One Fine Day in the Middle of the Night (43 page)

Ally looked to either side of his position, at all his former classmates of a decade and a half ago huddled on the floor, he their assigned protector. What a fucking joke. He’d probably fantasised about such scenarios when he was twelve, but then he’d fantasised about Lindsay Wagner when he was twelve, too. And of being in The Stranglers.

No more heroes.

The waiting was even worse over here. At least at his previous post, he hadn’t been forced to listen to Buckin’ Brendan and Mary‐
Theresa muttering endless decades of the fucking rosary.

‘Brendan, will you knock it off,’ he said eventually, deciding he couldn’t take it any more.

‘
Some
one’s got to pray for our souls, Alastair,’ Brendan retorted indignantly.

‘Aye, well we’re no’ deid
yet
.’

Mrs Laurence gave him a thumbs‐
up. ‘Low BDQ so far,’ she said, trying to offer encouragement. He held up crossed fingers in reply, but didn’t feel much reassurance. He thought of the two guys Jackson despatched in the ballroom. The BDQ was pretty high when the gun was in the hands of someone who knew what they were doing. And as for the
rocket
deadliness quotient …

Jim Murray called Jackson to the front. Jackson took one quick look at what was going on below, then grabbed Jim by the shoulder and pulled him away, running for the back of the room.

‘Everybody, get down flat and take cover, NOW!’ he shouted.

It was not a good time for Kenny Collins to regain the power of his legs, having until then lain flacidly horizontal, intermittently swearing and complaining. In his still‐
blootered state, said legs took him staggering towards the front windows, ranting at the top of his voice.

‘Come ahead, ya fuckin’ black cunts. I’ll take emdy. Square go, ya fuckin’ bastarts.’

Allan Crossland was the first to notice. He got up and began moving towards Kenny, but the fast‐
retreating Jackson cut across Allan’s path before he had travelled two yards, rugby‐
tackling him to the floor. Jackson’s momentum rolled them against the rear windows with a glass‐
testing thump as the first missile smashed through the front and detonated against the ceiling.

The errant pisshead didn’t stand a chance.

‘Oh my God,’ said Mary‐
Theresa in horror. ‘They’ve …’

‘Buckin’ hell,’ agreed her husband.

The room felt the impact of a second rocket a few seconds later, this time less accurately striking the floor below.

‘McQuade,’ Jackson shouted. ‘Get everybody down the stairs, now.’

‘But what about—’

‘Go two flights down and assemble in the corridor. I’ll round up the others.
Do it.
’

‘All right, everybody, you heard him,’ Ally said, standing up. ‘Behind me, fast as you can. Come on.’

By ‘the others’ Jackson meant Charlie, Lisa, Eddie and Potter, who were still guarding their barricades elsewhere on the top floor. Eddie was in sight, just outside the restaurant, but he had a dozen yards of open floor between his position and the rear stairs. Jackson hared off in his direction, diving through the doorway as another rocket impacted, this time erring on the high side and striking the outer wall between the top of the windows and the roof.

The stairs were wide enough to accommodate two abreast, but the element of mortal haste was like an Ibrox Disaster repeat in the making. Giant window‐
panes ran almost the full height of each flight, looking out over the darkness. Ally was picturing the feared pile‐
up smashing through and spilling out into the black waters below. At this point, all it would have taken was one person to trip. Then Mrs Laurence’s voice boomed from somewhere at the back.

‘Walk quickly, but don’t run,’ she commanded. ‘Two by two. Keep an arm’s length between you and the person in front at all times. That’s it. On you go.’

Ally couldn’t resist looking over his shoulder at the astonishing sight of a St Mick’s class going down a staircase in a disciplined, orderly fashion. Maybe he’d missed the part where she told them they’d have to read A Scots Quair as punishment if they didn’t comply.

They heard no further explosions during their descent, and began regrouping in a corridor off the stair‐
landing. Charlie O’Neill appeared from an adjoining hallway before the last of the procession made it down, having been ordered by Jackson to leap his barricade and rendezvous below. He’d shouted ‘Charlie O’Neill, comin’ through, don’t shoot,’ as he approached. Ally, now preoccupied with the larger‐
scale ballistics, hadn’t even raised his gun. Some sentry. He was the guy in the red jumper right enough.

Eddie Milton followed shortly after from the opposite corridor, then Potter, then finally Lisa and Jackson together.

‘What now?’ Ally asked.

‘We head downstairs,’ Jackson said. ‘They’re pullin’ out. They’ve taken the rocket launcher and they’re pullin’ out. I don’t know why.’

