by Conrad Jones
“They`ve shot Mandy! The fucking bastards have shot Mandy!” Dano shouted at the top of his voice. He was one of the biggest and hardest members of the 18th Brigade. He ran in a tight circle like a man demented, and he booted a parked car as hard as he could. The car door buckled as if it were made of cardboard, under the force. Dano stepped back and kicked it again. The window shattered into a thousand pieces. Hot stinging tears ran down Dano`s face as he kicked the car a third time, anger and frustration, mixed with a feeling of helplessness, had sent him into a steroid rage.
“They are fucking dead, when I get my hands on them, they are fucking dead, I`ll going to rip their fucking heads off with my bare hands,” he reached down and grabbed the sill of the car beneath the centre column, and heaved. The car tossed onto its roof with a deafening clatter, and the sound of breaking glass, as the remaining windows shattered as they imploded. He kicked the upturned vehicle again and it span slowly ninety degrees on its roof.
“What are we going to do Tez?” asked one of the lieutenants. He stood watching his friends bleed on the car park, as the sirens grew louder. A second and third siren joined the first, approaching from a distance away.
“I want you to telephone our men in Manchester, and let them know what has happened. Tell them to get tooled up and expect trouble from the Yardies. Then once Headbutt and Dithering are in an ambulance, it`s time to pay the piper for the tune that he`s just played.”
Chapter Eight
Manchester/ Somali `Yardies`
Somali drug gangs had been prevalent across the United Kingdom for a number of years. Every year saw their numbers grow, fed by both legal and illegal immigrants. For some strange reason they had taken on the mantle of Jamaica`s gang culture, and called themselves `Yardies`. Yardie is a term stemming from the slang name given to occupants of government yards in Trenchtown, a neighbourhood in West Kingston, Jamaica, and made famous by Bob Marley in `no woman, no cry`. Trenchtown was originally built as a housing project following the devastation caused by Hurricane Charlie. Each development was built around a central courtyard with communal cooking facilities. Due to the poverty endemic in the neighbourhood, crime and gang violence became rife, leading the occupants of Trenchtown to be stigmatised by the term Yardie. Now the name was bandied about, and applied to any organised black gangs, Jamaican or otherwise. The Somali gangs of Manchester found the tag romantically endearing, so they stuck to it.
Omar was the new leader of the Yardies. He was from the bullet riddled streets of Mogadishu, and had carried an AK47 as soon as he was old enough to pick one up. He had travelled in the back of a cargo container for nearly three weeks to reach the United Kingdom, almost dying of thirst en route. The civil war in Somalia had reached fever pitch, and there was a huge bounty on Omar`s head, several rival gangs were out to kill him, and it was only a matter of time before they succeeded. He made his way to Manchester, where he joined members of his extended family. His fearsome reputation had preceded him, making the leader of the Yardies at that time, extremely nervous about him, and he viewed his arrival as a threat. Within two weeks of stepping onto the pavements of Manchester, Omar had killed the Yardies gang boss and his bodyguard. In his mind it was just natural selection, the strongest survive, and the weak die.
Omar was typical of his race. He was six feet three inches tall, but only weighed eleven stones. His face was elongated, like a caricature, high cheekbones, and distinctive green eyes. The skin on his face was smooth, almost stretched over his angular bone structure. He was certainly not a handsome man. He was a frightening man. When he smiled he showed decaying teeth, rotted by years of chewing Somali drug weeds. His two front teeth were capped with gold, which only highlighted the rotten dentures surrounding them. His hands were unusually long and bony, and his palms were pale pink in contrast to the deep black colour of his skin.
“Where are we heading?” asked the driver of the car. Loud music was thumping from the speakers. A man in the back of the car passed Omar a burning joint. Omar squeezed the cardboard roach between his finger and his thumb, and inhaled the cannabis fumes deep into his lungs. He rocked his head to the music, and inhaled again.
“Take me to my Judie, I feel the need for some good loving,” Omar said, exaggerating his Jamaican gangsta drawl. He smiled displaying his stained teeth, and his gold caps glowed in the darkness.
The driver looked hard at Omar for a second, his adrenalin was pumping from the evening`s violence, which was effecting his better judgement. He indicated to turn right onto the motorway that would take them back to Manchester. A huge white metal sculpture towered above the slip road.
“We`ve just started a war Omar, you can`t seriously want to go to see your Judie,” the driver was shaking his head as he spoke. He banged his hand on the steering wheel aggressively.
Some of the Yardies thought that trying to muscle out the 18th Brigade was a little premature, to say the least. Omar`s shock tactics had impressed some of the gang, and alienated some of the others. The Brigade had been in control of door security for decades, which ultimately gave them a stranglehold over the drugs trade. They said who could sell drugs, and who couldn’t. They also took a huge slice of the profits, in return for the exclusivity to sell drugs within the premises that they protected. Omar wanted to expand his drugs business into the city centre of Manchester and to do that he had to negotiate with, or oust the Brigade. He chose to do the latter.
“I mean they will come after us now man, init, we need to get ready for them,” the driver continued giving his advice, shaking his head for effect. He only stopped talking when he realised that Omar was glaring at him with those deep green eyes. The evil smile had disappeared from his face, and his eyes bored into the driver.
