‘Thank fuck that’s over,’ he whispered under his breath and headed towards the station yard to hitch a lift back to his beat in an area of Newham he doubted either Gerrard or Johnston had ever seen.
Two hours later
King walked along Central Park Road in East Ham cursing the body armour and traditional-style helmet that made the intense heat of a London summer almost unbearable. He listened to every call that came out over his personal radio, determined to end his constable career with yet another decent arrest and maintain his reputation as a thief-taker, something that had surprised his peers and seniors alike, unaccustomed as they were to seeing anyone on accelerated promotion showing any street skills. But he felt born to be a street cop – his law degree nothing more than something he’d obtained to please his parents. Although they still expressed their deep displeasure at his chosen career, the accelerated promotion programme he’d been offered as a graduate had mollified them. He’d accepted the deal to keep the peace, but doubted he’d stick to it. Maybe he’d even join the CID proper – not just on an attachment as a future senior officer passing through, but as a trained and qualified detective. It would kill off his chances of ever being anything more than a detective inspector or at best a detective chief inspector, but at least he wouldn’t be permanently trapped behind a desk.
Finally a call came out over his personal radio that interested him and that he could get to on foot within the acceptable response time: suspected domestic disturbance at 15 Gillett Avenue – sounds of a disturbance in the background.
‘I’ll take that, 914 over,’ he said into his radio.
‘You sure, 914?’ the female voice from Control came back to him. ‘It’ll be your last shout as a constable. Sure you want to end on a domestic?’
‘Why not?’ he answered, knowing that domestic disputes were always good for an arrest. ‘I’m just round the corner. ETA two minutes.’
‘OK, 914,’ the female voice told him. ‘I’ll sort some back-up out and send them to your location.’
‘Fine,’ he agreed and picked up his pace, determined not to let a mobile unit beat him to the shout and any possible arrests. But as he turned into Gillett Avenue and began to walk past the rows of neat terraced houses, a feeling quite unlike anything he had experienced before began to wrap itself around him – an unpleasant feeling of something terrible happening close by. The street was deathly quiet, only the sound of the leaves in the small trees moving in the faintest of breezes disturbing the stillness. The birds had stopped singing.
When he reached number 15 his sense of dread only increased as he found the house in complete silence with none of the usual reassuring sounds of screaming and shouting coming from inside – the small house looked somehow foreboding and threatening.
He slowly reached for his radio, pressing the transmit but ton a second before speaking. ‘914 to Control.’
‘Go ahead, 914.’
‘Any informant details for the domestic at 15 Gillett Avenue?’
‘Negative. Caller was using a mobile number – declined to leave a name.’
‘Can you call them back?’ he asked. ‘It’s all quiet here.’ But before Control answered, the front door began to slowly open, the darkness from inside seemingly spilling into the light outside as an unseen malevolence chased the warmth of the sun from the street. He slowly took two steps forward – unnerved enough to carefully draw his telescopic truncheon, extending it to its full length with a flick of his wrist as the door continued to open inch by inch, but still he could see no one.
‘Police,’ he called out to reassure himself as much as anything. ‘Show yourself.’ But his command was met only with a deathly silence, as if the street had been sucked into a vacuum in time and space. He took another step forward, squinting into the darkness of the house as a faint shape began to form – small and flowing white, moving towards the light like an ethereal being. His pounding heart sent torrents of blood rushing past his ears, creating an internal deafness as his vision tunnelled towards the shape that became increasingly human as it approached him. A young girl, no more than ten, slim and pale, dressed in what appeared to be a long white nightdress with long straight blonde, almost white, hair, staggered into the light – red blood spreading through her clothing as she walked towards him trembling, arms stiff by her side before falling forward into his arms. He caught her safely and lowered her to the ground, his mind still struggling to comprehend what he was seeing.
The girl’s eyes blinked fast and hard as she used the last of her strength to whisper into his ear. ‘They’re inside.’ Her eyes rolled back inside her head as she went limp in his embrace, dead or passed out, he couldn’t tell.
‘Jesus Christ,’ he pleaded quietly as the adrenalin began to flow through his body, snapping him from the nightmare and allowing his training and experience to force his mind and body to act. But as he reached for his radio to call for an ambulance, a man came screaming from the house – his clothes and hands covered in blood, a kitchen knife held aloft above his head as he ran full pace straight towards King.
Without thinking, his instinct to save the girl made him turn his back on their screaming assailant – his own body becoming a human shield as he felt the first punch land on his shoulder. Only he knew it was more than just that – it was the knife being buried deep into his body. There was then a far more intense, violent pain as the knife was ripped from the muscle before he felt another punch, this time lower in his back, close to its centre, before once again the pain of the knife as it was torn from his body.
He screamed in pain and anger, the primeval response to fight for his life superseding all other emotions as he instinctively knew he had to react or die. He spun fast, brought the truncheon down hard on the madman’s kneecap, but it had no effect. It was as if the man hadn’t even felt it as again he plunged the knife towards him, only this time King was able to deflect it away as he pushed himself powerfully from the ground, launching his shoulder into the madman’s midriff, driving him backwards until they both lost their balance and clattered to the ground. The man took the brunt of the fall as the knife fell from his grip and skidded away across the pathway.
King didn’t hesitate in seizing the initiative, ignoring the pain and nausea sweeping through his body as he raised his metal truncheon and smashed it down over his attacker’s head, splitting his skin to the bone as blood instantly poured from the wound, but in his wildness the man didn’t even try to protect himself. Instead he clawed and grasped at King’s face until his hands found his throat and wrapped around it, constricting his breathing. Over and over again King brought the truncheon down on the man’s head and across his face until finally the man became human again and released his grip of King’s throat to use his hands to protect himself. But still King rained down the blows, all thoughts of reasonable force banished to another time until the man underneath him was nothing more than a moaning bloody pulp.
Near exhaustion, he rolled his attacker onto his belly and stretched his arms out to the nearby metal railing and handcuffed him to it. The fight for survival over, he instantly felt close to passing out, drawing in long deep breaths to steady himself, but he knew he had only minutes, if that, before his injuries overcame him and when that time came he would welcome it – a blissful escape from the pain and sickness into darkness, but not yet. He had to check the girl. He had to check the house.
He staggered to his feet, but could only manage a crouching walk as he crossed the short distance to the motionless girl, although it seemed a mammoth trek to him. He kneeled
