Chapter 24
Christmas Eve had been a turning point in the band's career for Metal heaven. Their first single had entered the top fifty just last week only ten days after its release. They had been star featured in the New Musical Express and today had just finished filming their first television appearance at the TV studios in Manchester for transmission on Boxing Day. Now in the early hours of Christmas morning, they were sat in a motorway service station on the M6 just outside Manchester having an early breakfast before the long drive back to Bristol.
The adrenaline of the occasion was still with them and the conversation had been animated, but now, with the arrival of Colin the Roady with their food, it slowed as they started eating. Sean Combes looked up from his mixed grill to reach for the salt pot and an extremely pretty blonde girl of about seventeen took his eye. He nudged Jason Goodwell who was sitting next to him. The Ulster accent thickened by desire
“Get a load of the tits on her, Jason. I might go over and see if I can pull it when I have finished this.”
The others stopped eating and looked at him. It was Ali who spoke.
“We agreed that after the trouble with the last one, we wouldn't pull any more fanny when we are working and as far as I am concerned that includes travelling to and from gigs.”
Ali's conscience still bothered him about Alison Jenson.
“Bollocks. I didn't agree to anything of the kind. You fuckers out voted me is what happened.”
Jason put his hand on his arm.
“And you know why, Sean. We only got this contract by the skin of our teeth and it has a clause that says any further problems with under age girls or rape accusations and the contract is killed. Hell man. You want fame and fortune more than any of us so it’s for your sake as much as ours. All it means is that you do your shagging in your own time.”
Sean glowered.
“Well fuck that. The best time to pick them up is when you are in the spotlight and they know who you are, and that's when we are on a gig. Shit! Who would know us from Adam in Manchester high street.”
He stabbed a sausage angrily. The sudden argument had dissipated the euphoria they had been feeling and they ate in silence, Sean's expression dark and angry. They only looked up when a shadow crossed the table. It was the blonde girl, holding two menu cards and smiling nervously. The accent was West Country/Bristol.
“You're Metal Heaven, aren't you. I saw your bus outside. Would you sign these for me and my friend?” She indicated a thin skinny redhead sat at the table across the isle. “She thinks your great as well.”
Sean's face cleared and he took the menus and proffered pen with a smile.
“No problem.”
He signed with a flourish and passed them on to Jason before turning his attention back to the girl.
“Where are you from?”
“Swindon.”
“Driving down, are you?”
“Its my friends car.”
“Then why don't you... Christ! You bastard Rasta.”
Rasta had not taken part in the previous conversation, but in anticipation of what Sean had been about to say had kicked him hard on his bony shin. He now took and signed the two menu's being held out to him by Ali and gave them and the pen back to the girl. He looked her in the eye.
“Now get lost.”
The girl looked shocked, but the expression on Rasta's face brooked no argument and she made her way back to her friend. They spoke briefly and then picked up their bags to go. The blonde turned to face them and holding the menus out in front of her, tore them into several pieces and then dropped them to the floor and they left without a backward glance. Sean snarled at Rasta.
“You didn't have to kick me, you bastard.”
Rasta leaned across the table and took Sean's wrist in a grip of iron.
“Listen to me, you Irish pillock. The last time we all had a girl in the bus all that you got was a free shag and some minor hassle from the law. I personally suffered a broken nose and a fractured rib when I met her Daddy and then she stuck a boning knife through my left bollock. I spent nearly a week in hospital when they had to remove it and I may have to take pills for the rest of my life to increase my hormone level, if the tests they gave me say so.”
He tightened his grip a little more and Sean started to gasp.
“No piece of fanny is worth that so I am telling you now so you know where you stand. You ever bring another girl to the bus on a gig and I will personally rip your balls off in front of her. Now eat your fucking breakfast.”
He released Sean's arm, who immediately started to rub it to bring the blood back. Sean looked at the others for their reaction, but Jason Goodwell just shrugged and turned back to his food while Ali refused to even meet his eyes. He fumed inwardly, but knew he had lost. He pushed the unfinished breakfast away and getting to his feet stalked off back to the bus. Jason spoke without lifting his eyes from his plate.
“You were pretty rough on him, Rasta.”
