by Hatchett
“Still can,” Ahmed replied, “if ya get ‘em outta the bin.”
“Cheer up, ya miserable bastard. This is s’posed to be a party. What ya wanted.”
Mamba got up and headed to the bar. He ejected the CD currently playing and sorted through the others that his men had found. He grinned as he found one he liked and stuck it in the machine, slamming the compartment closed and turned up the volume. He hit play then fast forwarded to the song he was looking for.
After a brief pause as the machine caught up, MC Hammer’s ‘U Can’t Touch This’ started blasting through the speakers. Mamba, still with a beer in one hand and a cigarette in the other, started jumping and turning direction on the spot then shuffling from side to side as if he was MC Hammer himself. At least it raised a few smiles from the men watching him.
As the song ended and Run DMC started up with ‘It’s Tricky’, Mamba walked back to his seat with sweat dripping down his face and a smattering of sarcastic applause from his men.
“Gotta get me some of ‘em baggy trousers,” he said as he sat down.
“What, so ya can look a bigger tool than ya already are?” Ahmed retorted.
“Nah man, that was pure cool.”
“Ya wanna see cool?” Ahmed asked.
“Go on then,” Mamba said smiling, the hint of a dare in his eyes.
Ahmed got up and walked across to the CD player and ejected the CD.
“Hey, I was enjoying that,” Dev shouted, and a few of the men booed.
Ahmed sorted through the pile of CDs, trying to find what he was looking for.
“Get a fuckin’ move on,” Mamba shouted.
He’s looking for Tammy Wynette,” Dev shouted and started laughing.
“Who?” Mamba asked.
“Dolly Parton!” Emre shouted, holding two cupped hands up to his chest for emphasis.
“Shania Twain!” Basir shouted.
Mamba smiled. At least his men seemed to be having some fun at last. The ice had well and truly been broken.
“Taylor Swift!” someone else yelled out.
Ahmed turned and the music started. It was Michael Jackson’s ‘Smooth Criminal’. He started moonwalking and grabbing his crotch to much laughter.
“He can’t be Michael Jackson,” Mamba quipped, “he’s too black!”
There was more laughter.
When the song finished, the men cheered as they rushed forward to grab the CDs and started looking to find something they could perform to. Ahmed grabbed another couple of beers and strolled casually back to his table.
“That’s how ya do it,” he said, with a smug look on his face. He took a swig of his drink and lit another cigarette.
“I guess it was OK,” Mamba acknowledged, “but it weren’t MC Hammer.”
The next thing they knew, three of the men were doing their own poor mime and dance version of Cameo’s ‘Word Up’ to howls of abuse and derision.
“Where the fuck did they find that CD?” Mamba asked in disbelief.
“Yeah, I was hopin’ we might’ve lost shit like that forever,” Ahmed agreed.
“Well, at least we agree on summat,” Mamba replied, and they clinked glasses.
The men let their hair down and it turned into a fun night, with terrible performances but much laughter. It was just what they needed to recharge their batteries.
No one noticed or cared that Faruk and Ismet were nowhere to be seen.
57
Day 30 – 09:00
The George and Dragon
The next morning, Mamba left the pub with Ahmed and found Faruk and Ismet standing by one of the articulated trucks. He wandered over as Ahmed grimaced and veered off towards the Range Rover.
“Where’d ya get ta last night?” he asked. “Ya missed a good night.”
Faruk: “We had…”
Ismet: “A good night.”
Faruk: “We went…”
Ismet: “Hunting.”
“Sounds great,” Mamba said with a forced smile, not really wanting to hear any more. “Time ta go,” he added as he saw the rest of the men exiting the pub and heading to their vehicles.
He hurried back to the Range Rover where he found Ahmed in the driver’s seat.
“Out!”
“It’s me turn. Yer always drivin’.”
“My car, my choice.”
“It ain’t yer car.”
“Remember the last time ya did this?”
Ahmed thought back. He wasn’t sure if it was the last time, but he remembered racing through North London to get to the M25 before Mamba.
