I Hear the Sirens in the Street by Adrian McKinty Read Free Book Online

said to myself. Thirty-two years old and I had the emotional depth of a teenager.
    Maybe it was the situation, maybe Northern Ireland kept you paralysed, infantilised, backward … Aye, blame that.
    I nodded to Ray at the guard house and pulled into the police station.
    As usual Matty was late and before we could get rolling Sergeant Burke told me that Newtownabbey RUC needed urgent assistance dealing with a riot in Rathcoole. It was completely the wrong direction, I was a detective not a riot cop, and I outranked Burke, but you couldn’t really turn down brother officers in need, could you?
    With Matty grumbling things like “this isn’t what I signed on for”, and “I could be fishing right now”, we burned up the A2 to that delightful concrete circle of hell known as the Rathcoole Estate.
    “Good Friday night?” I asked Matty when his moaning was over.
    “Oh, it was a classic, mate. Since I wasn’t allowed out, it was a fish supper, a six-pack of Special Brew and a wank to Sapphire and Steel on the video.”
    “David McCallum or Joanna Lumley?”
    Matty rolled his eyes.
    We arrived at Rathcoole to find that it was only a half-hearted sort of riot that had been running since the night before. About thirty hoods on the ground throwing stones and Molotovs from behind a burnt-out bus, maybe another two dozen comrades offering them assistance by tossing petrol-filled milk bottles from the high-rise tower blocks nearby. The cops under a Chief Superintendent Anderson were keeping well back and letting the ruffians exhaust themselves. I reported to Anderson while Matty stayed in the Rover reading The Cramps’ fanzine: Legion of the Cramped . Anderson thanked me for coming, but said thatwe weren’t needed.
    He asked if I wanted a coffee and poured me one from a flask. We got to talking about the nature of riots, Anderson venturing the opinion that social deprivation was at the root cause of it and I suggested that ennui was the disease of late-twentieth-century man. Things were going swimmingly until Anderson began banging on about “it all being part of God’s plan” and I decided to make myself scarce.
    “If we’re not needed, we’ll move out, sir, if that’s okay with you?” I said and he said that that was fine.
    It was when we were safely back in the Rover and heading out of the Estate that we were hit by a jerry-can petrol bomb thrown from a low rise. It exploded with a violent whoosh across the windscreen and it was followed a second or two later by a burst of heavy machine-gun fire that dinged violently off the Land Rover’s armoured hull.
    “Jesus Christ!” Matty screamed while I put my foot on the accelerator to get us away from the trouble. More machine-gun fire tore up the road behind us and rattled off the rear doors.
    “They’re shooting at us!” Matty yelled.
    “I know!”
    I hammered down the clutch, switched back into third gear and accelerated round a bend in the road. I got us a hundred yards from the corner and then I hand-break-turned the Land Rover in a dramatic, tyre-squealing 180. Fire was melting the Land Rover’s window wipers and licking its way down towards the engine block. If it reached the petrol tank … I grabbed my service revolver and the fire extinguisher.
    “You’re not going out there without a bullet-proof vest are you?” Matty said, horrified.
    “Call the incident in, ask Anderson to send down help and tell them to be careful,” I barked and opened the side door.
    “Don’t go out there, Sean! That’s what they want! It’s an ambush.”
    “Not with half the police force just up the road. They’ve long gone. Two quick bursts on a machine gun and they’ll be heroes in the pub tonight.”
    “Sean, please!”
    “Call it in!”
    I got out of the Land Rover, pointed my service revolver at the surrounding low rises but no one was around. Keeping the revolver in one hand and the fire extinguisher in the other I sprayed foam over the windscreen and easily