glance in the semi-darkness the kids reappeared along the bank, heading back towards the bridge with their lights still off and their ice-lolly sticks still rattling away.
We only had to make sure our rubber gloves overlapped the cuffs of the smocks, then fix our respirators. I grasped mine in my left hand, and pulled back on the elastic harness with the right to get it over my face. The smell of new rubber filled my nostrils again as I made sure that no hair was in the way of the seal. I checked the canister was tightly twisted on before pulling down my hood and tightening the toggle. Breathing immediately became a tug-of-war; I fought to suck in air through the cylinder, and fought to push it back out. These things certainly weren’t designed for lovers of open spaces, and would be a nightmare for anyone with even a touch of claustrophobia.
The noise of the respirator was going to be a major problem tactically: our own sounds would be louder in our ears than those around us. But there was nothing we could do about it. Besides, if DW was the other side of this door, being deafened by my own breathing would hardly be a major concern.
Suzy lifted her head so that I could check her hood was in place, then she checked mine. We were ready to go.
The fire station on the main drag had just had a call. Sirens wailed and blue lights flashed across the wasteground as they sped past the docks, and I could suddenly see Suzy’s eyes behind her lenses. They were fixed, unblinking, her attention totally focused.
I sounded like Darth Vader with asthma as I stooped and picked up the SD, checking the safety catch by pushing it all the way to three-round bursts before returning it to safe. I didn’t want grit off the ground or anything to catch between the safety and the pistol grip, preventing me taking it off. It didn’t happen often, but once was more than enough. Detail matters.
Suzy approached the door very slowly, taking big, careful steps so the unwieldy boots didn’t trip her up. The chest pockets of these NBC suits were held down by a Velcro square at each end. She tucked her hand under the flap in the middle to save having to undo it, and pulled out her MOE wallet. There was something about the way she moved that made me feel the domestic four-lever lock wasn’t going to put up much of a fight.
She unrolled the wallet and took out a lifter pick and turning wrench. Normally a lock is opened by the bit of the key, the part with the combination cut into it that lifts the four levers into alignment. She was going to have to shift each of the four levers with the lifter pick, then move the bolt back into the lock with the turning wrench.
I watched as she began to probe with the steel pick, her left hand letting a small amount of light from her mini Maglite filter into the keyway. There is a Zen approach to the art of lock-picking. The idea is to use all your senses to create a picture of what is happening inside the mechanism as it responds to your attack. It can only happen if you concentrate completely on the job and don’t have to worry about what is happening around you. That was my job. I stood by the bin, eyes and ears peeled. The bypass continued to hum on the other side of the waste-ground.
Minutes went by. Voices moved along the bank of the stream. A car door was slammed, then Billy’s front door got the same treatment. Suzy was right, it was like West Belfast. I was beginning to get concerned, but then she laid out her wallet on the concrete, replaced her tools, and tucked it into the end of her vomit-filled ready bag.
Leaving her to sort herself out, I moved to the door and sank on to my knees, slowly putting down the SD. I felt her standing behind me now, bringing her SD slowly into the firing position above my head, butt into the shoulder, leaning into the weapon.
Sweat started to run down my face as I grasped the handle with my right hand and applied pressure to the door with my left. It held firm. I gave another push, and this time it gave way silently, enough for me to get my head through and, more importantly, Suzy’s SD.
At the end of the kitchen there was an Artexed archway, beyond which I could see dull street-light leak into the hallway from the front room and spill across the bottom few steps of the staircase.
Still on my knees, with Suzy hovering above me, weapon up, I listened as carefully as the hood and respirator allowed. I heard nothing.
I opened the door a fraction more, enough for Suzy to slip past me, weapon still in the shoulder. She moved carefully across the floor, exaggerating every step so she didn’t trip over anything as she focused her attention on the hall. I picked up my weapon to back her, standing up slowly and easing the butt into my shoulder, safety to single shot. I rested my index finger gently on the trigger, feeling the first pressure. Both eyes open, I crossed the threshold, getting behind and slightly to the right of her before going static.
We would clear the house covertly, room by room, and have a rolling startline – if we found the ASU and it went noisy, we wouldn’t worry about adding to it with a little of our own.
She moved through the arch, her boots squeaking on the lino, then turned and pointed the muzzle of her SD upwards as she leant back against the wall and covered up the staircase.
I was through the arch, weapon up, concentrating on the doorway into the front room, the sight display in front of me. My throat was starting to dry. I passed Suzy and had four or five paces to go when I heard a noise ahead of me.
34
The lock turned, the door opened.
Street-light flooded in.
A silhouette stood on the threshold, a bag in one hand and keys in the other, then took a few steps inside before noticing me.
It spun to run back through the open door. There was no time to think, just do. Bending down and dropping my SD, I ran towards the shape and jumped on its back. My canister hit the back of its skull and I felt a nose through my gloves as our combined momentum carried us both down on to the pavement and into the street.
The head turned. It was a woman. She kicked out, trying to escape. Suzy grabbed one of her legs, trying to drag both of us back into the house. I jumped up and grabbed the other leg as she kicked and bucked, not letting go of the carrier.
The moment we were inside I got my hands round her mouth and collapsed on top of her. She wasn’t coming quietly: she tried to bite me, and drummed her feet against the wall.
Suzy ran back for her SD.
‘No! The door, the door!’
She grabbed her weapon, moved over me and kicked the door closed. We were plunged into semi-darkness as she leant into us. ‘Keep her still, keep her still!’
‘No! She—’
The three-round burst tore off the side of her head, and blood splattered over my respirator lenses. I kicked myself away from the lifeless body. ‘Upstairs!’
Trying to wipe the blood off my lenses, I ran for my SD and started up the stairs. Suzy stayed where she was and covered me. It had definitely gone noisy.
It was a lot darker when I reached the landing. All I could hear was my laboured breathing. The bathroom door was open: it was clear. Two others were closed. Suzy started up behind me as I went through the first one left. The bedroom was clear, no bodies – but there had been. Two cheap nylon sleeping-bags were unrolled on the floor, food wrappers were strewn among gravy-stained plastic trays filled with dog ends. Jeans and shirts lay in a pile. A blanket had been tacked across the window.
Suzy came out of the other room and made her way back downstairs. I glanced in – it was in the same shit state, with another two sleeping-bags – then turned to go and give her a bollocking. It had been outrageously stupid to drop her: she might just have been an illegal, or another source of information if she’d been part of the ASU.
A male voice drifted up towards me, confused, frightened. I heard Suzy respond, calmly but firmly: ‘Stand still, stand still.’
I stumbled and nearly fell down the stairs. Suzy was kneeling in the pool of blood, weapon up, aiming down
