Extracted Page 3

  ‘Done?’

  ‘Yes, thank you,’ Ben says, pocketing his phone. They go through the same game as before. Walking in silence down the platform and through the disused tunnel before going back into the maze of corridors. They reach a door. The manager stops to take the hard hat, vest, torch and pass from Ben before opening the door and politely stepping back. ‘After you.’ He ushers Ben through and for a second Ben thinks maybe he’s had time to think or mellow until he says, ‘Nice meeting you,’ and slams the door in Ben’s face, leaving him on the Holborn station platform. He goes to bang on the door but gives up as soon as the thought forms. What else could you expect?

  He starts moving through the dense crowds towards the arched entrance and catches sight of the tall ginger man in the I Love London rain jacket standing with his back to the wall further down the platform. He figures he must have got isolated from his group but then Ben spots the dark-haired man with olive skin wearing the same I Love London gear kneeling on the ground as he goes through a zip-up bag. Then he sees another one from the same group standing by the edge of the platform. It gets Ben’s attention and he turns round slowly, picking out the jackets and the faces of the group he saw bustling through the entrance. The woman with blonde hair and the pink I Love London coat is there too, also going through a bag on the floor. It’s weird how they’re all separated. Ben looks back to the ginger man wiping his forehead with a trembling hand and staring fixed at the brown-haired woman by the platform edge, who has her eyes closed while muttering as though praying.

  The realisation hits at the same second as her right hand comes up to her waist and shoves into a side pocket of her waterproof coat.

  ‘FOR THE EARTH . . .’ A screeching voice as her left hand shoots into the air with a clenched fist, then the whole of her disappears in an explosion of pink mist with a dull bang that detonates in all directions, taking out swathes of people standing nearby. Hot wet spray hits Ben’s face. People scream on the platform and on the tracks. Bodies writhe with injuries and convulse with limbs locked out in spasm from the electric current of the live rail.

  Time slows to a state of mind Ben had once before. Everything in front of him is in perfect clarity to the smallest of details and he can see everything as it is about to play out.

  The ginger man lifts his arm to shove into the side pocket of his waterproof jacket. Ben looks round but it’s like everything is in slow motion. He spots the dark-haired man pulling a sawn-off shotgun from a bag then the woman with the pink top rising to her feet with a black pistol gripped in each hand. More of the I Love London brigade on the platform. People screaming. People dying. Blood and bodies everywhere. Everyone will die if he does nothing. That is fact. Everyone here will die.

  Ben starts running, instinct pushing him to react. The ginger man has a bomb. Stop the bomb. That’s all Ben thinks. He aims for the ginger man, who thrusts his right hand into his jacket. Nothing happens. His hand fumbles as a puzzled look floods across his face. Two huge booms from the entranceway as the dark-haired man fires both barrels of the sawn-off shotgun at the commuters running to escape. The effect is devastating with pellets spreading to lacerate flesh and muscle.

  Ben veers and dodges through the terrified people trying to run away or find somewhere to hide, but the only exit is blocked by the man with the shotgun. Gunshots boom loudly in the enclosed space as the woman with the pistols starts firing them one after the other, aiming directly into the crowds of innocent passengers. The sawn-off shotgun snaps open as the dark-haired man nods and turns towards Ben while bringing two new cartridges from his pocket.

  The ginger man presses at the thing in his pocket that must be a detonation switch for a bomb. The man with the sawn-off is reloading but that only gives him two shots. Everything in perfect clarity like it was before. There is no panic within Ben. Just an icy coldness that tells him what must be done. In that second he sees the woman as the most dangerous one and veers hard to smash into her from behind. They go down amidst a tangle of limbs just as the shotgun fires pellets over his head.

  ‘SHOOT HIM,’ the woman screams as the dark-haired man cracks the shotgun open again. Ben feels her bucking underneath him. Fighting to get his weight off her. The danger is immediate. The threat is obvious. The man is reloading the shotgun. The ginger man is trying to detonate his bomb. They have to be stopped or everyone will die. The woman twists to aim one of the pistols up towards Ben. He grabs the back of her head with two fistfuls of hair and slams her down into the concrete ground with barely a flicker showing on his face. He lunges at the black pistol in her right hand as another huge explosion comes from the tiled entranceway and more people scream, shout and yell out in pain from the pellets striking them.

