James Craig - What Dies Inside

‘What kind of sick fuck. .’ Gerry Durkan let the question trail away as he recalled that he had urgent business to attend to. ‘I’m sorry, Hilda,’ he mumbled, switching off the light as he stumbled out on to the landing.

‘What the fuck has been going on next door?’

‘Huh?’ Gerry Durkan looked up from the stack of tenners he was busily stuffing into a battered Gola shoulder bag to see a large bloke in a leather jacket standing in his bedroom doorway. Slowly getting to his feet, he retreated to the corner of the room. ‘Who the fuck are you?’

‘You know your biggest problem?’ Harry Cahill kept one hand in his pocket as he gestured towards Durkan with the other. ‘Apart from the fact that you’ve just been nicked, of course.’

‘Copper?’ Durkan asked, feeling the Browning against his spine as he backed up against the wall.

‘Special Branch,’ Cahill confirmed, enjoying his moment of victory. ‘We’ve been after you for a while.’

‘I can imagine,’ Durkan grinned, wondering if the guy was armed and if he was alone. A quick glance out of the window showed no evidence of any back-up. As for being armed, well, he would just have to take his chances.

‘What you need to imagine,’ Cahill observed, ‘is what’s going to happen to you when people realise that the Brighton bomber is also a granny-fucking rapist. That really isn’t going to help much with the Gerry Durkan legend. I don’t expect you’ll last too long in prison.’

‘I didn’t kill her,’ Durkan said quietly. ‘She was my landlady — a nice old girl.’

‘Maybe you did, maybe you didn’t.’ The inspector made a disgusted face as he pulled a Smith amp; Wesson revolver from the pocket of his jacket. ‘But the way I see it, it’s just another easy win.’ He gestured with the gun. ‘Now turn round and get back on to your knees, so I can cuff you.’

‘Anything you say,’ Durkan shrugged.

‘Turn around,’ the inspector repeated.

‘You’re the boss, copper.’ Then as Cahill fumbled for the handcuffs with his free hand, Durkan pulled the Browning from the waistband of his trousers, lifting the barrel to chest height in one smooth motion. ‘Or, then again, maybe not.’

‘Holy fucking shit!’ The inspector jumped backwards like a scalded cat. Letting the cuffs fall to the floor, he barely managed to keep a grip on the Smith amp; Wesson in his other hand. Realising the enormity of his mistake, Cahill tried to consider his options. Nothing immediately came to mind. All that registered in his brain was the blood pounding in his ears and the lack of spittle in his mouth. Licking his lips, he stared into the smirking face of Gerry Durkan.

Is this bastard the last thing I am going to see in this life?

Clenching his buttocks tightly together, Cahill took a deep breath before exhaling slowly. ‘Now, son, let’s not do anything hasty.’

‘Don’t “son” me, you bastard,’ Durkan sneered. Adjusting his feet, he wrapped both hands around the Browning’s grip. ‘This is one pissing contest that you’ve lost.’ Pulling hard on the heavy trigger, he heard the bang and felt the recoil travelling up his arms. ‘So fuck you.’

Hit smack in the middle of his chest, Cahill dropped his weapon and staggered back through the door, collapsing on to the landing. Retrieving the man’s revolver from the carpet, Durkan tossed it into the bag containing his cash. Standing over the policeman, he listened to Cahill’s rasping breath as the blood seeped through his shirt and on to the carpet. His face was white and his eyes had lost their focus. He was clearly on the way out. No need to waste another bullet.

‘Thanks for the gun,’ Durkan hissed, as he fell to his knees next to Cahill. ‘All contributions to the struggle gratefully received.’ He gestured towards the leather jacket. ‘Let’s just see what else you’ve got before I go, shall we?’ Slapping away the dying man’s feeble blows, he quickly began going through his pockets.

The Mowlam Arms had filled up in the last couple of hours, but not by much. Gerry Durkan dropped his holdall next to the footrail and placed a pound note and a selection of coins on the bar. Catching the barman’s eye, he signalled towards the bottle of Powers Gold Label sitting amongst a random selection of spirits on a shelf above the cash register. ‘Make it a double.’ Nodding, the barman reached for a less than clean-looking shot glass. The TV on the far end of the bar was showing an episode of The Bill . For a few moments, Durkan allowed himself to be distracted by the new cop show, but he wasn’t really that interested. He had sat with Hilda and watched one of the first episodes a few weeks earlier, quickly concluding that it wouldn’t last for long. The life of your average British plod just wasn’t interesting enough to sustain a long-running television series. In his book, there hadn’t been a decent cop show on the telly since Target .

At least the television’s sound was down, so the lame drama wouldn’t distract the serious drinkers scattered around the bar. As ITV went into a commercial break, the barman handed Durkan his drink. Not waiting on ceremony, he downed the whiskey in one. It didn’t taste great but he asked for another anyway. The adrenalin from his encounter with Harry Cahill was wearing off and he felt weary. Taking his new drink, he paid the barman, grabbed his bag and retreated to a table in a lonely spot at the back of the pub. Here, he sat and contemplated the rather unfortunate turn of events and asked himself where things would likely go from here. Clearly, the Special Branch man would be found soon enough. Once that happened, the police search for him would only intensify.

Should he run? Or should he go to ground in the city? The police, along with the other organs of the state, had the resources to deal with either scenario. Durkan could feel the tiredness eating into his bones. For several moments, he stared vacantly into the middle distance. Still undecided as to his next move, he pulled Cahill’s wallet from his jacket and began rifling through its contents. Aside from a warrant card, two five-pound notes and a small foil wrapper containing a single Durex Elite condom, there was a crumpled photograph which had been folded several times before being shoved into the wallet. Taking another sip of his drink, Durkan flattened the picture out on the table and studied it carefully.

Without doubt, it was a surveillance photograph, taken with a long-distance lens. It took him a few seconds to recognise the MI5 man, Martin Palmer, from whom he’d removed the Browning after he’d been caught snooping in Rose Murray’s flat. Durkan made a face. Why would Special Branch trail an MI5 man? Then again, he reasoned, why not? The bastards spy on everyone else.

In the picture, Palmer was leaving Hilda Blair’s house. He looked pleased with himself and he was grasping something in his left hand. With his nose less than an inch from the table, Durkan squinted at the image for several seconds before giving up. The image was too fuzzy. It was impossible to make out what the spy was holding.

What did he take from Hilda’s house?

‘Aaah. .’

Slowly, slowly, Durkan realised just what the picture was showing him. He thought back to his conversation with Palmer in Rose Murray’s flat: ‘Where did the other pair of knickers come from? Do you go round stealing women’s underwear to wank off in?’

Finishing his drink, Durkan slumped back in his chair. ‘Jesus,’ he mumbled to himself, ‘I didn’t know the half of it, did I?’ Images of Hilda’s battered body fluttered through his brain and a wave of revulsion filled his stomach. ‘You sick fucker,’ he groaned, shaking his head in disbelief, ‘I hope you get what you truly deserve.’