Life on Mars: Get Cartwright. Tom Graham

weird, Annie, yes.’

      ‘Then help me,’ Annie urged him. ‘Tell me why I can’t remember nothing. And tell who you are. And who I am! And where the hell we are!’

      Sam hesitated. It was a long story – long and mysterious, and full of things he didn’t understand and dark corners where real horror lurked. Where to begin?

      Slowly, he took a deep breath, preparing himself for an explanation he had no idea how he was going to phrase. But he only got as far as one word.

      ‘Well,’ he said. And then, without warning, he was on his feet, staring past Annie through the open door of Joe’s Caff. ‘Oh my God …’

      ‘Sam? What is it?’

      ‘A fella …’

      ‘A fella?’

      ‘With a gun. I've just seen a fella with a gun.’

      ‘What? Where?’

      ‘Right there! Walking into the church! I just seen a fella with a gun walking straight into that church!’ Sam ran for the door, shouting: ‘Joe! Dial 999! Now!’

      Joe stood and gawped, slow-witted as a Neanderthal, so Annie shoved past him and grabbed the phone as Sam raced out into the street. He heard Annie’s voice calling after him – Don’t go, Sam, stay here, wait for back up! – but he couldn’t stop himself. His instincts had kicked in.

      Is this the final showdown? Sam wondered as he sprinted across the street and through the little churchyard. Was that Gould I saw? Is he ready now? Is this how we’re going to finish this business between us – in an armed stand-off in a church? So be it, then. If that’s what he wants, let’s do it. Let’s do this thing! Let’s finish it once and for all – right now!

      He reached the arched entrance of the church and flung the doors open before he could talk himself out of it.

       CHAPTER TWO: IN EXTREMIS

      Sam dashed into the church and skittered to a halt. Dotted about in the pews were various elderly people, old ladies mostly, waiting for the service to begin. But Sam’s attention was fixed on the man who stood at the very back of the church, just inside the main doors, only feet away. He was in his sixties, dressed in a denim jacket, orange nylon shirt, and beige corduroy slacks. He had a hard face, square-jawed and deeply lined. His hair had receded to a collection of wiry, grey curls about his ears. Motionless and silent, he stood at the end of the aisle and glared fiercely ahead.

       He’s certainly not Clive Gould. So who the hell is he?

      Sam looked down, and saw the revolver gripped tightly in the man’s white-knuckled hand. His finger flexed repeatedly on the trigger.

       This guy’s right on the edge. He’s all nerves. Is he deranged? Is he high on something?

      ‘Hey there,’ Sam said softly. He edged carefully forward. ‘You look strung out.’

      The man ignored him. His jaw muscles convulsed.

      ‘Maybe I can help you,’ Sam said. ‘It’s okay. I’m not going to try anything. My name’s Sam.’

      There was a flicker in the man’s eyes, and he turned his head suddenly to turn that furious gaze upon Sam.

      ‘Sam?’ the man grunted. ‘Sam Tyler? DI Sam Tyler?’

      Oh God, have I nicked him in the past? Sam thought, trying to place the man’s face. Has he got a grudge against me? Should I just grab that gun off him and pin him down before he makes a move?

      ‘Yes, I’m DI Tyler. Have we met?’

      ‘So … it’s you …’

      An old lady turned round in her pew and shushed angrily.

      Sam inched closer to the man: ‘Listen, why don’t you give me the gun and we’ll talk outside. There’s a café just across the road. I’ll get you breakfast.’

      ‘SHHH!’

      The vicar had appeared, a small, round-shouldered man with pebble glasses. He took his place at the lectern and perused his Bible short-sightedly, oblivious to the drama playing out at the back of his church.

      The man with the gun was shaking, his jaw muscles clenching, eyes glaring. Whatever he had come here to do, he was on the verge of doing it. Sam had to get him out of there right now. He’d give it one more go with the softly-softly approach but if that failed, he’d wrestle the gun from him by force and keep him pinned till back up arrived.

      ‘You don’t need that thing,’ Sam whispered, and he held his hand out for the gun.

      ‘It’s all because of you, DI Tyler …’ the man muttered.

      ‘I don’t know what you mean. Give me the gun and we can straighten everything out.’

      ‘It should be you not me …’ His voice was almost inaudible now. ‘You’re the one he wants … It should be you …’

      ‘The gun. Give me the gun. We can’t talk properly until you give me the –’

      At once, the man raised the gun – and thrust it against the side of he own head. His eyes were wide and round and bloodshot. A livid vein pulsed along his temple.

      ‘Don’t do it!’ Sam yelled.

      ‘SHHH!’ hissed half a dozen old ladies.

      The vicar peered up, mole-like.

      ‘My name is Detective Chief Inspector Michael Carroll,’ the man with gun declared, speaking loudly and clearly like he was giving a public address. ‘I worked for Manchester CID. I served this city for twenty-five years. I arrested villains. I made the streets safe. I am a good man!’

      ‘SHHH! SSSSSHHH!’

      Sam’s mind was reeling. DCI Carroll. That name was on Annie’s list of corrupt ex-coppers from the sixties.

      No coincidence, Sam thought, his mouth going dry. This is no bloody coincidence.

      ‘I am a good man!’ Carroll insisted, his voice growing louder. ‘I AM A GOOD MAN! I do not deserve this!’

      The barrel of the gun was pressing deep into the side of his head now, his finger hooked tightly around the trigger. If Sam rushed him, Carroll would blow his brains out before he could do a thing.

      ‘What’s happening back there?’ the vicar called out, squinting through his glasses.

      ‘Those boys are playing cop ‘n robbers with a water pistol,’ a phlegmy man growled, not looking up from his prayer book.

      ‘Well take it outside!’ an old lady barked, banging the back of the pew angrily with her arthritic hand.

      ‘I’m a police officer,’ Sam announced. ‘I’m a real police officer.’ And then, with more hope than conviction, he added: ‘A situation is in progress but I have got it fully under control.’

      ‘You know my name, Mr Carroll,’ Sam said, fixing his attention on the man’s eyes, willing contact between them. ‘And I know yours. We’re acquainted. So let’s talk.’

      ‘I am a good man, and I should be rewarded as a good man!’

      ‘Yes, you’re a good man, and that’s why you’re going to do the right thing. You’re going to put down that gun.’ Taking a gamble, Sam added: ‘Let’s go across the road, sit down over a coffee, and talk about Clive Gould.’

      The name had an instant and devastating effect on Carroll. His face contorted wildly as if he were suddenly in agony.