“Yeah, bro, I remember.”
“Ya really wanna go there again?”
Ahmed sighed and got out of the car, strolled around the front, and got in the passenger seat without saying another word.
“There’s a good boy,” Mamba said, climbing into the driver’s seat. “Ya know it makes sense.”
He started the car and set off, checking his rear-view mirror to make sure the others were following. He headed further along Bath Road to the next main junction and took a left into Sutton Lane, which would take him back to the main A4 dual carriageway towards Central London.
The going was reasonable until they reached Brentford, where the A4 met the M4, and there was a massive pile up.
“We ain’t gonna get through that,” Ahmed remarked, looking through the windscreen.
Mamba stared ahead with the engine running, thinking through the options.
“Ya know what?” he said.
“What?”
“It’s great bein’ back in the smoke. Look at ‘em towers,” Mamba pointed towards some nearby tower blocks.
“Yeah, ‘n look at the fuckin’ traffic,” Ahmed pointed out. “Nothin’ changes. Anyway, it ain’t really London. Well, not our London.”
Mamba turned off the engine.
“Nearly there, tho’.”
“Yeah, man. It’ll be good ta be back.”
“No more fuckin’ cows or sheep.”
“No more green fields.”
“No more shitty towns.”
“They weren’t shitty.”
“Yes, they were.”
Mamba got out, stabbed a zombie in the head and looked around. He stood on the car’s step, but it didn’t help, so he got back into the car and picked up the walkie talkie.
“What can ya see Basir?” he asked, knowing that Basir was driving the articulated truck right behind him.
“Traffic.”
“Thanks fer that,” Mamba said, sarcastically. “How far?”
“Forever.”
“Great.”
“Now what?” Ahmed asked. “I ain’t walkin’ ta the Tower from here.”
“Don’t start fuckin’ whingin’, Ahmed. “Ya afraid of gettin’ a blister? Give us the map.”
Ahmed handed it over and Mamba opened it and started poring over the detail.
“We’ve got fuckin’ miles ta go,” Ahmed grumbled.
“Shut up, Ahmed, I’m busy.”
A few minutes later, Mamba looked up with a big grin on his face.
“I got it,” he said excitedly.
“What? The clap?”
“Nah,” Mamba said, automatically reaching down to scratch his groin. “We gonna go by boat.”
“What? Again? How the fuck…” Ahmed stopped and thought it through. “Could work,” he admitted, as he reached for the map which Mamba passed back.
A few seconds later, Ahmed looked up and nodded.
Mamba picked up the walkie talkie.
“Everyone out. Carry as many weapons as ya can. Leave the food, there’ll be plenty more.”
Mamba and Ahmed climbed out and watched as the men opened the back of Basir’s truck, climb up and started passing out weapons to those waiting on the ground below.
“What are we doing?” Basir asked as he approached.
“Don’t ya worry ‘bout that,” Mamba replied. “Go help carry some shit.”
Basir turned and left as if
scolded. Mamba and Ahmed followed, intending to pick which items they wanted to take, and which could be left behind.
Once the men were laden down and ready to go, Mamba started off towards the River Thames. There was still quite a lot of equipment in the back of the truck, but he’d selected the most important pieces and his men couldn’t carry any more. He might send them back for the rest when he got to where he was going.
“Where are we going?” Dev asked, panting as he caught up to Mamba and Ahmed.
“The river. There’s a boat yard down there so there should be boats.”
“I don’t really like boats,” Dev said, “especially on big rivers.”
“Pussy. Ya can fuckin’ walk along the bank then.”
“Nah, I’ll manage.”
They trudged along, weighed down by the equipment, but thankful they only had half a kilometre to walk.
58
Day 30 – 10:00
Brentford Dock
The Dock was easy to find, they just had to follow the road signs.
Mamba noticed several zombies crawling rather than walking and pointed it out to Ahmed, who was totally disinterested.
