It was a sight that made him freeze.
The second youth looked much the same as the first, same age, height and facial hair and was similarly attired — jeans, T-shirt, trainers — but there was one exception. Maybe a dozen blocks the size and thickness of large chocolate bars were strapped across his chest and waist and he was holding something that looked like a stubby pencil in his right hand. Henry knew instantly what he was looking at.
A suicide bomber.
In a backstreet in Accrington.
The first youth saw Henry’s expression change — and he smiled.
‘Yes,’ his head nodded, his eyes wide.
Behind him, the explosive-clad youth held up his right hand, showing Henry the plunger switch and the wire running from it, around his back. He had a wild glare in his eyes.
‘Get back, everyone,’ Henry shouted over his shoulder. ‘He’s got a bomb.’
They did not need telling twice and very rapidly Henry was truly on his own in the alley facing two people who didn’t care about dying or taking others with them, and there was nowhere for him to go.
The first youth waved the gun at him, holding it parallel to the ground like some hip-hop gangster in a music video. Henry half expected him to start rapping, though with the youth’s ethnic background, he was more likely to spout Bangra.
Henry was thinking fast.
It looked like these two had been disturbed in acts of preparation, meaning there could be others in the house, equally well armed. The whole street could end up being detonated if things went badly.
Neither youth was over five-six in height; both were as skinny as pipe cleaners, no muscle, no weight on them. Unarmed, Henry would have had a go at both, but just at that moment in time the scales were somewhat weighted in their favour.
‘There’s police officers at the front of the house, us here and more on the way,’ Henry said. ‘This is going nowhere,’ he added, hoping they would believe him.
The big Adam’s apple in the skinny throat of the gun-toting youth rose and fell. The gun dithered in his hand, his finger curling and curling again around the trigger. His head rocked and weaved. Sweat rolled down his face. He knew the implications of what he was doing, looked determined to go through with it.
‘Don’t do this,’ Henry said. ‘Nothing is worth this.’
‘You ignorant fool,’ the lad almost spat. He twisted his head and spoke over his shoulder, keeping one eye on Henry. ‘Has there been time?’ he asked the second youth.
‘Yes, brother.’
His head spun forward. ‘It is time.’
He raised the gun, pulling it upright. It was aimed at the centre of Henry’s chest and he knew he would not survive this. He braced himself and in his mind he kind of knew he should be telepathically letting Kate know he loved her, tell her to look after the kids — ha! They weren’t kids any longer. They were now exceptionally beautiful young women, hounded by slavering boys. Yes, a section of his mind knew that this is what should be happening — but the biggest part was shutting everything down, knowing he would be able to watch the bullet leave the end of the muzzle in slow motion, see it fly majestically across the gap like a CGI in a movie and enter his chest, then probably leave through his back whilst making a hole as big as a saucer.
Every muscle in his body tightened, from the stretched sinews in his neck to his calves.
‘Are you ready, brother?’ the youth shouted.
‘Yes …’ The explosive-bound youth raised his right hand, his thumb hovering over the button. Then he looked quickly down at the wire and Henry caught the movement of his eyes and saw what he had seen. ‘Omar!’ the lad gasped.
‘What?’ Omar responded impatiently, brow furrowed. He twisted his head to glance, his eyes momentarily off Henry … at which point, Henry knew he had to act. He had a nanosecond to do so and he pitched himself at the lad, going in low under the gun with a rugby tackle, driving his right shoulder low and hard into the lad’s midriff, flattening him and at the same time grabbing the lad’s wrist. He landed on top of him, completely taking him by surprise, slamming the gun hand down on to the hard ground with as much force as he could. The gun clattered out of his grasp. Immediately Henry reared up and delivered the hardest punch he could find, smacking him on the jaw just below his left temple, knocking him senseless. As a blow it hurt Henry’s knuckles a lot, but there was the satisfying feel of dislocation and breakage in the young man’s face.
Henry had to keep moving. He dived for the gun, scooped it up and rolled up on to one knee, coming up with it poised and aimed at the second youth, who was desperately fiddling with the wire from the switch.
‘Stop!’ Henry yelled. ‘Or I’ll fire.’
The lad dropped the switch on the ground and looked pathetically at Henry, now every inch the immature, scared teenager. He raised his hands, a defiant expression on his face.
Henry climbed to his feet, breathing heavily, his nostrils flaring, knowing he had just cheated a terrible death.
Both lads were quickly pinned down, their wrists cuffed behind their backs, a burly cop standing astride each, baton extended and ready for use.
The one who’d had the gun — Omar — was trussed up in the alley, his face a swelling mess from the punch Henry had laid on him. The other was in the yard, his explosive vest having been carefully peeled from him. They were being kept separate and two vans were on the way to collect the prisoners.
The situation had been radioed in and other assistance was also on the way. The house had yet to be entered and although Henry had been ordered to keep it secure, he was itching to go inside, now that his blood was flowing.
He was not convinced the two lads had been in there by themselves, tooling up for some atrocity or other; they were far too young and inexperienced for that. A team had been disturbed and Henry thought there was a good chance others were still inside, although there had been no signs of movement.
The front door was still intact and Henry intended to leave it that way, three cops guarding it. The rest of his team, with the personnel carrier, were in the back alley and the kitchen door was invitingly open.
‘I’m going in,’ he told the sergeant.
She regarded him anxiously. ‘Is that wise?’
‘Probably not — but what the hell? This was supposed to have been a nothing job.’
‘We’ve been told to hang fire, wait until a firearms team has arrived, wait until the circus arrives.’ She was toeing the party line, but Henry could see she, too, was raring to get in.
‘I used to be part of the circus,’ he said. ‘You coming?’
‘Absolutely,’ she said enthusiastically. ‘We really do need to check.’
‘But carefully,’ he warned her. ‘Any sign of a gun, we run, any sign of a booby trap, we try not to step on it, OK?’
‘OK.’
Henry’s stab vest had been replaced by a bullet-proof one from the equipment in the carrier.
The sergeant briefed two of her men to stay by the kitchen door, the rest to come in behind her and the chief inspector. Henry poked his head around the door and looked into the kitchen.
‘Police!’ he shouted, though he was pretty sure that if anyone was in there, they had a good idea that the law had arrived. He stepped into the empty room, still dithering from his close-run encounter, but not even starting to think it through. It was just like any other kitchen in this neck of the woods: fitted, fairly modern, functional, large enough for all the mod cons, a small table and four chairs … and on top of the table, three half-drunk mugs of tea, three plates with the remnants of a curry on them, half-eaten naan breads.
‘The three bears,’ he said to the sergeant.
She nodded.
Even with a cursory glance, Henry could see there was no one else in the kitchen, unless they were in the fridge. ‘Room clear,’ he said, then moved across to the inner kitchen door to the threshold of the next room, which was a cheaply furnished lounge: tatty settee, two battered armchairs and a TV. No carpet on the floor, just bare boards, the wallpaper peeling.