To Hell in a Handcart. Richard Littlejohn

inside of the rear passenger window, where a menacing face thrust itself towards him. ‘Fuck off, fuck off, just fucking FUCK OFF,’ he shouted.

      ‘TERRY! Stop that. STOP IT. You’ll only make things worse,’ screamed Andi, freaked by the stifling, claustrophobic atmosphere inside the Scorpio.

      ‘Change, you bastard, CHANGE,’ Mickey hollered at the red light. But the red light stared back defiantly.

      ‘DADDY! DADDY! They’re trying to get in the car,’ Katie called out hysterically. Mickey could hear the sound of the rear hatchback being jemmied open. All their luggage, Andi’s jewellery, their holiday money in Mickey’s travelling case. It was all in there.

      There was a deafening crash to his left. One of the gang had taken a crowbar to the front passenger window. Mickey looked across to see his wife showered with hundreds of shards of glass, cowering in her seat. The assailant tried to force the door, but the Ford central locking held.

      Andi was petrified, clutching her handbag as an arm reached through and grabbed for it. Mickey couldn’t hear himself think. The shattered window had triggered the alarm, which pierced the air.

      Terry lunged forward and seized the arm, wrenching it away from his mother. Mickey saw a gleam, a flash. He knew instantly it was a blade. He dived across and grabbed the attacker’s wrist as the knife flashed just inches away from Andi’s cheek.

      The fist dropped the blade into Andi’s lap. Mickey picked it up and, instinctively, plunged it into the hirsute forearm being gripped by his son.

      He could hear the scream of the attacker above the cacophony of the car alarm. Both arms withdrew, blood spurting everywhere, splattering on the inside of the wind-screen, erupting over the dashboard. More beggars threw themselves at the vehicle.

      Mickey wrenched the car into reverse and stamped on the accelerator. There was another agonizing screech as the legs of the man attempting to jemmy open the rear tailgate were crushed against the reinforced front bumpers of the car behind, a blue Volvo 740 estate, driven by an Orthodox rabbi from Stamford Hill.

      Mickey jammed the gear lever into first and stood on the gas pedal. The car surged forward through the tape, scattering the cones, mounting the pavement.

      Mickey’s vision was obscured by the blood on the wind-screen. He tried to wipe it away with his hand, but it smeared. Steering with one hand, he cleared a patch in the claret.

      As he did so, he saw the crazed figure of a small, dark-haired woman, arms outstretched, holding her child before her, gesticulating in his direction, screaming hatred. Mickey threw the wheel left in an attempt at evasive action.

      Too late.

      The woman was hurled backwards and a small body propelled through the air. It bounced once on the bonnet, slammed into the windscreen, rolled under the front nearside wheel and was gone.

      Mickey shuddered to a halt.

      ‘What are you DOING?’ Andi cried, her face dripping with blood. ‘Just DRIVE, Mickey. Get us OUT OF HERE!’

      ‘But the baby.’

      ‘Fuck the fucking gypsy baby. What about your babies? DRIVE!’

       Three

      Mickey swung the Scorpio into the car park of a huge, half-timbered Thirties roadhouse, now plying its trade as an American theme restaurant, at least a mile from the scene of the ambush.

      He looked across at his wife, who was shaking and crying uncontrollably. He turned to his kids in the rear seat. Katie was screwed up in a ball, in the fetal position, sobbing.

      Terry was bouncing, his eyes on stalks, popping out of his head, blood all over his sweatshirt and on the underside of the peak of his baseball cap. The adrenalin was still pumping. He was punching the roof lining of the Scorpio and roaring like a young lion after his first kill.

      ‘Yes, yes, YES!’ Terry cried, triumphantly.

      ‘Terry, son. It’s all right. Calm down. You did well. Just, you know, chill. Cool. Whatever you call it,’ said Mickey soothingly.

      He put his arm round Andi and pulled her close. ‘Are you hurt?’

      ‘No, I don’t think so,’ she replied, fumbling inside her handbag for a wet-wipe. ‘It’s not my blood, lover. I’ll live.’

      They both turned to Katie, shivering on the back seat, her arms across her head, trying to shut out the horror of it all.

      Mickey disengaged the central locking, silenced the alarm and got out of the car. He walked round to the rear passenger side, opened the door, picked up Katie and cradled her in his arms.

      ‘Katie. Katie, darling. It’s all right. We’re all fine. It’s all over.’

      She threw her arms round his neck. He could feel her warm tears on his face, could taste her terror. She whispered in his ear: ‘Daddy, make it better.’

      Mickey looked at the Scorpio. Or rather what was left of it. The lunchtime trade arriving for overcooked burgers and rancid ribs surveyed the devastation.

      ‘My God,’ said Mickey. ‘The baby.’

      ‘What?’

      ‘That woman’s baby. I think I killed it. I’ve got to go back.’

      ‘You can’t be serious,’ Andi said.

      ‘Deadly. Look, take the kids inside. Clean yourselves up. I have to go back. I used to be a police officer, for God’s sake. Can you remember that? Please.’

      He went to call the police on his mobile, then realized someone would have done it already. But Mickey had to return to the scene. He was looking at failing to stop, failing to report an accident, malicious wounding, death by dangerous driving, even, and God knows what else.

      OK, so there were mitigating circumstances. Self-defence, reasonable force. But these things had to be done by the book.

      ‘I won’t be long. Promise. I have to do this. Get the kids a burger or something.’

      Andi knew resistance was futile. He would do the right thing. That sometimes infuriated her, but that’s why she loved him.

      Mickey got back in the car, which looked like a left-over from a demolition derby. He turned the key in the ignition, selected Drive and rolled the car back onto the main road.

      He drove slowly, unsure of just how far he had come. In the distance he could see the flashing blue light of a patrol car. As he approached, he saw an officer in a fluorescent yellow jacket in animated conversation with a rabbi.

      But something was missing. Where were the roadworks? There were a few lengths of tape, fluttering in the breeze, but nothing else.

      He pulled in to the kerb, walked over to the officer and introduced himself. ‘I think you’re looking for me.’

      ‘I’ve just been hearing all about it from this gentleman here,’ he said, indicating Rabbi Chaim Bergman. ‘Are you all right, sir?’

      ‘Er, yes, I suppose so. In the circumstances.’

      ‘And the family?’

      ‘I left them at that burger place down the road. You’ll be wanting a statement from me.’

      ‘That won’t be necessary, sir.’

      ‘Won’t be necessary? This was like a fucking war zone twenty minutes ago.’

      ‘So it might have been, sir. That was twenty minutes ago.’ He looked at Mickey. ‘I know you, don’t I? You were an instructor at Hendon. Weapons, right? Sergeant French, correct? You got shot, over in Hornsey?’

      ‘Um, yes. And it’s former sergeant.