LITMIR.BIZ

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dream evaporated like morning dew.

      Forget those damned dreams, Sam told himself. It’s just Chris and Ray, your old team. And you, Sam, you’re a copper, you’ve got a job to do.

      Gene cruised forward, shoulders pushed back, belly sucked in. He back-handed the kid on the Chopper out of the way, ducked under the police tape, and surveyed the records office.

      ‘Speak to me, Ray. What’s the score? Anyone inside that place?’

      ‘The building’s evacuated, Guv,’ said Ray. ‘Leastways, it’s meant to be. Chris reckons he saw somebody up at one of the windows.’

      ‘I can’t swear to it,’ said Chris. ‘I thought I saw a bloke up there moving about, dead calm like.’

      ‘Could be one of the morning cleaners,’ said Sam.

      ‘Maybe,’ said Chris, frowning and looking confused. ‘Or it might just have been a reflection … You know, a seagull or summat like that.’

      ‘A seagull?’ snapped Ray. ‘You never said you thought it was a seagull.’

      ‘I didn’t think it was a seagull, not at the time.’

      ‘You said it were definitely a bloke, Chris.’

      ‘Yeah, I did. It were definitely a bloke – or a seagull.’

      ‘Can’t you tell the difference?’

      ‘Normally. But the more I try to remember, the less certain I am.’

      ‘Well, did it have a mop and bucket or a beak and bloody wings?’

      ‘I don’t know now, Ray. It’s doing my head in. I wish I hadn’t said anything.’

      Sam peered hard at the rows of windows, and then, quite suddenly, he glimpsed something move.

      ‘You were quite right, Chris,’ he said, pointing. ‘There’s a fella up there. Second floor, three windows in from the edge of the building.’

      Everybody looked. A man was moving about in a second-floor window, making no attempt to hide himself.

      Chris’s expression went from one of screwed-up confusion to self-satisfaction in an instant. ‘See? See? I were right. I said it were a bloke, Guv. I said so. Dead observant, me – eagle-eyed, you know.’

      ‘Eagles, seagulls,’ muttered Gene. ‘Cancel Bomb Disposal and get Johnny Morris down here, pronto.’

      Up on the second floor, a window opened and the figure leant out. It was a man, dressed in black overalls, his face completely hidden beneath a black balaclava. In the eyeholes of the balaclava glinted little circles of light – he was wearing a pair of wire-framed John Lennon glasses.

      At the sight of him, Sam felt a cold shiver run up his spine. That was no cleaner, and it was certainly no early-morning council worker going through the files. It was a terrorist.

      ‘What the hell’s he still doing in the building?’ Sam said.

      ‘Planting a bomb?’ suggested Chris.

      ‘Well obviously, Chris – but the IRA prefer blowing up other people rather than themselves.’

      ‘The dopey Paddy must’ve ballsed it up,’ growled Ray.

      ‘Maybe he’s new,’ said Chris. ‘Hasn’t quite got the hang of it.’

      ‘And maybe you lot should shut up and take cover,’ Gene suddenly intoned. ‘Get your heads down!’

      The man in the balaclava had suddenly thrust the long muzzle of an assault rifle out of the open window and was peering through the sight directly at them. Sam threw himself to the left; Ray and Chris threw themselves to the right. Gene stood motionless, unblinking, as bullets whined down and smacked into the pavement about his feet. Rounds slammed into the police patrol cars parked across the road; the titchy, mint-coloured police Austin 1300s rocked and shuddered as wing mirrors shattered and tyres blew out.

      The crowd of gawpers now screamed and surged back; coppers lost their helmets in the crush; the police cordon was ripped and went trailing away like fallen bunting.

      ‘Get everybody back!’ yelled Sam, scrambling behind a police car for cover. ‘Gene! For God’s sake, get down!’

      Unhurriedly, Gene strode over to the car and crouched behind it; all the time, he kept his eyes fixed on the man with the rifle.

      ‘Stinking Paddy bastard,’ he said. ‘There’s no bomb in that building. It was just a trap to get us in close so he could take pot shots.’

      Already his black-gloved hand had reached beneath the folds of his coat to grasp the solid stock and trigger of his Magnum .45. He straightened up, steadied his aim on the roof of the patrol car, and squeezed off two shots in rapid succession. The Magnum roared and kicked. Glass exploded from the open window. The man in the balaclava ducked away.

      ‘I’m taking control of this situation,’ intoned Gene. ‘Right now.’

      Holding aloft the smoking Magnum, he went to rush forward, but Sam grabbed his arm and hauled him back.

      ‘Guv, wait.’

      ‘Mitts off the camelhair, Tyler.’

      ‘We need to keep everything contained and under control,’ Sam urged him. ‘We need to clear the area of civilians, ensure the gunman remains inside the building, set up a cordon and sit tight until Bomb Disposal and armed backup arrive.’

      ‘Cobblers, you faggot. All we need is this’ – Gene waved the Magnum in Sam’s face – ‘and a little of that ol’ Genie black magic.’

      ‘Guv, stop behaving like a bloody—’

      But Hunt had heard enough. He tore free of Sam and went racing forward, his camelhair coat billowing after him like a huge set of nicotine-stained wings.

      ‘Gene, don’t be a bloody hero,’ Sam cried after him. ‘Wait for Special Branch. Guv! Guv!’

      But even as he called out, he knew that he had no choice, that there was only one thing he could do. Cursing his guv’nor under his breath, he grabbed a state-of-the-art, police-issue radio from Ray. It was bigger than a house brick. Sam wedged the cumbersome contraption into his belt.

      ‘Wait here,’ he ordered. ‘Be on standby. And keep everybody back.’

      And before he could change his mind, he broke cover, sprinting after Gene.

      As he ran he saw Gene up ahead, charging like a bull elephant, the Magnum raised and straining for action. The guv slammed into the front doors of the record office and disappeared inside. Sam pounded in after him, drawing his own pistol and tensing for trouble. He darted through the doors and skidded to a halt in the deserted hallway. From outside came the sounds of panic and screaming and bellowing policemen.

      Gene gave Sam a sour look. ‘If you think I’m gonna stand here listening to yet more of your Mary, Mungo and Midge about waiting for backup, you’re even dopier than the front of your head suggests, Tyler. I’m going right up them stairs to nail me a Paddy bastard, and that, Samuel, is called law enforcement.’

      ‘I know I can’t stop you, Guv,’ said Sam. ‘But I can’t let you deal with this alone.’

      ‘Very neighbourly. But if you’re going to tag along, Sammy-boy, you’re going to have to try keeping your cakehole zipped, you read me?’

      ‘I read you, Guv.’

      ‘I don’t want no messing about, Sam,’ hissed Gene, suddenly leaning close. ‘No warnings, no orders to freeze. We find that murdering Bogside bastard, we blag him, we go for a pint. Got it?’

      ‘We can’t do that,’ Sam said.

      ‘You told me you’d keep it zipped, so zip it!’

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