Backlash (3 page)

Then Booker smiled and Brewster's shoulders relaxed.

‘Guys.' The bomber nodded.

‘Hey.' Booker beamed. ‘What the hell y'doin' here?'

Then Brewster became rigid again and the smile dropped from his face as the bomber revealed his gun.

‘Shit!' Booker cried, raising his own weapon.

He and Brewster were too slow. The bomber double-tapped both men with deadly efficiency, the untraceable slugs drilling their chests. He walked across and straddled each man in turn, putting another bullet into each of their heads, just to be on the safe side. Then, calmly, coolly, he picked up his three items – the remote control, the folding stool and the binoculars – and put them into a plastic carrier bag.

Before leaving the scene he allowed himself one last look. The smile of satisfaction which came to his lips was pure evil. Now the time was right to offer his skills to the world.

I
t was a tarantula, Henry was sure of it. Its long legs were creeping down his neck, over his Adam's apple, across his chest, pausing at his right nipple to paw it, sending a shiver right through him. He hardly dared swallow, hardly dared breathe even . . . then the huge, but incredibly light, arachnid began to move slowly down his ribcage as though descending a ladder, down onto his stomach which he could not prevent from fluttering . . . surely it must bite, sink its fangs into his soft flesh, shoot its deadly poison into him. No. It moved towards his groin, across his pubic hair and suddenly, without warning, pounced, wrapping all its legs round his penis and squeezing tightly.

‘Jesus!' Henry Christie crashed like a ramraider out of his vivid dream into wakefulness. His sweat-encased body leapt as though an electric shock had passed through it. His eyes flipped open. He looked sideways at the woman who had sneaked into his bedroom, undressed silently while he was asleep, then slid into bed alongside him and playfully grabbed his cock.

She smiled wickedly at him.

‘You scared the hell out of me,' Henry admitted. He flopped back, relieved he wasn't going to be bitten by a . . . what was it? Even now, only seconds after waking, the dream was virtually gone into the mist, impossible to recall.

Unlike the other dream.

‘Good,' she said.

‘What time is it?'

‘Nearly five o'clock.'

‘Bloody hell, I need to get going.' Henry made to rise, but the woman held him back firmly.

‘No way . . . you've got time . . . we've got time . . . if we make it quick.'

‘You said that at seven o'clock this morning . . . ahhh,' he groaned throatily, unable to continue with his remonstration. Her skilful fingers had started to arouse him, drawing back his foreskin, making him catch his breath, squeezing the end of his damp, hardening penis.

Henry lay back, submitting to the inevitable, happy to be dominated, relaxing into an almost comatose state, allowing her to do whatever she wanted, going along with it in spite of the time constraint.

Afterwards, they lay entwined, savouring the ebb tide of a magnificent bout of sex.

‘Damn. Now I have to go,' she murmured petulantly. Unwillingly she eased him out of her with a soft ‘plop', draining the last ounce of pleasure from the encounter with her internal muscles. She rolled off him. ‘I open up in ten minutes and Monday's usually busy – and I am well and truly exhausted.' She planted a wet kiss on his cheek.

Through droopy eyelids, Henry watched her scoot round and collect her clothes from the floor. She dashed out of the bedroom, pausing briefly by the door to blow him a kiss and wiggle her backside provocatively. The bathroom door slammed, then the sound of taps running and water pipes clanking resounded round the big flat.

The digital clock said 5:14. Blink. Blink. Henry could not believe it was that time already. He yawned long and wide and almost left his skin behind when the alarm sounded unexpectedly. His groggy mind half remembered some upbeat, positive colleague of his referring to it as an ‘opportunity clock'. Henry thought, ‘My arse.' To him it was purely and simply an alarm clock. A cold-blooded device designed by evil people to bring you into the real world as rudely as possible. The future held no opportunity for Henry, certainly not immediately, and the way he was feeling, not distantly either.

He rubbed his eyes, making them squelch. He was sorely tempted to pull the quilt back over himself and say, ‘Fuck it, fuck 'em all.' But he'd said those words too often in the recent past and was beginning to realise their futility.

