Shaun Hutson: Knife Edge

A uniformed man stood at the door, removing his cap to run a hand across his bald head.

Doyle wasn't sure of his rank but guessed he must be fairly high up in the pecking order.

The other two occupants of the Portacabin were plain-clothes. Both of them, the counter terrorist guessed, three or four years older than himself. The first of them was an overweight, dark-haired man who looked as if he hadn't shaved for a week. His companion, DI Vic Calloway, was taller, thicknecked and sporting a nose which looked as if it had been flattened with a frying pan.

Calloway's more portly assistant, who was sipping tea from a Styrofoam cup, seemed more interested in Doyle than in number ten London Road. Detective Sergeant Colin Mason wondered who the hell this long-haired newcomer was and, more to the point, what business he had here. Mason stuck the tip of his tongue into the cavity which had formed in one of his back teeth and wondered how much longer he could avoid a trip to the dentist. The fucking thing was starting to ache.

The uniformed man seemed to tire of standing at the door and wandered out into the road, closing the door behind him.

'I said, who's in there with him?' Doyle repeated, looking at Calloway.

'Just his wife and kid as far as we know,' the DI said, reaching for his own tea, sipping it, wincing when he found it was cold.

'Julie and Lisa Neville,' Doyle murmured.

Calloway nodded.

'Has he made any contact with you?' Doyle enquired. 'Any demands?'

'Not yet,' Mason replied. 'What makes you think he will?'

'He's taken his wife and kid hostage, I think it's safe to assume he wants something,' Doyle said sardonically.

'Like what?' Calloway snapped. 'You're the expert, aren't you? You're supposed to know all about him.'

'How come the Counter Terrorist Unit is involved anyway?' Mason echoed. 'What makes Robert Neville so interesting to your lot?'

'I've followed him halfway across fucking Ireland during the last thirty-six hours,' Doyle snapped. 'I was the one who tracked him here.'

'Then why didn't you call us?' Calloway said angrily.

'Because Neville's my business.'

'Not now he's not,' the DI insisted.

'Why were you chasing him anyway?' Mason wanted to know.

'That's classified,' Doyle said dismissively.

'Fuck off, Doyle,' Mason snorted. 'Who do you think you are, James Bond?'

'I know who I am,' Doyle rasped. 'And I've got a pretty good idea what you are too, you fat cunt.'

'I don't have to take that shit off him,' Mason shouted at his superior. 'Long-haired, scruffy fucker.'

Doyle smiled, watching as Mason's face turned a deep shade of crimson.

'Both of you, just knock it on the head, will you?' Calloway snapped.

'Tell fucking Pavarotti to calm down then,' Doyle said, still smiling.

He and Mason locked stares.

Calloway looked at each of them in turn.

'Finished, children?' he said irritably.

The other two remained silent.

'Right, now let's get down to work, shall we?' the DI continued. 'How much do you know about Neville, Doyle?'

'What do you want to know?'

'Why you were chasing him would be a help.'

'I told you, that's classified information,' Doyle insisted. 'Let's just say I need to talk to him about something important.'

Like the future of Ireland?

'Can you give us any details about him?' Calloway persisted.

'Tell me what you know, I'll fill in the holes if I can.'

'That's nice of you,' Mason chided.

Calloway shot him an angry stare then picked up one of the files from the small table.

He began reading.

Details about Robert Neville, background, upbringing, training.

It was the usual shit.

Doyle listened, his attention still fixed on the house.

Calloway dropped the file back on to the table when he'd finished.

'Well?' he said.

Doyle shrugged.

'Anything to add? Any holes to fill in?'

Doyle wasn't slow to catch the note of scorn in the policeman's tone. He smiled.

'He's armed,' Doyle said.

'How do you know?' Calloway asked.

'I know him.'

'How well do you know him, Doyle, how do we know you're not involved with this somehow?' Mason said. 'I mean, you knew he was here, you knew he was armed and yet you still didn't contact us. Why?'

'You know, you're a rare kind of man, Mason,' Doyle said. 'You actually are as fucking stupid as you look, aren't you? Jesus Christ, the last fucking thing I wanted was coppers swarming all over the place. I didn't want Neville panicked, I didn't want him to know anybody had found him. The last thing I wanted was for him to look out of his window and see uniforms. Who called you lot in anyway?'

'A neighbour reported seeing someone trying to break into the house,' Calloway said. 'A patrol car investigated. When they tried to get inside they were shot at. They called for back-up.' The DI shrugged. 'It just escalated from there.'

'If Neville shot at them he obviously wasn't trying to hit them,' Doyle said quietly. 'Because if he had been, you'd be scraping their brains off the road now.'

'We surrounded the house, closed off the road at both ends,' said Calloway, then his tone changed. 'Anyway, if you were sitting out here all the time, you must have seen what was going on, you must have heard the shots.'

Doyle didn't answer.

'What would you have done on your own, Doyle?' Mason said challengingly. 'Stormed the place?'

The counter terrorist reached for his cigarettes and lit one, blowing smoke in Mason's direction.

'So, what do we do now?' Calloway said.

Doyle perched on one corner of the table, eyes still locked on number ten London Road.

'We wait,' he murmured.

'They're going to kill you, Bob.'

Robert Neville turned from the window and looked at his wife.

Julie Neville brushed some strands of blonde hair from her face and shifted uncomfortably on the sofa, her eyes never leaving her husband.

He pulled the. 459 Smith and Wesson automatic from his belt and worked the slide, chambering a round.

Julie swallowed hard as she saw him advancing towards her and, for fleeting seconds, she thought he might strike her.

Neville leaned close, his face only inches from hers.

'They're going to kill me, are they?' he said quietly and, as he spoke, she could smell the whisky on his breath.

She lowered her gaze slightly.

Neville reached out with his free hand and gently stroked her cheek with his finger.

God, how smooth her skin felt. Like a marble statue.

'Do you want them to kill me?' he whispered.

She shook her head almost imperceptibly.

'Do you?' he said, more insistently.

'No,' she snapped, glaring at him. Her expression gradually softened. 'I just want you to let us go,' she finally breathed. 'If not me, then at least let Lisa go, she didn't ask to be a part of all this.'

'She's happy enough, I haven't harmed her, I'd never harm her,' Neville said. 'I'd rather die first. You and Lisa are all I've got.'

'Then why are you holding us prisoner here?' Julie asked, attempting to mask the anger in her voice. But it was anger tinged with anxiety.

And fear?

'You were the one who wanted to leave,' Neville reminded her. 'You were the one who was going to take Lisa away from me.'

'It was for her own good, Bob.'

'Bollocks. I'm her father.'

'Then why do you hurt her?'

Neville gripped Julie's jaw in one firm hand, his forehead pressed almost against hers.

'You tell me when I've ever hurt her,' he rasped. 'I've never laid a fucking finger on her.'

Julie tried to pull free of his grip, away from the smell of whisky.

'What about your drinking?' she snapped. 'Or are you too pissed now to remember it?'

He stepped back.