James Craig - The Circus

Not that it really mattered when it was being aimed straight at your heart. A wave of angst and frustration washed over him as once more he asked himself: Why does this have to be my problem?

‘It’s okay,’ he repeated, now nervously eyeing the Rolex Submariner on his left wrist. Maybe he should just hand it over. ‘I’m going. I didn’t see anything.’

‘Good.’ Standing on the doorstep, the robber lifted his aim to Harrington’s head and fired.

Carlyle watched Joe Szyszkowski pacing the far side of the room, mobile glued to his ear, his free hand gesturing frantically.

‘I know — I know . Look, there’s nothing I can do. . but yes, of course. .’ Glancing over at the inspector, Joe made a face and slipped out of the room and into the hallway. He would be speaking to Anita, the inspector thought smugly — receiving another verbal beating from his missus. He himself, on the other hand, had avoided getting an earful from his wife by simply turning off both of the phones nestling in his jacket. Helen wouldn’t be happy, but at least she knew the score. Anyway, she would doubtless be fast asleep by now. They could talk in the morning, maybe over breakfast together.

‘How much longer?’

Perched on the edge of the sofa, Carlyle gave Horatio Mosman a sympathetic smile. ‘Not long.’

The two policemen had been less than three blocks away from the Mosman residence in Wellington Road when Joe’s phone had started going crazy. Energized, the inspector had shot off the Snowdons’ sofa, mouthing his apologies as he headed for the door. Happy to be rescued from his painful conversation with Rosanna’s parents, he was also curious to find out whether the 999 call about a kid with an alleged bomb fastened round his neck was — as he suspected — a hoax.

Five minutes later, he knew for sure that it wasn’t.

From the pavement, they entered through a metal gate with a well-tended eight-foot hedge on either side. Signalling for the uniforms and the paramedics to wait out on the street, Carlyle lifted the latch and stepped on through. Immediately he spotted the body of a man sprawled in front of the main door of the house. He had clearly been shot in the head.

‘Joe. .’ Carlyle began, distracted by the blood seeping towards a nearby flowerbed.

The sergeant appeared at his side. ‘Fuck.’

‘Good nutrition for the roses, I suppose.’

Joe frowned. Neither of them had green fingers. ‘What about inside?’

‘No bang — yet. I’ll go in and take a look.’

Joe eyed him doubtfully. ‘Okay.’

‘Go and call for some reinforcements and I’ll give you a shout in a minute.’

I could really do with a piss and some fresh air, in that order, Carlyle thought. He had been trying to ignore the sour smell in the room for over an hour now.

‘Want something to eat?’ he asked. ‘They delivered your pizza a while back.’

The youngster started to shake his head, then quickly thought better of it. ‘I’m not hungry.’

‘Fair enough.’ The inspector smiled at young Horatio. ‘You’re doing fine. I’m sure it won’t be too much longer.’

‘I want this bloody thing off!’ the teenager wailed.

‘We’ll be as quick as possible.’

Horatio slumped back on the sofa in slow motion. ‘You don’t think it’ll go off, do you?’

‘Nah.’ This time Carlyle’s grin was genuine. ‘It’s a fake. There was something similar happened recently in — New Zealand, I think. Somewhere like that. It was just a bullshit attempt at extortion. A guy was arrested fairly quickly. I think he confessed.’

‘Uh-huh.’ The boy sniffed, not really taking in what the policeman was saying.

‘Look on the bright side. Once you get out of here, you’ll be something of a celebrity. All the girls will want to know you.’

‘I’ll settle just for getting this off.’ Horatio gestured at the collar, where the little red light continued to blink menacingly.

‘Sure.’ Carlyle glanced at a couple of explosives officers from Specialist Operations who were talking quietly in a corner. ‘They just have to go through the set procedures for this kind of thing, simply to be on the safe side.’

‘But it’s been ages now,’ the boy whimpered.

And it hasn’t gone off yet . Carlyle made a final effort at the big smile. ‘So far, so good.’

‘Mm.’

‘These guys,’ Carlyle explained, ‘they have detailed procedures to follow, even when they think — even when they really know — that the bomb’s a fake. They always take it one step at a time. Better to be on the safe side.’

‘Okay.’ Horatio wanted to be convinced, but he couldn’t quite get there.

As if on cue, the officers finished their conversation. One of them slipped out of the room while the other stepped over towards Carlyle and the boy.

‘Inspector?’

‘Yeah?’ Carlyle looked up at the squat, well-built guy with a regulation number-one haircut that showed a hint of grey at the temples. The dark rings under his flat brown eyes made him look — to the inspector’s mind — a bit like a vampire. The name stencilled on the breast pocket of his uniform said Baldwin .

‘Well?’ Carlyle prompted.

‘We’re good.’ Baldwin reached across and patted Horatio on the shoulder. ‘We’ll have it off you in a few minutes.’

‘Yeah!’ Horatio clenched a fist in triumph.

‘Thank God for that.’ Grimacing, Carlyle got to his feet and indulged in a stretch. ‘I need a comfort break.’ The last thing he wanted was to do a Gerard Depardieu and piss himself in public.

Grinning, Horatio pointed to the door. ‘There’s a guest bathroom just down the hall.’

‘Thanks,’ Carlyle replied. ‘I’ll only be a minute.’

Zipping himself up, the inspector squirted a blob of liquid soap on to his hands and turned on the wash-basin tap. After rinsing his hands, he splashed a little cold water on his face, before drying it off with a towel. It was well past midnight but the adrenalin rush had yet to wear off and he was still buzzing. ‘Good effort tonight,’ Carlyle told his reflection in the mirror. He could have been blown to bits out there, but he hadn’t bottled it. Helen would give him shit but that was nothing new. Bottom line, he was only doing his job. He flashed himself a cheesy smile. ‘When the going gets tough. .’

He was still grinning at the mirror when there was an almighty explosion somewhere nearby.

‘Fuck!’ Carlyle automatically threw his hands up to protect his face as the bathroom door flew open and the false ceiling fell in on him. Losing his footing, he felt his head bounce off something cool and smooth before he landed in a heap on the floor.

Then there was only darkness.

Where the hell am I?

Blinking in the gloom, Hannah Gillespie lay staring at the ceiling, listening as the pounding in her head alternated with the hum of traffic outside. After a while, she pushed aside the grimy duvet. Heaving herself up, she slowly swung her legs over one side of the bed. Head bowed, she tried to remember the events of the previous evening, but it was all a blank. She felt dizzy and there was a chalky taste in her mouth. Suddenly nauseous, she tried to throw up, but nothing came out.

What time was it? There was no clock, but from the daylight filtering into the room, Hannah guessed that she was already late for school. Shit! She hadn’t written that bloody essay either. Bloody hell, girl, she thought ruefully, you’ve really overdone it here. You’ll have a job to talk your way out of this one.

A tentative sniff of her T-shirt suggested a shower was in order and she also needed to pee. Grabbing her jeans from the floor, she quickly pulled them on, before shoving her feet into her trainers. Rushing over to the door, she yanked the handle. It was locked.