‘What if it’s a trap?’

Jackson shook his head. ‘Connor had us by the balls right then. It’s not his style to suddenly get cute when brute force is workin’ fine. Anyway, we don’t have much choice. The building’s on fire in about three places upstairs, an’ it’s spreadin’ fast. We have to get out of here.’

‘Boy, this just gets more fun all the time.’

‘Ah, come on,’ said Charlie, rubbing the back of Ally’s head. ‘You love it, really.’

Aye, he thought. Tell it to Kenny.

‘Right,’ Jackson commanded. ‘Just in case this is a trap, I want all guns to the front, and if I give the order, I want everybody else to hit the deck. Got that? Okay, let’s move it.’

They went back out to the stairwell and resumed their nervous but orderly descent. Ally was on the outside, nearest the windows. His gaze was focused ahead and below, but he was nonetheless the first to spot movement outside the glass.

‘Jackson,’ he said, pointing.

There appeared to be two objects moving towards the rig, still a distance away, but visible by their lights. They were both approaching from the east, one travelling much faster than the other, and already nearer. The faster vessel looked smaller than its counterpart, though Ally was only going by their illuminations. They could both be the same size, physically, but only one appeared to have Motorhead’s lighting rig attached to its roof.

‘Any ideas?’ he asked Jackson.

‘Dunno. Wasn’t in Connor’s script. Could be the cavalry.’

‘Forgive me if I don’t get my hopes up. On a night like this, any light at the end of the tunnel’s bound to be a train.’

A few more flights down, Ally’s pessimism was crushingly borne out. They smelt it before they saw it, smoke drifting up the staircase to meet them. Charlie leaned over the railing and looked down.

‘Fuck, I can see flames,’ he said. ‘Ground floor, two flights doon.’

Jackson signalled everyone to stop.

‘This is why they pulled out,’ Jackson spat, furious. ‘They’d already got us from above and below. Talk about burnin’ it at both ends.’

‘So what do we do? Find another stair?’

‘If this was their plan, there’ll be fires in all of them. They can’t have been burnin’ long, though. Let’s grab every extinguisher we can find and give it our best.’

‘We can’t,’ said Potter. ‘There aren’t any. Not installed in the Carlton yet.’

Ally buried his face in his hands. He could hear the cries and gasps as the desperate news filtered back among the crowd.

‘Oh, for fuck’s sake,’ cried Jackson. ‘Somebody throw us a fuckin’ bone here.’

There came a startlingly loud blast of sound from below. Even Jackson flinched, sharing everyone else’s fear that it had been a burst of flame. Ally looked over the railing as the noise repeated and continued. Instead of smoke, there was now steam billowing violently around the landing beneath them.

‘Hello?’ Jackson shouted. ‘Somebody down there?’

One more blast, then a figure emerged from the steam, a fire extinguisher in his hands, a pistol tucked into his belt.

‘Awright, boys?’ he called. ‘Heard there was a party. Sorry I’m late. You’re Jackson, I take it? I’m Davie. Davie Murdoch.’

‘Much obliged. I’ve heard a lot about you. Love your work.’

‘You’ve seen my
paintings
?’

‘No, I meant the number with the door handle an’ the electricity supply.
That
was a work of art.’

‘Davie,’ Ally said. ‘Christ, are we glad tae see
you
.’

‘Jesus, Ally McQuade. You’re lookin’ well, sir. Some soirée so far, eh? Big Charlie O’Neill, as well. Howzitgaun, big man? An’ Christ, Lisa McKenzie tae. Nice handgun, Lisa. Goes wi’ your hair. Anyway, we better save the group hugs the noo. The show’s no’ over.’

‘How did I know you were gaunny say that?’

They followed him through the foam‐
flecked doorway and on into the lobby, where there were more figures emerging into the half‐
light from other stairways, also bearing firearms and fire extinguishers. Matt Black was the first one Ally recognised, maybe because he’d seen him emerge from a cloud of steam before, at the start of a live video. The Uzi was a new prop, right enough. Seemed it was the must‐
have reunion‐
party souvenir. Ally also clocked Catherine O’Rourke and Simone Draper, the latter not only looking the part with her shotgun, but looking like she’d kicked some as well. There were also two older men he didn’t recognise, and conspicuously no Gavin.

Signals were exchanged as soon as they noticed Davie emerge with the erstwhile hostages. They all dropped the extinguishers where they stood and headed out towards the terrace. Matt Black and the two older men were first to reach the new group. Matt’s face was streaked with cuts and scratches, but even cumulatively they couldn’t possibly account for the volume of blood that was staining the rest of his person. Ally, it surprisingly appeared, had had a comparatively quiet night of it.

