Plan C

After a quick team huddle a plan was hatched.

It was a very familiar plan.

In Small Corner we like to keep things simple.

I was despatched to search the cars for a bazooka or a harpoon. After successfully resisting the temptation to drive off, I returned with the next best thing. Two small plastic shields. Or what Hank might call ‘dinner plates’.

Realising that possession of a shield may entail being at the front and therefore closest to Hank, I tried to hand them to my colleagues. Only one of them was stupid enough to take one. Great.

With far too much pushing from behind, we advanced slowly up into Hank’s lair.

At one end of a very dark corridor was what appeared at first glance to be an igloo. A closer look suggested that it might be a very large man, wrapped in a white blanket, sitting in a corner. He looked very peaceful and my heart rate slowed a touch. This was going to be a doddle.

At the other end of the passageway was a gaggle of assorted Galactic Travellers in their night clothes, clearly roused by the kerfuffle. Hank-v-The Met was going to be their equivalent of WWF. No-one had had the time to make any placards, but I’m sure I could see them passing round the popcorn. If they had a book running I’d bet that the smart money was on Hank. That’s where mine would have been.

Between Hank and his fans were the remnants of a number of security light fittings and what had once been a wheelchair. Evidently Hank had an issue with switches and had preferred to turn the lights out by separating the fittings from the ceiling, some ten feet above the ground. I guessed that this might have been the much mentioned ‘kinda scary’ behaviour.

Still, Hank looked ‘kinda asleep’ now. Hoping he had vented his angst, we sneaked up on him.

“Hello Hank”

Nothing. I lifted my head from behind my shield and tried again in a slightly less squeaky voice.

“You alright mate?”

The blanket twitched. We froze.

Having crunched over broken glass and plastic for the last twenty paces I had realised something very important. Whatever planet Hank was currently visiting was a dark and comforting one, probably Pluto. Light wasn’t something that he needed or wanted in his life right now. If that was what Hank wanted that was fine by me.

Unfortunately, I don’t think Inspector School covers the etiquette of visiting 330lb men on their own planets. Either that or he was just being helpful from his position of covering our backs. For there can be no other explanation for his decision to shine a very bright torch into Hank’s face. Cheers for that Guv.

Hank roared.

“****!” We backed off slowly.

Hank got to his feet.

“******* ****!” We backed off less slowly.

Hank charged.

“Run!” We ran.

The Pamplonese would have been impressed as we legged it towards Hank’s fan club, who were now scattering for cover; popcorn and betting slips long forgotten.

Thankfully, someone had carelessly left a dismembered wheelchair in Hank’s path. A wet dream for a Personal Injury lawyer, not far off it for us.

Hank tripped.

We stopped.

Hank crashed to the floor.

We pounced.

(…to be completed…)