Tom Graham - Life on Mars - Blood, Bullets and Blue Stratos

‘What the hell’s he still doing in the building?’ Sam said.

‘Planting a bomb?’ suggested Chris.

‘Well obviously , Chris – but the IRA prefer blowing up other people rather than themselves.’

‘The dopey Paddy must’ve ballsed it up,’ growled Ray.

‘Maybe he’s new,’ said Chris. ‘Hasn’t quite got the hang of it.’

‘And maybe you lot should shut up and take cover,’ Gene suddenly intoned. ‘ Get your heads down! ’

The man in the balaclava had suddenly thrust the long muzzle of an assault rifle out of the open window and was peering through the sight directly at them. Sam threw himself to the left; Ray and Chris threw themselves to the right. Gene stood motionless, unblinking, as bullets whined down and smacked into the pavement about his feet. Rounds slammed into the police patrol cars parked across the road; the titchy, mint-coloured police Austin 1300s rocked and shuddered as wing mirrors shattered and tyres blew out.

The crowd of gawpers now screamed and surged back; coppers lost their helmets in the crush; the police cordon was ripped and went trailing away like fallen bunting.

‘Get everybody back!’ yelled Sam, scrambling behind a police car for cover. ‘Gene! For God’s sake, get down!’

Unhurriedly, Gene strode over to the car and crouched behind it; all the time, he kept his eyes fixed on the man with the rifle.

‘Stinking Paddy bastard,’ he said. ‘There’s no bomb in that building. It was just a trap to get us in close so he could take pot shots.’

Already his black-gloved hand had reached beneath the folds of his coat to grasp the solid stock and trigger of his Magnum .45. He straightened up, steadied his aim on the roof of the patrol car, and squeezed off two shots in rapid succession. The Magnum roared and kicked. Glass exploded from the open window. The man in the balaclava ducked away.

‘I’m taking control of this situation,’ intoned Gene. ‘Right now.’

Holding aloft the smoking Magnum, he went to rush forward, but Sam grabbed his arm and hauled him back.

‘Guv, wait.’

‘Mitts off the camelhair, Tyler.’

‘We need to keep everything contained and under control,’ Sam urged him. ‘We need to clear the area of civilians, ensure the gunman remains inside the building, set up a cordon and sit tight until Bomb Disposal and armed backup arrive.’

‘Cobblers, you faggot. All we need is this ’ – Gene waved the Magnum in Sam’s face – ‘and a little of that ol’ Genie black magic.’

‘Guv, stop behaving like a bloody—’

But Hunt had heard enough. He tore free of Sam and went racing forward, his camelhair coat billowing after him like a huge set of nicotine-stained wings.

‘Gene, don’t be a bloody hero,’ Sam cried after him. ‘Wait for Special Branch. Guv! Guv! ’

But even as he called out, he knew that he had no choice, that there was only one thing he could do. Cursing his guv’nor under his breath, he grabbed a state-of-the-art, police-issue radio from Ray. It was bigger than a house brick. Sam wedged the cumbersome contraption into his belt.

‘Wait here,’ he ordered. ‘Be on standby. And keep everybody back .’

And before he could change his mind, he broke cover, sprinting after Gene.

As he ran he saw Gene up ahead, charging like a bull elephant, the Magnum raised and straining for action. The guv slammed into the front doors of the record office and disappeared inside. Sam pounded in after him, drawing his own pistol and tensing for trouble. He darted through the doors and skidded to a halt in the deserted hallway. From outside came the sounds of panic and screaming and bellowing policemen.

Gene gave Sam a sour look. ‘If you think I’m gonna stand here listening to yet more of your Mary, Mungo and Midge about waiting for backup, you’re even dopier than the front of your head suggests, Tyler. I’m going right up them stairs to nail me a Paddy bastard, and that , Samuel, is called law enforcement.’

‘I know I can’t stop you, Guv,’ said Sam. ‘But I can’t let you deal with this alone.’

‘Very neighbourly. But if you’re going to tag along, Sammy-boy, you’re going to have to try keeping your cakehole zipped, you read me?’

‘I read you, Guv.’

‘I don’t want no messing about, Sam,’ hissed Gene, suddenly leaning close. ‘No warnings, no orders to freeze. We find that murdering Bogside bastard, we blag him, we go for a pint. Got it?’

‘We can’t do that,’ Sam said.

‘You told me you’d keep it zipped, so zip it!’

‘We can’t open fire without giving due warning, Guv. That’s procedure.’

‘We’re CID, you milky tit. We’ll do what we have to.’

‘No, Gene – unlike the IRA, we play by the rules. That’s what makes them the bad guys and us the law.’

‘I am the law, Bo Peep, and you’ll damn well play this my way.’

‘But Guv, there’s a bomb in this building, primed to explode.’

Gene puffed out his chest and said, ‘You bet your bollocks there is, and he ain’t in the mood to argue. Now – cover me.’

He strode to the staircase and bounded up it two steps at a time. Sam raced up after him, his nervous system tight and jangling, alert for any hint of the man in the balaclava.

On the first-floor landing they found empty corridors and silent offices. Gene edged forward, past desks cluttered with bulky typewriters and heaped in-trays of paperwork. He slipped past a set of pneumatic tubes for the ferrying of internal mail and tucked himself against a row of metal filing cabinets. He tilted his head and tasted the air like a jungle cat, his eyes narrowing, his gloved finger tensing on the steel trigger of the Magnum. Then, without warning, he rushed on up the staircase, making barely a sound in his tasselled loafers.

By the time Sam caught up with him on the second floor, his heart was hammering in his chest. He found Gene striding about boldly, peering into offices, sticking his nose round doors, swinging the Magnum in all directions as if it were an extension of his body.

Something moved, and Sam and Gene both reacted instantly. They spun round, aiming their weapons along the length of the corridor, just as Balaclava Man appeared, round-lensed glasses glinting blankly, his assault rifle raised military-style with its stock nestling high against his shoulder.

‘Freeze! Police!’ yelled Sam, years of police training kicking in automatically.

Gunfire raked the walls. Gene answered with a shot powerful enough to punch a hole the size of a dinner plate through a door panel. A second shot flung what was left of the door entirely off its hinges. Balaclava Man vanished from sight.

‘I said no warnings, Tyler,’ Gene snarled.

‘We’re coppers,’ Sam spat back. ‘This is no time to start playing Charles flamin’ Bronson.’

Gene slammed fresh rounds into the hot breech of the Magnum in a way that suggested that he thought otherwise, then strode briskly through the drifting layers of blue gun smoke. He kicked away the shattered remains of the door, smacked the gun barrel back into the housing and took aim – but the room was empty.

‘The four-eyed Murphy’s legged it,’ he whispered back at Sam. ‘Head through them offices and try and cut him off. I’ll go after him this way.’

‘Guv, I don’t think splitting up is such a g—’

‘For Christ’s sake, Tyler, do you want to play cops and robbers or not?

And, with that, Gene was gone, striding off in pursuit of his quarry.

‘Damn you, Hunt!’ hissed Sam, dashing back along the corridor and through a series of empty offices, trying to keep his bearings as to where Gene and Balaclava Man might be.