The cycle of death

The call came through to Sheffield police headquarters at 0845.  A concerned member of the public complaining of a suspicious car parked opposite his home.  No sign of any trouble just suspicious; could be waiting to give someone a lift to work. No he’d never seen it before and none of the neighbours still working usually had a lift.  Could be their car was broken down, going in for service or they were travelling together to a meeting.  No he didn’t think so; he had a bad feeling, besides the car had been there too long.  What was happening now? Where was the occupant? Still in the car?  No movement.  OK a patrol car would investigate but they were quite stretched at present.

 

There had been trouble near York and all hell had broken loose. A couple had been found brutally murdered in a small village close to Selby.   A hunt was underway for an armed suspect and manpower from Doncaster and Rotherham had been pulled in to cover. A serious crash on the M62 and a major fire at a discount furniture warehouse were adding to the normal strain upon the resources of two police forces as the morning rush was about to begin.

 

Tom Dunston had been a local bobby before they did away with beat officers.  He was nearing retirement.  He had not had a remarkable career.  It had been dogged with sickness absence after he was seriously injured by a hit and run driver as he tried to direct traffic at a minor accident scene late one Friday night in Doncaster town centre.  He could, like some fellow officers, have strung things out and retired on health grounds. He had been brought up to respect authority and had great respect for the uniform he chose to wear. He had gone back on the beat but found himself overly nervous.  Months of post traumatic stress counselling and he still could not cope with being on busy city streets come chucking out time.  They offered him the move to a more rural beat. Put him out to grass. He didn’t protest.  For the past five years he hadn’t so much as issued a parking ticket and no one held him to account for performance targets.  This was true grazing. He had had to deal with the odd ‘domestic’, had even dealt with a pseudo hostage situation when an estranged ex miner with visiting rights to his teenage children locked his wife out of the matrimonial home and himself and the kids in. It was swiftly dealt with as he and the man were drinking acquaintances at The Red Lion in Maltby.  He had simply walked up to the door told him to stop ‘buggering’ about and taken him for a pint after a formal caution at the station.

 

He was satisfied and didn’t complain. He was happy to work his ticket.  He was thinking of his impending holiday in Bridlington with his wife Helen, as he turned into Windmill Close. They had gone there for an annual holiday for all of their married life. Never had kids; she couldn’t.  He hated the thought of abroad, too much foreign food. He liked his egg and chips. His meat and two vegetables.

 

He saw the car ahead of him parked on the right hand side of the road. 

The police panda swung round the corner. He saw it in the rear view mirror as he instinctively glanced up on hearing the sound of a car approaching. He felt the sick stomach emptying feeling hit him as he fumbled for the revolver on the passenger seat next to him.  He stuffed the bag with the shotgun under his seat and slid the gun under his right thigh.  He sat still. It was one car, a rover metro. Surely it was coincidence. His mind raced. If they were after him they would not have approached so boldly. They would send more than a single bobby in a panda. It might be a trap though he told himself.  He sat still not knowing what he should do. Was he going to shoot it out, was he to die here from the sure and deadly round of a police marksman.  He looked quickly around to see if he could see any movement in the windows of the homes backing on to Windmill Close. He had watched many police dramas on telly.  Nothing.   He thought of the children for the first time since the slaying. They would hate him anyway for what he had done but he still could not bear the thought of never seeing them again.

 

The panda car stopped immediately behind his car. The policeman inside had grey hair and seemed in no hurry to get out.  McPherson could see him put on his flat peaked hat, adjust his personal radio and fling open the door of the panda with an exaggerated movement. He climbed out of the car like the corpulent slightly arthritic near retirement bobby that he was. 

It reminded him of a character in the TV series ‘Merseybeat’. He could not recall the name of the CAD room sergeant with the beer belly and beard.  For some reason he thought of the character Reg Hollis from The Bill. A programme he used to watch on an off.  He felt quite ready.  Nervously calm as he used to call it.

***

He was an old fashioned policeman, not trained in new police ways and not willing to accept the culture of today’s police force.  He should have run a PNC check on the car but on a sleepy beat like this old fashion policing worked best.  He would ask some simple questions and if not satisfied with the response then he would bother with all this new fangled technology.   McPherson relaxed slightly.  He touched the handle of the gun under his right thigh.