“He is a pillock with his brains in his trousers.”
“We all used to enjoy getting the girls in the back of the bus. You too, as I recall.”
“Yeah. Well if he had been the one to take all the shit after the last one, maybe he would be ready to call it a day as well. Me, I just want to make enough so that I can afford all the pussy I want without having to keep visiting the bloody hospital and the police station afterwards.”
They finished their breakfasts in silence and then made their way back to the bus. Sean was lying on one of the top bunks with his back to them and nobody spoke to him. Once they were all settled in the back Colin the Roady fired up the engine and they rejoined the motorway. It was half past four on Christmas morning.
It was about an hour later, as they were driving down the two-lane section of the M5 out of Birmingham, that the dark blue police transit appeared. There had been no other traffic around for the last thirty miles until its lights had suddenly appeared behind them. Everyone but Colin was asleep in the bunks, the late night filming session and the subsequent travelling having exhausted them. They never woke up when the unmarked dark blue Transit van pulled in front of them and a blue clad arm holding a torch waved them down, or when Colin the Roady brought the bus to a gentle halt and sat there looking for his driving licence and the insurance certificate that he always kept in the glove box under the dashboard.
In the light of the headlights he watched the tall, well built sergeant climb out of the transit's passenger seat and walk back towards him. It was the paintwork job on the bus that did it, he thought to himself. The psychedelic angels were great advertising, but they attracted the law like a load of moths to a Tilley lamp. Roll on when they were famous and would have to travel anonymously. He switched on the interior light and slid back the window, feeling the cold night air on his face as he watched the sergeants breath misting as he breathed. The man reached the window and stopped, his teeth gleaming white in the ebony of his face as he smiled up at Colin. Colin held out the papers, his broad Bristol accent and rosy-cheeked face full of concern.
“Morning, Sergeant, what's the problem then?”
The sergeant lifted two fingers to touch the brow of his cap in salute.
“Good morning and a Merry Christmas to you too, Sir. Sorry to pull you over, but you seem to have a bit of a problem with your rear lights. They keep flickering on and off every time you hit a bump.”
Colin's heart sank. He wanted to get home as quickly as possible so that he could get his head down for a few hours before he picked up his girlfriend, Lizzie and went around to his mum's house to have his Christmas dinner. If the bloody lights were playing up they could be here for hours before they got some one out to fix them. After all, he wasn't be too keen on working Christmas morning himself so he knew how anyone else would feel about it. His disappointment must have shown in his face for the sergeant took pity on him.
“Don't look so worried, friend. Its probably only a connector come a bit loose.”
H
e seemed to hesitate and then came to a decision.
“Tell you what. Our depot is only a couple of miles away just off the next exit. There's not much traffic about so you won't be too much of a hazard in that short distance. We are not supposed to repair civilian vehicles, but considering the time of year I think we can stretch a point this time.”
Colin was not the greatest fan the police force had ever had, but at this point in time he felt positively grateful to the tall black sergeant. Perhaps he would get home in time after all. He wondered if he ought to tell the boys in the back, but decided not to wake them. He put his papers back in the glove box and grinned at the sergeant.
“Thanks Sarge. You're a bloody brick. I certainly didn't fancy waiting here on the hard shoulder for hours while we waited for some bloke to drag himself away from his family on Christmas morning. Thanks a lot. Shall I follow you?”
“With your dodgy lights you had better go first and the Transit will bring up the rear. I will just go and tell my mate what is happening and then I will come back and ride shotgun, so you don't get lost.”
The tall figure walked back to the transit and leaned into the window. After a few seconds he came back and with a gentle hiss of compressed air Colin opened the front door and the policeman climbed aboard. Colin put the bus in gear and pulled out past the Transit and onto the motorway. As they travelled the two miles to the next junction the sergeant asked a few questions about the band, but it was clear he was just making conversation and soon they travelled in silence until they reached the junction. Here the sergeant started to direct him. The lane they turned into was surprisingly narrow and overgrown, but probably quite wide enough for patrol cars and Transits. They drove carefully along it for what seemed like more than two miles, during which time it started to deteriorate alarmingly before the sergeant indicated he should stop. It was just as well as the road went no further. He pointed to the old farm gate picked out by the headlights.