  He wrenches the pistol from her grip, stands up and fires down once into her head. The recoil sends him staggering backwards, tripping and sliding over body parts. Ben looks over at the dark-haired man snapping the shotgun closed and holds the pistol with both hands, points and squeezes the trigger. The first bullet hits the dark-haired man in the stomach so Ben fires again and again. The man smashes backwards into the wall behind him, pulling the triggers to fire both barrels of the shotgun into the ceiling before slumping down, leaving a thick smear of blood on the shiny tiles behind him.

  A scream to Ben’s left and he turns to see a woman in an I Love London top running at him with a huge bloody knife in her hand. He turns and fires, ice cold and perfectly calm. The bullet hits her chest, spinning through her heart.

  Within that chaos of noise Ben detects a variance in the screams and spins around to see the ginger man kicking a woman to send her over the edge of the platform on to the tracks below. He wrenches another by her hair with a vicious strength that belies his lean frame. She goes down too, landing inches from the live rail. Ben runs towards him knowing that everyone will die if that man detonates his bomb. Another I Love London T-shirt lunges towards Ben. He stops, aims and fires two shots. One misses. The other hits the man in the face. Ben turns, his boots sliding on the blood-soaked ground. He looks to find the ginger man now holding a black stick in his hand, frantically hitting the top of it. The ginger man stops with a sudden cessation of movement and slowly lifts the stick to stare at the wires coming out of it with an almost comical expression on his face as he spots one wire hanging free. Ben points and shoots twice while running and misses with both shots. The gun clicks empty. The ginger man grins with victory and shoves the wire back into the stick as Ben grits his teeth, snarls and drops his shoulder to drive him off the edge of the platform down on to the rails with a sickening crunch. Ben’s head spins. Stars and strobes flash in his vision. He slams fists into the ginger head again and again.

  A rumble vibrates through the ground. A rush of hot, dry air blasts past Ben. A train coming down the tracks with a driver completely unaware of the carnage unfolding. Ben glances at the rapidly emptying platform. Bodies everywhere. The people on the tracks scream as they try to climb back up.

  The ginger guy hisses beneath him, his hands fumbling at the black stick. Ben rips the man’s waterproof jacket open to see a thick black waistcoat, like a paramilitary thing but with wires and big square chunks of plastic.

  Without thinking, Ben stands up and stamps his foot down hard on to the man’s head, ending the struggle instantly. The body can’t stay here. If the train hits it, it could detonate the explosives and there are still too many people. Ben knows nothing about bombs but he does know there is electricity everywhere and a single spark hitting the bomb could cause the detonation.

  Ben drags the man as fast as he can. Glancing from the body in his hands to the mouth of the tunnel at the far end. One foot after the other but the progress is too slow. The reflection of the train lights shows on the walls and Ben feels another gust of wind blast past him and the vibration of brakes being applied.

  It’s not enough. The dead man is too heavy and his feet kept tripping, causing Ben to lose momentum. He clenches his jaw and tries harder. The train
comes into view. Two bright lights like the eyes of a snake as the driver finally notices the smouldering corpses on the tracks. He hits the brakes, which screech and send a deeper vibration through the ground. A young female police officer runs on to the platform, sweeping her gaze over everything until catching sight of Ben. They lock eyes for the briefest of seconds before she turns and shouts at the driver but the train hits a body that bursts apart like a ripe melon spraying blood and gore everywhere. Sparks shoot out from metallic objects trapped between the wheels and the metal track. Ben lifts his head to stare at the showering sparks getting closer as the train closes the gap.

  ‘GET HIM.’

  Words shouted in a second of absolute confusion. He snaps his head round and instantly screws his eyes closed at the dazzling blue light filling his vision in the darkness of the tunnel mouth. An impact from the side. People grabbing him hard, forcing him across the tracks. The ginger man is ripped from his hands. The train comes in fast. Too many sensations at once. Too many things happening. A second later the detonation sends a massive shock wave through the tunnel. Bricks and dust fall from the ceiling. Everything vibrating and shuddering. The noise is indescribable. A solid wall of intense sound. Fire. Flames. Twisting metal. Voices screaming. Smells of chemicals and heat all overwhelm his senses. He hits out, punching and raging at whoever is attacking him. Chaos and confusion. Torches shining in his eyes. Sounds everywhere. He’s taken down to the ground and dragged into a world of silence that his mind cannot comprehend.