“You know what I mean though, init?” the driver asked nervously. “All I`m saying is we`re all buzzing now Omar. We`ve just dropped the h-bomb on the Brigade, and the night is still young, they`ll come back at us man, init.”
Omar remained silent and took a deep drag on the joint. He held the burning smoke in his lungs, enjoying the effect of the drug, soothing his rising anger, and clearing his muddied thoughts. The men in the back of the car watched in silence. The atmosphere was tense, electric, like the sensation just before lightening strikes, dark and oppressive. The baseline boomed as Omar exhaled the smoke toward the driver, leaning toward him as he did so. The driver took his eyes off the road for a moment and looked at Omar, and there was madness in them that chilled him to the bone; a cold calculating glare, which gave little away. The driver turned his attention back to the motorway, wishing that he had kept his mouth shut.
Omar took his blade from inside his coat. It had been crafted by a fantasy weapons factory that specialise in ornate, craftsman built knives. The long narrow blade curved wickedly, razor sharp on one side, and serrated on the other. It was designed to rip and tear the internal organs of a human being, a most horrendous way to die. The serrated edges cut and pull delicate flesh, piercing intestines that could never heal naturally, because of the infections that would ultimately follow. The designs come from the well practised art of `shank` making in Americas prison populations. He gripped the handle and turned the blade slowly, and the dashboard lights glinted from it. A bead of sweat ran down the driver`s cheek, but he didn’t take his eyes from the road. The handle wrapped around Omar`s fist, creating a terrible knuckleduster, made from brass spikes. Omar tapped the forefinger of his free hand onto the spikes one at a time. The last one pricked his finger and a small bead of blood formed on the tip. He put the injured finger into his mouth and sucked the blood from it. Omar never took his eyes off the driver as he caressed his evil blade. The men in the back remained in complete silence. No one spoke, and no one moved for fear of upsetting their volatile leader. He pressed the window button and flicked the used joint stump out into the night. Red embers flashed past the window as the wind took it. He put the blade back inside his pocket and the atmosphere lifted tangibly. The driver seemed to relax slig
htly, although sweat was running down his forehead freely.
The hatchback reached the end of the M602, at the Salford junction. The set of traffic lights was on red and the car pulled to a halt, their colleagues in the car behind flashed their lights. The driver`s cell phone rang. He looked at Omar for permission to answer it, still frightened by his leader`s behaviour. Omar nodded his head and looked out of the window at the wing mirror. He could see the driver behind holding his cell phone to his ear, obviously calling them.
“What`s up?” the driver answered. The driver behind asked a question that Omar couldn’t hear.
“I`m taking Omar to see his Judie, init,” the driver said in reply to the unheard question. The driver`s eyes flicked left momentarily when he spoke, looking for a reaction from Omar. Omar was still staring at the wing mirror. There was silence for a minute as the driver behind spoke again.
“Look man, I`m just doing what I`m told to do, so if Omar want to see his Judie, then Omar will go and see his Judie, init,” the driver was getting flustered. He was trying to talk without being stabbed, and concentrating on the traffic lights which were still red. The motorway was deadly quiet, and only one other car was at the junction.
“Fuck you man! You can talk to the man himself, init,” the driver was shaking as he handed the cell phone to Omar, “Louis wants to speak with you man.”
Omar ignored the cell phone and turned from the window. He stared into the driver`s soul with his piercing green eyes.
“What`s he saying?” Omar hissed.
“He wants to know why you`re going to see your Judie right now,” the driver`s hand trembled and his lip quivered as he spoke. He swallowed hard and it felt like he had a golf ball in his oesophagus.
“I`d better explain it to him then.” Omar said as he opened the door and climbed out.
“Omar! Don’t hurt him man, he`s just asking a question,” the driver shouted after him, but he was already gone. He could see Omar in the rear view mirror striding toward the car behind. Omar`s driver and the other men opened their door and scrambled out to follow him.
“What`s you bitching about blood clot?” Omar said as he approached the car. The driver had the window wound down and he was blowing smoke out of it.
“Nothing is bitching Omar, I`m asking what are we doing next, that`s all,” he answered in a matter of fact manner, shrugging his shoulders. He blew smoke from his nostrils, and then inhaled again.
The lights changed to green and the car behind them sounded his horn, frustrated by the fracas that was blocking the road. Omar stuck his middle finger up at the driver and snarled at him. He leaned into the second hatchback, pushing his face right against the driver`s forehead.
“What do you think the Brigade is going to do next man?” Omar snarled.
“They`re going to come back at us, init,” the driver answered, keeping his gaze away from his enraged boss.
“And does anyone think that they can take the Brigade on in a fair fight?” Omar turned and addressed his affiliates stood behind him on the road. Everyone looked at the tarmac avoiding his piercing eyes. No one replied.
“Do you have any idea how many fucking skinheads will be tooling up now to come for us?” Omar turned back to speak into the hatch back.
“What`s wrong with you? Why don’t you answer me questions?” Omar slipped back into Jamaican drawl, as he glared at his men. Still no one answered him.
