Datsun. He scrambled to his feet and, shielding his face with one arm, dashed through the wall of fire and out into the street.
The sudden coolness washed over him and he tugged the automatic from its shoulder holster as the rear wheels of the Datsun spun on the wet road, screaming loudly as they tried to get a grip.
Carter fired three times, the gun jerking in his grip, the recoil slamming it back against the heel of his hand.
The first bullet blasted off one of the wing mirrors. The other two missed their target as the Datsun finally shot forward.
Carter ran into the street, aware that the back window of the escaping car was open.
He saw a muzzle flash and then felt a searing pain in his left shoulder.
The impact of the bullet sent him crashing back against the side of the jag, blood running freely from the wound. It was as if someone had struck him with a red hot hammer and he felt his stomach contract. Felt consciousness slipping away from him.
Behind him the restaurant continued to bum.
People all along the street were spilling from the clubs, the pubs, some emerging from shop doorways to see what was happening.
Someone screamed.
Carter thought he heard the wail of sirens.
Then, as the pain in his shoulder became unbearable, he slipped sideways and lay on the wet tarmac.
He heard nothing.
Four
'Carter.'
He tried to open his eyes but it seemed as if they'd been sealed.
'Carter.'
He heard his name again and wondered if he was dreaming.
The hand on his shoulder told him that he wasn't.
He rubbed his face and managed to open his eyes, aware of the sharp pain in his left shoulder.
The figures who stood beside the bed were blurred and he shook his head as if that simple gesture would clear his vision.
It helped a little. He blinked hard and re-focussed.
Wakey, wakey,' said the voice and he found himself looking into the face of a man in his early forties. At least that's what he thought. As he struggled to sit up Carter also became aware of the smell in the room. The antiseptic. The smell of fresh sheets. But he had no idea which hospital he was in.
And now he recognised the figure which stood above him, dressed in a crumpled blue suit.
Detective Sergeant Vic Riley looked down at him.
'How's your shoulder?' asked the policeman. 'You were lucky. The bullet went straight through.'
'I don't feel very lucky,' said Carter, his throat dry. He reached for the jug of water on the bedside table but Riley reached it first and poured him a beaker of the clear liquid.
The DS seated himself on the end of the bed, watching Carter as he drank.
The other man whom he'd seen, a uniformed officer, had stepped back towards the door of the room.
'Your brother's dead,' said Riley, quietly. `They're scraping what's left of his head off the inside of Harrison's car.'
'I don't need the details,' rasped Carter, taking another sip of water.
'Who shot you, Ray?' asked Riley, pulling a handkerchief from his pocket and blowing his nose.
'I didn't see them,' said Carter.
'They killed your brother.'
'I know that and I still didn't see them,' snarled Carter.
Riley nodded slowly.
'The automatic we found lying in the road was yours wasn't it?' the policeman asked.
'I haven't got a gun.'
'Oh come on, Ray. This isn't the time to pull the dumb routine. You could have been killed tonight. Not that it would have bothered me that much; the DS added as an afterthought. 'Now tell me who shot you. What the hell was going on there tonight?'
'I told you, I didn't see anyone. Why aren't you out arresting tarts and nicking kerb crawlers, that's your usual business isn't it?'
'When restaurants get 'bombed and people get killed, that’s my business. I don't like fuss, Carter, and right now you and your bloody boss are causing me more grief than I need so stop pissing about and tell me what happened or I'll have you inside for obstruction.'
'Because you can't pin anything else on me,' Carter observed, a satisfied
The sudden coolness washed over him and he tugged the automatic from its shoulder holster as the rear wheels of the Datsun spun on the wet road, screaming loudly as they tried to get a grip.
Carter fired three times, the gun jerking in his grip, the recoil slamming it back against the heel of his hand.
The first bullet blasted off one of the wing mirrors. The other two missed their target as the Datsun finally shot forward.
Carter ran into the street, aware that the back window of the escaping car was open.
He saw a muzzle flash and then felt a searing pain in his left shoulder.
The impact of the bullet sent him crashing back against the side of the jag, blood running freely from the wound. It was as if someone had struck him with a red hot hammer and he felt his stomach contract. Felt consciousness slipping away from him.
Behind him the restaurant continued to bum.
People all along the street were spilling from the clubs, the pubs, some emerging from shop doorways to see what was happening.
Someone screamed.
Carter thought he heard the wail of sirens.
Then, as the pain in his shoulder became unbearable, he slipped sideways and lay on the wet tarmac.
He heard nothing.
Four
'Carter.'
He tried to open his eyes but it seemed as if they'd been sealed.
'Carter.'
He heard his name again and wondered if he was dreaming.
The hand on his shoulder told him that he wasn't.
He rubbed his face and managed to open his eyes, aware of the sharp pain in his left shoulder.
The figures who stood beside the bed were blurred and he shook his head as if that simple gesture would clear his vision.
It helped a little. He blinked hard and re-focussed.
Wakey, wakey,' said the voice and he found himself looking into the face of a man in his early forties. At least that's what he thought. As he struggled to sit up Carter also became aware of the smell in the room. The antiseptic. The smell of fresh sheets. But he had no idea which hospital he was in.
And now he recognised the figure which stood above him, dressed in a crumpled blue suit.
Detective Sergeant Vic Riley looked down at him.
'How's your shoulder?' asked the policeman. 'You were lucky. The bullet went straight through.'
'I don't feel very lucky,' said Carter, his throat dry. He reached for the jug of water on the bedside table but Riley reached it first and poured him a beaker of the clear liquid.
The DS seated himself on the end of the bed, watching Carter as he drank.
The other man whom he'd seen, a uniformed officer, had stepped back towards the door of the room.
'Your brother's dead,' said Riley, quietly. `They're scraping what's left of his head off the inside of Harrison's car.'
'I don't need the details,' rasped Carter, taking another sip of water.
'Who shot you, Ray?' asked Riley, pulling a handkerchief from his pocket and blowing his nose.
'I didn't see them,' said Carter.
'They killed your brother.'
'I know that and I still didn't see them,' snarled Carter.
Riley nodded slowly.
'The automatic we found lying in the road was yours wasn't it?' the policeman asked.
'I haven't got a gun.'
'Oh come on, Ray. This isn't the time to pull the dumb routine. You could have been killed tonight. Not that it would have bothered me that much; the DS added as an afterthought. 'Now tell me who shot you. What the hell was going on there tonight?'
'I told you, I didn't see anyone. Why aren't you out arresting tarts and nicking kerb crawlers, that's your usual business isn't it?'
'When restaurants get 'bombed and people get killed, that’s my business. I don't like fuss, Carter, and right now you and your bloody boss are causing me more grief than I need so stop pissing about and tell me what happened or I'll have you inside for obstruction.'
'Because you can't pin anything else on me,' Carter observed, a satisfied
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