 

He closed his eyes as if dozing and let the policeman rap upon the drivers-side window in that sort of unsophisticated, heavy-handed way policemen do in cop shows on TV.  He faked coming to and let the window slide open.

‘Yes officer?’ he mumbled, ‘have I done something I shouldn’t have?

‘I’m sorry to bother you sir.’ said Dunston, ‘do you mind telling me what you are doing here?’

‘I’m lost actually.’ lied McPherson  ‘I took a wrong turn and stopped to get my bearings. I realised how tired I was. Been driving since early. So I decided to rest before trying to find my way back to the main road’

‘Main road to where sir, if you don’t mind me asking? said Dunton with all the subtlety of a sumo wrestler in a tutu.

‘To get me to the M1’ replied McPherson

‘Could you tell me where you’ve come from sir? probed Dunton feeling his sleuth like instincts in the ascendancy

‘Look, if I’ve done something…..?.’ protested McPherson weakly.

‘I’m sorry sir but you will have to answer my questions. Please tell me where you have come from?’ pressed the officer.

‘I am travelling back to London after visiting friends up north.  I intended stopping at the home of an acquaintance near Doncaster but got hopelessly lost…..’ he trailed off

‘Have you been drinking sir? asked Dunton bluntly

‘No. Not at all.’ responded McPherson as indignantly as he could.

‘I need to see your driving licence please sir’ ordered Dunton

McPherson leaned over to the passenger seat and made as if to reach into the glove box. With his left hand on the handle of the glove box compartment he slid his right hand under his right thigh. He never carried his driving licence. He sometimes thought he ought to but somehow felt it safer locked up at home. Now was not the time to produce it in any case. He felt instinctively from the questioning of the officer that he was determined to pursue the matter and would probably insist on taking him to the local police station once he had failed to produce his licence or any other form of identification. He reasoned that the officer would not be asking such questions if he had an inkling of who he was and what he had just done. To give away his identification now would have the same effect as confessing to the slaying in Hemmingworth.  He suddenly pulled himself upright pointing the barrel of the gun at Dunton’s face.

‘Don’t get f*****g smart.’ He cautioned in a quiet snarling tone, his lips contorting with the emphasis of each syllable. ‘Just do as I say and do it quick. Step-back from the door and don’t draw attention to us’ 

 

Dunton’s mind was numb. He couldn't think.  His eyes told him he was no longer in control of the situation that a few seconds earlier he felt he was handling well.  He instinctively stepped back almost falling as he caught his heavy police issue shoe on the uneven pavement. He steadied himself as McPherson threw open the drivers door and leaped out in one fluid move.  McPherson kept the gun close to his side so that it was not conspicuous. He had often remembered the passage in the book the Godfather by Mario Puzo where the son goes into the restaurant to kill the rival Mafioso boss after being told to drop his hand to his side after he had pulled the trigger as people would not take notice in their confusion, horror and panic, thus allowing him to escape unhindered.

 

He was thinking in short intense busts. He had no plan and his adrenaline was coming in surges between deep trenches of fatigue; waves of flight alternating with waves of fight.  Part of him wanted to just lie down and sleep or die, just be at peace. He hated himself for what he had done and then was happy and elated as he tasted the sweetness of his dissipated anger liberated.  He motioned to Dunton to move towards the house he had been watching. He didn’t think to take the keys form the ignition or to lock the car. 

Dunton turned towards him, an innocent enough gesture.

“Come on sonny…” he began but before he could continue McPherson brought the gun down across his left cheek with a whipping motion.  Dunton fell heavily against the front wing of the vehicle, his peaked, checked hat spilling onto the roadway as he caught his balance and struggled to stop himself from passing out with the pain.  He could taste the saltiness of his own blood and the fragments of broken bone in his mouth as he ran his tongue over two shattered teeth.  His head swam with dizziness and he struggled to stay on his feet.  His jaw felt as if it was in pieces and he could already feel the throb as his tissue swelled to protect his damaged flesh and bone.