Henry rocked up into a sitting position, glancing round the darkened bedroom, spluttering derisively as he thought of his current situation. Here he was, for the second time in his life, living in the chilly, cavernous, rented flat on the first floor over a veterinary practice near the centre of Blackpool. As ever the constant whiff of animal scent and disinfectant wafted up from the ground floor. The difference was that there were a couple of changes that had not been part of the original equation when he had lived here before. Firstly, he was not just separated from his wife, he was lawfully, legally and painfully divorced from her. Secondly, he was sleeping with the lady vet who owned the practice.

Henry marvelled at her stamina. The previous evening they had been out nightclubbing, then gone to a ‘bit of a gathering' at her snotty friend's house where the Bang and Olufsen hi-fi oozed cool jazz and the conversation dribbled bullshit – to Henry's working-class ears, anyway. Then he and his veterinary ladyfriend – her name was Fiona – had taken a pre-dawn stroll before ending up in bed at the flat at seven that morning where they had made energetic love for another half-hour . . . animal sex, he had christened it . . . and after less than a couple of hours' sleep she had opened the surgery at ten, worked through the day, operating on a series of unfortunate beasts, and had now indulged in further sex before reopening the surgery at 5.30 p.m. She had been on the go for twenty-four hours. Henry wondered if she was pumping any drugs into herself which should perhaps have gone into animals . . . but it wasn't a serious thought.

While she had been working all day, Henry had had the best part of ten hours solid, dreamless slumber – with the exception of the spidery dream which had wakened him. It had been the first time he had slept without having the recurring nightmare that haunted him.

Maybe he had finally recovered.

And now here he was, after almost two months of stress-related sick leave, about to return to work. This would be his first day back. The prospect filled him with abject terror: not only was he returning to work, he was starting a new role, one unfamiliar to him. This combination of factors was doing nothing for his brittle self-confidence, which was lurking somewhere below rock-bottom. He shivered, swore inwardly to exorcise the demons and went into the bathroom now vacated by Fiona.

It was 5.25 p.m. He had to be at work by 5.45, ready for a twelve-hour night shift.

Just to try and see himself as others might, Henry dressed in front of a full-length mirror. He started from scratch, looking at his stark, thin, unhealthy-looking body which had lost weight so quickly over the past months. Fortunately he was just beginning to regain some poundage. His ideal fighting weight, so he believed, was thirteen and a half stone, a weight he felt comfortable at. Not twelve, which, for the size of his broad frame, made him look and feel ridiculous. Meat pies were on the menu for a few weeks.

After stepping into his Y-fronts – comfortable but not fashionable – he pulled his black, cotton-rich socks on. He batted his eyelids stupidly at his reflection and flexed his biceps a few times like a circus muscle-man – without the muscles. He reached for his trousers which were on a wire coat hanger. He eased his legs into them, gritting his teeth as the cheap, rough, sandpaper-like material scraped his skin. They were too generous round the waist, too short in the leg and sagged underneath the groin. He adjusted his privates in his underwear, but still felt very uncomfortable. He fed the black leather belt through the trouser loops and fastened it loosely.

His white shirt was still in its packaging. He ripped it out of the plastic wrapper, carefully extracted the pins, eased out the cardboard collar stiffener and held the shirt up. It was criss-crossed with creases and should have been washed and ironed before today. His lips curled with annoyance at himself for not getting things ready earlier – a character trait which seemed to have crept up on him during his sickness. Procrastination was a way of life with him at the moment. There was no time to do anything about the shirt now, though. He was running late. He put the shirt on, forcing his hands through the cuffs without bothering to unfasten them. He tucked it into the waistband and yanked his belt tight.

On the floor in front of him were his plain black shoes (as per regulations). As the exception to prove the rule, these were ready, cleaned and polished – bulled, actually, to mirror-like perfection. The act of spit-polishing them had become an obsession for him over the last week. He found the task relaxed him for some reason, gave him pleasure. He knew the shoes would be comfortable to wear. He put them on, tied the laces, and gazed proudly down at them.

‘God help any bugger that steps on these,' he muttered out loud.

He stood upright, fastened his top shirt button and clipped on his black tie. The first time he had worn such a thing for over a decade.