  ‘Jab him,’ a voice grunts. ‘Fuck’s sake . . . jab him . . .’ Ben fights hard, driving his fists into bodies that yelp out in pain.

  ‘Have you got him?’ another voice asks from somewhere a bit further away.

  ‘Please . . . stop hitting me!’

  ‘Malcolm, I suggest you inject him now . . .’

  ‘I’m trying! But he’s fighting like a . . .’

  ‘Ben, calm down. We’re here to help.’ Ben recognises that voice somewhere in the layers of his subconscious thought but the front of his mind is filled with people in I Love London jackets and a country lane in the middle of nowhere. Dense smoke seeps into the room. Bricks and debris fly past, bouncing off walls.

  ‘Turn it off!’

  ‘Bloody trying . . . Boss . . . turn it off . . .’

  ‘Ben, just calm . . .’

  People saying his name over and over again. He grabs something and bites into it. Someone screams so he bites harder and kicks into something else that also screams out in pain. Two men holding him down. They scrabble about trying to grab his arms while a third voice, the one Ben recognises, gives instructions from further away.

  ‘That’s it, hold him down now . . . get his arm, Malcolm. Konrad, you grab that other wrist . . . quickly now chaps . . .’

  ‘I’m trying,’ one of them squawks, then yelps when Ben punches him.

  ‘Ben, just calm down . . . we’re here to help you . . .’

  ‘He got me in the face. I think he’s bust my nose . . .’

  ‘Just knock him out, Malc.’

  ‘Is it broken?’

  ‘Not now, Malc! Jab him . . . I can’t hold him.’

  ‘That’s it chaps. You’re doing well but do hurry it along . . .’

  A heavy weight smothers Ben’s upper body as one of the men lies across him, trapping his arms. ‘Got him! Malc . . . jab him . . . jab him . . . Malc . . . jab him . . .’

  ‘I am trying, Konrad,’ Malcolm says tightly as Ben surges up to sink his teeth into something warm and fleshy.

  ‘AARRGHHH,’ Konrad screams. ‘HE’S BLOODY BITING ME AGAIN . . .’

  ‘Shush now, Konrad . . .’

  ‘But he’s biting me . . .’

  ‘Yes, I can see that, but there’s no need to scream so loudly. Do man up.’

  ‘Got it,’ Malcolm shouts as something sharp is jabbed into Ben’s neck that sends a warm feeling spreading through his body. His head becomes too heavy to hold up and he sinks down, with his teeth sliding from the flesh he was biting into.

  ‘Thank God,’ Konrad groans.

  ‘Is my nose broken?’

  ‘Not now, Malc. He’s still fighting.’

  ‘Give it a second. Christ, the program isn’t wrong with this one!’

  ‘Why isn’t it working, boss? He should be out by now.’

  ‘Because he’s Ben Ryder, chaps, which is exactly why we want him.’

  Ben Ryder? I’m not Ben Ryder now. I’m Ben Calshott. Birmingham. The gang. They’ve found him. They’ll kill him. He explodes and fights with renewed strength, gouging, biting, hitting and bucking like mad, but that spreading warmth sinks deeper and pulls him down like he’s falling slowly. The air is too hot and feels too thick. His ears ring. Every inch of him hurts and he tries to stay awake but the pull is too great and he goes down until the last thing he hears are several relieved voices.

  ‘He’s out.’

  ‘Sure?’

  ‘Well he’s gone limp, Malcolm, which does suggest that he’s out considering he was fighting like crazy a second ago.’

  ‘Don’t be sarcastic, Konrad. Check his pulse.’

  ‘I can’t do that if he’s going to buck about. Hold him down . . .’

  ‘I am, just check his pulse.’

  ‘I am, Malcolm! His pulse is slowing . . .’

