Текст книги "Just Another Day"

Автор книги: Steven Clark

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Текущая страница: 3 (всего у книги 16 страниц)

Chapter 4

Just before 0700 hours and the Port Police control room was its usual noisy banter and mayhem of the night shift about to go off as the early shift came on duty.

Sergeant Chambers had just come on as the early turn supervisor. The Section Sergeants always came on duty a bit earlier than their constables so that they could sort out any briefings or information required prior to the lads and lasses coming on. They would quickly scan the incidents of the previous 24 hours and be in a position to allocate any jobs or enquiries that would need to be carried out during their tour of duty for that day.

The Night duty Sergeant had appraised him with, ‘All quiet Bob, see you tomorrow morning.’

‘Right.’ said Bob, as he walked into the control room for his first cup of tea of the day. All jobs and offices have their little routines and idiosyncrasies and Bob’s first and foremost action was to make that first cup of tea in the morning. He knew he couldn’t function properly until he was sat there with that steaming mug in front of him reading the 24 hour log.

‘Now then Stevie, which of our lovely lads and lasses; those sweet little cherubs of ours has rang in this morning saying they’re going to be late because they’ve had a puncture, got stuck in traffic, alarm clock didn’t go off, or they’ve been up all night with the shits and vomiting then?’

Steve smiled and busied himself as usual. ‘Everyone’s here boss, except Tony Collins. He hasn’t phoned in from Birkenhead yet to book himself on duty. I’ll give the night lads a bell over there in a few minutes if I haven’t heard anything.’

Steve Mullins was the early turn control room officer and was issuing radios and car keys to the Morning duty Bobbies when the telephone rang.

Sergeant Chambers slid into the hot seat and answered the ‘phone in his usual cheery early morning manner as the display indicated the call was from one of the gate houses. As he knew the call was from one of his officers and not a general call from the public, he answered in the usual way.

‘Morning bollocks, what can I do for you at this unearthly hour?’

‘Mornin Boss, PC Edwards here. I’ve just got to Bramley Moore gate. Dave Watkins helmet is in the hut boss, but there’s no sign of him. It’s like the bleedin Marie Celeste here; the fires on and the radio’s playin but he aint here. I’ve checked the bog as well sarge but nothing. I know he hasn’t pissed off home early boss because his car’s still here and his civvie coat is hanging on the peg behind the door.’

As Bob Chambers was listening to Mick Edwards, he was aware of something unusual coming through over the radio system and instinctively, although he hadn’t registered what was being transmitted, he knew it was something untoward as his stomach churned. Today was definitely not going to be just another day.

‘Quiet, everybody. Quiet.  Now’.

Instantly, all the officers in the control room who seconds earlier had been receiving their patrol vehicle keys and radio’s; discussing last night’s football results and latest conquests, real or imagined, knew their jovial Sergeant wasn’t messing about. There was instant hush.

‘Mick, I’ll phone you back, there’s something going on here. Steve, turn the radio up.

Steve Mullins increased the volume and listened intently. Nothing.

Two or three minutes went by with just some unidentified noises and static. A car horn in the distance maybe? an engine revving? He couldn’t make it out.

Suddenly, the recognisable voice of Dave ‘the satisfied diner’ Watkins voice came over the air.

Dave had been affectionately known by this nickname for a few years ever since he had been invited to a night out and was unable to go at short notice due to some domestic crisis or other and had said, ‘Sorry, lads I can’t make it, I’ve got a lot on me plate at the moment.’

He was met with the retort, ‘Yer wha? got enough on yer fuckin plate ave yer. Who d’ya think you are then. The fuckin satisfied diner?’

Liverpool humour being what it is, particularly that relating to the docks, ensured that he would be forever known as the satisfied diner.

Sergeant Chambers listened intently and the room was hushed. When the words were spoken, he was surprised at how clear and calm the voice was.

‘How long then?’

‘How long what?’ Nobody recognised the second voice.

‘How long you gonna keep that sawn off shoved into me ribs?’

‘Until I decide whether or not I’m gonna rearrange your insides now, shut the fuck up.’

‘OK, I’m just a bit worried about Joe, our driver. You can see he’s sweatin like a pig. I don’t fancy him smashing into the overhead gantry here at Switch Island that’s all.’

The six or seven officers in the control room either looked at the radio base unit on the desk, or at each other in silence, nobody spoke as they were all dumbfounded by the words emanating from the speaker.