‘This is Jackson,’ Davie told them. ‘Jackson, this is Matt Black, Tim Vale, security specialist, and Hector McGregor, ex‐
polis. Don’t ask aboot the jammies.’

‘What’s the latest?’

‘D’you want the good news or the bad news first?’ Matt asked. He didn’t wait for an answer. ‘All right, the good news is there’s a boat on its way to take us off this dump. The bad news is it’s only got seventeen minutes to get here before the whole place goes supernova. There’s a bomb on the rig, I’m afraid. Your man Dawson planted it then fucked off.’

‘Figures,’ Jackson muttered, gritting his teeth.

‘Seems that was always his agenda. The away‐
team there have just found out about it, an’ that’s why they’ve shot the craw.’

A bomb, Ally thought. Of course. Last reel. It always got darkest just before … you got blown to chunky kibbles.

‘We saw boats from upstairs,’ Jackson told them. ‘There’s two of them on their way here. One a lot quicker than the other, I should add. I take it ours is the slow one?’

‘Well, let’s hope so,’ said Vale, ‘because that way your excolleagues won’t be around to impede our embarkation.’

‘Got you.’

‘This other boat,’ Matt enquired. ‘Do you think the bad guys’ll be able to see it from down there?’

‘I think they’d be able to see it from space,’ Ally answered. ‘It’s got more fuckin’ lights than Hampden.’

‘Aye,’ mumbled McGregor apologetically. ‘Dougie’s always been a bit wary of sailin’ in the dark since thon time he ran aground.’

‘Fuck,’ was Matt’s response. Ally could tell this wasn’t an aesthetic consideration.

‘What’s the problem?’

‘They’re gaunny blow it out the fuckin’ water wi’ their rocket launcher, that’s the fuckin’ problem. They cannae afford for us to get off o’ here.’

‘We have to stop them,’ Vale stated flatly. ‘If they sink that other boat, we’re dead, simple as that.’ He turned to Jackson. ‘How many are there?’

‘Nine or ten now, I think.’

‘Plus Gavin,’ Simone said acidly.

‘They took Gavin hostage?’ asked Lisa

‘No, I’m embarrassed to relate, my husband sold us out and joined the bad guys. I’ll tell you later – if there is a later.’

‘They’ll be waiting down on the jetty by now,’ Vale said. ‘Which way were the boats coming?’

Jackson pointed. Vale threw Simone a radio and told her to go to the barrier and have a look.

Ally listened to Vale and Jackson discuss their tactical options, which amounted to little more than minor variations on a general theme of throwing everything into an all‐
or‐
nothing, death‐
or‐
glory suicide assault on the jetty. He exchanged frightened looks with Matt, Charlie and Lisa, everyone clearly aware of what was being asked of them. The Uzi started to feel heavier than ever in his hands, scenes from
Full Metal Jacket
and
Saving Private Ryan
playing vividly in his head. But how could he refuse? How could any of them refuse? It was death either way. And greater love hath no man, yadda yadda yadda, even if he hasn’t seen half those friends in fifteen years. He swallowed. He wanted to protest, but he could already hear Jackson once more telling him he was open to alternative suggestions.

‘I can see them,’ said Simone, via Matt’s radio. ‘The first boat’s going to be here in minutes.’

‘Right,’ Vale said, checking his weapon. ‘It’s now or never.’

Ally felt hollow. No paralysing terror, no adrenaline‐
fuelled exhilaration, just a numb void. He ransacked his mind for ideas, but all he found were more old movies, and this was the wrong genre. Bye‐
bye
Lethal Weapon
, hello
Gallipoli
. Mel didn’t make it in that one. Nobody made it in that one.

There had to be another way of doing this. Couldn’t they wait and shoot the boat’s fuel tank as it left? Aye, right. From this range? In the dark? Christ, even Renny Harlin would say no to something as shite as that.

The suicide squad got ready to move out, Vale and Jackson at the front. Ally noticed Mrs Laurence standing among the group that he’d started involuntarily to think of as ‘civilians’. He found himself replaying their conversation from the bus because he knew he had to think about something to keep Annette’s face out of his mind.

Clichés and conventions. Bullet‐
deadliness quotient. Bad guys coming back for one last fright. And good guys getting shot in the shoulder. That was when he remembered, that was when he got it.
Treasure Island
! The solution wasn’t to be found in some American action‐
adventure – this was a
Scottish
action‐
adventure. Pirates. Boats. Booty.