'Yes!' he snapped. 'Why you not leave me alone?'
'My name's Charlie,' I told him. 'Do you think we could have a little talk?'
'What about?' he asked, his voice wavering with fear. I could imagine him, quailing in a corner of his little room.
'Oh, this and that, Rodney. Are the policemen still outside your house?'
'Yes, they are. Lots of policemen.'
'Well, I'm not with them, Rodney. I was, about an hour ago, but I'm fifty miles away, now. I've decided to go home for my tea and leave you in peace. Tell me this: do you have a gun?'
'Not a real gun. Don't have a real gun. Real guns dangerous.'
'Very dangerous, Rodney. I'm glad you don't have a real gun. Did you make it yourself?'
'Yes. Rodney made it.'
'What with?'
'Some pipe and a piece of wood.'
'That sounds very clever. All those policemen are fooled by it. Why did you make a gun, Rodney? What did you want it for?'
'To scare lads and lasses.'
'What lads and lasses, Rodney?'
'Lads and lasses that come round and throw stones at windows. Say Rodney's not all there. Bad people.'
'They gave you a bad time.'
'Yes.'
'Did you point your gun at them?'
'Yes. Rodney point gun at them.'
'Did they run away?'
'Yes.'
'And did they stop coming round?'
'Yes, but tell police.'
'I see.' The local youths had given him some hassle, and then we had.
My contribution hadn't helped at all. 'Listen, Rodney,' I said.
'Listen very carefully to what I say. Can you hear me?'
'Yes. Rodney hear you.'
'Where are you sitting?'
'On floor, in corner.'
'Right. Are you sitting in the dark, in there?'
'Yes. Not put light on. They shoot me if I put light on.'
'No they won't. Nobody will shoot you unless you start pointing your gun at people. Have you got your gun with you?'
'Yes. Is here.'
'Good. Do you want me to help you get out of this, Rodney? If you do as I tell you the policeman and the lady doctor from North Bay House will look after you. Are you listening?'
'Rodney frightened.'
'I know you are. I'm frightened, too. Will you promise to do exactly as I tell you? Then you'll be OK.'
'Promise to do as you tell me.'
'Good man. I want you to unwrap the gun, Rodney, and throw it to the other side of the room. Have you done that?'
There was a pause, then: 'Done that.'
'OK. Now this is the bit where you have to be brave. I want you to stand up and put the light on. Then I want you to put your hands above your head and walk very slowly to the window and stand there, so they can see you. Do you understand what I'm saying, Rodney?'
'Surrender. You want me surrender.'
'I want you to give yourself up. You've made your point, Rodney, and we don't want anyone else to be hurt, do we?'
'Rodney not want to hurt anyone.'
'Good man. When they come to get you they will shout at you, but they won't hurt you. Some policemen like shouting, but they don't mean it.
I promise that. They'll tell you to lie on the floor. Just do as they say, very slowly. Nobody will hurt you. Understand?'
'Rodney know what you mean. See it on telly.'
'OK, Rodney, this is what you do. Stand up. Put the light on. Walk very slowly to the window and stand there with your hands above your head. Understand?'
'I understand.'
'There's a good man, Rodney. Do it. Do it now.'
I heard a rumble and a scrape as he laid the handset on the floor, leaving the line open. I thought I heard the click of the light switch, but it may have been my imagination. A trickle of sweat ran down my spine, zigging and zagging an inch at a time, like the raindrops on the windows.
'Just pray that one of those trigger-happy bastards doesn't open fire,'
I whispered, holding the phone at arm's length.
'Keep still!' we heard someone bellow, quite distinctly, followed by what might have been a Heckler and Koch's rifle stock being slammed into the extended position.
'Put your hands on your head!' They had a very loud voice.
'Now! Slowly. Kneel down.'
'Face down on the floor.'
'Stretch your arms out.'
I counted to ten, to give them time to put the cuffs on, and shouted:
'Hello! Hello! Anyone there?' into the phone.
More rumbles and scrapes, before a voice demanded: 'Who is this?'
'This is DI Priest of Heckley CID,' I told him. 'Who are you, please?'
'Oh, er, Sergeant Todd, sir. Tactical firearms unit.'
'Good evening, Sergeant. Rodney is a friend of mine, so treat him kindly. Remember, he did give himself up. Please tell the superintendent that I'm glad to have been of assistance. Goodnight.' I clicked the phone off and clenched my fists in a gesture of triumph.
Nigel was grinning like a fireplace.
'You jam my so-and-so!' he said.
I rang Annabelle, the long way, and told her we were running late but homing in on a fair wind and a wide throttle.
'You sound happy,' she said. 'Have you been drinking?'
'Nothing stronger than tea has passed these lips,' I told her. 'Coming to see you always fills me with the joy of life.'
Nigel tutted and looked away.
Guns have a language all their own. You cock a single-action revolver by pulling the hammer back with your thumb. Pawls mesh into gears and rotate the chamber one sixth of a turn, bringing the next cartridge in line with the barrel. The resulting c-click has been used in a thousand westerns to terrorise goody, baddy and audience alike as the gun was pressed against someone's head.
It's different with an automatic. You slide the mechanism back to bring the first cartridge from the clip into the breech, with aka-chink that is as familiar to armchair fans of gangster films as the smell of a smoke-filled speakeasy or the tinkling of a honky-tonk.
A sawn-down repeater shotgun says chunk-chunk as the next round is jacked into the chamber, and you know that death or serious bleeding is coming to someone.
But the Heckler and Koch is a disappointment. There's nothing like that with the Heckler. You put the safety