“Take it straight in there.”
Colin turned with an angry question that died on his lips as he looked down the barrel of the pistol the policeman was holding. He felt fear wrench at his stomach and a feeling of complete disbelief that this should be happening. Despite the sweat that had broken out on his brow and in his armpits he screwed up his courage. The words spewed out.
“What's going on then? You're not a copper, are you? What do you want with us? I think you must have made a mistake.”
The other just grinned at him and gently touched the barrel of the pistol to the side of his nose, pushing his head back to face the front and causing the cold sweat of fear to instantly drench him again from head to toe. He wiped his sweaty hands on his jacket and watched as a big fat man with a beard and long straggly hair appeared from the side of the bus and started to open the farm gate. He must have been driving the Transit. The gun barrel tapped him twice on the shoulder.
“Drive into the yard and stop the engine.”
Colin did as he was told, but his leg was shaking with fear and he stalled the big vehicle twice before he managed to kangaroo it into the yard. The sergeant, laughing softly at his fear, produced a set of handcuffs.
“Push both your hands down between the spokes of the steering wheel.”
Colin did so and the man clipped the handcuffs first to his right wrist and then around the thick steering column before clipping them to his left wrist. He moved back and examined his handy work. Colin swallowed hard.
“Now What?”
The black face lost all trace of humour and became like stone.
“Now you sit there quietly and behave yourself and nothing else will happen to you, except you will probably miss your Christmas dinner. Believe me, Sonny Boy, you are the lucky one. But you make one sound in the next ten minutes and I will come back here and make a louder one. Understand?”
Placing the barrel of the pistol under Colin's nose he used it to turn his head until he was staring straight into the others eyes. As Colin nodded frantically Khorta reached forward and removed the keys from the ignition, but left the lights on before operating the door and leaving the bus. Colin felt the cold early morning air waft into the bus through the open door, but would not have dared to close it even if he could have reached the lever.
Khorta walked back to the Transit tucking the pistol under his tunic and reaching inside picked up a sawn off, pump action shotgun from the passenger seat before walking around to the rear of the bus. Samuel Cullings, dressed in an old leather jacket and jeans, appeared from around the other side of the bus carrying a similar weapon. Khorta nodded and Cullings reached out and pulled open the door that had been set into the side of the rear half of the bus. When it was fully open he switched on the powerful torch and shone it into the interior.
The band was awake. Colin's leapfrogging entrance into the farmyard had seen to that. They had been climbing from their bunks and rubbing the sleep from their eyes when the door had been thrown open. The beam of the torch cut into their eyes, blinding them and they turned away from it.
“Police. Everybody out of the bus.”
The torch left their eyes and lit the two steps down from the bus. They started to make protests, but the steely voice cut them off.
“Listen to me, people. This little toy you see in my hand is a sawn off shotgun and at this range two shots should be enough to wipe out the lot of you. Now get out of the fucking bus.”
Ali hastened to obey. He stumbled down the steps with his hands raised high urging the others to join him.
“Come on you guys, do what he says. Its either a mistake or they want to steal the instruments or something. It will all be covered by insurance anyway. Just do what he says, please.”
The last was on a note of pleading and the others started to climb out of the bus. Rasta hung back, but Khorta would have none of it.
“You too, Fairbrother. Get your arse out here quickly and don't get any ideas. Sam, you go over and switch the lights on in the shed.”
Cullings disappeared and there was the noise of a small generator starting and then lights sprang on in the low building on the other side of the yard. Khorta herded the now wide-awake band through the gate and across the frozen mud of the yard to where an open doorway beckoned and at Khorta's command they entered and found themselves inside an old cowshed. It was a low single storey building about ten yards deep by some fifty yards long with a two tier concrete floor. The upper tier was some six inches higher and was divided into individual stalls, but the bottom floor was a clear expanse running the length of the building. It was lit by two bare bulbs suspended from the roof beams on cables that ran directly to a small generator just inside the door. The only other features of the building were what looked like two crowd barriers bolted to the floor in the middle of the lower tier and several new ring bolts either side of it. Just on from these were a pile of nylon rope and strangest of all, a pig’s head, staring at them with glazed dead eyes from the top of a forty-gallon oil drum.
