Centre Stage

By Malcolm Angel

Whilst on duty in Afghanistan, Special Forces Sergeant Mike Bannerman is badly injured by an improvised explosive device (IED) and learns that his leg
will never fully recover.

Months later, on leaving hospital in the UK, Bannerman accepts a civilian role, sweetly but firmly imposed upon him by his dying childhood guardian, and takes up the reins of a busy theatre on the South Coast. The theatre is the last in a once vast entertainment empire.

Real estate comes with the deal, including a gold plated chunk just down the road in uber-wealthy Haven Beach.

From his glass walled apartment Bannerman looks out across a vast and beautiful harbour – a playground for the super rich. So, apart from the endless daily clank of the ferry terminal’s chains directly below his penthouse balcony, our man is not exactly slumming it.

Gradually, Bannerman slips into the demanding round the clock life of the theatre. It has its rewards. Busy, and complex, it brings him new and trusted colleagues (a reminder of his former military days) and it offers the possibility of ‘making up’ with his estranged wife Ellie - and seeing his daughter again.

He is approaching ‘break through’ on that front when he receives an early call leading him to the discovery, Centre Stage, of a very hard and a very dead director.

Under the spotlight’s glare the director has been shackled into one of the forthcoming play’s evil props, and his naked corpse has Bannerman’s paperknife protruding from its chest.
The knife carries a message - ‘Murder Most Foul’ in faded gold leaf, screams out from the handle.

Bannerman has been implicated in murder and fights to prove his innocence. But, he is unaware that his professional drug busting past has come back, with sadistic vengeance, to hunt him down.

Lied to, set up by one of his own, and with the help of a beautiful American Boudicca complicating both their lives - Bannerman is sucked into a desperate battle for survival.

He draws on every tortured fibre - pushes his body to the limits of endurance - then picks himself up and goes that extra mile, in a high octane game of revenge, double bluff, and bloody execution at sea.

Bannerman pulls no punches - rusty and hobbling, he fights to win.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Malcolm Angel
• Release date: Aug 8, 2017
• ISBN: 9781370962433

Malcolm Angel

Malcolm Angel is the author of the Best Selling book TOO FEW TOO FAR the true story of (George Thomsen) a Royal Marine Commando. ‘They fought alone – besieged, isolated, and against an overwhelming invasion force – and yet had the enemy reeling on the ropes’ ‘The true story of how 22 Marines held off hundreds of Argentinians and disabled a warship on the eve of the Falklands War’ THE DAILY MAIL Born a Londoner, Malcolm moved to Dorset and spent his formative years literally a stone’s throw from Poole Harbour. It was a good start for a man who is a natural artist, and a lover of nature in its wilder forms. The vast and beautiful harbour, the inland coast of which stretches for a hundred miles around, became his watery playground. And his youth was spent - all seasons and all weather conditions - exploring the distant islands and the Dorset coastline in his rugged Inuit kayak. But, don't mistake this love of the wilderness for introversion, it provided his education in self reliance, whilst instilling a belief in the need to see life's broader picture. Malcolm has worked with people and communities all of his working days - his powers of communication, and dedication, making him Dorset's youngest mayor at the age of 39. He is a communicator and a keen observer of life, who uses his chequered life experiences, his artist’s imagination and eye for detail, in the creation of his written work.

Book preview

AFGHANISTAN

10 miles in – on the wrong side of

Lashkar Gah

Dawn broke and with it came the onslaught. First the express train rush – followed, split second, by the sickening crack of high explosives as two missiles pinpointed the centre of a Taliban compound.

An elite team - morphed into the stony ground and as still as the freezing desert rocks - had waited for the moment patiently.

They were within spitting distance of the compounds low defensive wall. Watches had been checked just moments before - and the air force had delivered - dead on time.

Rolling thunder reverberated and diminished - shrapnel and debris ripped across the wall - cries and screams from the compound broke through the din - and the elite team disengaged from the ground - like the desert floor itself had risen.