“If the cat has got your tongues, then I`ll explain the situation for you, and then we all know where we stand, init,” Omar shouted.
“The Brigade has over three hundred full time soldiers, another two hundred on standby, and that is just here in the North West. Those men are all ex-army; some of them are mercenaries in Iraq. Do you want to square up to them?”
The traffic lights changed back to red and the reflection seemed to glow in Omar`s eyes, making him look demonic. The driver of the car stuck behind them gunned his engine in frustration. Omar glared at him, and he lifted his foot off the gas.
“They are linked to stinking mercenaries all over the world, and I mean all over the world,” he turned and looked at every man in turn as he spoke. “Do you think we can stand up toe to toe with them?”
No one answered.
“In less than an hour all their door security in Manchester will be armed and ready to fight, an hour after that every spare man that they have will be trawling every bar and cat house that we own looking for us. Do you want to go and wait for them to turn up, and then hope that we get lucky?” Omar spat the question out.
No one answered.
“We are going to lie low tonight, I`m going to see my Judie and you all need to do the same. If you go where the Brigade can find you then you is on your own, init,” Omar pointed a long bony finger as he spoke.
The lights changed to green, and the car behind them gunned the engine again. He sounded his horn, a long extended blast. Omar looked at his men and said, “Do you understand me?” as he walked toward the car that was stuck behind them. His men were nodding their heads in agreement as it made sense once it was explained to them. Their boss had survived decades of guerrilla warfare in Mogadishu. He knew how to hit and run, wear your enemy down without losing your own men.
“I`m sorry we kept you waiting but I had to teach my men a lesson,” Omar said as he approached the frustrated driver. He smiled and showed his rotten teeth, a twisted evil grin.
The driver wound the window up to deter the approaching Yardie boss from reaching inside, but he hadn’t locked his door. Omar lurched forward before the man could realise what was happening, and he snatched the door open. The driver tried to scrabble away from his attacker, but the seat belt held him in place. Omar reached inside and grabbed him by the hair. He slammed the driver forward, smashing his nose into the steering wheel. The driver tried to scream but blood rushed into his mouth, making it more of a gurgling sound.
“Please! Don’t hurt me,” the man gagged, blood and saliva sprayed the windscreen.
“Take the seatbelt off,” Omar shouted.
“What? Why, I don’t want to,” the man protested weakly.
Omar slammed his head forward again. The rim of the steering wheel split the driver`s lips, and his front teeth protruded from an ugly gash.
He gagged again, and then fumbled with the belt catch, and he pressed the red button which made it click open. Omar heard it click and dragged him from the vehicle. The driver grabbed the centre column trying to stay in the car. His summoned his last vestiges of strength, trying to stave off the onslaught. Omar kicked the writhing body below the rib cage, knocking the wind from him. More blood sprayed from his broken nose and split lips, as the breath was forced from his lungs. He gasped for his breath, a thick mucus gurgling sound rattled in his throat.
“Please! I`m sorry,” his voice was muffled, barely audible.
Omar slammed the car door shut on his fingers. The man screamed and released his grip on the car. Omar opened the door, and then slammed it shut again. The driver`s fingers were bloodied stumps, the nails cracked and split, his breathing was becoming more erratic, making him sound like he was drowning in his own blood. Omar took his blade from his jacket, and he grabbed the battered driver by the chin. His long bony fingers held the man`s face in a vice like grip, as he carved his nose into two, lengthways, from his forehead to his top lip. The driver let out a blood curdling scream as the cold blade cut him to the bone, slicing the cartilage like butter, scraping his bones and ripping the soft tissue.
Two sets of headlights appeared in the distance from the motorway behind them, forcing Omar to stop his cutting. He put the knife inside his jacket and ran to the hatchback. His men looked visibly shaken by what they had just witnessed as they scrambled into their cars. They all knew that their boss was violent, but it had reached frightening levels in the last few hours. It seemed that his anger could be unleashed in any direction, at anytime.
Omar didn’t look as if his pulse had even quickened, and he seeme
d calm and collected, as he cleaned his precious blade on a piece of chamois leather. The tyres on the hatchback squealed as the Yardies headed into Manchester to lie low. The Brigade would be on their way soon.
Chapter Nine
The 18th Brigade
Terry Nick watched the paramedics working on his friends. The tarmac around Headbutt Norman was covered in blood. Terry wasn’t sure how much blood a man had in his body, but he thought that most of Norman`s was on the floor. The makeshift tourniquet he had made with his belt to stem the bleeding had saved Norman`s life. Dithering Dave was groaning as the ambulance men applied emergency dressing to his terrible face wounds. His cheeks were flapping open exposing his teeth and gums, and Terry cringed at the sight. He turned back toward the pub, where the police were talking to Dano and the other lieutenants. The police had put up a tape cordon around the entrance, protecting the crime scene inside, where Mandy`s body still lay. Forensic teams were pulling on white paper suits, ducking beneath the tape and entering the pub. The windows were all shattered and the jukebox could be heard playing an Oasis tune called `cigarettes and alcohol`.