Bob chambers laughed nervously and thumped the desk with his huge fist.

‘Good lad Dave, fuckin good job son.’ he said to no one in particular.

He turned to the other officers in the control room and to the controller, Steve Mullins, he said, ‘He’s trying to let us know as much as possible where he is and what’s happening.

‘Start the Log Steve. Make sure you write down everything you hear, everything. Sounds; noises of any kind, any words spoken by anyone at all. He’s in deep shit by the looks of it boys and we need to give him a fighting chance by being on the ball. John, give him a hand with the phones and you Griff, go and speak to Inspector James and bring him up to speed. Go on lad, quick as you can.’

Sometimes the lads were chided by management for not doing this, or complaining about that but, one thing Bob Chambers knew for an absolute certainty was, when the mucky stuff hit the fan, they all pulled their weight and worked hard together without complaint. He knew that none of his lads would complain today regarding working hard or long hours.

‘Hang on in there Dave; we’re gonna give you as much help as we can mate,’ as he reached across to the array of telephones and monitors close by.

‘I need to speak to your Force Incident Manager, Priority One. Armed robber and hostage’s situation.’

The direct phone line from the police control room on the docks to the Merseyside Police Control Room had been a vital means of communication between the two forces for many years but never had it been more important than now.

‘FIM Inspector Jarvis here. Who am I speaking to please?’

‘Hello Larry, Bob Chambers here. One of my lads has been taken hostage at gun point and is in a lorry somewhere near to the Switch Island Junction at Netherton.’

There was a moments silence on the other end of the ‘phone.

‘Fuck you Bob. That’s not funny. No more of your poncy jokes. Last time you tried to fuck me over, I nearly had the force chopper taking off looking for Mr G. Raff. Remember him? One of the park rangers; supposed to have collapsed inside the Lion enclosure at Knowsley Safari Park; diabetic coma or some such shit. Remember that one do you Bob?  Now, piss off. I’m too busy for playing games today.’

Bob and Larry had been mates for many years and, as bobbies do, sometimes to while away the long hours, more often than not to lighten the atmosphere following traumatic incidents, they often took the piss out of each other; see who could do the best joke on each other. As soon as Bob Chambers began to speak again, Larry Jarvis knew this was no wind up.

‘Larry, on my little girl’s life, this is a live incident that kicked off at one of our gates. It doesn’t get much more serious than this mate. As we speak, Dave Watkins has a sawn off shotgun pressed into his ribs. Somehow, he’s managed to get his radio onto an open microphone and he’s trying to tell us where he is. I don’t know how long he will be able to keep up any kind of a commentary. If the shooter becomes aware he’s transmitting, he will be in the shit big time; he might take him out then and there’

Again, there was a moments silence and Larry Jarvis spoke again.

‘We’re on it Bob. He’s a good lad mate. Keep this line open and connected while I get the chopper up in the air and mobilise the firearms teams.’

A few moments later, Inspector Jarvis was back on the ‘phone and Bob was doing his best to update him with the facts as known so far.

The telephone rang. ‘Sarge, its Mick Edwards at Bramley Gate.’

‘Mick, I can’t talk at the moment. As you probably know by now, Dave Watkins is involved in a serious incident.’

‘Yeah, I know Sarge, got the info from the lads that somethin’s on the go but, I’ve just been having a good look around both in the hut and outside, there was a gate pass for a wagon lying in the road. It’s a bit damp, but it’s got today’s date on and you can still make out the registration and box numbers.’

‘Is that bothering you bollocks?’ The radio crackled into life.

‘Well, you could ease off a bit, me right ribs gone numb.’

‘Good. Fuck me about, and this might go off. Not pretty mate. Do we understand each other?’

Both control rooms were listening intently for any information as to directions or numbers involved and whilst the Port control room could do nothing but sit and wait, things were moving rapidly in the Merseyside Police incident room.

‘Steady on Joe, he won’t need to shoot me; your driving will kill the three of us if you’re not careful. How about a cuppa at Burtonwood. Relax us all a bit eh?’

‘Keep it going Davey, you’re doing a brilliant job’ said Bob Chambers to himself. He’d never been a particularly religious man but he found himself praying silently. ‘If we can get you out of this one, I’ll make sure you’ve got enough on your plate. I’ll buy you the biggest fucking curry you’ve ever had son now just keep doing what you’re doing.’

