Nick Oldham: Nightmare City

By this time all three men were in the shop, facing the remaining customers and owners.

With a burst of low fire from an Uzi, the two customers who were standing side by side at the till were virtually sliced in half. As the bullets punched them full of holes, their writhing torsos, spitting and gushing blood, were thrown together against the counter. From there they quivered to the floor, where for a few moments they appeared to be fighting each other in a grisly conflict which was actually their death throes.

The owners had not moved. Terror, like a vice, gripped them, constricted their throats and held their hearts in a claw-like embrace.

The cacophony of bullets echoed away, leaving silence.

Three violent men faced two gentle men.

No one spoke until the man holding the shotgun stepped forwards. He brought the weapon up and pumped the action. He aimed it straight into the face of one of the owners, less than two inches away from his nose.

‘ Get that bastard in the back out here now,’ he said quietly. The sound of his voice was muffled by the face mask, making it more sinister and deadly. ‘Otherwise you’re next.’

He was smiling behind the mask.

He spun the barrel of the gun towards the other man. ‘You go and get him — now!’ His aim returned to the first man. ‘Or I’ll kill this fucker.’

At 7.40 p.m. Henry slumped wearily back against the cell corridor wall. He was completely shattered. The prisoners kept coming. All the cells now contained a minimum of three and it was proving a logistical nightmare to ensure that opposing fans didn’t end up in cells with each other. It was likely that by the end of the night there would be five in every cell.

‘ C’mon Shane,’ Henry urged the sallow youth who was washing the fingerprint ink off his hands in a wash basin. He had been arrested early in the day (and had missed the match) for slashing a Bolton fan across the face with a Stanley knife. He had been completely uncooperative throughout his period of detention. ‘I haven’t got all night,’ Henry geed him up.

‘ Why don’t you just fuck off,’ responded Shane, speaking into the basin. He pulled the plug. The dirty water belched away.

Henry bridled. The temptation was to smash Shane’s shaven head against the wall and say the young man had attacked him without provocation. There was no one else in the corridor, no one else to see them, one word against the other. Henry’s patience was so paper-thin that, for a fleeting moment, this was a realistic option.

Then he shrugged it away. ‘Suit yourself,’ he said with a wicked smile, ‘but I’ll lay odds that remark has completely ballsed-up any chance you had of bail. Looks like court on Monday for you.’

With his back still towards Henry, Shane stood upright. With the exception of his red Doc Marten boots which had been removed and were outside his cell door, Shane was dressed exactly as he’d arrived in the custody office: in a pair of loose-fitting jeans and nothing else. He’d lost his jacket and T-shirt long before his arrest.

He was a thin boy, no muscle, and the lily-white skin of his back was streaked with scratches and grazes where he’d been rolling around on the ground, fighting. He’d also been drinking heavily, but having been in custody for almost seven hours, he’d sobered up somewhat. The process had left him with a bad head and a mean disposition. Henry’s remark about bail rankled him.

Still facing away from the detective, he appeared to pull his jeans up, fiddling with the button and the fly for an inordinate length of time.

Henry tutted and raised his eyes.

Just then Shane spun quickly round, catching Henry unawares. In his hand was a slim flick-knife which had been concealed in the waistband of his jeans.

The silver blade shot out, locked into position.

He lunged at Henry.

At the very last moment Henry saw him coming. With a curse on his lips he pivoted out of the way. The knife plunged into thin air. Shane stumbled clumsily, slashing wildly with the blade.

Henry didn’t have time to think, only react.

The lack of any alcohol in his system was the only thing that saved him. It meant he could move quicker and with better coordination than Shane. And his six foot two, fourteen stone body (slightly overweight, but modestly fit) gave him the edge as regards power and strength.

For a brief instant, Shane was at right angles to Henry, who punched the young man on the side of the head, just below the ear.

Shane staggered away, but recovered quickly. He turned and charged at Henry, running the knife at him as though he was holding a bayonet, screaming, ‘You’re dead, you cunt!’

But the move was telegraphed, giving Henry ample time to sidestep again, like a matador. Had he wanted he could have allowed Shane to run past him, put a boot up his backside and sent him sprawling like the stupid lad he was.

But the ‘red mist’ — the police officers’ worst enemy — slotted down over his eyes like a visor.

He knew he shouldn’t. Knew it was wrong. But he’d been so wound up that afternoon that he shrugged the angel off his left shoulder and nodded conspiratorially to the devil on his right.

He parried the knife to one side with the palm of his hand, grabbed Shane’s wrist and twisted. A yelp of pain shot out of Shane’s mouth, his fingers opened, and the knife clattered harmlessly to the floor. Henry continued to apply the pressure, twisting until he was almost at the point of breaking the wrist, then he yanked Shane towards him so they were nearly face to face.

Shane’s breath reeked of stale alcohol and vomit.

Henry gave a hard, dry smile, pulled down on the wrist like he was pulling on a toilet chain and at the same time drove his right knee up into the young man’s testicles. An animal-like howl of agonising pain burst up from the deepest recesses of Shane’s abdomen and exited via his mouth. Henry let go.

Clutching his privates with both hands, Shane collapsed weeping to the floor. Moaning. Crying.

Henry picked up the knife. He touched the release catch with his thumb and the blade slid harmlessly back into the handle.

The ‘red mist’ lifted. He hoped — belatedly — he hadn’t done too much damage.

The Custody Sergeant, Eric Taylor, appeared in the corridor. ‘Henry! What the fuck’s going on here?’

‘ Nothing I can’t handle… but whoever searched this prisoner wants their balls chewing off.’ He handed the flick-knife to Taylor who looked at it, then at the writhing body on the floor.

‘ Make sure you put an entry on the custody record to cover it, will you? For your own safety. Then go up and see comms. There’s a big robbery come in, firearms job — somebody shot, I think. They want you to turn out to it.’

‘ With respect, Eric, as much as I’ve enjoyed myself today in the dungeons — thank God for that!’ He walked off down the corridor, stopped and turned back. ‘Oh, and by the way, don’t give him bail. He got me really mad.’

The first officer on the scene had done all the right things. She had quickly checked for any signs of life, found none, but requested comms to call an ambulance anyway, just to be on the safe side. She retraced her steps carefully to the front door of the shop, bundled several gawping members of the public away, stepped outside and closed the door behind her. The scene was effectively sealed off.

Onlookers had already begun to gather. She ordered them back. Then as calmly as she could, after taking a deep quavering breath, she relayed a situation report over her PR and asked for help. Quickly, please.

Henry Christie and a Detective Constable called Derek Luton were the next officers on the scene, arriving before the ambulance.

Before going in, Henry got the story from the female officer.