Tempus Genesis

Life at number 48 Mandela House, Kennington Park Estate, Kennington, was far much less fun. Two police officers stood either side of David Browns door and neighbours looked on from either side. All listened to the violent commotion from within his flat. The two officers tried to communicate with David, from the dimly lit landing outside his door, but they could not enter in such low numbers. The wail of a police siren faded into the scene as a riot patrol group van screamed onto the estate. Its bright headlamps and blue flashing lights illuminated the poorly lit estate, which was mostly shrouded in darkness with occasional glowing patches of orange street lights. Several officers poured out, fully garbed in riot gear and with shields. One officer carried a large nylon rucksack, which contained a large tactical ram and door breaching tools. Two officers carried semi-automatic Heckler and Gock MP5s and two more carried Glock pistols.

  “I’m not involved,” screamed David from within the flat, followed by the sound of more smashing of furniture, glass and household objects, “just get out and leave me alone.”

  Given the officers had given up calling in to the flat to try to negotiate with David, he wasn’t responding to them.

  “They know nothing, this is nothing to do with me, you can’t include me, I am a simple fucking madman, no harm to you, so,” and he screamed so very loudly, “just fucking fuck off out of my private space.”

  The officers exchanged glances of concern, one returned to the top of the stairs and watched a snake of black suited riot officers stomp up the stairs.

  The young PC returned to the doorway of number 48, “they’re just here, god knows what they’ll find.”

  His colleague placed a single finger to his own lips to hush his colleague as he returned to the door, “He’s gone quiet, I can’t here anyone else speak.”

  “Neighbours say he hardly ever has any one call, so we just have to assume it’s an intruder, dealer maybe?”

  In that quieter moment, just before the noise of boots hit the landing, both officers thought they could here a low submissive wail.

  Weapons were not unusual in these situations, the estate regularly entertained the firearm response unit visiting its residents. Three people had been shot, with one dying, in the last three months alone as a result of gang related violence.

  On the order of the senior officer now in attendance, the two young beat officers gladly returned to crowd control duties. Then following a short briefing by the senior officer on the scene, with lots of pointing and signals to the faceless officers, who wore balaclavas, helmets, protective glasses, all the response team moved into position. Two officers positioned against the door, one with a breaching tool, which he (or she) fixed into the door jarm quietly and efficiently. The second leaned into the door and steadied the tactical ram as they had done so many times before.

  One firearm officer crouched down low beneath a window by the door, another crouched against the concrete wall that formed the balcony frontage for the sixth floor flats. He steadied himself and readied his Glock pistol.

  The senior officer held up a hand with fingers out-spaced. He withdrew a finger a second, five, four, three, two, one, go. On that hand signal the officer at the door withdrew the ram to shoulder height and then swept it down hard and fast. As the ram struck the door, the second officer applied the door breach tool and with one loud bang the door burst open, ripped off its hinges and fell into the now quiet flat. They both stepped back into safer space. The officer with the pistol took aim into the space where the doorway was. From the flat there was only darkness and silence.

  The officer with the semi-automatic weapon crouched by the door, signaled for silence, as even a shuffling boot made it difficult to hear. He did not realize that David Brown was about three feet from him, David too crouched down in the darkness. The officer could hear the glug of fluid, the wetting of cloth he thought. As he computed the possibilities, the one that came to mind made him gesture to his colleagues to retreat five metres. As he gestured he thought he heard a low mutter from within.

  “One nil to David Brown.”

  As they reached a distance of four metres each officer jumped at the sudden zipping sound from the doorway.

  The zip was followed by a whoosh and the crouching officer turned his back and moved away, as a loud bang fired flames bursting from the doorway. The orange and red flames, with grey and black gaseous swirls enveloped the doorway and licked out onto the walls surrounding the entrance to the flat. The heat was intense and the officers shielded their eyes. They had not had time to reconsider their tactics when a burning David Brown emerged from within the flames that now formed a door to his flat. He staggered two steps and then accelerated, screaming as he forced his body forward at speed.

  The on-looking neighbours gasped in shock, if it could have been heard each officer also took sharp intakes of breath.

  David reached the concrete balcony wall and in one movement hurtled himself over the precipice. His burning body fell six floors and crashed onto the pavement below. His bones and flesh shattering and ripping on impact. No blood flowed. A foul smelling steam was emitted from his body as blood evaporated as it came into contact with the hot flames that were still burning his very dead body.