Shaun Hutson - Knife Edge

They were practically at Cambridge Circus. He could see the phone boxes across the road but the traffic coming from their right was swift and heavy.

Doyle stood with his hands on his hips, waiting for a gap in the endless stream of vehicles.

He managed a glance at his watch.

'Come on, for Christ's sake,' he whispered anxiously, the breath catching in his throat.

Time was almost up.

He coughed again.

The lights at the Circus were changing.

Amber.

He picked Lisa up once more.

Red.

Doyle ran across the road with as much speed as he could muster, put Lisa down and headed straight for the phones.

There were three of them.

One was already ringing.

Had it just started?

And ringing.

He reached the first one and picked it up.

Dead line.

The ringing continued.

How many fucking rings is that?

He snatched at the second.

'Doyle,' he gasped into it but then realised that there was only buzzing at the other end.

Then the ringing stopped.

'Oh Christ!' he gasped, slumping against the phone box.

The third phone rang.

Doyle grabbed the receiver and pressed it to his ear.

'Neville, listen to me,' he panted.

'Five rings, Doyle,' Neville said. 'I said five.'

'You were early,' Doyle rasped, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

'No. You were late. Firework time.'

'No, Neville, you bastard, don't-' Doyle bellowed into the handset.

The line was dead.

Doyle stood still, hands on thighs, bent forward at the waist, sucking in lungfuls of air.

Lisa watched him, her eyes drawn to the scar on his left cheek.

She took a step towards him, mesmerised by the old wound, wanting to touch it, to trace the outline of the mark which ran from his eye to his jaw.

'Does that hurt?'

'What?' Doyle managed, perspiration dripping from his chin, splashing on the pavement at his feet.

'That,' Lisa persisted and touched the scar.

Doyle gripped her wrist gently and held her, looking into her eyes.

Lisa looked fearful, then Doyle released her, even managed a small smile.

'It doesn't hurt,' he said softly.

It did when it first happened.

'It happened a long time ago,' he continued.

How long? Five years? Ten?

He straightened up.

Who fucking cared?

As Doyle pulled the mobile phone from the back pocket of his jeans it rang.

'Doyle, are you OK?' said the voice and he recognised it immediately as belonging to Calloway.

'I didn't make it in time.'

'We know that. Another bomb went off about thirty seconds ago.'

'Oh Christ. Where?'

'Baker Street, close to Madame Tussauds. We don't know the extent of the damage or the casualties yet.'

'Shit,' Doyle hissed.

'What happened?' Calloway asked. 'How come you didn't get to the phone in time?'

Doyle thought about hurling the phone away then decided against it.

'Do you want to come and do this? You're lucky it didn't happen earlier.'

'What about the next set of instructions?'

'I haven't had them. He hung up, then detonated the bomb.'

'Where are you now?'

'Cambridge Circus, outside the Palace Theatre.'

The third phone rang again.

Doyle snatched it up and pressed it to his ear.

'You're still there,' said Neville. 'I had a feeling you might be, waiting for your next set of orders.'

'You don't give me orders, Neville. Nobody does,' Doyle snarled.

'As long as I've got the Semtex, I give the orders, Mister Counter Terrorist.' Neville chuckled. 'It is ironic, isn't it? All those years chasing the IRA, while I was chasing them too. Now you're chasing me. Makes you laugh, doesn't it?'

'I'm pissing myself.'

Holding the mobile phone away from him, Doyle could still hear Calloway's voice but it sounded so distant now, swallowed up by the din of traffic. He switched off the mobile and returned his attention to Neville.

'Whatever the fuck you want, get on with it,' he said irritably.

'You know what I want.'

'Yeah, and I'm getting sick of hearing about it.'

'Tough. This game goes on for as long as I want it to.'

'Until eight o'clock, you mean. The big one,' said Doyle. 'Or are you full of shit?'

'What do you think, Doyle?'

'I think you're fucking dead when I find you.'

'Shut up and listen. Liverpool Street station, public phones on the concourse close to WH Smith. You've got thirty minutes. Don't fuck it up again, Doyle.'

Doyle pressed the required digits on the mobile and the call was answered immediately.

'Neville called back.'

Calloway wanted to know the next location.

Doyle told him.

'Keep away, Calloway,' Doyle ordered. 'And you make sure none of your boys get involved. You know Neville's not fucking about. I'll take care of him.'

'Doyle, Mrs Neville wants to talk to you,' the DI said.

'No time,' Doyle told him and switched off the mobile.

DS Colin Mason had sat listening to the conversation with Doyle over the speaker-phone in Calloway's office. Now he made his way down the corridor to his own office and slipped inside, almost furtively.

The two-way was lying on his desk. It took him seconds to find the frequency he sought, a deafening blast of static signalling its discovery.

This had gone on too long.

Neville was making them look like idiots, the fucking maniac.

Something had to be done, Mason knew that. He also knew his superior was not the man to do it.

Nor was Doyle.

The arrogant bastard.

Neville had to be stopped and, as far as Mason was concerned, there was only one way to do it. More bombs or not.

'Osprey One, come in, over,' he said into the two-way.

Then he waited for the police helicopter to reply.

'Why do you hate my dad?'

The question seemed to come from the very air itself.

Doyle had his eyes closed as the Underground train pulled out of the station. He was grateful that it was so much quieter than earlier. There weren't above a dozen people in the entire carriage and most of those were seated at the far end.

He opened his eyes and looked down at Lisa, who was seated beside him, pulling at a loose thread on one sleeve of her cardigan.

'I don't hate him.'

Which was true.

'Then why do you shout at him on the phone?' Lisa persisted.

Doyle sucked in a deep breath.

I really fucking need this now. Some deep, meaningful conversation with an eight-year-old kid about a man she thinks is her father. A man I'm going to kill.

'Because he gets me mad,' Doyle answered eventually.

Lisa continued playing with the loose thread.

'He's ill,' she explained.

'Who says so?'

'My mum. She said that Dad isn't well, that he should see a doctor or something.' She looked up at him. 'Is he going to die?'

He is when I get hold of him.

Doyle thought about saying yes. It would have been the easiest option. It might even have shut her up.

He looked into her wide, questioning eyes.

Christ, they were so blue. So perfectly, flawlessly blue. Like sapphires lit from behind.

'What else did your mum say about him?'

'She didn't talk much about him. I sometimes heard them shouting when he came home. I used to listen at the top of the stairs. They thought I was asleep but I used to creep out of my room and listen to them.'

'What happened when your dad came home this time?'

'Mum was surprised to see him.'

'Yeah, I bet she was.'

'They argued a lot this time.'

'Did your dad ever hurt her?'

'No. He wouldn't do that.'

'Did he ever hurt you?'

'He loves me. He always tells me that. He wouldn't hurt me.'