The Baby And The Brandy (Ben Bracken 1) (11 page)

Jack nods, and we both rise in unison. Looking out over the restaurant we see our bullets haven’t connected with any of the targets, nor have we caused much damage. The men are down low by the first row of tables, two of them getting rather soaked by the falling spirit. I take aim at the most central barrel, and throw the bottle like a baseball pitcher. It sails and arcs, time slowing to a crawl as the bottle tumbles end on end, higher and higher. It hits the barrel, shattering on impact and, with a loud, hot smash, fire sprays down onto the restaurant. The flames ignite the falling streams of
baijiu
, and suddenly I’ve managed to turn the place into a giant, floating, Molotov cocktail, the restaurant now engulfed in fire from ceiling to floor.

Two of the men are now on fire, their clothes blazing like animated yellow and orange puffer jackets, and the remaining two are diving for the door. Consider the threat neutralized.

We don’t have much time though, and my attention turns to the back room. I gesture Jack to flank the back door. I hear the crackling of fire and wood behind us - those barrels are not going to last, and I don’t really want to be there when they disintegrate and all that burning spirit comes down.

I check the handle, clicking it ajar, before kicking the door sharply, which swings out into the room. I was expecting some gunfire, or something to that effect. Definitely not the silence we are greeted with. Readying myself and my weapon, I spin into the room, firearm raised. There appears to be no human presence in here - but that doesn’t mean it isn’t extremely interesting.

It seems to be part office, part chill-out room, part industrial workshop. There is a mahjongg table, an office desk with a phone and computer, then two tables arranged next to each other festooned with industrial equipment. There are two metal black boxes, hooked up to a central computer hub, thick wires linking the components together. The black metal boxes have transparent perspex sides, revealing a little plateau inside, doused in blue light. The air carries a funny sharp bitterness, which could be any number of things in this place.

‘Where is that prick?’ Jack shouts, as he peers over my shoulder. There doesn’t appear to be anything of immediate value lying around, and from back in the restaurant, I hear a deep groan, which echoes loudly over the crackling flames. We turn back to the restaurant floor, which is now engulfed in a series of smaller fires, separate from one another, but all fueled from above. The moan slows to a couple of creaks, as I realize it’s caused by wood straining under weight. Suddenly, one of the barrels bursts, wood cracking and splintering, and gallons of baijiu fall to the floor, catching fire as it goes, going up like a reverse waterfall of flames. The restaurant is swallowed and the whole boat is going up in smoke. Without question, we need to get out of here. Now is not the time to panic. Keep cool, Ben.

‘Where is he?’ shouts Jack.

Just as I’m about to say I don’t know, I suddenly do know. Sparkles is running along the far wall past the main windows, ducking to avoid the spitting dragon fire. I was wrong. There must have been a secret exit in the back room leading straight out to the front. We set off in pursuit of Sparkles, hopping the bar like Olympic hurdlers but with far less grace. As we land, a second barrel explodes, showering inferno. I dive to my right (well, more like tumble end over end) and find myself by the windows. Sparkles is almost at the toilets now, but he too was knocked over by the blast, and is clawing his way back up to his feet.

I can’t see Jack. Panic tremors me, and I hope he wasn’t caught by the flames. But I can hear him shouting at me. I stand and look for him, and through the orange haze I can see that we are separated by the ever-growing fire. He’s by the door, ready to leave begrudgingly. I can’t quite make out what he’s shouting, but then I get it loud and clear.

‘He’s mine!’ he shouts.

I look back to Sparkles, and begin a bobbing awkward sprint of my own. The heat is fast becoming too much to bear. I reach the edge of the corridor, and sail around the corner - straight into a shoulder charge. The impact is brutish, and throws me to the floor, which hurts like all hell. My hip takes the brunt of the fall, but, thankfully, nothing cracks. A savage kick to my gut brings tears to my eyes, and forces me to wretch for breath. I see white dots dancing in the corners of my vision, as I see a fist sail an aggressive course through them - but I bob sideways and weave away, a boxing maneuver more than anything, and haul myself to my feet. Sparkles is bringing his left fist crashing up in a hook towards my face, and I block it away with a left arm cross of my own. I follow the momentum and throw what I hope will be a huge right hand, trying to put enough force into the blow as possible. I’d love to knock him out of his boots here and now.

