Tom Graham - Life on Mars - Get Cartwright

‘Maybe I can help you,’ Sam said. ‘It’s okay. I’m not going to try anything. My name’s Sam.’

There was a flicker in the man’s eyes, and he turned his head suddenly to turn that furious gaze upon Sam.

‘Sam?’ the man grunted. ‘Sam Tyler? DI Sam Tyler?’

Oh God, have I nicked him in the past? Sam thought, trying to place the man’s face. Has he got a grudge against me? Should I just grab that gun off him and pin him down before he makes a move?

‘Yes, I’m DI Tyler. Have we met?’

‘So … it’s you …’

An old lady turned round in her pew and shushed angrily.

Sam inched closer to the man: ‘Listen, why don’t you give me the gun and we’ll talk outside. There’s a café just across the road. I’ll get you breakfast.’

‘SHHH!’

The vicar had appeared, a small, round-shouldered man with pebble glasses. He took his place at the lectern and perused his Bible short-sightedly, oblivious to the drama playing out at the back of his church.

The man with the gun was shaking, his jaw muscles clenching, eyes glaring. Whatever he had come here to do, he was on the verge of doing it. Sam had to get him out of there right now. He’d give it one more go with the softly-softly approach but if that failed, he’d wrestle the gun from him by force and keep him pinned till back up arrived.

‘You don’t need that thing,’ Sam whispered, and he held his hand out for the gun.

‘It’s all because of you, DI Tyler …’ the man muttered.

‘I don’t know what you mean. Give me the gun and we can straighten everything out.’

‘It should be you not me …’ His voice was almost inaudible now. ‘You’re the one he wants … It should be you … ’

‘The gun. Give me the gun. We can’t talk properly until you give me the –’

At once, the man raised the gun – and thrust it against the side of he own head. His eyes were wide and round and bloodshot. A livid vein pulsed along his temple.

‘Don’t do it!’ Sam yelled.

‘SHHH!’ hissed half a dozen old ladies.

The vicar peered up, mole-like.

‘My name is Detective Chief Inspector Michael Carroll,’ the man with gun declared, speaking loudly and clearly like he was giving a public address. ‘I worked for Manchester CID. I served this city for twenty-five years. I arrested villains. I made the streets safe. I am a good man!’

‘SHHH! SSSSSHHH!’

Sam’s mind was reeling. DCI Carroll. That name was on Annie’s list of corrupt ex-coppers from the sixties.

No coincidence , Sam thought, his mouth going dry. This is no bloody coincidence.

‘I am a good man !’ Carroll insisted, his voice growing louder. ‘I AM A GOOD MAN! I do not deserve this!’

The barrel of the gun was pressing deep into the side of his head now, his finger hooked tightly around the trigger. If Sam rushed him, Carroll would blow his brains out before he could do a thing.

‘What’s happening back there?’ the vicar called out, squinting through his glasses.

‘Those boys are playing cop ‘n robbers with a water pistol,’ a phlegmy man growled, not looking up from his prayer book.

‘Well take it outside!’ an old lady barked, banging the back of the pew angrily with her arthritic hand.

‘I’m a police officer,’ Sam announced. ‘I’m a real police officer.’ And then, with more hope than conviction, he added: ‘A situation is in progress but I have got it fully under control.’

‘You know my name, Mr Carroll,’ Sam said, fixing his attention on the man’s eyes, willing contact between them. ‘And I know yours. We’re acquainted. So let’s talk.’

‘I am a good man, and I should be rewarded as a good man!’

‘Yes, you’re a good man, and that’s why you’re going to do the right thing. You’re going to put down that gun.’ Taking a gamble, Sam added: ‘Let’s go across the road, sit down over a coffee, and talk about Clive Gould.’

The name had an instant and devastating effect on Carroll. His face contorted wildly as if he were suddenly in agony.

‘Clive Gould …!’ he snarled. ‘I told that bird I had nothing to say about Clive Gould!’

‘What bird?’

‘Cartwright’s daughter! She came asking!’

Sam’s jaw fell open.

‘Annie?’ he gasped. ‘You’ve been talking to Annie?’

The colour drained from Carroll's lined cheeks. His eyes screwed up and filled with tears.

‘I told her it weren’t me, I was nothing to do with what happened!’ he cried, his voice tight and constricted. ‘What the hell else could I say? And then, after she went, he turned up ...’

‘Gould. Clive Gould. He came for you, didn’t he?’

Baring his yellow-stained teeth like a wild animal, Carroll suddenly thrust the gun straight at Sam.

Sam froze.

‘What is going on?’ whinged the vicar, peering myopically.

Carroll glared along the barrel of the gun, grinding his teeth furiously.

‘ I am good!’ he growled, his throat tight and constricted. ‘I’m not perfect, but I am GOOD! It should be YOU not me, Tyler! I do NOT deserve this!’

‘Deserve what, Mr Carroll?’ Sam said, in a voice that he fought to keep from wavering. He tried to look past the muzzle of the pistol that was pointing right between his eyes, and instead fixed his attention on the man’s face. ‘Tell me. I’ll help you. We’ll work together. What is it you don’t deserve?’

‘It’s you he wants, not me!’ Carroll snarled. ‘You and her! Oh, I’d blow your head off, Tyler, I’d blow your damned head right off and stop all this … but it’s too late … too late for Pat, too late for me …’

‘Please, Mr Carroll, put away the gun and talk to me. I understand more than you think. I can help you. Together, we can –’

But the vicar was marching down the aisle towards them, peevishly demanding to know what in God’s name was going on.

‘Stay back!’ Sam ordered.

‘I will do no such thing!’ the vicar snapped. ‘Not until you boys tell me what you think you’re d –’

In the next moment, Carroll had the vicar in a head lock, the pistol jammed against the poor man’s face hard enough to send his glasses skittering away across the stone floor.

‘I’m not going to end up like Pat!’ Carroll howled. His voice broke, making him sound like a desperate, wailing child. ‘ I’m not going to end up that way! No, no, no, no ...!’

From outside came the clanging of police sirens. Carroll stopped howling and gritted his teeth.

‘Keep them out, Tyler!’ He barked. ‘Nobody comes in here! Anyone comes through that door, anyone so much as sticks his face at a window, and I start killing hostages.’

‘Hostages?’ an old dear piped up. ‘Does that mean none of us can go?’

‘I think it does,’ put in a lady with a hat like a giant powder puff.

‘Oh. Oh dear.’

The vicar struggled against the headlock and issued a series of muffled cries.

‘What is it you want, Mr Carroll?’ Sam asked.

‘Keep them out, Tyler!’

‘I’ll keep them out, Mr Carroll, but if you don’t tell me what your demands are I can’t help you.’

‘ I just want to be safe! ’ Carroll screamed, tightening his grip on the vicar. ‘I don’t want to be left alone, not with him after me! Now keep ’em out of here! Keep everybody away!’ And then, venomously, he cried: ‘God damn you, Sam Tyler, you bastard, it should be you not me ! IT SHOULD BE YOU NOT ME! ’

Sam opened his mouth to say something, but Carroll shrieked insanely, and for a moment it seemed that he was going to shoot the vicar and then turn the gun on everyone else. So Sam held up his hands and stumbled backwards, saying: ‘Okay, it’s okay, just stay calm, I’ll see no one comes in, I’ll make sure everything’s cool …’