Since nightfall the day before they had been stop-start leopard-crawling across the stony open terrain under the very noses of the Mahdi lookouts - their full camouflage rendering them all but invisible in the darkness - but now, under cover of the billowing dust, their advance was hidden completely and they could at last move freely - patience would have its reward - they slid like wraiths across the wall and took the fight into the heart of the Taliban stronghold.

Jinking low, and without a word, they split up into two teams - red section turned east, green section west, both hugging the inside of the mud wall, onwards towards their first objective - a cave packed full of ammunition and high explosives.

All around them came shouting, smoke filled dust and confusion. Then suddenly, just a few paces ahead, a figure emerged through the choking smog. He froze - eyes bright with anger and alarm - shouted and snatched at an ancient Kalashnikov slung across his back. But the green leader had closed in fast. Right knee between the man’s legs, he smashed aside the Kalashnikov, and brought a cupped palm pistoning upwards.

The snap of the fighter’s neck was in-audible.

Green section padded on.

Every member of both sections knew the compound, built against its rugged cliff-face, intimately – they had been watching its occupant’s movements and studying the layout silently from a distant crag for days – long enough to commit each contour, feature and building to memory and to plot their attack with awesome precision. They knew now that twenty more meters would give them their angle and range.

The smoke was clearing fast and the cave, a dark skull’s socket behind indistinct shapes of running fighters, was now revealing itself in the early morning light.

Reaching their objective green leader raised his M16 grenade launcher – took aim, loosed the explosive missile and dropped with the rest of the section, tight onto the unforgiving ground.

His aim was on target.

Ear shattering thunder rumbled forth. Hell had erupted. A shock wave hail of grit and shrapnel shrieked its destruction above their lowered heads and was gone. Then, as one, they brought their firepower to bear into the centre of the compound.

45 degrees east, Red section had also reached their chosen position and with split second timing had launched a barrage of grenades into the cluster of crude flat roofed buildings huddled at the foot of the cliff.

The windows and roof burst with flames – and a stream of fighters staggered out, lit by the firework display of exploding ammunition from the blazing dump. Brave warriors - shooting from the hip, they criss-crossed the compound hunting for their enemy - running in stark silhouette - hurtling into the carefully chosen killing field of crossfire.

In less than a minute the short bark of ‘bull pup’ automatics stopped, the ammunition in the dump began to stutter to a close and all that was left moving amongst the carnage was billowing smoke and licking, crackling flames.

Alert – adrenalin pumping, the victors slowly lifted themselves from the ground, and scanned round for signs of life. But nothing stirred. Satisfied with the job so far, they then picked their way through the dead, and closed in on the primitive smoking buildings, towards their second target - a crude drugs factory with its storeroom of several tons of base morphine - the precursor of heroin.

But dawn was rising fast now and the relentless sun, glowing like molten metal, had topped the Horizon. Its beam, a swiftly descending curtain of light, had struck the cliff-top above the compound turning it blood red. The game was just beginning.

Twenty-four Months Later

Haven Beach, Seamouth

1

I woke as usual to the sound of chains. It was the early morning ferry, clanking on its iron links as it left the quay three floors below the apartment.

Just another day and it would be carrying its cargo of insomniac sun worshippers and bleary eyed workers as they cross-pollinated between Bridmouth and the Isle of St. Aldhelm, just a stone’s throw across the rush of deep water.

‘You’ll get used to it.’ My new neighbour Denise had offered round the side of her balcony, when I first moved in. Sure you would, that was six months back and I hadn’t noticed her twitch at the time. I slid open the panel in the glass wall of my bedroom and watched the awkward looking boat clank its way across.

I’d have been up anyway. I set the alarm in my head, woke when I wanted, it was a good trick. And I needed to be out. To put in my two mile run along the concrete promenade to Dunstan Chine and two miles back, before a shower and coffee. I snatched up my watch, checked the time and jogged down the broad stairs.

It was getting easier.

‘You’ll never be fully fit, sergeant.’ The guys in the starched coats had promised, and shit, in the beginning it had been hard. But at least I’d come out with all four limbs; the bomb had just removed some leg muscle; my driver hadn’t been so lucky, it had grafted his head, twenty metres away, onto a desert rock.

