The Crocodile Hunter by Gerald Seymour (english novels to improve english txt) 📗

his throat. On his windpipe, pressure grew. He heard the dog yelp. Harder to breathe and the force of the fingers tightening . . . remember the damn crocodile, that sort of strength. His eyes misted over and he could no longer see how far away were Dominic and Babs and their rifles. Might have croaked, had he been able to, something about them not shooting, not committing the soul of Cameron Jilkes to the apple orchards in Paradise and the 72 virgins, and all the rest of that stuff – what had been fed into the mind of little Winston Gunn. Failing to breathe and choking . . . He heard the dog growl deep in its throat, like it was gargling medicine, then a squeaky snarl, then a howl from Cameron. The hands came away, the weight was taken off Jonas’s neck. Blinked hard, and looked, and the dog, the dear little dog that had shown it liked little more than to sit on a warm lap, had its teeth tight on Cameron’s ankle.

Dominic hit him, not hard, but sufficient, on the shoulder. An adequate blow and using the extended length of a police truncheon.

Babs had Cameron covered and peered over the sights of her rifle.

And still, Jonas reckoned, a last chance for that Valhalla moment, one more lunge might square it, be good enough for her to say from behind a screen at an inquest that she believed her life, Dominic’s life, and the life of Jonas Merrick, to be in the gravest danger – enough to justify giving him the Paradise ticket.

Jonas exerted himself, found – a miracle – the necessary energy. He rolled. He used his body to cover Cameron Jilkes and he put his hands, one handcuffed to Cameron, over his opponent’s face. He gave her no target.

He sucked air into his lungs and spat and heaved and coughed, spread the phlegm around, and found a hoarse voice.

“What he wants is for you to shoot him. He does not get what he wants. You do not shoot.”

Her finger seemed to be a quarter of an inch from the trigger. It did not move, no flickering movement. He thought the control she exercised was remarkable . . . Dominic flashed the pink ribbon from his pocket. Had his own cuffs off his belt, and yanked Cameron’s arms so that his prisoner would have replacement restraints and Jonas could be freed.

He eased away. He sat on his haunches and rubbed his neck and the dog came up close.

“It would have been what he wanted. A bullet would breed a legend, he would have thought. Quick way out and no pain . . . A martyr is a hero in the minds of enough of them who look for an example to follow . . .”

To Cameron had said, “You will go to prison and you will sit there for days and then for weeks, months, years, and you will be there for the rest of your life . . . No kid is going to take you as an example of how the life of a hero fighter might end.”

Jonas rolled away, and pushed the dog clear of him because its usefulness was over. His phone rang. He reached for it on the grass, picked it up.

The AssDepDG told him, a little breathlessly, that the full surveillance team was now moving out of the police station and would take up position in the housing estate within a quarter of an hour.

His answer, “It is dealt with.” And ended the call.

The phone rang again. Aggie Burns telling him to get to the police station where she was going to do a joint Gold Commander with a police boss.

His answer, “Go back to your breakfast.”

He switched off the phone.

Jonas Merrick took little enjoyment from exercising authority. He did it in a staccato burst of speech. Tristram and Izzy would have liked to fuss around him but were waved away and were told where they should take the dog, find its owner’s number on the collar, should thank them, should return it.

Told Dominic and Babs what they were to do, authorised the action they should take. Did not thank them, not a habit of his – wished them well, but gruffly. He stood up, retrieved the items rifled from his pockets and walked, briskly, to their car to take out his bag: then he would walk to the station. Would rather not accept a lift?

Cammy shouted, “You bastard.”

Jonas did not turn.

Cammy saw the man lift a bag from the police car before heading away and across the road in front of the Leisure Centre.

Cammy told the policeman who had hit him, then handcuffed him, that his shoulder hurt.

“I expect you’ll live.”

Told the policewoman, who had the rifle, that his ankle hurt from the dog’s bite.

“Maybe you’ll get rabies. But that’ll be the least of your problems.”

They had him on his feet. He looked back at the stream and the bench, he thought he saw his mother on the pavement on the far side of the stream and beyond the line of bungalows, going slowly towards a bus-stop.

And looked forward where a car was parked and a young pair, a guy and a girl, stood with the dog, and thought that he saw the Hunter family, the mother and the father and the two kids, and none of them would have known what it had been like to run in the Syrian heat, with the whip-crack of incoming fire around him: all in ignorance – and scared of him because they all looked away as soon as they realised he had locked eyes on them.

He was put in the back seat of the police car. The handcuffs were adjusted so that his wrists, still pinching, were in the small of his spine. The seatbelt was fastened for him.

Babs said, “You give me grief, Mr Jilkes, and I’ll fucking belt you with my stick.”

And Dominic said, “And, along with it, Mr Jilkes, you’ll get a dose of pepper spray.”

They told him that he’d be going for a ride