Shaun Hutson: Captives

He had walked straight through the door of the Midland Bank in the Haymarket, pulled a Spas automatic shotgun from inside his coat and opened fire. First he shot a woman who had been standing close to the door counting money before she pushed it into her purse. She now lay in a bloodied heap, her limbs tangled like those of a puppet with cut strings. Her handbag and its contents were strewn across the marbled floor, some five pound notes having come to rest in a puddle of her blood.

Scarcely had the sound of the first shot died away than the gunman had fired again, into the counter glass. It had exploded inwards, showering those behind it with fragments of needle sharp crystal. One of the other cashiers had suffered a badly cut face. It was her moans that Brian could hear as she tried to pull a thin fragment of glass from one corner of her eye.

The child he could hear crying was in a pram at the other end of the counter. The mother was crying softly too.

Don't make me die.

His mind shrieked it again.

The gunman was looking at him, as if he had recognised him. A vague recollection of a face seen in a crowd. His face was calm, his eyes narrowed. These were not the staring eyes of a madman. There was deliberation in his movements. He appeared unfazed by the strident ringing of the alarm bells that continued to fill the bank.

'Give me the money,' the man said calmly, his eyes never leaving Brian's.

But Brian couldn't move.

'Now,' the man snapped, pushing the barrel of the shotgun closer to the cashier's face.

Despite its earlier lapse, his bladder managed to bring forth more. Brian felt more fluid running down his leg, soaking into his trousers.

Please don't kill me.

He could feel the tears welling up in his eyes.

Dear merciful Christ, not now.

'The money,' rasped the gunman through clenched teeth.

The child was still crying.

'Shut that fucking kid up,' snarled the man without turning his head. He actually poked the barrel of the Spas against Brian's cheek.

Sirens.

Oh sweet fucking Jesus. Lord God in Heaven please…

The sirens were blaring from the direction of Piccadilly. They would be here in a matter of moments.

Please, make him go. Please God, make him go now.

The alarms continued to screech. The baby was still crying. And the sirens came closer.

A look of mild annoyance passed fleetingly across the gunman's face. He took a step back.

Not now. Don't make me die now. Please God don't…

He fired once, the barrel only six inches away from Brian's face. The report was massive, drowning out all the other sounds for a moment as the discharge tore most of the cashier's head off. He remained upright for a second, blood spouting from what remained of his cranium, then he pitched forward, sprawling over the counter.

If God had heard Brian's prayers he had chosen to ignore them.

The gunman turned and headed for the door. As he reached it he paused and looked at the woman with the pram.

The child was still crying.

He looked at her, then at the pram, then he fired twice.

Both blasts struck the pram, ripping through it.

He pushed the door and walked out into the street.

Those passing saw the shotgun; some screamed, some ran. Some just froze.

A police car, blue lights spinning madly, sirens screaming, came roaring around the corner into the Haymarket. The gunman gritted his teeth and looked behind him. The traffic lights were on red.

The traffic was at a halt.

He tossed the Spas to one side, digging inside his jacket for a pistol. Pulling the Smith and Wesson 9mm automatic free, he ran towards a motorcyclist who was idly revving his engine, watching the lights, waiting for them to change. Exhaust fumes poured from the pipe of the 850cc Bonneville.

The lights were still on red.

The police car drew closer.

The gunman shot the motorcyclist once in the back of the neck, pushing his body from the bike, gripping the powerful machine by the handlebars to prevent it toppling over. He swung himself onto the seat, twisted the throttle and roared off, the back wheel spinning madly on the slippery road before gaining purchase.

He swung left into Panton Street.

The police car followed.

TWO

As the Bonneville rounded the corner into Panton Street its rider found himself faced with an oncoming car.

The driver of the car blasted on his hooter as much in surprise as annoyance, looking on in bewilderment as the bike shot up onto the pavement and sped off.

A second later the police car skidded round in pursuit, slamming into the front of the car as it passed, shattering one headlamp.

Inside the police car Constable Norman Davies was speaking rapidly into the two-way radio, giving the location of the unit and also attempting a description of the man they were pursuing. He gave the number plate, forced to squint to read it as the bike hurtled back and forth from pavement to road, swerving past both parked and moving cars alike. Davies also called for assistance and for an ambulance to go to the bank in the Haymarket; although he had not seen the carnage inside, it was standard procedure.

Besides, he and his companion, Ralph Foster, now hunched over the wheel in concentration, had seen the motorcyclist shot. Davies winced as he remembered the police car inadvertently running over one of the dying man's outstretched legs.

He was informed that other mobile units were in the area and closing in on the bike, and that routes were being shut off. The man, he was assured, wouldn't get far.

Foster spun the wheel to avoid an oncoming car, jolting the Rover up onto the kerb. The driver of the other car also struggled to guide his vehicle out of the way. The blue lights and the wailing sirens were remarkably effective in clearing a path through even the most densely packed traffic, thought Davies, still gripping the handset, one eye on the fleeing gunman.

'Heading for Leicester Square,' Davies observed as the bike roared on.

Fragmented phrases floated to him across the airwaves as the Rover hurtled on in pursuit.

'… closing in from Coventry Street…'

'… three dead… Haymarket…'

'… in pursuit… identity unknown…'

'… armed… dangerous…'

Davies couldn't agree more with the assessment of their quarry.

The bike was heading towards the junction of Panton Street and Whitcomb Street. Leicester Square lay just beyond.

From an underground car park ahead a van emerged, reversing in front of the bike. The rider didn't hesitate, merely gunned the engine and sent the Bonneville rocketing up onto the pavement once more, ignoring the two people who had just emerged from the Pizzaland on the corner. He struck one. The other managed to jump back but hit the window of the restaurant and the glass gave way. There was a loud crash as he fell backwards through the clear partition, sprawling across a table as glass rained down on him.

'Oh Christ,' murmured Davies.

The bike spun to the left again, up Whitcomb Street, still against the traffic.

Foster twisted the wheel and the rear of the Rover skidded on the wet ground, spinning round to slam into the side of the van. A jarring thud seemed to run the length of the vehicle, and both policemen winced, but Foster floored the accelerator and sped after the bike.

The rider did not once afford them even the most cursory glance. He was hunched over the handlebars, gripping the throttle, seemingly oblivious to the cars he sped past in the wrong direction. The wind streamed into his face, sending his shoulder-length hair flapping out behind him as he rode.

The street seemed to be filled with a cacophony of blaring hooters and shouts or screams as pedestrians found themselves forced to leap from the pavements as the Bonneville surged along, its rider oblivious to those he struck.