Khorta followed them through the door while they were still looking apprehensively around at their surroundings and then closed the door behind him. The bang it made as it shut caused them to jump and gave him their attention. He gave a humourless smile.
“Just in case you fellows get any ideas about being heroes me and my partner here have arranged a demonstration.”
He fired the shotgun from the hip. The noise and smoke in the confined space were terrifying and even Cullings who was expecting it, jumped. When the prisoners realised that they were all right they looked around to see what the target had been. The pig’s head had been blown to a bloody mess. In order that they could fully appreciate what had happened Cullings moved the drum and let the light shine on the remains. They looked at it in disbelief and turned back to Khorta. It was Jason Goodwell who spoke.
“This isn't a robbery is it?” Fear was in his voice. “What is going on here? What do you want from us?
Khorta leaned back against one of the dividing walls of th
e cow stalls. His face was expressionless.
“If you people don't want to end up like that pig’s head you have just two minutes to get your cloths off.”
He lifted the shotgun and levelled it at Jason Goodwell's stomach and after a few seconds of disbelief they scrambled out of their clothes, accompanied by Ali's quiet sobs. Rasta put a hand on his shoulder.
“Don't let the fucker see you cry, Ali. Don't let him see you cry, man. Don't give him that pleasure.”
Khorta gave no reaction to what he said, but continued to watch them carefully. When they were standing there naked he nodded to Cullings who went and picked up the pile of thin nylon rope.
“Now old Sam here is going to tie you guys face down across those barriers. If you don't do anything stupid I guarantee you will live to play those instruments another day. Fuck us about and you're pig meat. All right, Sam, take Fairbrother first.”
Cullings took about four minutes to tie Rasta face down across the barriers, doubled over with his feet spread wide, but close to the barriers on one side and his arms pulled out together in front of him on the other. Despite his nakedness Rasta was sweating. Within fifteen minutes they were all tied in exactly the same fashion in a line. Khorta went and tested ropes and then satisfied walked to the doorway. He turned and looked at the four pairs of naked buttocks facing him.
“Nothing personal in this, you people. I am just getting paid for doing a job. Its all yours now Sam.”
It was Rasta who realised first what was going to happen to them and started to struggle like a man possessed. His back muscles stood out like iron bars, but the barriers were well bolted down and did not move. Sean Combes, who until then had been the only one not to say a word, began for the first time in many years to say his prayers. This mingled with Rasta' continual stream of obscenities and Ali's sobs, became one long jumbled sound. Only Jason Goodwell was silent, but he too was crying. Khorta took an envelope from his pocket and gave it to Sam Cullings who opened the flap and then looked up at him sharply. Khorta nodded.
“I know its a couple of hundred more than we agreed, but its because things have changed. I am going to leave separately because I have another little job to do, that's why I have a motorbike in the back of the Transit. When you have finished here you can take the Transit on your own, although I don't recommend you keep it long as the Roady will tell the police about it. Now get on with what you are being paid for.”
Leaving the cowshed he shut the door behind him and walking over to the bus and took out his pistol from his tunic and shot out both front tyres. The shots coming from just outside the cab where he sat doubled over the wheel, almost caused Colin the Roady to wet his trousers. Then, going to the front of the Transit and opening the passenger door, he carefully laid the sawn off shotgun on its side on the passenger seat facing the drivers door.
When he was happy with the angle he used two elastic luggage straps to lock it into position, taking them over the gun and linking them together by their hooks under the seat. He then closed the passenger door and made sure that the handle of the shotgun rested firmly against the door panel. Next he went round and climbed into driving seat and taking a length of nylon fishing line out of his pocket, by the light of the interior light he tide a small loop in one end of the line and slipped it over the trigger of the shotgun. From there he then ran it through the handle of the passenger door and back across the cab, before putting the line down on the driver's seat and climbing out. Once out of the cab, holding the drivers door half open with his knee he picked up the line and tied it firmly to that door handle. Then, making sure he was out of the line of fire he slowly opened the door. The line tightened at the half open position. He smiled and gently closed the door again. Then he locked the passenger door before replacing the keys in the ignition, making sure that the only access was through the driver’s door
He went to the back of the Transit and quickly shed the police uniform, which he rolled up into a ball and climbed into a full set of black motorbike leathers. This was not without some difficulty as the rear of the van contained a large Honda motorcycle. He finally removed the brown coloured contact lenses from his eyes before donning gloves and a crash helmet and opening the back doors pushed out an eight-foot plank, which he used as a ramp. He picked up the police uniform and placed into one of the bike’s panniers and took a last look around to make sure he had not forgotten anything. Then quietly mounting the bike inside the van and pushing it off its stand, he carefully rode it down the plank and allowed it to roll down the slight incline of the lane for some two hundred yards before pulling it back on to its stand and returning to the yard.
