‘Buggering-hell!’ said Gibbons, retreating down to Karen. ‘Are you okay?’
It was her nose that bled, just a nicking flesh wound, he thought, as he gave her his handkerchief. He reached across to her protruding hand to pull her back from the edge of the stairs, and home into safety and out of sight, and as he did so for a matter of seconds he showed himself. It was enough.
Karen whispered, ‘Go and get the bastard!’
Two floors up, the man saw his opportunity, glimpsed the head, and let go a second missile. Heavy cobalt Bristol blue glass full of pretty swirly bubbles hurtled through the air, propelled by gravity, and a muscular bicep, running straight and true, like an airborne torpedo. It thudded into Gibbons, striking him a glancing blow, hitting him at the junction of the top of the neck and bottom of the head, right side, where it bounced off and fell straight on down, passing a puffing Walter and Jenny, coming up two floors below, on its way to ground zero.
‘What the hell was that?’ said Walter.
Jenny shook her head and yelled upwards, ‘Karen, Darren, are you okay?’
Gibbons crumpled in a heap on a still prone Karen, and didn’t move. She wriggled free and managed to turn him on his back.
‘I’m okay,’ she yelled, though non too convincingly, and a minute later Jenny arrived at her side.
‘You’re bleeding!’ she said, glancing at Karen’s face.
Karen wiped her nose and cheek. The handkerchief was soaked scarlet. It was forever surprising how much blood can gush from a small flesh wound to the ears, nose, and face.
‘I’m okay,’ she said. ‘But I’m not sure about Gibbons,’ and they glanced down at the man. He was still out cold.
Walter arrived, blowing hard, taking a moment out, bending over and holding his knees. Andrea Dennehey’s words flashed into his brain. I thought you lot had to keep in shape - yeah right. He stood up and hurried over to Gibbons and said, ‘How is he?’
‘He’ll live, I think,’ said Jenny. ‘But he needs checking over, could be concussed.’
Walter glanced at Karen’s bloodied face.
‘Are you okay? You look a mess.’
‘Thanks, Guv. Just a flesh thing, looks much worse than it is.’
‘I’ll take your word for that,’ and Walter nodded and said, ‘Call an ambulance for Gibbons,’ who was finally showing signs of coming round, ‘And call for backup, and where the bloody hell is Hector?’
Jenny shrugged her shoulders on the Hector thing, and pulled out her mobile. Walter did too and rang Hector. He picked up immediately and said, ‘Hi?’
‘Where the hell are you?’
‘Hi Guv. I’m in Portobello Towers.’
‘Whereabouts?’
‘I saw some people on the ground floor. They told me of a barely known little used rear traders’ staircase. I thought I’d try that, seemed a likely getaway route if anyone wanted to use it and slip away.’
‘Good work! How far up are you?’
‘Fourth floor.’
‘Okay, see you on the eighth, and look out! The bastard’s lobbing down missiles, Gibbons and Karen have both been hit.’
‘What? Badly?’
‘No. They’ll live. See you soon.’
‘You got it, Guv.’
Walter sucked in a big breath.
He convinced himself he was enjoying a second wind.
Karen said, ‘Coloured glass paperweights, remember?’
‘Only too well, in that cabinet. Jenny, you stay here and look after Karen and Gibbons. Wait for the ambo people.’
‘I’m alright, Guv,’ insisted Karen.
‘You’re not!’ said Walter. ‘Look at the state of you!’ Brooking no argument. Blood was running again. It didn’t look good.
The man above let go a third missile. It had been a nice thing once. Vivid aquamarine. It crashed into the edge of the stone step close by and exploded. Everyone automatically threw up their hands and arms to protect themselves from incoming glass, and what little of it came their way thudded into the arm of Walter’s heavy overcoat. Then a fourth followed, but missed everything, and hurtled straight on down. Up above, they heard a man’s footsteps running away, going higher.
‘Hector and I will deal with this character,’ said Walter, striding out towards the next step. ‘Keep undercover, just in case,’ and they watched him grab the black banister and haul himself upwards like an irritated snorting bull.
Karen tapped Gibbons’ cheek.
‘Wakey-wakey, boy.’
Gibbons’ alarmed eyes opened with a start.
‘Fuck!’ he said. ‘What hit me?’
The girls giggled.
‘Glass paperweight.’
‘Felt more like a cruise missile.’
‘Just lie still,’ said Jenny. ‘Ambulance on the way.’
‘I’m okay,’ he said, and Gibbons tried to stand.
He didn’t get half way.
‘No, you are not!’ said Jenny. ‘Just lie still.’
‘Who do you think it is?’ asked Jenny. ‘Up above?’
‘I think it’s the Mirror man,’ said Karen.
‘So do I, I always have.’
‘I think it’s Speight,’ said Gibbons, ‘put money on it.’
‘One thing’s for sure,’ said Karen, ‘it can’t be Flanagan, he’s in the cells, and it can’t be David Baker either, he’s in Crewe,’ if he was telling the truth.
‘David who?’ said Gibbons, wondering what he’d missed.
Karen changed the subject.
‘I’ll look after Gibbons, you go on up and help the Guv. You’re more good there.’
Jenny nodded and said, ‘Sure, Sarge,’ and took a run at the staircase, and disappeared up them, Karen’s voice chasing after her. ‘Be careful!’
Downstairs, sirens could be heard. Backup, ambulance, maybe both, but it was a comforting noise nonetheless.
UP ABOVE, WALTER MADE it to the eighth floor. He was breathing heavy, but what man approaching sixty wouldn’t be? Not that many. He made his way along the corridor towards number 35. Hector popped out of a narrow door at the far end of the corridor. He was breathing hard too, but not so much.
‘Am I glad to see you,’ said Walter.
Hector nodded and said, ‘Did you see him?’
‘Nope, but I heard him, and I saw the damage he did with his glass missiles.’
The door to number 35 was swaying to and fro. Walter eased it open and crept inside. Hector followed. There was no one in there, no happy nieces, no gurgling great-nephew. There was a glass display cabinet with half the prize exhibits obviously missing, and half drunk
