Chapter 10

Many years ago, the government fire authorities applied a mathematical algorithm to the map of North Yorkshire and decided that England’s largest county didn’t need much in the way of fire protection.

Only four of the fire stations there are whole-time, in that they’re constantly manned by professional firefighters and are operational twenty-four hours a day, every day of the year. The handful of others, intermittently positioned around this vast rural area, are only staffed during office hours, or run by people with other jobs who sometimes work there part-time. This is due to the county having little in the way of built-up areas and industry, and also because it’s more economical for the British government. Firmly crossed fingers and nervous optimism are a hell of a lot cheaper than adequate fire cover.

York is one of the whole-time stations. Sandwiched between an indoor car park and a small block of apartments, the modern building with its three-bay garage stands just outside the city centre on a quiet thoroughfare named Kent Street. It was six-thirty, the night shift had begun and the seven firefighters would man the place until they were relieved by the day shift at eight in the morning.

“Bon voyage,” muttered Moggy, watching the fire engine speed away along the street.

Many fire service nicknames were clever and imaginative. Others were less so, and Moggy had come by his after accidentally running over a cat some twenty-four years ago.

The engine had just been dispatched to a house fire in the suburb of Clifton, but Moggy and his colleague, Zorro, remained on the station. The two men were crewing the hydraulic platform tonight, the appliance with the cage and huge extendable booms on top which wasn’t needed for small domestic properties. Little children used to have wonderful playtime adventures with toy versions of these machines in the days before mobile phones.

Moggy stepped out onto the forecourt as the automatic garage door slid down and closed behind him. It was impossible to say how long the crew would be. If this was a burning building with people trapped or fatalities, the engine could be away all night. If it turned out to be a false alarm or an easy job, they might be back in twenty minutes or even less. No two jobs were ever the same.

The firefighter smirked. However long it took, he’d definitely have time for a cigarette.

Fire service personnel weren’t allowed to smoke at work, but no one would find out. His partner Zorro was busy cooking spaghetti in the kitchen and he wasn’t going to say anything. Facing the rear of the Barbican theatre, the York station was illuminated by floodlights at night and Moggy strolled around the corner from Kent Street and down the side of the appliance garage. His “unofficial smoking area” had been carefully chosen - a position near the station car park gate that wasn’t overlooked by windows or covered by cameras. The shadowy blind spot was beside a metal container bank where the passing public could deposit old clothes and shoes for charitable organisations.

“No smoking,” he mumbled, leaning against the bank to light his cigarette. “Yeah, well screw that.”

Slender, with a lean face and a thin pencil moustache that belonged on the upper lip of a wartime spiv, Moggy was fifty-two. He’d be retiring in less than twelve months and he couldn’t wait for the day to arrive. He’d grown sick of the job over the last few years and he suffered from a serious condition which the brigade doctor had diagnosed as “terminal cynicism.” When Moggy joined the service twenty-nine years ago, lots of firefighters smoked and, in his opinion, the working environment was much friendlier. The shifts were filled with black humour, camaraderie, endless practical jokes, good-natured harassment, light-hearted sexism, and plenty of jovial prejudice.

Drawing on his cigarette, he pulled a sour expression. That had all changed and not for the better. Nowadays everything was squeaky clean and politically correct and the old ways were sadly missed. Gone were the merry days of handcuffing effeminate sounding firefighters to the station pole to hose them down, and locking new recruits in the kitchen chest freezer for up to thirty minutes. Moggy tutted with disdain. It wasn’t bullying − it was robust, good-natured high jinks that, admittedly, would sometimes end in tears, stress problems and the occasional bout of medicated depression. Besides, it was common knowledge that bullying made a man of you.

The good old days needed to be brought back, he mused. This White Rose Party seemed like a decent bunch and they spoke common sense; he’d certainly be voting for them. Hopefully they’d get in power because, given the chance, they’d soon reintroduce fun and genial bigotry into the workplace. The lads might, once again, be able to have a good laugh and whistle at large-breasted women who walked past the station.

Moggy inspected the cigarette and shook his head in disgust. Incredibly, he could now be fired for smoking this. Brigade policies that covered every tiny aspect of the job, and the officers who slavishly obeyed them, had outlawed most of the fire service humour and had ensured that smoking firefighters were a rarity. Smoking was originally banned inside the stations, then the ban was extended to cover every inch of fire service property. Finally, they just banned smoking anywhere whilst on duty and the serious threat of instant dismissal ensured that very few people risked breaking the rule. Smokers like Moggy had to suffer fifteen hours without a cigarette and, weirdest of all, new recruits had to sign a bizarre prenuptial-style agreement to say they didn’t smoke and nor would they begin at a later date.

Surely that sort of shit couldn’t be legal?

Moggy gave a contemptuous laugh and looked around. The view from his “unofficial smoking area” wasn’t up to much. Kent Street was a quiet thoroughfare and the station car park gates behind him faced the rear wall of the theatre. Stars twinkled in the sky above and he gazed up at them, drawing again on his cigarette.

Back in the good old days, not only were stations filled with a fog of tobacco smoke, but on night shifts the lads sat down to enormous curries, or fish and chip suppers. Now the young kids spent all their time in the station gym and carefully weighed their portions of brown rice, quinoa and tofu. He’d watched them separating egg whites before throwing away the yolks, and searching the internet on their phones to discover which obscure vegetables had the slower carb release.

Yes, he thought, those bloody mobile phones. Constantly staring at them in silence had taken over from watching television together and yelling at sport. What the hell had happened to the fire service and why didn’t...

“Excuse me,” said someone to his left, halting his dour thoughts.

Turning, he saw a large man approaching across the tarmac from the empty Kent Street. Large? This man was huge, like a heavyweight boxer.

Moggy swiftly hid the cigarette in a semi-closed fist with the dexterity of a conjurer palming the ace of diamonds. This could easily be an off-duty officer excitedly hoping to score promotion points by getting him sacked for smoking. “Er, yeah?” he said, warily. “Can I help you, mate?”

“Yes, you could help me by lying on the ground.”

The firefighter felt something hit his shirt and looked down to see two small barbs attached to wires.

“What the fuck do you think...” His teeth clenched as the Taser pumped a burst of crackling electricity into his skinny torso. “Shittttt...”

Moggy dropped to his knees and another large figure quickly approached to swing a fist and smack him hard on the chin.

“Hah, the good old Jerry jawbreaker,” chuckled the man with the stun gun.

“Don’t use my name.” Jerry flexed his knuckles and dragged the comatose firefighter behind the charity clothing bank. “Mind you, he won’t hear anything, will he? He’s out cold.”

Jerry’s accomplice pocketed the Taser. “Wait here and keep watch,” he said. “We need to work fast before the fire engine gets back.” He glanced again at Moggy and grinned. “Doesn’t he know smoking is bad for you?”