***

Tom Dunton struggled through a mist of pain, confusion and fear to stop from falling to the tarmac of the pavement. He clung to the side of the car to stop himself pirouetting into the roadway.  His mind was numb. He could not focus properly but his fear was high.  The pain told him that he was in danger.  He was vulnerable. He vaguely recalled a wet night in Doncaster; fragmented memories of doing routine police things and voices talking to him, talking about him.  Hands tearing at his tunic, ripping and cutting it from his torso before plunging the canulae into his veins in search of a route to keep his circulation from collapsing.   And all of the time, experiencing an overwhelming desire to sleep, to slip unconscious from the world.

 

He didn’t give up then and he sure as hell would not do so now.  He pushed himself up, vomit filling his mouth, mingling with blood and bone fragments.  He spat it out over the bonnet of the vehicle, wiped his mouth with his tunic, breathed deeply through his nose and pushed himself back onto his feet.  The man spun him around, pushing him with his free left hand while his right jabbed the gun into his kidneys with force.

“Try that again and you are f*****g dead” McPherson hissed.

Dunton turned in the direction he was shoved and headed towards the detached stone house imposingly looking down the length of Windmill Close. His mouth hurt and he could not help dribbling blood and saliva down his face.  His legs could hardly carry him and on a couple of occasions he thought he would collapse.  His assailant walked close with his left hand on Dunton’s left shoulder and the gun jammed into his right kidney area.

***

Peter Frith drew back in numb horror from his bedroom window.  The policeman had seemed to be handling the situation; leaning into the drivers' side window. Peter had watched him get out of the panda car and approach the other vehicle.  He had seen the slight movement as the driver moved to open the window and moved his head as he responded to the policeman's questioning.

 

He had been taken aback when the big policeman seemed to stagger back and the occupant of the car had leaped out.  He was even more taken aback when he had seen the man gesture toward Bernie and Henry's house and the policeman had hesitated turned and spoke to the man.  It wasn't until the devastating blow was extended that he had seen the gun.  At first he was not sure.  This was not the Wild West, not even Manchester for that matter.  He saw the swipe, the arc of the arm coming down in a short swift movement. He saw the policeman's head jerk over his right shoulder and then saw him spin and fall heavily against the car, his hat tumbling onto the road. 

He saw the big man in uniform cling to the wing of the car and after a few seconds push himself back to his feet as his assailant shoved him roughly up the street.  It happened quickly but he seemed to see it in slow motion, cut off from events by his double-glazing and by his mind finding it hard to believe that it was taking place in front of him.  The cold events unfolding were a puzzle to him.  He reached instinctively for the phone and dialled 999 for the second time that morning.  Sylvia came into the bedroom her hair wrapped in a towel.

***

The side gate was unbolted and the back door unlocked.  McPherson prodded Dunton who opened the kitchen door and was promptly hustled inside as McPherson firmly closed it, turning the key in the lock behind them.  The small kitchen was separated from the dining room by an open backed kitchen unit and there sitting at the table surrounded by the debris of breakfast were an elderly couple. They sat in stunned silence, the man with his newspaper drooped so that he could peer over it with his half-moon spectacles, the woman with her china teacup poised at her lips.

"Wha…what's going on?", "What are you doing?" asked the man hesitantly from behind the barrier of his broad-sheet.

 

McPherson looked agitatedly around the room, keeping Dunton firmly in his left-hand grip and the gun wedged in the man's right flank.  He pushed the big policeman, who was still bleeding from the mouth, round the pillar and into the dinning area.  He followed cautiously, glancing over his shoulder to look through the kitchen window back down an empty Windmill Close.  Beyond the stunned couple he could see into the conservatory and the small garden beyond.  It was not directly overlooked by any property but he still had a feeling of being exposed.

He looked at the couple.  The man laid his newspaper down to one side roughly folded and placed his hands on the table and made to stand up.

"Please don't stand."  Said McPherson quietly

"What?" asked the man quizzically

"Please stay where you are for a moment."  McPherson continued as he tried to decide what to do next.  His mind was racing. Should he disable the big policeman, get in the car and make a run for it.  He somehow felt close to home here as he thought of Holly.  He felt safe.   The thought of going out into the cold of the day and running to who knows where did not feel comfortable.  He suddenly felt very tired.

