed him.

The prisoner obeyed and the body search began. But as the arresting officer moved in and invaded his personal space, he reacted — or, in police terminology, ‘kicked off’.

Somehow, from somewhere — probably from down a sleeve — a triple-bladed Stanley knife appeared in the man’s right hand; triple bladed in that three blades had been superglued together side by side, thus ensuring that the injuries it would cause would be three times more difficult to stitch together.

With a manic scream, Nevison slashed the knife down across PC Phillips’ face, first one way, then back the opposite way, literally slicing the cheeks open wide. The officer reeled away, emitting a yowl of agony, his hands coming up to cover his face.

The custody sergeant immediately pressed the panic-alarm button underneath the desk and reached for his side-handled baton.

Things then went from bad to worse. Nevison spun round and grabbed the female duty solicitor.

It took Henry less than thirty seconds to reach the custody office.

‘Inspector to Blackpool,’ he said into his radio, ‘buzz me through to the cells.’

He leaned on the barred gate, his eyes surveying the scene as the communications operator several floors above released the catch. He stepped into the danger zone. The high-pitched alarm still sounded.

PC Phillips was doubled over on the floor by the custody desk, holding his damaged face, blood dribbling through the gaps in his fingers. He was making a noise which was a cross between a gurgle and a moan of pain. Henry could see the wide-open gashes across his face.

Beyond the wounded PC was the custody sergeant, baton extended, standing there hesitantly. When he glanced back over his shoulder and saw Henry, the relief on his face was visible. Beyond him was the cause of the problem: Kit Nevison holding a woman hostage, the triple-bladed Stanley knife stuck into her neck, a line of blood trickling down from the cut, disappearing behind the high collar of her blouse and then blossoming out into a crimson stain.

Henry recognised Nevison immediately. Local trouble maker and hard man. Convictions well into double figures for petty dishonesty offences and a string of assaults which were becoming progressively more serious. He was a man on the verge of being a psychopath, a man who, one day, would definitely kill someone, enjoy it and then probably kill again — unless he got caught. He was a heroin addict and the combination of an unbalanced mind and dangerous chemicals made him very unstable and volatile. Henry had dealt with him several times over the years and had tried to have him sectioned into mental institutions, but had never succeeded beyond the short term.

Henry allowed himself an inner smile. He had been back on duty less than ten minutes and was already faced with a bit of a challenge. The good thing was that he was relishing it.

‘Fuckin’ come any closer and I’ll cut the bitch’s head off,’ Nevison warned. ‘Especially you.’ He pointed at Henry with the blade. ‘Especially you,’ he reiterated more strongly, ‘because you are a CUNT!’ he screamed.

Henry and the custody sergeant were perhaps eight feet away from Nevison.

‘OK, Kit, we’re moving back,’ Henry said placatingly. He laid a steady hand on the sergeant’s arm and intimated a slight withdrawal, just a couple of steps. ‘Who’s the woman?’ Henry rasped under his breath.

‘Beth Young, duty solicitor,’ the sergeant hissed through the side of his mouth.

‘Is there an ambulance coming?’

‘Not that I know of.’

Henry looked over his shoulder. A gaggle of onlookers had gathered at the barred door, gawping in. ‘Someone call an ambulance — now,’ he instructed. He turned back and kept his eyes on Nevison who was jigging agitatedly, the knife dangerously close to the woman’s throat. ‘You see to Rod,’ he said to the sergeant, gesturing at the injured PC. ‘Get him out of here and away.’

‘What about you?’

‘I’ll be fine — and get that alarm switched off.’

The sergeant nodded and bent to deal with the slashed PC.

Henry placed his radio upright on the custody desk, leaned nonchalantly against the desk itself and regarded Nevison and the hostage through calculating eyes, the glimmer of a smile not far away from his lips.

Nevison looked Henry in the eye and sneered down the bridge of his large bent nose at him.

Standoff.

The din of the alarm subsided, leaving a nagging echo battering round the walls.

‘OK, Kit, what’s all this about?’ Henry asked evenly. His eyes did not acknowledge the woman even though he was agonisingly aware she was staring pleadingly at him. He did not engage her eyes because he did not want to give her any false hope in a reassuring look. Not very long ago he had faced a similar situation and the woman had died. He had learned his lesson the hardest way possible, and was focused exclusively on Nevison.

‘It’s about life and death,’ Nevison responded with a growl. He grinned stupidly. Henry tried not to blink as he realised Nevison had completely lost it. ‘I want to slit this cunt’s throat and saw her fucking head off. . because I want to and you are not going to stop me and if you try I’ll cut you to fucking pieces.’

Ah well, that’s cleared that up nicely, Henry thought. Nevison wants to kill someone. His life had reached the point of no return — as Henry had suspected it would one day — and unless he could be talked down, this little scenario was probably going to end with more blood spilled on the custody office floor than usual.

‘Now, come on, Kit, you know that’s not the way to talk,’ Henry said smoothly. ‘There’s no profit in that, not for anyone — you, me, her — everyone’ll suffer and it doesn’t have to be that way.’

‘Really, pig bastard?’ Nevison twisted the point of the blade into the woman’s neck. She gasped and squealed. Nevison’s large dirty hand clamped over her nose and mouth, stifling the noise, almost suffocating her. She was on the point of collapse.

Henry quickly raised his hands, palms out. ‘Whoa. Hold on, Kit,’ he said, probably too quickly, betraying his anxiety. ‘Let’s take a step back from this. . Think what you’re doing, Kit.’ Henry’s mind galloped, because he wasn’t a hundred per cent sure what he was doing either: the words just babbled out as he played for some time and a possible advantage. ‘Come on, man, come on. . cool it. . ease off.’ He was working out the distance between himself and Nevison, estimating whether he could reach the woman before she got carved and her jugular sliced open. Henry had a dreadful image of himself and Nevison fighting, slopping and sliding around in her blood. If he moved, it would have to be fast, hard and decisive.