Henry saw that his radio, dropped when he was initially attacked, was in easy reach. The man pulled and kicked and fought, but Henry held on for death, wondering if he could keep him secure whilst getting the radio and screaming for help.
The man twisted so he was on his back, Henry holding on, his face now level with the man’s knees. The man managed to sit up and reached out, pounding Henry’s head with his fists. Henry tucked his face between the man’s shins, riding the blows, which hurt badly.
Then, with a great heave of strength, he broke one leg free of Henry’s grasp, flat-footed Henry on the shoulder and managed to yank his other leg away, then lunged for the knife.
Henry grabbed the radio and teetered unsteadily to his feet, backing breathlessly towards the front door, whilst at the other end of the hall, the Asian guy was in a leopard’s crouch, having retrieved the knife.
Both men panted heavily, eyeing each other warily.
‘You put up a good fight, infidel,’ the man said through the blood streaming down his nose. He wiped his face with his forearm. To Henry, he looked terrifying, waiting to pounce, blood soaking him. He spun the knife in his hand and Henry imagined it plunging into his neck.
Henry raised the radio to his lips. He had to get the call out. He had twelve feet in which to do it, in the time it would take for the man to reach him. Maybe a second and a half.
The man rose, pushing himself up as though he was a sprinter, except he held a knife, not a baton.
Henry was about to shriek something into the radio, along the lines of, ‘Fuckin’ help me!’
Two things did not happen.
The man did not reach Henry.
Henry did not manage to utter any words.
There was a massive, all encompassing ‘boom’ from somewhere behind the man and his right shoulder seemed to explode into bloody fragments. His arms shot up and he crashed down on to his knees, dropping the knife, then falling on to the floor, moaning and writhing in agony.
Henry’s mouth clamped shut and he lowered the PR.
A man in a ski mask and dark clothing stood at the now open kitchen door. A big man, his wide frame and height almost filling the gap. In his right hand he held a smoking pistol, which he lowered slowly. With his left hand, he pinched the top of his ski mask and slowly pulled it up off his head, revealing his features. Then he stepped forward and stood with his big feet straddling the knife man. There was a big grin on his face.
Henry was speechless, but the guy with the gun wasn’t.
In an American accent, he drawled, ‘Well, Henry, the cavalry’s come to bail you out again, I reckon. What you say to that, pal? Nothin’? Cat got it?’
Then Henry found the power of speech and said simply, ‘Thanks, pal … what the hell’re you doing here?’
Fourteen
He put his hand on the doorknob and slowly turned it. He was trembling, hurting, and he didn’t want to do this, but he knew he had to. It was his responsibility. He glanced at the people behind him in the hallway, then at the walls splattered with blood, the floors also, and pushed the front room door open.
His mouth closed tightly as his eyes took in what was beyond, then his lips popped open when the enormity of it hit him. ‘Oh God,’ he groaned.
They had died horrendous deaths, their bodies splayed out on the floor of the empty room, their throats severed from ear to ear, their heads almost hacked off.
The room from hell.
Henry stood immobile, unable to move, as he computed how it had happened.
They had knocked on the front door, been invited in — just as he had — and in the hall, they had been savagely attacked.
They’d probably gone for Graeme first, the big guy. Someone had taken him from behind and sliced his throat open, hence the blood spurts on the wall from the thick arteries in his neck. Then Angela had been overpowered, suffering the same fate, and their bodies had been dragged into the front room where it looked like the attack had continued frenziedly, and they had been butchered, almost beheaded.
Henry shuddered. His nostrils flared.
He had seen many awful things in his life. Most had no effect on him. But this horror was something he was having big problems with already. It was one of the most barbaric scenes he had ever witnessed, like something from the Dark Ages.
Their faces were twisted in his direction, both clearly identifiable. Graeme Walling had one eye closed, the other half open; Angela Cranlow’s were both wide open, staring accusingly at him, her tongue lolling in the blood which had gushed from her mouth.
Henry was short of breath. His heart started to pound fast. Suddenly it was hard to inhale.
A hand clamped down on his shoulder and the big American looked over his shoulder.
‘Hell,’ he said. ‘C’mon, Henry, close the door … step back, let the CSI guys have this.’
The hand steered Henry away from the room, through the kitchen and into the backyard, where he was forced to sit down on the edge of a metal dustbin.
‘Deep breath, pal.’
Henry complied, his hands on his knees, his arms locked at the elbows.
‘Let’s have a look at you.’ The American settled on his muscular haunches and held Henry’s face, tilting it to the light. ‘That’s a hell of a shiner,’ he said, inspecting Henry’s right cheek.
‘Think my cheekbone’s bust.’
‘Let’s look at the hand.’
Henry held out his right hand, slashed by the knife. He’d wrapped kitchen towel round it but the bleeding had continued, soaking the paper. The American slowly unravelled the paper, making Henry wince. His hand dithered. ‘Needs stitching, I reckon.’
‘You still haven’t said what you’re doing here,’ Henry said dreamily.
‘And I haven’t got time to explain just yet. We need to do some pretty fast manoeuvring here first.’
Henry shook his head and forced himself to return to the world. He looked directly into the American’s eyes. ‘What the hell’s going on?’
‘Critical threat,’ he said.
His name was Karl Donaldson.
A bemused Henry Christie, still on the edge of a dustbin in the backyard of a terraced house in the predominantly Asian area of Blackburn, watched the activity in a haze. His face hurt and was swelling by the second and the rest of the injuries and knocks he had taken whilst fighting for his life were starting to have some effect. He compared it to being dragged under a truck.
Suddenly the backdoor of the house opened and the two firearms officers stumbled out, Bill almost dragging Carly, who immediately spewed her guts up over the back wall, retching with a disgusting sound. Bill shot Henry a look of horror. Henry nodded, still not quite with it, but realizing they had just seen the crime scene.
Karl Donaldson came out behind the two officers and pulled Bill to one side. He spoke urgently in his ear. ‘Get her home, get her out of the way and get her to keep quiet, OK, pal?’
Bill turned to Henry for guidance.
‘Do as he says, Bill.’ Bill’s facial response did not look positive. ‘Trust me,’ Henry assured him.
Bill gave him another look, one of incomprehension and fear.
‘You heard, Bill — trust him,’ Donaldson said. ‘Get her home, and if you want to go home too, then that’s fine.’
Henry nodded. ‘Do it.’
‘You’re the boss,’ he said, sounding aggrieved.
Carly vomited again, narrowly missing Henry’s feet with the remainder of her breakfast. She was completely out of it, overwhelmed by shock. Bill led her out of the yard and down the alley. She did not resist.