He tightened his grip on Dunton's shoulder.

"On the floor please." He ordered putting downward pressure on the policeman's clavicle and keeping the gun pressed into his right side so that he got the message.  Dunton sank to his knees alongside the length of the table, McPherson pushed Dunton forward so that he lay on his face on the carpet, his head towards the conservatory.

 

McPherson placed his right knee into the small of Dunton's back and the gun into the nape of his neck.  He half faced the table watching the elderly couple and decided they would not attempt anything dramatic.  The woman sat very still and was very pale, the teacup now replaced upon the china saucer, the man had settled back into his chair and sat stony faced watching every movement McPherson made.  Without a word McPherson reached to the policeman's left side, opened the small pouch and pulled out the bright steel handcuffs.

He stood again. Pulling Dunton up by his tunic collar.  He thought about the personal radio on the man's left shoulder and fleetingly wondered why it had been so quiet.  He did not know that Dunton had turned the volume off before getting out of his panda car.  He hated the static sound in his ear especially when talking to someone.  He turned the policeman with his guiding hand, keeping his grip on the shoulder and the gun pushed firmly into his right kidney area.  They took three steps towards the kitchen area and when Dunton drew level with the worktop McPherson ordered him to place his arms around the corner pillar supporting the eye level double cupboard.  It was quite a reach even for the big man. McPherson stepped quickly past him so that he ended up on the opposite side of the stone build column facing the clasped hands.  He pushed a cuff over each wrist and snapped them shut.  His gaze fixed Dunton's. It was the first time he had really looked at the man and he saw the face of a man long past fighting.  Dunton's lower jaw was caked in blood and a large red-bluish weal spread across his left cheek. His eyes were vacant and he looked finished. No spirit in the man; he felt sorry for him but at the same time relieved. 

 

He looked at Holly's mum.

"Bernie….get a flannel and some hot water and clean up his face please." He said motioning at Dunton who grunted uncomfortably at this seeming kindness.

Holly's mother sad wide eyed, unmoving.

"Please Bernie, do as I say. Clean up his face." He ordered gesturing with his left arm. He was more relaxed now and had dropped his right hand and the gun to his side.  Holly's mother stood and scuttled through the kitchen and into the lobby.

 

"Who are you?" asked Holly’s father Henry in a pained fashion, "What do you want." He continued, "how do you know our names?"

McPherson walked round the table so that he could sit with his back to the wall.  From there he could watch Henry, Dunton, both windows, the back door and all internal doors. He sat down heavily.

"Henry" he said with a sigh, "I could use a drink"

Bernie came scuttling back through the lobby, into the kitchen with a flannel she had taken from the downstairs cloakroom.  She offered it up kindly to Dunton's swollen and bruised face, dabbing away dried blood.  She stepped over to the sink to rinse the flannel in warm water and returned to the task.  She rinsed the flannel three times, carefully wiping the mess from the aching jaw of the big policeman who stood motionless, silent and hollow eyed as she did so. She returned to the kitchen area and took a clean glass from one of the top cupboards, filled it with running cold water. She lifted the small washing up bowl from the sink and returned to hold the glass to Dunton's lips so that he could rinse his mouth and spit out the debris left from the damage the pistol whipping had caused.  The policeman sipped the cold liquid gratefully but winced as he tried to swish it round his mouth. It dribbled from the corner of his mouth like he had been at the dentist, onto his tunic.  Bernie dabbed his tunic with the flannel.

"I guess I'll get the drink myself." McPherson stated and started to move from the table.

"I'll get it." Bernie said with authority, taking charge again of her kitchen. "What do you want?"

"Well I know it's a bit early but a large scotch would be nice….and something to eat…a sandwich…yes." McPherson said settling back down into the chair.

"Who are you?" Henry asked awkwardly

"I guess Holly doesn't talk much about me then?" replied McPherson

"Holly? what has she got to do with this?….what have you done to her?"  demanded Bernie stepping from the kitchen area past the manacled Dunton to face McPherson across the table.