  ‘Check his pupils too, Konrad,’ the posh voice says.

  ‘I’m not a bloody doctor, boss. Hang on, yeah . . . yeah they’re dilated. He’s out.’

  ‘Oh my God that was hard, is my nose broken?’

  ‘Hang on, I’ll have a look . . .’

  ‘Don’t blind me!’

  ‘You told me to look at your nose.’

  ‘My nose, not my eyes, you twat.’

  ‘Your nose is in-between your eyes and, yeah, it’s bent and bleeding.’

  ‘Bent? My nose is bent?’

  ‘Yeah, bent, like . . . like broken . . .’

  ‘It really hurts.’

  ‘Well done, chaps! Right, stop dithering about now and get him away . . . and don’t forget the other meds.’

  Two

  1943

  The sentry coughs into the night, exhaling a plume of hot air that steams and hangs before evaporating. He bends his legs to stimulate the circulation. His gloved left hand rests on the barrel of the machine gun while his right holds the cigarette.

  Harry watches him from the shadows of the verge not more than twenty metres away, knowing the wooden guard hut behind the sentry gives cover from the biting wind. He also knows the sentry has nothing to do for the next two hours but smoke and stamp his feet and look up at the million stars shining in the blackness of the night. In two hours, the sentry will report using the radio in the hut and he will do the same thing every two hours until he is relieved. After that, he will go to the mess, get some hot food and then report to his section head before getting some sleep. When he wakes, the young soldier will get hot food from the mess and report to his section head before coming back to what must be the worst sentry position any soldier has ever been allocated.

  There is a war going on. Country against country and a world being conquered by the power of the Third Reich. Brave men earning medals for acts of outstanding bravery while the sentry gets hot food and reports to the section head before coming back to stare at the same bloody stars every night. Harry can sense the frustration in the sentry. The way he huffs and grips his machine gun and sighs with boredom. A man who dreams of being in firefights killing English and American soldiers.

  The sadness of it becomes even more striking when the young German soldier curls his lips and pretends to fire his machine gun and by that single action he shows just how young he is and why he is being used as a sentry instead of a front-line soldier. Harry waits for the sentry to light another cigarette, knowing the sentry’s night vision will be momentarily ruined by stupidly staring at the lit match. He goes forward. Slowly at first, then bursting up to a hard sprint.

  The steel against t
he sentry’s throat is sudden and the blade bites deep. He would scream but the hand over his mouth clamps too hard. He would turn and fire but the strength in the arms holding him is too great. He would kick out but the knee in his back drives in with such brutal force that he’s ripped from his feet and slammed down into the ground as the dagger is stabbed through his throat and he catches one final glimpse of the night sky before the huge foot smashes down, rendering him forever silent.

  Harry pauses and holds still. A glow catches his eye. The still-burning end of the cigarette dropped from the sentry’s hand. He stubs it out, twisting his boot into the hard surface of the unmade road, and drops down to wipe the blade of his dagger on the tunic of the dead German soldier.

  The mission was voluntary. The British Army did not order men to undertake suicide missions. They asked politely and got volunteers instead. The whole regiment volunteered but every man there knew who they would pick.

  ‘You understand there is no planned extraction,’ the captain told Harry gravely. ‘We can get you in but not out, you need to be absolutely clear on this.’

  ‘Aye, sir,’ Harry replied, standing at ease in the small office, staring at a point on the wall directly ahead of him. The captain was a good chap. Harry knew he would never send a man to his death if he did not consider the prize to be worth it.

  ‘If you can get to the boats then you might, and I emphasise you might, get out, but they are under orders not to wait and to only do what is required.’

  ‘Aye. Understood, sir.’

  ‘Harry,’ the captain said in such a tone that Harry knew he was required to look at the captain instead of the spot on the wall. ‘This has come from the top. They want destruction. Total destruction of everything. You have absolute permission to cause absolute carnage.’

  ‘Sir,’ Harry said with a firm nod.

  In the wooden sentry hut, Harry finds the short-wave radio. A clipboard fitted with a single sheet of paper hangs from a hook but it holds no value and is simply used as a record for units entering the deep-water harbour of the Norwegian fjord.