Moley presses his ear to the wall of the tunnel and listens for about fifteen seconds. Then he jogs forward silently and listens again. Within seconds he is out of sight. The only sounds are my heartbeat and the throb of traffic forty feet above our heads.
Fifteen minutes later Moley returns.
“There's someone there. About a hundred yards farther on there are two Portakabins. He's in the first one.”
“What's he doing?”
“Sleeping.”
I know I have to call it in. I can talk directly to “New Boy” Dave and hopefully bypass Meldrum and Campbell. Dave hates Gerry Brandt as much as I do. We look after our own.
But another part of me has a different desire. I can't rid myself of the memory of Gerry Brandt holding Ali against his back, looking directly at me, as he fell backward, crushing her spine. This is just the sort of place I wanted to find him—a dark place, with nobody around.
The police will come charging in here, armed to the teeth. That's when people get hurt or get killed. I'm not talking conspiracies here, I just know the reality—people fuck up. I can't afford to lose Gerry Brandt. He's a violent impulsive thug who peddles misery in tiny packets of foil but I need him for Ali's sake and for Mickey's. He knows what happened to her.
“So what do you want to do?” whispers Pete.
“I'm going to call the police but I also want to talk to this guy. I don't want him getting away or getting hurt.”
The light from the entrance forms a halo around Moley's head. He cocks his face to one side and looks at me with a mixture of apprehension and expectancy. “He did a bad thing, this guy?”
“Yes, he did.”
“You want me to take you in there?”
“Yes.”
Pete gives it five seconds of contemplation and nods his head. It's like he does this every day of the week. Back at the van I call “New Boy” Dave. Glancing at my watch, I realize that Ali will be in surgery. I don't know the exact details but they're going to insert pins into her spine and fuse several vertebrae.
Weatherman Pete has collected some gear from the van—extra flares and his “secret weapon.” He shows me two Ping-Pong balls. “I make these myself. Black powder, flash powder, magnesium ribbon and a drop of candle wax.”
“What do they do?”
“Kerboom!” He grins at me. “Nothing but sound and fury. You should hear one of them go off in a sewer.”
The plan is simple enough. Moley is going to make sure there are no other exits. Once he's in place, he'll set off the flash-bangs and flares.
“We're going to scare the son of a bitch half to death,” he says excitedly.
Pete looks at me. “You got sunglasses—wear them. And don't look at the light. You only have a few seconds to grab him while he's disoriented.”
We give Moley a ten-minute head start. Weatherman Pete and I keep on opposite sides of the tunnel, feeling our way blindly along the walls and stepping in oily puddles and nests of leaves.
Slowly the tunnel begins to change in character. The roof slopes down where the roadway above has been cut into the old ceiling. The Portakabins are just ahead of me. I can see the faint yellow glow of the lantern, leaking around the edges of a window that has been covered up or taped over.
Crouching, I wait for Moley. He could be right next to me and I wouldn't know it. My mouth is dry. For two days I've been popping codeine forte and craving morphine, telling myself my leg doesn't hurt and it's just my imagination.
What happens next wouldn't find a place in many training manuals. The explosion of noise is so sudden and ferocious it feels like I've been shot from a cannon. Darkness turns to light, as a flare of brilliant white arcs overhead and lands in the doorway of the nearest Portakabin.
Squinting into the dazzling ivory, my eyes sting. I see nothing but white. Turning my face away, I begin to move, crossing the last ten feet to the door. The second flash-bang explodes and a shape comes bursting out the entrance, with legs pumping in midair as though trying to gain traction. Blinded by the light, he runs smack into the far wall and almost knocks himself unconscious.
I grab him from behind, locking my arms around his waist. He pitches to the left, arms flailing. Both of us crash into a puddle. I don't let go. Pulling his arm behind his back, I try to put on the cuffs. He snaps his head back like he did to Ali but I'm ready.
Keeping behind him, I straddle his torso and twist his arm until he roars. He's fighting blindly, arching his spine to reach me. I wrap my forearm around his neck, cutting off his windpipe. With my arm squeezing his throat, I add more weight, pushing his face into the floor. He can't breathe. His legs are twitching as if he's made of rubber.
I could kill him now, so easily. I could hold on until he suffocates or I could snap his neck. So what if he dies? It's no great loss to humanity. There won't be any grand achievements left unfulfilled or prizes unclaimed. The only mark Gerry Brandt was ever likely to leave on the world was a bloodstain.
My forearm loosens and I let his head drop. It makes a dull noise against the concrete. He's gasping for breath.
Dragging his other arm behind his back, I snap on the handcuffs and roll away. Stumbling to my feet I look down at him for a moment. Dark hair spikes from his head and pieces of crushed glass are stuck to his cheekbone. A thin line of blood trickles past his ear as the burning flares begin to die out.
There are police sirens in the distance. “Come on, let's get him out of here.”
“Are we going to get in trouble?” asks Moley, falling into step beside Weatherman Pete.
“You'll be fine. Get to the van and let me do the talking.”
We're almost at the end of the tunnel. The gate gives off a hollow clang as it opens. Two armed response vehicles have pulled onto the ramp beside the van. The officers are armed with MP5 carbines. An unmarked police car pulls up alongside them. “New Boy” Dave gets out, along with Campbell who walks like he's got bowling balls down his Y-fronts.
“Arrest him,” he yells, pointing at me instead of my prisoner.
Gerry Brandt raises his head. “I didn't mean to do it. I let her go.”
“Where is she?”
He shakes his head. “I let her go.”
“What did you do with Mickey?”
“You got to tell Mr. Kuznet, I let her go.”
A red dot appears on his cheek, just above where he's bleeding. For a moment it catches in his eye, making him blink, and then rises to his forehead. Recognition jars inside me but it's too late. In a fleeting puff of blood and vapor, he spins and falls.
The bullet, fired from somewhere above, has passed through his cheek, down his neck and exited below his collarbone. I can't hold him. He's six one and more than two hundred pounds. He carries me down. I roll away, letting gravity take over, bouncing my head against the cobblestones until I strike the wall.
The ramp is empty. People have scattered like cockroaches. Only Gerry Brandt is unmoved by it all, lying with his jacket half covering his head, slowly soaking up the blood.
There are no more shots. One was enough.
33
According to the experts the world is going to end in five thousand million years when the sun swells up and engulfs the innermost planets and turns the rest of them into charcoal. I've always imagined it more like a dual second coming, where Jesus and Charlton Heston compete to see who gets the final word. I don't suppose I'll be around.
This is what I think about as I sit in the backseat of a police car, watching them photograph Gerry Brandt's body. Teams of armed officers are going door to door, searching shops, offices and flats. They won't find anything. The sniper is long gone.
Campbell has also slipped away, escaping from me. I followed him all the way to his car, yelling, “Who did you tell? Who knew?”