As he entered the yard loud screams were coming from the cowshed and he assumed the Anglo/Indian kid was getting Cullings's attention. He felt a brief flash of compassion for the poor bastard, but it wasn't his problem. His problem was getting that bastard MacAllister off his back and getting out of the country. He made his way over to the bus and climbed aboard. Colin shrank back into his seat as the black clad figure climbed the three steps up into the bus and mutely shook his head; the screams had evidently unnerved him. Khorta laughed.
“Its all right, Colin. Its not your turn now.”
He held up two keys.
“These are the keys to those handcuffs and the ignition keys for the bus. It won't go far with the front tyres down, but you should make it back to the motorway junction. I am going to put them down here on the floor where you can reach them, but I don't advise you do it until you see the other guy leave the building and drive the Transit away. Remember, he has a shotgun as well. Happy Christmas.”
Colin stared unblinking as the black figure left, as if he felt even to blink might make him change his mind and come back. He sat face down across the wheel rock still, staring at the door. Khorta walked back to where he had left the motorcycle and climbed on. He operated the starter and the engine burbled powerfully, but quietly into life. He kicked it into gear, released the clutch and with a low growl of power, vanished into the night.
Back in the bus Colin was distracted from his vigil on the bus door by the flash of light as the door of the cowshed opened and then closed again. Into the beams of the still blazing bus headlights came the other man, the one the black man who had dressed as a policeman had called Sam. Sam walked passed the bus obviously heading to where they had parked the Transit. Colin hadn't heard it start up so it must still be there. Then the sudden silence that had fallen over the night, the screams from the cowshed having stopped now, was shattered again by a shotgun blast and a further scream that died to a gurgle. Then it was silent again.
Colin sat there for twenty minutes before he dared to move and then the only thing that moved him was the bitter cold, followed by the fear for his band. By standing up he found he could just push his hands down through the wheel far enough to reach the key to the handcuffs if he turned his head sideways against the spokes of the steering wheel and stretched his fingers to the limit.
Holding the keys in his right hand he didn't dare straighten up again in case he dropped them again where he couldn't reach them so with the blood pounding in his ears he took three tries before he managed to open one of the bracelets. Free again he stood and then fell backwards into the seat and gratefully straightened his back for the first time in nearly an hour. He unlocked the other bracelet and with a sudden burst of anger threw the handcuffs into the night through the open door. Then he bent down and retrieved the ignition keys from where they lay by the steering column. He started the engine because the headlights had started to fade a bit and he was concerned for the battery. He didn't fancy walking out of here with that black maniac loose somewhere. Besides, the lads would be frozen and they would need the heater.
Once out of the bus he forced himself to walk over to the transit. The passenger door was wide open and had a huge chunk just below the lock blown away as if some maniacal machine had taken a large bite out of it. He heard a whisper from behind him and looked around.
Sam Cullings was lying on his back some three yards from the Transit where the blast from the shotgun had thrown him. In the feeble reflected light of the bus headlights, Colin could see a large dark wet patch where the left hand side of the chest had been. He knelt down and felt the body and immediately turned away again and threw up the contents of his stomach when his hand touched bare broken ribs. He wiped his sticky fingers frantically on the frozen ground to get rid of the blood while he took great gasps of freezing air to prevent him from vomiting again. After steeling himself he returned to the body and felt at the neck for a pulse. There was none and the skin was already cold. The noise had just been air leaving the dead lungs as the body cooled. Colin stood up and forced himself to walk towards the cowshed.