‘You probably got that Larry, it sounds like there is just the three of them in the wagon and they are heading towards’...,

The door to the control room opened suddenly. Inspector James entered. The legend in his own mind. ‘MIKE’, -Me I Know Everything– James.

Give him a project, paper exercise or any other non operational shit to contend with and he was brilliant, full of facts and trivia but, when it came to important issues such as backing up his men and being there at the sharp end and getting your hands dirty, he was about as much use as a chocolate teapot.

‘Right Sergeant, Sit Rep.’ He’d obviously been watching a war movie or something the night before.

‘Sit Rep, sir?’ replied Bob.

‘Come come Sergeant, situation report; tell me what’s happening and what’s being done. If what young Griffiths here tells me is correct, time is of the essence.’

Sergeant Chambers went through the details as best he could while Mike read the incident log.

‘Is that right Sergeant?’

‘What’s that sir?’ said Bob, rolling his eyes to the ceiling.

‘Here, on the Log. PC Watkins helmet. It was found in the gate house. Is that correct?’

‘Yes sir. On the shelf sir, behind the door.’

‘I knew it, I just knew it. What’s the matter with these bloody officers? How many times do I have to tell them? When outside the gate house, put your bloody helmet on. It’s not that difficult to understand is it?

Scruffy, Sergeant. That’s what it is, scruffy. Improperly dressed in public. Standards Sergeant, that’s what we need to impress upon these officers under our direction and control. Standards. When you wear the uniform Sergeant; well, your very much under scrutiny from the public; if you don’t have proper standards, you have nothing. Don’t you agree Sergeant?’

‘Yes sir.’ said Bob wearily. ‘Sir, given the circumstances that PC Watkins is in at the moment, I don’t think he will be particularly bothered that you consider him to have been improperly dressed at the immediate moment that he was abducted.’

‘That’s as maybe Sergeant. However, have him come and see me when this incident is over with. I think he needs a bit of a talking to. I think I need to impress upon him the finer points of being a British Police officer. Envy of the World, that sort of thing. Not forgetting also, your role in these matters. You have to keep on at these young officers. Instil upon them the proper values. Wouldn’t do for you to shirk your responsibilities regarding discipline.  Don’t you agree Sergeant?’

Bob’s simmering hostility towards his useless, uncaring, incompetent twat of an excuse for a leader began bubbling to the surface. He had worked with this prick for long enough and after nearly thirty years in the force; he decided he didn’t care any more what would happen to him ‘when this incident is over with.’ He’d finally had enough of tossers like James.

Sergeant Chambers was well known in the force for being a steady pair of hands and was well respected by his officers and superiors alike. He’d earned that respect over a long period of time by being fair but firm and taking an interest in their welfare. He had a good mix of youth and experience amongst his section. Dave Watkins was one of his younger officers. Always smart and well turned out. Reliable, enthusiastic, caring and with bucket loads of common sense. All the elements that go into making a good, well rounded officer, Dave had in abundance.

Here he was, at this very moment probably scared shitless by a fucking nutter with a shotgun. Yet, he still had the presence of mind to alert us to his situation and keep us informed of what was going on and this fucking arsehole of an Inspector wants to bollock him for not wearing his helmet, well, not today sunshine.

At some point in the future, Bob Chambers would have a nickname as befits the liverpudlian humour as a direct result of what happened next.

Bob’s anger did not rise to the surface very often but PC Tony Griffiths had seen him once or twice before when they had dealt with violent and dangerous or difficult situations. He recognised the tell tale signs. He saw the veins in Bob’s neck begin to swell; the lines on his forehead became more prominent. His eyes narrowed and his fists and arms began to tense. Bob was looking at Inspector James very intently.

Had Sergeant Chambers been a bull, you would have undoubtedly heard him snorting and seen him clawing at the ground with his cloven hoof. Bob’s body language left no one, except Inspector James, in any doubt whatsoever of his demeanour.

Griff quickly moved forward and stood directly in front of his Sergeant. ‘Can I have a quick word sarge?’

‘Not now lad. I need to speak to the Inspector.’

‘That’s what I’m afraid of boss.’ Said Griff as he was very politely, but very firmly, moved to the side by one of Bob Chambers shovel sized hands.

