Knife Edge by Shaun Hutson

smiling bitterly. 'But people take it for granted. They take men like me for granted. The public is as bad as the media and the politicians. When there's a war on everybody wants to slap you on the back, buy you fucking drinks, tell you how brave you are, and do you know why? Because the cunts are pleased it's not them. And then, when everything's over, they don't want to know you. You're not front-page news any more, you're no good to politicians because they can't use you to vote-catch. And you're no good to the public because they find new heroes. And they expect you to go away quietly and not bother them again because once all the fighting's over, they don't want to be reminded of it. There were fucking victory parades after the Falklands, after the Gulf. How many fucking victory parades have there been for the soldiers who were in Ulster? Who gives a fuck? Who's ever given a fuck?'
        His voice was rising steadily in volume. 'I'll make them care. I'll make them remember,' he shouted.
        'Dad.'
        He turned as he heard the word, pushing the.459 into his belt.
        Lisa Neville was standing in the living-room doorway.
        She looked at her father, then across to the sofa where her mother sat.
        There was bewilderment in her eyes.
        'I heard shouting,' she said quietly.
        'It's all right, sweetheart,' said Neville. 'You go back upstairs to your room.'
        'Mum, can I have an apple?' Lisa said, twisting some strands of hair around her finger.
        Julie nodded, tried to smile.
        'You get it, darling.'
        Lisa scooped a Golden Delicious from the bowl on the coffee table and scurried back upstairs. They both heard her footfalls then the banging of her bedroom door.
        Neville looked at Julie but neither spoke.
        He wandered back to the front window and looked out once more.
        It wouldn't be long now, he thought.
        He glanced up towards the ceiling and smiled.
        

9.24 A.M.
        
        Doyle didn't know the names of the two men with him.
        He didn't care.
        They were both uniformed and in their late twenties. One fresh-faced and slightly built, the other broader across the shoulders. The bulletproof waistcoats which they both wore added to the bulk.
        Doyle had seen both of the policemen inspecting him as Calloway had briefed them and then he'd heard names mentioned.
        Scott and Wilde? Something like that.
        Who cared?
        They both carried Sterling 81 rifles.
        Doyle held a two-way radio in his hand, the volume turned down as low as possible.
        The three men were less than fifty yards from number ten London Road, ducked low as they sprinted towards number six, passing other policemen, some of whom were crouched down behind the many parked cars which clogged the street.
        Doyle saw more guns.
        The counter terrorist slowed his pace when he reached the short path leading towards the front door of number six. There was a high fence to one side of the house which would shield their approach. It also hid the garden from view should anyone be looking from a rear window of number ten.
        Doyle knew that Neville would have ensured he could see in all directions. He would have picked his vantage points carefully.
        That's what Doyle himself would have done.
        He smiled to himself.
        The gate which led to the rear of number six was open and Doyle eased up the latch and beckoned the two policemen to follow him.
        The garden was a mess. The lawn was overgrown, the flowerbeds infested with weeds. A child's swing was at the bottom of the garden, the seat swaying gently back and forth in the wind, the rusty chains creaking noisily.
        The fence which separated this garden from that of the next house was six feet tall, weather-beaten, rotten in places.
        Doyle gripped the top and hauled himself up, glancing swiftly over