Just Another Day - Clark Steven - Страница 12
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Johnson was now fully aware that the police would have been tracking the lorry for some time. It suddenly dawned on him that what he thought were the innocuous comments of a frightened copper when he was making references to ‘Switch Island’ and ‘stopping at the Burtonwood services’ earlier in the journey were nothing of the kind. This clever bastard was actually giving directions to the listening ears as to where they were heading.
The pain in Dave’s chest intensified again as Johnson exerted more pressure with his foot. Plans would have to change he thought. If he killed his captive now, he would surely die as well. He had no doubt that somewhere close by would be a number of firearms officers and marksmen. They probably weren’t in a position yet to take him out as the situation had only just changed, but he knew it wouldn’t take long. They would quickly block off the Motorway, take out the tyres to prevent him moving and take great delight in killing him. Particularly if he had killed one of their own, there was no way, even if he tried to surrender, that they would let him live.
The inquest would surely be told by the firearms officer that I had made a sudden and threatening movement and, even though I had thrown out my shotgun, he believed I was armed with another gun and shot me because, ‘I thought he was about to shoot at me, another officer, or a member of the public and I shot him in order to prevent further loss of life.’
Still, whilst the situation had changed dramatically, he was now quite sure that they wouldn’t be listening any more as he eyed the shattered remnants of the police radio. He looked back at Dave.
‘What d’ya mean you can drive?’
‘I was in the army for six years before joining the police. Before you leave, you can do loads of things so you can get a job in civvy street. I did a resettlement course; they taught me to drive fork lift trucks and lorries. I can drive us out of here. Tell me where you want to go and I’ll get us there.’
The control rooms obviously weren’t aware of any of this conversation as a consequence of the smashed radio. They had watched the live pictures as the lorry driver had stumbled from the cab. They had heard the blast and seen the window explode. They had even seen the two cartridge shells flying through the air as a result of the helicopter’s powerful camera. Nobody knew whether or not he was alive or dead, for the last few minutes, there had been only silence. Only two people were aware that Dave had survived the blast and they were both in the cab of the wagon.
Johnson knew that he had to make himself as small a target as possible. He didn’t know whether or not any one could see into the cab. ‘When I climb onto the bunk, you slide over onto the driver’s seat. If you fuck about, you will die. Understood?’
‘Yes, I understand what you’re saying’ said Dave having noticed the emphasis the gunman had placed on the word ‘will’.
Dave rubbed at his eyes. ‘I can’t see properly with the blood coming down my face. It’s running into my eyes. Can I have a few minutes to sort myself out before we move?’
‘You’ve got five minutes’ said Johnson as he settled back in the bunk and Dave was only too aware that the twin barrels of the shotgun were only inches away, trained on his head. He looked in the driver’s door compartment and amongst the tachograph charts, old delivery papers and general rubbish that all drivers seem to accumulate over time; found a bottle of water, a couple of fairly clean rags and a roll of black insulation tape. He dampened one of the rags and as he looked in the mirror, he saw that he had a jagged almost vertical two inch split on his forehead right between the eyes. With the skin being so thin at this part of the skull, he could clearly see the bone beneath.
That will give me a mean look when it heals, thought Dave as he gently dabbed at the wound. He mentally castigated himself for his stupid thoughts. Even so, he wondered why the mind works in such strange ways. Why was he thinking such utter crap when there was blood everywhere and serious gashes to his face and head and he was getting weaker with every passing minute? At least, he thought again, I’m thinking positively in that I’m going to get out of this in one piece.
Well, almost one piece. As he looked in the mirror again, he suddenly realised just how close he had come to having his head blown off. He saw that part of his right earlobe was missing and the blood was dripping steadily onto his tunic. The right shoulder of the jacket was torn and shredded and the red stain seeping through told him that further injury lay underneath.
‘Can I take this jacket off? I need to check my shoulder. Its bleeding and I need to strap it or patch it up or something before I start driving.’
‘Do it very slowly and remember. The back of your head is only six inches away.’
He took his jacket off and put it on the passenger seat. He could see that the fabric of the right shoulder was all bloody and torn. The epaulette which had his identity number on a few minutes before was completely missing and probably went through the window in the blast. Suddenly, he began to shake. Just a little at first until his whole body began to move uncontrollably. He couldn’t stop his legs from twitching and he went into a violent spasm as his right foot hit the accelerator hard causing the engine to rev loudly.
‘Don’t fuck me about plod. You said you could drive this fucking thing.’
‘It’s OK. I’ll be OK. It’s just shock, give me a minute.’
Johnson began to laugh. He hadn’t had much to smile about since becoming aware of Dave’s transmission. He thought this was a nice little bit of payback and couldn’t resist the temptation to humiliate his captive further. Another little twist of the knife to weaken him more and show that he was stronger than his victim and in complete control.
‘Not such a fucking hero now eh, shit your pants ave yeh. I thought you fuckin coppers were supposed to be ard. Are yeh sure that’s blood down there on yeh leg and yeh aven’t pissed yehself?’
The weariness began to wash over Dave as the taunting from his captor hit him hard. His mind began to wander, thoughts of his family crept into his subconscious. Try as he might, he could not push them away. He knew he needed to focus on his immediate situation. Sort the now out; everything else could wait. He couldn’t keep them away, the faces of his two innocent, beautiful daughters suddenly flashed into his mind.
He was supposed to be dropping the twins off at school this morning. He hoped to God that they weren’t aware of his ordeal and prayed that his family were only told the very basics of his captivity.
Oh, how they all loved the mornings together when he came home off nights. Breakfast for the four of them was a pleasant ritual and, now that the twins were getting older, they liked to make the toast for Mum and Dad. ‘Burnt is good,’ he would hear himself say with a quick glance to his other half. ‘These black bits are really good for you, honest.’
‘It was your fault Sophie; while I was making the tea, you should’ve been watching the toaster instead of brushing your hair.’
‘Well, if you’d have been quicker in the bathroom, Susan, I wouldn’t have needed to brush my hair now. I could have done it before and if I’d done it before, I could have been watching the toaster now, so it’s not my fault, it’s yours!’
They liked to do some bacon under the grill as well but both Mandy and Dave had decided to wait until they were a little bit older as they had nearly set the kitchen on fire at the last attempt, still, they meant well.
Hugs and kisses at the school gate and then Dad off to bed and Mandy would arrange to pick them up later if there were no after school clubs or other events planned, while Dad had a lay in. Make the most of it thought Dave as it wouldn’t be long before hugs and kisses was a definite no. Then it would be, ‘No Dad, you can’t have a kiss, what will Milly and Sarah think. Dad, you’re just so not cool. Please, just drop us off at the end of the road, we’re too old now. We don’t need you to drop us off right outside. Dad, you’re so embarrassing.’
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