Griff looked at his mate, Steve Mullins who was still manning the radio. They both looked each other in the eye. Neither said a word, but each silently mouthed to each other those words that are often uttered when the situation is about to get volatile.

‘Oh Fuck.’

‘Sir,’

‘What is it Sergeant?’

‘Can I have a word in your office?’

‘If you’ve got something to say Sergeant, get on with it. Don’t prevaricate man. Time is of the essence if we want to conclude this drama. Speak up.’

The lava was rising and about to erupt.

‘Sir, you are without doubt, the biggest fucking arsehole that’s it’s ever been my misfortune to work with.’

Inspector James began to splutter. ‘Be careful what you say Sergeant, I’ll have you on paper for this impertinence.’

‘Sir, you can take that paper, roll it very tightly and shove it where the sun don’t shine. I couldn’t give a toss. Dave Watkins might get shot at any moment and the only thing I have heard you express concern about is the fact that he was not wearing his fucking helmet at the time that he was forced into a wagon by some psychopath with a sawn off shotgun. What fucking planet are you on?

You Mister, who has never seen an angry man; you who has spent your entire career shuffling bits of paper; are not fit to lace that lads boots.

Now, fuck off out of my control room and, if Dave comes out of this ok, we’ll both come and see you and you can advise us in whatever manner seems appropriate regarding proper standards.’

As Inspector James beat a hasty retreat from the control room muttering repercussions about career prospects, Bob Chambers became aware of the other officers in the control room and began to apologise.

‘I’m sorry lads. That should have been a private conversation. I am extremely sorry if I have caused embarrassment to any of you.’

He could hear a cheering and clapping in the background and at first was confused as to where it was coming from. There was a considerable amount of smirking and smiling from his lads, but no one was speaking. He suddenly realised. The direct line to the Merseyside Police incident room was still open. They had been listening to the limited commentary Dave Watkins was able to convey through the Port Police radio system and had been monitoring the unfolding hostage situation. As a consequence, they had heard every word of Bob’s ‘interesting’ conversation with the Inspector.

Bob picked up the handset, ‘Hello, Sergeant Chambers here.’

‘Hi Bob, it’s your friendly Force Incident manager here.’

‘I’m sorry Larry. That was supposed to have been a private chat between Inspector James and me. Please give my apologies to the officers in your control room.’

‘Apologies; you must be joking mate. We’re having a whip round here to buy you a bottle of scotch. Everyone here thought you were brilliant. He’s always been a tosser. Everyone knows that. Oh, and by the way, Chief Superintendent Mackay sends his regards. He has assumed overall command of the incident and says he would love to be a supporting character witness if James wants to push any disciplinary action in your direction.

Right Bob, now here’s what we’ve got so far. The chopper has been up for about fifteen minutes and thinks he’s got an eyeball on the wagon. He’s going in for a closer look but making sure he’s far enough back not to be spotted. The best chance we’ve got at the moment of ending this peacefully and with as few casualties as possible; are if our target isn’t aware he’s being tracked.’

‘Thanks Larry. We all feel a bit useless at this end.’

‘No problem Bob. We’ll keep this line open so you lads can follow the plan. We’ve got the details of the wagon and the container numbers from your lad at the gate so the chopper should be able to confirm the details soon enough. Oh, just one more thing Bob, before I go. I think Mr James will need plenty of sugar in his brew. Might just need it for shock. And if you’re making the tea, make sure it’s sugar you put in and not rat poison. Speak to you soon Bob.’

Bob laughed weakly and thanked his long time friend for his help and the line went quiet. He was aware that his officers were looking at him in the control room and looked up.

‘OK lads, get the kettle on. Not a lot we can do now except listen and wait. They’ve got good lads out there who are well used to dealing with hostage situations.  Dave will be all right. I can feel it in me water.’

He sounded far more confident than he felt.

Chapter 5

‘Hotel Charlie One to control’

Steve Wilson had been a member of the Air Support Group and a regular Police Air Observer in the force helicopter for about three years. He, his two fellow Observers and the Pilot, were well experienced in spotting and tracking stolen cars and the crew had an excellent record of being able to direct the ground patrols to the right location to ensure the villains were locked up. This was a bit different. This was one of their own who was in serious danger. His stomach churned a little more than usual as he said to himself, ‘let’s do this one right boys.’

