"Mr Barns?" The voice on the telephone sounded very officious.
"Yes," I answered, tentatively.
"You have an Uncle, a Mr Hobart Tuttershed." It was a statement not a question.
"Yes," I agreed with a sinking sensation.
"This is Detective Inspector Hives speaking. I'm a specialist in hostage situations."
"My God!" I gasped, feeling the room wheel around my head. "What's happened? Is my uncle all right? Has he been taken hostage? He's an old-age pensioner for Christ's sake! Don't they realise the shock could kill him?"
"Look Mr Barns, would you meet me outside your uncle's farm? Tell the policeman on the road block your name and he'll let you through."
"Road block? My God! What's going on?"
"I haven't time to explain right now, Mr Barns. Just get yourself down here as quickly as possible."
The telephone line went dead, along with my heart.
*
Detective Inspector Hives was sitting in the passenger's seat of a large lorry, a mobile phone clamped to one ear, a short wave radio-set to the other. As I climbed onto the runningboard to stick my head through the open window, he waved me away.
"But..." I tried.
Dropping the radio-set onto the seat, he pushed me off the runningboard and wound up the window. Just before it closed, I caught the words: "... the SAS can take him out if necessary."
I began to jig from foot to foot, crooning softly to myself; a childhood habit I reverted to under stress. Any minute now and I'd be sucking my old teddy bear's ear!
Hives slammed out of the lorry, glowering down at me, arms akimbo. "Is he mad, or is this the way all the members of your family behave?"
Licking dry lips, I grabbed Hives by his lapels. "What's going on?" I shouted, shaking him violently. "Where's my uncle?"
Slapping my hands away, he straightened his lapels, looking me up and down as though I were some kind of demented lunatic. "Any more of that old son and I'll get the plods to lock you up for the night. Now calm down." Nodding at the farmhouse, he continued, "Your uncle's taken a hostage. He's threatening to shoot him."
As the seconds ticked by I continued to stare at Hives in bewilderment, until slowly realisation dawned and my face split into a huge grin. "Oh right, I get it," I said, relief flooding over me. "Clever!" Dropping onto my hands and knees, I began searching under the lorry. "Okay, where is it?" I demanded. "Where have you hidden it, then?"
"What on earth are you doing, you silly little man?" Hives grabbed my shoulder, pulling me to my feet.
I looked up into his face and winked. "Right, that's cool, that's good," I acknowledged, " You really had me going there for awhile."
Sprinting round to the back of the lorry, I threw the heavy tarpaulin aside. Six black clothed figures glared out at me.
"Mr Beadle, you in there?" I demanded. "Come on, you can come out now."
A large hand grabbed my shirt collar, dragging me clear of the lorry. Hives thrust his face right down into mine so I could see the patchwork of silver hairs he’d missed shaving that morning. "What the hell do you think you're doing?" he bellowed.
I pointed at the lorry. "It's a wind-up, right?" When Hive just stared at me, I nodded eagerly. "Yeah, you're really from Candid Camera, aren't you? Come on, admit it." Hives' stare grew more pronounced and I experienced a sinking sensation in the pit of my stomach. "You mean all this is for real? You're serious? My uncle's really taken someone hostage?"
"Never been more serious in my life, laddie. Your uncle kidnapped an employee of Hoover-Mac earlier today and at this very moment is holding him hostage. And in case you're in any doubt, let me assure you this isn't a joke." Hives ran a hand through his hair. "And what's more, the idiot took a pop at the police when they arrived! He's in serious trouble laddie. You'd better believe it."
I wilted, hyperventilating.
Hives' eyes bored into mine as he nodded. "With a shotgun," he stressed. "And it was only because he's such a lousy shot that no-one's been hurt. Mind you, I don't think he'll be using that in any great hurry."
I followed the direction of Hives' pointing finger, to where Uncle Hobart's car rested at an odd angle. Beside a flat tyre, its bodywork was liberally peppered with small holes, a trickle of oil wound its way from beneath the engine, evoking images of haemorrhaging blood.
I swallowed noisily. "What's he want a bloody hostage for?" I asked, my mind numb.
Hives gave a long sigh, nodding at the house. "As far as I can make out, it's because of some competition he's won." I was dumbfounded, my raised eyebrows mirroring my complete loss of words. Hives tried to explain: "It seems that your uncle bought a television set recently and the company, this Hoover-Mac crowd, are running a competition. The prize is a Canadian holiday." I nodded, recalling the adverts on the television. "Well it appears that your uncle won, but when he applied for the prize, they told him he was too old. Apparently the cut-off age is seventy and he's older than that. It's got something to do with the insurance I believe."
