Creed by James Herbert Page B

. .
    He began to light up, but dropped the match instantly. Something was happening inside. Guests were stopping, the royal snappers were moving forward, raising their cameras. She was on her way out.
    Even though there were only five members of the paparazzi present outside, the jostling began, each of them trying to manoeuvre into the best position. A doorman immediately hurried forward to move them back.
    Meanwhile, in the mews opposite, Bluto was frantically struggling with his car door. For some reason the key wouldn’t turn in the lock. And when he tried to withdraw the key so that he could use the other door, it wouldn’t come out. He slapped the roof of the Celica hard as though it were being obstructive deliberately, and rattled the doorcatch as if wrath alone would do the trick. He leaned forward to examine the lock and when he touched the smeared chrome, the tips of his fingers almost stuck to it. He cursed loudly, stood back and kicked a tyre. He heard the commotion across the road, saw the first camera flashes.
    He remembered Joe Creed’s mocking grin.
    ‘ Bastard! ’ he hissed.
    Unlike his colleagues, Creed bided his time, seeing no sense in wasting good film on pictures of the Duchess of York’s famous red hair bobbing into view over the heads and shoulders of those around her. He was now resigned to settling for less than he wanted, that he would have to eat shit when he delivered the goods to the Dispatch ’s gloating diarist, but that was the way of it sometimes. Win some, lose some. There was nothing he could do about it. He’d get something though, even if it was only one of those loony-toon expressions of hers. A Daimler drew up to the entrance, forcing the paparazzi to move around it for a clear view. The doorman who had ushered them away before opened the rear door.
    Here it comes, flouncing out the door, bodyguard ahead. Come on, babe, pull me a face, give me something . . .
    He heard the roar coming up from behind and turned just in time to see a great black shape pushing aside anyone in its path and bearing down on him.
    Creed ducked reflexively and Bluto piled into him, arms swinging, his incoherent roar startling if not terrifying everyone in the vicinity.
    They both sprawled on the pavement, but Bluto’s impetus carried him further so that he was virtually prostrate at Lady Sarah’s feet. At once, two burly individuals had hurtled themselves on top of him, one being the Duchess’ bodyguard, the other a plain-clothes policeman who had been keeping an eye on the gathering outside. A tall, distinguished-looking gentleman in a dinner suit materialized from inside the lobby and quickly led the Royal by the arm around the scrimmage, to the waiting car. She bent down to climb in.
    Creed, by then on his knees, had watched the proceedings in astonishment. Somehow he felt disembodied from the action, as though it were all taking place on a screen before him – and in slow motion at that. It didn’t take long to realize who had tried to attack him though and, of course, to understand why. But the bloody fool had spoilt any chance of his getting a decent shot of . . .
    He saw her from the rear, leaning forward to duck into the Daimler, and his whole body – his whole psyche – snapped to attention. Oh thank you God, thank you . . .
    ‘ Look out, I think he’s got a gun! ’ Creed shouted.
    Screams then, shouts, smacking sounds coming from the scrum only two or three feet away from him. And best of all, best of all , the Duchess of York, still bending forward to climb into the car, craning her head round, a look of alarm on her face.
    Creed didn’t have to think further: his index finger did it for him. Click -flash. Simultaneously.
    He was on his feet instantly for a better angle. Click -flash. Simultaneously.
    Then the tall escort was bundling into the Daimler behind his charge, pulling the door closed behind him with a solid clumph . A last glimpse of wide eyes in a suddenly pale face