When they arrived at the Dock, they were pleasantly surprised to find a good range of pleasure craft, but it wasn’t quite as straightforward as it had first appeared.
A lot of the boats didn’t have keys readily available, but they managed to find and break into an office which held several. Then it was a case of trial and error finding which key operated which boat.
Then they found that some of the boats needed fuel, so they wasted yet more time locating fuel and working out where it needed to go.
They were down to forty-three men, plus Mamba and Ahmed, so they needed a few boats to accommodate them all. They managed to secure one long boat which held twenty and another which held eight. They found another four smaller boats which held a maximum of four people, and then squashed the last person onto the boat which already held eight.
Once the armada was ready to move out of the dock and into the river, they came across their next problem.
There was a lock at the entrance to the river, which meant that they had to figure out how it worked. Then they found that the lock was, well, locked. With a great big, thick chain and padlock. Thankfully, it didn’t delay them too long because it was no match for their heavy calibre bullets.
All in all, the whole exercise had wasted a good few hours, and they still hadn’t reached the river. The men were beginning to flag, and although Mamba was desperate to get going, he took Ahmed’s advice for once, and sent men back to the trucks to get food, drinks, and anything else they could carry. Then they shared out the resources and sat on the boats eating and drinking and watching the world go by.
As he watched the river flow past, Mamba saw the odd head bob to the surface before being pulled back under by the current. The water seemed to be moving at some speed, and it gave him pause for thought, wondering if this was the right move. Then he thought of walking or trying to find other vehicles to get there and decided that it was definitely the right decision. It was the only way of getting them and all their gear to the Tower quickly.
He and Ahmed pored over the map as they ate, trying to figure out how far they had to go and where they should aim to stop. They both agreed that they needed to stop before they reached the Tower, or they might be spotted by those inside. Ahmed pointed out various docks and jetties along the route, so landing shouldn’t be an issue.
At just after 1pm according to his watch, Mamba threw a cigarette butt over the boat’s side into the water, along with his wrappers and empty drinks bottles.
Then, one by one, the boats entered the lock, waited for the water levels to match, then they entered the river proper.
59
Day 30 – 13:30
River Thames
As Mamba and Ahmed talked tactics and admired the river view, Dev and Basir were squabbling about who should navigate the boat.
“Cut it out ya pair of pricks!” Mamba shouted, just as something thudded into the side of the boat.
“What the fuck was that?” Mamba asked, alarmed.
He moved to the side of the boat where the noise had come from and cautiously peered over.
“Can’t see nothin’,” he said, “although ya can’t see shit in this water.
“Ya should be able ta,” Ahmed pointed out, “there’s plenty of shit in there. Ya don’t wanna fall in, that’s fer damn sure.”
Mamba came away from the side. He wondered if it could have been one of the heads he had seen bobbing on the water earlier but didn’t think a head would make such a loud noise.
“There ain’t sharks in here, are there?” he asked, with visions of Jaws in his mind.
“Prob’ly,” Ahmed said, taking a drag from his cigarette and laughing as Mamba took another step away from the side and pulled a face.
“Funny,” Mamba said, giving Ahmed the bird. “What do ya reckon it was?”
“Prob’ly just a tree branch. Ain’t nothin’ ta worry ‘bout.”
Mamba eventually sat back down and lit his own cigarette.
“What do ya reckon ‘bout these zombies crawlin’ ‘bout instead of walkin’?” he asked, blowing smoke into the wind.
“Fuck knows ‘n who cares? Easier to stamp on their heads.”
“Easier fer ‘em ta bite yer fuckin’ ankles.”
“Not if ya wear boots.”
“Well, it’s weird, that’s all.”
“Mebbe they jus’ fed up wiv walkin’,” Ahmed suggested.
“Mebbe.”
They enjoyed the breeze as they motored along. Another convoy, but this time on the water. Mamba looked over his shoulder and saw the other boats were following in his wake.
“Ya really think they at the Tower?” Ahmed asked.
“Where else can they go?”
Ahmed shrugged.
“They could go anywhere.”