The ‘Chopper’ was a Eurocopter EC 135 capable of a top cruising speed of 170 mph and its powerful twin turbine engines could propel it from its base at Woodvale Aerodrome to most places in the force area in a fairly short time.

‘Receiving you loud and clear Hotel Charlie One. Pass your message.’

‘Target vehicle confirmed. Eastbound in nearside lane on M62 just passing services at Burtonwood. Believe target vehicle not aware of our presence.’

The two black unmarked Range Rover Armed Response Vehicles had been rolling for several minutes and heard the message loud and clear. The normal ARV’s were highly visible and easily identified with their high visibility markings and external blue lights and were usually crewed by two uniformed officers. They would normally be the first firearms officers to attend any incident.

The officers in the blacked out range rovers were quite a bit different. As Specialist Firearms Officers from the Force Dynamic Intervention Team, their specific role within the broader firearms unit was hostage rescue.

They joined the M62 at the Rocket junction at high speed. ‘Blues and Twos’ ensuring their progress was swift. They knew it would be a race against time as the longer the situation prevailed, the longer their colleague was in danger.

Two teams consisting of four men in each vehicle was a standard response to a hostage situation. The teams trained constantly for just such an event. This job was something out of the ordinary. To rescue hostages from a building was one thing. To attempt a rescue from a vehicle travelling at sixty miles an hour on a motorway was something altogether different!

A Sergeant and three cons made up each unit. Each was an expert marksman and a Class One driver. Each vehicle was exceptionally powerful, armour plated and fitted out with an awesome amount of weapons and specialist kit.

For all their equipment and training, Sergeant Lee Evans knew they would need at least an equal amount of luck and good fortune. Even the most comprehensive training, and training was what they did for most of their duty time, would count for nothing if it wasn’t accompanied by a little good fortune along the way.

‘Romeo Victor One to Romeo Victor Two receiving?’

‘RV 2 receiving. Go ahead.’

‘Be advised we’re ten miles behind the target vehicle. Hotel Charlie One will further advise when we are within two miles at which time we will go to silent approach. Received?’

‘That’s a Roger RV 1, message received.’

Jos Lewis was the skipper of RV 2 and had worked with Lee on the ARV’s for four years. They had been through quite a few scrapes together during their time with the unit. The eight officers who made up the two ARV’s had the utmost respect for each other and had developed deep friendships and respect in a way that only officers who have placed their lives in each others hands could understand.

Psychologists had likened it to battle zone situations where combat troops would risk their own lives to save a comrade. Whilst it was often thought of as fighting for Queen and Country, patriotism or whatever, it was just as likely to be fighting for your mate to save his life in exactly the same way as if the boot was on the other foot. You knew without question that when the bullets were flying, your ‘oppo’ would put his life in danger to save you. Quite extraordinary bonds developed between them as they had to trust each other implicitly and without hesitation. Hesitation meant that someone could be hurt or killed. Hesitation was simply not acceptable.

The training for the unit was incredibly stressful and the failure rate for prospective candidates was inevitably high. Whilst individual acts of bravery and heroism were often needed, the most important aspect was that of the team. If you weren’t a team player, you wouldn’t make the grade, plain and simple.

Extremely fit, mentally very strong, ready to deploy at a minutes notice, sometimes in the middle of the night, unable to discuss situations with your nearest and dearest. Being able to adapt and alter the plan as it developed. Most importantly, being able to pull that trigger either as a consequence of what you see yourself through your telescopic sight or, perhaps even more difficult, being told by someone that you may not even have met before, an Assistant Chief Constable or Commander, when that message arrives in your covert earpiece, ‘green for go, repeat, green for go.’

There are not many men or women who are able to tick all those boxes.

All the officers had to go through psychological evaluation on a regular basis and particularly so after an Operation to assess their mental fortitude. If an ordinary officer made a mistake, it could normally be rectified without too much of a problem. Bit different for the firearms lads. If they made a mistake, the wrong person or the innocent civilian may end up on the mortuary slab and the personal implications for that officer would be devastating. The implications for his family would be just as devastating.

‘What did you do today dad?’

‘Well sunshine, it’s like this. I meant to shoot the bad guy who was holding the gun to the hostage’s head, but he leaned down at the last moment and I shot the lady that he was holding instead. How was your day at school love?’