Lastly, he affixed his epaulettes to his shoulders, the two shiny pips on each side reflecting the light.

He gulped, closed his eyes, then opened them to take stock of the finished article: Henry Christie, uniformed police inspector, Blackpool Section, about to go on duty and perform the reactive cover function, dealing with the ‘here and now' of policing . . . in the unwritten uniformed inspector hierarchy, the job usually given to newly promoted officers or those long in the tooth with no ambition or career advancement prospects.

Henry Christie was not newly promoted.

He could not believe the way he looked: how transformed he was and how unlike a uniformed inspector he felt. The whole idea was completely alien to him. His usual dress code was a pretty slick suit, a decent shirt and tie, good quality shoes and an air of superiority over all other mortals.

There was no way on earth he was a uniformed cop any more. He was a fucking detective, for God's sake. A detective inspector, actually. And a bloody good one at that. At least he had been good. Once. Not very long ago. And now here he was, wearing a uniform, looking like an Italian waiter, and having to work long, unsocial shifts.

With a snap salute to the mirror, which morphed into a sloppy ‘V' sign at himself, he collected his brown nappa leather blouson from the wardrobe and slunk out of the bedroom wondering how the hell he was going to deal with it all.

With almost half his monthly salary going in maintenance payments, Henry could no longer afford a car. He therefore walked to work, using the opportunity to clear his head and get his brain into gear.

The early evening was dark with a distinct nip in the air. Hunched deep into his jacket, he found the chill to his nose, ears and cheeks pleasant and invigorating. He breathed deeply, expelling stale air from his lungs, feeling new, cold, fresh air circulating round his chest, lungs and heart.

It was a ten-minute journey on foot, giving him ample opportunity to reflect upon his predicament and how he was going to face people at work. The problem was that most people would see the move to uniform as a demotion, although it was not: busted from CID, they would think. Not many people willingly made the transition out of civvies into blues unless it was a specific career move. Usually it was for reasons of bad discipline or poor performance and was perceived as punishment, whatever the circumstances.

At the busy junction of Hornby Road and Coronation Street he stopped and got his first glimpse of Blackpool police station. Every window in every one of its eight floors was illuminated. It was the first time he had seen the building in two months, having avoided looking at it on his infrequent forays into town, hoping that it would go away.

He winced. His insides churned nervously.

It had not moved. It was still there, large and forbidding.

The tips of his fingers twitched. He bunched both hands into fists to stop them shaking – and succeeded. But even repeated swallowing did not eliminate the taste of apprehension at the back of his throat.

He dithered by the kerb edge and almost lost it there and then, almost spun round on his heels and turned back to seek refuge and solace from his friendly and accommodating veterinary surgeon. He knew he could have conned his tame GP to sign him off for a further four weeks. Easy. Another month of grace, avoiding the issue, hidden away from the prying eyes of the world, screwing himself silly.

The green man at the pedestrian crossing began to make his ‘pipping' noise.

Henry stepped onto the road, his feet feeling as though they were trudging through treacle.

No going back now, he told himself firmly. You have crossed the river and the waters have filled in behind you.

A minute later he was approaching the back door of the police station, puzzled by the sight of two uniformed cops standing there, obviously on security duty. He did not recognise either. He edged past them towards the door.

‘Excuse me, sir,' one said, preventing Henry from passing, firstly with a hand, then the bulk of his body. ‘Can I see your pass, please?'

Henry regarded him with incomprehension. ‘My pass. . .?' he started to say.

The officer clicked on a small, but powerful Maglite torch and shone the beam up into Henry's face. Henry squinted, drew his head back slightly.

‘Yes, sir, your pass,' the PC insisted firmly. ‘You need a pass to enter the police station this week . . . party conference?'

‘Oh, right,' Henry said as it dawned on him.

While ensconced in the cosseted world of sickness he had moved out of sync with the real world and its goings-on. He had fed himself a diet of mind-numbing daytime TV and satellite sports channels, occasionally dipping into the
Daily Telegraph
to keep abreast of crime and rugby, but little else. Certainly not politics – a subject which bored him rigid even when in good health. He had completely forgotten about the annual party conference taking place in town that week.