"Nothing." Replied McPherson wearily.

"Then what is all of this about?"  asked Bernie kindly

Her gentleness felt uncomfortable to McPherson. Something he certainly did not feel he deserved after what he had done.  He felt very tired and his emotions were awash with ebbing and flowing cross currents. 

"Holly is safe." he said reassuringly. "Now don't ask too many questions, just get me a drink and something to eat." He said with command in his voice.

Bernie hesitated and looked directly into McPherson's eyes.  They were not the eyes of any maniac just gentle hazel and exhausted.   She could not comprehend the scenario before her, an injured policeman, handcuffed in her kitchen, dumb with terror and a young Scot…..She turned again.

"John?" she asked quizzically.

"I'll have that drink now please."  he said with finality.

Bernie suddenly felt safe. She hurried back to the kitchen, pulled a whiskey glass from the same cupboard as Dunton's glass, opened a floor cupboard and reached out a small bottle of 'Teachers' before pouring a generous measure and returning to place it on a coaster in front of John McPherson.

Henry sat in stony silence trying to catch up with Bernie's train of thought but he was lost.

 

Bernie looked across the table at McPherson as he took a large pull on the warming amber liquid, turned and went back to her kitchen.

***

The call came through at 08:15. Peter Frith had been short and direct in his mix of excitement and fear.

"He's hit a policeman and he has a gun!" spurted Peter "Come quick I think he means to kill someone".

The operator remained calm and drew out the essential details before passing them on the CAD room at Doncaster.  The man was certain of where the assailant had gone and that he had taken a police officer as a hostage.  The call went out for the ARV.

 

The Chief Superintendent was informed at his home as he was finishing his breakfast.

 

"Full incident procedure." he had ordered "Chief Inspector Hammond will be Blue Commander. I'll be there within the hour.

The new Mercedes, menacing in its power and dressed in distinctive blue and yellow livery, swept into the high street in silent approach mode. Its two occupants in full body armour with side arms primed looked like something out of an Arnold Schwartsiniger movie. Instructions crackled into their personal ear-pieces.  A large-scale map had been consulted and from the picture given by the member of the public who 'had called it in' the house was in an imposing position and approachable from only one side by road.  The crew of the ARV were ordered to stop short of Windmill Close and await further instructions.   Within ten minutes of the arrival of the ARV a dark blue buffed and highly polished Ford Mondeo pulled up behind it.  Two men stepped out and approached the ARV, one of them, a stocky man in his early forties with dark lank, untidy hair, walked to the driver's side door and opening it with authority.

"Chief Inspector Hammond." He announced waving his warrant card, "I'm Blue Commander, this is now a full incident procedure-what's the picture?

"No contact as yet sir." responded the ARV driver. "Our orders were to stay put as the approach to the target is open."

 

"Ok get a line of sight on the place and await further orders.  Do not fire without my specific instruction unless life is in danger." he ordered.

 

The two occupants of the ARV disembarked, went to the boot of the A class and removed one rifle with a telescopic sight from its cover, together with other equipment. They removed their peaked caps, throwing them into the boot and replaced them with soft baseball style hats with a checked band before carefully making their way to the corner of Windmill Close. 

 

Two patrol cars and two police motor cycles arrived and the officers began sealing off the access to Windmill Close and surrounding roads.  They worked quickly and efficiently, a well rehearsed drill.

 

Hammond checked the large-scale map laid out on the bonnet of the Mondeo as a police transit van arrived with half a dozen armed officers in combat style blue fatigues. The most senior officer jumped out from the front seat of the vehicle and approached him.

 

"Blue Commander, Sir?  He enquired.

 

"Yes, Chief Inspector Hammond…. Deploy your men here and here he said pointing to the immediate vicinity of the target property.  There should be ready access through here and here." again pointing to the map.  "No one is to fire without my order unless life is at risk.  We have no idea what we are dealing with yet."

 

A large van with 'Doncaster Police Mobile Incident Room' on the side pulled into the road.

 

"Ok." said Hammond to his companion "Lets get this show on the road Phil." As they both headed to the rear of the vehicle and clambered into the communications truck.