“Nah, they wouldn’t leave their mates. Like us, bro,” he said, punching Ahmed on the shoulder.
Ahmed looked at Mamba from the corner of his eye and took another leisurely drag on his cigarette before throwing the butt over his shoulder. He followed it up with a mouthful of beer and launched the empty bottle in the same direction before getting up and helping himself to another.
They puttered along, Mamba beginning to get bored and pissed off as they could only go as fast as the slowest boat, which unsurprisingly happened to be the long one holding twenty of his men. They followed the snake-like meandering river through Kew and Chiswick, then Hammersmith and Fulham, with Mamba giving the bird to Craven Cottage as they passed the football stadium which sat right on the Northern bank of the river.
“Fuckin’ shithole,” he said, and launched an empty bottle towards it.
“They got a statue of Michael Jackson out front.”
“Why? What the fuck has he got ta do wiv ‘em? He’s a yank.”
“So? Yer African ‘n support Chelsea.”
“I’m British.”
“Wiv African heritage.”
“So?”
“Nothin’, jus’ sayin’. ‘N ya only support Chelski ‘cos they won a few things recently. Ya should be supportin’ the Hammers.”
“West Ham? Yer havin’ a fuckin’ laugh, mate. They’re shit as well.”
“Betta’n Fulham.”
“Everyone’s betta’n Fulham.”
“No, they’re not. What ‘bout Leyton Orient.”
“Jesus Christ, Ahmed, ya could argue wiv yerself in an empty room fer hours.”
“Anyway, I think Michael was mates wiv the owner, ya know that rich guy who also owned that fancy shop fer rich fuckers in town. Knightsbridge, I think,” Ahmed said, trying to work it out.
“I dunno any fancy shops, ‘n why ya callin’ him Michael like he’s yer best friend all of a sudden? First ya do one of his songs ‘n now it’s ‘Michael’.”
“It’s his fuckin’ name. What am I s’posed ta ca
ll him?”
Mamba shook his head, ignoring the question.
“I still don’t get why ya’d have a statue of Michael Jackson out front instead of a famous player,” Mamba continued.
“’Cos they ain’t got no famous players. Name me one decent Fulham player. Go on. Anyone ya like.”
Mamba considered it.
“Nope, no idea.”
“Rodney Marsh,” Ahmed suggested.
“Who? Can’t be famous if I ain’t ever heard of him.”
“There’s plenty of famous people ya never heard of.”
“Like who?”
Ahmed thought about it.
“Kim Kardashian.”
“Heard of her.”
“Michael Jordan.”
“’Course I’ve heard of Michael Jordan, I ain’t daft.”
“Bill Clinton.”
“Nah, never heard of him.”
“He was the President of the fuckin’ US of A ‘n ya ain’t’ heard of him? See what I mean?”
“The USA don’t count.”
“Well, ya’d heard of Kim Kardashian ‘n Michael Jordan ‘n they’re both Yanks, so how come Bill Clinton’s any diff’rent?”
“Ya said he was the President. Politicians don’t count.”
“Why?”
“’Cos they’re all arseholes.”
“Yeah, I know, but they’re famous arseholes.”
“Change the record, Ahmed, it’s getting’ borin’. We were talkin’ ‘bout Michael Jackson.”
“No, we weren’t, we were talkin’ ‘bout Fulham.”
“No…well, yes, then we….”
“Ha! Got ya!” Ahmed said smugly.
“Bollocks!”
Mamba turned away to look at the riverbank. He was beginning to regret taking the long boat and wished they opted for a few faster boats. Then he wouldn’t have to listen to Ahmed’s bullshit. At this rate, they might just arrive at the Tower in time for Christmas.
He grabbed another beer and lit another cigarette, not bothering to offer either to Ahmed and went back to staring at the riverbank.
“Boss, ya might want to see this,” Basir said
“What now?” Mamba replied, exasperated.
Ahmed stood up and looked over Basir’s shoulder.
“He’s right. Ya wanna see this.”