The connection is good, but Sparkles is obviously a tough one, and he doesn’t go down. He looks dazed, and hurt by that, taking two steps back for steadiness, but I’ll definitely need more. He comes forward in a head-down charge, and I let him, because he’s given me his forehead, a target I can definitely use. I thrust the heel of my right hand as hard as I can at his forehead, and it connects with a thick, solid thud - jangling his brain, bruising it against the bone walls of his skull, and giving him an immediate concussion. His momentum carries him stumbling forward, and he hits the wall hard. Like a tree, he goes down, felled.

I bend down and push my knee firmly down on his solar plexus, then take the three fingers of my right hand and push them down hard into the crevice of his collarbone. His scream let’s me know I’ve hit the spot. I hold on, like you would a climbing hold. It’s always horrible when you have to use tactics like this to get someone to comply, but it usually gets the job done, and when time is in short supply, my hand is often forced . That’s when the training kicks in. At times, I wish the corners of my brain didn’t contain such well-drilled secrets of torture.

‘We’ve got about 30 seconds to get out of here, so speak fast,’ I say, forcing my fingers deeper into his collarbone. ‘The truth - now.’

All of a sudden, Sparkles seems keen to talk.

‘You’ve got the wrong man,’ he says, writhing. I keep the knee pinned tight so he can’t go far, and use my fingers like a tight leash.

‘Explain that to me,’ I say.

‘We got a tip-off that a Jack Brooker was out to kill me, so I put out a hit to beat him to it. Of course, you know we found you instead.’

The flames are creeping down the corridor towards us, a crawling, arachnid pyre along the wall.

‘Who gave you the tip off?’ I bellow.

‘It was anonymous.’

‘And you took it seriously?’

‘Turns out I was right to listen though, wasn’t I?’

I can’t argue with that. ‘You know why he wants you dead?’

‘No idea. Everyone wants a piece of us here, there’s big things going on.’

The workshop out back swings into my mind.

‘What about the Berg?’

‘Jealous, controlling bastards. Don’t have much to do with them, but we have come into contact a few times.’

‘To kill Royston Brooker?’

‘Fuck, no. I don’t know what you think about us, but we are not like them. They are a different animal - a bigger one too. I wouldn’t do that unless I wanted to cause a big problem.’

‘Well you've got a big problem on your hands now, haven’t you?’

Sparkles seems sad, blood trickling from his lower lip. ‘Like I said - you’ve got the wrong guy.’

The floor starts to shake a little beneath our feet. It cannot be good. I hear the faint murmur of sirens. We need to leave now.

I’m stumped. If Sparkles did kill Royston, I should leave him here, but the story does not seem that clear cut. I don’t want to go about offing people with gay abandon. I’m interested in justice, and justice is reserved for those I’m sure are guilty.

‘Come on,’ I tell Sparkles, releasing my hold on his collarbone and rising off him. I head back to the main restaurant floor, careful of the flames. The scene is carnage, a bizarre, melting, tumultuous, wooden belly of hell. There is still a little room to the left where the windows are, that isn’t completely engulfed. Our only option.

I take out my pistol, and start to run at the windows. I fire the remaining bullets into one of the window panes, which send cracks across the surface. I run out of bullets, hop between dancing flames, and hurl myself at the glass. It breaks easily.

I’m falling, the air suddenly cool and invigorating, and I hit water, the sudden freeze of the Irwell a world away from being cooked alive a second ago. It jackknifes my senses, and I come back to the surface, breathing deep and heavy. The pirate ship is ablaze, now more like a Nordic funeral pyre, eager flames reaching out into the night air from every window, every opening.

I can’t see Sparkles, and I appear to be the only one in the water. Surely he won’t have stayed on the craft - he just can’t have, as if some twisted sense of duty meant that the captain had to stay with his criminal ship, come what may. I refuse to believe it, as the great mast begins to crumble, and come loose. It fells, and smashes right across the belly of the boat, ripping the cabin roof in two. It is greeted by explosions, as the barrels finally burst. Charred and burning debris starts to tumble down towards me, hissing loudly as it hits the cold surface. I start to swim, my clothes tugging me to the bottom, but I press on with determination. I need to get out of here. If I’m picked up by police, I’m done for. As blue and red lights bounce off the high buildings around the river banks, creating a two-tone Art Deco light show, I take a deep breath, and sink under the surface. I begin to swim upriver as fast as my bruised, singed body will allow.