How does the officer involved come to terms with the fact that he has killed an innocent person, does his family know, can he ever tell them. How do they react if they do know, could he ever pick up a firearm again, would he ever be allowed to? The questions, the doubts, the waking up in the middle of the night with the images of a head exploding. Could anyone ever truly come to terms with something like this? A thousand questions and ‘what if’s’. How many answers?

On the film set, you could re-shoot the scene time and again to get it right.

‘Quiet please, Action.  No that hasn’t worked people, let’s try that one more time, turn your head a little more to the right, and, Action.’

Real life, on the other hand, isn’t like that. No rehearsals, no second chances.

‘Hey mate, he doesn’t look too good.’ Dave Watkins was pointing towards Joe the lorry driver.

‘What are you on about?’ said shotgun.

Joe was sweating profusely and his face was flushed. Dave knew that Joe’s sickly appearance was about more than the situation he had become embroiled in, he was quite ill.

‘I need to stop for a minute. I need my pills.’

‘What pills?’ said the gunman.

‘They’re by my bunk behind you. Got a bit of a heart problem. I’ll be OK, but I need to get them. I can control things when I take one a few times a day, but if I get stressed, I need to take extra ones. It won’t take a minute, but I need to pop one under my tongue. I can’t do it while I’m driving. I need to stop just for a few minutes.’

Like most modern lorries, there was a sleeping compartment behind the drivers seat for when they were doing out of town or long distance runs.

‘Where are they?’

‘In the little locker; behind the officer.’

‘Right bollocks, reach behind you and get his pills.’ said Johnson to Dave. ‘If you fuck about, you’ll have two arseholes where you once had only one. Understand?’

Both control rooms were listening to the unfolding conversation and tensions were increasing all round.

‘Be advised Romeo Victor One and Two, target vehicle is weaving between the nearside and centre lanes and is slowing.’

The helicopter was hovering about one mile back and zooming in using the broadcast quality TV camera housed in the mission pod underneath the aircraft. The crew also had an array of other cameras which, depending on the situation they were dealing with, could be utilised. A good quality digital camera for taking still photographs was also part of the kit. Steve didn’t think they’d be using the still camera today. The TV quality camera was also a thermal imaging unit and really came into its own during the hours of darkness when picking up heat sources. It was so powerful; it could even pick up a heat source from within a household refuse bin.

On occasions, ground patrol officers had been directed to a ‘wheely’ bin in the driveway of a house (a favourite spot for hiding by escaping thieves etc) only for the officers to discover that the heat source was in fact a load of composting grass and garden clippings.

The quiet conversation in the chopper was interrupted by the spotter, ‘Target vehicle moving to nearside lane. Stop, stop, stop, vehicle has stopped on hard shoulder, repeat, vehicle is stationary, all persons remain in the vehicle at this time.’ The helicopter hovered at a safe distance waiting for the vehicle to move once more.

Joe managed to bring the wagon to a stop before crashing. The pain was crippling, he could feel the tell tale band of his heart condition tightening quickly around his chest and he thought he was about to collapse. He had stamped hard on the brakes and caused the wheels to lock and skid to a halt. Dave was suddenly off balance as he was reaching behind into the bunk area. He was violently thrown forward with the momentum of the quickly slowing vehicle and his shoulder hit the windscreen with considerable force.

His police radio dislodged from the harness under his tunic and Dave saw it tumble, almost in slow motion. Dave was screaming in silence; this isn’t happening, this is not fucking happening. The radio struck the dashboard hard, bounced up onto the windscreen, then down onto his knee, and fell to the floor of the cab under Dave’s feet. Both the gunman and Dave looked at each other, the floor of the cab, and then back to each other.

He screamed at Dave. ‘You fucking twat.’ He turned the stock of the sawn off round and hit Dave hard between the eyes. The skin on his forehead split instantly and he was severely stunned as his head snapped back and smashed into the metal pillar of the passenger door causing another wound to open on the back of his head. Johnson’s eyes bulged and all the veins stood out on his neck as he screamed at Dave.

‘Who’s listening? Who knows; who fuckin knows we’re here?’ He moved towards Dave who was trying to push himself back up into the passenger seat.

Joe leant on his drivers’ door handle, more in accident than intent as he cowered away from the madman sat alongside him. He was trying to get as far away from him as possible. The handle moved and the door suddenly opened and the momentum of his weight made him tumble onto the road surface several feet below. Out of instinct and abject terror, he jumped to his feet and ran and stumbled towards the rear of the lorry.