I pelted across the forecourt of the apartment block, past the line-up of Bentleys and turned into the cool breeze towards the chine.

Just another morning, that was the general idea, until I wandered through from the kitchen 40 minutes later, gripping a mug of coffee, and pressed the button on my answer phone.

‘Mike - are you there? The voice crackled loud and urgent. I put down the mug. It was William Casey - Will to his friends; I knew he was going in before dawn to set up. ‘If you are,’ he carried on, ‘for Christ’s sake pick up the phone.’ There was a pause and a scrambling noise, like he’d dropped the receiver. ‘Shit,’ the voice said. ‘Look, get yourself over here quick, I’ve got to phone the police. Its Ringer, I think he’s dead. And for God’s sake get a mobile that works.’

The machine clicked off. I looked at the flashing timer, the message had come in less than a minute before - I’d had the Radio News on and hadn’t heard it. Bollocks - and why the Police and not an ambulance? I left the mug, pulled on a top, grabbed my hold-all and made for the stairs.

Slamming the car door I plugged in my mobile - still no signal. Will was right, the satellite company was shite. Couple that with sea level and high buildings, and I’d be searching for a signal until I damn near got to the theatre.

The radio came on with the ignition. I punched the off button and revved the engine. This wasn’t the way I intended to start Friday morning.

Over the past months life had slipped into a routine, and one I kind of liked. My first stop should have been the Old Drum-House Café on the outskirts of town. I pulled out of the slip, and put my foot down on the ring road. Christ, they’d have my full English in the pan. The thought made my stomach churn. I swallowed, checked the mirror, the road was empty so I gave the old motor’s ‘straight six’ some stick.

As I drove, my mind raced over the message, and what it would be doing for Will’s nerves. Right now he needed the breaks - big time.

And what about Ringer - otherwise known as Gerald Bell, solicitor, when he wasn’t massaging his ego on stage? I swung a right onto Oakley hill, and headed towards the bridge on an empty road to Asherton. No-one I knew had much time for Ringer anyway, from what I’d heard if he was directing the local amateur players in one of their productions, he could turn into some kind of monster. Hadn’t seen it myself, but I couldn’t say I’d taken to him. So if I’d hammered down here, missed my fry up, and found him still alive I would not be a happy bunny.

I slowed hard and swung off the twisting town street for the back lane to the theatre, and finally pulled into the gravel car park. I checked my watch fourteen minutes from home. Easy, on empty roads, but you could translate that to nearly an hour in one snarl up after another, once the traffic got going.

Will’s car stood in the shade of the perimeter wall. The red paintwork faded almost to pink - the inside full of his usual jumble of stage lights tools and cables. And that was it. Not another vehicle in sight. Pushing my door to behind me, I cast around. Not a sign of anyone. I’d expected one police car at least. But reasoned they might be parked in the road at the front. Or maybe then again it was a false alarm. Some hope.

The sun was hitting the cliff face of the theatres side wall at a weird early morning angle, but here, unlike the shore of Seamouth, there was no breeze, nothing to stir the air, hardly a sound, even the colony of rooks in the tall trees behind were silent. I counted that at least a blessing and crunched across the gravel car park to the stage door.

My keys were in my hand but I slipped them back into my pocket. No need. The door was slightly ajar where Will would have wedged it to stop it snicking shut on him as he hauled his gear in and out of his car - it was one of his habits.

Curious at what I might find I pushed through into the back stage foyer, kicked the wedge, and let the heavy door dock silently onto its catch behind me. With its closing I was surrounded by silence. The place felt empty. I shouted - waited - but there was no reply.

So, where the hell was Will?

Another door and I was back-stage. It was just as free of bodies, so I made my way down the wing and out onto the broad sweep of stage. Here I was met with a barrage of light, every lantern in the house seemed to be hammering into the set behind me - another one of Will’s little habits - he liked the light when he was working.

Cursing, shielding my eyes, I turned back from the glare - stopped, and focused on the scene before me. The set looked good, least as far as I could tell. They’d been building it since early yesterday - The Madness of King George – including the famous restraining chair.

