Tim Stevens - Jokerman

Purkiss saw a glint in Arkwright’s eyes that hadn’t been there before.

‘How many?’ asked Purkiss.

Arkwright rocked a palm. ‘Over two years… maybe a hundred? One a week. Though they tended to come in batches.’

Purkiss thought quickly. There was a lot of information to be gained here, a lot of detail, and he had to decide what to prioritise while Arkwright was being so forthcoming.

‘Where does Mohammed Al-Bayati fit into this?’

‘He was one of the people I… interrogated,’ said Arkwright. ‘Iraqi ex-pat, living in London.’

Hannah asked: ‘How do you remember him so clearly? If he was one among a hundred?’

Arkwright’s eyes flicked to her, then back to Purkiss. ‘I don’t know.’

‘You’re lying,’ said Purkiss.

‘I don’t know,’ repeated Arkwright.

Purkiss decided to change tack. ‘Who were you working for? These people who approached you at the airport.’

‘They were MI5.’

‘How do you know?’

‘Because…’ Arkwright looked at his hands on the table. ‘Because I put two and two together. They were bringing in a steady stream of prisoners for me to interrogate. They were concerned with public security. I didn’t have to sign the Official Secrets Act, obviously, but I still knew who they were. Also — ’

‘Yes?’ said Purkiss.

This time Arkwright took a long breath, sucking air in through his nose, exhaling through his mouth.

‘Sometimes another man came and watched me at work. I got the feeling he was in charge. He never spoke to me, just watched. Through one-way glass. I assumed he wanted to hear for himself, first-hand, the answers I was getting.’

‘And?’

‘I’ve seen his picture in the paper more recently. Couple of years ago. When he was appointed head of MI5.’

Purkiss felt a jolt pass through his chest, sensed Hannah tensing beside him.

‘Guy Strang,’ said Arkwright. ‘Now the MI5 boss. He watched me torture those prisoners. He was in charge.’

Electrified, Purkiss gripped the edge of the table to prevent himself from rising from his chair.

A second later the window exploded inwards.

Perhaps it was because Hannah had knocked him to the ground an instant before the bomb in the Range Rover had gone off, or perhaps it was because she was the person closest to him. Whatever the reason, Purkiss collided with her hard, flinging her and the chair she was sitting on sideways, as his brain caught up, registering and processing the data it had received.

The burst of glass from the imploding window, a jarring flashback to the attack on his own house.

The object that came hurtling into the living room, its momentum slowed but not broken by the impact with the window.

The yells from Arkwright and his sons, and their own collisions as the small one, Jimmy, cannoned into his father.

The noise of the shattering glass coupled with the hissing.

The rapidly billowing fog of grey-white cloud that was rapidly filling the room.

On the floor Purkiss rolled off Hannah. She buried her face in her sleeve even as Purkiss felt the first crawling prickle in his nose and ears and throat, the blinding stream of tears as his eyes were stung shut.

CS gas.

He clambered to a kneeling position, resisting the urge to stand up and thereby present a target through the window. From Arkwright and his sons he heard muffled swearing interspersed with coughing, choking sobs.

One arm still held awkwardly across her nose and mouth, her reddened eyes almost shut, Hannah drew the Glock from her jacket.

Purkiss tapped her shoulder to get her attention, pointed at the front door. She nodded.

He meant, get there before they do . Arkwright and his sons were already upright and stumbling for the door.

They had to get out, all of them. There was no question at all of remaining in the cottage. But that was, of course, precisely the intention of whoever had fired the gas grenade through the window. And that meant there’d be someone, perhaps more than one person, waiting outside the front door to pick them off as they emerged.

Hannah hurled herself towards the door, getting there just ahead of Dave, the biggest son. She barged him aside, wrenched at the door and threw it open. Purkiss saw her swing the Glock in an arc, left to right, covering the exterior.

The words registered in Purkiss’s mind like a read-out on a cyborg’s internal computer.

Protect Arkwright.

Purkiss groped unseeingly at the table, found the barrel of the shotgun, lifted it.

The men were trying to crowd out the door, their collisions almost comical. Holding the shotgun in one hand, Purkiss grabbed the collar of Arkwright’s shirt with the other and jerked him back. Arkwright tried to turn, flailing, as though suspecting he was under attack. In front, his sons emerged into the daylight after Hannah. Purkiss pushed ahead of Arkwright and beckoned him to follow, to stay close.

Hannah stood in the middle of the yard, her swollen tear-streaked face contorted, turning slowly with the Glock extended in a two-handed grip. Around her the sons bent over with their hands on their knees, retching, scrubbing at their faces as if trying to rub the torment away with their fingers.

A whoosh , then, followed by a metallic thunk , and a second gas canister skidded across the ground in the middle of the yard. Purkiss barely saw it before the hissing cloud bloomed and the fierce, prickling burning started up again in his nose and eyes.

The first shot hit Steve, the son who’d pulled the switchblade, in the chest, lifting him backwards off his feet to sprawl hard on the gravel. Even before the crack of the shot had reached Purkiss’s ears the second one came, Dave’s head rocking sideways and spraying gore over the rusting pickup truck in the yard.

Arkwright barrelled by Purkiss, snarling in panic. Purkiss rammed an elbow into Arkwright’s abdomen, making him jackknife and drop. Crouching, Purkiss did what he could to shield the man folded on the ground, and peered about through blurred eyes cracked open only millimetres. The shapes around him were by now so hazy that he could barely distinguish male from female.

The roar of another shot assailed his ears. He heard a yell, a man’s voice, and saw dimly yet another figure go down. The third son, Jimmy, he guessed.

‘Purkiss,’ Hannah called, in a muffled croak. ‘Down.’

He ducked, blind, not knowing where the danger was coming from. This is it , he thought. A quick, violent punch in the head and it’ll be over.

From over in the direction Hannah’s voice had come from, a different weapon crashed. The Glock. He heard, and felt, the shot sing past his head. Squinting in the opposite direction, he made out a looming shape diving to one side.

Purkiss aimed the shotgun, keeping low, and pulled the trigger. The gun bucked in his hands, the shot fanning and scattering. He made out movement, a dark shape rolling and rolling and coming up in a squatting position. Purkiss reloaded and fired again, then threw himself flat as the returning salvo began.

Beside and behind him, Purkiss heard Arkwright scream, heard the punch of projectiles through flesh.

Prone, he fired the shotgun again. Using his elbows he wriggled backwards until he came up against Arkwright. The man was burbling liquidly. Purkiss’s groping hand found his face, probed his head. It seemed intact. His fingers moved lower. There was stickiness on the shoulder, and he felt a sudden dip in the chest area.

Rising to his knees, Purkiss reloaded, fired. He did it again. Through the haze in front of him, he sensed a shape scrambling to retreat round the side of the cottage.