Blake avoided the full blast of the first two bombs, but could not avoid the napalm. He screamed as gobs of fire splattered all over him. One shot down his throat and burned him from the inside.
The other two men were victims of the first firebombs.
One managed to run out of the cell, a demented, writhing fireball, screaming in agony as he burst his way past Trent. He stamped frenziedly across the walkway and flung himself over the railings into space, dropping like a comet into the safety netting below. Here he thrashed about wildly, suspended twenty-five feet above the association area, watched by stunned, open-mouthed inmates and staff. All helpless to assist him.
Without watching this, Trent lobbed the remaining bottles into the cell, ducking as the heat and flames bellowed out. The fingers of fire caressed and singed his protective clothing.
The last bottles did not have a great effect because most of the damage had been done, the first explosions having sucked and burned up most of the available oxygen.
Trent did not wait. As the last bottle left his hand he turned and hared for the steps which would take him down to his level. He knew the majority of people would make their way up onto level two from the opposite direction, from the steps nearest to the association area.
In order to aid his passage, he ripped the wet protective strips off his head and screamed, ‘Help! Fire! Get some help! People hurt!’ as he tore down the walkway, pointing frantically in the direction from which he had come.
He pushed his way through the gathering number of people running towards the scene of the inferno. No one seemed to take a blind bit of notice of him.
He landed back in his cell probably forty seconds after the last petrol bomb had exploded. He was breathless, shaking. He ripped his clothing off and stuffed the wet garments underneath his mattress, jumped into his own clothing, pulled up his shirtsleeves and sat on the bed.
His arms were bleeding nicely.
They needed to bleed some more.
He reached for the tin of pig’s blood.
Danny had been a naughty policewoman over the years. In more ways than one.
Regulations state that all officers must hand in their pocket-books for safe storage purposes each time one is completed. Danny had only ever handed pocket-books in during her two-year probationary period. She preferred to keep them in her locker and now, fifteen years on, she had a stackful on the top shelf which she would be hard- pressed to explain if called to account.
It was, in essence, a complete history of her police service, minus the first two years.
She reached right to the back of the shelf and found the one she was looking for. Pocket-book number 12. The twelfth book issued to her in her third year of service, showing how busy she had been in those days when she had been bright, keen and conscientious. Twelve in less than three years was pretty good going.
Of late, Danny recorded little in her pocket-books, just the bare necessities. The book she was using at that moment was over two years old.
She smiled when she saw the pink-covered, dog-eared log. Her memories flooded back fifteen years to those simple, uncluttered days of her first posting at Blackburn police station in the east of the county. Flicking the book open to the last page she glanced down the index of names and incidents she had attended. As she read them to herself, standing in a locker-room at Blackpool police station, she found she remembered each one.
Amongst the names were:
Loughlin: Burglary (he’d broken into a sweetshop on Eanam.)
Alexander: Parking offence (that bitch had been a real cow to deal with.)
Allcock: Prostitution (one of the many Blackburn hookers.)
There were numerous other names, all invoking their own particular reminiscence.
Eventually she saw the name she had been searching for.
Lilton: F/arm cert.
Danny riffled to the entry on page 21. Her memory was now well and truly jogged. She read the entry, then her eyes became misty as she visualised the day.
Visiting people who had applied for firearms certificates was a routine job usually carried out by more experienced officers. That particular day Danny’s shift was 2 p.m.-l0 p.m., and the guy who usually covered the outer rural beats of Blackburn had reported in sick. Much to Danny’s surprise, the Sergeant allocated her his beat for the day. She had been expecting to spend another eight hours trudging round the town centre, picking up shoplifters and drunks. The chance to work a mobile beat was pretty rare for a woman in those days, especially at her length of service. It was a beat usually given out to the older ‘lads’ as a bit of a sweetener.
She was handed the keys to the Panda car and the stack of routine enquiries and told to come in for her refreshments at six.
Danny could see herself marching confidently down the corridor. Twenty-two years old, slim as a beanpole. A non-smoker who hardly drank at all but enjoyed lots of uncomplicated sex with a variety of guys, mainly detectives. Fit as a flea and a regular member of the County Athletic Team.
What great days.
As she went out to the car she collected her PR from the comms room. Whilst fiddling with the radio harness she accidentally dropped the pile of enquiries onto the floor. The Constable who had issued her radio, and who was desperate to find his way into Danny’s knickers, picked them up for her, like the gentleman he was, or purported to be.
He noticed the Lilton firearms enquiry on top of the pile.
Danny could not quite recall the exact words. They were along the lines of, ‘I wouldn’t trust him with a catapult, never mind a thirty-eight.’ A remark which set Danny’s alarm bells ringing.
She asked why.
The PC told her. ‘Always beating his wife up. Real volatile git.’ He handed her the enquiries and changed tack to a more favourable subject. He asked Danny out for the tenth time.
And for the tenth time, she politely refused.
He sighed despondently and waddled his short twenty-two-stone frame back into the radio room.
So that afternoon, before going out on patrol, Danny sat in the report room and leafed through all the messages, reports and any references whatsoever to do with Joe Lilton of Head Bank House, Osbaldeston, Blackburn.
She got the impression the overweight Constable had a point.
After she turned out from the station, she enjoyed half an hour tootling round the country lanes, not having a single deployment. Then she got bored and made her way to Osbaldeston, a quiet village close to the River Ribble.
There was a fair smattering of wealth in the area and Head Bank House was a large, detached building surrounded by a couple of acres of landscaped gardens. Danny knew from his firearms application form that Lilton described himself as a self-employed trader. Further digging had revealed he owned six shops which sold High Street seconds at knock-down prices.
Danny drove down the wide, arcing driveway laid with white chippings crunching under the tyres of the battered Ford Escort. She drew up outside the front door next to a brand-new Jaguar and a slightly older Mini. Danny was calling on spec. It looked as though she’d struck lucky.
As soon as she stepped out of the car she heard raised voices from inside the house. A big argument. Man and woman. She stood and listened and tried to work out what it was about. It seemed to be about infidelity.
She walked confidently to the front door and jammed her thumb on the doorbell. The shouting continued. She kept her thumb on. It rang loudly. The shouting stopped. Footsteps. The sound of crying. Footsteps getting closer to the door. The door opening.
The woman was very glamorous in a tacky sort of way. She was in her mid-thirties. Her mascara had run, making her look like a surprised owl.