The telephone rang and Peter Frith lifted the cordless phone from its base station on the shelf beside the double divan bed and walked cautiously back to the bedroom window.

 

“Mr Frith?” Inquired a strong reassuring voice of some authority.  “My name is Chief Inspector Hammond from Doncaster Police.” He continued without waiting for the confirmation. “There are a number of police units nearby.” He said in a clear measured tone.

In a moment you will see a man in civilian clothes come around the corner, walk up the street and approach your door. He is an armed police officer. Do you understand?

“Yes.” Frith said frozen to the spot.

 

“OK then.  When he approaches the door act normally and invite him in as though you are expecting him. He will take it from there. Please stay on the line as we may need to speak to you.” he ended.

***

McPherson finished the toasted cheese sandwich, emptied the whiskey glass and put it on the table. Henry still sat to his right at the end of the table and Bernie had just returned from the downstairs cloakroom from where he could hear the toilet flushing.  As she came past Tom Dunton she put her hand gently on his shoulder and asked him if he wanted anything. 

"I'd like to ehm…..relieve myself."  he said softly

"He needs to go." She announced to McPherson.

McPherson stood, pushed his hand into his pocket and pulled out the key that he had earlier removed from the policeman's belt loop.  He rounded the pillar and stood facing Dunton, whose out-stretched arms were in front of him.  He pulled the gun from his belt and held it in his left hand as he inserted the key in one side of the bracelet and turned it. 

"No funny business please. I don't want to hurt anyone else." He said with feeling

He indicated with the gun barrel for Dunton to go into the lobby and followed him as far as the kitchen door from where he could observe him.  The big policeman moved gingerly and unsteadily towards the cloakroom where he pushed the door open.

"Leave it open." Ordered McPherson.  He could see the broad back of a corpulent man and he heard the long relieving stream splurge into the bowl after a short delay for a slightly enlarged prostate gland.  Dunton, flushed the cistern, turned and came cautiously back. He looked a weary beaten figure.  McPherson took pity on him, feeling guilty for the injury inflicted.

"Get him a chair please Bernie" he ordered. 

Bernie took the dinning room chair nearest the pillar and sat it at an angle next to it. McPherson again indicated with the gun to Dunton, this time to sit.  Dunton sat and raised his arms around the pillar his head resting against the exposed brickwork.  The cuffs were snapped onto his wrist and secured.  McPherson walked back to the table. He took the glass returned to the kitchen, refilled it then sat down at the dinning table again.  He did not say a word, his mind was numb and he felt very tired.  Bernie had sat beside her husband at the end of the table out of reach.  He placed the handgun on the tabletop and rubbed his eyes deeply with the heels of his hands.

 

He did not hear the report, but he heard the glass shatter in the kitchen, to his left, and almost simultaneously the thunderous boom that shocked him to his core.  Deafened, disoriented and choking on thick smoke he tried to reach for the gun but the table tipped over as if it had a life of its own and suddenly hands were on him dragging him forward and thrusting him to the ground.  He was pinned by strong determined hands and did not have the will or the strength to resist.

"Armed police do not move!" roared an unseen aggressor

He could see smashed glass across the conservatory floor and the form of a man silhouetted against the bright blue of the sky on one knee pointing a handgun at his face.

"Well done Tom!" a well spoken voice somewhere above him "Quick, clean and surgical."

"Thank you sir." Responded the officer with the gun pointed at McPherson.  "We had no information on this guy.  We were lucky to get the break we got.  The Rapid Response Team were outstanding…fine piece of work from the team."

McPherson heard the words but it was as if they were talking about someone else. He felt a shiver go through him and the wet of his own tears as they streamed down his cheeks onto the carpet into which his face was pressed. 

 

 

Reviews

[Claire Twinn]

Phew!! It all seems to make no sense, John has no idea what or why he's doing anything.
This chapter feels very different from the others, told with almost no feeling. You don't describe the horrendous fear the old couple and the policeman must be feeling. Is that intentional to show the character's loss of emotions and rationality?

[John Alexander McFadyen]

Yes he is in a fugue state after what he has done. He is completely disassociated from reality in this chapter.