‘The very one they used in the film. ‘Mr. Gerald Bell had told me pompously, when he’d booked the show - like I should get excited.

Trouble was - and that’s trouble with a big ’T’ - it was occupied, and Mr. Gerald Bell was the star. Leather straps held him firm, head back, mouth open.

You never get used to the dead - harden to them, yes - stop getting the urge to vomit, eventually - but, it’s still not good, and I didn’t need it.

I walked over and stared down at him. Three things stood out. One, he was stark naked. Two he had a magnificent erection. And three, the one I liked least of all, I recognized the hilt of my paper knife, protruding from his chest.

‘Murder Most Foul’ in worn gold leaf screamed out from the green leather of the handle.

Ok so you shouldn’t think ill of the dead, but now I liked Gerald Bell even less - and something told me that it was not going to be my day.

2

I left, Mr. Gerald Bell, AKA Ringer, where I’d found him, jumped down from the stage and made my way past the rows of aptly coloured, blood red seats towards the auditoriums sound proof lobby. Pushing through the second set of heavy doors I came out into the entrance foyer and finally located Will. I’d like to say with some relief, but the truth was he was now pretty low down on my list of priorities.

He was sixty feet away from me, near the glass doors to the outside world, one of which hung open onto the street. His trademark cough floated up to me from where he was slumped at the last of the tables that lined the wall of the long tunnel like lobby.

Apart from the cough it was dead quiet, the stillness of the early morning broken only by a distant moped buzzing somewhere in one of the narrow streets that interlaced the town.

But Will wasn’t alone. Kelly stood next to the table; Kelly Bonner CPO; her blue uniform catching the sunlight that formed a neat sharp triangle across the carpeted floor.

My head was still full of Ringer’s starring role, in fact I was kind of groping for some sense of reality, and my surprise at seeing her morphed in seconds into something nearing relief. She’d be a bonus at any time, but right now she was the right person at the right time. She could handle Will, no problem. And, if I’d admit it, her being there was by far the best thing that had happened since I’d listened to Will’s message earlier that morning.

I walked over to them dropping down the two shallow flights of steps that brought the floor finally down to street level. On the second flight Kelly looked up and noticed me.

‘Mike.’ her voice was a mix of surprise and just maybe a touch of relief.

I raised my eyebrows, and jerked a thumb over my shoulder. ‘Have you been in there?’

‘Yes,’ her voice shook.

‘No police yet?

She bit at that. ‘So what do you think I am?’ Her face coloured under her round brimmed hat.

Shit. I’d buggered it; never thought of a Community Police Officer getting involved in a murder case. It just came out wrong.

I decided against digging a bigger hole, in the knowledge that Kelly didn’t take too many prisoners, and instead looked down at Will. A half full mug of black coffee stood on the table and he was fumbling with his cigarettes. Smoke still curled from one of the butts in a saucer he’d taken from behind the counter.

‘You alright pal? I asked.

His face creased and his eyes flashed up to mine then back at the open packet of cigarettes.

‘Oh, dandy. What do you bloody think?’ his hands shook as he pushed a cigarette into his mouth.

Like I said, he didn’t need this. Week two on the wagon and the shakes were bad enough already. The poor sod was in pieces.

Kelly knew the score. I looked back at her and thought I’d try again.

‘So, what’s happening Kelly?’

Her radio buzzed, then fell silent.

‘They should be here soon.’ She said. ‘You know - the real police.’

‘Sorry.’

‘Yeah well, It’s my ‘early‘- that simple, I was passing, and there was Will hammering on the window.’ She took off her hat and ran a hand over her tugged back hair. ‘I couldn’t make a lot of sense out of what he was telling me at first, so I made him take me in and show me.’ She looked up the foyer towards the doors into the auditorium, shuddered, then back at me, ‘It was horrible Mike. I had to check to see he was dead, you know feel for a pulse. Then I made the call - sat Will down and got him what he likes to refer to as coffee.’ She looked at her watch and calculated. ‘They surely can’t be much longer.’

I looked at the coffee, it was stew, and Will