Bumping Uglies

Chapter Twenty

I carefully positioned the hasp of the padlock into the jaws of the bolt-cutters that Ty had provided and began to squeeze. Bolt-cutters had been the least disturbing and surprising item to emerge from the huge duffel bag of gear that Ty had dumped onto the farmyard cobbles earlier that evening. I knew from experience not to bother asking where he had got it all from at such short notice.

Ty had gone over the plan, step-by-step, as he laid everything out on the ground. The final item that he passed to me I had known would be coming, but it still felt like an electric eel in my hand.

The 9mm pistol was now very firmly affixed to the small of my back with industrial duct tape.

"Won't it hurt to remove it?" I asked, naively, thinking of the thicket of hairs that sprouted on that part of my body.

"It will smart, but rest assured Satch, if you need to use it then I'm sure you won't notice a little impromptu waxing," Ty had replied sardonically. I knew from bitter experience, and the occasional pain in my leg, that he was right.

Now, as I applied more pressure on the handles of the bolt-cutters, I could feel the hard metal pressing into the skin at my back as I flexed my muscles. My breathing came a little deeper and heavier within the claustrophobic confines of the respirator mask, and I gave a muffled little grunt as the jaws snapped shut and the hasp was sheared.

Inside the now- unlocked metal shed was a large diesel generator, just as Ty had said there would be. I fumbled with the torch pinned to the outer breast pocket of my heavy uniform until it emitted a beam of light.

I searched for, and quickly found, the fuel cap and proceeded to unscrew it. I grew less and less concerned about making noise as I was very conscious about operating with a tight deadline. Ty had even made us synchronise watches. I felt as if I were participating in one of those black and white war movies where the implacable - but ultimately doomed - heroes are about to embark upon their apparent suicide mission.

I hoped that I wasn't the comic relief character that the movie scriptwriters killed off to tug at audience heart-strings.

I checked my watch; it was a few minutes before two o'clock in the morning.

I didn't have long.

I found unscrewing the cap whilst wearing the rubber-gripped gloves to be tricky, but both Ty and I were clear that leaving fingerprints would be a bad idea. Eventually it came loose, and I tossed it aside. I then proceeded to pour the contents of a five-litre jerry can of petrol into the diesel tank.

No sooner had I finished, when there was a loud, flat, cracking sound echoing across the industrial estate and the ambient light that spilled from street lamps and security lights across the estate all went out simultaneously.

Ty had cut the power.

Within a few seconds, the generator had coughed a couple of times before roaring to life. The great engine shook and vibrated as it began to generate electricity to supply The Tunnel of Love, replacing the mains supply.

No more than a minute after that, the petrol mixed with diesel in the tanks began to take its effect and the generator spluttered, made a series of popping sounds and then died; falling still and silent.

Job done. That was the easy part.

I jogged around the side of the building to find Ty standing outside of the only entrance to The Tunnel. He looked resplendent in his uniform and helmet. Every inch the heroic fireman. The scene was now bathed in the pulsing blue light from two battery-powered rotating lamps that he had hidden, giving the impression that an emergency services vehicle was on the scene somewhere, just not in immediate sight.