12

The dark and cold feels unending, an uncomfortable dissolution of everything that humans need to feel at ease. My legs and arms are numb, my scalp burning even though I know it’s not. I’m freezing, but I can’t stop moving. If I do, I’ll sink to the bottom like a shark, and reluctantly expire with pathetic acceptance.

I rotate onto my back, and allow my face to break the surface, the air so dry and bitter that it feels like acid on my cheeks. I breathe, gulping two mouthfuls of oxygen, then sink again, hoping that I was subtle enough to avoid detection. I’m hoping Jack managed to escape the scene, but I’m unsure. He has been so fixated on revenge that he may have hung around for too long, in the hope he would see his personal mission through.

I turn onto my stomach again, to resume my sub-aquatic doggy paddle. The tiredness is extreme now, the frozen ache in my limbs unbearable. Lactic acid has built up but will do nothing to warm me - moreover, it builds a furious nausea. I keep going, committed to my escape route. I always thought the water could play a part at some point - maybe I’d have been better off going to Toys’R’Us and buying a sodding blow-up dinghy.

I know my limits however, and I’m fast approaching them. Training in the cold was never something I was keen on, nor am I used to it’s feel. I was never thrown into any freezing rivers in Afghanistan nor Iraq. I am more used to trying to regulate my temperature in the opposite direction. I need to get out of this water, and fast.

I angle my stroke left, and head towards the bank, arms outstretched, feeling for concrete. It can’t be far now. Dear God, please don’t let it be far. I’m running out of breath and I feel my torso, my very core, squeezed in the constricting grip of a quickening hypothermia.

My hand hits concrete, and I feel briefly warmed by joy. I slowly arrive at the surface, my soaking hair surely beginning to crystalize and freeze, and I blink water from my eyes. To my surprise, I’m only a hundred yards from the boat, which is entirely aflame, huge fans of fire offering columns of thick grey smoke to the heavens. I must have only been in the water a couple of minutes, tops. My problems are not over, as I realize I’m stuck about 20 feet below the river bank, with no obvious means of escape.

Panic threatens to rise, but I won’t let it. I need clarity of thought, not to grieve for a fate that still might be averted. I look all around me, scanning the brick surfaces of the bank wall, and I can’t see anything to grab, or pull myself out with. I’m too far down. I lean against the wall, trying to think.

The cold is clenching me, and I feel a mental numbness joining the physical one. I begin to feel dizzy and disorientated. I feel drifty, my body deciding to conserve it’s remaining energy stores, by shutting down certain facets. I hold onto the brick wall, and try to steady myself, hoping that the sensation will pass, and I can have another go at escaping.

My hearing has gone now, and all I can hear is my own slowing heartbeat.

I’m in trouble.

Panic would usually take hold now, but it doesn’t. I’m not prone to panic, that reaction feeling now very foreign to me, but at the same time, I just don’t have the energy for it.

My eyes feel weighty. Suddenly each blink is like hoisting an anvil. I let them close for a moment. Bad news. I can’t open them again, my subconscious shutting that off too.

I can’t bow out now. But it seems I have no choice. I will not go quietly, and will fight to the last - but even as I think that I know it is a fantasy. I lose grip of the wall, my fingers failing me, and I begin to sink.

My mind clears, and my hold on consciousness breaks. I float down, within myself, the lid closing in on me. I feel hands grasping at me, beckoning me to the afterlife. They grab me by the lapels, and pull me to the heavens. I go, sadly, without protest. It is the end.

13

I hear a crackle, feel an immediate heat on my cheeks and the smell of something charring. It reminds me of camping. I am snapped back into the present with the horrible assumption that I’m still floating along with the burning pirate ship, just another piece of wreckage left behind.

I see flames, but they are small, and very close. Did I never make it out of the restaurant? Surely I did, I remember the tumble, then the cold...

My eyes adjust, and I see that the fire is encased in a white ceramic oval, a funnel over it sucking the smoke up and away. I follow the tube above the funnel, as it reaches twelve or so feet to a glass ceiling. Confused, I turn, and see that the glass ceiling continues along and down, in a huge 3 sided glass box - encasing the most ornate pool complex I have ever seen. A kidney-shaped pool, with a bar at one end, with little paths routing from one end to the other, lined with ornamental foliage of all description. A little glass-house of paradise - a conservatory of some kind.