I shook my head. "But he doesn't like going abroad," I reasoned, "he never has done. Not since serving in France during the war."
"Well I can assure you, he's taken great offence at being told he can't have his holiday, laddie, even if he doesn't want it." Hives sounded like a man close to the edge.
I nodded. "Yes, that sounds like him. Well thanks for the explanation, Inspector." I turned away.
A hand halted my escape. "Not so fast, Mr Barns, if you don't mind."
Turning back, I read the look on Hives' face, knowing exactly what he had in mind. "You want me to go in there and talk him out, don't you?"
For the first time Hives' face broke into a smile. "Well now, that's very astute of you, laddie."
Swallowing hard, I closed my eyes, trying to shut out the nightmare that was rapidly overtaking me. "Yes, that's what I was afraid you were going to say."
*
Detective Inspector Hives' voice echoed around the front-yard, amid the electronic shrieks and howls of his hand-held amplifier: "Tuttershed I have your nephew out here. He's coming in to talk to you and I strongly recommend that you listen to him." Turning towards me, Inspector Hives gave an impatient gesture with the megaphone. "Go on then, get on with it, laddie!"
I looked at the gathering crowd, wondering where they’d all come from. A small group of technicians was setting up a television camera, while a woman reporter was trying to interview the black clad men in the back of the lorry. This looked deadly serious to me and my stomach was sending out its usual signals.
*
"Er, hello. Hello ... Uncle Hobart?" I swung wide the partially open front door. "Are you in there?"
"Course I am, yer silly bugger," his voice floated down the hall to me. "I'm in the kitchen."
He was sitting at the big pine table, supping beer, and as I entered the room, he pushed a can across to me, nodding towards a fat man sitting opposite him. "This 'ere's John."
John smiled at me, I nodded back. Emblazoned across the pocket of John's boiler suit were the words, 'Hoover-Mac Ltd'. I noted the new portable television set resting on the worktop by the window. The volume was muted, but the picture, standing out in sharp colour, showed a view of Uncle Hobart's farmhouse. I groaned softly as I studied it.
"Looks like they got 'alf the bleedin' police force out there," Uncle Hobart observed. Opening my can, I poured the contents into a dirty cup. "Silly buggers," he continued, "what's up with 'em?"
Crashing the cup down onto the table, I slopped beer over its surface. "What's up with them?" I asked, through clenched teeth. "What up with them? I'll tell you what's bloody up with them. For some strange reason they've got the idea that you're a bloody maniac about to blow the head off an innocent man. That's what's bloody up with them!"
Uncle Hobart winked at John, chuckling delightedly. "Wouldn't do that now, would I, John?" John shook his head. "See, John agrees with me, don't yer, John?" John nodded his head. "John's decided ter 'elp me out, ain't yer, John?" John nodded his head again. I was beginning to wonder if John could talk.
We sat in silence for awhile, finishing our beers. Then, after a long pause, Uncle Hobart passed more cans around. "So how long do you intend keeping this up for, then?" I asked, pointing at the television set, which now showed a dark-clothed figure sitting astride the apex of the farmhouse roof, busily engaged in lowering something down the chimney pot. "They're not going to go away, you know."
A voice suddenly issued from the Aga, "Hello in there. This is Detective Inspector Hives here. Can you hear me?"
Opening the Aga door, I stuck my head inside. "Yes, we can hear you," I shouted back.
I was greeted by a loud electronic squawk, then, "For goodness sake, laddie! Not so loud. This mike's really sensitive. You nearly blew my ruddy ears off!"
"Sorry," I said in a quieter voice.
"Right, now listen up. Hoover-Mac has agreed to honour your uncle's holiday, so I want him to throw out the shotgun and exit by the front door with his hands in the air. Have you got all that?"
Pushing his chair away from the table, Uncle Hobart jumped to his feet, letting loose a wild cheer. I swore, making a grab for the shotgun resting against the back of his chair, but of course, I was far to late to stop the inevitable. The gun hit the floor with a thwack, firing buckshot straight into the interior of the Aga. The unholy noise set my ears ringing, and in the silence that followed, I distinctly heard Detective Inspector Hives give a long, loud, very anguished scream. I could picture the poor man clutching at his blood-filled ears and winced.
That was just before the first stun grenade came crashing through the kitchen window!